[spoiler alert] Richard Russo describes this third novel by Myla Goldberg as “a riveting read, both compelling and richly satisfying.” Russo wrote Empire Falls, which I couldn’t put down, so I was inclined to trust his assessment. Yet having finished Friend, I wonder if Russo wasn’t acting a little like the false friend of Goldberg’s title, editorializing for convenience. The False Friend is based on a compelling premise: “I think, therefore I am is too vague. We are, because we remember.” This homily, helpfully provided in chapter 1, is explicated in through the memory of Celia, a thirtysomething urban professional, who returns to her suburban hometown to correct the record about the disappearance of her childhood best friend, Djuna. Djuna had disappeared under murky circumstances one afternoon when the girls were 11 years old, walking home from school with a group of “satellite” girls, wannabe friends. Celia, who had at the time claimed that Djuna had gotten into a stranger’s car, now feels sure that Djuna actually fell into a hole in the woods and that Celia herself had fabricated the kidnapping rather than help her friend, with whom she had been squabbling at the time. But the recollections of Celia’s parents, as well as the grown-up women the former accolytes have become, contradict Celia’s revisionism. We are, because we remember, but we remember things differently depending on our shifting agendas. So far, so good. The flashbacks to Celia and Djuna’s tyranny over their eager, self-debasing friends dramatizes the particular cruelties of preteen girls, a depiction that belongs alongside Julie Orringer’s How to Breathe Underwater and Z.Z. Packer’s story “Brownies.”
The problem with The False Friend is that these brief flashbacks to Celia and Djuna’s social domination are so much more interesting than the relatively slow-paced “front story” of Celia’s interaction with her parents (who are detergent-commercial-sunshiney toward her) and her life with Huck, her bland good-guy boyfriend (who doesn’t deserve his allusive name). And the former accolytes—one visual artist whose work explores Djuna’s disappearance, one uber-smart Orthodox Jewish mother, and one formerly solicitous tomboy turned defiant transgender (or transsexual, it’s not clear)—are, for the five minutes of fame they each get, so much more interesting than Celia herself.
Goldberg’s language doesn’t help; many sentences are syntactically obscure, imbuing aesthetics with a sense of causation (“Spring had scrapped the need for a jacket”). Images are weighed down with portent. This could serve the story if I were convinced that the languge reflected Celia’s mentality as an unreliable, aesthetically rich narrative filter. Instead, the language feels like the proverbial “hand of the author,” steering Celia toward conclusions she never quite grasps herself. The closer Celia gets to uncovering (not even “understanding”) the injury she really caused on the day of Djuna’s disappearance, the murkier and blander Celia’s characterization becomes. What’s left at the end of the book is anticlimax, not revelation. Djuna’s mother, whom Celia visits in her one-by-one mea culpa tour, chides Celia, who had been a compelling kid, for not being a more interesting adult. This indictment, though meanspirited, is true, and true of the book as a whole. What’s meanspirited and primal in this book is what’s truest; what’s well-meaning and self-consciously educational or mature feels like editorializing, and we all know that what’s true is usually more compelling than what we wish were true.