Listen to me A novel

Review by New York Times Review

AMERICA, WITH ITS vast landscapes and frontier mythology, has always seemed ready to shed the thin veneer of Europe's so-called civilization. Head off into the wilderness and there will be no one to offer assistance: It's just you and your family in a covered wagon, trying to make a mark on inhospitable ground. All anyone has to do to rediscover the existential anxiety of the frontier in the 21st century is to get into a car and drive. And so, in the new novel "Listen to Me," Hannah Pittard sets her characters on the road. Mark and Maggie are smart, successful, happily married - at least that's what it looks like from the outside. He's an academic, she's a vet; they live in Chicago, where they feel lucky to afford an apartment with a private entrance. They've been married seven years, a nice fairytale sort of number, and they are childless but happily so, especially since they have a nice dog called Gerome. They're the sort of couple who are striding toward middle age without looking in the rearview mirror. Life is good. Or at least it was until Maggie was mugged, not far from that nice apartment, by a stranger with a gun. He knocked her out with the butt of it, leaving a distinctive bruise on the back of her head: a shape she'll see again when the police come to show her a series of photographs of a young woman not mugged but murdered, who died with the very same bruise on the back of her head. The mugging and the visit from the police, along with the graphic images they lay before her, send Maggie into a downward spiral of fear and helplessness. She retreats from her job and spends her days online, looking for news items to confirm her worst imaginings. Mark discovers she's acquired a concealed-carry permit, which he tears up and throws away; he finds a switchblade she has - alarmingly - hidden under their mattress. This is not what Mark signed up for. The thought begins to occur to him that he "was spending his life with one of the world's weaklings: the type of person who gets diagnosed with cancer and, instead of going outside and taking on life, gets in bed and waits for the inevitable. He'd expected more from Maggie. My God, he'd expected so much more!" For her part, Maggie understands she is being pulled away from the person she has always believed herself to be: "Dear God, she was turning perverse. Maybe there was something irreversibly wrong with her." The solution is to set out early for their annual summer in Virginia, where Mark's parents live in lush green countryside that will, perhaps, offer healing. The novel begins as they pack the car for the trip, their conversation a scratchy back-and-forth of minor recrimination over who's responsible for walking Gerome, who should have emptied the recycling, the kind of complaints familiar to anyone who's ever tried to go anywhere with anyone. Their history together, and Maggie's assault, are revealed in smooth flashback; with equal aplomb, Pittard shifts between Mark's perspective and Maggie's as the book, and their trip, unspool. But the journey - which ought to be reassuring, a return to their comfortable, contented selves - resists them. From that very first conversation ("'We go through this every time.' 'You worry too much,' he said") nothing goes right. The smallest chance encounter grates. Does the cowboy they meet in a gas station really pay Maggie a crude compliment about her breasts? (In his briefly sinister appearance, the character comes across as the spiritual opposite of Sam Elliott's cowboy in "The Big Lebowski.") Traffic is bad; trucks swerve; storms brew and build into tornadoes, proving that real disaster is always just one stroke of bad luck away. As Mark and Maggie travel, south through Indiana, Ohio, into West Virginia, Pittard proves herself a master of ordinary suspense: Two people, once so familiar to each other, suddenly seem strangers, each questioning the other's motives in ways that, taken individually, would mean nothing at all. Taken together those questions disorient both the characters and the reader in a manner that contains none of the melodrama of (say) "Gone Girl" - but that carries far more conviction. IN FLASHES, LIKE the lightning that cracks from the clouds, the book recalls and reflects the author's research and reference. Orderly notes at the back cite works as varied as "Auditory Brain Development in Premature Infants: The Importance of Early Experience" and the works of St. Augustine and Thomas Hobbes, but readers may recall other works as they turn the pages. Some of the driving sequences echo Steven Spielberg's first fulllength film, "Duel," and "1984" is evoked when Maggie and Mark arrive, near the end of their odyssey, at what seems like the shelter of a West Virginia hotel, where they narrowly escape being put into Room 101. Never mind the echoes of Stephen King that any remote, broken-down rest stop recalls. Pittard deals elegantly, too, with the troubles besetting any modern writer who wishes to cast her characters completely adrift from the world. What about Wi-Fi? What about iPhones? You can drive from Chicago to Virginia by a more northerly route, via Toledo and Pittsburgh; perhaps Pittard had Mark and Maggie head south because reception was bound to be patchier in West Virginia. Mark is working on a history of anonymity, "which he believed - if pulled off correctly - might put him on the academic map in a major way." Perhaps it's a little surprising that Mark doesn't think to include in his book the subject of online sex or groups like Anonymous until Elizabeth, the former research assistant whose emails tempt him away from Maggie, suggests they are necessary subjects to cover. (I would certainly think so, at least if he's going to find himself on that academic map.) But, in fairness, Pittard makes Mark a resolutely offline kinda guy, which makes his resistance to Maggie's screen time all the more convincing. Most of us might not notice if our partners spent an extra hour or three a day gazing into the abyss of the World Wide Web. Mark does. At the end of the novel Pittard executes a three-point turn. It would be unfair to the reader (and to the author) to reveal too much about the direction she takes. But unlike a more conventional thriller Pittard never forgets Mark and Maggie's history. Too often, in stories like this, when the man behind the curtain is revealed, his connection to the wizard we've already seen seems frankly impossible to believe. But here are people who know each other, who care for each other. Circumstance and time have estranged them. The road will throw them back on their own resources, turn them back into the pioneers they once were, rediscovering each other as they skirt more than one kind of storm. There may not be comfort in that rediscovery, but Pittard creates, at least, the feeling of emotional truth. Two people, once so familiar to each other, suddenly seem strangers with suspect motives. ERICA WAGNER'S biography of Washington Roebling, chief engineer of the Brooklyn Bridge, will be published next year. She is the editor of "First Light: A Celebration of Alan Gamer."

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [August 14, 2016]

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Review by Booklist Review

Mark decides, without telling his wife, Maggie, exactly why, that they should leave Chicago a few weeks earlier than scheduled for their annual, summer-long stay at his parents' Virginia cabin. The truth is, ever since Maggie was robbed at gunpoint, things have been, understandably, difficult. But after finding weapons hidden in the house and seeing Maggie slump into the kind of woman who walks the dog in her bathrobe, Mark is worried about his newly fearful wife's loosening grip on sanity. Not only does the drive put the couple and trusty mutt Gerome on the road at an odd hour, it also sets them in the path of a storm system that is tearing through the mid-Atlantic region. Pittard's (Reunion, 2014) slim novel takes place almost exclusively during this easterly, perilous road trip, maintaining a consistent level of suspense. Pittard skillfully alternates between the points of view of Mark and Maggie, who often tell readers much more than they've told one another. Perfect for those who like to observe characters' minds and relationships from the backseat.--Bostrom, Annie Copyright 2016 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

A road trip from Chicago to Virginia is transformed into a complex mental journey in Pittard's (Reunion) third novel. Mark and Maggie, a 30-something couple, are coping with the aftermath of Maggie's mugging at gunpoint. To make matters worse, an attacker with a similar MO subsequently murdered a neighbor. Mark decides to push up the date of their annual visit to his parents' cottage in Virginia to give Maggie-who has taken to wearing a bathrobe, zoning out and scouring the Internet for negative stories, and hiding a knife under the mattress-a much-needed break. Soon into their journey, a destructive storm forces them to find shelter in an out-of-the-way hotel. While the storm rages outside, the characters contemplate their own inner storms. Mark, a college professor, frustrated and baffled by his wife's increasing dysfunction, considers an affair with a former research assistant, while feeling fiercely protective of his wife. Maggie, a veterinarian, stymied by her fears, longs to get back to her normal self. Chilling events ratchet up the suspense as well as magnify the couple's strengths and weaknesses in Pittard's memorable examination of the precarious terrain of marriage. (July) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

The story of a fraught road trip undertaken by a couple whose marriage is under stress, Pittard's glistening new novel (after Reunion) only seems to be in miniature. In fact, it opens up to show not just the depth and potential shattering points of all close relationships but also how danger-and, yes, evil-lurk at the outskirts of our lives, threatening to upend us unexpectedly. College professor Mark and his wife, Maggie, a veterinarian, are traveling from Chicago to his family's East Coast home because Mark senses they need a break; after a mugging, Maggie has become brooding and suspicious, not the woman Mark married. They leave late, with Maggie intent on giving their dog, Gerome, a good walk beforehand, and they're mostly bickering or silent as evening and tornado-grade storms approach. As Mark wrestles with thoughts of a former student and -Maggie zigzags between tenderness and paranoia, a blackout descends, and they go off the beaten path to seek a place to stay. At a dark hotel, they find a bed and some real closeness, but tragedy erupts in a moment, leaving their future tentative if tentatively hopeful. VERDICT Pitch-perfect in language and ominous in mood, Pittard's narrative telescopes enormous emotion and insight into a brief, compelling read. [See Prepub Alert, 1/11/16.]-Barbara Hoffert, -Library Journal © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A husband and wife deal with their growing estrangement and the aftereffects of violence as they make an increasingly hazardous road trip. The setup of Pittard's third novel is a simple and effective one: a cross-country journey in which an already-frayed marriage is pushed to its limit, even as the landscape through which the characters travel turns increasingly ominous. Mark and Maggie are traveling east from Chicago to visit family along with their dog, Gerome. Maggie is still struggling with the psychological fallout of a mugging, and the affinity the two once felt has withered, making the minor quarrels of a long drive take on added significance. The fact that they're traveling through an area suffering from a power outage ratchets up the tension further. The novel is at its strongest when Pittard evokes the instability that can arise on the margins of catastrophic events: the effects of the outage on familiar roadside sights lends a memorable sense of disquiet to the proceedings. An ambiguous encounter between Maggie and a stranger at a rest stop is equally haunting: has she encountered a sociopath in transit, or have the aftereffects of trauma altered her perception of everyday situations? For all that Pittard effectively builds tension throughout the book, its conclusion does feel somewhat rushed, as a random interaction with a minor character escalates quickly, as opposed to a more organic resolution. Pittard does leave some ambiguity with the hopeful note with which she closes, and Mark's musings on technology and community provide an interesting counterpoint to the proceedings. Though its conclusion feels abrupt, there's plenty of moodiness and societal commentary to be found in Pittard's taut novel. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Listen to me and I will speak: but first swear, by word and hand, that you will keep me safe with all your heart. --Homer, The Iliad auto |          informal          n. a motor car. ORIGIN late 19th cent.: abbreviation of AUTOMOBILE. auto- |          comb. form          self: autoanalysis one's own: autobiography by one's self: automatic by itself: automaton ORIGIN from Greek: autos 'self.' 1 They were on the road later than they intended. They'd wanted to make Indianapolis by noon, but they overslept. Mark offered to walk the dog while Maggie packed up the car. He'd wanted her to pack up the car the night before, but Maggie said it was nuts to leave a car full of luggage on a side street in Chicago.      "Every time," she'd said. "We go through this every time."      "You worry too much," he said.      "Maybe you don't worry enough."      It was dark by the time they'd had this argument and late, which meant Maggie had already won.      And so, in the morning, it was Mark -- as promised -- who took the dog out so that Maggie could arrange the car. But downstairs, in the private entrance to their apartment -- private entrance! It had taken forever, but three years ago they'd finally found the perfect apartment with its own perfectly private entrance, which they didn't have to share with a single other person, a fact that, to this day, continued to bring Maggie sharp, if fleeting, pleasure -- was the week's recycling, just sitting there at the bottom of the stairs. Mark swore he'd taken it out.      Clearly, he hadn't.      She put down the luggage and was about to pick up the bin to do the job herself when she saw it: a pink-gold length of foil peeking up from beneath a newspaper. She pushed the paper aside.      Her heart sank -- exactly what she thought: the foil was attached to an empty bottle of champagne. Her bottle of champagne. Hers and Mark's, from their last anniversary. She'd been saving it. For what, she didn't know. But she'd liked looking at it every now and then where she'd stashed it above the refrigerator next to the cookbooks. True, it had been a while since she'd taken any real note of the thing. Even so. It made her sad to think he'd thrown it out without ceremony, which was an overly sentimental concern -- did an empty bottle truly merit ceremony? -- but what was she going to do? Suddenly become a different person?      According to the Enneagram, which she'd taken on the recommendation of her therapist --  former therapist, Maggie had stopped seeing her three weeks ago -- everyone emerged from childhood with a basic personality type. Maggie's was Loyalist. Think: committed, hard-working, reliable. Also according to the Enneagram (she'd done some recent reading on her own), people didn't change from their basic type. Instead, throughout their lives, they vacillate between nine different levels within their type, the healthiest being a One.      Lately, Maggie was about an Eight. Think: paranoia, hysteria, irrational behavior. Her goal, by the end of the summer, was to be back at her usual Three or Four. There wasn't an overnight solution.      She picked up the bottle. Even empty, its weight was significant. Mark had splurged because they could. Because life was good and on what else were they going to spend their money? "There are no luggage racks on hearses," they sometimes said to one another. "Spend it if you've got it." Mostly they were joking -- they never spent beyond their means. But it was only just the two of them. They had no children's educations to consider, and so why not enjoy an extravagance every once in a while?      She tore off a sliver of the pink foil -- the tiniest of keepsakes! -- then slipped it into her back pocket. Perhaps Mark was testing her, measuring her steadiness by relieving her of an ultimately trivial trinket. Yet he'd been so patient these last nine months, so generous with his affection -- kissing her shoulder before clearing the table, squeezing her hand before falling asleep. Sure, they'd quarreled about the luggage and maybe the last three weeks had been more strained than usual, but quarrels, as Maggie and her former therapist had discussed, were the latticework of relationships. They were the branches -- interlacing the pattern, strengthening the structure -- that sheltered them and kept them together.      She put the bottle back in the bin, right at the very top. She didn't need to say a thing about it. She would pass his test with flying colors.      Mark and Gerome were crossing the street when she emerged from the front door.      "What are you doing?" said Mark.      "The recycling," she said. She held up the bin. "You didn't take it out."      She watched his eyes; they didn't acknowledge the bottle.      "Gerome didn't do anything," Mark said.      Maggie looked down at Gerome, who was looking up at her and wagging his tail. He sneezed.      "What do you mean?" she said.      "He didn't go."      "He always goes."      Gerome was still wagging his tail.      "You're driving him crazy with the recycling." Mark held out his hands to take it.      "You don't do it right," she said.      "If I chuck it all at once or put it in piece by piece doesn't matter. It all goes to the same place, whether it's broken or not."      Maggie shrugged. He was right. She knew he was right. She wasn't an idiot, but there was something so gloomy about Mark carelessly hurling it all away. Just as there was something equally gloomy about watching the homeless man who walked their alley take off his gloves one finger at a time before searching the recycling for refundable bottles. It was silly to think their bottles and cans contributed anything significant to the man's well-being, but she couldn't help it. The thought of him fingering broken bits of glass made her heart ache. Of course, she hadn't actually seen anyone going through the trash since autumn, as she hadn't taken out the recycling since her mugging, and yet here she was still thinking about it, and here it was filling her afresh with sadness, a condition both new and not new.      For nine months, the sadness had been a constant -- a heavy, dull fog lingering greedily about the nape of her neck. She was aware of it in the morning when she woke, in the afternoon when she worked, in the evening when she scoured the Internet, seeking out the most miserable stories of human woe.      When Mark came home from teaching, he'd sometimes find her in front of the computer. He would ask, "What are you doing?" And she'd say, "Reading the Internet. Reading about this girl who just died. Reading about this boy who was killed. Reading about this teenager who kidnapped a jogger and took her body apart limb by limb." He had been so devoted the first few months after the incident in the alley, when the sadness was pushing down around her. He would close the computer, take her hand, lead her to the living room, and read aloud to her. He had a magnificent reading voice. Sometimes he chose a bit of poetry. Sometimes history or philosophy. They both liked Augustine and stories of war. Yeats was also a favorite. Mark would occasionally ask about her therapy. The sadness had begun to lift. The appointments had been helping. She stopped seeking out those awful news articles and started reading about other Loyalists online, about their own struggles with fear and personal insecurity. Maggie had felt herself returning. She'd felt the fog lightening, her levels stabilizing. Things with Mark were as good as ever.      But then, just three weeks ago -- out of nowhere and with no warning whatsoever -- the police appeared. They showed up at the front door of the apartment with pictures of a body, a coed who lived just down the street. They presented them to Maggie. Why had they let her see them? She hadn't understood then and still didn't now. They also presented photos of a man, the one responsible for the coed. Was it the same man? they wanted to know. Was it the man who'd struck Maggie with the butt of a gun and left her for dead not two blocks from where she lived? Excerpted from Listen to Me by Hannah Pittard All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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