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Time - Man of the Year
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1992-09-10
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BOOKS, Page 68Yarns Untangled
By JOHN SKOW
TITLE: Very Old Bones
AUTHOR: William Kennedy
PUBLISHER: Viking; 292 pages; $22
THE BOTTOM LINE: The Phelans redux: family myth, as if
retold across the kitchen table late at night.
Albany is one of those lost U.S. cities, a Machu Picchu
still awaiting an expansion baseball franchise. Its principal
business is one from which decent citizens avert their eyes: the
New York State legislature. Until a few years ago, it was less
well known than rural Mississippi before William Faulkner began
his fabulations about Yoknapatawpha County.
But terra incognita is an empty screen with the cursor
blinking, and it has been obvious for some time that Albany
harbors its own gifted fabulator. William Kennedy's novels have
the rough feel of stories told, not of chapters written and
artfully polished. His beguiling yarns are the kind of family
myths embellished and retold across a kitchen table late at
night: whiskified, raunchy, darkly funny, tangles of old
resentments and fresh exasperations.
Very Old Bones is the latest and most amiably
loose-jointed of Kennedy's three novels about the turbulent
Phelan clan, Irish settlers in Albany before the turn of the
century. It is fairly clear that Kennedy had no grand scheme in
mind when he wrote the first, Billy Phelan's Greatest Game.
Billy, in that rowdy and fairly lighthearted narrative, is a
card dealer and pool player who in the late 1930s, for reasons
involving his quirky notions of honor, is banned from Albany's
bars and poker tables. Ironweed, the grim and shadowed second
novel of the series, retreats a few years and fleshes out
Billy's father Francis, once a major-league baseball player,
later a hobo who exiled himself because, while drunk, he
accidentally dropped and killed an infant son.
While writing Ironweed (the reader guesses without
permission), Kennedy became more and more interested in the
Phelan family itself. He sets present time in the new novel at
1958, when the Phelans are either old or middle-aged, and their
lives can be summed up. Billy is drifting because Albany's
bookies and poker players have been closed down by righteousness
and urban renewal. His chaste and septically religious Aunt
Sarah is dead and catechizing the angels. Kennedy works his way
back through the time of Francis, the outcast baseball player,
to a turn-of-the-century Phelan named Malachi, who concluded
that his wife was a witch, and burned her to death in an attempt
at exorcism.
To make emotional sense of such violent melodrama, Kennedy
needs to put his observer at one remove from reality, and he
invents and introduces Peter, a younger brother of the doomed
Francis. He is another Phelan exile, who, it turns out, has
transformed himself into a superb painter. The legends of
Francis and Malachi become the subjects of Peter's finest work.
But sensing, perhaps, that an artist ex machina could seem glib,
Kennedy provides an observer of the observer: Peter's
unacknowledged illegitimate son Orson, a writer who has never
been part of the Phelan family.
Here the chronicle wanders. A sizable part of the book's
first half deals with Orson's shaky marriage and his calamitous
adventures as a currency speculator and card cheat in Germany
at the time of the Korean War. But Kennedy's elaborate scheme
works. The fluky Orson sees Peter more as an unsatisfactory
father than as a brilliant painter. Here the author diverts
skepticism by making matters turn not on Peter's genius, which
is always difficult to establish in fiction, but on his
squeamishness as the parent of yet another Phelan. Thus rendered
believable, Peter transforms the family's bleak legends and
produces two series of overwhelmingly powerful canvases. At this
point, alas, the author needs a strong ending and doesn't find
one. Peter, in poor health, gives all his money to the family,
whose members are at last reconciled to one another and show
distressing and not very believable signs of living happily ever
after. Where are Malachi's genes when Kennedy needs them?