At home that night, I slipped a finger under my panties and masturbated for the first time, panting and sick.
Context is necessary here: this quote immediately—as in the very next line—follows the female narrator’s graphic description of finding a shed in the woods on which the walls are adorned with sadomasochistic pornographic photos. She is recalling this episode in her life from the present as a recollection of when she was just twelve years old. It is somewhat necessary to begin analysis of the book’s quotes with this somewhat disturbing introduction because, putting it mildly, this novel is a carefree joyride of splendiferous fun to read. The average reader is likely not going to finish it if started as a summer vacation quick read by the pool. The very fact that the recollection being described here is from the perspective of a woman recalling her girlhood is indicative of the distinct quality of its darkness. One could read the above line replacing the word “panties” and understand almost without a blink of the eye that it was written by a man. But for it to be the punctuation mark to a story of a twelve-year-old girl’s romp through the woods still has the power to cause that blink. Word of caution: things get much, much darker from this point.
I am a cutter, you see. Also a snipper, a slicer, a carver, a jabber. I am a very special case. I have a purpose. My skin, you see, screams. It’s covered with words—cook, cupcake, kitty, curls—as if a knife-wielding first-grader learned to write on my flesh. I sometimes, but only sometimes, laugh.
Can’t say you weren’t warned. The narrator engages in self-mutilation or self-injury or self-harm all of which are often commonly collected under the umbrella term “cutting.” The reasoning for this is that about three-fourths of women who self-mutilate do so by cutting themselves. (For the record, it is not psychological response to trauma that is just limited to females, though admittedly unreliable and incomplete statistical data suggest there is an enormous gender gap.) Camille’s particular idiosyncratic methodology expressed here takes her post-traumatic response to a level that is symbolic as was well psychological. The fact that she doesn’t merely pierce the flesh in random lines or geometric shapes, but actually carves words into her body becomes a metaphor for the unfulfilled wishes for communication which has shaped her personality.
The girl was in a childish checked sundress, matching straw hat by her side. She looked entirely her age—thirteen—for the first time since I’d seen her. Actually, no. She looked younger now. Those clothes were more appropriate for a ten-year-old. She scowled when she saw me assessing her.
“I wear this for Adora. When I’m home, I’m her little doll.”
Adora is Camille’s mother. She is also Amma’s mother. They do not share the same father, however, and so as half-sisters separated by age and distance are not familiar with each other. The description must be placed into context: this is the first sighting of Amma by Camille as her half-sister, but not the first time she’s seen her. Up until this moment, Camille did not realize that the prettiest and decidedly differently attired blonde leader of a pack of blondes she’d seen around town was, in fact, Amma. The jaw-dropping divergence between the Amma she has seen and the Amma she is talking to is pretty weird. But then again, it’s a pretty weird family. Especially when one adds the description of what initially drew Camille’ attention to the girl in the sundress:
“Outside on the porch I saw a changeling. A little girl with her face aimed intently at a huge, four-foot dollhouse, fashioned to look exactly like my mother’s home.”
“I’m Camille Preaker. I’m from Wind Gap…But now I’m with the Daily Post in Chicago. We’re covering the story. We’re here because of Natalie Keene, and your daughter’s murder.”
No, Camille has not returned to her hometown to connect with a strange half-sister she’s never known. It just so happens that she hails from a small town across in Missouri where young girls are disappearing and, it turns out, being strangled and gruesomely mutilated. Reluctant at first to return home, she is soon drawn deeper into the web of mysteries and dark secrets from the past that threaten to put the tiny town of Wind Gap on the same metaphorical map as Twin Peaks.
“Well you all know what I think. Ann’s daddy, Bob Nash. He’s a pervert. He always stares at my chest when I see him at the store.”
Jackie is Adora’s closest friend and, as indicated, Bob Nash is the father one a young girl who was murdered. During a fairly typical meeting of middle-agish women meeting for wine and occasional bites of food, the topic of gossip turns to suspicion of who might be perpetrating malevolence going on in the small town. Among the candidates: Bob Nash and John Keene, Bob and John. Mr. Nash and Mr. Keene. A small group of women enjoying their wine and gossip are sitting around picking the most likely candidates for the horrific crimes against young girls—although it must be admitted the conversation seems rather lighthearted considering the subject. That the women—especially the pampered, alcoholic, half-plastic longtime resident Jackie--focus on the father of one victim and the brother of another is meaningful in more ways than one.
