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A Novel
by Rivers SolomonWelcome to Rivers Solomon's dark and wondrous Model Home, a new kind of haunted-house novel.
The three Maxwell siblings keep their distance from the lily-white gated enclave outside Dallas where they grew up. When their family moved there, they were the only Black family in the neighborhood. The neighbors acted nice enough, but right away bad things, scary things―the strange and the unexplainable―began to happen in their house. Maybe it was some cosmic trial, a demonic rite of passage into the upper-middle class. Whatever it was, the Maxwells, steered by their formidable mother, stayed put, unwilling to abandon their home, terrors and trauma be damned.
As adults, the siblings could finally get away from the horrors of home, leaving their parents all alone in the house. But when news of their parents' death arrives, Ezri is forced to return to Texas with their sisters, Eve and Emanuelle, to reckon with their family's past and present, and to find out what happened while they were away. It was not a "natural" death for their parents ... but was it supernatural?
Rivers Solomon turns the haunted-house story on its head, unearthing the dark legacies of segregation and racism in the suburban American South. Unbridled, raw, and daring, Model Home is the story of secret histories uncovered, and of a queer family battling for their right to live, grieve, and heal amid the terrors of contemporary American life.
ONE.
Maybe my mother is God, and that's why nothing I do pleases her.
Maybe my mother is God, and that's why even though she's never once saved me, I keep praying that this time she will.
I'm Chava in the garden, freshly aware of my nakedness. Can't let Mother see what lowly thing I've become.
* * *
One day soon, I'll be a failed deity, too. My daughter is learning not to believe in me.
Tonight, she can't sleep. She wants me to strap her fourteen-year-old body to my chest with a sling, the way I did when she was a baby. Her need is heavy, like a secret.
"Yoyo?" she calls quietly. "You awake?"
I conjure up a fake snore, but when she turns to leave, I flick on the bedside lamp. At least Mama owned up to her cruelty, would say it straight: I don't want nothing to do with you right now.
"What's up?" I ask Elijah, and she shrugs. "Want some company?" She shrugs again, her hands obscured in the sleeves of her too-big sweatshirt.
My ability to dredge up love from the paltry reserves is one that comes ...