Bluebird, Bluebird is one of those novels that I felt was written for me. Published in 2017, this is the fourth book by Attica Locke, a native Houstonian who after nearly fifteen years as a highly sought-after screenwriter (on projects that all went unproduced), began moonlighting in mystery fiction, using the geography, culture and racial divides of East Texas to inform her stories. Like Tana French, Locke writes literary novels that happen to involve a homicide investigation. Her ability to unlock doors mysterious to me even as a Texan and her examination of what it means to be a Texan in today's political climate are two of her greatest strengths.
Darren Mathews has been suspended from the Texas Rangers pending a grand jury investigation. Ignoring a plea from his wife Lisa, Darren drove to San Jacinto County to help Rutherford "Mack" McMillan, the caretaker of the Mathews family house in Camilla. With Mack's granddaughter being terrorized by a no-account cracker named Ronnie Malvo, an armed standoff ensued and two days later, Malvo was found dead in a ditch, shot by a .38 like the one Mack had pointed at the dead man. While Darren's career dangles by a thread, he separates from Lisa, who wants him to resign from law enforcement and return to law school like the Princeton grad she married.
Darren receives a call from Greg Heglund, an FBI agent that he went to private high school with in Houston. Itching for a "come-up" that will advance his career and get him out of the Houston field office, Greg asks Darren to look into a double-homicide in Shelby County, where the town of "Lark" has produced two dead bodies in six days despite having a population of two hundred folks. Located off U.S. Highway 59--the north-south route that has long carried blacks to visit family, or in some cases, completely out of state for jobs or an environment less hostile to them--Darren is in many ways going home.
He was Texas-bred on both sides, going all the way back to slavery. Since Reconstruction, no one had ever left the piney woods of the eastern edge of the state save for a few uncles and cousins fleeing the law on his mother's side. Her people stayed because they were poor; the Mathewses stayed because they were not. From early on, they owned farm-rich land, bequeathed by the same man who gave his favored slaves the surname Mathews, or so the legend went, and black folks didn't just up and leave that kind of wealth to start over someplace foreign and cold. No, the Mathewes dug deeper into the soil, planting cotton and corn and the roots of a family that would be theirs alone--and not a pecuniary unit, convertible to cash at will. They farmed hard and made enough to raise generations of men and woman and send dozens of them to college and graduate school; they made a life that could rival what was possible in Chicago or Detroit or Gary, Indiana. They were not willing to cede an entire state to the hatred of a bunch of nut-scratching, tobacco-spitting crackers. Money allowed for that choice, sure it did. But money also demanded something of them, and the Mathewes were willing to give it. They built a colored school in Camilla, offered small-business loans to colored folks when they could, and dedicated their lives to public service, becoming teachers and country doctors and lawyers and agitators when the times called for it.
What they were not going to be was run off.
Darren is struck that the sequence of deaths in Lark--a black male from Chicago traveling alone and a white female who works at a local icehouse--buck the historical trend in the South: a white lady's real or imagined assault followed by the murder of a black man. Michael Wright was a thirty-five-year-old lawyer who grew up in nearby Tyler and for reasons unknown, had returned home. His body found decomposing in the bayou, Michael's death is presumed to be robbery by the sheriff, who fears the attention a hate crime would bring, but Missy was married to Keith Avery Dale, an ex-con whose prison record is a red flag for affiliation with the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas.
Leaving his badge in his truck, Darren finds Lark divided along racial lines, with Geneva Sweet's Sweets offering home cooking and haircuts to black travelers and Jeff's Juice House, where Missy Dale worked, a hangout for whites. With Missy's body discovered in the bayou behind Geneva's, the sheriff is operating on the theory that the perpetrator is black. Little urgency has been placed in finding Michael Wright's killer despite the presence of his estranged wife Randie Winston seeking answers. A photographer, Randie has zero sensitivity for southern social norms, but Darren recognizes a kindred spirit whose spouse was also uncomfortable with her long working hours.
Nosing around the two homicides and doing his best to salvage his marriage in spite of it, Darren confronts questions that have long divided his family. His father killed in Vietnam and his mother a deadbeat alcoholic, Darren was raised by his twin uncles William and Clayton, a Texas Ranger and a defense attorney, respectively. While William--shot and killed during a traffic stop--long maintained that the law would achieve parity and justice for blacks, Clayton disagreed, believing the law to be a lie that has always been used to oppress blacks and must be challenged. Randie is incredulous that Michael or Darren feel partial to a place that doesn't seem to want them.
"He should never have come down here," she said, her hands balled into fists, the bottoms of which were pressed into the thighs of her jeans, as if she were holding tight to an invisible buoy, as if she believed her anger at Michael might keep her from sinking into the tide of grief that had only begun to lick at her toes. "What the hell did he think was going to happen in a place like this?"
"Coming home is not asking for it."
"This was not his home," she said.
But it was, and Darren understood that in a way Randie didn't. Not Lark, of course, but this thin slice of the state that had built both of them, Darren and Michael. The red dirt of East Texas ran in both their veins. Darren knew the power of home, knew what it meant to stand on the land where your forefathers had forged your future out of dirt, knew the power of what could be loved up by hand, how a harvest could change a fate. He knew what it felt like to stand on the back porch of his family homestead in Camilla and feel the breath of his ancestors in the trees, feel the power of gratitude in every stray breeze. He wanted to say all this and more to Randie. But she was closed off by then, sitting rigid, her chin jutted forward an aggrieved anger that would never hold. God help her, Darren thought, when that wall comes down and the hurt comes calling.
Bluebird, Bluebird does often feel like issues or concerns in search of a story. The most compelling material involves Darren Mathews' family history, his decision to join the Texas Rangers and struggle to maintain his marriage along with it. The murder mystery is necessary to expose the reader to secrets lurking in Lark and some of the crime solving has the convinient nature of a '70s cop show to it. What Locke does is investigate a crime from a completely fresh point of view, with the anxieties and aspirations and secrets specific to blacks in East Texas at the forefront of her storytelling, which is filled with marvelous prose.
He told Randie he had to make a call, mumbling something about his lieutenant, anything to grant him a few minutes alone to read the medical examiner's report. He could not take in the information and protect her from it at the same time. He would tell her what he had to and no more. He left as a John Lee Hooker record dropped on the jukebox, and Randie sank into the booth below the guitar, staring at the Les Paul. Bluebird, bluebird, take this letter down South for me, Hooker sang as Darren opened the cafe's front door, the bell clinking behind him. The air outside stung the sweat breaking out across his forehead. He stepped into the cab of his truck, warm from the midday sun. The file came attached to an e-mail that reported that Missy Dale's final examination was still in progress at the Dallas County Medical Examiner's office.
Darren opened the file on Michael Wright.
In addition to writing descriptions that deliver the food, weather and blues of East Texas as a sensory feast, Locke makes a sound decision introducing a cop under grand jury investigation. Darren's role in covering up Malvo's murder or possibly even pulling the trigger is not resolved until the final pages and through watching how his character juggles morality versus legality, I became a juror weighing his culpability. While the book doesn't implicate the acting president in the behavior of its racist deplorables, it does flip over the rock of American society and reveal the snakes that Barack Obama's presidency, despite its hopes, seemed to do little to exterminate.