The mending

In French the name Claire means clear. It implies a deliberate transparency, an absence of chaos. In “The Center of Winter,” a dark yet adroit first novel by memoirist Marya Hornbacher, Claire Schiller is a character who is anything but clear. She is a wounded mother and wife whose flawed coolness continues the dismantling of a family already lost in darkness. Suicide, alcoholism, mental illness and severe dysfunction swirl through the Schiller family like the snow that covers the impossibly insular town of aptly named Motley, Minn., in the 1970s. Through different points of view masterfully delivered, Hornbacher conveys the series of tragedies that erode the family’s wholeness.

Alternating among the voices of Claire; Kate, the 6-year-old daughter of Claire and Arnold; and Esau, their teenage son struggling with mental illness, the author constructs a kaleidoscope of speakers at times beautiful and often disturbing. Beginning with Kate as narrator, we are tugged into the trauma of the Schillers. It is a family stained by town gossip about the long ago suicide of her Aunt Rose; the inexplicable behavior of Esau, who is in and out of state psychiatric hospitals; the alcoholic inertia of her father; and the perception of Claire as unapproachable and detached.

Untainted in Kate’s eyes is her mother, who to her remains a beautiful icon, though her inattention to her children, drinking and tolerance for glass-shattering violence would repulse any sensitive reader. But it is the suicide of Kate’s father that shakes the bones of the family and immobilizes it in a shroud of grief.

It is difficult, especially as a mother, to harvest sympathy for Claire, whose guilt over her husband’s suicide and desperation over Esau’s mental illness drive her to an emotional and physical lockdown. But even if her behavior is unforgivable, her grief appears understandable: She cannot grasp that the shards she has placed at the feet of her children are hers to clear. Though she instinctively holds sacred the act of gardening and the reverence for the resurrection it implies, she does not seem to understand that her family’s redemption is her duty.

Intensely troubled, Esau tells the story of his father’s death, his family’s near-collapse and his own spiraling mental collapse in language that reflects each stage of relapse and recovery. Presumably because he is medicated heavily at the state hospital, Esau emerges as an insightful and forgiving young man capable of compassion for his family and his neighbors.

Peripheral to this family whirlpool are Arnold’s parents, referred to lovingly as Oma and Opa, who swallow much whiskey while dispensing sober advice. Also placed gingerly near the edges of the family are Claire’s friend Donna, her infant daughter, Sarah, and son, Davey, whose friendship with Kate foretells an ending that seems too sweet and neat. And then there’s Frank, the archetypal good guy bartender who performs a role that would be coveted in the movie version of this book.

A gifted writer can coax a reader to satisfaction no matter how implausible the circumstance. Hornbacher succeeds marvelously in this. She ties messy ends neatly and explains impossibilities succinctly. When you question motivation, behavior or plot, the answer is immediate and tidy, making you think you should have known all along. In her final section, Kate muses: “People need their broken places, their secrets and stories. Once you have these things, you can go on. Then they either kill you or they don’t.” *