I’m surprised that THE MIDCOAST was published. Which is not to say it’s a bad book; in fact, it’s a pretty good one. But it’s a weird one, category-wise; it’s been categorized, or at least marketed, as a work of crime fiction, but it isn’t really that. It could be called literary fiction, but it doesn’t feel “literary” in the sense that it’s thematically deep or written in “luminous prose.” It’s more what I think of as a 1980s novel, the sort of tepid roman-a-clef debut that publishers like Vintage Contemporaries used to indulge when they invested themselves into building the careers of talented students in graduate writing programs, letting them work their way up to the home run they’re confident the author will work their way up to somewhere down the road. Only this novel was published in 2022, and the go-big-or-go-home mentality has all but hijacked the book publishing industry, and in that sense a book like THE MIDCOAST doesn’t make much sense. (It’s also a “regional” novel — also a throwbacky notion — in that it’s so much about the Midcoast of Maine that its setting doesn’t really stand in for anywhere else, and yet it’s being marketed as something more than that.)
To add to my puzzlement about THE MIDCOAST — which I read twice and didn’t come out any more enlightened the second time than I did the first — it uses an odd device: the narrator who doesn’t really figure into the story. (I say “story” because I hesitate to say “plot,” because this isn’t really a plotted novel with a recognizable three-act structure and a suspenseful buildup to a clear resolution.) I realize there’s ample literary precedent for the use of “Nick Carraway” narrators, those people who hang around the periphery of the people they’re talking about, and occasionally, by omission more than commission, nudge the characters in certain directions that shade their choices and outcomes. And Andy, the writer trying to tell that story of the rise and fall of the Thatches of Damariscotta, Maine, is no disinterested observer, and Steph Thatch, the family matriarch, is not so far removed from Daisy Buchanan. But in trying to carefully calibrate his distance from Andy and in Andy from the Thatches, author Adam White seems to playing things a bit too coy and cute, and in both readings I found the sections narrated by “I” to be the most tedious ones of THE MIDCOAST. Passages like this labor too hard to interpret that which should interpret itself:
“And while it could be said that I haven’t been at the center of any story that anyone would find very interesting, it could also be said that I’ve been near enough to a few of them. And I think—or hope—that all that matters, returning to that impulse I’ve been trying to identify—the desire to be somehow near-er a tragedy—is what I feel when I’ve achieved some distance from the episode, and the way I feel then is relieved. I’m happy I have what I have. I’m happy I haven’t lost any of it along the way. I could have risked more—and perhaps lived to tell about it and therefore had more to tell—but with all apologies to my younger self, I can’t think of a single instance from my past that I wish had gone another way.”
It’s like, dude, you introduced me to some interesting people in Ed, Steph, EJ and Allie Thatch, so, you know, tell their story, not what you think of their story, you know? Passages like that hint at the unappealing idea that White actually wanted to write something more directly autofictional, or even memoristic.
THE MIDCOAST is at its best when it steps into the point of view of one of the Thatches: Ed, the lobsterman who so wants to give his wife anything and everything that he resorts to crime to do it; Steph, who wants to use her rising social station in Damariscotta to transform it in her vision of it while being carefully not too aware of how she arose into that station; EJ, the kid who doesn’t mind being aware of what his dad is up to until he traps himself by being complicit in it in his role as town cop; and Allie, the youngest, who everybody tries to protect so much that the distance created by their secrets drives her to widen that distance on her own. They’re interesting enough all on their own; Andy’s attempts to provide framing and shading for them register no better than their bloviations of the town drunk on the next barstool; he may have things to say worth hearing but he also has a great deal to say worth ignoring, such as the author’s occasional and awkward attempts to give them greater American significance.
That said, sometimes Adam White gets there; the following passage reminds me sharply of my own hometown of Bainbridge Island, Washington, a coastal place that was once authentically middle-class but has since been overtaken by tourist-centric artifice branded as charm and grace:
“Visitors go to the Midcoast because they think they want something rustic and industrial—the way life should be and all that—but really what they want is rustic and industrial plus one good coffee shop, and if they’re staying for longer than a weekend, then they want all that plus two good coffee shops, because the first one gets boring after a while.
“But then the tourists also want a T-shirt shop that sells gifts to bring home for the in-laws, and then a designer boutique because they weren’t expecting it to get so cool at night and because they’ve talked themselves into spending more money than they’d budgeted for just because they’re on vacation and because it’d be nice to find a knit sweater that matches exactly with their notion of what a well-heeled mariner on the Maine coast might wear on exactly such an evening, and so the town tries to provide all these services until, before you know it, it’s made enough concessions, on behalf of convenience and some imagined version of the town that only exists in brochures—to eventually, not that anyone’s really noticed, because it takes place over years or decades—trade ‘authenticity’ for what feels more like an airbrushed portrait of itself. A caricature. Buildings shaped like factories but containing everything someone from out of town thinks they don’t want but do want, or thinks they do want but don’t want.”
The Thatches are interesting, but only sporadically so, and so THE MIDCOAST registers to me more as an accumulation of satisfying moments more than an actually satisfying novel. But those moments are good: Steph’s weekend look at Amherst College as a glimpse of an alternative future in which she is not the wife of a crooked lobsterman; Allie’s fumbling efforts to leverage her smarts to lift up her lower social position to success among the seamlessly privileged at Amherst; Ed’s constant attempts to equate loving his wife with the necessity of having to lie to her about how they have what they have; EJ’s slowly dawning sadness at realizing that he’s been completely co-opted by his father’s criminiality; and best of all, a scene in which Steph is told the truth about her husband by an investigating outsider, only to find that her first and truest instinct is to negate the power of that truth as ruthlessly as possible.
These portions, around ten or them, tend to stand out to me like islands above a sea of soothing low-stakes, low-suspense narratives (even though they make up about half the novel). Those narratives are well-written, but less absorbing than I wanted it to be, and rarely if ever have the same low and steady hum and thrum of pleasurable uncertainty than the aforementioned sections.
In the end, I found THE MIDCOAST well-written, authoritative about is sense of place, astutely observant about character (White, in my opinion, writes women characters even better than he writes male ones) and only fitfully enjoyable. And even as I say that, I get the feeling that I’m missing something, or maybe it’s just I’m meant to feel like I’m missing something, much like Allie does around all those effortless sophisticates at Amherst and their culturally coded conversations, and Adam White, the product of an elite education, is talking over my head to an audience of readers who share his own sophistication.
All I can share, from the depth and resonance of my second-rate state school education and sloppily self-educating reading ever since, is my own honest opinion: that THE MIDCOAST is a talented portrait of people and place by a talented portrait photographer who, as often as not, lets his out-of-focus finger drift around the periphery of his lens.