Entering Normal

by Anne Leclaire

JM: The dead child, Todd, remains a character throughout the novel. Does his mother, in a sense, find a way to take him with her when she leaves her life behind?

  AL: Yes, because her love for him remains alive in her despite her paralyzing grief, and in spite of additional loss and disappointment. That is the triumph of love. It endures beyond the grave, and because of that, Todd—and your Dan, and my sister—will always be there, with us, as with Rose. Another of the quotes I had taped to the computer during the years I was working on the book was Patsy Cline’s epitaph: “Death cannot kill what never dies.”

  Reading Group Questions and Topics for Discussion

  When the novel opens, Opal is truly “Entering Normal.” What is the significance of the novel’s title? What is Opal’s sense of the town, in contrast to the viewpoints of Rose and Ned? Is the locale aptly named? Why or why not?

  Entering Normal shifts between points of view, giving voice to Opal, Rose, and Ned. How does this narrative choice impact the story? Do you feel that the story is evenly divided between these three characters? Why or why not?

  Opal takes most of the significant steps of her life—from her dalliances with men to her move from North Carolina—because of signs. Are these real or imagined guideposts to her life? How do other characters in the story use signs in less explicit ways?

  How is the theme of “fate vs. choice” explored throughout the book? Are Rose, Ned, and Opal vibrant participants in their own fate, or do they let life choose for them? How?

  Rose immediately labels Opal as a girl who “sucks trouble to her.” Is this assessment true, or is Opal more a product of circumstances? How does Rose’s instant reaction to her new next-door neighbor shed light on the feelings she harbors about herself and those around her?

  From the start of Entering Normal, Ned and Rose’s marriage is in trouble. How have their different approaches to grief driven them apart? From their separate memories, how do you envision their lives before Todd’s death?

  Although Rose patiently waits for her dead son, Todd, to return and refuses to let go of his memory, her only glimpse of him is in a flashback. Why does the author use this technique? What do we learn about Rose’s character—and about her relationships—from the episode?

  Ned discovers that Rose has withdrawn from her writing class, and then lied to him about it. Why doesn’t he confront her about this deception? How does Ned’s assumption that Rose has been chastised as an inadequate writer shed light on his perception of her?

  Although she’s an unwed mother, Opal views Zack as the one perfect element to come out of her relationship with Billy. How does this view compare and contrast with Rose’s relationship with Todd and with Ned?

  In what ways is Opal similar to Rose as a mother, and in which ways would their parenting techniques diverge? How does Zack remind her of Todd, and in which ways is Zack different?

  Neither Zack nor Todd ever had a sibling. Ethel, Ned’s sister, is depicted as selfish and terrible. How is the motif of only children significant in the novel? How would each of the boys’ lives have been different if he had been raised with a brother or sister?

  In one of the book’s most pivotal events, Rose lies to the doctor at the hospital, insisting that she was present when Zack fell and broke his arm. What would compel Rose to reach out to Opal? In what ways, other than motherhood, does she identify with her neighbor?

  When Zack injures himself, Opal blames herself for not being able to control her “hunger.” What types of hunger, both food-related and otherwise, spur conflict in the novel? How is Zack’s fractured arm a symbol for larger destruction?

  A snowstorm forces Zack to stay with Ned and Rose on New Year’s Eve. How is that night a turning point for all of the characters? How does the friendship between Zack and Ned affect Rose? How does it hint at the coming relationship between Rose and Zack?

  Opal first becomes involved with Ty because of a sexual longing; Rose hasn’t slept with her husband since her son’s death, and she flees when Anderson kisses her. How do each of these attitudes impact the women’s lives? Is sex viewed as a necessity or a luxury in this novel?

  When Billy files for custody of Zack, Opal dismisses Billy as someone who wants what he cannot have. How accurate is this judgment? In which ways is Opal similar to Billy?

  When he visits Trudy’s diner, Ned consciously compares his wife with the waitress. Trudy admits her jealousy of Ned’s wife; how is Rose, in turn, envious of Trudy? How has Trudy dealt with the death of a loved one, and how does her attitude compare to that of Rose?

  The writing teacher, Anderson Jeffrey, won’t stop contacting Rose. In your opinion, what parts of their relationship exist in reality, and which lurk in Rose’s imagination? What elements of Rose’s personality are unleashed by Anderson’s attention and by her writing? What other outside influences shape Rose’s transformation?

  In the custody hearing, Opal’s own parents side with Billy about her incompetence as a mother. What reasons would they give for their actions? In which ways is Opal a product of the failings of her own childhood? How does Melva’s relationship with Opal compare to Opal’s with Zack?

  Ned is expected to recover fully from his heart attack, but he unexpectedly passes away. How does this event parallel the death of his son? How does Ned’s death provide a catalyst for Rose’s rebirth?

  While Opal wins custody of her son, she must return to her hometown. How do you envision that Opal will assert her own independence while living under the thumb of her parents and brother? How will Rose help her attain that goal?

  Why do you think that Rose volunteers to go to North Carolina with Opal and Zack? Do you think that Rose is truly free of her ghosts, whether real or imagined?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Anne D. LeClaire is a novelist and short story writer who teaches and lectures on writing and the creative process. She has also worked as a radio broadcaster, a journalist, an op-ed columnist for The Cape Cod Times , and a correspondent for The Boston Globe. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, Redbook, and Yankee magazine among others. She is the mother of two adult children and lives in Cape Cod, Massachusetts.

  Don’t miss Anne D. LeClaire’s new novel,

  LEAVING EDEN

  Available in bookstores everywhere Fall 2002. Published by Ballantine Books.

  For an exciting preview, please turn the page. . . .

  PROLOGUE

  I WAS ASLEEP THE NIGHT MAMA LEFT US, BUT I REMEMBER every detail of the moment she came home. June 21, 1988. Hot enough to poach perch in Bald Creek and officially the first day of summer, although I had already been swimming for weeks. Country 99.7 was on in the kitchen, and I was forming a trio with the Judds. “Girls Night Out.”

  Daddy had already departed for the mill when Mr. Tinsley’s taxi pulled up to the curb, belching blue. I peered through the kitchen window and saw the passenger door open and a dark-haired girl step out. She wore black flat-heeled shoes, black pedal pushers, a red-and-white striped sailor shirt, and cinching her waist, a black leather belt. Before I even got to wondering who she was and what she was doing here, she looked directly up at our house and—although I had been praying steadily for just this moment—I couldn’t believe what was laid out right before my eyes.

  Mama had come home.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” I said. Just that. Back then I still had faith that what you asked for would surely come if you prayed with sufficient fervor, and I sincerely believed it was the power of my prayers that had brought my mama back.

  She stood there for a moment, suitcases plopped on the grass, just looking up and staring at the house, like she’d been deposited before the home of strangers and wasn’t sure whether to walk up the path to our front door or get back in with Mr. Tinsley and drive away. I didn’t give her time to make her decision.

  Quicker than you could say Sam Hill, I lunged forward, screen slamming behind me. “Mama!” I cried, and flung myself in her arms, hugging her so close it made her gasp. What I real
ly wanted was to wrap my legs around her waist and my arms around her neck, the way I used to so she would have to carry me up to the house, but I was way too old for that and—I realized suddenly—now as tall as she. That smashing hug had to suffice.

  I didn’t see then how tired she looked, just how pretty. Even then, nearing her forties, she was the prettiest woman in all of Eden. And, if you believed some people, Spring Hill and Redden, too.

  You see, Mama was the spitting image of Natalie Wood. Not everyone my age knew about the actress who was Queen of the Screen in the 1960s, how they’d charcoaled her skin so she could play a Puerto Rican in West Side Story, how the crazy bathtub scene in Splendorin the Grass didn’t have to be faked. I knew all that. I was raised on Natalie. Mama had even named me Natasha, which was Natalie’s pet name, a fact not many people knew.

  Mama was five feet tall, exactly like the actress, and had the same dark hair and black-velvet eyes and perfect, pouty mouth—so alike they could be twins. People were forever telling her this, and although she made quick to deny it politely in public, her mirror just reflected back the same truth. Which I guess was what started all the trouble. Trouble that began, though I wouldn’t know this for years, began back before I was even thought of.

  “Did you get it?” I screamed. “Did it happen?”

  “Shush, baby,” she said, and then she held me out at arm’s length and looked me over. “You’ve grown up.” She eyed my bosom. “Up and out.”

  She’d missed my birthday back in May. I was twelve and, like I said, nearly as tall as she was. For that instant—her commenting on how I’d changed since she left—I wanted to feel as I truly should have felt. Mad at her. For everything. For deserting us, no matter how urgent the cause that took her away. For missing my birthday. For not being there when I’d started my period and, too embarrassed to ask my daddy for help, had to ask old Mrs. Harewood at the drugstore whatever to buy. Most of all, I wanted to be angry at her for leaving me alone, the only girl in all of Eden without a mama, except Rula Wade, whose mama died birthing her and even she had a stepmama, though one only eleven years older. I wanted to be mad but I couldn’t. All that anger just melted like spring ice off Baldy. It’s gospel that no one could stay angry long at Mama. It always was.

  “Your daddy inside?” she asked. I couldn’t tell if she was hoping he was or wasn’t.

  “At the mill,” I said. For sure, Daddy hadn’t the least idea that Mama was coming home today. I sent off a prayer that he wouldn’t stop at CC’s Bar and Grill—a dive a lot more bar than grill.

  Mama drew a deep breath and lifted a hand to shade her eyes as she looked around. “Spring in the Blue Ridge,” she said. “It surely shows the Lord’s gift with a paint box.” Then she said she regretted missing the redbuds in bloom and the dogwood. She said dogwood in blossom looked like “sulfur moths floating over the fields.” Like she was telling me about the dogwood blossom and redbuds. I wasn’t the one who had left. What I needed to know was where she’d been and exactly what she’d been doing. I was hungry for details beyond those three-line messages scrawled on the backs of postcards.

  Before I could say a word, she headed into the house, and from that moment on she acted like she hadn’t been anywhere more exciting than Lynchburg. While she unpacked and got reacquainted with the house, she asked me a hundred questions about my school and friends and how I had celebrated my birthday. (Which she hadn’t forgotten after all. She gave me a little purse covered with beads she said were sewn by hand. Inside was a tube of real lipstick. The six-dollar kind. It made me sick with impatience to think it was summer and I’d have to wait until school to show it off.) Naturally I tried to tell her everything that had happened in the past six months, but when I asked her if she got the part in the movie she just said, “Did you see me riding up here in any Cadillac?” I kept pushing for details, but she deflected my questions with a weary, “Later, sugar.” I believed her, believed I’d be learning everything before long, and so let things be. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but that day I didn’t have a clue four years would pass before I’d learn all the things my mama wasn’t telling. By then—by the time I’d unraveled mysteries that took me clear across the country—I’d be bearing secrets of my own.

  After lunch, she pleaded exhaustion from the trip (trip from exactly where?) and went in to take a nap, not even bothering to change the rumpled sheets, a fact that revealed how tired she was. The linens were gray with grime, and Mama always was finicky about towels, corners, toilet seats, such like. I had tried my best while she was gone, but it was amazing how much work a house required. And I had school, too, which was supposed to be a girl’s full-time job.

  Mama slept through most of the afternoon while I waited outside her door, edgy with unsatisfied curiosity and fretting about Daddy’s maybe stopping at CC’s. I plotted about how to get word to him. So he would be prepared. So he would come straight home without detouring for a drink or three. Finally I called the mill, an act so bold it had occurred only once in our family history, when I was knocked out cold by a pitched ball in P.E. But on this of all days, he couldn’t be reached.

  I could have saved myself the trouble. As if he had some special radar where Mama was concerned, Daddy came directly from work. When he walked through the door she was sitting at the kitchen table, freshly showered and dressed in a becoming pink blouse. The second he saw her he wasted no more time getting mad than I had.

  “Welcome home, Dinah Mae,” he said.

  “Deanie,” Mama said.

  “Dinah. Deanie. Whatever, darlin’.”

  It amazed me how a man could welcome his wife back like that without one single word about what she’d been doing since January. Course, Daddy always was a fool for everything about Mama. He thought she hung the moon. His sister Ida said he would carry Mama around on a pillow if it would make her happy. He displayed his love so openly I was embarrassed for him. I thought it was plain silly for a man to act so crazy over any woman. Even Mama. But I guess it’s hard to express what there was about Mama. It was as if her even noticing you was a favor, though not in a conceited way. It was just her manner. Long before the phrase ever entered the vernacular, Mama ruled.

  Daddy’s overalls were dirty, and there was flour dust on the back of his neck, creased with a line of sweat. I wished he’d washed up before he’d come home. He was a big man, my daddy, but he always seemed to shrink when he was with Mama. Even though he was capable at the mill and with any kind of machine, around her he was all helpless thumbs.

  At last, I thought, we’ll find out everything.

  To my disappointment, Daddy didn’t seem to share my fiery interest in what Mama’d been doing. He was happy to have her back and made it plainer than two sticks. He hadn’t been home more than fifteen minutes when they disappeared into their bedroom, not even bothering to glance my way to see if I was watching. At first all you could hear was talking, and once Mama laughed and that set her off in a coughing fit. Then nothing came from that room but silence. They didn’t care a whit that they’d left me sitting alone.

  I went out to the porch and picked up Gone with the Wind, which I was reading for the second time that summer. I loved the first sentence and knew it by heart. “Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were.” Mama was exactly like that. Loaded with charm. But beautiful, too. Feature by feature. Truly, Mama’d put Scarlett to shame. Whenever I pictured scenes from the book, it wasn’t Vivien Leigh I was seeing. It was Mama.

  I was at the part where the army was driven back to their winter quarters in Virginia and Christmas was approaching. Ashley Wilkes was on furlough, and Scarlett was frightened by the violence of her feelings for him. She loved Ashley “to desperation,” a phrase that thrilled and frightened me every time I considered it. Violence and desperation didn’t seem like good things to associate with love. In books, uncontrollable love might sound romantic, but in real life it was sure to be messy. Dang
erous. How dangerous, I couldn’t imagine, though I was to find out.

  I read and reread the paragraph describing how the war had changed Ashley, but I couldn’t concentrate. A honeybee kept circling the swing, driving me crazy with its buzzing, but what was really pulling my attention was the silence from behind the bedroom door. I didn’t need any road map to tell me what was going on. I picked at a scab on my knee until it bled and was sure to make a scar, then sucked the blood off my finger and made up my mind that I wouldn’t even speak to Mama when they reappeared.

  When they finally reappeared—all rumpled and giggly—neither of them had the good grace to look shamefaced. Daddy sat down at the table and drank a Pabst while Mama set about making dinner. Fried ham steak, sweet potatoes, and creamed corn. When I smelled the ham frying, I felt my resolve to stay silent soften, and then the little seed of anger melted into relief. You see, it wasn’t that Mama was heartless. She was just carefree, and that could feel like plain not caring.

  I sipped a Coke, and something clenched loosened inside my chest. Mama was here, cooking dinner and flirting with Daddy. All was well in my world. We were a family again, not just a daddy and his daughter trying to be one, with a mama off somewhere on her way to becoming someone else.

  Later, after dinner, we all settled in on the couch and Daddy switched on the TV. Outside, the Bettis twins were cranking by on their dirt bikes. Wiley called for me to join them, but I was staying exactly where I was, snuggled in next to Mama. We watched Wheel of Fortune and a rerun of Moonlighting. Although she wasn’t our type, Mama and I both agreed that Cybill Shepherd knew a thing or two about looking fine. “That girl’s got attitude,” Mama said, like it was a good thing.

  Midway through the show, Daddy swung her feet up into his lap, like he had a zillion times. “Size five,” he announced to the room, his voice swollen with awe and pride, as if he were both surprised and personally responsible for the miracle of her tiny feet. I swung my own feet up. “Size eight,” I said. We all laughed.