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Executive Times |
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2006 Book Reviews |
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Truth and
Consequences by Alison Lurie |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Deceit Alison Lurie
sets her latest novel, Truth and
Consequences, in a setting recognized by all as the university where she
teaches, Cornell. In fewer than 250 pages, and in less than a full college
term, Lurie allows readers to observe four key
characters become entangled in a web of lies, become blinded by truth, and be
called on to face the consequences. What readers don’t get in Truth and
Consequences is a lot of character depth or development. There’s just
enough exposition to rationalize motivations, understand mutually driven manipulations,
and recognize these four individuals as types that each reader would
recognize. Perhaps that’s the real skill Lurie
conveys in Truth and
Consequences: her spare character development tells us just enough about
each character, and never too much, a very efficient approach. Here’s an
excerpt, all of Chapter Four, pp. 38-49: On
Labor Day, in the big bedroom that he now only occasionally shared with his
wife, Alan Mackenzie stood at the window looking down over his back lawn,
which sloped gently toward the woods and the silvery lake beyond. Usually
empty; today the scene would soon be crowded. Students from the University
Catering Service, whose truck was parked in Alan’s driveway, had just set up
two long folding tables and were covering them with white cloths. Next they
carried in a large cut-glass punch bowl, plastic plates and glasses, buckets
of ice, and bins of soda and juice bottles. Then came
plates of cheese and vegetables covered in plastic wrap, and containers of
crackers and dips. One of the students, as she crossed the bristly grass
that had just been cut that morning, stumbled in her high heels and fell,
dropping a bowl of potato chips. Alan winced; every accident now reminded him
of his own accident, his own disability and constant pain. Was the girl hurt,
would she too soon become a wretched invalid? Apparently not. She rose,
stooped gracefully to pick up the bowl, and hurried on, leaving a spray of
yellow chips like broken flowers on the grass. “How’re
you doing?” Jane said, coming into the room behind him. She was wearing faded
jeans and a T-shirt, and looked a little worn. “Not
too great,” Alan replied, half turning around. “I’ve got that pain in my
shoulder again.” “Oh,
I’m so sorry” “I
don’t think those goddamn exercises have helped at all; in fact I think
they’ve made it worse.” He rotated his arm, wincing. “Maybe
you should stop doing them, then.” “I’ve
got to do something. I can’t go on like this, I can hardly type anymore. I
probably never should have gone to that new physical therapist. She seemed so
eager to help, but I didn’t trust her from the start. I’m not sure she even
understood my X-rays.” “It
could be.” “I
told her there was a bone spur, but I don’t think she really listened. I
should have waited until the other woman got back from vacation, the one I
saw before. Or at least until I talked to the doctor again.” Jane,
who was standing in the walk-in closet changing her clothes, did not reply
Probably she too hadn’t really been listening, he thought. More and more
often, she didn’t listen to him, or didn’t listen carefully. In a way he
didn’t blame her: what he had to say was usually unpleasant and often
monotonous. But in a way he did blame her. Impatient, troubled, he moved
toward her. “What
I want to know is, am I ever going to get better,” he demanded loudly and
suddenly “What do you think?” “I—I
don’t know,” Jane stuttered, clearly frightened by his tone, clutching a
white silk slip against her naked body. “Yes,
but what do you think, honestly?” he insisted, moving nearer. “I
don’t know, how could I know?” she said. “I mean,
most people do; that’s—that’s what everyone says.” “And
some people don’t get better. I’m sorry,” he added, realizing that Jane had
burst into tears. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He put his arm around her,
touching her smooth bare back for the first time in weeks. “Of course you
can’t know. Come on. Stop crying. Get dressed and go on down to your party.” “It’s
not just my party, it’s yours too,” Jane said, her sobs beginning to
subside. “Whatever.”
Alan gave a sigh and moved toward the window. “I still don’t see why you had
to have it here, though,” he said presently looking down again at the lawn,
over which the caterers were now distributing white plastic chairs. “But
we talked about it already, we agreed,” Jane said, now in almost a normal
tone of voice. “We’re having it here so you don’t have to spend any more time
socializing than is comfortable for you. You can come in and lie down
whenever you feel tired.” “I
feel tired already,” said Alan. “I always feel tired.” “You
only need to put in an appearance—speak to the people on the Council, meet
the other new Fellows—” Jane, now wearing a tan shirtwaist dress and
low-heeled white sandals, came to look out of the window beside him. “Do you
think the tables are too close together?” she asked. He
made no comment. “And
why are they setting the chairs in rows? We’re not having a lecture. I told
them already—I’ve got to go down. Come whenever you can.” Alan
did not move. In fact, he understood very well why the Alan
was only minimally grateful for his fellowship. For one thing, he was
convinced that it had been Jane’s idea, though she denied this. In the
eagerness of his colleagues to recommend him he saw mainly self-interest, for
it meant that they would not have to fill in when he was too ill to meet a
class, and would not have to see or hear about his pain and disability. On
the other hand, he was grateful that he would not have to see them so often
and experience their condescending pity. Alan
Mackenzie was a proud man, and in the past his pride had been of the sort
known as “proper,” meaning that it had been well grounded in fact. It was
grounded, for example, in his professional success, his health and good looks
and athletic prowess; his attractive, affectionate, and intelligent wife;
and his beautiful hundred-and-fifty-year-old house with its view of the lake.
He had never called attention to these advantages—rather, he often spoke
freely and humorously of his disadvantages: his lack of skill at golf, his
failure to graduate from Yale with honors. Nevertheless, one or two envious
friends and colleagues had sometimes mockingly referred to him as The
Mackenzie, as if he were a Scottish clan chieftain. Now, of course, it was no
longer necessary for him to deflect envy, since his friends and colleagues
pitied rather than envied him. The
move to the And
even after everything was in place at the Center Alan hadn’t been able to get
down to work. It was really too soon to start his book on religious
architecture in Alan
had always been interested in religion, maybe too interested for his own
good. But his main feeling now was relief that he had gotten over his early
beliefs at college. If he still had faith he would have had to consider the
spiritual meaning of the last sixteen months of severe, unrelenting pain. Was
he being punished, and if so, for what? His life had not been blameless, but
he had never been guilty of murder or plagiarism, never cheated on his taxes.
He had not stolen anything since sixth grade, and it was years since he had
committed adultery On the other hand, he had not been so good that God would
have been tempted to test his faith as he had Job’s. Outside,
the lawn was beginning to fill with guests, among whom
presumably were the four other Fellows, whom Alan had not yet met. Sighing,
he took up his cane and went down to join them. I’ll give it half an hour,
Jane will have to be satisfied with that, he decided, clenching his teeth as
he descended the staircase, one agonizing step at a time. Twenty-five
minutes later he had drunk two glasses of semi-alcoholic pink grapefruit
punch, which only dulled the pain slightly He had eaten too much Brie and crackers,
spoken to the five members of the Humanities Council and three of their
wives, and met three of the four other Fellows. Only Delia Delaney, this
year’s star, was missing, and already her absence was beginning to be unfavorably
commented on. From time to time Alan had observed Jane looking at him, her
expression a mixture of encouragement and concern, and given her a small,
ironic nod or wave. See? I’m doing what
you wanted me to do, okay? it conveyed. His
back hurt worse and worse. He was about to excuse himself, and had turned to
set down his empty plastic wineglass, when he saw an extraordinarily
beautiful woman approaching. She was tall and fair, with masses of heavy
red—gold hair, elaborately arranged in a series of braids and puffs and
tendrils in the manner of Botticelli’s Simonetta, whom she strongly resembled. “You
must be Alan Mackenzie, who’s won all those prizes,” she said. Her voice was
low, vibrating, breathy, with a warm Southern
accent; her gauzy white dress was cut low, revealing full rose-pink breasts. “So
they tell me,” he admitted. It was true that two of his books, both now out
of print, had been given awards. “I’m
Delia Delaney” She smiled and looked up at him, Of course, Alan almost said. He had seen a black
and white photo somewhere, but it hadn’t revealed Delia’s spectacular
coloring, including the satiny rose-flushed skin and the silver-gray eyes
that matched her lacy shawl. “I’m
so happy to be here.” She sighed as if with actual happiness. “And now I
want to see your famous folly I’ve heard so much about it.” “That’s
it, over there.” Alan pointed to where, beyond the last curve of the flower
bed, a gray stone arch was partly visible. “Help yourself.” “But
I want you to show it to me.” Delia put a warm hand on his arm. Phrases
of polite but honest refusal passed through Alan’s mind. I’m sorry, but I have a bad back, I can’t walk that far. I was just
about to go lie down. But pride and good manners and Delia’s touch on his
arm outweighed them, and he allowed himself to be led painfully down the lawn
toward the miniature triumphal arch he had constructed three years ago to
celebrate the publication of British
Ruins and Follies. He had to admit that it still looked good—maybe even
better now that ivy covered one side of the arch and a velvety dark-green
moss had spread over the lowest stones. “But
I know it!” Delia exclaimed, laughing. “It’s the arch in “Yeah,”
Alan agreed. “About one-quarter the size, of course.” “It’s
wonderful,” she breathed. “Thank
you.” “Most
people don’t recognize it.” And they don’t always think it’s wonderful,
either, he remembered. Jane, for instance, did not think so. When he had
first shown her the drawings, she had seen them as a mildly entertaining
joke, but once she realized that he was actually going to build the thing in
their back yard she was clearly puzzled and dismayed, though she had never
openly said so. “I
knew it at once,” Delia said. “My best friend in school moved to “Oh,
look at all these delicious little white flowers growing in the grass,” she
said. “What are they called?” “I
haven’t any idea,” Alan admitted. “Jane would know. My wife. Have you met
her?” “Oh
yes,” Delia said, smiling, and somehow this time her smile conveyed the idea
that this had not been an especially exciting meeting. “She
could tell you their Latin name.” “I
don’t want to know their Latin name,” Delia said. “It’s bad enough knowing
that my Latin name is Homo sapiens. I
try to forget that sort of thing as fast as I can.” She began to walk around
the arch, admiring it from all angles, trailing her gauzy skirts and silver
net shawl in the long flowery grass. Alan, steadying himself with his cane,
followed. “Marvelous,”
she murmured. “Are there any others? Someone told me there was at least one
other.” Alan
hesitated. There was another folly the ruined chapel, but except for Jane and
the graduate students who had helped him, almost nobody had seen it. He had
wanted to present it formally, as a completed project, and had often refused
to allow spectators. “Well, there is one,” he admitted, not wanting to lie.
“But I can’t show it to anyone yet, it’s not finished. I hurt my back, and
then—” “I
must see it,” she interrupted. “Not
now.” “Please.”
Delia gave him an almost absurdly seductive smile. “It
wouldn’t be right. I’m sure you don’t publish your stories before they’re
finished.” “Please.”
She pouted like a hurt child; her soft mauve-red lower lip trembled. “I’ll
only be here in “Well.
All right,” Alan heard himself say He led the way farther down the lawn, past
two old apple trees and a tall, thorny mass of blackberry bushes that were
now turning a dark, smoky red. “There you are.” He indicated a long shingled
building with a low tower. Only part of the roof and two and a half walls
were standing, the latter overgrown with a tangle of climbing roses. “I
didn’t build the original structure,” he said. “It was the chicken house when
this was a farm.” “But
now it’s a ruined church,” Delia said. “A miniature Tintern
Abbey” “Yeah.” She
looked him full in the face, her silver eyes wide. “Amazing. You’re a real
artist.” “Thank
you.” No, it’s not so bad, he thought, looking at the three miniature
Victorian Gothic window frames he had installed along the side wall. Even if
I never write another book, I can be proud of this. “I
want to walk around it.” “All
right.” Alan turned toward the blackberry bushes, but Delia did not follow. “No,
no!” she cried. “We mustn’t go that way, that’s widdershins.” “What?”
He stopped. “Widdershins, against the sun. You must never walk widdershins around a church.” “Really?
Why not?” “What
they say back home is, the Devil will carry you off.
Or you could just disappear. It’s a superstition, of course. But you never
know.” She laughed lightly “But
this isn’t a real church,” Alan said. “It’s an abandoned chicken house. It’s
not consecrated or anything.” “Maybe.
But I don’t want to do it anyhow.” She turned resolutely in the other
direction, and Alan, shaking his head, followed her. Clearly Delia Delaney
was a flake. At the same time, though he was not and had never been superstitious,
the memory came to him of the church in Completing
the circuit, Delia stepped over a heap of grass into the center of the
building. “‘Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang,’” she quoted,
looking around. “Well
yes, I suppose so. Or clucked. After all, they were chickens.” He followed
her, and they stood where the altar would have been—its absence, or presence, suggested by a hummock of stones, grass, and
tangled dark-green creeper. “I
don’t recognize the original—is there one?” “Yes,
partly” Alan had the sense that he was recklessly giving away secrets. “Thyme
Chapel, on campus. It’s Victorian Gothic, built about 1880.” “Oh. I haven’t seen
that yet. I really haven’t seen anything on campus but the library and the
Center. But your chapel is perfect anyhow.” “It’s not finished,
you know. I wanted to build up that third wall a bit more. And maybe fill in
some of the windows with stained glass.” “Yes, I can see it,”
Delia breathed. “All purple and gold and cobalt blue, with swirling
iridescent Tiffany flowers.” “That’s sort of what I
planned. There’s several like that in the campus chapel. But these would be
original designs.” “With the Holy Ghost
as a white chicken.” “That’s
an idea.” Alan laughed. She’s witty as well as beautiful, he thought. “I
love the wild roses.” “I
can’t claim credit for that. They were always here. I think they were just
waiting until the chickens left.” “You’re
lucky. And will there be more follies?” “I
don’t know. Not now. I once thought I might do the Plaza fountain,
or an Italian Renaissance bridge over there by the brook.” He gestured widely
and unwisely with his sore arm, and winced. “But then my back went out—” For
almost fifteen minutes, Alan realized, he had forgotten that he was in pain. “And
after that?” “Oh,
I had plans for a lot more—drawings and site elevations and everything. But
now—” As if he had deliberately recalled it, a spasm struck him: the lizard
dug its claws deep into his spine. Suppressing an ugly moan, Alan turned
aside, staring out toward the distant lake. He didn’t want to leave Delia,
but he needed more codeine and he needed it now. “Listen, I’m sorry but I’ve
got to go back to the house,” he told her. Slowly
leaning on his cane and breathing hard, not looking at Delia in the stupid
hope that she would not look at him and see his ugly grimaces of pain, Alan
made his way through the old apple trees. There were lumpy unsprayed
pale-green apples among the branches, and here and there he could see a spray
of chrome yellow predicting autumn. Delia, silent now, followed, her gauzy
white skirts trailing in the long grass. As he started up the slope of the
lawn, he saw Jane break away from a group of people and come toward him. “I
thought you’d gone inside,” she said. “Are you all right?” “All
right,” Alan lied, grinding his teeth against the pain. “I was showing Delia
the ruin.” In this last word he heard another lie, one of omission—the
omission of a single letter, the letter s.
Unfortunately, he realized at once, it was a lie that would instantly be
exposed. “Yes,
it’s just delightful.” Delia laughed lightly She said no more, but it was
clear to Alan that she had heard his lie and recognized it, and that she had
deliberately decided not to mention the ruined chapel. He looked at this
smiling, innocent-seeming woman with some astonishment. They had only met fifteen
minutes ago, and already they were in a conspiracy. Jane’s
own smile faded. “It’s not a joke, you know,” she said, clearly trying to
keep her voice pleasant. “It’s a historical reproduction. It took months to
build, you have no idea how hard Alan and his students worked.” “Oh,
I can imagine.” Delia laughed again and rearranged her shimmering fishnet
shawl. “Alan’s
published a book about ruins and follies, you know.” “Yes,
Ah’ve seen it.” Delia’s Southern accent seemed to
deepen, and she smiled even more pleasantly than before. Jane
did not reply Even in the increasing grip of his pain, it was clear to Alan
that there was not and probably never would be any meeting of minds between
Delia and his wife, who had already complained to him about the difficulty
the former’s demands were causing at the Center. An
awkward silence began, but it was luckily broken by the arrival of several
other guests, all apparently eager to meet Delia, and one who seemed to know
her well already. “Hello
there, darling,” this man said, putting a heavy arm around Delia’s creamy
bare shoulders. (Did Alan imagine it, or did she flinch slightly?) “How’s it
going?” “Just
wonderfully . . . This is my
husband, Henry Hull,” she told Alan. “Alan Mackenzie.” Alan
registered the presence of a muscular person in a checked shirt who was
several inches shorter than him. “How do you do,” he said resentfully “Hi,”
Henry Hull said, as if identifying some neutral object. He took Alan’s cool,
long—fingered hand in his broad sweaty one and gave it a painful shake. “You
have the office across the hall from Delia’s at the Center,” he remarked. “That’s
right.” Suddenly the implications of this fact became clear to Alan. He would
see Delia again; he would have plenty of chances to see her again. For the first
time in several minutes, he smiled. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I’m
afraid I have to go back to the house now.” Lurie is a terrific writer, and the brevity
of Truth
and Consequences allows her adequate and efficient space to tell us just
enough about an academic world she understands well, and to enjoy the deceits
in relationships. Steve Hopkins,
January 25, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the February 2006
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Truth
and Consequences.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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