From Chapter I

2006

When you've been involved in something like this, no matter how long ago it happened, no matter how long it's been absent from the news, you're fated, nonetheless, to always search it out. To be on alert for it, somehow, every day of your life. For the small item at the back of the newspaper. For the stranger at the cocktail party or the unfamiliar letter in the mailbox. For the reckoning pause on the other end of the phone line. For the dreadful reappearance of something that, in all likelihood, is never going to return.

I wouldn't have thought, in fact, that I would be the one to bring it back now, after all this time. That I would be the one to finally try to explain it. What I know of it, at least, even if that's only a part. I can only guess at the other parts. But I've been guessing at them for half my life now, and I think I've made some sense of it.

Honestly I don't know what will come of this--who will find pain in what I say and who, in a certain manner, solace. It isn't only that Senator Henry Bonwiller is dead. His death was melancholy news up here, of course, but it's not the only reason I've set out to tell this. The other part is my children. That's something I'm certain of. We have three daughters, and one of them is just past the age I was when these events took place, and I must say I feel a certain relief that nothing similar has shadowed any of their days; but I also know that you never stop worrying that it will. After all, if children don't make you see things differently--first bringing them into the world and then watching them go out into it--then God help you.

The crowd at Senator Bonwiller's funeral was even bigger than I expected. Probably six hundred people at the morning eulogy--more if you count the uninvited crowd on the sidewalk in front of St. Anne's, standing under the shade of the sycamores and fanning themselves with their newspapers. And at least a thousand at the burial, which was open to the public that afternoon at St. Gabriel's Cemetery, not too far away and not much cooler than in town. St. Gabriel's is in Islington Township, and although no other famous men are buried there, Islington Township is where Senator Bonwiller was born and where he lived until ambition moved him along: I suppose it must have been his wish that he rest there in the end. It's also where his parents and brothers lie. His wife is buried a thousand miles away, in Savannah, Georgia, with her own parents, and there was no doubt some whispering about that fact. Henry Bonwiller was a complicated man, to say the least. I knew him to a certain degree. Not well enough to know what he would have felt about the grave arrangements, but more than well enough to know he would have been happy about the crowd.

It was a Saturday in late September. A heat wave had killed lawns all across the state, and the smell of rotting apples was drifting up from the meadow. The graveside service had just ended, and we were still crowded beneath the shade of the great bur oaks, whose grand trunks rise evenly across the cemetery lawn as if by agreement with one another. There seemed to have been agreements about other things, as well. The New York Times gave the news an above-the-fold headline on page one and a three-column jump in the obituaries, but their story only included a single paragraph on Anodyne Energy and not much more on Silverton Orchards. The Boston Globe ran an editorial from the right-hand front column, under "The Country Mourns," and ended with "this is the close of a more beneficent era." But it didn't do much more with either bit of history.

I didn't cover it for The Speaker-Sentinel, because...

 

Set in the early 1970s and today, Canin's novel is equal parts coming-of-age story and snapshot of the later Nixon years, complete with family drama and political scandal. Narrator Robertson Dean brings his soothing baritone voice to this atmospheric work, and the effect is striking. He captures the languorous spirit of the book with subtle inflections and narrates with clear diction, pronouncing every word as if it were the most vital to the story. Dean does not create vivid characters by significantly changing his delivery, but rather by telegraphing their intentions and emotions to us with small changes in pitch and tone. In so doing, he is able to turn the book into a more vibrant, realistic work. R.I.G. (c) AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine

 

"A story in which the audacity of hope confronts the tenacity of power . . . We've waited a long time for a worthy successor to Robert Penn Warren's All the King's Men and it couldn't have arrived at a more auspicious moment."

 

"[A] many-layered epic of class, politics, sex, death, and social history . . . Its reach is wide and its touch often masterly."

 

"An intoxicating big book--in both size and ambition. Thrilling . . . luminous."

 

"A sprawling, captivating, timely work of art . . . Beautifully written, thoughtful, and imbuing all of its principal characters with dignity and understanding, America America is uncommon, ambitious and, like many of its characters, larger than life. . . . A novel that reminds us that fiction matters."

 

"Powerful and haunting, a major work."

 

"A brilliant, serious book for serious readers."

 

"Riveting and thought-provoking . . . [Canin] has unleashed all his considerable skills here, and it's our reward that America America turns out to be his best and most affecting work."

 

"The most mature and accomplished novelist of his generation."

 

America America by Ethan Canin
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