Book Review

There are only three characters in The Last Way, Cameron L. Mitchell’s debut novella: the father, the mother, and our protagonist of undetermined age, the son. Largely set outside of time and place, the trio lack neighbors, extended family, coworkers, or school ties. They exist together (the word “live” would be generous) in a small house with flaking red paint in the mountains. Their world is insular and terrible. The characters, as in a nightmare, lack names.

Coupled with the lack of time and place, the use of present tense makes The Last Way feel universal and ongoing. As if this is the reality that might quietly exist right now inside your neighbor’s home, or a classmate, coworker, church friend.

Dad, source of all terror, is richly drawn. The son detests his father and thinks only of killing him. These stakes appear on page one. It’s Dad’s pervasive cigarette smoke, his incessant cough, mean spirited demeanor, and slovenly appearance. But primarily it is his drinking, and the abuse he inflicts when inebriated.

He’d already finished one can and would certainly have another. I’ve lived with him long enough to know that. We can handle two or three, or even four. Problems start with the fifth beer, which too often leads to the sixth. Beyond six is . . . beyond hope. Still, any amount of beer is better than whiskey since whiskey days are the worst.

Mom, in contrast, plays the stoic victim, dodging Dad’s hurtled ashtrays, then offering to cook bacon and eggs. Life feels stuck on repeat, and in ways the novella is repetitive. Several chapters are titled “Last Night”, several others open with the idea about today being the day to kill Dad. While some may find this tedious, I’d argue it’s the point. What’s more repetitive than hopelessness? Without school or special events to mark the passage of time, life grinds to a halt. Every night is last night, every morning a prelude to coming horrors. Home as theater for the battles of a personal war.

Mitchell does move the story forward through the series of carefully-wrought yet childish ways our protagonist plans to kill Dad. Perhaps he will lure him to the woods and push him over a ledge. Perhaps he’ll stab him while he’s passed out, or drug him with pulverized sleeping pills. Each plan exists at the intersection of real and imagined. The descriptions are so specific, so lengthy and detailed, that they present as actually happening. But inevitably, heartbreakingly, the facade crumbles. It is revealed that Dad’s not dead, that we are merely in the throes of Protag’s murderous fantasies.

And herein is what makes Mitchell’s novella so sad and delicious. The Last Way shines with interiority, with the way readers plumb the protagonist’s desperation. We understand exactly how helpless and hopeless he feels, how scared and sad. And isn’t this what draws us to literature? Fiction makes us feel less alone. It authorizes loneliness as part of the human condition.

Mitchell’s writing style often utilizes the unflinching language of a child. While there are descriptive paragraphs, these are interspersed with staccato sentences and single powerhouse turns of phrase, which land hard as Dad’s punches.

She searched my face, and I searched hers, each of us breathless. Each of us scared.

She was ok, I was ok. Both of us, ok.

But we weren’t, of course. And we never would be.

Still, much is left to the imagination. With a dearth of details about Mom’s physical appearance, I found myself picturing Shelley Duvall in The Shining. But if this is a nightmare, perhaps that’s intentional. Some details appear in hyperfocus, others get left out entirely.

With chapter after chapter pushing away at the idea of killing Dad, readers will be curious if the job gets done. In the end, Mitchell succeeds in achieving a conclusion of surprise yet inevitability. Readers will be reminded, in our atomized society, of so many fighting battles we know nothing about.