A Reaction to Flannery O'Connor's Short Story, "The River"

"The River" baffled me in a lot of ways. It had the ability to make me feel ignorant and snobby all at once, which really, is quite the feat. It's a personally divisive essay, pushing me toward the urge to have a strong sarcastic reaction while simultaneously making me proud of O'Connor for being able to affect me in a way that most writing simply doesn't anymore. I want to shirk it off, but my obsessive nature won't let me.

The film version didn't help much, unfortunately. The introduction held great promise, as I am a film fan. I love the actor who did the introduction, Fred Gwynne. So in a way, I was lured in from the beginning. The quiet nature of the short film version of the story makes a silent promise, "Something good is coming. Something important, so pay attention." But I knew that something good wasn't coming at all, because I read the story only minutes before the beginning of the film. So let's just put the film cart behind the story horse and take it one thing at a time.

The story. Oh...the story. It's layered, it's symbolic, while simultaneously being frustratingly simple. What I read is what I got, or was it? O'Connor kept just enough information and detail from me to draw me in and get my wheels turning, but she also withheld the typical plot points that I was expecting.

While reading, I wanted to know why everything was happening. Why was he going to the babysitter's house so early? Why was the boy going there instead of the sitter coming to him? Why did the parents not care that he would end up at a church event but alter be bothered about his baptism? There it is again, that one question repeated over and over again through the reading and the video, why, why, why?

However, in not having those answers, I felt bonded to Harry. Because I was experiencing his world just as he was. The world of scary adults, strangers, new locations and intimidating peers. They were all there and the only other person who knew how I was feeling was poor little Harry. Lonely Harry.

Harry, whose parents refused to give him a place in his own world. A filthy living room, a smoke-filled party, and stale food. That's all. No fresh breakfasts, no sober parents, and no siblings. Harry was as alone in his childhood as we are alone in our day to day lives as adults. Harry is a reminder that while no man is an island in this life, every person is only alone with themselves in the end. Harry may have been affected by his parents in his day to day life, but he died alone. Just as we all must do eventually. O'Connor's tale could've been written long ago and in different form, perhaps as a Greek tragedy or an Aesop's fable. It is an age old story of neglect, or bad parenting, and it's never something that can be enjoyed.

At least he died looking for the Kingdom of God, which is more than one could probably say for most people. In Harry's case it was a noble and innocent search, nothing like the cultural conditioning and religious wars we are accustomed to today.

His death prompted the same feelings of grief in me that come naturally in the passing of another in reality. First there was rage at the senselessness of it all. Why did he have to die? Why couldn't his parents have just been awake that morning? What if the bus driver had taken notice of a little boy getting off at a remote stop alone and called the police? I took myself through all the same "what if" scenarios that I do when sitting at a funeral home. But there's no use to the "what if" question. It wouldn't help Harry now.

Then I began to ponder something disturbing. One of those mental questions that make you doubt yourself for even asking it. Something from the story stuck with me, wriggled its way into my subconscious and camped out despite my protests.

What was this nagging problem? This nagging problem was the character of Mr. Paradise. Am I the only one who feels that Mr. Paradise may contain a grain of evil somewhere in his being? It's not his doubtful presence at the church service that made me suspicious of him. (Today we would call that being pragmatic and thoughtful.) Though symbolically speaking, I suppose in the context of the story alone, Mr. Paradise's unbelieving heart would've been enough to make a case against him. No, it was the one simple and silent act of Mr. Paradise buying the candy as Harry passed his shop on the way to the river. Bells and whistles go off in my head when I read about Mr. Paradise, for even his name contains a false promise. Paradise, no such thing on Earth. Something in my gut tells me not to trust him.

A stranger buying candy for an unknown child. A fisherman piercing a living worm with a hook. This candy, in my eyes, was Harry's bait.

When Harry goes searching for the Kingdom of God, in his innocent mind, it is a place he can get to...if not a little mythical. But what is a myth to a child? It is the cousin of reality. It is where lines are blurred. It is where lies and truth are indistinguishable from one another. The boogeyman will get you, Santa will come if you are good, if you make that face it will freeze that way. The Kingdom of God is somewhere where his parents wouldn't smoke or drink or steal from Harry what he has stolen for himself. It is the ultimate escape.

Which brings me back to my frequently repeated question, "Why?" Only this time I know the answer. If Mr. Paradise intends to do what I dread, what I fear that he intends to do...the unspoken, the worst of the worst, then the Kingdom of God was at the bottom of that river after all. The mercy of God was in action for little Harry, for Bevel Jr., as he wished to be. The kingdom of God took him before Mr. Paradise could, and in that way Harry was correct. God's grace was real and authentic and just in time.

Harry's world was cruel, boring, and unusual, not nearly good enough for him. The only hope he ever knew was in the river, in the river he counted for the first time in his life. Which we know isn't true, as helpless observers we could only scream to Harry that he has always counted the way we would scream at a horror film, "Don't go up those stairs!". But the only time he ever knew it was in that water, therefore, it was only true to him in that physical place.

In the river he was saved, given an option he never knew existed. An option better than old olives and cigarette ashes. Something more closely resembling what his Ms. Connins had to offer, a lap to sit on when times get tough. Something diametrically opposed to what his mother was willing to give him, which was a whole lot of nothing. Even the scraps of Ms. Connins' affection was rich and lavish to Harry, who was starved for personal contact. Something in her actions, her explanation of her picture of Jesus, her willingness to share a handkerchief and a book...it makes her forgivable for her lack of interpersonal skills. She gave him more than anyone else that we know of, she was on his side, if even for a matter of hours, trying to share what was hers to give. Though it wasn't much.

These Christians in the river were strange in custom and difficult to understand, but they were inclusive to him. They wanted to hear his problems. They wanted to teach him about the world. To tell him that he counted. They took him at his word when his own parents would not, nevermind the fact that he was lying. I would lie too if I was Harry.

The film contained the same problematic and lingering questions for me. As someone who comes from an undergraduate degree in film studies, the truth is, I want to pick it apart for its compositional flaws. I want to talk about lighting and shot set-ups. Time periods were not accurately depicted. Costumes were not completely correct. But the spirit of "The River" was there just the same. That horrible dark spirit, that confusing and lingering ending. It was all intact, and in many cases nearly identical to the way I'd pictured it occurring as I read line after disheartening line.

But here's the most interesting thing about "The River", as much as it initially irked me in its form and composition, with all its unanswered questions, the story and the film mimic life very closely. Perhaps this explains my initial recoil. Too close to home, as they say. Life is often dark with a confusing ending. In real life, we don't get all the loose ends gathered and woven into a tapestry. In real life, we hear of these instances occurring every single day.

In this way O'Connor has crafted an artifact that pushes us to think about ourselves. She leaves you no choice but to ponder the meaning of this sad little life, Harry's life, and to draw parallels to your own. Which character are you in this fable, the neglectful parent, the evil lurking on the sidelines, the lost little boy, or the purposeful but embittered babysitter? O'Connor has irritated me into submission, forcing me to hold up the mirror.

She has written a parable, one that needs deconstructing. One that you want desperately to escape from, to forget, to forego. But you can't. Just as Harry can't shake the notion of his escape to the underwater Kingdom full of mercy and relief, so neither could I escape the nagging emotions attached to such a brutal tale.

Just as a terrifying horror movie convinces me into sleeping with the light on, so O'Connor pushes me to consider the way I affect those around me. I ask myself after reading, where do I put my hope in this life? In my caretakers, in my family, in myself, or in the confusing and mysterious mercies of the Kingdom of God? My answers will undulate throughout my life, no doubt. But like a nagging deadline, O'Connor's ending to, "The River" will always be there.