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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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Restitution
by Lee Vance |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Faithfulness Lee Vance’s
debut novel, Restitution,
is a fast-paced thriller with a complicated plot, complex characters, and
motifs like that of the title that hold together throughout the book. Many of
the characters act out of faithfulness to someone else, and by the end of the
novel, readers will be impressed by the ways in which Vance has created
characters that are consistent and credible. Protagonist Peter Tyler’s wife,
Jenna, is murdered, and Peter is the prime suspect. Peter rushes over 300
pages to find the murderer. Here’s an excerpt, all of Chapter 4, pp. 24-29: A small
group of reporters and photographers are working the front entrance of the
church from a police-barricaded section of the street, and a television van
is setting up in a driveway opposite. Jenna’s murder got a lot of local
coverage in our quiet corner of Westchester, but I’m unhappily surprised to
see how much press has traveled to Shutters
click as I approach, and a man with plastic credentials hanging around his
neck rushes me from the side, microphone extended as he calls my name. A
uniformed cop snarls at him, saying the press aren’t
allowed on church property. Ignoring them all, I follow Tigger
through the heavy wooden doorway into a dim vestibule. Jenna was confirmed in
this church, and she and I were married here sixteen years ago. The organ
groans as I retrace her steps down the aisle, mourners rubbernecking. I
concentrate on Tigger’s back, keeping my face as
impassive as possible. Tigger hesitates as we
approach the altar and then glances back. Both front pews are empty, Jenna’s parents nowhere to be seen. I give a tiny
shrug and tip my head to the right, uncertain as to protocol. Mary planned
the service, well aware her daughter’s religiosity had never rubbed off on
me. A polished mahogany coffin looms in my view as Tigger
steps to the side, an abrupt vision of Jenna’s broken body within making me
flinch. I’ve been having nightmares, dreaming Jenna’s corpse lay in bed with
me, and knowing with a dreamer’s certainty that my love could resurrect her.
Night after night I gather her cold limbs to mine, clear blood-matted hair
from her face, and breath life desperately between
her waxen lips. Time and again her lungs empty lifelessly, each chill
exhalation finding me wanting. Heart
pounding, I edge into the pew after Tigger and lift
a program from the seat. The words swim into focus as my breathing slows.
Jenna’s name is printed on the cover, and beneath it the same claptrap I
learned to mumble as a child, save that the kingdom and the power and the
glory are omitted. More puzzling than Jenna’s faith was her fidelity to a
church whose teachings so frequently infuriated her. Her insistence on a
Catholic wedding ceremony condemned me to half a dozen basic religion classes
and a solemn oath to raise our children in the “ Father Winowski, Jenna’s parish priest, emerges from the
sacristy clad in black-and-gold liturgical robes. I’m glad he’s saying the
service; Jenna was fond of him. They used to trade book suggestions, and
Jenna stopped by his rectory every couple of weeks to cook Polish dishes from
his grandmother’s recipes. A plump man with fussy manners, he had dinner at
our house a handful of times, drinking neat vodka before, during, and after
the meal, and giggling nervously as Jenna took him to task for Vatican
lunacies such as the prohibition of condoms. He looks distressed today, eyes
red-rimmed and shining with emotion. My heart warms to him for his grief. “Peter,”
he says, approaching me. “I need a word.” “Of
course,” I reply, puzzled. Tigger starts to rise
with me, but I put a hand on his shoulder. Father Winowski leads me to the altar boys’ vestiary,
where a couple of black-cassocked teenagers are playing cards. He chases them
out and closes the door. “I’d like
to take a moment to pray for guidance,” he says, voice breaking. “You might
want to pray also.” He bows
his head and I follow suit, acutely uncomfortable as he murmurs to himself.
Thirty seconds pass. He looks up. “I have some things to tell
you,” he says, hands knitted together nervously. “I don’t know if I’ve done
right or wrong. I haven’t been able to talk to my confessor yet.” “Please,” I say, his demeanor unsettling. “You know the church has
had a lot of trouble with the civil authorities in the past few years. The
bishop has us all on eggshells. None of us wants any more attention from the
police.” “Tell me what happened,” I say, my mouth dry. “Detective Rommy and his partner came to see me yesterday afternoon,
at my rectory. He asked if I’d been counseling Jenna and I said no, not in
any formal way, and told him that we usually talked about books. Then he
asked if it were fair to characterize the time I spent with her as social,
and I said yes, that she and I were friends. And then he asked if she’d
spoken to me about her relationship with you. I said I couldn’t talk about
that.” A tear skips down his pudgy
cheek. “What did Rommy say?” I ask, although I’ve already figured it out. “He said I couldn’t refuse
to answer, that I’d already admitted we didn’t have a privileged
relationship, and that unless I were prepared to swear she’d never talked to
me about you outside of the confessional, he’d arrest me for obstruction of
justice. He said he’d call the local newspaper and get them to send a
photographer over, and then take me out the front door of the rectory in
handcuffs. I didn’t know what to do.” He rocks back and forth in
his distress, clasped hands pressed to his mouth. Some corner of my brain
admires Rommy’s ingenuity even as I resolve to hurt
him. “What did you tell him?” I
ask, hoping Jenna kept to generalities. He bows his head again,
staring at my shirtfront. “Jenna came over to cook a
week and a half ago. We were playing Chinese checkers and talking after
dinner. She said she’d asked you to leave. “And?” “And that she was
struggling,” he whispers. “She was considering a divorce.” I slump back against a
wardrobe, feeling devastated despite my lack of surprise. It seems impossible
that Jenna and I ended like this. The thought of Rommy
gloating over Winowski’s disclosures is a crowning
blow. “I loved her,” I say
bitterly. “Whatever problems we had aren’t important now. She would have
wanted you to keep your mouth shut. This is only going to make things worse
for her parents. I thought you were her friend.” His mouth works silently
for a second, fresh tears starting. “I loved her, too,” he
says. “You loved her kielbasa,” I
snap, his moist, moonish face infuriating me. “It’s
not really the same thing.” He draws himself up
stiffly, as if I’d slapped him. “You’re the one who was
seeing another woman.” So Jenna told him. It’s my
turn to drop my eyes, rage giving way instantaneously to shame. “You told Rommy I cheated?” I ask a few moments later, looking up
to confirm my worst expectation. He nods, stern-faced. “Did Jenna tell you the
other woman’s name?” I rub my forehead, a
trickle of sweat running down my collar. This is going to be awful. Fucking Rommy. I stand up straight, pulling myself together. “Okay,” I say. “It’s
probably best that the O’Briens hear about this
from me. I don’t want to burden them any more today, but first thing
tomorrow, I’ll pay them a visit to apologize and explain. I’d guess they
might want to call you afterward. Anything you see fit to tell them is fine
by me.” “I don’t think you
understand,” he says, sounding pained. “Understand what?” “The O’Briens
are in the sacristy. Detective Rommy spoke to them
last night. They’re very upset. They’ve asked me to tell you that they don’t
want you to attend the funeral. If you insist on staying, Mrs. O’Brien says
she’ll denounce you from the altar.” I feel like I’m going to
throw up. “I’ve already emphasized to
her that you have every right to be here,” Father Winowski
continues. “And I’ve told her that as a representative of the church, I’ll
strongly condemn any unauthorized statement she makes from our pulpit.” “What did she say?” “She asked what I thought
as Jenna’s friend.” He lifts one hand and covers his Roman collar, his eyes
unexpectedly glacial. “I told her Detective Rommy
made some persuasive arguments, and that I sympathized with her position.” A chill foreboding quivers
in my chest, and it occurs to me for the first time just how damning Rommy might be able to make my sins and omissions seem.
Maybe I haven’t been thinking about things clearly. I walk to the door of the
vestiary and peer through a small diamond-shaped
window. The church is full, with mourners fidgeting in the side aisles and
the back. There’s no doubt in my mind that Jenna’s mother will do exactly
what she threatened. I try to imagine getting up in front of this
congregation to admit my failings but profess my love. It’s hard enough
talking to Tigger. Defeated, I turn away. “It’s up to you,” Father Winowski says. “I’m willing to speak to Mrs. O’Brien
again if you want me to.” “Thanks for nothing,” I
say, anger surging through me. “But I’m leaving.” The vestiary
has an exterior door. He tips his head toward it. “Do you want me to get your
friend?” “No,” I say, determined not
to slink away. “I’m going out the way I came in.” “I’ll pray for you,” he
says in a conciliatory tone, extending a hand. “You’ve done more than
enough for me already,” I reply, turning my back on him. “I wouldn’t want you
to put yourself out any further.” Tigger stares at me with a quizzical
expression as I walk out of the vestiary. “We’re leaving,” I whisper,
leaning over the front of the pew. “What?” he says, startled. “Why?” “Later.” Standing upright, I turn
toward the altar and approach the casket. Laying both hands on top, I close
my eyes and summon an image of Jenna, the wood cool beneath my fingers. I see
her cross-legged and barefoot on the ratty couch we had in our first Eyes dry, shoulders squared
and tall, I walk back down the aisle, concentrating on swinging my arms
normally. Tigger hustles ahead and pushes the
interior doors open for me so I won’t have to break stride. Cameras flash as
we step outside, the light blinding me. Vance takes drama and parses it out in Restitution
in ways that never become melodramatic, as shown in the excerpt. Even the
minor characters come across as complete and genuine through realistic dialogue.
Restitution
is one of the best debut novels I’ve read this year, and it will please most
readers, especially those who love a good thriller. Steve Hopkins,
August 25, 2007 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the September
2007 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Restitution.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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