As every schoolchild used to know, Texas has 254 counties, and seemingly every one of them has been the subject of a volume of professional or amateur history. Refugio County has so much history it took two volumes to get it all in. Given this preoccupation with local lore, it’s perhaps not surprising that many of the state’s counties have also served as the settings for works of fiction. Larry McMurtry turned Archer County into his very own Yokna-patawpha, setting no fewer than seven novels there. Bexar County probably leads the pack, thanks to the Alamo. Even Terrell County, which boasts a population of less than a thousand, is the setting of a famous book: Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men.
The latest county to meet with a literary reckoning is Lavaca, in Bruce Machart’s ambitious first novel, The Wake of Forgiveness (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, $26). Machart, whose forebears hail from Lavaca County and who teaches English at Houston’s Lone Star University, is receiving the red-carpet treatment: a much-sought-after starred review in Library Journal and Publishers Weekly, a glowing blurb from National Book Award winner Tim O’Brien (“What a fine, rich, absorbing book”), and a promotional video that offers stirring scenes and images from the novel (a horse race, a fistfight, a burning house, and some soulful moments between two lovers that wouldn’t be out of place in a Harlequin romance). Not to mention the inevitable comparisons to McCarthy.
Located about a hundred miles west of Houston, Lavaca County (county seat Hallettsville, population 2,494) has never drawn a lot of attention to itself; the area boasts one worthwhile tourist attraction, the Spoetzl Brewery, which makes Shiner beer. Machart’s interest lies elsewhere, in the little-known Czech phase of the county’s settlement. In the 1870’s immigrants from central Europe began to displace the original planters from the Old South, and by 1895, when Machart’s novel begins, the county had taken on a central European look and feel, with numerous Czech newspapers and social organizations. Machart’s characters constitute a Czech-list of names unusual in Texas and Western fiction: Lad Dvorak, Bohumil Novotny, Bern Chytka. No Billy Bobs, Duanes, or Sue Anns here. It turns out that there are good Czechs and bad Czechs. There are also several hot Czechs. In any event they all drink a lot of beer, eat a lot of kolaches, and dance a lot of schottisches. They also breed, foal, feud, and fight. A lot.
The tale begins with the violent birth of the protagonist, Karel Skala, and the consequent death of his mother. Maddened by grief, Karel’s father, Vaclav, lashes out at his four sons, working them relentlessly in his fields. Karel bears the brunt of his father’s passion and love, and as a result he grows estranged from his brothers. The forgiveness mentioned in the title comes slowly, and over the course of the book Karel struggles to reenter the circle of family life. Throughout, Machart strives for an operatic intensity that some readers will surely like.
But I have my doubts. For one thing, the story line keeps jumping around. The novel is broken into the following segments: February 1895, March 1910, December 1924, March 1910, May 1898, December 1924, March 1910, December 1924, and February 1895. Faulkner made a living fooling around with chronology, but Machart ain’t him. One keeps pulling up short at faux Faulknerisms like the following: “Got-damn, Lad, that ain’t your dead daddy’s pecker you’re holding. Put a squeeze on it the way you do them purse strings of yours.” He’s not Flannery O’Connor either: “It’s some folks will eat horse balls, but we ain’t them folks.”
Another problem is the way Machart repeats the same physical details over and over to mark his characters. Vaclav makes his sons pull a plow instead of using mules, and the result is that for the rest of their lives two of the boys lean to the left and two lean to the right. This seems ridiculous, but Machart repeatedly mentions Karel’s cockeyed neck, including three times on one page. Even a minor character’s eyebrows can produce unintentionally comic effects: “At better than eighty, the priest had a full head of hair, his brows lush, overgrown tangles that, had he found an outdoor occasion to stretch himself onto his back during the previous day’s gusts, would have made for his eyes more than adequate windbreaks.”