The evolution of Annabel Craig : a novel / Lisa Grunwald.

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

A young Southern woman sets out on a journey of self-discovery as the infamous 1925 Scopes Trial tests her faith and her marriage in this moving novel from the author of Time After Time and The Irresistible Henry House.

"Lisa Grunwald is a national treasure. . . . An essential American story from a master craftsman."--Adriana Trigiani, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Left Undone

I had never questioned a miracle, witnessed a gunfight, or seen a dead body. . . . I had thought I knew exactly what I wanted and what I didn't. Before the summer was over, all that and much more would change.

Annabel Hayes--born, baptized, and orphaned in the sleepy conservative town of Dayton, Tennessee--is thrilled to find herself falling quickly and deeply in love with George Craig, a sophisticated attorney newly arrived from Knoxville. But before the end of their first year of marriage, their lives are beset by losses. The strain on their relationship is only intensified when John T. Scopes is arrested for teaching Charles Darwin's theory of evolution at the local high school.

Foreshadowing today's culture wars, the trial against Scopes is a spectacle unlike any the country has seen. William Jennings Bryan--a revered Southern politician--joins the prosecution, pitting himself and his faith against the renowned defense attorney Clarence Darrow. Journalists descend in a frenzy, thrusting the town and its citizens into the national spotlight. And when George joins the team defending Scopes, Annabel begins to question both her beliefs and her vows.

As the ongoing trial divides neighbor against neighbor, it also divides the Craigs in unexpected ways. But in the midst of these conflicts--one waged in an open courtroom, the other behind closed doors--Annabel will discover that the path to her own evolution begins with the courage to think for herself.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

1 Ever since Prohibition had closed the taverns and barred liquor from the hotels, Robinson's Drugstore, on Main Street, had been the unofficial town center. It was the place where Dayton's bigwigs met to chatter and smoke and think up ways that the town could bring in business. Robinson's was a large store, deep and wide, with gem-­colored syrups glittering behind the soda fountain, and thick wooden shelves that held medicines, combs, film, books, sweets, cigars, and just about anything you could want. Folks tended to linger at the tables in back--­tippy round tables on wrought-­iron legs with looped feet that looked as if they could walk. On an afternoon in early May of 1925, I'd gone in to buy some buttons for my husband's shirts and to pick up a fresh roll of film, but Hank Dawson, the boy at the counter, told me my new batch of photos had just arrived, so I sat down to see how they'd turned out and to drink a cherry Coke. Two tables in front of me, under a ceiling fan stirring their cigarette smoke, a half dozen of the town leaders were hatching a plan. The men wore wrinkled pale linen jackets, and wide ties that ended about three inches up from their belts. They wore straw boater hats that they kept pushing back from their foreheads in greater and greater excitement. Their topic was a brief article that had just come out in the Chattanooga Daily Times, and George "Rapp" Rappleyea, a short, frenetic thirty-­year-­old engineer who ran Dayton's failing coal and iron works, stood up to read it aloud. It seemed that in New York, a group called the American Civil Liberties Union was offering to back any Tennessee teacher willing to test a new law in court. This law, which Rapp said the governor had just signed, was called the Butler Act, and it was meant to protect our state's children by forbidding the teaching of evolution in Tennessee's public schools. When Rapp finished reading the article, the men murmured and called for more fountain drinks. Then they did a small thing that would turn out to be monumental. They sent Hank to find John Scopes, the coach of the high school football team. Not ten minutes later, John came in from playing tennis, wearing a sweat-­drenched white shirt and an unsuspecting smile, and in less than half an hour, they had talked him into being arrested. They started with things like "You filled in for Mr. Ferguson when those boys and girls were studying for their final exams, right?" And "You taught them all about Charles Darwin, right?" And "You don't have any particular plans for this summer, do you, John?" Frank "F.E." Robinson was the drugstore's owner and also head of the Rhea County school board. Eager and affable, with a tidy, wide side part in his hair, he pulled up a chair for John and handed him an orange soda. Once more, Rapp read the article aloud. The Butler Act made it illegal to teach "any theory that denies the story of the Divine Creation of man as taught in the Bible, and to teach instead that man has descended from a lower order of animals." Rapp was originally from New York, and he had the kind of energy I imagined all citified people did. His wiry brown hair stuck both up and out, like the hair of a cartoon character with his finger in an electric socket. He put the paper down, took a step back, and thrust an arm toward John as if calling him up to receive a medal. "They need a Tennessee teacher. We want you to be that teacher," he said. Before John could respond, the other men chimed in: "If Dayton doesn't do it, some other town will." And "Some other town will get the glory." "And the attention." "And the business." I was curious, so I stayed put, just sifting through my photographs, though by now I'd seen them all many times. A few were portraits I'd been hired to take, but most were still lifes I'd done for myself. A field of sunflowers. A cloud formation. My gray cat, Spitfire, somehow looking annoyed. With all those men talking over each other, it was hard to figure out if they were more worked up about defending the Bible story or about becoming famous for defending the Bible story. It seemed that at least three of them were truly in favor of the Butler Act, and that Rapp himself was firmly against it. But gradually, I realized it didn't matter what each man believed about creation or evolution or what should be taught and where: They all agreed emphatically that testing the law in Dayton would be sure to bring in business--­maybe even revive the blast furnace that had once helped the town thrive. "Whattaya say, John?" Rapp finally asked. John reminded them that he wasn't the regular biology teacher and had only filled in for him during review classes. "But you had them review that science textbook, right?" "And evolution's in that textbook, right?" "It's the state's own textbook," John said matter-­of-­factly. "And yes, of course evolution is in it." "Then that's that," Rapp said. "Are you willing to be our Tennessee teacher?" Both he and John wore round horn-­rimmed glasses, and they happened to take them off and wipe them at the same moment. They laughed in unison and, in unison, put their glasses back on. John Scopes said he was willing. Frank Robinson looked newborn. He shook John's hand, clapped him on the shoulder, strode to the telephone at the counter, and asked the operator to connect him to the Chattanooga Times. He said, "This is F. E. Robinson in Dayton, Tennessee. I'm chairman of the school board here. We've just arrested a man for teaching evolution." Even decades later, that very same little table where the men had sat would be ensconced in the Tennessee State Museum and would feature, under glass, a card that read: At this table, the Scopes evolution trial was started, May 5, 1925 Here is what I knew about evolution on that day in May of 1925: Nothing. Sure, I must have studied it on at least one day in high school, because the textbook hadn't changed since I'd graduated five years before. But if you'd asked me about evolution then, all I would have told you is that folks who believed in it thought men had come from monkeys, and so we should pray for those folks. I'd have told you I'd heard that evolution was a conspiracy hatched by godless Yankee highbrows to turn good Christians away from the Bible and therefore destine us to spend eternity in hell. What I didn't know about evolution was anything close to the reasoning or the facts behind the science. And I didn't know that, when confronted with even the word alone, some people who were otherwise decent and faithful would lose their decency in order to protect their faith. But I did know John Scopes. He'd come to Dayton the year before to teach some science and math classes and to coach the Yellow Jackets, the Rhea Central football team. Just a few weeks earlier, I'd photographed him with the boys for the yearbook. John's face was shaped like a spoon, and his pale hair was already thinning. He was twenty-­four, just a year older than I was, close in age and spirit to the boys--­and it had taken me a while to settle them all down to pose for the picture. They'd been tossing footballs at John and swiping cigarettes from his shirt pocket, and he'd been saying, "Now, boys," but smiling just the same. John Scopes seemed like a shy but popular fellow, and I'd spotted him at church and church functions. I was sure I'd seen him singing hymns without having to read from a hymnal. And I knew I'd seen him bow his head when Reverend Byrd said, "Let us pray." At Robinson's, I paid for my cherry Coke, gathered my photos, and then went outside to wait for John. I stood next to the tall white porcelain scale that I'd always thought looked like a large lollipop. I noticed the wavy shimmers on the mesh of the screen door, torn and patched in many places and floppy from all the hands and elbows that had pushed against it for so many years. I tried as always to tuck my hair back into the bun that was forever unraveling and falling against my neck. "Why'd you say yes?" I asked John as soon as the screen door banged shut behind him. I was genuinely perplexed. "Howdy to you too," he said. If he was rattled by what he'd just agreed to do, it didn't show in the slightest. His eyes were blue and calm. "Howdy," I said. "Why'd you do it?" "Seems like a worthy cause," John said. "To break the law?" "To break this law." "But it's the law." "But it's a bad law." Excerpted from The Evolution of Annabel Craig: A Novel by Lisa Grunwald All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

The layered and timely latest from Grunwald (Time After Time) revolves around the 1925 Scopes Monkey Trial. Orphaned at age 16 in the 1918 flu pandemic, Annabel Craig counts herself lucky to have found domestic bliss with her lawyer husband, George. Then a client of George's is acquitted for murder and subsequently kills his young son and himself, prompting George to retreat emotionally from Annabel and disappear for days on end. When Annabel reports she's had a miscarriage, George fails to express concern for her well-being. His old spark returns, however, when he joins Clarence Darrow's defense team in the case against high school teacher John Scopes for violating a Tennessee law prohibiting the teaching of evolution. Annabel, who grew up attending one of the local Methodist churches, finds her initial preference for populist preacher and prosecutor William Jennings Bryan challenged during the trial. Her assumptions about women's place in marriage and society are likewise shaken by Lottie Nelson, an ambitious young reporter covering the case. Grunwald provides vivid depictions of the influx of reporters and expert witnesses into small-town Dayton, Tenn., as well as a nuanced and well-rounded view of the religious townspeople. With book bans and anti-trans legislation tearing apart school districts, Grunwald's evenhanded historical speaks volumes to the present day. Agent: Julie Barer, Book Group. (Apr.)

Booklist Review

Orphaned as a teenager during the Spanish flu epidemic, Annabel is supported by her church and her community in sleepy Dayton, Tennessee, but doesn't feel truly connected to anyone until attorney George Craig literally sweeps her off her feet. While their marriage initially seems picture-perfect, dual tragedies threaten her tentative happiness as George withdraws. When the town fathers contrive to put Dayton on the map by providing the ACLU with a test case challenging a state law forbidding schools from teaching evolution, George's interest in the case renews Annabel's hope for their marriage. But his alliance with teacher John Scopes' lead defense attorney, Clarence Darrow, puts them at odds with their neighbors. Then Annabel hosts Lottie Nelson, a visiting reporter who encourages her independence and interest in photography, even getting her into the press box. As the trial progresses, Annabel questions her religion and her aspirations. Grunwald (Time after Time, 2019) wisely tells the story from the perspective of an older Annabel, reflecting her own evolution. Sure to be a book-club favorite as well as a gentle corrective to our current polarized culture.

Kirkus Book Review

A Tennessee woman is swept into the 1925 Scopes Monkey Trial when her camera skills get her a front-row seat at the proceedings, causing her to grow away from her upbringing. A native of Dayton, Tennessee, Annabel is working as a housekeeper at a hotel when she meets and marries George Craig, a lawyer come to town to start his career, but the honeymoon ends when a client George got acquitted commits a horrific act of violence. George's spirits and career get a boost when he joins Clarence Darrow's team, which is defending the teaching of evolution in public schools. Annabel navigates the shoals of her marriage and tries to square her traditional beliefs with the positions of Darrow--and her husband, who belittles her for being provincial and uneducated. Nevertheless, as an avid amateur photographer, she's thrilled when Lottie Nelson, a "lady reporter" she and George are putting up at their house, hires her to take pictures for the Chattanooga News. Although Grunwald's research is admirable, she can disrupt her own narrative with anticipatory statements. For example, when Lottie files a story disclosing George's negative views of the trial judge, rather than letting the consequences unfold, Grunwald has Annabel say, "I guessed that her story would be exceptionally long. I didn't guess that it would also be exceptionally destructive." Two pages later, we learn just how damaging the story is. In considering the pros and cons of the South, Annabel can be simplistic, but she does offer some important insights. "Women made the small decisions and men made the big ones. The small decisions often had the biggest consequences, like how a family handled hardship, or how far a dollar could be stretched, or what a child was taught to believe. But the big decisions made more noise." Provides a sense of how it felt to be in Dayton at the time of the Scopes trial. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.