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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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The Lay
of the Land by Richard Ford |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Thanksgiving Richard Ford
reprised protagonist Frank Bascombe for his new
novel, The
Lay of the Land. Frank is now fifty five years old, selling real estate
on the I should say something
about having cancer, since my health’s on my mind
now like a man being followed by an assassin. I’d like not to make a big
to-do over it, since my view is that rather than good things coming to those who wait, all things—good, bad, indifferent—come to all of us if we simply hang around long enough. The poet wasn’t
wrong when he wrote, “Great nature has another thing to do to you and me . . . What falls away is always. And is
near.” The telescoped version of
the whole cancer rigamarole is that exactly four
weeks after my wife, Sally Caldwell, announced she and her posthumous
husband, Wally (a recent, honored guest in our house), were reconvening life
on new footings and blah, blah, blah, blah, in earnest hope of gaining blah,
blah, blah, blah, and better blah, blah, blah, blah, I happened to notice some dried brown blood driblets at about
pecker height on my bedsheets, and went straight
off to Had-dam Medical Arts out Harrison Road to find out what might be going
on with what. I was in robustest of health (so I thought) in spite of Sally’s
unhappy departure—which I assumed wouldn’t last long. I did my situps and stretches, took healthful treks down the Sea-Clift beach every other day. I didn’t drink much. I kept
my weight at 178—where it’s been since my last year at “Probably nothing,” Bernie
Blumberg said, giving me a wiseacre, pooch-mouthed Jewish butcher’s wink,
stripping his pale work gloves into a HAZARD
can. “Prostatitis. Your gland feels a little smooshy. Slightly enlarged. Not unusual for your age.
Nothing some good gherkina jerkina
wouldn’t clear up.” He snorted, smacked his lips and dilated his nostrils as
he washed his hands for the eightieth time that day (these guys earn their
keep). “Your PSA’s up because of the inflammation.
I’ll put you on some atomic-mycin and in four weeks
do another PSA, after which you’ll be free to resume front-line duties. How’s
that wife of yours?” Sally and I both went to Bernie. It’s not unusual. “She’s in “How ‘bout that,” Bernie
said, and in an instant was gone—vanished out the door, or through the wall,
or up the A/C vent or into thin air, his labcoat
tails fluttering in a nonexistent breeze. “Well, look here now, how’s that
husband of yours?” I heard his voice sing out from somewhere, another
examining room down a hall, while I cinched my belt, re-zipped, found my
shoes and felt the odd queasiness up my butt. I heard his muffled laughter
through cold walls. “Oh, he certainly should. Of course he should,” he said.
I couldn’t hear the question. Only in four weeks, my PSA
showed another less-than-perfect 5.3, and
Bernie said, “Well, let’s give the pills another chance to work their magic.”
Bernie is a small, scrappy, squash-playing, wide-eyed, salt ‘n pepper
brush-cut Michigan Med grad from Wyandotte (which is why I go to him), an
ex-Navy corpsman who practices a robust battlefield triage mentality that
says only a sucking chest wound is worth getting jazzed up about. These guys
aren’t good when it comes to bedside etiquette and dispensing balming info. He’s seen too much of life, and dreams of
living in “What happens if that
doesn’t work?” I said. Bernie was scanning the computerized pages of my blood
work. We were in his little cubicle office. (Why don’t these guys have nice
offices? They’re all rich.) His “Well”—not yet looking all
the way over his glasses—”if that happens, I’ll send you around the corner
to my good friend Dr. Peplum over at Urology Partners, and he’ll get you in
for a sonogram and maybe a little biopsy.” “Do they do little ones?”
My lower parts gripped their side walls. Biopsy! “Yep. Uh-huh,” Bernie said,
nodding his head. “Nothin’ to it. They put you to
sleep.” “A biopsy. For cancer?” My
heart was stilled. I was fully dressed, the office
was freezing in spite of the warping I wasn’t exactly afraid (nobody’d told me anything bad yet). I just wanted to take
it in properly ahead of time so I’d know how to accommodate other possible
surprises. If this shows a propensity to duck before I’m hit, to withhold
commitment and not do every goddamn
thing whole hog—then sue me. All boats, the saying goes, are looking for
a place to sink. I was looking for a place to stay afloat. I must’ve known I
had it. Women know “it’s taken” two seconds after the guilty emission. Maybe
you always know. “I wouldn’t get worked up
over it yet.” Bernie looked up distractedly, glancing across his metal desk,
where my records lay. My face was as open as a
spring window to any news. I might as well have been a patient waiting to
have a seed wart frozen off. “Okay, I won’t,” I said. And with that good
advice in hand, I got up and left. Frank’s
emotional life rampages on the pages of The Lay
of the Land, and while readers may feel that Updike has done similar work
with greater precision, Ford’s dialogue is always perfect, and his capture of
ordinary people is spot on. Most readers will enjoy the hours spent reading The Lay
of the Land. Steve Hopkins,
December 18, 2006 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the January 2007
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/The
Lay of the Land.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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