Resisting the myth of redemptive violence in Tim Gautreaux’s The Missing

Many Mennonites, at least those watching movies in the 1980s, likely remember the stir caused by Witness, the 1985 film set among the Lancaster, Pa., Amish community. Rather than joining the debate about whether the movie transcends the standard pattern of action flicks, my mind after all these years remains fixated on a small encounter between an obnoxious tourist and Harrison Ford, who is posing as an Amish man.

Assuming that no Amish person will retaliate, the young tough dabs an ice cream cone on the face of Ford’s friend. Notwithstanding my lifelong pacifist commitments, I find it difficult not to feel gleeful when our hero slugs the surprised tourist.

The sequence demonstrated in this small scene occurs repeatedly in comic books, cartoons, and movies: Our hero is tracking down the villains; he takes some hits along the way; but, in the climactic scene, he destroys the evil one with compelling and exciting violence that eliminates the villainy and sets everything aright. Theologian Walter Wink, in Engaging the Powers (1992), identifies this cultural pattern as the myth of redemptive violence, a shared assumption that when a wrong occurs, violence is required to eliminate evil. Wink writes: “Violence is so successful as a myth precisely because it does not seem to be mythic in the least. Violence simply appears to be the nature of things. It is what works. It is inevitable, the last and often first resort in conflicts.”

The usual inevitability of violence, and often vengeance, in books and movies is what makes Tim Gautreaux’s novel The Missing (Knopf, 2009) such a welcome, alternative voice. Gautreaux, a Catholic writer from Louisiana, has published two other novels and two collections of short stories that often wrestle with moral issues. The Missing places questions about revenge at the center of a compelling storyline.

Sam Simoneaux, the protagonist of the novel, arrives in France just after the armistice has been signed, ending World War I. Though he witnessed the devastation the war had caused, Sam was not involved in any of the fighting. Gautreaux, who had uncles involved in the major engagements of World War I, notes in an interview that Sam’s life has been shaped by avoiding the fighting, for “it just happens that everybody that gets involved in the business of shooting people with rifles ends up damaged and changed.”

Sam returns to New Orleans, eager to settle into civilian life with his wife as he works as a floorwalker, or security guard, at a department store. Yet two violent events, one long ago and the other recent, conspire to upset Sam’s anticipated serene existence.

First, we learn that Sam’s entire parental family, except for him, was murdered in a revenge killing, so he was raised by his uncle’s family. Second, Sam fails to thwart a kidnapping of Lily, a beautiful blond girl, from the department store, so he is fired from his job. Both because he hopes to have his job restored and because of his sense of guilt, Sam embarks on a journey to find the missing child.

Much of the novel takes place on a jazz excursion boat, as Sam travels with Lily’s parents up and down the Mississippi River, hoping to find clues about the kidnapping. At the same time, Sam struggles to come to terms with his own childhood loss. Much of the novel is filled with Sam’s detective work as he tries to piece together clues about both crimes. Eventually he is able to glean names of possible villains. In response to both situations, the kidnapping and the family massacre, Sam hears a constant drumbeat of criticism from his companions because he hesitates to carry out decisive vengeance against the perpetrators. One of the most persistent is Charlie Duggs, Sam’s bunkmate on the boat, who says: “Well, you’re a little pudding if I ever saw one. You don’t try to find out about these outlaws, I hate to say this, but I’ll be ashamed of you.”

The quiet voice that helps Sam resist this alluring response comes from his Uncle Claude, the unsophisticated yet devout man who raised him. When Sam informs his uncle that he has discovered his family’s killers, his uncle astonishes him by saying, “It’s been 26 years they been suffering. … It’s what the priest says, Sam. Sin is its own punishment. They got to live with what they did. … Baby, what they did is who they are. It makes them cripples. Half-people.”

Claude’s assertions are probably as astounding to the reader’s ears as to Sam’s, for he is espousing the countercultural view that one who has been wronged has no need to seek revenge; the perpetrator himself is already suffering because of the sinful action. In a line that reflects Sam’s loss as well as a caution over any vengeful action, Claude says, “Ah, Sammy, when a man kills somebody, the most important thing he takes away is all the things that person can do in a lifetime.” Claude’s thoughtful comments force Sam and the reader to embrace the whole range of implications of a killing, not just the short-term jolt of righteousness redemptive violence provides.

Two scenes particularly highlight Gautreaux’s challenge to our standard cultural myths. After Sam learns the identity of Lily’s kidnappers, her teenage brother August decides he must kill them, both to punish her theft as well as to avenge his father, who has been killed in an earlier attack on the kidnappers. Anticipating the harm the outlaws will inflict on August, Sam hurries after the boy, catching up to him in the woods outside their house. Gautreaux provides a forceful, engaging conversation between the two, as Sam enunciates the reasons against seeking revenge. Though August remains committed to revenge, Sam gets August to pause just long enough that he does not shoot when the kidnapper walks out the door—holding Lily. August is stunned, realizing that he almost shot his sister, and he emotionally thanks Sam for stopping him. Reflecting on this scene, Sam muses one of the most memorable lines of the novel: “Bullets didn’t seek out guilt or innocence; they were flying accidents of fate.”

Though these kidnappers are scoundrels, the encounter with them serves as a mere dress rehearsal for Sam’s meeting with the debased killers of his family, the Cloats clan. As he journeys to accost these murderers, Sam hears horrific tales of what the Cloats do to anyone who crosses them. Despite his hesitation about seeking vengeance, Sam takes a gun with him and is unsure what he will do when he confronts the killers. What he finds when he arrives at the Cloats compound seems appropriate for such a debased family: only three of the Cloats men remain alive, each of them old and diseased. With Sam clearly in control of the situation, the reader is poised for a glorious scene of redemptive violence, a response that Sam contemplates: “Sam raised the pistol thinking of how he could kill him and people would care more for the corpse of a mole rotting in its burrow. His eyes narrowed for a moment, along with his conscience. Living in the present is so easy. You just do a thing and not think about what could happen the next day, or how you might view your own actions in 10 years.” In this reflection, Sam gives the lie to much of what makes the myth of redemptive violence seem so attractive. Violent action appears to have no consequences except to remove the evil character. But as Sam, encouraged by his uncle, realizes, actions always have consequences.

Instead of shooting him, Sam forces old Cloats to recount details about Sam’s family, helping Sam visualize his missing relatives. These images of his family allow Sam to find some peace and begin the process of healing from this loss. Gautreaux notes that some readers were disappointed with this unusual climax, for “Americans have been programmed to a template of offense followed by justified violence. This is a cliché and a simple-minded notion. I hope The Missing sets some writers free from the idea that if offense is given then offense must be taken.”

Providing a different conclusion than Witness, this nonshootout—indeed all of The Missing—can inspire not only writers but all readers of the novel to resist the siren song of redemptive violence. May we all affirm with Sam’s uncle that sin is its own punishment, thus putting aside vengeance and engaging in the much harder but much more rewarding work of healing.

L. Lamar Nisly is professor of English at Bluffton (Ohio) University.