Book Review : ‘Sort of Rich’ Is Rich With Sort-of-Stupid Characters

Sort of Rich by James Wilcox (Harper & Row: $17.95; 288 pages)

Gretchen, a 40-ish, unmarried New York lady, has been hanging out at the farthest end of her own psychological tether, but, characteristically, she’s not aware of that fact. She only knows that she’s come to New Orleans to invest in “a line of artistic jewelry using seashells,” and has had the good sense to realize that it’s one of the worst ideas in her entire life.

She does--at this point--what any well-brought-up American woman would do: She lets go of her psychological tether altogether, contriving to “fall in love” and get married to a cute, handsome stranger named Frank Dambar, who owns a crumbling Louisiana spread in a godforsaken hole called Tula Springs, a miserable place that comes with a full package of Gothic accouterments. Gretchen imagines herself another Baroness Blixen, and Louisiana quite a bit like Africa.

Dubious Legacy

The Tula Springs acreage does have a muddy river with a lot of ‘gators in it, but there the African resemblance ends. Gretchen must contend with American worries: Of course, the ghost of the first Mrs. Dambar (whose major legacy seems to have been an intractable royal blue wall-to-wall carpet), an insane Nazi housekeeper who throws cholesterol considerations to the wind, and stuffs the head-of-the-house with strudel, an ominous handyman named Leo, who hates Gretchen and lives with his nubile niece, Shaerl, in a house trailer out back.

In fact, Tula Springs is a hell pit. Gretchen’s visiting cousin, Henry, tells her as much as early as Page 21: “You realize, of course,” he says, “that you’re throwing your life away here.”

But Gretchen’s whole hope rests on not “realizing” anything. She married Frank, so she must love him. She’s working on a book about the Philippines, having once visited those islands in her 20s, and having once attended a party that included Imelda Marcos on the guest list, so she--Gretchen-- must be an expert. And if Gretchen experiences horrible forebodings, panic attacks, or insomnia, why, it must be Leo who’s after her, or maybe the ‘gators in that muddy river, or even the large and possibly vicious dog who takes long naps just down from the Dambar house in the middle of this lost Louisiana country road.

All About Money

Soon enough, the reader learns that this novel is about money. If Gretchen has married Frank because her New York life has petered out on her like the stream from a faucet when someone has forgotten to pay the water bill, poor Frank has been blinded to dollar-sign fantasies. Dambar must be the worst businessman in rural Louisiana. He dabbles in condo projects, has managed to lose the life savings of his handyman, and would dearly love to do the same for his new wife’s dowry.

He knows she has money, but is so pie-crust stupid, he can’t figure out how to pry it away from her. Gretchen, who has spent her whole life playing dumb, now has a chance to play that game in earnest. Money ? She doesn’t know a thing about all of that! She has an uncle up north who keeps everything tied up.

And so the plot unfolds. There are near-deaths, mistaken identities, a real death, a detective, some suspected adultery. And all of this covers matters of low intelligence, dubious honor, lives lived in bad faith, and the central question: Who’s got the money, and who’s going to get the rest of it?

Is “Sort of Rich” the sort of book you ought to read? If you think people are generally dumber than you are, yes. If not, no. This one is a purely judgment call.