Alaska achieved statehood in 1959. HOMESTEAD opens three years earlier, in 1956, when the Bureau of Land Management in Anchorage was giving away tracts of land to the hale and hardy. Lawrence Beringer, 27, a Korean War survivor from Minnesota, jumps at the opportunity for 150 acres near a lake. All he has to do is work it, make it thrive, successfully farm a crop. He decides on alfalfa, and then seeks a wife “for the sake of children.” Lawrence is stoic, enigmatic, and socially awkward. He meets Marie, visiting from Conroe (near Houston) at the Moose Lodge, and tosses a piece of paper at her (but I won’t spoil that moment of what inane thing he wrote on it). A day later, they decide to marry. Marie’s beloved sister, Sheila, who she is visiting, lives a few hours away from the Beringer homestead with her husband, Sly. Marie comes from an optimistic place. The story mines movingly, it burrows. Moustakis has written a haunting, sensuous, and vivid novel about marriage, turf, and trust. All within the dramatic landscape of Alaska, with its four stunning seasons.
The chapters are separated by each of the twelve months, and cover approximately three years, beyond when Alaska becomes a US state. “Snow came and went, a promise and a lie, and the turned trees lose their finest gold and yellow leaves to the wind. The scrape of moose antlers on branches and the rustle of willow shrub, the rut, and the bulls in a fight over the cows, the hollow racket of antler thrown against antler, the echo through the low.”
Lawrence and Marie dance lightly around each other, strangers still, Lawrence moody and guarded. One thing Marie makes clear—she wants her name on the deed when it’s time. Lawrence’s father, Joseph, unlike his son, is easygoing and accommodating. He travels from Minnesota to help the young couple build a large cabin. For now, they sleep, eat, and bathe in an adapted creaky school bus, and own a truck for transportation. Marriage, like farming, requires attention and effort for success. The Alaskan landscape, often overwhelming, unreservedly powerful, punishing, and unforgiving, is a character in itself. Taming it is a tremendous project—impossible, perhaps. You honor your spouse and respect the land, yielding at various times to both. There’s a measure of interiority here, well-balanced by the setting, physical labor, and plot.
A past trauma grips Lawrence, which he hides from his wife behind an inscrutable shield. Vulnerability scares him, whereas Marie is keen to laugh and love and lean on each other. They both revere Alaska, despite some dangerous collisions with wildlife, and the day-to-day intersections with the landscape and their tenacity eased me naturally into the story. Marie, especially, reaches out with tenderness toward nature, and to her husband, and they both comprehend how small they are in contrast to the great Alaskan wilderness. It’s too majestic not to dominate, and it puts things in perspective.
But there are brewing conflicts gone unsaid, and at times I clenched my fists and wanted to scream. The tension in the marriage is plainly palpable, but Lawrence has an almost pathologically avoidant personality, mostly due to his trauma, I suspect. The disquieting moments build on each other, leading up to a striking denouement. "How much to be taken, and given, how much to be known, before calling this love, and will it be as sudden as a quiet hour?" This masterful debut novel swept me up in its story, prose, and depth.