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TIME: Almanac 1995
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1995-02-24
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<text id=94TT0847>
<title>
Jun. 27, 1994: Books:Mom's Horror
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1994
Jun. 27, 1994 An American Tragedy
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
THE ARTS & MEDIA/BOOKS, Page 75
Mom's Horror
</hdr>
<body>
<p> A novel about a good parent accused of child molesting
</p>
<p>By John Skow
</p>
<p> Anyone who has given hostages to fortune by marrying and having
children knows that the normal 3 a.m. horrors take on an astonishing
new awfulness under those conditions. Nightmares of the crippling
disease, the car crash, the sociopath bedevil the spouse and
parent. And they do so, for some reason, in perverse proportion
to how healthy, loving and prosperous a family really is.
</p>
<p> Though it is not explicitly acknowledged, this torment seems
to have been the inspiration for A Map of the World (Doubleday;
390 pages; $22), a mischievous and unsettling marital melodrama
by Jane Hamilton, whose first novel, The Book of Ruth, won the
1989 PEN/Hemingway Foundation Award. Hamilton introduces us
to Alice and Howard Goodwin, a handsome Wisconsin couple--she a school nurse, he a dairy farmer--who are the parents
of two little girls and who could be exhibited at the state
fair in the perfect-marriage pavilion.
</p>
<p> If this were a western, such peacefulness would signal "Apaches!"
Sure enough, disaster befalls. While Alice is tending her own
and a neighbor's kids, the neighbor's two-year-old tumbles into
a pond and is pulled out brain dead. A second calamity follows,
as Alice is accused of sexual abuse by the mother of one schoolboy
and then by the parents of several others. She is blameless,
but so shaken that her denials sound like admissions, and she
is jailed to await trial.
</p>
<p> As happens in a bad dream, both Goodwins are nearly paralyzed
by their terrible fate; Alice sleeps 20 hours a day. And there
is another similarity to the skewed reality of nightmares. At
the edges of the reader's field of vision, backdrops are unpainted
and sets only sketchily built. There is no strong sense of sheltering
farm, disapproving town or world beyond the Goodwins' tragedy,
and this intensifies the reader's unease because there is no
broader reality to which to escape.
</p>
<p> This would be soap opera if the author were not unusually good
at transforming acute, intuitive perceptions into sentences.
Writing, this is called. Alice, half cracked, notices an overweight
townswoman: "Her partially exposed freckled bosom, confined
in its pushup bra, was barking and whining to get out." She
slaps a hostile child: "He had absorbed the blow. It was as
if the sting had gone right to a spot inside where he stored
his wounds." And here is Alice's tiny daughter putting a clammy
hand on her arm and trying to console her: "When I was your
mom and you were a baby, I beed sweet and nice." This is very
good stuff by a novelist whose momentum seems unstoppable.
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>