Dinah hugged Lawrence back and leaned over to give Pam a light kiss. “Thank you both for all the help you’ve been,” she said. She didn’t pause to banter back and forth with Isobel. Dinah’s day of packing had made her too tired to be proficient, right now, at party conversation. Isobel’s almost visible outflow of energy heightened the pitch of the party, but it affected Dinah no more than the buzzing of a gnat. For once, Dinah, in Isobel’s presence, was the final arbiter of her own behavior.
Dinah came up to Polly and stood beside her, and Polly turned and gestured around the beautifully laid-out room. Her face was tense and silvery in the light. “Now isn’t this lovely?” she said earnestly. “You see how the intense color washes out toward this end of the room. You see, I didn’t want anything to compete with the garden. What a lovely room! It always surprises me.” However, Polly wasn’t looking at the room, she was facing the garden, which hadn’t many blooms left. “I can make these places. You know, I’m really talented at putting these rooms together. I have a client in Columbus, now…well, I wish you could see the house. It would have been so ordinary. I can design beautiful places, but I can’t live in them.” She said this in a soft, puzzled voice. “I’ve often thought that if your father had married someone else…if I could have been different. Well, look at this”—and she swept her arm back to indicate the house, the whole interior—”I created it, but I would never be able to…serve it well.”
Dinah had seen her mother just this sad all too often, and once again she felt she would cry for her mother’s despair, but at the same time she resented the spasm of sympathy that shot through her. It was a sickening sensation, approaching nausea. Dinah knew that Polly herself was well aware of her father’s ability to make one feel that his failings were one’s own fault. It was usually Polly who pointed out that very thing. And who was to judge this, in any case? Dinah would always have her grudges on both sides, and she would not try again to bolster her mother’s self-esteem. She was caught once more in that double bind of misery on behalf of both parents, but this time there was nothing left for her to say. She stood there beside her mother, looking out the window and considering all the ways their lives could have been different, given this action or that. She could hear David and Sarah making too much noise, and from the corner of her eye she could see them bounding around the room unheeded. Buddy called to them to settle down, but Martin still sat in some trance, oblivious.
“I picked up a cake for Toby at the bakery. Do you think Dad would care if we had it now? It might pacify the children a little,” she said to her mother.
Everyone had to stop what they were doing and gather for this ceremony, and they came to Toby where Martin had put him, on the white couch, which commanded a view of the room and the garden. Dinah put the cake, with its candles all lit, on the coffee table in front of him. The adults began to sing along when David and Sarah began “Happy Birthday,” but suddenly Toby let out a shriek of pure fury and turned his face against the cushion of the couch. “You stop it, David! You stop it!” he said. And Dinah alone knew what had happened; everyone else paused in surprise. David and Sarah had been singing the birthday song they had learned at camp:
Happy Birtle Daytle toodle yoodle,
Happy Birtle Daytle toodle yoodle,
Happy Birtle Daytle toodle yoodle doodle,
Happy Birtle Daytle toodle yoodle.
The two of them clasped each other in giggles, and Dinah, and now Martin, too, were horrified at them.
“We’ll start the song over, Toby,” Dinah said as soothingly as possible, but she felt the boredom of the adults radiating around the little circle, and it was with forced enthusiasm that they began again. Everyone had had enough to drink so that they didn’t want to divert their attention from their party, although they certainly wished Toby well. David and Sarah began the song again:
Happy Birtle Daytle toodle yoodle,
Happy Birtle Daytle toodle yoodle…
Toby turned his head once more into the cushions of the soft white couch, sobbing, and then he threw up all the sardines and smoked salmon he had eaten over the space of the afternoon. The party came to an absolute halt, and Martin held David’s and Sarah’s arms in grips that whitened the skin under his hand. Their faces had gone just as pale.
“Oh, that’s too bad, Toby,” Pam said, kindly—with such kindness that Dinah felt her chin quiver in tearful gratitude. Everyone else stood silent. “Come on,” Pam said, “let’s move into the living room. I’ll help Dinah get this cleaned up.” The whole group was grateful for this suggestion, and Dinah could do no more than signal to Pam, with a motion of waving her off, that she could handle this mess.
She found the paper towels in a cupboard and some sponges underneath the sink, and she set to work trying to rectify the damage. She moved Toby to the other end of the couch—he didn’t say anything; he was limp all over—and went about sponging up the stain from the Haitian cotton upholstery with soap and water. She wondered if she could use bleach. Why did her father have white furniture? What a thing to have! She believed there was a fearful arrogance in the possession of white furniture. It was such a clear announcement of what was expected of any guest. She went back and forth through the long room to the sink to rinse the sponge she was working with, and she realized that she was crying, with fatigue, she thought. She put the sponge down on the counter finally and poured some wine out for herself. She didn’t think she could get the couch any cleaner, and Toby seemed to have fallen sound asleep in the exact position in which she had put him down.
Her father came in to mix more drinks for his guests, and for a minute neither of them said anything. Dinah was sitting on a kitchen stool drinking her wine.
“Is Toby all right?” he asked her. “I’m sorry about that. David and Sarah went outside to play.”
Dinah couldn’t answer right away; her thoughts were so much wider, just now, than the moment.
“You know,” she said at last, “it seems to me that you could have spared us so much pain.” She was really almost musing; her voice held a faint note of discovery. “Really, you could have made life so much easier. We suffered so much for your integrity. Buddy and I—we could have had easier lives. Maybe Polly, too.” She was all at once anxious to make him know this. “You do such damage! You do such terrible damage!” Even as she said exactly what she meant to say, she was filled with dismay and fear at speaking. Her father went on mixing drinks and placing them on the tray. He didn’t turn around to look at her, and she was glad, because tears were slipping down her face again.
“Well…” he said slowly, standing still over the full glasses, “I never had anything but the best wishes—all the highest hopes for your life.” His own voice was oddly defeated. “But I never thought your life would be easy, Dinah. I knew you were bound to be unhappy. You were always like that. You don’t make clear distinctions. Buddy can, but you never could. I think Buddy’s life hasn’t been so hard.” He didn’t go on for a minute; he began to fold cocktail napkins into triangles and place them next to the drinks. “But it’s not easy, either, to know that you can’t love your children the way they want to be loved. You can only love people however you happen to love them. I did always know that you weren’t happy and that it would be hard for you, but I always thought that you understood that I don’t…enjoy life either. I hoped you’d give me credit for my own misery. And I hoped you’d know that I wished you well.”
Her father was still arranging things on the tray, and Dinah looked past him at Toby, who was beginning to stir. She didn’t feel tears anymore; she felt still all through herself.
“Oh, Lord, Dad.” She was very tired. “Well, no, you’re wrong about me. No, my life is very good. Dad, I’m as happy as I can be.” All her energy had drained away, and if she was to be burdened with pity for her father, she would realize it later. But she knew that her father had just said to her what she would someday long to say to her own children: God knows what cruelties you may have suffe
red at my hands, but this is how I meant to love you: without reservation. Dinah also knew that there would never be a child who could believe that.
In the morning the air was warmer, and as the Howells drove away from Enfield, the interior of the car was comfortable in the dry heat. Dinah was sitting sideways in the front seat looking past Martin through the windows at the rolling fields, which were now dry and tan and used up. The children were excited and agitated in the back seat, laughing too loudly, so that the fun in the laughter might dissipate in an instant. The three kittens were miaowing pitifully in their travel case under Dinah’s feet, but she thought that they would calm down in a little while. Martin looked over at Dinah to see if she was going to settle the children down, but when he realized that she was lost in a sort of pleasurable listlessness, he turned back to the children himself. “Why don’t you sing some songs, or something? Or play Going to California. You three take it easy back there!”
“Okay, okay,” David answered, in an overexcited tone. “We’ll sing!” He began loudly:
Happy Birtle Daytle toodle yoodle…
And both parents tensed and came to attention. Dinah looked back to see Toby’s face go rigid for one instant, and then he, too, joined the song. They all sang too loudly and with too much vigor—they had a two-day drive ahead—but Martin and Dinah relaxed in the front seat, and went back to thinking their own thoughts. Dinah continued to look out at the countryside, but she could see the children, too, and when she glanced back at them she realized that each one of them might remember this exact moment for the rest of their lives. Each one might always have an image of this leave-taking. It might be profoundly thought of, or it might never cross their minds again. She knew, though, that each child’s perception of a moment of his or her history—each unique version of one moment mutually shared—would be the true version. Each one of her children would be able to—would have to—create his or her own separate and individual history, and that was a frightening idea in the warm day. She would have liked to think that she could insure their memories, render them safe and absolute.
Dinah let the passing view fill her mind with its color and variety, and she settled herself comfortably in her corner, easing her thoughts into a gentler territory. The road ran on and on, and she listened to the children’s songs and wondered what they were going to do with the kittens when they stopped for lunch.
Martin was watching the landscape, too, and with the children in the back seat and his wife beside him, he realized with wonder and relief that he was happy. He was thinking of Mies van der Rohe. He was thinking that Mies van der Rohe had said that God hides in the details. Somewhere along the way as an undergraduate Martin had picked up that fact; somewhere he had discussed it on an exam. He was surprised that this thought had come back to him now, and that now he knew what it meant. Martin could never have seen it in stone; Martin’s God was hiding in the instant. It was only in the detail of the moment that he could find God. Martin’s ultimate comfort was the adhesive intricacy of this domestic life. Each moment was a clear, glutinous cell of experience, and an affirmation of his own existence that kept him tethered safely to the earth.
Dale Loves Sophie to Death
by Robb Forman Dew
A READING GROUP GUIDE
Dale Loves Sophie to Death
by Robb Forman Dew
A READING GROUP GUIDE
A Conversation with Robb Forman Dew
How did you begin to write novels? Did you always want to be a writer?
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately—why I became a writer, that is. I used to think it was because I had something urgent to say. But I actually started writing before I could even write. I don’t know how old I was—four or five—and I would fill pages with wavy lines as though I were writing words. So maybe it’s a genetic imperative of some sort. I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone why he or she became a painter, because I assumed it was simply a deep pleasure because that person was talented. But, of course, I’m sure painting is filled with the same euphoria and misery as writing.
I grew up in a family where everyone seemed to write, or seemed to want to write. I remember being truly startled when a friend of mine avoided a class in college because she would have to write essays, and instead she took a science course. It was the first time I really understood that loving to read—my friend was a great reader—really didn’t have that much to do with wanting to write. And I’ve come to a few conclusions about why people do write. I think that writers really have to write or they become unhappy—even depressed and disoriented. And I think that they’re lucky if they also have talent, but whether talented or not, anyone who writes is—for the time the actual writing is going on—imagining that he or she is imposing on some imagined reader a worldview. It’s an unconscious attempt at seduction, I think.
When did you start writing Dale Loves Sophie to Death? How long did the novel take you to write?
Oh, I think that I was growing increasingly frustrated with my inability to write good short stories. I was getting some of them published, but I knew they weren’t right. I was so furious at myself at one point—for finishing a story and knowing that while some of the writing was good the story didn’t work—that I picked up my typewriter and put it in the middle of the driveway so that when my husband came home that evening in the dark he would run over it! Of course, about a half hour later I rushed out and saved it—I couldn’t have afforded another, and it had occurred to me, too, that it might ruin our car. Also, of course, how on earth could I have explained it to my husband? But I think my idea was that if my typewriter got run over by a car, then it would hardly be my fault if I didn’t write.
During my twenties and early thirties I struggled with short stories, and they were published in some wonderful journals, and those editors were extremely encouraging. I began the first chapter of Dale Loves Sophie to Death as a story. And I was pretty pleased with the ending for once, but I didn’t send it out right away, and I began another story which in the back of my head I knew was not a story; it was a second chapter. But I was too terrified to admit it. By the time I had four chapters I admitted to myself that I was writing a novel.
How did the response to Dale Loves Sophie to Death—and, in particular, winning the National Book Award—affect your writing, your career, your life?
I was thirty-five when Dale was published and thirty-six when I won the Book Award, and for about five days I was simply elated. It was like being the homecoming princess at Westdale Junior High School. I felt just as Sally Field must have felt when she received her second Academy Award and said, “You like me! You really like me!” And then—since I had won it—it began to seem to me not all that special. And the following year when I was asked to be one of many judges for the award, I realized that my book was probably a choice that was a compromise for most of the judges. It really didn’t change my career as far as I know, although it probably made it easier to get publishers to read my manuscripts. But it didn’t alter the way I write or cause me to worry about succeeding with my next book.
In your third novel, Fortunate Lives, you chose to write again about the family at the center of Dale Loves Sophie to Death. Did you always know that you’d return to the Howells family?
You know, I really can’t remember. I know they stayed in my mind, but my second book, The Time of Her Life, was the obverse of Dale. It was about a less healthy family, and I certainly wasn’t thinking of the Howellses then. The Howellses were moving right along with me through my life, though. They were learning the most terrible things you can learn—which were passions and terrors that I only knew through them—and yet in the grand scheme of things they were incredibly lucky. I believe it was the irony of their being safe and comfortable—enviable to so many people on the earth—while suffering a loss that is as bad as anything that can happen to anyone that intrigued me about the Howellses. Well, I guess I was bound to return to them. And I think that in the trilogy I’m at
work on now all the families from my books will end up knowing one another or possibly being related. I know there’s some sort of connection.
The setting of Dale Love Sophie to Death—Enfield, Ohio—is almost like a character in the book. Can you talk about the importance of place in your novels?
It’s something I don’t think about much except for the actual town or neighborhood—the immediate surroundings, the weather. When I first started writing, the South was the setting for all my stories—I grew up in Louisiana. But it was like struggling to grow while being suffocated by kudzu. I grew up during the civil rights movement—my high school didn’t integrate until I was a junior, in 1963. I cared passionately about social justice and race relations, and when I realized that I could not write about the South without tackling those issues on some level, I switched locales. I wanted my stories to happen in a place that didn’t need to be explained, because although I’m politically active, politics is unbearably distracting to me when I write fiction.
What are your favorite books, books that have influenced you, or books you enjoy recommending to readers?
Well, the usual suspects, I suppose. Austen, James, Virginia Woolf. And I’ve discovered that when I read many books when I was young I knew they were wonderful but I missed so much of what was brilliant about them. I’m rereading Eudora Welty right now. Delta Wedding. She’s so good that I didn’t realize just how brilliant she was until this reading. How it could have escaped me is mysterious to me. She has such tact and is so careful, but this book is like a pointillist painting. There are so many ways to understand her characters.
I was enormously affected by Fitzgerald, who’s so visual a writer, and by Peter Taylor, who has exquisite phrasing. I worked very hard for a long time trying to achieve his sense of ease—the sense that the story already exists and is just being unraveled for you. But the book that made me want to write—and which I came upon, oddly enough, in the Baton Rouge bus station when I was taking a bus to visit my cousins in Natchez—was The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead. When I got back to Baton Rouge it turned out that my mother had just read it as well. It’s an astonishing book. It’s a masterpiece, and it always seems to me the opposite, in a way, of War and Peace, which I also love for all sorts of reasons but especially for the wonderful story. Each of those books gives you an entirely believable world, but Stead’s starts wide and becomes so amazingly intense that finally it’s like a laser of compressed emotion. Tolstoy explodes into a universe and gets wider and wider.
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