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256 pages, Hardcover
First published February 6, 2018
Ezra Fog, an amateur photographer and the resident groundskeeper of an expansive high-end rental property, is the ironic locus of the story. His presence here is more the product of an inertia of the will than anything resembling the ambitions that drive the property’s tenants: a B movie actress who is a little too old by the vapid standards of the industry to play the bombshell she has historically been typecast as, and her high-powered producer of a husband. The bullet points of this arrangement traverse familiar terrain within the noirish framework: the fading starlet has an affair with the ‘cabana boy’; the spurned husband is intent on revenge. But how it all unfolds (the idiosyncrasies of its expression and the motivations of those involved) is rife with surprise and nuance.
Ezra was raised in a Christian cult; his mother, dubbed ‘the Prophetess’ by her acolytes, its charismatic leader. Having distanced himself (in time and geography) from that time in his life, he has been living in limbo ever since, a refugee from the world he grew up in, a misfit in the one he desires: a status that he lacks the wherewithal to either repudiate or embrace, mired as he is in ambivalence and guilt. For Ezra, inaction is a form of agency, a way of conspiring with fate to absolve himself of the responsibility to choose. Ironically, his guilt is only marginally connected to the belief system he inherited as a child; he was—unbeknownst to his mother perhaps—a skeptic, even in preadolescence. The real source of his guilt relates to her. In his mind, he failed her in her hour of deepest need, and he is no longer in a position to make amends.
While the specter of a cult leader may lend itself to cliché, McMeekin’s rendition, parceled out in a series of vignettes presented in flashback and scattered throughout, assiduously avoids it. The portrait that emerges instead is one of considerable nuance, a woman with psychological scars who struggles to reconcile a troubled and sometimes sordid private life to the better version of herself she presents to the public. And yet she is curiously free of the cynicism and avarice that the role on its surface would seem to call for. She’s no Elmer Gantry.
The polarities of the Prophetess reverberate in the person of Sybil Harper, the ‘aging’ starlet on the downside of a career that never quite aligned with expectations. For Ezra’s mother, it was her public persona that provided the template for the person she aspired to be, a hedge against the reality of the woman behind that persona, internalized as a hackneyed knock-off; a facsimile gone awry, For Sybil, the reverse is true. In her mind, it’s the Sybil no one sees (part hidden reality, and part un-actualized, larger-than-life aspiration) that represents the more authentic version of herself, the antipode of the parody her public persona has been reduced to. In Ezra, Sybil sees a way out of her downward spiral, and an unlikely route to transcendence. In Sybil, Ezra sees a chance at redemption. Of course, lust has something to do with it too.
I’ve read The Hummingbirds twice; I rushed through it the first time, like a delicious meal that I was too hungry to eat at a pace conducive to savoring, driven by the need to know what happens next. (On the back of the book jacket cover, Peter Mountford describes McMeekin’s work as ‘propulsive.’ It’s an apt characterization). But the second time through—with the suspense attendant to an outcome-in-doubt no longer part of the equation—the book proved to be no less gripping. Beautifully written, provocative, and haunting.