Boston Isn't Bermuda
The family at the center of these interconnected stories make their home in New England, but in “Allowance” they venture outside their normal boundaries of vacationland—exotic locales like Vermont and New Hampshire—to land themselves in the truly exotic paradise of Bermuda. Imagery comes in quite handy:
“Things were different in Bermuda. The grass was scratchy and rough, not at all like the grass at home, and the air had a thickness that made your bones feel loose. Stepping into the coral caves was like entering a seashell, with a low wind rushing and the echo of water slaps. Rays wheeled by through the pleated shallows on strange rubber wings, and green lizards, like elongated stars, appeared stuck onto the white walls inside the cottage.”
Like a Fence…Sure
A prank is arranged by Mum and the monkeys—the kids of the family at the center of the stories—trick dad into thinking nobody’s home when come arrives back from running an errand. They’re all squeezed in together like sardines, silently waiting for dad to come looking for an explanation of their absence. Instead, they hear him click on the TV and settle in to watch a football game. This does not sit well with Mum and imagery is used to convey the sense of the children being imprisoned—or, rather, fenced-in within a house being ripped apart by marital discord:
“Mum doesn’t say anything, just opens the door all the way. Past the banister in the hall it is yellow and bright. We climb out of the closet, feet-feeling our way down backward, bumping out one at a time, knocking down blankets and washcloths by mistake. Mum guides our backs and checks our landings. We don’t leave the narrow hallway. The light from downstairs shines up through the railing and casts shadows on the wall—bars of light and dark like a fence. Standing in it we have stripes all over us.”
The Lion
“Thanksgiving Day” has the family in Motley, Mass for Thanksgiving with family, but it is not turkey which takes front and center in the imagery sweepstakes. It is, instead, the sad remains of a lion shot on safari by a grandfather. One of the most common criticisms of this work is that while the connective tissue between individual stories is firm enough to accept it as a novel, most of the stories don’t really go anywhere. This applies equally to some of the symbolism and imagery, especially the lion which is built up before its appearance as if it is going to become emblematic of something. And yet, it just sorts of lies there forgotten for half the story:
“The lion lay in the middle of the floor, splayed out flat as a pancake except for its great head. Ma’s father had shot it on safari. Its mouth was raised up in a roar, the nostrils wrinkled and two sharp teeth coming down on either side. The pink tongue was made out of fired clay, glazed. Bit was the only one who dared to touch it. It rattled in the hard mouth. The top of the lion’s head was almost bald from being touched, or from being old.”
This Is the End, Really
The petering out with the expectation of something a bit more solid to hang onto even applies to the very last scene of the very last story. Now, here is something in microcosm that is emblematic of the nature of the whole:
“Sunlight was showing up with the sharpening shadows. They unloaded onto the dock, wind-tousled and strangely exhilarated. Dad went into reverse—having dropped them off—and putted out by himself to leave the boat at the mooring. Up the ramp they went, in single file, feeling something lofty in their procession, hearing flags billow and snap, following at one another’s heels, no one with the slightest idea, when they raised their heads and looked around, of where to go next.”
