"Funny. Used to think it was the ships, but all along it had been the river that drew him. It stretched him until his blood streamed with it. The river remained itself, its wholeness a power beyond any of the puny daily forces in Tom Phelan's little life. He could drive down here and study it, gray in the days, black at night, white gleams of moon, port light carried on the rippling skin of its wide back. After a while he wouldn't bother with understanding anything."
Lisa Sandlin's THE DO-RIGHT is a pocket miracle, a near-perfect poetic sleeper from the small-press ranks that carries itself along on the drowsily confident cat's feet of a voice steeped in time and place and the timeless authority of a native daughter. The time is 1973, the place is Beaumont, Texas, and Delpha Wade and Tom Phelan are native sons and daughters who are trying to reboot their lives after long times away — Delpha for a fourteen-year prison stretch for killing one of her two rapists; and Tom, on the oil rig that took one of his fingers, and a stretch in Vietnam that may or may not have taken more of that. And they're trying to do it against institutional forces that won't willingly allow them to be anything other than what each used to be. Small wonder that Hank Aaron's pursuit of Babe Ruth's home-run record — a black man trying to take something he's earned away from a beloved white man — plays out like a radio-fed Greek chorus as Delpha and Tom pursue their personal and professional ends, or maybe just their meanwhiles.
I could describe the plot, but, as with all great noir and private-eye novels, the pleasures of THE DO-RIGHT lie elsewhere. Primarily in its prose, which is light enough on its lightly amused feet to remind one of the Elmore Leonard of the time mixed with something else ineffably Southern but seasoned with time spent elsewhere: Harry Crews, Barry Hannah, Flannery O'Connor, something like that, or maybe just Lisa Sandlin. I love her slouchy, hipshot way with a simile:
"Long-beaked pelicans were strung out across the water, floating with decorum like cats settled with their paws beneath them."
"Time you realized gratitude comes to a natural end, like a sack of donuts."
"She cut the engine and as the boat eased on a ways of its own silent accord, the insect-singing—the bugs, the frogs, the locusts, the whole chittering, clicking, sawing, whirring choir—descended over her like a lofted sheet on its airy way back down."
Like a secret lover, the DO-RIGHT is something, like a cult musician's first album,that you want to shout from the mountaintops and keep to yourself at the same time. It is that rare thing: a perfect snapshot of a time, an unfaded packet of Polaroids; a debut novel that never falls victim to most debut-novel pitfalls like overexposition or underplotting; continued proof that many women write men better than men do (let alone men writing women); and a genre novel whose deepest pleasures are found in repeated readings.
If you've ever wondered what a female Elmore Leonard would sound like, the DO-RIGHT steps up and says how-do and smiles and sidles around to your blind side and spirits you off to the thickets for all sorts of fun you can't quite anticipate or articulate.