To call “Old Crimes: And Other Stories” a compilation of independent narratives is to diminish Jill McCorkle’s evocative statement on the interconnected nature of human suffering. These 12 intimate snapshots focus on the interior experiences of melancholy characters as they excavate internal pain. Each story relates to Southern teachers in some small way, many of whom have spent time in the North. Steeped in loneliness while drilling straight to the heart of emotion, these standalone narratives collectively deliver a stunning study on the shared experience of isolation.
The titular tale “Old Crimes” opens the collection with Lynn, a 20-year-old student traveling with her boyfriend Cal on the cusp of Y2K. They encounter an abandoned child who stokes Lynn’s fear that she’s also perceived as a “cheapened, dumbed down version of something much better.” Directionless, she’s searching for a life where she’s not treated with the same disregard as the discarded little girl.
McCorkle’s narrative aches with humanity as she flays open the invisible-woman prototype, her most memorable being Loris in “Low Tones.” In a heartbreaking reflection on a lifetime of regrets, Loris spies on her young neighbor as she adjusts to living without her husband after 40 years of his mistreatment. A glimmer of triumph and a break from the sadness in her narrative occurs at a hearing exam when Loris makes the doctor laugh after explaining that she attributes the loss of her ability to perceive the low male register to a function of female evolution.
Marnie’s isolation morphs into desperation in “Swinger” when she discovers her recently deceased boyfriend Roland had a box of photographs of nude ex-girlfriends. Self-described as “one of those women who people didn’t give things to,” Marnie grows distraught because he never asked her to contribute to his collection. She watches prison workers clear the road as she roams around their residence mourning Roland, waiting for his ex-wife to kick her out of his house. An unexpected visitor concludes the story with a satisfying, although ultimately joyless, twist.
Credit: Algonquin Books
Credit: Algonquin Books
Not all of McCorkle’s women are desolate. Candy is a refreshing dose of moxie and one of a few side characters that recur. She first appears in “Commandments” as a heavily tattooed waitress doling out strong opinions while serving a narcissist-survivor support group. In “Baby in the Pan,” Candy is a new mom who expresses anger at her conservative mother Theresa for obsessing over graphic pro-life videos and a rare doll collection while ignoring Candy’s son. Instead of defending herself, Theresa retreats inward to relive her memories of childhood abuse.
McCorkle partners her haunted and taciturn protagonists with forceful side characters to tell these tales, and the impact reverberates. In “The Last Station,” the archetypal burdened woman takes literal and humorous shape with Tori’s mother. A newly retired librarian with nothing to lose, she roasts the town for decades of hypocrisy as she embarks on her annual “Stations of the Cross” pilgrimage across her front yard with a cross strapped to her back. Naturally, Tori is mortified.
Vera in “Act III” presents a more nuanced depiction of maternal disassociation as she gathers her adult children while grappling with her looming diagnosis. Their discord has knitted them into a complex unit, and that strife is the foundation for her richest recollections as she imagines their lives without her at the helm.
Stories are occasionally linked by recurring characters like Tori, who it is inferred to be Vera’s former daughter-in-law. But the main vehicle McCorkle uses to deliver her introspective on isolation is the shared experience of pain. Vera parallels Lynn’s woes in “Old Crimes,” pondered from different life stages. The Cal who Lynn vacations with could be Ben McCallum in “Filling Station” years later, a man who is “attracted to forgotten places” and rents his childhood bedroom from the new property owners — to an unsatisfying end.
Roland reappears in Ben’s story, linking Marnie in “Swingers” to Loris in “Low Tones,” existing years apart. Yet the details don’t always add up, emphasizing that in McCorkle’s world, character is as fluid as time. Sadness may ripple and change over the decades, but the experience of solitude remains unchanged.
The belt is an object rife with symbolism that also ties these stories together. The first reference occurs in the opening tale with a history lesson as Lynn recalls details from a school archaeology assignment. When she encounters the abandoned child, haunting memories of a belt from her own adolescence are triggered. There are garter belts and Kotex belts and words quoting “Charlotte’s Web” tattooed around Candy’s waist like a belt. The Bible Belt is mentioned multiple times. Overarchingly, it is a constrictive tool tethering the abused to their perpetrators and the future to the past.
Each story meanders through place and time with an ambiguity that enhances the relatability of these stories. Brief references to Y2K and Facebook provide shifting time anchors. Descriptions of a particular house or bar serve to convey how the environment enhances perception. None hit the heart quite like “Low Tones” as Loris spies on her neighbor through a reflection in her shower door as she laments her failure to protect her son from her husband’s belt.
Jill McCorkle has assembled a stunning collection of survivors who share something far more important than location, time or identity. As these and the other fascinating characters in “Old Crimes” ponder hurts past and present, crimes big and small, and sorrows great and trivial, their individual voices form an unforgettable chorus that speaks of the similarities inherent in enduring pain.
FICTION
“Old Crimes: And Other Stories”
by Jill McCorkle
Algonquin Books, 256 pages, $27
About the Author
Keep Reading
The Latest
Featured
