The Beginner's Goodbye

by Anne Tyler

  Nandina starts telling me about a dispute she’s having with Charles. This has to do with Why I Have Decided to Go On Living, which took off a couple of years ago and unexpectedly made its author and us, both, some actual money. In preparation for next Christmas, Charles is proposing a sequel—maybe Why I Have Decided to Travel More or Why I Have Decided to Have Children. But the author seems to have come down with writer’s block, and now Charles is suggesting that we enlist some other author, or even write it in-house. Nandina says, “Am I missing something here? Am I wrong to think that one of those books is enough? Am I hopelessly out of step?”

  I say, “No, Nandina, believe me—” and then, “Whoa!” because Maeve has just veered sharply and plunged straight down the bank and into the water. “Get out of there!” I call, and I’m after her in a flash, with Nandina close behind in case I need a hand.

  “Turtle, Daddy!” Maeve says. (“Tor-toe,” she pronounces it.)

  “Get out of there this instant!”

  As I’m hauling her up the bank, I see the twins watching us, setting their identical, coin-shaped faces toward us until we’re safely on dry land again. Then they turn back to the ballplayers without comment.

  Do you imagine it hasn’t occurred to me that I might have just made Dorothy’s visits up? That they were mere wishful thinking, brought on by the temporary insanity of grief?

  But tell me, in that case, how she could have said those things that she knew and I didn’t.

  That she had refused a better job for my sake.

  That she had hidden her feelings for my sake.

  In short, that she had loved me.

  Did I make that up?

  On the walk home, Maeve lags and complains. She says her legs are too busy. “You’re tired,” I interpret for her, but she takes offense at this. “I’m not tired!” she says. I get the impression she associates the word “tired” with naps, which she views as torture no matter how much she needs one. I say, “Well, then, maybe you’re hungry.” This strikes her as more acceptable. It is, in fact, past noon, and I worry that Peggy is waiting lunch for us. But no, as we turn onto our street we catch sight of her up ahead, unloading a final bag of groceries from her trunk. “Mama!” Maeve shouts, and she takes off at a run.

  “How was your morning?” Peggy asks her when she’s close enough. Maeve just gives her a hug around the knees and races on toward the house. Peggy shuts her trunk lid and waits for me to reach her. “Honestly, Aaron, you’re squelching!” she says, because my shoes are sopping wet, and so are the cuffs of my trousers. I give her a peck on the cheek and we follow Maeve, who looks as if she’s wearing hip boots. Her overalls are dark with creek water from the thighs on down.

  My friend Luke told me once that he’d been considering my question about whether the dead ever visit. It was true that I had asked him, back around the time I asked Nate, but this was weeks and weeks later. Apparently he had been deliberating the issue ever since. “I’ve decided,” he said, “that they don’t visit. But I think if you knew them well enough, if you’d listened to them closely enough while they were still alive, you might be able to imagine what they would tell you even now. So the smart thing to do is, pay attention while they’re living. But that’s only my opinion.”

  Well, I have no idea if his opinion was right. But all the same, I’m careful these days to pay attention. I see how Peggy gives a frothy little spin to her skirt as she turns onto our sidewalk, and how Maeve has suddenly, out of nowhere, taught herself to climb steps the grownup way, foot above foot. I make a firm mental note of these things as I follow them into the house.

  “What?” Peggy asks in the hall. “What are you smiling at?”

  “Nothing.”

  It would be untruthful to say that I never think of Dorothy anymore. I think of both Dorothys—the one I married and the one who came back to visit. I see the Dorothy I married standing by her office bookcase in her starched white coat, demanding to know what was wrong with my arm, or squinting in a baffled way down the business end of a vacuum-cleaner hose, or fiercely cramming celery into the only Thanksgiving turkey she ever tried to cook. And then I think of how people reacted to the Dorothy who came back—some almost scared and some embarrassed, as if she’d committed a social blunder, and some showing no surprise. But I’m not so sure anymore that those who showed no surprise had forgotten she had died. Maybe they remembered perfectly well. Maybe they were just thinking, Of course. We go around and around in this world, and here we go again.

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Anne Tyler was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 1941 and grew up in Raleigh, North Carolina. She graduated at nineteen from Duke University, and went on to do graduate work in Russian studies at Columbia University. This is Anne Tyler’s nineteenth novel; her eleventh, Breathing Lessons, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1988. She is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She lives in Baltimore, Maryland.

  The Beginner’s Goodbye

  By Anne Tyler

  Reading Group Guide

  ABOUT THE READING GROUP GUIDE

  The questions, discussion topics, and reading list that follow are intended to enhance your reading group’s discussion of The Beginner’s Goodbye, Anne Tyler’s deeply moving new novel.

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  “Elegant … Tyler’s gentle style focuses on the details of daily life, and how the little things, both beautiful and ugly, contribute to the bigger picture. [She] portrays complex, difficult, loving individuals struggling to co-exist and find happiness together. This is no gothic ghost story nor chronicle of a man unraveling in his grief, but rather an uplifting tale of love and forgiveness. By the end of this wonderful book, you’ve lived the lives and loves of these characters in the best possible way.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  Anne Tyler gives us a wise and haunting new novel in which she explores how a middle-aged man, ripped apart by the death of his wife, is gradually restored by her frequent appearances—in their house, on the roadway, in the market.

  Crippled in his right arm and leg, Aaron has spent his childhood fending off a sister and mother who want to manage him. So when he meets Dorothy, a plain, outspoken, independent young woman, she is like a breath of fresh air. Unhesitatingly, he marries her, and they have a relatively happy, unremarkable marriage.

  But when a tree crashes into their house and Dorothy is killed, Aaron feels as though he has been erased forever. Only Dorothy’s unexpected appearances from the dead help him to live in the moment and to find some peace. And gradually he discovers that maybe for this beginner there is a way of saying goodbye.

  A beautiful, subtle exploration of loss and recovery, pierced throughout with Anne Tyler’s humor, wisdom, and always penetrating look at human foibles.

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. Aaron is handicapped on his right side as a result of a childhood illness. Why do you think the author chose to give her main character such a handicap? Is it significant—a symbol or metaphor—or entirely coincidental?

  2. Does the way that Aaron’s mother and sister treated him when he was growing up impact his character as an adult? Or explain why he might have married Dorothy?

  3. In Aaron’s recollections of initially meeting Dorothy and falling in love with her, he portrays himself as having been immediately besotted, though Dorothy herself seems less than scintillating. Is Aaron aware of this discrepancy?

  4. After Dorothy’s death, does Aaron fully grieve for her, or is he reluctant to accept what has happened?

  5. Why does Dorothy reappear so many months after her death?

  6. Aaron states early in the book (this page–this page) that he is an atheist. Does this (lack of) belief shed any light on Dorothy’s appearances?

  7. How does Dorothy act when she reappears? Why? Does her behavior indicate something about her character? About Aaron’s?

  8. Beginning on this page, Aaron reveals that his marriage to Dorothy was not, after all, ideal. Doe
s this come as a surprise? Do you think this has something to do with Dorothy’s reappearances?

  9. Toward the end of the book (this page–this page), Aaron reflects on Gil’s thoughts about his father’s reappearances (“I know Gil felt it was his father’s unfinished business that brought him, but what’s occurred to me lately is, couldn’t it have been Gil’s unfinished business?”). Do Aaron’s reflections suggest why Dorothy has reappeared?

  10. If so, what should the reader make of Aaron’s almost defensive remarks on the following page (“Do you imagine it hasn’t occurred to me that I might have just made Dorothy’s visits up?”)? What should we think of Nate’s comments on the page after that (“I think if you knew them well enough … you might be able to imagine what they would tell you even now”)? Do these comments indicate how Aaron has come to view Dorothy’s appearances?

  11. What are the possible ways to interpret the final paragraph of the book? Are the apparitions of Dorothy real, after all? Is Aaron deluded? Does the final paragraph suggest a “moral” to the story? Was a moral hinted at earlier?

  12. What is the significance of the book’s title?

  SUGGESTED READING

  The Love of a Good Woman by Alice Munro; A Widow for One Year by John Irving; Lost in the Forest by Sue Miller; The Maples Stories by John Updike