A CONDITION OF PERMANENT MOURNING: RESONANCES OF JOYCE IN ALICE MCDERMOTT’S AT WEDDINGS AND WAKES AND CHARMING BILLY

CLAIRE CRABTREE-SINNETT University of Detroit Mercy

Abstract: Alice McDermott’s novels of the Irish American immigrant experience in New York, Of Wakes and Weddings and Charming Billy, demonstrate Joyce’s influence in terms of point of view, other fictional strategies, and treatments of time and loss. Focusing on characters marked by Joyceian “paralysis,” McDermott explores lives thwarted by a complex of religious constraints and cultural assumptions similar to those at work in Joyce’s Dublin. Keywords: Catholicism; Irish; Immigrants; Irish-American; Alice McDermott

1. Introduction

While continues to produce superb writers, their cousins across the Atlantic have only recently established a crop of excellent writers beyond Eugene O’Neill and F. Scott Fitzgerald, neither of whom was known as primarily Irish- American. National Book Award winning novelist Alice McDermott shares the field of writers who address Irish-American life and identity, like Mary Gordon, Maureen Howard, and Thomas Kennedy. McDermott explicitly pays tribute to F. Scott Fitzgerald and Faulkner in some aspects of her work, and this essay will touch on some of those influences and parallels. The most significant resonances in McDermott’s novels, however, especially in At Weddings and Wakes and Charming Billy, which focus on immigrant families in the Mid-Twentieth Century, are not with McDermott’s American literary forebears, but with James Joyce.

2. Literary influences

McDermott’s work resonates with stories in Dubliners in terms of point of view, often that of a child or participant observer, as in Joyce’s much-anthologized story, “Araby.” Further echoes are heard in the themes of death, alcoholism, thwarted desires, and an atmosphere of unexpressed emotion. Critics have identified Joyceian echoes in characters’ concerns with death, as well as their frequent inability to act for their own fulfillment (Hagan 2002:48-9; Reilly 2005:558). They especially note the thematic and tonal qualities in McDermott’s novels, as reflecting the concerns of Joyce’s long short story “The Dead.” This essay asserts that other Joyce stories, too, especially “Eveline,” “Clay,” and “A Little Cloud,” resonate with McDermott’s Irish American fiction. Finally, in her narrative structures and artful use of time, which are arguably more Modernist than Post-Modernist, her work resembles Joyce’s novels Portrait of the Artist as a

Young Man and Ulysses, as well as those of other High Modernists like Faulkner and Woolf. Both McDermott novels under discussion are epistemological enterprises which circle around, and gradually unveil, the tragic events at their center. McDermott has said that writers can hardly avoid the influences of Joyce and Faulkner, yet her own treatment of time is quite distinctive. She describes her experiments with time in her novels as “echoing” as well as “circular” (Reilly 2005:577). Apart from Joyce’s stylistic and technical influence, McDermott’s novels reflect the cultural assumptions at work on both sides of the Atlantic during Joyce’s life and into the 1950s. Some qualities in Irish and immigrant life, and Roman Catholicism as practiced in both Ireland and the , fostered a culture out of which Irish American writers created their works. Eugene O’Neill, for example, writes of addiction and family losses and secrets, yet, as the author himself is reported to have told his son Eugene, “The critics have missed the most important thing about me and my work—the fact that I am Irish” (Bowen 1959: vi). Fitzgerald’s characters, too, reflect a kind of American striving, not toward the Western frontier, but toward the East and the glamour associated with New York and Long Island. McDermott acknowledges that Fitzgerald is an influence; she named a character in another novel Daisy as a sort of whimsical tribute to him (Reilly 2005:568). Alcoholism permeates the work—and lives—of Joyce, Faulkner, Fitzgerald and O’Neill, and McDermott explores alcoholism head-on in her characterization of Billy Lynch, an exemplum of tragic Irish drunkenness. Yet in Billy, she transcends cultural stereotype and particularizes Billy’s complex psyche. The sense in McDermott’s novels of characters living with severe constraints reflects the pressures of Catholic teachings promoting acceptance of God’s will, and the genuine lack of broad opportunities for immigrants. Emotional martyrdom can create bitterness, but resignation and piety are more common responses among McDermott’s New Yorkers. Social and economic conditions in Ireland under an essentially colonial rule by have clearly affected characters, whether consciously or not. Momma, for example, the widowed matriarch in At Weddings and Wakes, was not sufficiently lettered when she arrived from Ireland in the early 20th century to read the newspaper. Veronica, a tippler and recluse, was disfigured by a mistake in a treatment by the Red Cross for her complexion, a situation in which Momma sat helpless. These conditions of stasis and limitation and the attitudes they promote bring to mind the well- identified theme of paralysis in Joyce’s work.

3. Joyceian echoes

The term “paralysis” appears on the first page of the opening story of Dubliners, “The Sisters.” Critics have taken the term to incarnate the entire intention of Joyce’s project in the stories. Unmarried, widowed, or dissatisfied characters are common denizens of Joyce’s Dublin. The fates of Little Chandler in “A Little Cloud,” Maria in “Clay,” the boy in “Araby” and the girl in “Eveline,”

especially, and their failure to resist their circumstances are echoed in McDermott’s Brooklyn matriarchy, with its three unmarried daughters, and in the long-suffering Maeve who becomes Billy’s wife. Perhaps Billy himself, who martyrs himself in tribute to his dead love Eva and becomes a severe alcoholic, is the quintessential extension of some of Joyce’s pub- or church-goers in Dublin. If McDermott’s work seems technically clearly rooted in the work of Modernists like Joyce and Faulkner and Fitzgerald, so too is it thematically rooted in the issues of the individual locked into or resisting cultural, economic, or familial constraints. In the Irish Catholic transmutation of this theme, the colonizing authority that demands obedience is not England, but the Church. McDermott’s highly original use of the collective or alternating point of view of three young children yields flexibly to a more omniscient third-person narrator in At Weddings and Wakes. The point of view of Margaret, Bobby, and Maryanne Daily, grandchildren who try to decipher the atmosphere of permanent mourning which haunts their grandmother’s household in Brooklyn, echoes Joyce’s “Araby” and the very young Stephen Dedalus. In Charming Billy, a young woman cousin reconstructs Billy’s story after returning from Seattle for Billy’s funeral. Her father, Dennis Lynch, reveals to her that his cousin Billy’s life of devotion to a putatively ideal—and putatively dead--Irish girl, Eva, was based on Dennis’ own lie told years earlier to protect Billy from despair at Eva’s perfidy. McDermott’s novels show many characters who are frozen in place, but also some who are drawn both physically and emotionally to leave humble, cramped apartments in Brooklyn or Queens for the modest central Long Island suburbs of the post-World War II era, and most evocatively, to Easthampton, a beautiful village on the ocean, where people of modest means may be able to rent a cottage in proximity to the Atlantic. Echoes of Joyce’s notion of the West of Ireland, as evoked in “The Dead,” appear in the never-fulfilled longing of May in At Weddings and Billy in Charming Billy to revisit the open spaces of Eastern Long Island. Easthampton carries little of the political weight of the West of Ireland for Joyce, but it does suggest ease and freedom which are in short supply in Joyce’s Dublin. And if Gretta’s birth in the West of Ireland evokes for Joyce readers a sense of an essential Irish identity, Easthampton for McDermott suggests natural beauty unpolluted by the oppression and poverty that permeated lives in Ireland. The children’s Aunt May, a shy former nun, conflates the convent on Long Island where she was sent for a “rest cure,” with its “endless garden and the smell of the sea and a trellised wall thick with red roses” (McDermott 1992:133) with her hopes for a home and garden with the mailman Fred. Billy dreamt unrealistically of a honeymoon with Eva near the huge seaside house where she worked briefly as a nursemaid. In contrast, the more realistic Bob Daily, Lucy’s husband and the children’s father in At Weddings, brings his family to a rented cottage each summer to give them the sense of freedom he experienced as a Fresh Air Fund child. Here, Brooklyn and Queens represent enmeshment and confinement, while Easthampton suggests freedom and beauty.

McDermott’s novels resonate with the point of view and the concerns and tensions of Dubliners. Yet Joyce’s short stories are straightforwardly chronological, apart from clearly signaled flashbacks, while these novels circle around events of the past, building layers of revelation into the ongoing story. One must look to Joyce’s complex treatments of time in A Portrait of the Artist and Ulysses—and to other Modernists like Woolf and Faulkner--to find sources for McDermott’s experimentation with time as non-chronological, circling and “echoing.” At Weddings and Wakes is, in fact, structured a bit like Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying, with a woman’s death as the somewhat absent central event. Most notably, May’s death is revealed early in the novel when one of the children, Maryanne, tells her teacher that her aunt had died just after her wedding the past summer, when “something burst inside her” (McDermott 1992:58). Yet the novel proceeds in the past time of the year of May’s shy courtship by Fred. The novel nears its end with an extensive description of the children’s experience of the wedding, followed by a short and lyrical chapter at the cottage Bob rents for his family, where they wake to be informed by their landlady that May has died on her honeymoon. So while the participant observer technique owes something to “Araby” and the first part of Portrait of the Artist, the circling narrative structure owes much to later Joyce and to Faulkner. For the three children in At Weddings and Wakes, the Brooklyn apartment their mother Lucy brings them to visit acts as a stage for the enacting of past and present family dramas. The apartment has seen their real grandmother Annie’s early death after giving birth to her fourth daughter forty years earlier. Annie’s newly-arrived sister Mary had eventually married Annie’s widower husband Jack, an event followed by Jack’s sudden death and the posthumous birth of their son Johnny. Lucy, the one married daughter and the mother of the children, who feels the appropriate reaction to the family history is “outrage,” is enmeshed with Mary/Momma, who raised the four orphaned daughters and who kicked her son, a severe alcoholic at twenty, out of the household. In the stultifying atmosphere of the apartment, Momma dominates; in a sly reference to the family’s unquestioning Catholicism, McDermott has two of the daughters follow Momma into the kitchen “like acolytes following a cardinal” (McDermott 1992:24). The boredom of childhood for the grandchildren is intensified by undercurrents of tense murmuring in the kitchen. The children overhear, over and over, their mother’s complaint that their father Bob, whom she married before he served in World War II, is “not the man I married” (McDermott 1992:23). For the children, however, their father’s arrival to pick them up on summer evenings offers rescue and relief. Bob’s renting of a cottage for two weeks each summer far east on Long Island provides the children with a sense of expansiveness and freedom that serves as a counterweight to the constriction and enmeshment of the Brooklyn apartment. The long-ago deaths of Annie and John echo in the walls of the apartment, where Annie’s journal is hidden, as if to underscore the interpenetration of the tragic past with the paralyzed present. The family inheritance of mourning extends into the past and Ireland. When Annie left Ireland, Mary was left to care for their alcoholic stepfather, as Joyce’s Eveline is (Crabtree 2007:2). After the death of the

“drunk in the parlor” Mary/Momma arrived to live only two weeks as a member of a reconstituted family before Annie’s death. Momma’s story would be a familiar one for immigrants, especially Irish youngest daughters, if not for the crushed hopes that await her in the New World. As in “Clay,” where Maria frets about the cake she buys, only to lose it before arriving at the family dinner, the New York-bound Mary foolishly spends her money on chocolate sold at an onboard shop rather than saving it for her arrival. If Maria’s death is hinted at in the cruelty of her young relatives’ giving her clay in a game of choice rather than a prayer book or ring, so are Mary’s hopes of freedom and reunion with her sister crushed. She witnesses the birth of Veronica and watches helplessly as Annie slowly dies. Years later, she continues to rehearse the terrible moment when she heard a cry that suggests the bean sidhe, or banshee, the Irish folk figure who foretells a death, just before Annie’s death:

[S]he had stood above her sleeping sister…had seen the light grow flat and felt the air become hollow and had heard the distant but unmistakable cry of what no one in the family…would call a banshee, knowing how foolish it would sound. (McDermott 1992:85)

Staying on in a rented room downstairs for the sake of propriety, Mary cares for the children and finally marries Jack, her widowed brother-in-, only to be widowed a year later. This history for the children is “part of everything they knew” (McDermott 1992:85), “the current of loss after loss that was adulthood” (McDermott 1992:147). In a sense, the cry of the banshee never really ends for Mary/Momma. As May’s wedding approaches, in an explosion of distrust of Fred and anger at May’s naïve happiness, she unconsciously foretells May’s death, telling the children that May’s dream of a garden and flowers near the sea “sounds like a cemetery to me” (McDermott 1992:145). Momma becomes a sort of banshee in this outburst to the terrified children (Crabtree 2007:5). Family secrets in both McDermott and Joyce are often expressed in “murmurs,” repeated stories, and songs or extraordinary sounds. The banshee’s cry, female and seemingly human rather than animal, (Bourke 1993:116), seems to echo and extend Joyce’s artful use of sounds as in the clinking of metal in “Araby” and in the ending of “Eveline.” Before Eveline leaves to meet Frank at the boat, she hears an organ grinder in the street and recalls her mother’s enigmatic last syllables, sounding like Irish Gaelic but actually gibberish: “The pitiful vision of her mother’s life laid its spell on the very quick of her being—that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness” (Joyce 1960:40). At the dock as the boat blows “a long mournful whistle into the mist,” Eveline stands conflicted, as “a bell clanged in her heart” (Joyce 1960:41).The boat pulls away, but she stays on the dock gripping the railing and sending “a cry of anguish” across the water. As Frank calls desperately from the barrier, “’Eveline! Evvy!’” Joyce writes that “She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition” (Joyce 1960: 41). All the sounds in the story have led to Eveline’s paralyzed silence.

Perhaps the best known of Joyce’s uses of sound in Dubliners occurs in “The Dead,” when Gabriel Conroy sees his wife Gretta stop on the stairs as they leave Aunt Julia’s house after the Christmas party. As Gretta listens to Bartell D’Arcy singing “The Lass of Aughrim,” Gabriel recognizes a sort of trance on the part of Greta, which she speaks of at their hotel room. Her story of Michael Furey, the young boy who risked or incurred death to see her on the night before she left Galway, and the power of this memory for Gretta, unbalances Gabriel’s world. Gabriel recognizes his own lesser significance in Gretta’s eyes as well as in Ireland itself, where the snow is falling on Michael Furey’s grave in the West “and faintly falling upon all the living and the dead” (Joyce 1960: 224). Gretta’s grief, although enduring, is not willful, as Billy’s is for Eva in Charming Billy. And, in fact, Eva will be revealed not to be dead at all. McDermott’s banshee, Momma’s enraged claim that May’s dream of a garden resembles a cemetery, and the knock on the cottage door in Easthampton at the end of the novel that will tell Lucy, Bob, and the children that May has died, all resonate with these moments in “The Dead.” May abandons her paralyzed innocence when she reaches beyond the family heritage of mourning to a marriage with Fred. Her desire is cruelly thwarted, as if in punishment for seeking happiness, and perhaps for having intercourse, which presumably precipitates the cerebral hemorrhage that takes her life. May’s dreams suddenly end, but for McDermott’s Billy Lynch, the dream of idyllic love lives on destructively, enthroned in intransigent grief. McDermott’s depiction of the complex interplay of family, history, and place are evident in Charming Billy, winner of the National Book Award in 1998. Narrated by the daughter of Billy’s cousin Dennis, the novel opens with the funeral luncheon for Billy after he has been found dead of alcoholism. Billy’s widow Maeve, looking rather beautiful in her plain way, presides at one end of a large table at a Bronx restaurant reminiscent of a pub in Ireland. Billy’s sisters and cousins take part in a much-admired scene of communal dialogue, eight pages long, arguing in part about whether the death in Ireland of Billy’s fiancée, Eva, years before, was the sole cause of his alcoholism. The dialogue as the narrator observes it builds a story of the past for the reader. Returned from World War II, Billy Lynch and his cousin Dennis had taken a working vacation repairing Dennis’ stepfather’s cottage in Easthampton. There they had met Eva, who had joined her sister Mary to work as a nursemaid. When Eva returned to Ireland with a promise to return to marry Billy the next summer, Billy borrowed and started working off the money for Eva’s ticket. A year later, Dennis had taken Billy out to the cottage to break the news that Eva had died back home in Clonmel. This dialogue among the mourners resonates, at least technically, with Joyce stories like “Ivy Day in the Committee Room.” Here the death that is mourned is not of a great Irish political leader like Charles Stuart Parnell, but of a deeply flawed, if lovable, man. Yet the death at the heart of Billy’s story, and thus of his funeral lunch, is that of an idealized Irish beauty, significantly named “Eva,” met on a beach on the Atlantic decades before. Eva’s long-ago death had thwarted and shrunken Billy’s life. He has been found drunk on the floor innumerable times,

with Maeve calling his cousin Dennis for help getting him home or into bed or, finally, identifying his body at the veteran’s hospital. At the end of this first chapter, as Dennis and his daughter return from the luncheon, Dennis tells her quietly, “It was lie. Eva lived.” Dennis himself had lied to Billy to protect him from the reality of Eva’s betrayal; she had kept the passage money, married, and bought a gas station near Clonmel. Dennis judged that heart- break would be easier to bear than humiliation and betrayal. With this knowledge, the narrator leads the reader back and forth between the fictive present and reconstructions of the past, layering and expanding details. When Dennis and Billy Lynch first arrive in the late 40s at the neglected cottage and later explore the wealthy oceanside section of Easthampton with its high hedges and huge summer houses, they are astounded by a sort of parallel world to the density and ugliness of the city. “I never knew…. it existed,” Dennis tells his daughter. The cousins share a wondering sense that “This house (the cottage) had been here, just as it was…all the while” (McDermott 1998:114). They are most affected by the immense and gracious summer houses, oddly called “cottages,” with lawns that run down to the sea. Eva and Mary are living in quarters at one of these houses, and Billy later imagines Eva’s return and their honeymoon, conflating Eva’s beauty with that of the place itself. The sense of wonder Dennis and Billy feel echoes Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby and the mystique of Daisy and the green light at the end of the dock, at least for Billy, for whom Eva is in a sense an abstraction. Fitzgerald’s East Egg is much closer to the city, on the north shore fronting the Long Island Sound, a tamer body of water despite its archetypal significance for Gatsby and his reader. The cousins’ sense of wonder at the Atlantic may more properly echo Fitzgerald’s evocation of the Hudson River at the end of Gatsby. In the context of the low expectations of Billy’s generation and the poverty that marked the lives of his forebears in Ireland, the awe inspired by the “big house” suggests an inherited sense of the subaltern. No one comments upon the gap between rich and poor in the Easthampton at mid-century, and Billy doesn’t desire wealth so much as nearness to the beauty of the houses and sea. A sense of revelation, of wonder, is at the heart of Billy’s innocence, and in this he resembles Gatsby. For Billy, Easthampton is “Eden,” and, dead, Eva is sanctified. His piety intertwines with his longing; he makes visits to churches to feel her presence, and never visits the cottage again. This attitude, of settling for bare survival, of putting one’s faith in the Church and the old pieties, is the residue, perhaps, of the colonized position of the Catholic in Ireland, carried over to New York. Charming, an inveterate note-writer, a lover of children, Billy has lived a childless marriage with Maeve—possibly a celibate one, with their blue bedroom decorated like a shrine to the Virgin Mary. A helpless caretaker to her alcoholic father while he lived, Maeve has suffered long nights of worry, finally sensing Billy’s death and ironing a shirt for his corpse while waiting for Dennis to call. As Edward Hagan points out, the cousin--narrator “has meticulously investigated the painful, multi-generational events that the web of Billy's drunkenness encloses; she records the story's intricate paralysis, masterminded by

her father, Dennis” (Hagan 2003:53). Dennis tells his daughter that there was never a time when he could have told Billy the truth, so in a sense Dennis is both complicit in Billy’s illusion and paralyzed in the face of its intensity. Hagan, too, sees Joyce connections, writing that Billy, “somewhat like Gabriel Conroy, is traumatized by the need to lie to create belief while consciously aware of the speciousness of what he believes” (Hagan 2003:65). Hagan may be right about Billy’s gradual knowledge of the lie he has built his life around, for when he goes to Ireland in middle age to “take the Pledge” to abjure drinking, and makes a trip to Clonmel to visit Eva’s grave, he is not devastated when he meets a plump woman with dyed hair at a gas station on the Convent Road, who offers him a cup of tea and a reimbursement. The foreclosed hopes of her characters aside, McDermott is an American novelist as well as Irish American one. Not unmindful of Joyce and his evocation of the West of Ireland, she follows Fitzgerald in her explorations of the mystique of the East Coast. The spatial concerns here, the sense of confinement and entrapment in the city over against the freedom and sense of possibilities represented by the shore and sea, are far more ambiguous than those of the traditional critical notion of “the American Adam,” new born in the New World. McDermott’s are not pioneers, although the narrator has married a man named West and lives with him and their children in Seattle, as if to escape the family’s sense of loss and mourning, including her mother’s early death. Further, the innocence of characters like Aunt May or Billy is not ahistorical. Rather, notions of duty, loyalty, and piety are embedded in both the Irish colonial heritage and the religious-familial ways of knowing the world that have shaped them. The past that haunts the present and serves to thwart the lives of McDermott’s characters is not a consciously political past, not the idea of Ireland’s colonial history that has molded many an Irish and Irish-American psyche over the generations. Rather, real griefs and losses resonate with earlier tragedies. Rather than resorting to political analysis, most characters tend to react by resignedly contracting, rather than expanding, their dreams and their views. The only character who voices an awareness of the political situation as Ireland struggles beyond colonial status is May’s father, Jack Towne, who had met his first wife Annie on the boat to the States in the early 20th century. Annie’s journal records her telling Jack that men like her drunken stepfather are reason enough for leaving Ireland. Jack’s response is, “wasn’t that just like a woman, the whole country going to rack and ruin and all she sees is the drunk in the parlor” (McDermott 1992:165). McDermott underplays this political perspective, yet readers see how English rule and the poverty it enforced or reinforced in the past contributed to the tragedies families faced in Ireland. The characters are responding, albeit unconsciously in most cases, to personal situations that are deeply rooted in Irish politics and Irish history. Post-colonial theory has been applied to Joyce’s work, and an argument can be made for application to McDermott’s as well. For Ireland and her troubles are as present in their absence as Jack and Annie are present in Momma’s apartment in Brooklyn, or as Eva is present in Billy’s lifelong sorrow.

4. Conclusion

Significantly, both novels end in Easthampton in sight of “the farthest, greenest reaches of the Island [and] the wide expanse of the sea (McDermott 1992:40). Although the Dailys are drawn back to the city and mourning by May’s death, Charming Billy ends with a wryly hopeful scene, that of the narrator’s father, Dennis Lynch, now married to his cousin’s widow Maeve, the two happily ensconced at the cottage which is now their own. What the West of Ireland means for Joyce may be more complex than the meaning of Eastern Long Island, on the opposite shore, for McDermott. But for Gabriel Conroy and Gretta in “The Dead,” as for Dennis Lynch and Maeve, grief endured may yield a kind of clear-eyed affection forgiveness and-–just possibly—some kind of redemption.

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