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Summer
Books
A
story of everyday horror thats stubbornly religious
A PRAYER FOR THE
DYING By Stewart ONan Henry Holt and Company, 195 pages,
$22.00
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By TIM McCARTHY
Booksellers pitch this stubbornly
religious novel in the horror genre. Is Stewart ONans
A Prayer for the Dying really such an anomaly? Hardly. Because
ONan, in this book at least, is a horror writer only insofar as Faulkner,
for example, was a regional writer or the plagues on Pharaohs Egypt are a
horror story. There is something bigger afoot here.
This is the horror of the everyday, a breath caught in the night,
a hateful glint in your lovers eye, those moments big and small that
burst the bolts of common reality and grant us a glimpse into forever, onto the
eternal battlefield where good and evil come to grips without knowing which is
which. All it takes is a wrong word, a war, an epidemic, a fire from hell.
Its astonishing, ONans narrator
muses, how quickly things fall apart.
Jacob Hansen is the narrator. He is preacher, constable and
undertaker in the Wisconsin town of Friendship, shepherding the town through
its stages of life, as it were, during those unsettled years following the
Civil War.
On a cottony summer day, while men work the hot fields, children
romp in wood and water and cows twitch their tails, Jacob, in his
sheriffs role, has to deal with a tramp dead in the woods, cause unknown,
and a stricken, half-crazed woman from the religious commune on the edge of
town, cause unknown.
With the afflicted woman delivered to Doc Guterson, Jacob heads
toward home, to his wife and baby daughter, and for a moment the cracked day
seems to mend: In the shade, the day seems easy again, but its a
trick. Theres a man dead, a woman sick with grief. Still, you think, snap
beans for supper.
That trick, that tension between sickness, death, grief,
devastation only just delayed and snap beans for supper, is the engine that
drives this novel. And it drives it hard. So hard and so fast that it seems
some have missed a large part of what the book is about. Jacob narrates the
entire novel with that second person you. Some reviewers have found
that a disconcerting attempt to draw readers into the story so deeply that
Jacobs voice becomes theirs and the narrator emerges as Everyman.
Maybe so. But there is a simpler, less grandly allegorical and
perhaps more plainly human level. The you is Jacob talking to
himself, watching his way, eying his past, conversing with his conscience. It
is Jacob wrestling his angel.
For Jacob is a man who has laid claim to the goodness of things,
to the unquenchable freshness of creation no matter how deep down it lives. He
came out of a war he never expected to survive determined, whether as sheriff
or deacon, to go on reminding his people of their best instincts, their
better selves. And as undertaker he will love them even in death, because
if theres anything your jobs have taught you, its to take
death seriously, give it the same respect as love.
Yet the war is always with him. He rides a bicycle because the war
left him with an aversion to horses. Under one Rebel siege, Union soldiers
burrowed into the warm guts of their fresh-killed horses and slept there for
protection from enemy shells. They ate their horses from the inside out. What
he has learned in the war, the good and the bad, helps to sustain him during
the fearsome days that follow in the town of Friendship.
Friendship. It could as well have been called Purgatory. The
killer disease turns out to be diphtheria and it spreads like wildfire, a
cliché that flames to new life in light of the fire stampeding through
the tinder woodlands to the north of town. Which direction it will rage in next
is anyones guess.
In Friendship, families are quarantined. Soon (perhaps not soon
enough) the whole town is quarantined. Anyone trying to enter or leave could be
shot. Friendship is under siege from within and without.
And it seems that the only two people with any chance of saving
the town are Jacob and Doc Guterson. Jacobs job is to enforce the
quarantine, burn the houses of the dead. He becomes a messenger of death, and
the people he loves grow to hate him. He preaches, and no one comes except for
the retarded lad who rings the church bell, tolls out the ages of the dead.
It is a test of faith worthy of those Jacob has long preached
about: Abraham and Isaac, Job, Lot. And he does not know from one moment to the
next if he will stand to it. Earlier on, he is proud of his ability to
both believe and question everything. Secretly you think everyone does, but at
some point they give in, surrender to the comfort of certainty. Its too
much trouble, this endless jousting of belief and doubt, too tiring. Finally
you suppose it will break you, yet strangely its the only thing that
keeps you going though, true, at times you feel unbalanced, even
somewhat mad. Crazy Jacob the Undertaker. A holy fool.
That passage could have come out of the life of almost any saint.
But the siege forces Jacob to do things he is sure will damn him. He battles
bitterness, wrestles his angel, fights to live his faith even as, day upon day,
the siege blasts and burns that faith to a barely pulsating pulp. Will it break
him? Will it keep him going?
Whatever the answer, there is no escape. That much ONan
makes clear in one of the epigraphs he chose for the novel, a quotation from
Albert Camus: There is no escape in a time of plague. We must choose to
either love or to hate God. Which? A Prayer for the Dying begs
that question; it is perhaps the deepest horror of a sparely yet powerfully
told tale that will keep you up late.
But by the time youre pushed to ask the question, you will
know that you have been somewhere, and something in you will have been purged,
burned clean if only of false hopes, those dreams that do not take into
account the end of days.
Tim McCarthy is a fiction writer and journalist living in
Littleton, N.H.
National Catholic Reporter, May 7,
1999
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