There’s much to praise about Jake Hinkson’s new crime novel.
It’s got a great plot with plenty of plausible twists. It’s got wonderfully complicated characters who constantly surprise you with their empathy and grace and strength as much as their pettiness and hypocrisy and weakness. It’s got a way of summing up a complex thought or emotion in a tweetable number of words, a quality that it give it a rare quotability (and I’m of the belief, borne of epic experience, that the more quotable a story is, the better the story is). And it’s got a first-rate sense of place in Little Rock, Arkansas and its nearby small towns, and an even better sense of regional character, in its perpetual collisions between Evangelical Christians and everybody who isn’t.
I could go on and on about all the great stuff in Hinkson’s novel (as I did at filibuster length about his previous novel, the nearly perfect DRY COUNTY). But one thing in particular jumps out at me. Almost alone among the Southern Noir, aka “grit lit” authors I’ve read — and I’ve read dozens — Jake Hinkson takes people of religious faith and practice seriously. Or, to be more precise, he takes seriously the fact that people of religious faith and practice take those things seriously.
He doesn’t treat Evangelical Christians as straw-man villains, or punching bags for cheap punchlines, or find hee-hawing hilarity in their hypocrisies and human failings. He’s not hijacking the manifestations of religious belief for plug-and-play Cormac McCarthy-esque pseudo-poetry. He’s not dabbing his story with snake-handling and speaking-in-tongues splats of color as if they were Hawaiian dances performed for Honolulu tourists. There’s no wink-and-nudge to a desired and even presumed audience of smarty-pants secular readers eager to see people of Evangelical faith depicted as insane, cruel, corrupt, silly or stupid by definition. He doesn’t see them as some unknowable and undesirable Other to be seen only from a great unbridgeable distance. He doesn’t treat his particular slice of the South as a region to be strip-mined for its cultural distinctiveness in order to capitalize on a publishing trend.
Jake Hinkson recognizes that one can believe wholeheartedly in their Christian goodness, or at least the goodness of Christian belief, while doing bad things, or simply fallible things (and that, in fact, is what gives FIND HIM much of its gravity and go-power). Yes, sometimes they have sex with people they shouldn’t, or commit acts of mortal negligence and worse. But they always do so amid great internal struggle with their own demons and instincts. He treats these people, and their beliefs, with dignity and gravity and respect.
Lily Stevens, the heroine of FIND HIM, is mistreated by almost everyone within and within her Fundamenalist church when it’s learned that the high-schooler is pregnant by another boy from the church. Her parents are personally mortified and professionally insecure, given that her father is the church’s pastor, and her younger brother and some parishoners can’t quite hide the glee in their judgment of her. Beyond that, as a girl in the rural South, she’s treated as too delicate, too naïve, too stupid and too weak to think or act for herself. And then there’s Peter, the boy — the HIM of FIND HIM — who has disappeared, and all indications are that he ran off to avoid his responsibilities. Just another thing everybody blames her for.
Well, Lily isn’t stupid and she isn’t weak, and every line of inquiry she pursues in search of Peter — whom she wants to marry less out of love than to have someone to care for her and their child and fulfill his Christian responsibilities — seems to indicate that the narrative that people are selling her about Peter isn’t quite the truth, that it reflects a comfort within their own limited worldview.
But what’s interesting here is that the more Lily pushes her stubborn quest for answers into the secular world she’s been raised to recoil from, the more she leans into it, swelling belly-first — and the more her faith, challenged as it never has been before, stays intact. That’s because, through the tumultuous events of FIND HIM, she develops a wider window into the world and, through it, the wisdom to discern between faith and religion, between thoughtful values and mindless rituals. As, in their own way, do her parents, who are not the moral histrionics you’d expect to find in most Southern novels but caring, loving people of genuine belief in genuine struggle with the human structure that houses them. The same can be said of Peter, who, caught between a domineeringly devout mother and his own desires, makes a decision before he disappears — one that ,in the hands of most novelists, would be played as comedy, black or otherwise. Here, it is as sincere as it is shocking.
And Hinkson gives those struggles room to play out without treating the strugglers like deluded, destructive idiots. And the grace he extends his characters gives those characters room to extend grace to others, and those moments of grace give FIND HIM a rare power that transcends its plot in, I imagine, the same way a soul transcends its body upon arriving at moments of mortal, and moral, reckoning. As Allen, Lily’s long-estranged gay relative and newfound shotgun-rider — the product of an affair between a pastor and parishioner — puts it: “We’re all prejudiced. Just like we’re all selfish. The key is to try act better, not to act like you were born perfect. Can’t turn from your sin if you won’t admit you’re a sinner in the first place.”