An energetic, revelatory and unpretentious first novel about writing, love, conflicted emotions, self-discovery, and the fissures of America.
The protagonist/narrator is a young (late 20s) man named Owen Callahan. Small town, blue-collar Kentucky background, parents (both conservative Evangelical Christians, both facing very serious problems) divorced. Owen has returned home after an aimless period of drug use, homelessness, and unemployment. He is the first member of his family to go to college and aspires to be writer. As the book opens, Owen is working on the groundskeeping crew and nearby Ashby College because the job enables him to take a free course.
Owen becomes involved with a young woman named Alma Hadzic, creature of very different world. She's from the urbane East Coast, daughter of educated, well-to-do Muslim parents who managed at great cost to escape the violence of civil war Bosnia of the 90s. She's a graduate of Princeton, author of a well-reviewed work. She holds a prestigious writer in residence fellowship at Ashby.
The first words we read tell us a lot about Owen (though we don't know that, of course, until we see more of who and what Owen is):
I’ve always had the same predicament. When I’m home, in Kentucky, all I want is to leave. When I’m away, I’m homesick for a place that never was. This is what I told Alma the night we met. A grad student had thrown a party, and we’d both gone. I don’t know how long we’d been talking or how the conversation started, but I’d seen her watching me. That’s why I went over. She was watching me like I might try to steal something from her.
Is it a glib pick-up line, this when-I'm-here/when-I'm-not pronouncement (maybe one he’s used before)? Could be, but that possibility doesn't make it untrue. Owen is in fact a creature of two adjacent but different worlds. The setting vividly distills one of those worlds: A room filled with grad students, walls festooned with posers from foreign films, "rescued" furniture, dim illumination provided by out-of-season Christmas lights and the “pink glow of a Wurlitzer jukebox,” a free-standing life-sized cardboard cutout of Walt Whitman. Alma holds a Solo cup in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. As if posing for a scene in an indie film. “Her denim skirt was of the kind I associated with Pentecostals,” Owen tells us. When she asks him what he means by his remarks, he demurs, saying he’s a little drunk. He probably is but it doesn't matter. It's clear that he has to be a particular kind of person when he's in the campus world, has to present himself a certain way.
When he's not on campus or cutting down trees at Ashby, Owen lives in his grandfather’s basement. Grandpa — Pop — is a kind, patient, gentle man, a veteran of the Second World War who passes his evenings watching John Wayne movies and is happiest on those occasions Owen joins him. He's kind of the moral center of the book. The other occupant of the house is Pop’s 52 year old son, Cort — Owen’s uncle — who was in a bad car accident that left him unable to take care of himself. A MAGA sign hangs in his bedroom window.
The plot of “Groundskeeping” follows Owen as he moves back and forth between the two worlds. Cole deftly Owen's many conflicts -- internal and external -- a young man at odds with himself, a country at odds with itself. In his capable hands the people and their situations do not come off as literary inventions and "types" but as men and women you might actually encounter: Owen and Alma, grad students and grounds crew, campus and MAGA, Pop and Owen, mom and her husband who’s just learned that he’s being laid off, dad and his wife who’s dying of cancer. In other hands the book might belong in that sub-genre that’s derided by some as “poverty porn,” but not here. Cole respects these people. He captures the complexity of the personalities, all their flaws and longings, their expressions of love and care, their failures. He portrays them in a manner that allows the reader to admire them and sometimes be annoyed at them, disappointed in them. There were times, for example, when I found myself struck by what a jerk Owen could be -- so petulant and self-absorbed. Then it dawned on me that my reaction, was a mark of how successfully Cole brings his characters to life. Owen is damaged, fears he will be looked down. And young: you see it in his relations with his family -- he often acts or thinks like a teenager.
On a similar but smaller scale, there's sexist, intolerant Uncle Cort: Generally he's up in his room on the computer, but when he comes downstairs he says something sets off Owen and Pop has to intervene. It's easy for the reader to join Owen in disliking Cort, but then a heated conversation ends with Owen knocking Owen -- and probably the reader -- off balance by saying, “Do you think I wanted to live this life?” This is not the Cort I thought he was.
Throughout the book it's clear that Cole feels deep affection for this place and its people. He and Alma go for drives from time to time so she -- East Coast/Princeton/sophisticate -- can see the Kentucky that exists outside the campus with Owen as her guide:
I explained that Cracker Barrel was cheap, and they were working-class people without a lot of money who nonetheless wanted the experience of a family outing. They loved the food and the décor not because they had bad taste, but because it was familiar to them. They’d grown up on actual farms, milking cows and pulling the suckers from actual tobacco. They’d eaten stewed apples and turnip greens and ham hock, and the tools on the walls had been the tools their fathers used, in a time that was not, at least in Kentucky, some distant yesteryear. It was recent and vivid, and the ache of its passing away therefore still present, like a phantom limb. Cracker Barrel is not some kind of meme but a place that occupies a different place in the minds of Red state America than it does on the coasts. The reader takes this in with feelings that are likely very similar to what Alma is experiencing. Is this the Kentucky Owen misses when he's away?
Cole's descriptions too can be vivid and evocative: “We left early on a low-skied morning, taking I-65 through the land smoothed out to corn stubble and fields of winter grass… Weak sunlight had begun to sift down, and when we crossed the Green River, which really was green, its banks choked with brambles and frail trees, we could just make out the stacks of the coal-burning Paradise Fossil Plant in the distance.”
It’s a cliche but I'll say it anyway: It’s hard to believe that “Groundskeeping” is a first novel. I look forward to reading other works by Lee Cole.