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old, Ellen confronts family secret
MY DROWNING By
Jim Grimsley Algonquin Books, 258 pages, $18.95
hardback |
By CANDICE SACKUVICH
A male lion will swat his hungry cubs a-reeling if they attempt to
snatch a morsel while he's feeding. Some combinations of ignorance and
soul-breaking poverty can cause human parents to be just as ruthless toward
their children -- like ravenous big cats without conscience.
Ellen Tote was born to such a clan, and in My Drowning she
calls forth vignettes of her prideless, hungry life in the hands of such
parents. In the face of abject cruelty and apparent absence of love, Ellen kept
her spirit always alive and, throughout the repeated wounds to her soul, was
never vanquished, in spite of the dark family secret that took her a lifetime
to unravel.
Her childhood days were counted out in mostly biscuits for supper,
lunchless school days dressed in ragged dresses and shame, and hours of
cowering under the porch of some cold shack with her daddy's hounds after
getting a beating from one self-centered parent or the other. Ellen never
succumbed to the almost hypnotic savagery, though her many siblings were
sacrificed to the brutality in varying ways -- jail, hardheartedness, even
death.
Author Jim Grimsley's writing is intense in Drowning, his
third novel, which was inspired by his mother. He does a rare, superb job as a
man narrating in the back-and-forth style of a girl's and woman's voice in this
evocation of his North Carolina backwoods heritage. The power of some of his
roller-coaster sentences lies in their innocent beginnings that progress toward
dropping the floor from beneath the reader's feet before the period is
reached.
He tells the story as Ellen, who in her old age searches the banks
of her memory for clues to solve the riddle of fragments of dreams that have
been recurring since her childhood. Standing in her kitchen with the light on,
she is an old woman remembering and "seeing everything around me in a strange
way -- all the objects have a patina."
"I understand this is happening because I am old and all the
rivers of my memory are rushing toward the sea, unstoppable," she muses. At her
age, a memory becomes as real as the original action.
In one of her earliest impressions of her mother, Ellen recalls,
"She looks down at me with the blankness of a cow. I am so in love with her,
every part of me aches." As a child, Ellen, along with her often pregnant
mother and siblings, picked cotton, weeded farmers' gardens and "topped and
suckered" tobacco to scratch out a living when her father didn't want to
work.
Yet, her spirit pursued hope in small ways, which were the only
ways available. On wash day, her mother and older sister would light a fire
under the wash pot while her brother Otis chopped wood. After pumping water and
scrubbing on a washboard, Ellen carried the clothes to the rinse water and
dropped them in. Amid the drudgery, she observed, "I liked the scattering of
soap bubbles in the water."
Bereft of entertainment, the backwoods culture was rich with
superstitions -- if a girl wets her blouse doing dishes she'll probably marry a
drunk -- and aghosts. And stories of monster sightings by the river were so
believable that grown men would periodically jump in trucks with shotguns and
tear off down the dirt roads in pursuit. The gray beast would rip the heads off
dogs, and by comparison with that lot, people could feel lucky at least not to
be thus defeated by this metaphor for life.
The time Ellen's daddy went on the monster hunt, her mother was
scared to stay in the shack alone, so she packed up the kids and walked to
town. They gathered with others around the store to speak in wide-eyed
excitement about the mysterious goings-on. Her father returned and whipped his
pregnant wife with a belt all the way home, kids running after, townspeople
growing quiet at first and then murmuring. "Get your fat ass and those filthy
young 'uns to the house," he yelled.
Years later, Ellen recalls, "They watched me run, with the
chocolate drink bottle swinging by my legs, my coat and skirt flapping high. I
heard some of them laughing. The sound echoed for a long time." A few months
later, her sister Alma Laura was born.
Ellen was smitten. She gave all her love and devotion to the baby,
who lived for only a few months. After the burial, the baby's ghost began
appearing to Ellen, a vision that lasted throughout the rest of her
childhood.
At first, Ellen told her mother. But "Mama's eyes focused to sharp
points, and the fury of her hand crashed against my head. She grabbed me by the
hair, slapped me across the face until I was dizzy and my nose ached, then
threw me across the room like a sack of sugar." Ellen never mentioned it again.
"I was old enough to have a secret now, and it made me more conscious of
myself."
Alma Laura grew up with Ellen, dressed like her and followed her
most places, though she never spoke. She just seemed to shore up the girl's
resolve and provide witness, a quiet strength.
In introducing the specter of Alma Laura, Grimsley displays a
writer's gift of doing slippery things with time that glide through the mind as
smooth as honey on a warm biscuit. Within a page and a half, he has elderly
Ellen recalling her childhood and her sister's birth, the first appearance of
the ghost and the last appearance a decade later, and then proceeds with the
time frame following the first apparition -- and it all makes perfect
sense.
By the end of this grueling yet life-affirming tale, Ellen pieces
together all the parts of the family secret and mysterious dreams that have
nipped at her heels throughout her lifetime, validating herself, and returns
one more time to face the monster in the North Carolina backwoods.
Candice Sackuvich is a journalist who lives in Kansas City,
Kan.
National Catholic Reporter, May 23,
1997
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