A reader and writer friend of mine (who also recommended this book to me) calls McDermott a quiet writer, and what an apt description that is. Although I think her books are rich in social, political commentary, she seems never to raise her voice. Always some simple story seems at the forefront, and all the commentary occurs naturally within the course of telling the story. If we are being preached to, we only rarely catch sight of the preacher. I think McDermott is also a dedicated and observant feminist, but one who wants to understand men and who understands so well how culture and economics define the roles of both men and women. Perhaps the lives of the girls and women are described with greater emotional detail that those of the boys and men, but even her criticisms are couched in compassion, and she seems always to deal with her male characters fairly and with not only kindness but love.
McDermott is a master at dealing with time. Child of My Heart contains its quiet action within the space of a few weeks of summer, although managing to give us a lot of information about the previous two decades and even some hints about a future never actually reached in the course of the novel. Charming Billy begins and ends with an Irish wake for the just deceased Billy, but spins the reader back half a century, moving from present to past again and again to illumine the events of day. Given how these two novels concentrate on the present and then bring in the past simply as background and explanation, it was quite a surprise to me to discover the linear nature of her recent novel, and her skill in taking us through a much longer period, from the fifties to almost the present in a nearly chronological fashion. In my view, novels work best when they don’t try to cover too much time, and generally writers don’t do well when they attempt to cover a lifetime. This book is the exception; we learn of the entire married lives of the two main characters, Mary and John Keane, as well as the births and maturation of their four children, but the pace seems leisurely, the story told in outline by concentrating on just a few events, and somehow inviting the reader to fill in the spaces, the months and years not described.
Instead of focusing on the lives of the rich and famous or on the adventures of exceptional men and women, McDermott focuses on ordinary people living (on the face of it) quite ordinary lives. What she shows us is just how wonderful and in some sense extraordinary such lives are. The man in the apartment next door whom we may only know as player of the piano lives a rich if to us hidden life, and his story, if only we knew it, is filled with significance, with pain and suffering and joy.
I want to concentrate on just a couple of the themes/questions McDermott raises in this little volume as a way to hopefully arouse your interest and to get you to pick up this book. First, McDermott takes up the question of why it is important to be kind to, even to love, quite unlovable people; second, in quite lovely and sympathetic ways she attempts to explore the emotional distance that seems to exist between men and women, even between men and their loved wives/partners or between fathers and their loved daughters. And although I won’t cite any passages, I (as a quite adamantly non-religious person) find McDermott’s sympathetic exploration of the effects of religion, specifically Catholicism, on the lives of her characters and the community in which they live to be enlightening; she arouses in me a sympathy for religion that I don’t often feel.
We meet the main character in the novel, Mary, on the very day that she is to meet for the first time her future husband, John. Predating that meeting and eventual marriage, Mary’s best friend is her workmate Pauline. Pauline is plain; she lives alone and does not even try to hide her loneliness, her depression, her pervasive pessimism, or her negative judgments about others. As Mary deals with Pauline, not quite wanting to, but feeling that she has no choice, she recalls again and again the counsel of a nun who taught her in the Catholic school she went to. “Feed my lambs, Jesus said. What was the cost of a little kindness toward someone who found her pleasure in being unkind? What was the good, as Sister Clare at school used to say, in loving only the loveable?” Neither John nor Mary’s children can quite understand Mary’s loyalty to Pauline, and Mary wonders sometimes herself why it is she who must care for this lonely, often bitter and uncared for woman. But just as the reader is led slowly to understand the deep love and loyalty that exists between John and Mary, despite his silences and frequent emotional opacity, so too the reader comes to see eventually the bond between these two women. At one point, after Pauline has been called to the home of John and Mary to care for the older children while the frightening and premature birth of the fourth and last child is occurring, she leaves abruptly when Mary and the new baby come home. She tears herself away from the commotion of the happy family in order to give them time to themselves, without having to entertain strangers. She returns to her apartment
Mary, who expected in her mid-twenties to be alone forever, to care for her brother and father until the father died, and then to live a solitary life like Pauline’s, is surprised to find herself married to John, older than she, and still quite unknown in the early days of marriage, in some ways never to be known. She has thought that the actual love life, should she ever find it, of husband and wife would “…all be whispered endearments, only pleasantly breathless. She was surprised to learn that there was labor in it, pain and struggle as well as sweetness.” Indeed, even as their bodies work together, as they approach a kind of consummation,
… and faced the most terrible hours of any week, made worse now by the days she had spent in the busy household: the hours after sunset on a Sunday night, all her own usefulness temporarily extinguished, and the terror that good clothes, perfect stitches, the pursuit of just the right buttons usually kept at bay edging closer to the surface of things—the yellow light on the polished table, the black night through the slatted blinds, someone laughing at her out in the street. In another few years this terror would catch her by the throat, but tonight she would have another Manhatten with Ed Sullivan. Rinse out her clothes and brush down tomorrow’s suit and iron a blouse. Put on her nightgown and get into bed. There were worse things than this tinny loneliness, these last hours of a Sunday evening.
These are just two of many passage in the book where McDermott tries to fathom and to understand an emotional chasm between men and the women they love. That she does this so perceptively but without anger impresses and humbles me.
…she glimpsed her husband’s face through half-closed eyes and saw what was quickly becoming a familiar look: a kind of determined concentration, a grimace to the lips, and a far-off gaze to his eyes that marked a consummation that she was beginning to suspect turned him in on himself far more than it would every turn him out towards her. She imagined it was akin to the look the piano player upstairs wore as he worked the keys, that kind of crazy-eyed focus on the task that could obliterate all distractions, even the very instrument under his hands. Does he even hear the music, she thought, arching toward him as he labored above her. Does he even see my face?