The Middlesteins: A Novel
Grand Central Publishing, 2012
288 pp., $24.99
Lisa Ann Cockrel
Dying for Food
In my parents' basement, inside a box marked "Lisa: Don't Throw Away," is a collection of souvenirs from my travels through high school and college. There's a ticket to an Under the Sea-themed prom, a rough-hewn set of wooden wall hooks in the shape of hearts that I bought from some street kids in Guatemala, and the first wave of wedding invitations. The box also holds a formerly blank book that functioned as my diary during many of those years. It's covered with crushed velvet in a deep shade of indigo that mirrored the Texas sky at night, the one I would lie under on top of the big trampoline in the backyard, alternately staring at the stars and scribbling in the book with the aid of a flashlight.
Tucked inside the front cover of the diary is a faded newspaper clipping that my grandmother sent me sometime in my early teens. I can't remember just when. The details of the article have also faded, but the picture that accompanied it is sharp in my mind's eye. A round young girl of indeterminate age—perhaps 8? or 10? or 12?—with dark hair and blunt bangs looks at the school photographer, a slight smile playing on her lips. The girl's fat cheeks render her eyes sphinxlike, inscrutable. The news was that the girl had died from complications of what appeared to be criminal neglect on the part of her parents, evidenced chiefly by the girl's incredible size; she weighed several hundred pounds.
My grandmother was a complicated woman, but her message to me was simple: lose weight or you will die. You will end up like this girl. I'd been on diets for much of my life, and I was no stranger to this particular admonition, though Grandma had put a particularly fine point on it. On my way to an even six feet, I was already several inches taller than the girl in the picture, was probably half her weight, and was already older. And no one could ever charge my parents with neglect, especially when it came to food, definitely not my grandmother's daughter who fed us carob chip cookies and bought 50-pound bags of whole wheat that she milled herself in order to make the flour for her truly whole wheat bread. The dead girl and I had lived very different lives by most metrics, but she was me. I knew that much. I kept her story close, a friendly specter reminding me of what was at stake as I scribbled in my diary.
Edie Middlestein, the Jewish matriarch at the center of Jami Attenberg's deft novel The Middlesteins, dies because she is fat. And so, as you might imagine, I felt a cold dread when a friend first alerted me to the book and suggested I might want to read it. As a fat person I often eagerly engage social commentary about the "obesity epidemic," but it's also terribly draining to be subject of what often feels like a nation of armchair pathologists.
My dread melted on contact with Attenberg's beautifully wrought story. We meet Edie as a 62-pound five-year-old whose parents—Jews shaped by the particular sorrows of the early 20th century—agreed on only two things: "how to have sex with each other (any way they wanted, no judgment allowed) and how often (nightly, at least), and they agreed that food was made of love, and was what made love, and they could never deny themselves a bite of anything they desired. And if Edie, their beloved, big-eyed, already sharp-witted daughter, was big for her age, it did not matter. Because how could they not feed her?" By the time Edie is quietly taking early retirement, offered because the new partners at her law firm are uncomfortable with her obesity, she weighs more than 300 pounds.
The novel orbits around Edie's girth, her body's unseemly demise providing the story's center of gravity. But each member of this family is a world unto him- or herself, with each chapter featuring a different person's perspective. Via this rotating third-person narrative we're introduced to the interior lives of the Middlesteins of Chicago's northern suburbs: the henpecked husband who leaves his wife in her hour of need to make what he knows is his last play for love; the good-natured son whose care for his mother is, on two particular nights, breathtaking; the perfectionist daughter-in-law who is busy planning the b'nai mitzvah party for their twins and also spying on Edie; the caustic daughter who still harbors an adolescent grief; the granddaughter who is learning about living while her grandmother is dying.
The brilliance of The Middlesteins is on display in the disparities—small and large—in these overlapping narratives. The members of the Middlestein family sometimes succeed but more often fail to understand and care for each other well, and Attenberg captures these small triumphs and quotidian heartbreaks with pitch-perfect prose that skillfully makes a dysfunctional Jewish family in the Chicago suburbs every family everywhere.