Unsafe at home
In his haunting sixth book, “Ill Will,” Dan Chaon examines the seams between true identity and self-narrative and the deceptive ground that lies in between: What are the stories we tell ourselves? Do we remember the truth? Or do we fabricate lies that eventually begin to feel like some version of the truth? Is anyone a reliable narrator?
Through the traumatic lens of one broken family, this captivating narrative delves into these questions — and more. An accomplished short story writer and novelist, Chaon embraces his inner Patricia Highsmith, propelling headlong into the crime psychological genre, and moving further away from the spare realism of his early fiction that was sometimes compared to the likes of Lorrie Moore and Raymond Carver. Conversely, the author revisits the familiar tropes of his earlier work — adoption, fires, estranged siblings, amputation, drownings — and manages to invent a different kind of narrative altogether.
Dustin Tillman is the father of two teenage sons who lives in the quiet suburbs of Cleveland. By all external appearances, the protagonist leads a relatively stable life: He works as a psychologist/hypnotist and has been married to the same woman for 20 years. This domestic tranquillity swiftly dissipates when the reader learns that Dustin’s beloved wife, Jill, has been diagnosed with an aggressive form of ovarian cancer. (Chaon’s own wife, writer Sheila Schwartz died of this same cancer, at age 56, in 2008.) After the sudden loss of his wife, Dustin’s world tips on its axis and never rights itself. Soon, the reader learns that Dustin is broken in other ways: At 13, he survived a trauma of immense proportions when he discovered the bloody corpses of his father, mother, aunt and uncle right after their murders. The enigmatic mystery of this massacre hovers over the entire narrative, with versions of the trauma being told by various characters (Dustin; Rusty, his adopted brother; Kate and Wave, two female cousins). Chaon writes from Dustin’s perspective near the beginning of the novel: “There were whole days when he would only think a little about those events, when the thoughts would graze lightly across the surface of his consciousness and then sink into the waters — he found himself visualizing his memories this way, imagined certain images drifting down into dark green ponds and sending up a few gurgling bubbles as they vanished.”
While grieving his wife, Dustin becomes involved with one of his patients, Aqil, who enlists his help to solve a string of murders of young men who are drowned throughout the Midwest. The therapist and patient team up and “play detective,” steadily transforming their therapeutic relationship into one that is eerily intimate. “Facedown, bumping lightly against the muddy bed below the flowing water,” Chaon writes about one of the recent murders, “the body was probably carried for several miles — frowning with gentle surprise, arms held a little away from his sides, legs stiff.”
In the meantime, Dustin’s younger son, Aaron, leads a largely rudderless existence, smoking cigarettes and getting high on whatever substance he can manage to find. The author writes from Aaron’s perspective: “Without nicotine, his brain seemed murky with circling, unfocused dread, and the world itself appeared somehow more unfriendly — emanating, he couldn’t help but think, a soft glow of ill will.” A good deal of his waking hours is spent with his childhood friend Rabbit in the drab basement while Rabbit’s mother also battles cancer. Before long, after his mother passes away, Rabbit becomes one of the missing.
Narratively speaking, Chaon goes for the fences, telling this intricate story in a rotating series of voices, perspectives and forms. What begins as a traditional novel told in a close third person splinters into first-person and second-person voices. Many chapters are delivered in short, staccato bursts, adding to the suspense of the mystery. The story is also dispatched via emails, text messages, emojis and blog postings. At times, the prose on the page takes unusual arrangements — columns, squares, words tumbling into white space. These visual arrangements generate a disoriented yet layered read, particularly when the reader is spending time with Aaron in his drugaddled condition. This intended effect is certainly accomplished, but often these bold choices break the spell of the reading experience.
Ultimately, the brilliance of Chaon’s writing comes through in his agile ability to depict the acute states of isolation and alienation of his characters. Like Donald Antrim and Dana Spiotta, Chaon animates isolation and grief with a perfect pitch of authenticity and fidelity. Grief is everywhere in his prose — the characters’ actions and reactions, the Midwestern landscapes, the missed communications between the characters, and the palpable spaces in between. By the novel’s end, the reader is left rooting for Chaon’s tragic souls as they attempt to navigate the formidable obstacle course of their grief-ridden lives.
S. Kirk Walsh has reviewed books for the New York Times, the Boston Globe and other publications. Email: books@sfchronicle.com