To Be Sung Underwater
Little, Brown: 436 pp., $24.99
You can often tell where a musician has trained or with whom a painter has learned technique. In the case of the European masters, art historians looking at a particular work can often trace the lineage to a region, a studio, a teacher.
It is no different for literature — you get a whiff of John McPhee in the descriptive passages here, a bit of Ron Carlson in the mysterious interplay of humans and landscapes there, a smidgeon of Jayne Anne Phillips in the historic context, a taste of
in the curveballs or Gordon Lish's tough-love
workshop style in the sentence structure or the lack of sentiment. There are family trees in American literature, it should come as no surprise.
One of the most distinctive branches holds Stanford's
fellows (including Harriet Doerr, Ron Hansen, Tobias Wolff, Vikram Seth, Alice Hoffman). It's a big branch, and sturdy. Tom McNeal is one of the finest examples to come along in a while. His first novel, "Goodnight,
," was awarded the James A. Michener Memorial Prize when it was published in 1999. "To Be Sung Underwater" is his second.
How can you recognize the Stegner training? First, the novel is so carefully written. You cannot skip sentences, paragraphs or even words without missing something. Second, the main characters, Judith and Willy, are exquisitely drawn, backward and forward, how they got to be who they are (including prior generations), how they behave when they get what they want and also when they don't, how they face disappointment, fear, commitment, money, career and finally love.
Third, the world of the novel is full of meaning, full of metaphor, a kind of spirituality that has no need for dogma or churches or liturgy. The landscape and culture contribute by making things easier or harder to accomplish, but the humans hack out their bit of happiness, some might say their karma.
Fourth and finally, the wisdom: Stegner's novels (and so often those of his students in the program) by withholding judgment teach the reader something about what kind of person he or she wants to be. Consider this simple sentence: "looking back, he thought she was only as happy as a person waiting for the next phase of her life might be." Such insights require not only experience and intelligence but also patience and wisdom. "To Be Sung Underwater" is blessed with these qualities.
When we first meet Judith, we can hear the brakes screeching. She is 44, and the wrong turn she took 27 years ago is impeding her forward movement. The banker she married appears to be having an affair with his assistant; her teenage daughter, Camille, is angry that her workaholic parents are never home; Judith (a film editor) is failing for the first time to meet her producer's expectations; and she's getting
. She finds herself thinking about her late teens, the years she spent with her father in Nebraska after her parents separated. She finds herself thinking about Willy Blunt, the man she loved in those years.
There is no plan to the unraveling. Judith finds herself renting a storage locker near her home in Toluca Lake to hold a bird's-eye maple bed that was hers when she was a teenager in her father's home (the bed has a story — Judith and her father restored it together — but Camille doesn't want it anymore). She gives the attendant at the facility a pseudonym — Edie Winks — a stage name she chose back when she and Willy spent languid summer days together imagining the future. She sets the bed up in the storage locker and finds herself skipping work to daydream there.
Judith, sarcastic and aloof, was not a likable adolescent, and she's not a particularly likable adult. But McNeal, chapter by chapter, combs out her knots. We can see that the serenity she found in her father's house and the love she shared with Willy, a farm boy and a carpenter, allowed her best self some growing room. And then something happened, something that scared Willy, Judith and her normally unflappable father, and set Judith on the path to college at Stanford and life in
with the banker.
Can you go back to that purer, better self? It's one of the best questions in literature — on the stage of the novel, a writer can stop characters midlife, turn them around, hurl them at the past, watch them shatter or mend. While Judith has been building her storage unit for her better self, Willy has also created a kind of memorial to their time together, a place to contain their life together, truncated as it was by Judith's ambition.
"To Be Sung Underwater" is a love story. Judith does go back. What does she hope to find? Is it too late? Too late for what? Love stories have a terrible gravity, a centrifugal force. McNeal has created characters so dimensional, so memorable, that we are caught up in that urgency. Our rationality is compromised; the rules of the world fade away. This is your last chance, Judith, do you hear me? — we shout at the flimsy pages. Get yourself back to Rufus Sage, Neb., and fast! There's not a moment to lose!