You wouldn’t think a small-town bowling alley would command a whole novel, or a family that no one can even conclusively prove is actually related to you. But Elizabeth McCracken, and her novel Bowlaway, would like a word.
In a cemetery in turn-of-the-century small-town Salford, Massachusetts, a woman is found splayed on the ground. How she got there or where she came from are as enigmatic as the woman herself, Bertha Truitt. Between her split skirts and petticoats (for ease in bicycle riding) and her obsession with candlepin bowling, Bertha quickly becomes the talk of the town. But in an endearing way, even when her behavior, her business, her marriage bend or break the norms of the small, homogenous New England town. Her daughter, Minna, is likewise beloved by all. And those challenged norms allow others to spread their wings a little, too.
Unfortunately, tragedy ebbs the positive swell in Salford; not even the mighty Bertha Truitt can outrun a molasses flood. Her husband, Leviticus, sends Minna to his family and limps along in loneliness for a while until he spontaneously combusts. The ownership of Bertha’s candlestick bowling alley is in question until an unpleasant man claiming to be Bertha’s long-lost son swoops in and claims it for his own. This new Truitt also changes Salford, though not in ways Bertha might approve of, and under his new regime comes another family whose fortunes rise and fall with the pins at the bowling alley at the heart of it all.
Bowlaway is called “sprawling,” and that is an apt adjective. From the days of carts and buggies to those of muscle cars, the alley, and the families Truitt, is witness to an era of major change. The alley and the last name of the people running it stays constant, while everything else changes. In addition to three generations of family, Bowlaway follows more than a few side characters. While their stories are distinct enough to follow easily, it’s still a lot to keep track of. Luckily, McCracken’s omniscient narrator his here to help with background, foreshadowing, and the revelation of crucial details we couldn’t possibly know otherwise. The characters are more or less charming enough on their own, but I can’t see this scope of a story succeeding without that kind of inside information.
This is especially true with those characters that fit into “less.” Most manage to be somewhat sympathetic at the end of it all. For example, the third generation of bowling alley owners, a pair of brothers, aren’t immediately easy to love, but there’s something sad and relatable about their follies, especially in the case of the more difficult one. Bertha’s housekeeper who is sent away after her death only to return under unexpected circumstances is hard not to view as a needy opportunist, but those words are ultimately neutral in judgement. The glaring exception to McCracken’s humanization of even her prickly or disappointing characters is Bertha’s supposed son, whom I wished would get beaten with a bowling pin and ultimately gets a far more pleasant ending than he deserves. Meanwhile, we get far too little time with Minna, who is largely forgotten by the town, and the story, as soon as she leaves it.
But who deserves what isn’t any of McCracken’s concern. Nor is she worried about a strong arc or poetic justice, or even a tidy conclusion. Rather, she leans into the sprawl, which at times can make the story feel unfocused as its loose tether sways. The result is perhaps a little long and meandering, but also oddly lifelike to the way lives roam, especially in a small town.
Ring Reads 