"I believe that Christ can redeem anyone, but I learned long ago that he will not redeem everyone."
"No offer of salvation seems implausible to a man desperate to be saved."
— Jake Hinkson, DRY COUNTY
Most fast-paced crime novels sacrifice character depth for plotting convenience and thematic breadth for distracting twistiness, but DRY COUNTY is that rarest of creatures — a crime novel that casts a long and lingering light into the shades of gray that curdle good into evil while maintaining the propulsive pacing of a supermarket-check-out-counter paperback thriller.
It would take a while to properly unpack the plot, but suffice to say that everything centers around Richard Weatherford, a pastor — though he prefers "preacher" — of a modestly successful church in small-town Arkansas. He's good at what he does, offering leadership that can be as uncompromising as uplifting, but he's missing something — "compassion," his wife Penny asserts — and he's carrying a heavy secret that can't possibly stay secret. So when blackmail comes calling, he's got to decide if his darkness is weakness, or if he can find an even darker strength within it. Circling him like witches in MACBETH are Penny, who sees more than Richard thinks he does; Brian, whose drive to bring a liquor store to his dry county is a front for his financial desperation; Gary, who thinks getting out of town is best cure for his depression, but needs money to get there; and Sarabeth, who loves Gary—or at least tolerates his love—and sees him, and Richard, as the vehicles to her own fresh start; and Tommy, the local white-trash crime lord, whose businesses are threatened by the push by the push to turn the dry county into a wet one. Suffice to say, their paths all collide one one long dark night, and not everybody gets out alive.
The plot, knockout as it is, is but a secondary pleasure of DRY COUNTY. Its true brilliance is in its thoughtful, nuanced depictions of people who are neither all good or all bad, but find themselves forced by circumstance to break bad to varying degrees. Richard, in particular, is capable of acknowledging his flaws, at least to himself, but what he really needs to know is if he's capable of convincingly wallpapering them over, because there's only so much deference a preacher's congregants will give him before they wonder if they're following the wrong leader. Some of DRY COUNTY's best passages come from Richard's reflections on his personal and professional challenges:
"I’ve played my part well. But beyond my performance, what is real? I preach salvation, but the truth is that I see very little worth saving. I proclaim miracles, but I only see biology, physics, and coincidence misinterpreted through the lens of ignorance and superstition. I preach your love, but sometimes the only thing that seems more outlandish than your existence is the idea that you love us. Could it all, in the end, mean nothing? Would that be better?"
And:
"Most of them believe me. Most of them have never given the question of life and death serious thought. Most of them were told as children that the death of Jesus somehow means that they themselves will never really die, and they have believed it ever since. Although the exact mechanics of this theology are as uninteresting to them as the exact mechanics of their cell phone, their theology, like their phone, does what it is supposed to do. That’s all they need to know."
What's equally great about DRY COUNTY are the things it doesn't do. It doesn't take cheap shots at the faith or politics or culture of its small-town Southerners. They're smart and dumb; they're hardworking and lazy; they're searching and complacent. Just like anybody we know, any place we've been. It doesn't smother itself in Southern Gothic Porn like so much gravy atop a chicken-fried steak; it is a novel of its place but accessible to all. And for all those seemingly ponderous passages above, it's a sleekly paced novel that demands to be finished in a day. And the prose is terrific, full of perfect fingernail-parings of acute observation and epiphany. A sampling:
— “I was a little late this morning,” I tell him, “and now she’s acting like I’ve been out campaigning for Hillary."
— "The north of Arkansas ain’t nothing but trees. The bottom of the state ain’t nothing but swamp."
— "Well, your granddaddy only believed in two things—the United States Marine Corps and the Southern Baptist Convention—and if he’d lived long enough to see some longhair beating drums on a Sunday morning, I think he would have shot somebody.”
— "I thought of having it fixed, but the only thing I can imagine that would repulse Richard more than my body would be the cost of a surgery or two to fix it."
— "She’s been mad at me since I came back home to live. Dad is the kind of guy who can love you without it costing him anything. He’s got an endless amount of love to give, and he’s always eager to give you more. Mom isn’t that way. She loves you, but she lets you know that it costs her something to do it."
— "I could follow Frankie, maybe jump him going back out to his car after his last collection and then knock him on the head, but that’s too risky. This ain’t the movies. I’m pretty sure if you hit a guy on the head, all you’ll do is hurt his head."
— "If I’m honest, I have to admit that I’ve become the kind of preacher that I always detested. I’m just another spiritual babysitter."
— "I drive to the Exxon and use the payphone like a drug dealer in the seventies."
— "Because America’s contribution to Christian thought is the idea that a God that won’t promise to make you rich isn’t a God worth serving, the reality is that a portion of my congregation can only think of life—even the Christian life—in material terms."
— "She was one of the ill-parented pieces of white trash that occasionally blows into church and lands in the youth group until the next gust of wind sweeps them away."
— "The day I die, the traffic lights will keep changing from red to green, and Burger King will keep selling hamburgers, and the world will just go on about its business."
(Sorry, I'm overquoting here, but the writing is that good.)
Jake Hinkson is one of those novelists who's cultivated a cult reputation in the darker circles of the crime-fiction community, and while he's popular in France, he remains a criminally overlooked, underground figure in his own country. I'm not sure why he hasn't found a wider audience. Maybe because he's regional but not too regional; because he's noir and yet hopeful; because he doesn't write about aspirational people in aspirational places. Whatever the case, Jake Hinkson has everything a splashy mainstream crime novelist should have. Except maybe a big-league marketing push.
I'd call DRY COUNTY a perfect novel, but we all know nobody but God is perfect, right, and no plan but his can be perfect as well? That's a lesson Richard Weatherford, and the people in his malignant orbit, learn the hardest way possible. But DRY COUNTY comes as close to perfect as I've come across. And that's the sort of thing that, like a hymn, should be shouted from the mountaintops.