Nan died dreaming of a woodp.e.c.k.e.r in one of the trees that ringed her house, the drumming in actuality the last beats of her heart before it spasmed, then stopped. The sudden spike of pain woke her body, but Nan was never conscious of what the pain was or that she was dying. Her eyes opened reflexively, then shut, and she was gone. It was all very similar to the way her friend Walter Durnip had died in the country that summer, except she had her dog with her at the end instead of her spouse.

The animal, much to everyone's surprise, actually outlived her. He spent his last days with the Setons of Vermont.

Nan was buried in the cemetery in New Hampshire, with a service beforehand at the homestead. The afternoon was raw but bearable, and the family stood together with Nan's friends near the dead stalks of the cutting garden, the rented trellis exactly the one Sara had seen in her mind when the days had been long in July. Then they all sang a hymn and went out-but they sang only one, and it was short.

Thirty-five

The clouds were moving like whitewater, streaming in lines to the south. Occasionally the sun would appear, adding bright, fibrous stripes to the oyster-colored ma.s.s.

Each time the sun would emerge the crow would look up, his dark eyes attracted by the sparkle.

Still, it was chilly and there was less sunlight every day. Winters here were just cold enough and the hills just high enough that soon the crow would fly south, as would the female pecking now at something in the ground far below, and their offspring. Three smaller birds, each about half his size. Altogether, this extended family-this small series of nests atop the white pine-numbered fifteen, and together they would leave for a slightly warmer climate.

This particular crow was the biggest. He was just about a foot and a half long and he had a wingspan of thirty-five inches. He weighed almost exactly a pound.

At the edges of the distant woods the deer were starting their walk up the hill toward the garden. They used to come only at night, but lately they had grown considerably bolder and would venture here during the day. One of them, a male, had even begun to sc.r.a.pe at a thick maple tree beside the garden as the rutting season began to draw near. The animals were growing their winter coats, a grayish brown sh.e.l.l of hollow, kinky fur that insulated them against the cold.

The crow turned his head from the deer when he saw something moving on the ground near his mate. A racc.o.o.n, perhaps, was stalking her. He screeched and the other bird rose instantly into the air and landed on one of the lower branches of an apple tree. His eyes darted back now to the source of the motion, and he saw it was merely a twig from a rosebush scratching against the side of the gray house.

The place had been empty for a week. No longer was it a source of almost ceaseless activity, with humans constantly coming and going, their cars rumbling up and down the long driveway. The deer, of course, had noticed their absence, too, which was why they had extended the small world of their browse to the remains of the garden during the day as well as the night.

Humans didn't seem dangerous to the crow, at least not this bunch. But they were noisy.

Especially that one night in the middle of the summer.

The bird no longer remembered the details of what he had seen from the top of the pine, and-entranced by the lights that flashed everywhere, the lights atop the cars and the lights waved by the people-he hadn't even witnessed the precise moment after that nearly deafening blast when a woman had picked the rifle up off the ground and heaved it hysterically against an apple tree. He hadn't seen the bra.s.s casing fly free of the chamber when it slammed into the trunk.

It was actually the next morning, while one of the little girls was curled up in the strawberries, that he first noticed the twinkle, the flash in the gra.s.s. It was irresistible. Whatever it was, it was glimmering in the high early August sun. And with the child absorbed in her strawberries, he had been able to swoop down and gather it up.

He gazed now at the cylinder in his nest. It was bigger than the other items: the thin, crinkled piece of aluminum foil that he could actually bite through with his beak if he wasn't careful and the perfectly round bead that had come off the wrist of one of the girls. The casing was a bit heavier than his galvanized carpenter's nail, but the tube was hollow and so it hadn't been particularly difficult for him to lift it off the ground and deposit it here in the nest. It was lovely to look at, and he treasured it. So did his mate. It wasn't as flawlessly shaped as, for example, that bead: There was a dimple near the opening where he had lifted it off the ground, and a section of the rim-that lip at one end-had an ugly flat patch. But, still, the crow thought it was beautiful. The bird wouldn't take it south with him-he took nothing with him when he flew south-but this summer and autumn it had given him a pleasurable sensation that, in his small mind, was rather like being full.

Now his mate lifted off the apple tree and flew up to their nest in the pine. Below them the deer started to dig at the weedy dirt. A squirrel scampered abruptly across the gravel driveway. A rabbit crouched behind the lowest branches of the hydrangea, his ears high, his nostrils twitching as he sniffed the crisp, autumnal air.

And behind them all, the house sat perfectly still.

Epilogue

The Race to the Face

My cousin was eighteen the autumn her father finally had his arm amputated. She was a freshman at Yale, and even in southern Connecticut the leaves had mostly turned. It was a Wednesday, a detail I recall because I was a junior in high school and I had a double block of organic chemistry that day. Uncle Spencer checked himself into a hospital in Manhattan shortly before breakfast, and the dangling appendage was gone before lunch. It was, by then, as thin and frail-looking as a very old man's. I don't believe he ever missed it.

The following summer, my cousin's and my family convened in Sugar Hill the very last week in July. We knew we would be there for the anniversary of the accident, but we were no longer fixated on the date and certainly those of us from Vermont didn't discuss it. We had returned there any number of times since that long and awful night when my cousin had shot my uncle, and the princ.i.p.al strangeness we experienced inevitably was due to my grandmother's absence-not to any awkwardness that we were vacationing at the scene of the crime. The big old house just never seemed quite the same without her.

The summer after my uncle had his arm amputated, however, my father, my cousin, and my now one-armed uncle did have a commemoration of sorts. A short triathlon is held in Franconia every summer, usually on the first Sat.u.r.day in August. It's called the Race to the Face, because the route winds its way to a spot at the peak of a mountain not far from the ledge where the Old Man of the Mountain once had resided. And though a fair number of serious triathletes compete, a lot of athletic dilettantes partic.i.p.ate as well. After all, the biking portion is only about seven miles long (though, in all fairness, it is uphill and almost half of it follows a deer path in the woods), the swim is a mere three-quarter-mile sprint across Echo Lake, and the final segment is a two-mile run up the ski slopes on Cannon Mountain. These are not intimidating lengths. Moreover, many people partic.i.p.ate in teams of three-which is where my father, my cousin, and my uncle fit in.

Years earlier my father had sold his hunting gear, bought a mountain bike with the proceeds, and become a pretty avid cyclist. He was going to handle the first third of the triathlon, the ride from Franconia to Echo Lake. There my cousin would take over, wearing (for a change) a completely suitable Speedo. My uncle would be waiting for her at the other side, where, as soon as she had emerged from the water, he would start his one-armed run up the mountain.

The rest of us-my mother, Aunt Catherine, Patrick, and I-waited for the athletes at the finish line high atop Cannon.

I don't recall precisely where they placed among the sixty or seventy teams that had signed up that summer, but I know they managed to sneak into the top half. This wasn't bad for two middle-aged men who had only three arms between them and a young woman who rarely swam in the university pool more than twice a week. They attributed their success either to being directly related to the impressively energetic Nan Seton or, in my uncle's case, to coming of age on her watch.

Nevertheless, what I remember best about that day isn't an image of my father leaving in a heat of almost two hundred bicyclists, or my beautiful cousin racing down the beach at Echo Lake and diving gracefully into the water, or my uncle starting his trek up a ski slope with gra.s.s so green that the sun made it look almost neon. When I think about that morning I envision instead the moment when my uncle finally reached the summit. He was greeted there by my father and my cousin, who, upon finishing their portions of the race, had taken the tram to the top. The three of them threw themselves together into the sort of ecstatically loopy embrace that had never marked the conclusion of any previous tennis match, golf game, or badminton contest in Seton or McCullough family history, jumping up and down and laughing with an exuberance rarely manifested by any of us. And when they posed for a photograph-the two men surrounding my cousin-you wouldn't have known that my uncle had lost his arm or that once, a long time ago, he had almost lost his family.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am enormously grateful to a long list of doctors, lawyers, hunters, animal rights activists, physical therapists, EMTs, and firearms experts. I am particularly indebted to Paul Bonzani; Lauren Bowerman; Armand Compagna; Richard Gaun; Dr. Mark Healy; Reverend Gary Kowalski; Carter Lord; Jonathan Lowy; Kevin McFarland; John Monahan; Dr. Turner Osler; Bob Patterson; and Whitney Taylor. You are exceedingly patient and I thank you all.

Among the small library of books that I read while researching this novel, two were especially helpful: Richard Nelson's Heart and Blood Heart and Blood and Matthew Scully's and Matthew Scully's Dominion Dominion. Both Nelson and Scully are thoughtful, candid, and wise.

Finally, once again I am deeply appreciative of a great many people at Random House, including Marty Asher, Jenny Frost, and Shaye Areheart. Shaye is a great editor-and an even greater friend.

Before You Know Kindness CHRIS BOHJALIAN

Reading Group Guide

A NOTE TO THE READER

In order to provide reading groups with the most informed and thought-provoking questions possible, it is necessary to reveal important aspects of the plot of this book-as well as the ending.

If you have not finished Before You Know Kindness, Before You Know Kindness, we respectfully suggest that you may want to wait before reviewing this guide. we respectfully suggest that you may want to wait before reviewing this guide.

Questions for Discussion

1. Before You Know Kindness Before You Know Kindness opens with a blunt, clinical description of Spencer's injuries. Is the preface a purely objective report or does it begin to develop some of the general themes of the novel? What does it convey about the Setons and their way of life? opens with a blunt, clinical description of Spencer's injuries. Is the preface a purely objective report or does it begin to develop some of the general themes of the novel? What does it convey about the Setons and their way of life?

2. Spencer's speech and Nan's descriptions of his behavior offer varying insights into his personality. Does the tone of the writing influence your impression of him? What specific details bring out the differences between Spencer's self-perceptions and the way others might view him?

3. How does Bohjalian portray FERAL and the people who work there? Do you think this is an accurate portrait of the animal-rights movement? What reasons might Bohjalian have for modifying their att.i.tudes and activities?

4. Sara thinks, "The problem with Nan-and with John and Catherine, and yes, Spencer when they were all together-was that they could never just... be." In what ways is this attributable to Nan and Richard Seton's marriage and the atmosphere in which John and Catherine grew up? Why does Spencer, whose background is so different, demonstrate the same quality?

5. How persuasive are John's explanations of why he took up hunting? What does the argument that hunting "is the most merciful way humans had to manage the herd" imply about the relationship between humans and the natural world? Does John's anguish after the accident alter his view of hunting in general? Do you think that it should?

6. In talking to Willow about Catherine and Spencer, Charlotte says, "Sometimes I get p.i.s.sed at both of them. I don't think Mom would be the way she is if Dad wasn't this public wacko." Are Charlotte's complaints typical of a teenager or does Spencer's profession put an unusual burden on her? Is her criticism of her mother's flirting well-founded?

7. Bohjalian suggests several times that Charlotte may have subconsciously wanted to injure her father. She herself says, "There were lots of reasons for pointing Uncle John's weapon at what was moving at the edge of the garden...." and acknowledges that others might think, "She was just doing it to get your attention. . . . "She was just doing it to get your attention. . . ." Is this speculation supported by the way Bohjalian describes the accident? By Charlotte's subsequent behavior and her conversations with Willow?

8. The accident and Spencer's permanent disability provide FERAL with an irresistible opportunity to make their case against hunting. Is their decision to bring a lawsuit totally reprehensible? Do the depictions of Dominique, Paige, and Keenan undermine the validity of their case?

9. Self-interest plays a part not only in FERAL's reaction to the tragedy. Are you sympathetic to John's concerns that the lawsuit will affect his professional reputation, as well as his fear that "for as long as he lived he would be an imbecile in the eyes of his daughter"? How did you feel as Catherine vacillates in the second half of the novel between wanting to help her husband and wanting to leave him?

10. "Nan was a particular mystery to [Sara]. Exactly what was it that she didn't want to think about?" Were you puzzled by Nan as well? By the end of the novel, did you feel you had a better understanding of her?

11. What would have happened if Charlotte and Willow had not confessed to drinking and smoking pot on the night of the shooting? Were you relieved that Spencer decided not to pursue the lawsuit?

12. Although the plot revolves around Spencer, at various points in the novel each character moves to center stage to comment on the events and their repercussions. Which members of the family most appealed to you and why? How successful is Bohjalian at capturing their individual points of view and personalities? Did your opinions of them change as the novel progressed?

13. Does Bohjalian present both sides of the controversy in an evenhanded way? Which characters appear to embody his own point of view? What is the ultimate message of Before You Know Kindness Before You Know Kindness?

14. Do you think that the issues Bohjalian examines in Before You Know Kindness Before You Know Kindness are more important (or more relevant) than the topics he explored in (for example) are more important (or more relevant) than the topics he explored in (for example) Midwives Midwives or or The Law of Similars, The Law of Similars, or or Trans-Sister Radio Trans-Sister Radio?

15. Why did Bohjalian use a pa.s.sage from The Secret Garden The Secret Garden as one of the epigraphs? In what ways is the children's cla.s.sic relevant to as one of the epigraphs? In what ways is the children's cla.s.sic relevant to Before You Know Kindness Before You Know Kindness?

16. Why did Bohjalian take his t.i.tle from the poem "Kindness," by Naomi Shihab Nye, a portion of which serves as the other epigraph?

If your reading group would like to schedule a half hour with Chris Bohjalian via speakerphone or e-mail, please visit his website (www.chrisbohjalian.com) and click on the Reading Groups tab.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHRIS BOHJALIAN is the author of nine novels, including is the author of nine novels, including Midwives Midwives (a (a Publishers Weekly Publishers Weekly Best Book and an Oprah's Book Club selection), Best Book and an Oprah's Book Club selection), The Buffalo Soldier, The Buffalo Soldier, and and Trans-Sister Radio, Trans-Sister Radio, as well as a collection of magazine essays and newspaper columns, as well as a collection of magazine essays and newspaper columns, Idyll Banter: Weekly Excursions to a Very Small Town. Idyll Banter: Weekly Excursions to a Very Small Town. In 2002 he won the New England Book Award. His work has been translated into seventeen languages and published in twenty countries. He lives in Vermont with his wife and daughter. In 2002 he won the New England Book Award. His work has been translated into seventeen languages and published in twenty countries. He lives in Vermont with his wife and daughter.

Visit him at www.chrisbohjalian.com.

OTHER BOOKS BY CHRIS BOHJALIAN

Novels The Buffalo SoldierTrans-Sister RadioThe Law of SimilarsMidwivesWater WitchesPast the BleachersHangmanA Killing in the Real World Essay Collections Idyll Banter: Weekly Excursions to a Very Small Town

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Far Corner Books for permission to reprint an excerpt from "Kindness" from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems Words Under the Words: Selected Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye. Copyright 1995. Reprinted by permission of Far Corner Books, Portland, Oregon. by Naomi Shihab Nye. Copyright 1995. Reprinted by permission of Far Corner Books, Portland, Oregon.

This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, companies, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fict.i.tiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.