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On Sale: December 10, 2008
Pages: 288 | ISBN: 978-0-307-49065-0
Published by : Ballantine Books Ballantine Group
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READER'S GUIDE READER'S GUIDE
Synopsis|Excerpt

Synopsis

Connie has trouble with time. She always has to stop and think a minute: How old is she now? . . . Faith always seems to know, though her life is the same as Connie’s: back and forth to theater towns all over. The same dingy food, the same noisy sidewalks, the same cramped suites in the same hotels. . . Sometimes they go to school, sometimes not, though they always have books to read: big packets of books that Armand sends to them in every city. Armand is their parents’ lawyer, the only person they know who likes children. . . .

Faith and Connie endured the same childhood as daughters of egocentric, semi-famous actors who can scarcely take care of themselves. But the two sisters could not be more different. Connie learned to beg for attention, clamor for approval, and fill the silence with words. Faith turned inward, shrinking from the tender emotions that make up an ordinary life. Despite their differences, the sisters came to rely on each other exclusively. But lately, after years of quiet connection, Faith and Connie seem to have lost the ties that once held them close. Faith has a home and two growing sons, but is still unable to fathom unconditional love. Connie, a flight attendant, is always searching, ever-expecting to find her true place in life at the end of each long flight. But a series of shocking, revelatory events will bring the sisters back to each other—and forever alter how they define love, fulfillment, and most importantly, family.

Excerpt

For the longest time, Connie thinks the house in Connecticut is two houses. The one they used to live in with Grammy Spaulding had a pretty yard with giant white flowers growing next to the door, and window boxes with smaller flowers, pink, spilling over the lip. It had a shiny wooden floor in the upstairs bedroom where she and Faith used to skate in their socks. It had places to hide: big closets that smelled like cotton, and an open shape behind the stairs, not the cramped, creepy places of the house they’re in now. Connie hasn’t seen that other house since Grammy went away, and she longs for it, the snow filling in the windowsills, Grammy’s crooked finger tracing their names on the cold pane.

“What happened to that other house?” she asks Faith.

Connie is three. Faith is big; she’s five.

“What house?” Faith says. She is sitting on the dull floor, her legs splayed in front of her, reading a book with butterflies on the cover.

“That house where it snowed and had pink flowers.”

“We didn’t have a house like that. Flowers don’t grow in snow.”

“Oh,” Connie says. She waits a minute. “Where’s Grammy?”

Faith looks at her book, hard. “In heaven,” she says. “I told you.”

Connie knows Faith won’t talk to her anymore now that she has mentioned Grammy.

“Grammy took care of us when I was one,” Connie says, but Faith won’t answer. “I was one years old.”

The house is silent and too small. The other house was big.

“Fix my pants,” she asks Faith.

Faith puts down her book with the butterflies. Connie trails her to the bathroom, yanking her rubber pants and wet panties down to her knees, walking bent over her bare feet.

“Did you go number one or number two?” Faith asks, stepping onto the toilet to reach the sink.

“Number one.”

Connie lies on the bathroom floor–her ruined pants next to her in a shameful heap–and watches Faith wet a washcloth. Faith’s hair has a snag in the back, but the rest of it is combed just right. Faith knows how to do everything. She steps off the toilet, one hand on the sink for balance. “Go like this,” she says, wiping Connie’s bottom. Connie does, then Faith wipes her again and dries her with a towel.

Connie stays on the floor while Faith gets clean panties. “Can I have powder?” she asks, hoping she doesn’t sound too much like a baby. Faith shakes some on. She puts Connie’s feet through the legs of the clean panties and pulls them up, then follows with the same pair of rubber pants. “All done,” she says, and goes out to find her book.

Connie’s rubber pants smell funny but she doesn’t care. She follows Faith, remembering that other house, the one Faith says they never lived in. But they did. Connie remembers everything, even the flower smell of Grammy’s lap, and the stories Grammy used to over and over from grown-ups’ books, and her songs about animals. Billy says Grammy used to sing like a rusty hinge, but she didn’t. Billy and Delle sing all the time in bird voices, tall, mean, beautiful birds. Sometimes they sing their own names–Billy and Delle, Billy and Delle–up and down the scale. Connie wonders if everybody’s mother and father sing like that.

“Faith?”

“What.”

“Faith?”

Faith tips her head up. “What.”

“Look at me.”

“I’m looking.”

But she isn’t really, and her head tips down again into her book. Connie wishes she could read. She stares out the window over the bumpy lawn. That other house had pink flowers, and snow. She knows it did.

Connie has trouble with time. She always has to stop and think a minute: how old is she now? Is that smell in the air winter coming, or spring? Faith always seems to know, though her life is the same as Connie’s: back and forth to theater towns all over. The same dingy food, the same noisy sidewalks, the same cramped suites in the same hotels, too cold or too hot. Nothing moves forward. Sometimes they go to school, sometimes not, though they always have books to read: big packets of books that Armand sends them in every city. Armand is Billy and Delle’s lawyer, the only person they know who likes children.

The hotel they’re in now, where they are watching Billy and Delle run lines, is hot. Not because of the weather, which is cold, but because of the steam heat they can’t control. This is Cleveland, or Columbus–Connie keeps forgetting. Next comes New York, Broadway, weeks and weeks in the worst hotel of all, the noise of the city battering the windows and walls.

Connie can remember being here in Columbus or Cleveland once before, with a different show, when she was seven, or five. She remembers the lady downstairs who does nothing all day but suck on lollipops and smile politely and check people in. She likes Connie and Faith, brings them sandwiches when Billy and Delle don’t, tells them all about her romantic husband. Connie also remembers this sofa, its lurid orange flowers. Today it feels like wet sweaters. Faith is shifting next to her, lifting her sticky legs.

“Charmed,” Billy says from the exact center of the room, extending his hand. He is a count who can’t remember where he hid some important papers; Delle is the countess. Her amber eyes slide over.

“Enchanted,” she says. She rises from a chrome chair she retrieved from the kitchenette. In the play it’s a red velvet divan.

Billy filches a pitch pipe from his pocket, blows one note, and they begin to sing. They sing two verses and a chorus, then break to perform a complicated two-step, counting softly as the imaginary orchestra plays. Connie thinks she can hear it. The song picks up again, then fades off the ends of their voices, the harmony lingering.

Connie doesn’t clap until Faith does. Billy and Delle bow deeply, showing the hard gleam of her teeth. For an instant Connie is flattered by this extravagance, but she senses their looking beyond, sees their eyes sweep past her and her sister into the imaginary second balcony.

“You balled up that same line, Delle,” Billy says. Connie hears the huff of the couch as Faith drops back against it. Billy and Delle are nervous and high-strung because the tour is going badly. They are the same way, only more, when a tour goes well.

“Well, listen to you,” Delle says. “You haven’t had a new line in three weeks.” Connie watches her mother’s neck redden, blushing up into her cheekbones. She is beautiful.

“Don’t start, Delle.”

“How many times can they rewrite this part?” Delle says. “My God, Garrett can pick some losers. What does he care, he gets his cut.” She gathers up the script in a messy heap and shakes it at him. “You think the Lunts would take a dog like this? You think Helen Hayes would look once at this thing?”

“So Garrett’s a bastard.” Billy ticks the edge of Delle’s script with his thumb. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Delle sighs theatrically, her chest heaving with the effort. “We won’t last a week in New York.”

Billy smiles the thins smile that means trouble. “Not unless you get top billing, Countess?”

Delle holds up her finger as if it could shoot a bullet. “Don’t give me that. Don’t you give me that.”

Connie is invisible, silent on the sofa, next to her invisible sister. Her parents begin to fire words back and forth. Their voices pick up, their faces pulse blood, the words they use sound whipped and snapped and dirty.

A flutter of paper explodes from Delle’s hands, and now they’re screaming at each other amidst a tornado of pages. Connie freezes. The speed with which these storms start and stop always shocks her. She thinks her parents might have some secret mechanical parts, so that when they talk of pushing each other’s buttons they mean real buttons.

Faith is on the floor, gathering the spilled script one page at a time. Connie slips off the sofa and crouches next to her, imitating her precise movements. At the toe of her mother’s white pumps, cold, black typed lines of dialogue stare up at her, their composure marred by smeared crossouts and writeovers in different colors of ink. She takes the sheets between her hands and taps them against the clammy carpet, listening hard.

Everything goes quiet, except for another burst of steam from the radiators. Delle is at the window, seething, her jaw tilted out toward the street; but her carriage the subtle turn of her shoulder, shows her to be fully tuned, wholly there. She’s wearing a navy blue dress with a boat neck and fitted waist and tapered skirt. Her ears are dotted by white button earring. Billy goes to her, his stride effortless, as if the horrible air weighed nothing at all. They murmur to each other, then kiss deeply, for an embarrassingly long time. He touches her shoulder near the neck and she lists into his hand, a tableau they’re known for on the stage.

Finished, they cross to the sofa, where Connie sits with Faith, the rescued script between them in a stack so even it might have been run through a paper cutter.

“We’re going to the Stardust for a bite,” Billy says. Connie’s cheek is warm where he holds it.

“Can’t we come, Billy?” she asks. She is hoping so hard it feels like a little animal is in her stomach.

“It’s a bar,” Delle says. “They don’t allow children.” She smiles hugely, as if to make up for not inviting them. Her hair is chestnut red, piled up on her head. Her mouth is also red, but deeper, bloodier.

Billy runs a hand over his forehead. “Jesus, I have to get out of this heat. It feels like goddamned Cuba in here.”

“We’ll be quiet,” Connie says. She turns to Faith. “Won’t we, Faith?” She can almost hear the turn in Faith’s stomach. Faith hates to beg.

Faith moves to the window and sits on the wide, low sill. She isn’t going to help.
Monica Wood|Author Q&A

About Monica Wood

Monica Wood - Secret Language

Photo © Dan Abbott

Monica Wood is the author of an earlier novel, Secret Language, and a guide for fiction writers, Description. Her short stories, some of which have been nominated for the National Magazine Award and read on public radio, have appeared in such publications as Glimmer Train, Redbook, Manoa, Yankee, Best American Mystery Stories 1997, Twenty Timeless Stories, and Sudden Fiction International. She won a 1999 Pushcart Prize. A native of Mexico, Maine, she currently lives in Portland with her husband. She can be reached at her Web site, www.monicawood.com.

Author Q&A

A Conversation with Monica Wood

Debra Spark is the author of the novels Coconuts for the Saint and
The Ghost of Bridgetown. She teaches fiction writing at Colby College
and Warren Wilson College's MFA Program for Writers.

Debra Spark: You dedicate this book, your first novel, to Anne
Wood, your sister, and, you write in the dedication, "my guardian
angel"? I know that two of your siblings (a brother and a sister)
are quite a bit older than you (and your other two siblings). Indeed,
Anne was your high school English teacher. Can you tell me
a bit about her and her influence on your writing?

Monica Wood: You just asked me about one of my favorite subjects!
Anne was my high school English teacher. She was--and
is--the center of our family.

Let me tell you a story about Anne, an emblematic story.

I grew up thinking I was some kind of child prodigy, and the evidence
for this was some letters I wrote to Anne, when I was five or
six years old, and she was in college. Over the years, Anne mentioned
these letters as proof positive of my talents. Recently, I was
going through my mother's cedar chest and found the letters. They
said things like, "Hi, Anne. How are you? I am fine. I miss you."
That was basically it. All of them were pretty much the same.

"Are these the letters you've been telling me about?" I asked her.

She said, "Oh, yes," all misty-eyed, and I'm saying, "Are these
ALL the letters?" I kept hoping there was a secret stash somewhere.

Debra Spark: Could you tell me a bit more about the rest of your
family?

Monica Wood: It's an Irish-Catholic mill family from Mexico,
Maine. My grandfather, father, and brother worked all their lives
in the paper mill. My father was born and raised on Prince Edward
Island, and my mother's family also came from there, so
there's a strong Canadian influence. For example, we didn't grow
up with strong Maine accents--you can hear maritime Canada as
much as western Maine in our speech. Also, my family is kind of
unusual in that there are two generations of kids with the same
parents. Anne and my brother Barry are fourteen and nineteen
years older than Cathe, Betty, and me.

Debra Spark: One of the reasons I'm curious about your family
has to do with what your novel seems to say about families, about
how we are shaped--irrevocably--by who we come from. This
seems as much an issue of nurture as nature, since Isadora has inherited
so many traits from the father she never knew, and since
both Faith and Connie have been damaged by their parents and
saved--to a degree--by their childhood coping mechanisms which
continue into adulthood.

Monica Wood: The central notion in Secret Language is that
we're shaped more by shared experience than by blood. Isadora's
never going to fit in the way she wants to, because she didn't share
a childhood with Faith and Connie. They're going to take her in,
but that's not the same as absorbing her into their experience. Not
surprisingly, sibling dynamics have always fascinated me. For example,
I love my older brother, but because he joined the air force
the year I was born, I have a different relationship with him than
with my sister Cathe, with whom I shared a bed for eighteen
years. Because I never lived with my brother, he was always more
of an uncle figure than a brother figure. He has children my age.
On the other hand, because my brother and I are the musicians in
the family, we share something unique.

Debra Spark: You strike me--you'll excuse me for being personal--
as a very loving person.

Monica Wood: Oh, thank you.

Debra Spark: And yet your novel is about people who need to
learn how to love, who can't quite articulate either their needs or
their affections. I wondered where that came from, the interest in
that subject.

Monica Wood: As I look at my work over time, I realize that a
recurring theme for me is of replacing things that have been lost.
People assemble families out of scraps sometimes, since everybody
needs some kind of family. For some people, family is the family
they were born into and never manage to shake. For others, it is a
family that they later assemble. Or a work environment that is
somewhat circumscribed.

Debra Spark: Connie creates a family with Stewart.

Monica Wood: And Isadora, who is trying to collect on something
she thinks she missed out on. Life is a series of losses for
everybody, and we just keep filling up holes as we get older. Some
people have to start at a very early age.

Debra Spark: I happened to read your second novel, My Only
Story
, before I read your first novel, Secret Language. They're very
different books, though I'm struck by one rather profound similarity.
In both books, there is a woman who is an observer of a
very connected, noisy family. In the case of My Only Story, it's
Rita, the hairdresser/narrator who wants very much to claim the
Dohertys as her own. In Secret Language, Faith marries into a
family very much like the Dohertys, and yet she's overwhelmed by
them. It all makes me think of the famous Tolstoy quote about
how happy families are all alike, but unhappy families are each
unhappy in their own special way. Do you agree with Tolstoy?

Monica Wood: Oh, no. I think happy families are happy in infinitely
varied ways and that happy families are not happy all the
time. Although I wouldn't want to write a novel in which a happy
family takes center stage, I love them as a counterpoint or backdrop
to the main character's struggle. A happy family can feel
burdensome if you're not happy yourself. No matter who you are,
you think of the world at some point in terms of insiders and outsiders,
and people rarely cast themselves as insiders. Feeling like
an outsider is a common human theme, and in my novels, it seems
to show up in the guise of a big family that's hard to penetrate.

Debra Spark: I wonder if you could say something about your title.
It refers, of course, to the secret language that Stewart mentions
on p. 154, the supposed secret language that indicates the
special understanding of siblings. It seems to me that many people
in your book speak a secret language. Connie and Faith. Connie
and Stewart. Even Billy and Delle, to a degree.

Monica Wood: My original title for this book was Muscle Memory.
My editor said, "You can't call this book Muscle Memory. It's
just stupid." But I actually think the original title describes some
aspects of the novel more precisely than Secret Language. When
you do something often enough for long enough, your muscle retains
the motion. Emotionally, that's what Faith is up against;
she's been closed off for so long it's almost impossible for her to
exist any other way. But Secret Language is a decent title, too, because
the notion of a secret language filters down to all the characters
in one way or another. Joe and Faith have their married
way of speaking long after the divorce; Connie and Stewart have
the banter of exhausted singles on the prowl; Billy and Delle have
their scripts and song lyrics--the only thing that seems to satisfy
them at all.

Debra Spark: I read somewhere that you feel your fiction is getting
more, rather than less, autobiographical, and yet I do notice a
significant autobiographical detail in this novel. So let's talk birds,
for just a second. Faith is an avid birder. She can even do that
trick of getting a black-capped chickadee to land on her finger.
I've seen your house. I've seen the bird feeders outside and all
those ornithology books inside. So, first, a personal question. Can
you do that chickadee trick?

Monica Wood: Yes.

Debra Spark: You can?

Monica Wood: I do it exactly the way I describe it in the book.
The first time I did it I was in the woods in New Hampshire, on a
beautiful fall day. This chickadee--well, they're fairly tame anyway,
not that you can reach up and pluck them off a branch or
anything--this chickadee perched just over my head and I
thought: "He's tame." I put up my hand and he landed briefly. I
silently thanked the woman--I was sure it was a woman--who
had tamed this guy at her feeder in Maine or Massachusetts or
Quebec, who knows where.

Debra Spark: A simple read of the birds in your book would be
that they demonstrate Faith's ability to love. She's sufficiently
damaged by her parents that she can't articulate her emotions
very well, even when Joe, her husband, needs her so desperately to
say what she feels. But what else do you think Faith's birding
reveals about her?

Monica Wood: Well, for her, I think all the birding--and the
flowers that she tends and her house--exhibits her natural instinct
for connection that has been blunted by other circumstances in
her life. I don't want to get too heavily symbolic with the birds.
They arrived in the book because I love birds. And they stayed in
there because I wanted to give this poor woman something to animate
her. After all, she's a tough character in a lot of ways.

Debra Spark: Three of your characters--Billy, Delle, and Isadora--
are all performers. They are also narcissistic, rather manipulative
people. Do they strike you as incapable of love?

Monica Wood: I think Billy and Delle really are. They're in love
with the idea of themselves like ...I hate to say it ...a lot of people
in that profession. They're also in love with the idea of themselves
with two perfectly beautiful children. But I do have affection
for them. They're talented. They're emotionally outsized. There's
something perversely attractive about them. Isadora is a whole other
problem, though. She's willing, she's capable, but she is also ...to
say self-involved would be putting it mildly. But she's not just a user.
Her motivations are more complicated than that. There's something
really appealing to her about having instant sisters.

Debra Spark: You're a singer yourself. Can you say a little about
your performing experience? Is there a reason you never pursued
a career more seriously?

Monica Wood: Well, let me tell you something . . . singing in bars
at night gets old really fast. You're breathing smoke all night long.
You're lugging equipment around. I did it for a few years. Now I
don't really do much performing to speak of.

Debra Spark: For eight years, you were a high school guidance
counselor. For me, some of your novel's most affecting material
concerns the years when Faith and Connie are in high school, surviving
as virtual orphans. I wonder if the characters of Faith and
Connie were drawn from something you came to understand
about adolescents when you were still working at Westbrook
High School.

Monica Wood: I was still at Westbrook when I started the early
versions of this book. Or it was right after I left. It's hard to remember
how a book starts. One thing about being a high school
guidance counselor is you see every kind of kid there is, and you
see kids in groups, which is different from interacting with your
own kid and your own kid's friends. You learn different things
about kids' hungers and fears. I did have kids who seemed to have
been born forty, like Faith. They broke my heart, but I admired
them deeply. They were able to somehow manage in the most
gruesome situations.

Debra Spark: Could you tell me a bit about the storytelling tradition
in your own family?

Monica Wood: I learned early on that if you were going to tell a
story, you had to do it in a certain way. It had to be suspenseful or
funny or compelling or flat-out eye-popping or nobody would
bother repeating it. When someone starts to tell a big story in my
family, we all sigh, "Oh, here goes Mrs. McCarn," referring to
one of the many Prince Edward Island eccentrics we grew up
hearing about. Apparently this woman couldn't tell a story without
grabbing a coat off a rack or a pan off the stove, roaming the
room to act out all the parts. We make fun of this storytelling
method, but we all do it. My mother was the champion, but my
sister Cathe and brother Barry are right on her heels. They can tell
a hell of a story.

Debra Spark: One thing I admire about your novel is how you
handle time. Both how you move forward in time, and how you
make time itself (memory and the past) part of your story. When I
finished your novel, I thought of the optimistic Grace Paley quote
about how characters should be allowed "the open destiny of
life." I have a rather happy sense of what may happen next to
your characters, though I realize there are questions left up in the
air. Certainly your novel feels done, and yet I wouldn't mind re-meeting
these characters in another novel or story. Have you ever
felt tempted to go back to them? Or indeed to return to any of the
characters in your finished work?

Monica Wood: Never. Never. By the time I finish with a novel, I
have spent so much time with these people that I love them dearly,
but I never want to see them again.

Debra Spark: Your own formal education in writing was relatively
brief--you attended a month's worth of writing workshops
with George Garrett--and yet you yourself are a rather famous
writing teacher in Maine. Your students speak of you with great
affection and admiration, and you've written several books about
writing. How does teaching writing influence your own writing?

Monica Wood: I love to teach writing, because it keeps me in
mind of the fundamentals and reminds me what I know--and
don't know--about craft. Just this morning I was struggling with
a scene in a new novel, not getting what the scene was about, but
stubbornly writing and writing, all this lyrical folderol. Then I
asked myself how I'd advise a student in my situation. I ended up
doing one of my favorite exercises: rewriting a scene using words
of only one syllable. Once I dispensed with the fancy stuff, I got to
the heart of something that had been bugging me for weeks.
Teaching prevents me from getting overconfident about my abilities
just because I'm experienced. Probably the opposite is true:
The more experience you have the less you can rely on your past
tricks.

About the Book|Discussion Questions

About the Guide

As the daughters of two tempestuous yet brilliant actors, Faith and Connie endured an unpredictable childhood, and quickly learned to rely on each other for everything, spoken and unspoken. Yet as adults, they find themselves drifting apart . When tragedy strikes, Faith and Connie must find a way back to each other or risk losing the bond between them forever.

Discussion Guides

1. When Faith remembers her wedding, she believes "that if she had only been able to warm herself, if she had only stayed inside her body as she pledged forever and true, she might have learned to live with a man like Joe, a man who loved her." What is Faith acknowledging about herself here? Does it seem like a fair self-assessment?

2. Why is it so hard for Faith to be part of her husband's family? After Joe confesses his affair, Faith speaks of an "unpleasant but strangely welcome feeling: her old, frozen self, finally delivered from the terrible trouble of love." Why is the feeling unpleasant? Why welcome? What has been troubling, for her, about the love that Joe--and the Fullers--seem to offer and, perhaps, demand?

3. What kind of mother is Faith? What kind of sister? What kind of wife? What kind of love is she adept at? What kinds of love mystify her?

4. What characters seem to speak a "secret language" in this book?

5. Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy holds that art is the means of transferring feeling from one man's heart to another. Where does Wood best convey the feelings of her characters?

6. A pleasure of fiction: We can understand another person's version of the world, even if it isn't our own version of the world. When did you trust a character's version of the world, even if you didn't agree with it? Did you ever fail to trust a character's version of the world when you disagreed with it? I.e., did your disagreement ever make you feel that the character wasn't believable?

7. What does Isadora James mean to Connie? To Faith? How do you interpret Isadora's interest in finding her half-sisters and maintaining a relationship with them?

8. Faith and Connie are clearly damaged by their past. What, exactly, is it that they can't seem to escape about their past? Are they doomed to re-enact the past forever, or does the story suggest a way to move beyond childhood damage?

9. How would you describe Connie and Stewart's relationship?

10. Connie and Faith are very different people, yet Connie, too, struggles with love. What is hard for her about love? Faith, we know, fears love, as if it might kill her. Does Connie have a similar fear?

11. When Connie is in the hospital, Isadora whispers to Faith, "I wish I had to be here, Faith. Some burdens are good." Given Isadora's later behavior, it is hard to take this sentence at face value. Is Isadora in earnest? Does she seem to be speaking the truth, whether or not she means it?

12. Secret Language circles back to memories of Granny (memories of Granny's home start the book and memories of Granny seem to resolve the sisters' altercation in Part VI) and to significant performances. (Part I ends with the line, "It is opening night," and Part VIII is titled "Opening Night.") Why does the novel circle back this way? What does the novel seem to be suggesting about memory and the influence of the past?


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