A Bittersweet Symphony: This Life

There is something sweepingly aching about the first pages of Alice McDermott’s “After This.” Mary Keane often muses to herself that “there was a trace of sorrow in every joy” (18). In lighter moments and in the darker tones of the novel, there is a haunting quality both of beauty and of melancholy. As McDermott fleshes out the everyday life of a “normal” American family, she never neglects to mention the undercurrent of the deep rhythms pounding below the steady beatings of the mundane. In moments like the fireman’s nighttime warning, McDermott manages to transform a rather trivial occurrence into both a daily event and a commentary on modern man’s sense of the fleetingness of life. The sense of time marching on in a thousand different ways, the presence of uncertainty in life, the inevitability of death—all these point toward the influence of a century full of world wars, cold wars, and atomic bombs. From the modern moving into the postmodern, existentialists ask what the meaning of life could possibly be. As John Keane often reflects in the novel, “man is immortal, or he is not. You either pray to the dead, or you don’t” (77).

A kind of bittersweet humor laces the scene of Mary’s labor. Mary barely knows this neighbor, Mr. Persichetti, and performs the usual acts of small talk. I love this line: “It was simply what you did: you made conversation in elevators, complimented small children in strollers, looked up from your magazine to greet the stranger who took the seat beside you on a bus. You said, with simple friendliness, That’s a lovely hat, or Isn’t it cold?—because it was another way of saying here we are, all of us, more or less in the same boat. It was the habit of friendliness, a lifetime of it” (60). Isn’t this perfectly true? I often find myself commenting on a stranger’s shoes or remarking on even unremarkable weather. I grew up giving a polite downward tilt of the head and a lazy raised hand to any passerby. I am hungry for connection with those I encounter. In even the briefest of small talk, there is the underlying whisper of a human desire for intimacy. To be recognized, seen, noticed, known. This concept is always highlighted for me in visits to Target or Wal-Mart, as the cashier often mumbles “How are you today?” without making eye contact as the beep of my groceries forms a rhythm for our conversation—“How are-beep-you-beep-today-beep-good-beep.” I love to disturb the rhythm. I love to ask the question make with eye contact and really mean it, really want to know how someone is doing, whether they get off work in an hour or have three babies to feed or feel particularly alive that day. It’s surprising how an honest desire to know someone catches him or her off guard.

I once performed a dance that explored this same separateness yet interconnectedness. In the beginning of the piece, one dancer moved separately from the others. At one point, however, another dancer broke away from the group and started dancing, unaware that the original dancer began echoing the new movement. By the end of the piece, all the dancers were echoing one another without acknowledgment. At times, one dancer would fall one direction only to be caught by the other dancers, who helped her back up without recognition. The dance resonated with such sweet isolation—a sense of all being together in our aloneness, of supporting one another without personal connection. I think perhaps that’s what small talk does—finds common ground without attachment, lets one know he or she is not alone without any guarantee of togetherness. In the case of Mary Keane and Mr. Persichetti, small talk quickly becomes the delivery of a child. These two relative strangers share in one of the most intimate and beautiful moments, connected by this ebb and flow of life and death.

I found one element of the Keane’s family dynamics particularly interesting. In Theories of Personality, we recently studied Alfred Adler’s theory concerning birth order and its effect on developing the personalities of siblings. The three children before the arrival of Clare are a wonderful example of Adler’s descriptions. Adler views the oldest child as initially having been the center of a parent’s attention and enjoying the sense of being the center of a small universe. When a second child is born, this oldest child is dethroned in a sense and never fully recovers from this loss of power. Adler believed the eldest often to be high achieving but extremely anxious. The eldest always fears the storm that is to come, believing anything good cannot last and will surely be snatched much like his or her position of power. Jacob looks much like the oldest that Adler describes, anxious and fearful of what is to come. The second child, according to Adler, often matures faster in an effort to catch up with the oldest. The middle born is often extremely competitive with his or her siblings. He does not have the same anxiety as the oldest, because he never had the power to lose in the first place. Michael is also a typical example of a middle child. He is more athletic, more intelligent, and considerably more fearless than his older brother and is forever competing for the top spot. He sneers at his brother’s fear, yet underneath his disdain lies a loyalty to his family. Annie’s personality seems less explored before the arrival of Clare, which changes her from a youngest child to a middle born as well. The youngest child often becomes the pet of the family. If the child is too doted upon or spoiled, he or she can become incapable of taking care of himself or herself. With a healthy amount of attention and discipline, however, the youngest child can be high achieving and positive. I wonder whether McDermott’s characterization of these children was influenced by the views of Adler, whose ideas about the personality effects of birth order have certainly seeped beyond the realm of psychology into popular thought.