How can this not be five stars?
It’s essentially a story about three lost children and this one guy’s attempt to find them. He’s a social worker. So we have a social-worker-as-alcoholic-fuckup hero. One of the kids he’s trying to save is his daughter. In the novel, it’s 1980, 81, 82, Carter into Reagan, and we’re in the wilderland of Montana where there’s a crackpot and his family, one of these millenarian swivel-eyed ranters about the gold standard and masons and the illegal government in Washington and how Roberto Calvi’s death by hanging from Blackfriars Bridge in London was precisely foretold in Revelations and is a portend of the End Times. Our social worker Pete Snow gets involved, gets fascinated, when the son of this family wanders into the playground of a school, intrigued by the sight of so many children he’s not related to.
This is a Big Statement novel, and I was reminded of that famous aside in Hendrix’s song Fire : “Move over, Rover, and let Jimi take over” because in this context Jonathan Franzen = Rover and Smith Henderson = Jimi. If Franzen is continually taking the psychological temperatures of his bedizened middle-class cohort and making neurotic notes and fretting here and fretting there, Henderson is showing us a whole other thing, a working-class world where everything is in a continual state of fuckedupness, people are careening like pinballs from one carcrash to the next, and if there are any notes on these terrible cases, Pete Snow, out of his brain as usual, has just opened his office window and hurled them out into the street, his daily anguished protest against the enormity of what happens to Americans without a safety net, where his social services department is the only one they’ve got, and you can see for yourself what state that’s in.
There’s a really chilling theme running like an evil undertow in this large novel : child sex. There are some offhand remarks about fostering and children’s homes indicating, as if this was such an open secret that it’s on a level with Santa Claus not being real, that foster parents and children’s home workers routinely had sex with the kids in their control – like, of course, jackass, what did you think? This is not pursued, it’s just there like background static, like the abstracted humming of all America’s paedophiles. Then there’s the fate of female runaways : they become hookers. We’re also given to understand that this is the way the world is. And what if they’re only 13, 14, 15? So much the better. Because the punters will love it. Another author would have made this the main plot, but here, it’s just part of the picture. I admired the coldness of that.
There’s going to be a tv mini-series for sure which will be a must-see for 2015 or 2016, and I’m predicting right now that the kid actress who gets the role of Rose Snow, Pete’s daughter, will be someone we never heard of and will knock us all out and will get the Golden Globe. For Jeremiah Pearl, there’s only one choice, but it’s too obvious, Daniel Day Lewis. A Globe is also waiting for that actor. And I was thinking Amy Ryan would be great as the drug fiend mother of Cecil, but it would be a retread of Helen McCready in Gone Baby Gone, in fact that’s why I thought of her, so sorry Amy, it has to be somebody else. You’d have been great.
Henderson’s style has come in for some comment. It’s in-your-face and sometimes it does have more than a tinge of the Cormac portentousness about it, but I think Henderson has really got his own voice going here. Here is Pete overwhelmed by what could have happened to his daughter:
When he went out in the chilled morning to his car, tiny handprints from some prior removal preserved in the frost on his windows promptly undid him. He slumped against the car door into the crusty snow and howled out griefs that had come on as sudden and frightening as earthquakes, and even after they emptied out, left him in fear of aftershocks, of unseen cracks in the load-bearing trestles of his mind.
And he’s fond of uncommon words :
He parked and circled the abandoned brick and granite structure. Stern bartizans like watchtowers.
The turkey vultures turned in slow circles, black and cruciate
Pearl spoke endlessly of catamounts. How they are the only creature that kills for sport.
They spent a day climbing up into the floor of a glacial cirque. They hiked an esker that cackled with snowmelt
Maybe you will think that stuff is overwritten, striving to impress, but for me it made this fictional world as real as pain. Where Smith Henderson came from I don’t know, but he’s here now. I recommend this novel to all of you.