Insiders

It’s hard to find a good picture of a happy marriage in a novel. This somewhat makes sense, of course, as novels are about stakes and motion, while a state of romantic happiness is usually one of security and continuity (I’m sure there are people who would feel happy a different way, but…in general). I mean, a marriage when you’re inside it never feels like all one thing—nothing does—all of life is a journey and, ideally, an adventure to those living it. But this is what differentiates most lives from most novels; a novel going on and on about people enjoying each other mainly with some fluctuations and rough patches does not quite sound enthralling. At best, a marriage like that could be background but a lot of authors struggle to render background convincingly: it’s all one single plot against the vacuum of space.

This is something I really liked about the novel Edie Ritcher Is Not Alone by Rebecca Handler (another Rebecca, hooray!) It’s a rather grim novel about secrets and family and grief that I read for book club. We did not necessarily agree about the novel overall in the club, but since my fellow clubsters are longtime friends and I know a bit about their lives, I proposed that one thing that resonated with me that the book got right is that you can be really happily married and that will not solve all your problems, and everyone nodded vigorously and said, “Yeah! Uh-huh!”

This light scene is an anomaly in a heavy book but it does capture how I feel about being married to Mark, and in a weird way, captures a lot of the novel too. I do actually recommend this book, but brace yourself. I’ve cut out the bits that reference the actual plot, and just gone all vibes…

“An open-air sandstone amphitheater, the stage was positioned below a semicircle of tiered seating. It was a still, warm night.

“While Oren went to find seats, I stood in line for beer and fries. Chips. Balancing two plastic cups and a steaming paper cone, I wandered up and down the steep aisles looking for him. …

“I couldn’t find him. I had forgotten what he was wearing. This surprised me, as I could name every shirt in Oren’s wardrobe and could tell you when he last wore each one. Had he changed after work? He wouldn’t attend a show in one of his pale blue office shirts. I took a sip from one of the beers. It was lukewarm and tasted like burned toast. The short-sleeved brown one? The soft red one? The black t-shirt he bought online that said Hug Dealer? …

“I paused at the top of one of the aisles and put down the drinks on a high table near the bar. I ate a fry and checked my phone. Lower left, I’ll look for you. I scanned the theater. There, in the middle of hundreds of strangers, in his soft red t-shirt, was Oren, standing up, looking at me, waving his arms. He was wearing his Fitbit.

“I could see you the whole time, walking up and down the stairs, he said after I handed him one of the beers. I was wondering when you’d find me, he added, pulling me into him.

"The theater lights dimmer as the sun disappeared behind the stage. Sufjan played something from his album Illinois and then spoke quietly into the microphone: It’s good to be here. The end of the earth, the beginning of the universe.

…

“Now, people in the crowd were singing along to a song I didn’t know. I sipped my beer and looked over at Oren. I reached over and lightly touched the stubble on his cheek. His face felt warm. He turned to me and smiled. This is amazing, he said. The end of the world. He put his arm around me.

“We sat like that for a while and swayed gently to the beat. It was at that instant I realized there had been only two moments when I had been exactly where I wanted to be.”