Calling Me Home

Review by Booklist Review

Comparisons to The Help (2009) are inevitable, and though there are echoes of Kathryn Stockett's popular best-seller to be found in Calling Me Home, Kibler has crafted a wholly original debut. The novel, set in 1930s Kentucky, centers on a forbidden romance between a teenage white girl, Isabelle McAllister, and Robert Prewitt, the black son of the McAllister's maid. Chafing under her mother's restrictive notions of female propriety, Isabelle finds a kindred spirit in Robert. The two begin to meet clandestinely, but any hope of a future together is threatened by the overwhelming racism of the era. Against impossible odds, the pair elopes to neighboring Cincinnati, but their happiness is short-lived when Isabelle's thuggish brothers drag her back to the family home. The sad story is presented in flashback, as told by a now-elderly Isabelle to her black hairdresser, Dorrie, while the two drive cross-country to a funeral. Some may object that the civil rights struggle is once again being filtered through a white perspective, but there's no denying the pull of Kibler's story.--Wetli, Patty Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Kibler, in alternating first-person narrations, delivers a rousing debut about forbidden love and unexpected friendships over the span of six decades. Dorrie, an African-American hairstylist in East Texas, is asked by one of her regular clients, Isabelle, a woman in her 80s, for a strange favor-a ride to Cincinnati. On the road, Dorrie learns of Isabelle's painful past. Both in conversations in the car and via flashback from her teenage years, Isabelle reveals her former childhood of white privilege in a prejudiced Southern town and her love affair with her maid's brother, Robert, a black man. She and Robert married in secret only to find their clandestine relationship quickly torn apart. After giving up Robert for lost, Isabelle married again-this time for convenience, but Robert's return forces her to confront difficult questions about love, commitment, and her antagonistic relationship with her family. Now, as Dorrie and Isabelle reach Cincinnati, Isabelle reveals her reasons for going-to attend a funeral, which uncovers long-held emotions and secrets buried for 60 years. In this compelling tale, Kibler handles decades of race relations with sensitivity and finds a nice balance between the characters of Dorrie and Isabelle. Drawing from her own family history in Texas, Kibler relays a familiar story in a fresh way. Agent: Elisabeth Weed, Weed Literary. (Feb.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

Dorrie, a strong-willed African American, has a full, busy life as a single mother and hair-salon owner, but she makes time for Isabelle, her client and friend of many years. Because Isabelle is pushing 90, she can no longer drive and asks Dorrie for an extraordinary favor, to accompany her on a road trip from east Texas to Cincinnati to attend a funeral. As the miles unfold, Isabelle begins to recount her memories as a privileged young white girl growing up in 1930s Kentucky; her first love, the son of the African American housekeeper, and the tragic events that followed. VERDICT Debut author Kibler has written a moving tale of young, idealistic love in a headlong conflict with the reality of the injustices of that era. In the same vein as Kathryn Stockett's The Help, Kibler's story touches on multiple historical aspects of racial inequality and segregation as well as the lingering prejudice still evident in modern times. [See Prepub Alert, 8/9/12.]-Joy Gunn, Henderson Libs., NV (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

From East Texas to Cincinnati, from present-day racism to 1930s segregation, Isabelle and Dorrie travel together, a most unlikely pair of companions, and their stories unfold. After having been Isabelle's hairdresser for a decade, Dorrie thinks she knows Isabelle pretty well, even though Isabelle is a 90-something white woman and she is a 30-something black woman and even though Isabelle grew up privileged and she has struggled to begin her own shop. Over time, the women have bonded over shared stories, stories about Dorrie's divorce and Isabelle's favorite soap operas. And over time, they have become friends. Yet, when Isabelle asks Dorrie to drive her cross-country to a funeral, Dorrie is taken aback. It's easy enough to ask her mother to care for her children, but telling Teague, her new boyfriend, is another matter. Their relationship is still new, still tentative, and Dorrie has been burned by men too often. Once on the road, Isabelle's most secret story comes out. Growing up in a town that persecuted blacks who dared to stay after sunset, and under the thumb of a mother watching her daughter's every movement, Isabelle was the last young woman the people of Shalerville, Ky., might have expected to fall in love with a black man. The repercussions of their love shattered their lives, their families, their futures. Yet, their story isn't finished, and Dorrie wonders what lingers and whose funeral they are headed toward. As she puts the puzzle of Isabelle together, Dorrie has worries of her own. Can she trust Teague? Why have her son and his girlfriend stopped planning for the prom? Kibler's unsentimental eye makes the problems faced unflinchingly by these women ring true. Love and family defy the expected in this engaging tale.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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1 Miss Isabelle, Present Day I ACTED HATEFUL to Dorrie the first time we met, a decade or so ago. A person gets up in years and she forgets to use her filters. Or she's beyond caring. Dorrie thought I didn't care for the color of her skin. No truth to that at all. Yes, I was angry, but only because my beauty operator--hairdresser they call them these days, or stylist, which sounds so uppity--left with no notice. I walked all the way into the shop, which is no small effort when you're old, and the girl at the counter told me my regular girl had quit. While I stood there blinking my eyes, fit to be tied, she studied the appointment book. With a funny smile, she said, "Dorrie has an opening. She could do you almost right away." Presently, Dorrie called me over, and certainly, her looks surprised me--she was the only African-American in the place, as far as I could tell. But here was the real problem: change. I didn't like it. People who didn't know how I liked my hair. People who made the cape too tight around my neck. People who went away without any warning. I needed a minute, and I guess it showed. Even at eighty, I liked my routine, and the older I get, the more it matters. Picture me now at almost ninety. Ninety. I'm old enough to be Dorrie's white-haired grandmother. And then some. That much is obvious. But Dorrie? She probably doesn't even know she's become like the daughter I never had. For the longest time, I followed her from salon to salon--when she wouldn't settle down and stay put. She's happier now, has her own shop these days, but she comes to me. Like a daughter would. We always talk when Dorrie comes. At first, when I met her, it was just the regular stuff. The weather. News stories. My soap operas and game shows, her reality TV and sitcoms. Anything to pass the time while she washed and styled my hair. But over time, when you see the same person week after week, year after year, for an hour or more, things can go a bit deeper. Dorrie started talking about her kids, her crazy ex-husband, and how she hoped to open her own shop one day, then all the work that entailed. I'm a good listener. Sometimes, she'd ask me about things, too. Once she started coming to my house, and we got comfortable in our routine, she asked about the pictures on my walls, the keepsakes I have on display here and there. Those were easy enough to tell about. It's funny how sometimes you find a friend--in the likely places--and almost immediately, you can talk about anything. But more often than not, after the initial blush, you find you really have nothing in common. With others, you believe you'll never be more than acquaintances. You're so different, after all. But then this thing surprises you, sticking longer than you ever predicted, and you begin to rely on it, and that relationship whittles down your walls, little by little, until you realize you know that one person better than almost anyone. You're really and truly friends. It's like that with Dorrie and me. Who would have thought ten years later we'd still be doing business together, but so much more, as well. That we'd not only be talking about our shows but sometimes watching them together. That she'd be making excuses to stop by several days a week, asking if I need her to run any errands for me--wanting to know if I'm out of milk or eggs, if I need to go to the bank. That I'd be making sure when I ride the cart around the grocery store, after the Handitran drops me off, I put a six-pack of her favorite soft drink in the basket so she'll have something to wet her whistle before she starts on my hair. One time, a few years back, she looked embarrassed when she started to ask me a question. She stopped mid-sentence. "What?" I said. "Cat got your tongue? That's a first." "Oh, Miss Isabelle, I know you wouldn't be interested. Never mind." "Okay," I said. I was never one to pick something out of people that they didn't want to tell. "Well, since you begged me..." She grinned. "Stevie's got this concert at school Thursday night. He's got a solo--on the trumpet. You know he plays the trumpet?" "How could I miss it, Dorrie? You've been telling me about it for three years, since he auditioned." "I know, Miss Isabelle. I'm kind of over-the-top proud when it comes to the kids. Anyway, would you like to come with me? To see him play?" I thought about it for a minute. Not because there was any question whether I wanted to go, but because I was a little overcome. It took too long for me to find my voice. "It's okay, Miss Isabelle. Don't feel like you have to. My feelings won't be hurt and--" "No! I'd love to. In fact, I can't think of anything I'd rather do Thursday." She laughed. It's not like I ever went anywhere, and Thursday was a boring night for television that year. Since then, it hasn't been uncommon for her to take me along when the kids have special events. Heaven knows, their father usually forgets to show up. Dorrie's mother usually comes, too, and we have nice little chats, but I always wonder what she thinks about my being there. She studies me with a shade of curiosity, as though she can't fathom any reason for Dorrie and me to be friends. But there's still so much Dorrie doesn't know. Things nobody knows. If I were going to tell anyone, it would likely be her. It would definitely be her. And I think it's time. More than anyone, I trust her not to judge me, not to question the way things happened and the way things turned out. So here I am, asking her to drive me all the way from Texas to Cincinnati, halfway across the country, to help me tend to things. I'm not too proud to admit I can't do this alone. I've done plenty for myself, by myself, as long as I can remember. But this? No. This I can't do alone. And I don't want to anyway. I want my daughter; I want Dorrie. Copyright © 2013 by Julie Kibler Excerpted from Calling Me Home by Julie Kibler 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.

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