“He thought about his son, struggling to breathe in a hospital room in Boston, his heart pumping in a parakeet’s cage of a chest, transparent, his skin like onion paper. Archer could actually see his heart beating. Breathing. Hearts beating. This city beating, a sickness in it, in the air around them. And for what? For another rung, so some people could get forward in a city going nowhere. Everyone protecting themselves, furtive conversations in dark-wooded bars and concrete-block strip clubs and hockey games at the War Memorial designed to nail someone, someone from another tribe in this crumbling industrial village that no one would ever want but was worth almost any price to those who did.”
I've read EVERY HIDDEN THING three times now, and found myself frustrated by it. That is, until I learned to sort of unfocus on the plot, as if I was staring at one of those find-the-hidden-thing-in-plain-sight wall-hangings, and appreciate it for its own hidden things: its tone and its texture, its properties as an assemblage of passages that bristle and crackle with pure ... interestingness, is the only way I can put it. The sum may be a little less than satisfying, but the parts are like a cerebral Shiatsu massage that leaves you feeling pulped with pure pleasure.
Author Ted Flanagan, in his debut novel, knows the territory: A former Marine and newspaper reporter, he works as a paramedic in Worcester, Massachusetts, the setting of EVERY HIDDEN THING. And every page feels pleasantly slimed with the sights and smells and sounds of greater Boston, a place of great prideful sleaze atop an unmovable slab of dark Catholic fidelity and identity. And his characters reflect that: there's a paramedic, the novel's putative hero; a newspaper reporter who's not entirely comfortable being compromised; a dirty mayor; a murderous mayor's fixer (an ex-cop, of course); a vengeful blank canvas of MAGA-styled hate; and a host of others.
Too many others, perhaps; they're all interesting but few get anything resembling a full and satisfying character arc, and I can't escape the sense that the structure of the novel cannot support their full weight, and that Flanagan's reach might have exceeded his grasp. It takes a stretch to maintain one’s suspension of disbelief when being asked to accept that the coldblooded fixer of a major political figure, someone who multiple-murdered his way to a pardon from prison in the space of a few seconds, so continually botches a cleanup job for the corrupt politico (“His driving desire in life was to be voted for”) that everyone’s future hinges on framing a paramedic through a pressure campaign highlighted by news stories written by a compromised reporter who just happens to be the paramedic’s estranged half-sibling.
I followed it all with interest while finally being forced to admit that I couldn’t parse its path or its logic. A separate plot thread, including another man who blames the same paramedic for another personal tragedy, feels like it’s a separate story from a separate novel awkwardly grafted onto this one even though the two storylines merge in the late going.
But even as I struggled with the interconnections of the characters, and the choppiness of their arcs, I found them incredibly interesting on a passage-by-passage basis. And in my book, sins of ambition are far preferable to sins of the lack thereof. And Flanagan's are more than forgivable given his gutter poet's eye for dirty detail on a granular level, his unimpeachably jaded but still grimly hopeful sense of place, and the pithy human and tribal insights that accompany all of the above.
One of my personal tells for a good read is in its quotability, and I found myself highlighting Twitter-sized passages time and time and time again, bits of knife-edged prose with a deliciously nasty bite. And it's those dozens of thought-prickling passages, all seasoned with the salt of the street, that ultimately make this subtly layered novel a pleasurable read — and re-read. A few choice passages:
“He liked that the retired wiseguys ate there, with their pinkie rings and flannel pants pulled up over their stomachs, primary-colored silk shirts tucked in tight. He loved how they spoke close and cupped each other’s cheeks when they talked.”
“Archer stepped out of the ambulance and took a deep breath, enjoying the air on this side of the city. It was a quiet enclave of comfort and leafy sidewalks occupied by midlevel civil servants, cops who doubled their salaries with detail pay, and firefighters who worked second jobs as carpenters and painters and machine shop foremen, all of them married to teachers or human resources reps or nurses. Unwilling to leave the city, they worked themselves to the bone to belong to it. Archer envied them. They’d understood early in life how to make this happen. He’d grasped the concept only recently, and felt his grip loosening.”
“It was the smell of the city as Archer and Julio knew it—stale cigarette butts and worn concrete sidewalks and bus exhaust and the hot dog vendor over by the Empire who steamed the vilest sauerkraut he’d ever encountered.”
“The Dinger itself had many charms. A thatched-hut ceiling over the dining area. The long bar of dark wood that reflected the tin ceiling tiles above, except in the spots where the water rings never quite scrubbed off. The checkerboard white-and-black tile floor. The small parquet dance floor that Lu had never seen anyone dance on. A corner jukebox. The Keno machine above the bar, framed with bubbling electric-orange liquid lights. A buzzy atmosphere charged with clouds of cheap cologne and the sweet tang of fried lo mein noodles.”
“Guinness. Can you stand it? What a f***ing stereotype. A mick and his Guinness. But I love it. You’ve got to love a beer that you have to eat with a fork and knife.”
“Davey McCarthy was as city as city got, was proud of it. He’d been born and raised in the same neighborhood where he now reigned supreme. He pounded beers at Salve Mater tailgates and sipped Christmas whiskey that came in bottles wrapped in blue silk bags. He was loud and slapped backs and cried at Old Yeller replays, just to let everyone know Davey McCarthy was more than just a man’s man, that he had a sensitive side.”
“This city? It’s all there is. I am bound to it, like a black hole. Nothing escapes. Enmity is short-lived here. It has to be. There’s only so many of us. Only so many. A grudge is a luxury.”
“Lu, if you can’t trust a crooked ex-cop, who can you trust?”
“He thought about his son, struggling to breathe in a hospital room in Boston, his heart pumping in a parakeet’s cage of a chest, transparent, his skin like onion paper. Archer could actually see his heart beating. Breathing. Hearts beating. This city beating, a sickness in it, in the air around them. And for what? For another rung, so some people could get forward in a city going nowhere. Everyone protecting themselves, furtive conversations in dark-wooded bars and concrete-block strip clubs and hockey games at the War Memorial designed to nail someone, someone from another tribe in this crumbling industrial village that no one would ever want but was worth almost any price to those who did.”
“We’re janitors,” Julio said. “Got our mops. Slopping this place up, move the misery from one place to another.”