Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

This novel is flawed and overhyped, but it's still much better than so many options "out there."

Sam is hospitalized in the early nineties; his foot is crushed. A car accident has killed his mother. He is a little boy, and he has been almost mute for six months. A girl, Sadie, visits; her sister is confined to a bed (because of cancer). Sam and Sadie bond over video games--but Sadie neglects to mention that she is logging her visitation hours as part of a "community service" project. It's not that she sees Sam as something less than a friend. It's just childish thoughtlessness. But when the secret pops out, a rupture occurs.

Amazingly, after several years, Sam and Sadie reunite; they are in the Boston area, in college. They begin to *design* video games together. But their relationship always has the stain of that original sin--Sadie's betrayal. Sadie resents Sam for claiming creative ownership that isn't entirely his. Sam resents Sadie for pursuing a romance with another guy. Business deals inevitably leave one party unsatisfied. In one hypnotic passage, Sam seems to throw Sadie under a bus in order to develop a blockbuster game. Sam has evidence that Sadie is romantically involved with a charismatic (and brutal) genius programmer; Sam coverly exploits this connection so that he can earn millions off of it. He does this even though he knows that the connection is bad for Sadie; he knows that the guy in question is like an anvil tied to Sadie's leg. Two moments--Sadie's discovery of the duplicitousness, and the ensuing fight--are hard to turn away from.

Stories are so important--and we can't always predict their impact. In the early aughts, in California, marriage equality briefly becomes legal (before disappearing once again). Sam feels so enraged by the Republican efforts in California, he adds an option to an extant "alternate universe" video game: You can marry your same-sex partner in this game. Sam then launches himself on a journey; he becomes a spokesman for the left, and a new kind of celebrity. All this seems wonderful until, in a catastrophic twist, the novelist makes reference to a gun; a gun has appeared, somewhere in Sam's office building. (I'm reminded of a weird story surrounding the Broadway musical "Next to Normal." The star, Alice Ripley, felt quite close to the material, and she became a kind of patron saint for persons with mental illness. She developed a following. So nice! Except it wasn't--entirely. Boundaries were apparently violated. A lawsuit took shape. Ripley's reputation was tarnished. These things occurred because of a fictional story, in a Broadway musical.)

The great strength of this novel is Gabrielle Zevin's total conviction; she believes in the world she has created. She does not need to clear her throat; she does not distract you with needlessly "lyrical" passages. She simply tells the story. Sometimes, a "literary" work struggles in the "plot" and "pacing" departments. Not the case with Gabrielle Zevin. She manages to write intelligently, but also to tell a story in which major, earth-shaking events occur--a story that requires you to keep turning, and turning, and turning the pages. This is rarer than you make think.

One reservation I have is that a cataclysmic event toward the climax of the book feels too much like a plot device; there is a startling shift, and the consequences seem too light. There is a sense that Zevin hasn't adequately explored the implications of the big shattering event near the end of the "rising action." I also felt that a development as substantial as motherhood deserved more of Zevin's effort and time; given that the star of the story becomes a parent, it seems important to look closely at parenthood. We learn almost nothing about Sadie's daughter.

These are just quibbles. A novel is, by definition, a lengthy sample of prose that has something wrong with it. It's nice to see a writer swinging for the fences--taking on love, work, loss, treachery, ambition, art, violence, family, fate, friendship, race, illness, sex, politics, power. It's all in there. An inspiring book.

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

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