They stood there for a few moments, not looking at each other, and then Lucy finally looked at him and said, “I am so glad to see you.” The day was sunny, and Bob put his sunglasses on. And then off they went for their walk. Lucy said, “Tell me everything. Tell me every single thing. And don’t leave anything out.”
I find something so soothing about Elizabeth Strout’s voice, and as she keeps returning to the same handful of characters over the course of her writing, I always get the feeling of catching up with old friends when I sit down with one of her books. Tell Me Everything has the feeling of a capstone narrative — all of Strout’s characters are now living and interacting with one another in Crosby, Maine — and as they visit together, telling each other stories — mostly old stories of lost loves, heartache, and women done wrong — it would be easy to dismiss this as unserious or trivial; gossip and blether. But as they talk together, and really listen to one another, it seems a demonstration of uncommon grace and I came to feel that there’s likely nothing more important than dissecting human connection through such discussions of the human heart. I don’t know if this would be as satisfying for a reader who hasn’t spent many long and pleasant hours in the company of these characters before, but for me, it was sublime. (Note: I read an ARC through NetGalley and passages quoted may not be in their final forms.)
A thought had taken hold of Olive Kitteridge on one of these days in October, and she pondered it for almost a week before she called Bob Burgess. “I have a story to tell that writer Lucy Barton. I wish you would have her come visit me.”
That’s right: Olive Kitteridge (now ninety and living in a retirement community), Lucy Barton (still living in the big house by the sea with ex-husband William), and the Burgess boys (Bob having stayed home in Maine, now married to the Unitarian minister, Margaret, and Jim still living with his wife, Helen, in New York) are all in regular contact with one another. And as Bob and Lucy have their walks in the woods and Olive and Lucy have their living room chats, one thing seems to be certain: The Boomers are not okay. The seasons are noticeably out of whack, there’s an unfathomable homeless encampment behind the Walmart, there are drug and housing crises — not made better by rich out-of-towners like William and Lucy buying up property during the pandemic and deciding to stay on — and everyone’s adult children have moved far away. As they approach retirement, these folks are exhausted and stooped with care, forever haunted by failed marriages, unhappy childhoods, and what might have been: life is hard for the sin-eaters and the linchpins, those with repressed or false memories, and those who find themselves living with ghosts in their marriages. There’s a criminal case at the heart of the plot, and over the course of the novel we are caught up with the lives of all of the kids and ex-spouses, but Tell Me Everything is mostly about the grace-filled moments in which our familiar old friends Olive, Lucy, and Bob talk and really listen to one another.
Once again, there’s a conversational lightness to the tone, as though it’s Elizabeth Strout herself, shrugging off her parka as she settles onto the uncomfortable couch across from us, who can’t wait to tell us these stories of lost loves and heartache and the beautiful strangers she has encountered. New sections often start “Here is what had been happening to Pam: ... Then this happened, and it was ridiculous: … Her defense — as you might recall — was that…” And I found this technique to be charming and engaging; an invitation to participate personally in the moments of grace. Again: I know that sounds lightweight, but true experiences need not be heavy.
Lucy stood up and pulled on her coat. “Those are my stories,” she said, and then bent down to put her boots back on. “But you’re right. They are stories of loneliness and love.” Lucy stepped into the tiny kitchen for a moment and returned with a paper towel and she bent down and soaked up the drops of water on the floor left from her boots. Then she picked up her bag and said, “And the small connections we make in this world if we are lucky.”
Strout might not have come up with the meaning of life here (indeed, the question itself caused a rare spat between Lucy and Bob), but she certainly demonstrates how to find meaning in life, and I feel lucky to have formed such a deep connection with her body of work. Sublime.
