The Drowning House by Elizabeth Black

Published by Nan A. Talese on January 15, 2013 

The Drowning House is a novel in which dark secrets are revealed, one after another, like bullets from a machine gun. Unfortunately, it takes too long for the firing to begin, and unlike bullets, the revelations have no impact.

Clare Porterfield is a successful photographer who grew up in Galveston, where she returns after an absence of many years to select archived photographs for an exhibition. She has grown apart from her husband Michael, probably because she says things to him like "I want to hear your ideas but I don't want advice," as if the poor guy is supposed to know whether his suggestion of an idea will be construed as advice. Clare also makes condescending remarks about Michael's inability to understand her photography and belittles his "conventional" taste. Their marriage is rocky in part because Clare blames herself for their daughter's death, although Michael obviously does not. Clare is similarly consumed with grievances about her deceased father and unloving mother. She's constantly picking at the scabs of her past, refusing to let them heal.

The novel takes its title from an apocryphal story about the house adjacent to Clare's childhood home -- identified in Galveston guide books as the Carraday House -- in which a seventeen-year-old girl is said to have drowned during a hurricane in 1900. When Clare was still living at home, she spent much of her time visiting Patrick Carraday, "the brother I never had, then later, something more." Then, when she was fourteen, she and Patrick shared a dark moment, the details of which are slowly revealed as the story progresses. After that event, Clare is sent to the Ohio to live with her grandmother and Patrick goes to Europe. In the present, despite being married and not having seen Patrick since they were young, and in the absence of any evidence of interest on Patrick's part in renewing their relationship, Clare can't stop mooning over him. She wants another life, the life with Patrick she imagines she would have had if not for their separation. Clare will eventually discover the difference between fantasy and reality.

The novel's first half is told in long passages of expository writing that the reader must wade through while wondering if they will lead to an actual story. Eventually we learn that the Carradays are keeping a dark secret about their family while Clare's mother is keeping a dark secret about Clare's family. By the time the secrets finally emerged, one bombshell revelation following another, I had stopped caring. Actually, I never started caring, so the blockbuster secrets struck me as contrived melodrama.

I don't need to like a novel's characters because unlikable characters can furnish insights into human nature, but I learned nothing from tedious Clare. It's understandable that Clare is grieving the loss of her daughter. It's understandable that she injects her pain into nearly every conversation she has. It's understandable that she thinks "that grieving the loss of my child would be my life's work." It's understandable that she resents her father, her mother, Patrick's father, and just about everyone in Galveston. But it is just as emotionally draining to read about woe-drenched people who are buttoned up in an insular world of pain as it is to interact with them in real life. It doesn't help that Clare is condescending, not just to her husband but to almost everyone (she wonders, for instance, whether the names Shakespeare and Homer "mean anything" to "harried mothers ... and grizzled homeless men" as if mothers and the homeless never graduate from high school).

Elizabeth Black's descriptions of Galveston are informative and colorful. She writes wonderfully rhythmic sentences, but they had a tendency to lull me to sleep. Black strives to fill every sentence with deep meaning. After awhile, her observational prose ("It's interesting to watch the very rich play the role of host") and earnest questions ("Have you ever discovered yourself in someone else's snapshot?") and reflective comments ("A child is a chance to be someone new and different") become grating. In fact, if I had to describe The Drowning House in a single word, "grating" is the word I would choose.

NOT RECOMMENDED

The River Swimmer by Jim Harrison

Published by Grove Press on January 8, 2013 

If you've read Jim Harrison you know what to expect (gentle humor poking fun at the hapless male) and what not to expect (commas) from his writing. The River Swimmer is a short volume consisting of two novellas. The first addresses the familiar theme of Harrison's recent work: the aging man's need to renew his life, his eternal struggle to understand women, and his slightly ridiculous response to sexual desire. The second concerns a young man who endeavors to swim through the bewildering array of obstacles and opportunities that life presents.

In "The Land of Unlikeness," a man must choose between "the world's idea of success" and his love of creating art. Twenty years divorced and three years estranged from his daughter, Clive still hasn't gotten his life together. A former artist who abandoned painting for the financial security of academia, Clive is taking an involuntary leave of absence following an unfortunate encounter with an Art Tart. At his sister's insistence, he is using the time to visit his elderly bird-watching mother at his childhood home in Michigan. Since this is the mother who, years earlier, made a speech at dinner that ended with "You failed us, son," it's easy to understand why Clive doesn't want to go home again. Clive's thoughts are occupied by missed opportunities and mild regrets, some of which pertain to a childhood flame who still lives in town. Still, in his less sullen moments, Clive displays the guarded optimism that is common in Harrison's characters: "He had the happy thought that he had zero percent financing on the rest of his life because no one more than nominally cared except himself. He might be going mad as a hatter but it hadn't been that bad so far." At the age of sixty, well into life's third act, can Clive stop "toting around his heavy knapsack of ironies" and find a way to allow "a little light ... to peek into his beleaguered soul"?

"The River Swimmer" tells an offbeat story. Thad grew up on an island in the middle of a river. When he wasn't working on the family farm, he was swimming. "If there were indeed water spirits they had a firm hold on him like love eventually does on young men, an obsessional disease of sorts." After brawling with Friendly Frank, his girlfriend's father, Thad swims the hundred miles from Muskegon to Chicago. He hooks up with a girl he meets along the way. To Thad's embarrassment, the girl and her wealthy father become involved in his family drama when Friendly Frank's employees put Thad's father in the hospital, an outgrowth of the confrontation between Thad and Frank. Thad doesn't want to hate Friendly Frank, but "surely part of the greatest evil of evil men is that they make you hate them." Soon he finds himself back on the farm, in the company of Frank's daughter, the wealthy man's daughter, and another girl he's bedded. Women and employers and swimming coaches have plans for Thad. With his whole life ahead of him, Thad doesn't want to be pinned down like a butterfly in a collection. As Thad transitions to adulthood, he is desperate to retain his freedom, his sense of adventure, his profound link to water. Yet in the end, he learns that life can't be planned.

Both stories are populated with quirky characters. The earthy characters in "The River Swimmer" are particularly engaging. As always, Harrison's writing is filled with sharp insight as he gently dissects his characters, exposing faults and revealing quintessential goodness. It would be difficult to read these stories without a smile, although "The River Swimmer" turns out to be the more serious of the two.

RECOMMENDED

Pandora's Temple by Jon Land

Published by Open Road Media on November 20, 2012 

Nine Blaine McCracken novels were published between 1986 and 1998. I haven't read any of them, but I gather that McCracken was once a CIA operative who, at some point, turned freelance. In the tenth book, Pandora's Temple, McCracken is pushing sixty and hasn't worked in a couple of years, but quickly proves he is still worthy of his "McCrackenballs" nickname. Yeah, that's really his nickname. Homeland Security hires McCrackenballs to rescue some kidnapped college students who are imprisoned in a drug lord's fortress. Homeland Security can't send in Special Forces commandos because that might disturb delicate trade negotiations. Apparently, Homeland Security doesn't think Mexico will notice the Hellfire missiles that an American drone fires into the fortress to give McCracken an assist. The missiles are probably unnecessary because McCracken is backed up by his buddy Johnny Wareagle, who carries an M-16 in each hand, firing both unerringly at scores of aim-challenged Mexicans.

The mayhem in Mexico is just a prelude to the real adventure. A drilling rig named Deepwater Venture, operated by a company called Ocean Bore, is in the Gulf of Mexico, drilling in an unlikely spot to yield oil. When the drill reaches a record depth, what it releases isn't a fossil fuel. The crew disappears in a flash of light, an event that (for no obvious reason) prompts Homeland Security to declare a Level Six emergency (end of the world imminent). McCracken and Wareagle, being retired and having no official connection to the government, are naturally sent to the Deepwater Venture to find out what's going on. I mean, why would Homeland Security send Navy SEALs to investigate a Level Six emergency on a drilling rig when it can send two old guys instead? Of course, when killer robots and ninja warriors attack the offices of Homeland Security (don't ask), McCracken and Wareagle are the only two people in the building who aren't cowering or dying, so they are clearly the right men for the job.

The mystery beneath the sea could be a new source of unlimited energy. It could be a weapon. Or it could be a force too powerful to imagine. I'll leave it to a physicist to decide whether Jon Land's explanation of the mystery is based on plausible science or gibberish, although my money is on the latter.

From shaky science to Greek legends, I was unable to suspend my disbelief of the story told in Pandora's Temple. Not for a second. The plot is outlandish and the characters aren't within spitting distance of credibility. I suppose that makes my enjoyment of Pandora's Temple a guilty pleasure. I'm almost ashamed of myself for liking it. The story is filled with stereotyped heroes (including Wareagle, the Indian warrior with connections to the spirit world, and Captain Seven, the dope smoking Grateful Dead fan with a genius for technology) and cartoon villains (including a reclusive billionaire who wants to control the world's energy supply, the leader of a Japanese doomsday cult, and an environmental terrorist bent on revenge). The plot is so absurd that it borders on comedy.

So why did I enjoy Pandora's Temple? For all the silliness -- maybe because of all the silliness -- the fun factor is supercharged. Actions scenes are vibrant. Many of them are unexpectedly creative and would probably look great on film. In one scene, Land found an excuse to put a sword in McCracken's hand, giving him a chance to play gladiator. Land's prose is unchallenging but never dependent upon cliché. The story surges forward with the fury of a hurricane and, like a hurricane, it moves in unexpected directions. As outrageous as the plot might be, it consistently held my attention. All I ask from escapist fiction is to be entertained, and in that regard, Pandora's Temple delivers. Guilty pleasure or not, I enjoyed every word of it.

RECOMMENDED

Bullets Are My Business by Josh K. Stevens

Published by Dutton Guilt Edged Mysteries on November 20, 2012 

If someone set out to write a parody of a Sam Spade novel, Bullets Are My Business might be the result. The problem is that Sam Spade novels are self-parodying. Their over-the-top nature is what makes them fun. Bullets Are My Business is over-the-top, but it isn't fun. It could be that Bullets Are My Business is a tribute novel, but if so, it is a weak imitation of the real thing. The book is billed as "modern noir," but if people weren't listening to music on CDs, you might think you were reading a trashy pulp novel published six decades ago and deservedly forgotten.

Levi Maurice is a contract killer. Levi's sister Chenille is also a killer, albeit for different and somewhat obscure reasons. For a guy with an interesting job, Levi is surprisingly dull. Levi enjoys killing, torturing, and humiliating people, which seems to be his version of a personality. He also enjoys drinking heavily. He has bad luck with dames, perhaps because he thinks of them as dames when he isn't referring to them as broads. Other characters also routinely refer to women as dames and broads. Levi refers to Asians as "slants." Does this story take place in a parallel politically incorrect universe? The determinedly anachronistic language is puzzling. Reliance on language that has all but disappeared from use would make sense if the novel were set in a time when the language was commonplace, but its appearance in a modern novel merely emphasizes the story's detachment from reality.

One day Levi comes home and finds a letter. Thugs immediately try to kill him. He doesn't know why. For the rest of the novel, people are trying to kill him. Some think Levy killed a guy named Vincent, others want him to find out who killed Vincent (and threaten to kill him if he doesn't). I cheered on all the people who wanted Levi dead but, sad to say, Levi can out-fight and out-shoot a half dozen bad guys at once (on a good day, maybe a dozen). More letters pop up, people aren't who they claim to be, and it's up to Levi, with the help of Chenille and his cop-friend Jacks, to make sense of it all.

The plot is convoluted but it all gets untwisted in an explosion of words at the novel's end. Apart from the plot, nothing about Bullets Are My Business is original or interesting. A character is about to give Levi a vital piece of information when, a moment before he can say the name Levi wants to hear, a bullet takes him out. How many times has that been done? Josh Stevens' writing style is pedestrian ("I pull the trigger and the top of his skull erupts like Mount St. Helens." and "I get to see another day. Good for me."), too often dependent upon cliché (a wound is "screaming like a banshee"; Levi hates people who try to "knock my block off"). The final action scene is preposterous. A ton of people show up with guns but they all refrain from using them so Levi can fight them one-on-one. Whether they are staring at each other or dancing or playing cards while Levi is fighting, we just don't know.

Maybe the cheesy writing is part of an effort to make the novel sound like 1940s pulp, but this isn't the 1940s. If the writing had been of a higher caliber, Bullets Are My Business might have been a modest success. Unfortunately, it is what it is, and what it is isn't good.

NOT RECOMMENDED

Footsteps of the Hawk by Andrew Vachss

First published in 1995

The Burke series was losing some of its energy by the time Footsteps of the Hawk came along. Andrew Vachss used the Burke books as message novels, but readers got the message early on. Vachss' narrow focus on the damage done by child predators left Burke without much room to grow, and that's a deadly flaw in a series built on a recurring character.

Footsteps of the Hawk is one of the better late entries in the series, however, largely because the plot doesn't focus on child abuse. Vachss still conveys his message, but he does so in asides and flashbacks without hindering the development of the central story. The plot involves two cops who have it in for Burke: a lone wolf named Jorge Morales and a woman named Belinda. Morales seems intent on taking Burke down while Belinda wants to use him for her own ends. Her scheme involves an inmate who, she says, is innocent of at least some of the slayings he's accused of committing. She hires Burke to prove his innocence. The mission changes as the story moves along, and the truth -- what the woman really wants -- naturally proves to be quite different. Whether Morales and Belinda are working together or against each other is unclear until the end. The story kept me guessing and it resolves with a nifty twist.

The supporting cast (the Prof, the Mole, Max the Silent, Clarence, Mama) grew a bit stale over the years, so the addition of a new character to Burke's retinue is refreshing. Frankie is a boxer, learning the trade from the Prof with an assist from Max. He's deferential to Burke's buddies and serves them with unquestioning loyalty. It's therefore easy to understand why Burke likes him despite his lack of any discernible personality. Heck, I liked him. The boxing scenes add interest to the story while giving Burke another subject upon which to muse. Burke's streetwise philosophy is one of the series' charms even if, at times, it becomes overbearing.

As a reader would expect from Vachss, the prose is crisp and the pace is quick. The gritty streets of New York City, usually visited in the dead of night, charge the novel with bleak atmosphere and contribute to the growing tension. Even when the Burke series was wearing thin, Vachss proved himself to be a talented storyteller, making Footsteps of the Hawk a satisfying read for fans of crime novels. 

RECOMMENDED