This is not my usual cup of tea, but I can’t resist a novel set among the swamps and ghosts and Spanish moss-shrouded towns of the Deep South. I used to live in LA - lower Alabama- so low I could see Florida out my backyard, and everything there is always twenty years ago. Same with this novel; it's set in the 1980s but it feels twenty years earlier. And that’s my problem with it. It’s settling on tropes that really don’t exist anymore.
Haley Ellyson is a sixteen-year-oldish beauty living in the small northern Mississippi town of Houser Banks with her hard-drinking, hard-fighting and somewhat dangerous Dad and his band of quasi-outlaws that spend their weekends around Haley’s dinner table drinking and playing cards. Her mother deserted her when she was young, but a quasi-stepmother, Gwyneth, has moved in and tends to Dad and keeps the place somewhat civilized.
Fletcher Greel is the son of the town judge and spends most of his life in northern boarding schools, showing up in Houser Banks only for the summers.
How ever are we going to get these two together?
Through Riley White and Crystal Wells, who are head-over-heels for each other, he a poor-white-trash dam worker with a rebuilt Roadrunner and an undying love for the blues and none for country music, and she a beautiful black girl who sings like Billie Holiday and Nina Simone combined. Uh, what? Black girl and white boy in Mississippi?
Well, yeah.
Because this is the 1980s. If this was the 1960s, then people would be swinging from trees but, by this time of our national development, not so much. And I know because I saw it. I was attending a peanut farmer country school when segregation was initiated and, well, that got ugly. Some. But it was pretty much over a couple of years later. Why? Because we kids simply didn’t believe what our parents were telling us.
Kingsbury is leaving the impression that this relationship is forbidden and I’m not buying it. Were there people who looked askance? Well, yeah, but the trouble Riley and Crystal get into is more because of Haley than it is any disapproval by the local peanut farmers.
Because Haley is a tease. Just is. She has strung along a couple of the boys to the point of their immense frustration and Crystal is Haley’s best friend and Riley is Fletcher’s and when they introduce Fletcher to Haley and the sparks fly, the spurned boys are not happy, race being secondary. Frustration is primary.
And, boy, is there a lot of frustration here. Haley is having a fling with one of her Dad’s close friends and, boy, is it weird. The sex scenes between them are more like a Penthouse letter than anything and will leave you absolutely confused as to who did what to who and how. Indeed, the first actual sex is about ¾ of the way through and, really, it’s a relief. So to speak.
So what you have is a setup where you absolutely expect some Heat of the Night explosion of passion and hate and, yeah, you do get that, but not for the reasons you may be thinking. And it is unresolved in a way that makes me question how southern these boys really are because there’s just no way my pals in LA would have taken this lying down. Me, neither, and I’m half Yankee.
There is a body hidden in the woods that figures prominently throughout and may have a lot more to do with Haley’s self-destructive urges than anything. She keeps going back to where it’s buried. That’s not healthy.
This is an oddly constructed novel, told in alternating chapters from Haley’s then Fletcher’s viewpoints. And it’s an annoyingly constructed novel because Kingsbury is all avante-garde and MFA and doesn’t use punctuation because that’s so bourgeoise, which will drive you crazy. So be warned.
Did I like this novel? Yeah, I did, even though I wanted to smack a few of the characters around, especially Haley. Riley is the best character in the book and he steals every scene in which he appears. I knew a couple of guys like him.
Kingsbury grew up in Connecticut, like I couldn’t figure that out, but has spent a considerable amount of time in the south mostly working for universities, where 1960s tropes are kept alive. This book was published in 2002 and has one of those annoying Acknowledgements sections where the author thanks every single person in her life who gave her a half-smile and so encouraged her muse.
Spare me.