My "Girls Girls Girls" jag continues with The Girls, the 2016 debut novel by Emma Cline. This is a book where not much seems to happen on the surface. There isn't a lot of story in this tale of Evie Boyd, a Northern California woman whose unexpected interaction with a teenage couple compels her to recall the summer of 1969, which she spent embedded with a cult later responsible for the most notorious mass murder of the 20th century. It takes place in a parallel universe that never heard of Charles Manson or the murders that rocked Los Angeles that summer and though the story holds no surprises, the compressed space that Cline pulled me into was palpable.
Evie is introduced ten years after she burns through an inheritance left by her Hollywood starlet grandmother. She scrapes out a living as a live-in aide, her latest gig being caretaker of the vacation home of an ex-lover on a Northern California beach, more charity than work. Her routine is interrupted by the nocturnal appearance of her employer's college dropout son and a fifteen-year-old girl he's hooked up with named Sasha. The home invasion transitions from one with potential for violence to one that's loaded with post-traumatic landmines, with the teenagers asking Evie about Russell Hadrick and events of the summer of '69.
Moving back in time to when Evie was fourteen years old and growing up in Petaluma, she recalls what began as a summer living of suburban luxury. Waiting to be shipped off to boarding school in the fall, Evie lives with her mother Jean, who's on a self-improvement kick in the months since her divorce from Evie's father Carl, a businessman who traded Evie's mother for his younger secretary. Evie spends her time hanging out with her best friend Connie, whose older brother Peter piques sexual curiosity in Evie. Other forces enter Evie's orbit that summer with three long-haired girls she observes in town and describes as "royalty in exile."
The girls moved into the alley alongside the restaurant farther past the grill. Practiced and smooth. I didn't look away. The older one lifted the lid of the dumpster. The redhead bent down and the black-haired girl used her knee as a step, hoisting herself over the edge. She was looking for something inside, but I couldn't imagine what. I stood to throw away my napkins and stopped at the garbage can, watching. The black-haired girl was handing things from the dumpster to the others: a bag of bread, still in its packaging, an anemic-looking cabbage that they sniffed, then tossed back in. A seemingly well-established procedure--would they actually eat the food? When the black-haired girl emerged for the last time, climbing over the rim and slinging her weight onto the ground, she was holding something in her hands. It was a strange shape, the color of my own skin, and I edged closer.
Evie's craving for love goes unfulfilled in the suburbs, where her mother hits the singles scene, Peter rejects Evie for the open road with his pregnant girlfriend and even her best friend Connie turns cold when Evie pushes over the motorcycle of a boy her friend has designs on. Alone in a supermarket, she encounters the black-haired girl from the dumpster, ejected from the premises before she can lift a roll of toilet paper. Evie buys it for the girl, whose name is Suzanne and puts stars in Evie's eyes with the attention she directs at her. An argument with her mother over her latest beau, a gold prospector, drives Evie out of the house, where her bicycle throws its chain on a fire road.
A black bus stops to render roadside assistance. Out climbs Suzanne, who Evie has to remind where they met. Unable to fix the bike, Suzanne offers to drop the kid off in town, but a redhead named Donna invites Evie to a summer solstice party the girls are throwing. Arriving at a ranch off the highway that consists of an old wooden house, a barn, a filthy swimming pool, six llamas and "a few hollow cars in a state of disrepair," Evie hears all about Russell Hadrick before she meets him, less of a boy than the males she's been introduced before but a medicine man whose spiritual power has inspired total devotion in the girls, who live on the ranch in complete squalor.
Evie is drawn to Suzanne's charisma more than that of the blissfully zen Russell Hadrick, who eventually leads Evie into his trailer to swap sexual favors. She earns her keep by virtue of her famous grandmother and by pilfering cash for Suzanne, first from her mother's purse, later from a boy Evie promises marijuana to. The girls have fooled themselves into believing they're free and that a record deal is imminent for Russell due to the spell he's cast over a studio guitarist named Mitch Lewis, but when Russell's session goes badly, disillusionment and bitterness bubble to the surface. When Russell dispatches Suzanne and Donna to Mitch's mansion one fateful night, Evie tags along.
All Suzanne said was that we were paying Mitch a visit. Her words were spiked with a cruelty I hadn't heard before, but even so, this was the furthest my mind ranged: we were going to do what we'd done at the Dutton house. We'd perform an unsettling psychic interruption so Mitch would have to be afraid, just for a minute, would have to reorder the world anew. Good--Suzanne's hatred for him allowed and inflamed my own. Mitch, with his fat, probing fingers, the halting, meaningless chatter he kept up while looking us over. As if his mundane words would fool us, keep us from noticing how his glance dripped with filth. I wanted him to feel weak. We would occupy Mitch's house like tricky spirits from another realm.
My tallest hurdle with The Girls is how little occurs in the story. Adults with even the most casual grip on history will recognize the pieces emulating those of the Manson Family, and Cline's decision to introduce Evie as an adult throws water on any burning suspense that something bad might happen to her in flashbacks. Readers expecting thrills or chills are better off finding a copy of Helter Skelter. I'm recommending the novel on the strength of Cline's writing, which aches with the endless search for approval and the black keys that sound discordant notes from one's past. The title represents the novel well.
Poor Sasha. Poor girls. The world fattens them on the promise of love. How badly they need it, and how little most of them will ever get. The treacled pop songs, the dresses described in the catalogs with words like "sunset" and "Paris." Then the dreams are taken away with such violent force; the hand wrenching the buttons of the jeans, nobody looking at the man shouting at his girlfriend on the bus. Sorrow for Sasha locked up my throat.
As deficient as The Girls is in narrative, Cline's decision to frame the novel with an adult Evie, drifting, wanting and still jumping at the sounds of a doorknob turning in the night is potent. The thoughts and feelings she communicates balance what story or characters do not. Reviewers have mentioned the negative portrayal of men in the book, but for that to mean anything, there would need to be a positive portrayal of women and this isn't the case either. In Cline's imagination, it was as if the Sixties was a dream that everyone involved woke up from harshly, with a lingering hangover. It's terrific stuff.