Wonder, Bemusement Reign In Moore's 'Gate'

Cover Image, 'A Gate at the Stairs'
A Gate at the Stairs
By Lorrie Moorie
Hardcover, 336 Pages
Knopf
List Price: $25.95

Read An Excerpt.
Lorrie Moore i i

Lorrie Moore's previous books include Self Help, and Who Will Run The Frog Hospital?. Linda Nylind hide caption

itoggle caption Linda Nylind
Lorrie Moore

Lorrie Moore's previous books include Self Help, and Who Will Run The Frog Hospital?.

Linda Nylind

Lorrie Moore's style is one of kind. Her "day job" is teaching writing at The University of Wisconsin, but the irony there is that unlike, say, Hemingway or Dostoyevsky, the style of Moore's own short stories and novels could never be taught through worshipful imitation. It's swirling and wry and messy and sucks you in, like a literary cyclone, so that you feel like you're at the center of some great life force, even if you can't always understand the meaning of all the things whipping around you. And, that feeling of simultaneous wonder and bemusement is intensified to the max in Moore's latest natural phenomenon of a novel, called A Gate at the Stairs.

As in her last novel, Who Will Run the Frog Hospital?, which came out all too long ago in 1994, Moore uses the convention here of an adult narrator looking back on her younger self. In the present time of the novel, the fall of 2001, Tassie Keltjin is a 20-year-old college student in the Midwest. Untethered from her childhood on the family farm, Tassie is eager to be seduced by ideas. She encapsulates the excitement of college thusly:

Twice a week a young professor named Thad, dressed in jeans and a tie, stood before a lecture hall of stunned farm kids like me and spoke thrillingly of Henry James's masturbation of the comma. I was riveted. I had never before seen a man wear jeans with a tie.

Tassie is also ready to be emotionally seduced by people and she finds herself swept up into the lives of a sophisticated couple named Edward, a research scientist, and Sarah, owner of an upscale restaurant. When Tassie first meets Sarah, she describes her as "one of those women who instead of laughing said, "That's funny," or instead of smiling said, "That's interesting."

The couple hires her to be a part-time nanny for the child they hope to adopt and because they're white and their toddler daughter, when she arrives from foster care, is part-black, political questions about race and adoption come to the fore. Back on the farm, Tassie's younger, goof-off brother, Robert, is graduating high school and he decides to join the military and head over to Afghanistan, as a way of sidestepping his alternative fate: the local Diesel Driving School. By novel's end, everything that seems solid in Tassie's life sorrowfully melts into air.

If you're one of those paranoid readers who believes that every detail means something — and in a Lorrie Moore story you can never be too paranoid — you might catch on to the fact before I did that the A Gate at the Stairs surrealistically layers the essential Jane Eyre elements of a hyper-observant nanny (a "governess," if you will), a key character of mixed race, a dread secret and a remote cad of an employer named "Edward."

It's alone worth reading this novel just to see how Moore, on her last page, raucously upends the famous closing lines of Jane Eyre, "Reader, I married him." But the overarching reason to read Moore is to surrender yourself to how perceptively she reads the world. Sometimes her language makes you laugh, because you're taken by surprise by how "on target" it is, like when Tassie describes her middle-aged mother's thickening face as being framed in "a cameo of meat."

Other times, Moore's ability to nail the ineffable is chilling. When Edward enters the story for the first time, late for an adoption meeting with the birth mother, no less, Tassie describes how he looks around the room and then: "turned to his own paper cup of coffee, which he sipped from, as if it were not just delicious but urgent, and I could see he was showing us himself, his aquiline profile, ... so that for a minute he did not have to trouble himself to admire us but to soak up our appreciation of him ... [I] could see it was his habit to imperceptibly dominate and insult."

Maybe that's too much for any college kid — or even for the older Tassie — to read into a pose. But, who cares? Moore's penetrating and singular voice as a writer is one I could listen to for years and years.

Excerpt: 'A Gate At The Stairs'

The Gate At The Stairs

I

The cold came late that fall and the songbirds were caught off guard. By the time the snow and wind began in earnest, too many had been suckered into staying, and instead of flying south, instead of already having flown south, they were huddled in people's yards, their feathers puffed for some modicum of warmth. I was looking for a job. I was a student and needed babysitting work, and so I would walk from interview to interview in these attractive but wintry neighborhoods, the eerie multitudes of robins pecking at the frozen ground, dun-gray and strickenthough what bird in the best of circumstances does not look a little strickenuntil at last, late in my search, at the end of a week, startlingly, the birds had disappeared. I did not want to think about what had happened to them. Or rather, that is an expressionof politeness, a false promise of delicacyfor in fact I wondered about them all the time: imagining them dead, in stunning heaps in some killing cornfield outside of town, or dropped from the sky in twos and threes for miles down along the Illinois state line.

A Gate at the Stairs
By Lorrie Moore
Hardcover, 336 Pages
Knopf
List Price: $25.95

I was looking in December for work that would begin at the start of the January term. I'd finished my exams and was answering ads from the student job board, ones for "childcare provider." I liked children. I did! Or rather, I liked them OK. They were sometimes interesting. I admired their stamina and candor. And I was good with them in that I could make funny faces at the babies and with the older children teach them card tricks and speak in the theatrically sarcastic tones that disarmed and en?thralled them. But I was not especially skilled at minding children for long spells; I grew bored, perhaps like my own mother. After I spent too much time playing their games, my mind grew peckish and longed to lose itself in some book I had in my backpack. I was ever hopeful of early bedtimes and long naps.

I had come from Dellacrosse Central, from a small farm on the old Perryville Road, to this university town of Troy, "the Athens of the Midwest," as if from a cave, like the priest-child of a Colombian tribe I'd read of in Cultural Anthropology, a boy made mystical by being kept in the dark for the bulk of his childhood and allowed only storiesno experienceof the outside world. Once brought out into light, he would be in a perpetual, holy condition of bedazzlement and wonder; no story would ever have been equal to the thing itself. And so it was with me. Nothing had really prepared me. Not the college piggy bank in the dining room, the savings bonds from my grandparents, or the used set of World Book encyclopedias with their beautiful color charts of international wheat production and photographs of presidential birthplaces. The flat green world of my parents' hogless, horseless farmits dullness, its flies, its quiet ripped open daily by the fumes and whining of machinerytwisted away and left me with a brilliant city life of books and films and witty friends. Someone had turned on the lights. Someone had led me out of the caveof Perryville Road. My brain was on fire with Chaucer, Sylvia Plath, Simone de Beauvoir. Twice a week a young professor named Thad, dressed in jeans and a tie, stood before a lecture hall of stunned farm kids like me and spoke thrillingly of Henry James's masturbation of the comma. I was riveted. I had never before seen a man wear jeans with a tie.

The ancient cave, of course, had produced a mystic; my childhood had produced only me.

In the corridors students argued over Bach, Beck, Balkanization, bacterial warfare. Kids said things to me like "You're from the country. Is it true that if you eat a bear's liver you'll die?" They asked, "Ever know someone who did you-know-what with a cow?" Or "Is it an actual fact that pigs won't eat bananas?" What I did know was that a goat will not really consume a tin can: a goat just liked to lick the paste on the label. But no one ever asked me that.

From our perspective that semester, the events of Septemberwe did not yet call them 9/11seemed both near and far. Marching poli-sci majors chanted on the quads and the pedestrian malls, "The chickens have come home to roost! The chickens have come home to roost!" When I could contemplate them at allthe chickens, the roostingit was as if in a craning crowd, through glass, the way I knew (from Art History) people stared at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre: La Gioconda! its very name like a snake, its sly, tight smile encased at a distance but studied for portentous flickers. It was, like September itself, a cat's mouth full of canaries. My roommate, Murpha nose-pierced, hinky-toothed blonde from Dubuque, who used black soap and black dental floss and whose quick opinions were impressively harsh (she pronounced Dubuque "Du-ba-cue") and who once terrified her English teachers by saying the character she admired most in all of literature was Dick Hickock in In Cold Bloodhad met her boyfriend on September tenth and when she woke up at his place, she'd phoned me, in horror and happiness, the television blaring. "I know, I know," she said, her voice shrugging into the phone. "It was a terrible price to pay for love, but it had to be done."

I raised my voice to a mock shout. "You sick slut! People were killed. All you think about is your own pleasure." Then we fell into a kind of hysteriafrightened, guilty, hopeless laughter I have never actually witnessed in women over thirty.

"Well," I sighed, realizing I might not be seeing her all that much from then on in, "I hope there's just hankyno panky."

"Nah," she said. "With panky there's always tears, and it ruins the hanky." I would miss her.

Though the movie theaters closed for two nights, and for a week even our yoga teacher put up an American flag and sat in front of it, in a lotus position, eyes closed, saying, "Let us now breathe deeply in honor of our great country" (I looked around frantically, never getting the breathing right), mostly our conversations slid back shockingly, resiliently, to other topics: backup singers for Aretha Franklin, or which Korean-owned restaurant had the best Chinese food. Before I'd come to Troy, I had never had Chinese food. But now, two blocks from my apartment, next to a shoe repair shop, was a place called the Peking Cafe where I went as often as I could for the Buddha's Delight. At the cash register small boxes of broken fortune cookies were sold at discount. "Only cookie broken," promised the sign, "not fortune." I vowed to buy a box one day to see what guidanceobscure or mystical or mercenary but Confucian!might be had in bulk. Meanwhile, I collected them singly, one per every cookie that came at the end atop my check, briskly, efficiently, before I'd even finished eating. Perhaps I ate too slowly. I'd grown up on Friday fish fries and green beans in butter (for years, my mother had told me, mar- garine, considered a foreign food, could be purchased only across state lines, at "oleo" stands hastily erected along the highwaypark here for parkay read the signsjust past the Illinois governor's welcome billboard, farmers muttering that only Jews bought there). And so now these odd Chinese vegetablesfungal and gnomic in their brown saucehad the power for me of an adventure or a rite, a statement to be savored. Back in Dellacrosse the dining was divided into "Casual," which meant you ate it standing up or took it away, and the high end, which was called "Sit-Down Dining." At the Wie Haus Family Restaurant, where we went for sit-down, the seats were red leatherette and the walls were gemutlichkeit and paneled, decorated with framed deep kitsch, wide-eyed shepherdesses and jesters. The breakfast menus read "Guten Morgen." Sauces were called "gravy." And the dinner menu featured cheese curd meatloaf and steak "cooked to your likeness." On Fridays there were fish fries or boils for which they served "lawyers" (burbot or eelpout), so-called because their hearts were in their butts. (They were fished from the local lake where all the picnic spots had trash cans that read no fish guts.) On Sundays there was not only marshmallow and maraschino cherry salad and something called "Grandma Jell-O," but "prime rib with au jus," a precise knowledge of Frenchor English or even food coloringnot being the restaurant's strong point. A la carte meant soup or salad; dinner meant soup and salad. The Roquefort on the salad was called by the waitstaff "Rockford dressing." The house winered, white, or pinkall bore the requisite bouquet of rose, soap, and graphite, a whiff of hay, a hint of hooterville, though the menu remained mute about all this, sticking to straightforward declarations of hue. Light ale and dunkel were served. For dessert there was usually a gluckschmerz pie, with the fluffy look and heft of a small snowbank. After any meal, sleepiness ensued.

Now, however, away and on my own, seduced and salted by brown sauce, I felt myself thinning and alive. The Asian owners let me linger over my books and stay as long as I wanted to: "Take your tie! No lush!" they said kindly as they sprayed the neighboring tables with disinfectant. I ate mango and papaya and nudged the stringy parts out of my teeth with a cinnamon toothpick. I had one elegantly folded cookiea short paper nerve baked in an ear. I had a handleless cup of hot, stale tea, poured and reheated from a pail stored in the restaurant's walk-in refrigerator.

I would tug the paper slip from the stiff clutches of the cookie and save it for a bookmark. All my books had fortunes protruding like tiny tails from their pages. You are the crispy noodle in the salad of life. You are the master of your own destiny. Murph had always added the phrase "in bed" to any fortune cookie fortune, so in my mind I read them that way, too: You are the master of your own destiny. In bed. Well, that was true. Debt is a seductive liar. In bed. Or the less-well-translated Your fate will blossom like a bloom.

Or the sly, wise guy: A refreshing change is in your future.

Sometimes, as a better joke, I added though NOT in bed.

You will soon make money. Or: Wealth is a wise woman's man.

Though NOT in bed.

And so I needed a job. I had donated my plasma several times for cash, but the last time I had tried the clinic had turned me away, saying my plasma was cloudy from my having eaten cheese the night before. Cloudy Plasma! I would be the bass guitarist! It was so hard not to eat cheese! Even the whipped and spreadable kind we derisively called "cram cheese" (because it could be used for sealing windows and caulking tile) had a certain soothing allure. I looked daily at the employment listings. Childcare was in demand: I turned in my final papers and answered the ads.

One forty-ish pregnant woman after another hung up my coat, sat me in her living room, then waddled out to the kitchen, got my tea, and waddled back in, clutching her back, slopping tea onto the saucer, and asking me questions. "What would you do if our little baby started crying and wouldn't stop?" "Are you available evenings?" "What do you think of as a useful educational activity for a small child?" I had no idea. I had never seen so many pregnant women in such a short period of timefive in all. It alarmed me. They did not look radiant. They looked reddened with high blood pressure and frightened. "I would put him in a stroller and take him for a walk," I said. I knew my own mother had never asked such questions of anyone. "Dolly," she said to me once, "as long as the place was moderately fire resistant, I'd deposit you anywhere."

"Moderately?" I queried. She rarely called me by my name, Tassie. She called me Doll, Dolly, Dollylah, or Tassalah.

"I wasn't going to worry and interfere with you." She was the only Jewish woman I'd ever known who felt like that. But she was a Jewish woman married to a Lutheran farmer named Bo and perhaps because of that had the same indifferent reserve the mothers of my friends had. Halfway through my childhood I came to guess that she was practically blind as well. It was the only explanation for the thick glasses she failed often even to find. Or for the kaleidoscope of blood vessels burst, petunia-like, in her eyes, scarlet blasting into the white from mere eyestrain, or a careless swipe with her hand. It explained the strange way she never quite looked at me when we were speaking, staring at a table or down at a tile of a floor, as if halfheartedly plotting its disinfection while my scarcely controlled rage flew from my mouth in sentences I hoped would be, perhaps not then but perhaps later, like knives to her brain.

"Will you be in town for Christmas break?" the mothers asked.

I sipped at the tea. "No, I'm going home. But I will be back in January."

"When in January?"

I gave them my references and a written summary of my experience. My experience was not all that muchjust the Pitskys and the Schultzes back home. But as experience, too, I had once, as part of a class project on human reproduction, carried around for an entire week a sack of flour the exact weight and feel of an infant. I'd swaddled it and cuddled it and placed it in safe, cushioned places for naps, but once, when no one was looking, I stuffed it in my backpack with a lot of sharp pens, and it got stabbed. My books, powdery white the rest of the term, became a joke in the class. I left this out of my resume, however.

But the rest I'd typed up. To gild the lily-livered, as my dad sometimes said, I was wearing what the department stores called "a career jacket," and perhaps the women liked the professionalism of that. They were professionals themselves. Two were lawyers, one was a journalist, one was a doctor, one a high school teacher. Where were the husbands? "Oh, at work," the women all said vaguely. All except the journalist, who said, "Good question!"

The last house was a gray stucco prairie house with a chimney cloaked in dead ivy. I had passed the house earlier in the weekit was on a corner lot and I'd seen so many birds there. Now there was just a flat expanse of white. Around the whiteness was a low wood Qual Line fence, and when I pushed open its gate it slipped a little; one of its hinges was loose and missing a nail. I had to lift the gate to relatch it. This maneuver, one I'd performed any number of times in my life, gave me a certain satisfactionof tidiness, of restoration, of magic me!when in fact it should have communicated itself as something else: someone's ill-disguised decrepitude, items not cared for properly but fixed repeatedly in a make-do fashion, needful things having gotten away from their caregiver. Soon the entire gate would have to be held together with a bungee cord, the way my father once fixed a door in our barn.

Two slate steps led, in an odd mismatch of rock, downward to a flagstone walk, all of which, as well as the grass, wore a light dusting of snowI laid the first footprints of the day; perhaps the front door was seldom used. Some desiccated mums were still in pots on the porch. Ice frosted the crisp heads of the flowers. Leaning against the house were a shovel and a rake, and shoved into the corner two phone books still in shrink-wrap.

From A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore. Copyright (C) 2009 by Lorrie Moore. Published by Knopf. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.

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