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The Getting of Wisdom
All That Remains
by Bruce Brooks.
Atheneum Books for Young Readers, 2001. 168 pages.
Reviewed by Michael Wilt
It wasn’t until I was almost sixteen that I experienced the death of a loved one. One spring weekend my grandfather, at seventy, was suddenly gone, the victim of a stroke. He died on a Sunday night and we, my brothers and sisters and I, got the news on Monday morning. And then we were off to school.
That same Monday morning brought bad news of another sort as well. Over the weekend, the girl with whom I was in love had chosen another, a boy from within my circle of friends. I was devastated when I saw them kissing by her locker (this was the 1970s, and kissing by one’s locker was a comparably tame public display of affection). In the course of that awful Monday, I tried to make sense of Grampa’s death and Deanna’s choice of ugly, pompous Edward (who was dressed entirely in white to celebrate his conquest). On top of that, Edward, fully aware of my feelings for Deanna, chose to rub my nose in his success, leaving me tangled in a net of two griefs, plenty of confusion, and a large helping of anger. The tears that welled up, but didn’t spill, seemed more related to the loss of Deanna than Grampa; admitting that to myself added guilt to the emotional mix.
By the time I got home, on the late bus after play rehearsal, I was too exhausted to focus at all on Grampa, funerals, and Nana. I couldn’t wait to sleep, but of course could not come close to sleep when I finally put my head on the pillow.
That hard day, a day I consider to be a key one in my spiritual life, comes to mind decades later after reading the three novellas that make up All That Remains, the new book by Newbery Honor recipient Bruce Brooks. In these singular and evocative stories, teenagers encounter and cope with death in ways that range from almost-comic to deeply poignant. In settings exotic and quotidian -- a potter’s studio, a bandstand, a golf course -- Brooks’s young people face their losses with awkward grace that is an outward sign of their tentative growth from childhood to adulthood. They are people we come to like and care about, and from whose words and actions -- as well as what they don’t say and don’t do -- we can gain wisdom.
In the first story, “All That Remains,” cousins lose their aunt to AIDS. Estranged from the rest of the family because of her lifestyle, Aunt Judith has remained connected by way of her niece and nephew, Marie and Jonny. When she dies during a frigid Michigan winter, the authorities make it clear that the laws governing the disposition of communicably-diseased remains must be followed. Cremation, Aunt Judith’s wish, is not a legal option, and Jonny and Marie conspire with Judith’s partner, Sue, a potter, to circumvent the law and fulfill Judith’s last wish.
They carry out their darkly funny scheme in the midst of below-zero temperatures, a refrigerator with nothing but yogurt to offer, and Jonny’s injuries from a run-in with local rednecks who disapprove of Judith and Sue’s relationship. But the goal remains stubbornly in the forefront of their actions -- to honor the dead, not dupe the authorities (although there is a certain delight in the need for the latter to accomplish the former) -- and despite an act of anti-redneck revenge that slightly mars the story, Marie, Jonny, and Sue can walk away with a healthy sense of closure.
“Playing the Creeps” also features a pair of cousins, Hank and Bobby, who are polar opposites. Hank plays hockey, Bobby figure skates; Hank plays metal, Bobby plays classical and jazz. Hank’s father is long dead, but the story opens at the deathbed of Bobby’s father, a man who has raised Bobby alone and tried to play a role in Hank’s life.
. . . even though Uncle Frank had better sense than to try to, you know, “step in” and “be a father to me,” which is a bunch of crap, he did always show an interest in some of the stuff I was doing, like by coming to a bunch of my hockey games through the years and even one of my rock-band concerts, though he stood way in back and didn’t stay long. We play pretty loud.
The months that follow Uncle Frank’s death are marked by Bobby’s attempts to, for lack of a better term, “find himself” in his new circumstances. Hank is an occasional, decidedly unenthusiastic, participant in some of Bobby’s searchings, but they ultimately find common ground from which they can both move forward. Brooks gets his characters to that point without tipping his hand, without creating a sense that the cousins will inevitably make a connection. The story ends on a quiet, surprising note that rings strong and true.
“Teeing Up,” the final story, features a threesome -- boys named Irons, Flipper, and Jackson -- that encounters a fourth, Isabel, in an early morning round of golf. Isabel, it is clear, is working on getting over something as she and the boys progress through the eighteen holes. Brooks cleverly gives Isabel the opportunity to interact with the three boys together (at the tee) and with each boy alone (as they wedge their way, for example, out of a sand trap). The boys work to “solve” the puzzle that is Isabel; she, at times, seems willing to be solved, but also resists their attempts. Brooks maintains suspense as to whether eighteen holes will be enough for the needed change to be accomplished in Isabel, and whether this odd assortment of golfers will be up to the task. “Teeing Up” has a great deal of charm, and the reader does not have to be golfer to enjoy the use of the golf course as the setting in which a key moment in the spiritual life of a young person might take place.
It is notable, in these stories, how small a role adults play in the lives of these young people. Thinking back to that horrible Monday not long before I turned sixteen, it strikes me that Bruce Brooks has nailed the isolation of the teenager-in-crisis quite accurately -- there was no adult to whom I could have turned in my circumstances, and the same is true for Marie and Jonny and especially for Bobby and Isabel. It is an isolation that I suppose we as adults need to respect. We need to resist the know-it-all temptation to inject our “worldly wisdom” into their crises, as if such wisdom can work like a miracle drug. Brooks shows us teenagers coping, exploring, gaining wisdom the hard way. All That Remains leads to the insight that the young perhaps need space more than input, but that we should be available to one another in case of a fall.
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