Digressions Off for the Sweet Hereafter

By Paul Gray

T.R. Pearson's second novel begins, "That was the summer we lost the bald Jeeter who was not even mostly Jeeter anymore but was probably mostly Throckmorton or anyway was probably considered mostly Throckmorton which was an appreciable step up from being considered mostly Jeeter since Jeeters hadn't ever been anything much while Throckmortons had in fact been something once . . ." This opening sentence runs on for 353 more words.

To his credit, Pearson gives fair warning that his story is going to take some time in the unraveling and may indeed be more fun for the teller than the audience. While the death of the bald Jeeter is announced smack in the opening, the sad event is inched up on through a series of digressions, including one on the deterioration of the widow Mrs. Askew's drains and downspouts. Not until page 57 is the bald Jeeter laid to rest in the local cemetery of the fictional Neely, N.C., at which time it begins to become clear that the deceased has nothing to do with anything that follows.

The novel's hero, of a sort, turns out to be Benton Lynch, nephew of the bald Jeeter, son of the fat Jeeter, and a lad who "could not ever rise much above cipherdom." The author, of course, elaborates: "He was not blatantly stupid or outright idiotic. There was not anything blatant or outright about him, not anything at all. He mostly simply was not." What Benton does possess, it turns out, is a taste for armed robbery and a lecherous hankering after Jane Elizabeth Firesheets, who is willing to overlook his myriad inadequacies for the thrill of sharing a life of crime.

For all of its intentional excesses, Pearson's style can be genuinely funny: "Lemly had no industry whatsoever and little agriculture to speak of unless mildew counted for something." But the discovery and enjoyment of such moments call for considerable patience. When the author's first novel, A Short History of a Small Place, appeared last year, reviewers guessed at such august influences as Twain and Faulkner. This time out, a case might be made for episodes of The Beverly Hillbillies. Pearson's parody of high-flown, old- fashioned Southern yarn spinning sounds a little too much like the minister presiding at the funeral of Jeeter, "who had a way with words if sheer bulk and volume counted for anything."