For the same reason that I like slashers— they could realistically happen if you forgive superhuman strength in the case of some of the killers in the Scream franchise and are primarily driven by interpersonal drama— I enjoy thrillers. Books that seek to shock and surprise. When done well, these books take plausible scenarios like a missing wife, the discovery of a lost and forgotten body, or the scintillating reveal of a seemingly good person who did a bad thing and turn them into an emotional rollercoaster. And Kelly J. Ford does a thriller right.
Ford’s second novel, Real Bad Things, follows a simple enough plot. More than two decades after her stepfather Warren went missing and was presumed dead at her hand, Jane Mooney is called back to her not-so-quaint hometown Maud Bottoms, Arkansas. The waterlogged corpse could be the body officials failed to produce years before when she confessed to the crime. With her life in Boston unraveling at the seams, tying up loose ends and facing her abusive mother and golden child brother seem like the logical choice.
Unlike Jane, the rest of the Real Bad Things cast comprises of folks who never left town and range from righteous and angry about Jane’s return (her mother, Diane), to justifiably worried by her presence (her friend and ex-lover, Georgia Lee). Jane’s return prompts an onslaught of gossip from a comically aggressive and downright libelous local rag. Even more aggressive is the police investigation, courtesy of a transplant cop hellbent on bringing justice to the small town, which has more than its fair share of missing persons.
As the case unfolds and decades-old secrets are uncovered in Maud Bottoms, Ford reminds the reader that a protagonist doesn’t have to be perfect, or even likable, to be interesting.
As the case unfolds and decades-old secrets are uncovered in Maud Bottoms, Ford reminds the reader that a protagonist doesn’t have to be perfect, or even likable, to be interesting. Jane, whose personality is clearly driven by the trauma inflicted upon her by her mother as a child (and later, as an adult), is abrasive, harsh, and unsympathetic. She’s hard to like, but her choices land as truthful and genuine. She’s on a mission to unearth the truths that will keep her from jail time and bring her peace, and she doesn’t care if she hurts people to get there. Except, of course, for her brother Jason, who she and her mother protected throughout their childhood and who exists in the novel’s current timeline as an MMA fighter and hometown hero, emblematic of the possibility that Maud Bottoms residents could have for themselves if they work hard and persevere.
These are women whose lives have been driven by fear. And they’re done living like that.
When Jane, and the police, get closer to the truth regarding Warren’s death, other secrets—long buried beneath the murky waters of the Arkansas River— rise to the surface. For Georgia Lee, Jane’s childhood friend and ex-lover, revelations regarding the possibility that she could be the Bonnie to Jane’s Clyde highlight the reality that the self that is possible in Maud Bottoms, particularly for queer women like Jane and Georgia Lee, is not necessarily an ideal one. These are women whose lives have been driven by fear. And they’re done living like that.
“She solidified herself against her desire to comfort him,” Ford describes Jane as she contemplates prioritizing the feelings of a man over her own yet again and the reality of her situation, “Comfort would not be useful.” Georgia Lee “couldn’t remember the last time they’d done something for her,” when she arrives home to her husband and sons, exhausted. “Not one of them had texted to see why she was late or ensure she hadn’t been hurt or harmed or died in a car wreck. Usually they all spoke at once. Three mouths morphing into one giant want that she didn’t have the energy or inclination to fill anymore.” Both women have sacrificed and suffered in the interest of men. For Jane, it’s the volatile and emotional stepfather whose need for placation and complete subordination indelibly altered her life. For Georgia Lee, it’s her husband and sons, the townspeople, and competitors she worked for and campaigned against as an elected official, whose wants were reframed as needs at her expense. Jane doesn’t get to be happy because she’s haunted by the ghost of a man she hated. Georgia Lee doesn’t get to be happy because she’s trapped in a town that has no interest in letting her live her most honest self.
They struggle and suffer towards an end that, when it comes, is not necessarily happy, heartfelt, or satisfying, but just that: an end.
This clear and present sacrifice is present throughout the book and exemplified primarily by Jane and Georgia Lee. They struggle and suffer towards an end that, when it comes, is not necessarily happy, heartfelt, or satisfying, but just that: an end. This end centers on the delusion and fantasy that result from the protective behavior of a sister, mother, and girlfriend. It presents the reader with a conclusion that feels simultaneously obvious and impossible. What makes Real Bad Things work is the careful way Ford treads the line between absurdity and the very real things that trauma can make seem acceptable. Even normal. Add a pitch-perfect Southern setting, rich, diverse, and at times upsetting characterization, and enough predictable turns to make the unpredictable ones all the more shocking, and you’ve got one real good thing: this novel.
