Sky Bridge, by Laura Pritchett

Miguel worries about ilegales crossing the desert—not his cousins and girlfriend, who are still waiting at the border, but others—the anonymous, but not anonymous to themselves, since this is, after all, their one life. (Libby in monologue)

In her novel, Sky Bridge, Laura Pritchett dips into the anonymous stew of struggling rural small-town humanity and shows us one life in fine detail: the life of Libby, the narrator, a young woman who became a mother in deed if not in fact when she was a child herself and took responsibility for her little sister, Tess. Now, in the time present of the story, Libby does not want pregnant Tess to have an abortion and promises to raise the child herself. And she does not want Tess to leave after the Amber’s birth, but Tess does.

And the rest is the story. And a compelling, fresh story it is.

Libby carries many voices in her head: Kay, Libby’s mom, telling her she’s a disappointment, not up to taking care of baby Amber. Derek, Libby’s boyfriend, telling her she is not beautiful. Miguel, husband of Libby’s best friend, telling her the two of them have been left behind, and now it’s too late for them to get out of Lamar, Colorado. Frank, her employer, telling her that where they live is “the last fine place to be.” Baxter, her mom’s employer, telling her “If you can suffer and not be bitter it will change you into a real human. A soft human.” Arlene, a coworker, telling her she’s a beautiful kid, though Libby feels this can’t possibly be true. Libby’s own narrative voice is so intimate the reader can’t help embracing her and hers as they each live “their one life.” Like Libby, we learn not to pay much attention to Kay’s soliloquies of rage and bitterness because we know that ultimately Kay, like almost everybody, will step up and do a version of the right thing. Exception: Tess’s associate, Clark.

Pritchett shows us the universal in the particular. Bad people do good things. Good people do bad things. Sometimes bad is good. Sometimes good is bad. Libby and Tess’s profligate and violent dad (bad) is still remembered for staying with the body of Frank’s fiancé (good) when she was killed in an auto accident. Miguel (good) grows pot (bad—at least in 2005) to pay for the coyotes (good, unless breaking the law is bad). Eventually, pretty much everybody gives a hand to the ilegales—some do it for money, but most do it out of kindness. Ed, the post-hippie beekeeping environmentalist, an outsider in an orange VW van, becomes a sort of guardian who posts his bee hives strategically so he can keep a protective eye on Libby and Amber (good) and his pot (arguably bad). Who strategically dumps a dog (in principle, bad), which Libby is sure to take in and be protected by (good).

Sometimes the bad things feel banal: Libby’s stealing beer from her employer. Arlene’s clipping unredeemed coupons and sending them in. Simon’s family deciding to take Amber from Libby because they can “raise it right”—banal because of the cliched assumption that a churchy couple will be better parents than an unmarried, unmoored young aunt.

But sometimes the bad things feel far from banal. They feel evil. Clark’s rape of Libby as entitled revenge on Tess, for example. His jacking up the price on the ilegales at the end of the trip. Yet even he gives Libby good advice when he tells her to learn to let go of certain people, which she eventually does.

 As the novel progresses, caring for a newborn wears Libby down, down, down beyond exhaustion. She comes to understand why moms sometimes do bad things to their kids, and she also comes to understand her strength and the strength of the community to do the fundamentally good thing: see other people.

See people, I want to tell her. See them, and especially see them if at first you don’t think they’re worth noticing. (Libby in monologue near the end, speaking of Tess)

Eventually the little row of marigolds in the yard begins to thrive, the bathroom gets cleaned, the house gets painted, even tough, cynical Kay pitches in to help the ilegales.Tess does the paperwork to make baby Amber legal. Libby lets Tess go. Amber wiggles with joy when she catches sight of Libby, her mom. A measure of contentment reigns, but it’s a dynamic contentment.

I keep seeing how everybody is pushing ahead, looking for a place with enough space for our dreams. The ilegales. Tess. Derek. Me. Moving forward, trying to cross those invisible boundaries so we can find the place where we’re most free and the most full.

Perhaps that place is the sky bridge—that special state of being where one can reach up and touch the blue sky.

Ed tells Libby, “Art is what gets us beyond what is real. It makes reality more real. It also shortens the distance we gotta travel to see how connected we are.” A good summation of this lovely novel.

— Sharelle Moranville

The Water is Wide, by Pat Conroy

Pat Conroy introduces himself in this book, published in 1972, before writing several much acclaimed and widely read novels such as The Great Santini, The Lords of Discipline, and South of Broad. The Water is Wide is a reflection on a year of teaching middle school (1969-1970) on the culturally isolated Yamacraw (Daufuskie) Island, South Carolina. It’s a young man’s coming of age, reckoning with his military brat upbringing and the transformation of his traditional Southern White outlook to a mindset that was enormously progressive for that time and place. 

As a young teacher, Conroy was challenged by the island’s culture and economics. His African-American students were accustomed to regular use of violence with each other, their families, and their animals. His colleague, Mrs. Brown, accepted the traditional White expectations of low ability and poor outcomes for these kids and the prescription of rote learning and discipline by the belt. Although Conroy was supposed to be teaching middle school, most of his students were woefully deficient in even the most rudimentary pieces of elementary education – they couldn’t write their names, say the alphabet, or find the location of their island on a map. The islanders led a withdrawn lifestyle after the failure of the island’s oyster beds, but were reluctant to let their kids go to the mainland for their first experience of Halloween, one of Conroy’s early projects. The school administration treated the island as a distant distraction from the needs of the mainland towns. Conroy met these situations with the righteousness of a committed young man, tested various strategies of engagement, avoidance and confrontation, and predictably met with varying degrees of success.

Conroy brings a remarkable clarity and maturity to a fairly fresh set of experiences, and he does it with humor and palpable images of the island and its people. He has a clear eye for his own growth as he gained respect for his students’ ability to deal with their reality and battled the administration for resources and flexibility. He also has a handle on his own rigidity that inevitably ended his teaching career; he picked an unwinnable dispute over gasoline and maintenance costs of the boat he used to commute to the island, but he would never have been successful with a school bureaucracy that was managing system-wide integration.

He earned my respect for his effort and creativity to give his students an awareness of life off the island, where many of them would eventually have to live. His experience came several years before broad-based programs like Teach for America but it points to some of the ways such programs may be able to support teaching in disadvantaged communities. Conroy ends the memoir with a hopeful forecast of racial acceptance in South Carolina that has only been partly realized by recent history but his story echoes with hope and possibility.

— Bill Smith

The Burgess Boys, by Elizabeth Strout

The Burgess boys are brothers, Jim and Bob, raised in small town rural Maine. Jim is the older by five years, the golden boy, high school football quarterback, successful attorney, the shining example of what this small town has produced. Jim has a loving wife in Helen. Bob is affable and kind, but haunted enough by an unspoken-of accident that killed their father when he was four years old that he smokes too much and drinks too much. Bob’s marriage to Pam has ended and he is alone. Both have escaped Maine and live in New York. Bob is also an attorney, but a public defender.  Jim belittles Bob every time they are in contact. But Bob never reacts angrily or strikes back, either with words or with fists.

Yet there is another sibling. She is Susan, Bob’s twin sister, who has remained in their town of Shirley Falls. And it is in the crisis in Susan’s life that the story unfolds.  Susan has a troubled son, Zach, and he is in big trouble with the law. She calls her brothers for help.

There are others in Shirley Falls too. They are the Somali immigrants, welcomed by some, disdained by others, misunderstood by all. They dress differently, keep to themselves, worship in their make-shift mosque, speak only the most broken English. Their customs and ways do not fit the “melting pot” image of how immigrants are supposed to blend into the American culture. These Somalis have been deeply offended by Zach’s crime – he has thrown a pig’s head into their mosque.

One of the most interesting things about this novel is that the reader doesn’t really bond with any of the characters. Are any likeable? Well, not really, at least not through most of the book. Bob is the most likeable of the lot, but he  is such a wuss that he cheerfully accepts the verbal abuse of Jim and, as it turns out, of Susan. Jim is arrogant and mean. Susan is pitiful. Yet they and their story are compelling. I really cared about this family. How Strout has managed to do that is remarkable. This is a thoughtful portrayal of a family and how that family copes, or doesn’t cope, with tragedy and heartache. Strout has a keen eye for family dynamics, for the ways in which families create both walls and bridges. Her dialogue is rich.

As Jim’s life crumbles, as Bob’s life heals, as Susan’s and Zach’s lives move through this crisis, Strout unveils the bonds that are family despite everything. 

“What am I going to do, Bob?  I have no family.”

“You have family,” Bob said. “You have a wife who hates you. Kids who are furious with you. A brother and sister who make you insane. And a nephew who used to be kind of a drip but apparently is not too much of a drip now. That’s called family.”

And, ultimately, it is the Somali elder who saves Zach. Abdikarim, a man who has known both evil and fear, has seen not evil in Zach’s eyes, but fear. Unbeknownst to almost everyone, it is he who convinces the authorities to drop the charges against Zach. 

This novel is rich with nuance, both about families and how they function, but also about immigrants to the United States and the costs to them and their families as they blend and don’t blend into American culture. It is also rich with what and whom we don’t know. Bob and Jim have holes in what they know about each other and about their own past. The Maine natives don’t know the Somalis. Susan doesn’t know her son. The knowledge gaps are artfully revealed and ultimately that’s what links all the characters. As the prologue says, “Nobody ever knows anyone.”

Reviewed by Jeanie Smith