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Summary
Summary
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER - "Captures the angst and anxiety of modern life with . . . astute observations about interactions between the haves and have-nots, and the realities of life among the long-married."-- USA Today
A provocative novel that explores what it means to be a mother, a wife, and a woman at a moment of reckoning, from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Miller's Valley and Still Life with Bread Crumbs .
Some days Nora Nolan thinks that she and her husband, Charlie, lead a charmed life--except when there's a crisis at work, a leak in the roof at home, or a problem with their twins at college. And why not? New York City was once Nora's dream destination, and her clannish dead-end block has become a safe harbor, a tranquil village amid the urban craziness. The owners watch one another's children grow up. They use the same handyman. They trade gossip and gripes, and they maneuver for the ultimate status symbol: a spot in the block's small parking lot.
Then one morning, Nora returns from her run to discover that a terrible incident has shaken the neighborhood, and the enviable dead-end block turns into a potent symbol of a divided city. The fault lines begin to open: on the block, at Nora's job, and especially in her marriage.
Praise for Alternate Side
" Anna] Quindlen's quietly precise evaluation of intertwined lives evinces a keen understanding of and appreciation for universal human frailties." -- Booklist (starred review)
"Exquisitely rendered . . . Quindlen] is one of our most astute chroniclers of modern life. . . . Alternate Side ] has an almost documentary feel, a verisimilitude that's awfully hard to achieve." -- The New York Times Book Review
"An exceptional depiction of complex characters--particularly their weaknesses and uncertainties--and the intricacies of close relationships . . . Quindlen's provocative novel is a New York City drama of fractured marriages and uncomfortable class distinctions." -- Publishers Weekly
Author Notes
Author Anna Quindlen was born in Philadelphia on July 8, 1953. She graduated from Barnard in 1974 and serves on their Board of Trustees.
Quindlen worked as a reporter for the New York Post and the New York Times and wrote columns for the Times. She won the 1992 Pulitzer Prize for Commentary before devoting herself to writing fiction.
She has written both adult fiction (including Object Lessons, Black and Blue and One True Thing, which was made into a motion picture starring Meryl Streep) and children's fiction (Happily Ever After and The Tree That Came to Stay). Her title Alternate Side made the bestseller list in 2018.
Currently, she is a columnist at Newsweek. Her title Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake made The New York Times Best Seller list for 2012. (Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Bestseller Quindlen's provocative novel (after Miller's Valley) is a New York City drama of fractured marriages and uncomfortable class distinctions. Nora and Charlie Nolan, married 25 years, live in a posh neighborhood in Manhattan. She is a museum director, he's an investment banker, and both are lodged in a passionless marriage of silent tolerance. Simmering class, economic, and racial tensions boil over when an arrogant, rich white lawyer neighbor hits a local Latino handyman with a golf club for blocking a parking lot entrance. This forces Nora, Charlie, and their neighbors to decide how seriously to take the crime. Suddenly, the neighborhood's veneer of acceptance and inclusion is peeled away, revealing resentment and bitterness among neighbors and spouses. Nora and Charlie argue openly, revealing just how little they really care about each other and prompting Nora to conclude there are only three kinds of marriages: "happy, miserable, and acceptably unhappy." Quindlen's novel is an exceptional depiction of complex characters-particularly their weaknesses and uncertainties-and the intricacies of close relationships. (Mar.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* By New York City standards, or anyplace else for that matter, Nora and Charlie Nolan lead a charmed existence. Their vintage townhome has appreciated in value; their twin son and daughter are doing well in college; and they each are employed in fiscally, if not emotionally, satisfying jobs. Their dead-end street is populated by an eclectic but mostly homogeneous group of professionals and stay-at-homes, millennials and matrons, housekeepers and handymen. Some neighbors are barely tolerated as casual acquaintances, while others are friends and all turn out for Christmas parties and summer barbecues. Then one day, their idyllic setting is shattered when Jack Fisk, one of their more volatile neighbors, violently attacks Ricky, their beloved jack-of-all-trades caretaker. In retrospect, it would seem to Nora that with each impact of Jack's golf club on Ricky's body, another fissure splintered the Nolans' carefully constructed world. The quotidian lives of Manhattanites have long fascinated discerning writers, from Wharton to McInerney, and with her ninth novel, best-selling Quindlen (Miller's Valley, 2016) takes her place within this pantheon. Though she writes with a deceptive casualness about dashed dreams and squandered hopes, Quindlen's quietly precise evaluation of intertwined lives evinces a keen understanding of and appreciation for universal human frailties. Complex themes and clever motifs make this eminently suitable for book groups. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Extensive, many-faceted publicity efforts will mobilize Quindlen's legions of readers.--Haggas, Carol Copyright 2018 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
in real estate, there's more than a semantic difference between a dead end and a cul-de-sac. A dead end can be a trap; a block that stops at an inaccessible barrier, backing up to a park (best case), a commercial building, a police station, a hospital, a school. A cul-de-sac, French for "bottom of the bag," connotes coziness: a safe place for a child to learn to ride a bike or play street hockey. A home on a block visited only by those who live there or those who are lost has a cachet that's hard to put a price on. There aren't many residential cul-desacs in Manhattan, which, to foster easy navigation, was laid out on a uniform grid north of Houston Street, beginning in 1811. Rarity is a quality that drives housing prices beyond astronomical to the real estate equivalent of a winning Powerball ticket. Which means that Charlie and Nora Nolan, the couple at the center of Anna Quindlen's exquisitely rendered ninth novel, "Alternate Side," are sitting on a gold Anna mine. The home they bought two decades ago on the Upper West Side is where they raised their twins, but the "kids" are now seniors at Williams and M.I.T. Charlie, a disaffected investment banker, is ready to cash in and trade New York winters for a home on the back nine somewhere in the Sunbelt. Nora, who runs a museum devoted to fine jewelry, can't imagine living anywhere but New York. So it's good news, at least temporarily, when one of Charlie's dreams comes true: He has finally secured that most precious of Manhattan commodities, off-street parking. There's a brownstone-size gap between two of the buildings on the cul-desac. Long ago, fire gutted a home on the site and the owner never redeveloped it. Instead, the lot has been divided into six parking spaces. When Charlie finally scores one, Nora hopes he'll stop talking about selling the house. If a novel about "first-world problems," as Nora's daughter calls them, already has you rolling your eyes, remember that Quindlen, who won a Pulitzer Prize for commentary while a New York Times columnist, is one of our most astute chroniclers of modern life. This novel may be too quiet for some, too populated with rich whiners for others, but it has an almost documentary feel, a verisimilitude that's awfully hard to achieve. There's no moment that feels contrived or false, except perhaps to non-New Yorkers who may find it impossible to believe that anyone would consider $350 a month for a parking space a bargain too good to pass up. The story is told from Nora's point of view. Much like Quindlen, she's a sensitive and introspective observer of people and what makes them tick. She's also keenly aware that the residents of her tightknit block are white and the nannies, housekeepers and handymen who work for them are not. This factors into the story when her handyman, Ricky, inadvertently blocks access to the parking lot and a neighbor with well-established anger management issues takes a 3- iron to his van, shattering the handyman's leg when he intervenes. Charlie witnesses the incident; Nora happens upon it, returning from a jog. And when Charlie sides with the neighbor, a crack develops in the neighborhood's facade, affecting everyone, but none more than the Nolans. Charlie isn't, by any stretch, a terrible husband. He isn't having an affair with a much younger woman and he's not engaged in financial shenanigans. When the twins were younger, he was an attentive father. But he can't shake the feeling that Nora settled for him when they married, and he's frustrated by his inability to be somebody in the business world. Perhaps only in New York would a man's climb up the ladder be permanently halted when he's thought to be too decent: "Over the years his colleagues had waited for the shark to emerge from behind the nice guy, the wolf in sheep's clothing to make an appearance, the open-faced mask to drop. Nora suspected that when they realized it was not a mask at all, they had begun to value Charlie less." Nora's Achilles' heel is passivity. She has let life happen to her rather than make the life she once wanted. She didn't choose a career so much as allow it to choose her. When a pregnant supervisor was put on bed rest while Nora was working a summer job in the development office at Williams, she was asked to take on more responsibility, and when her boss was later hired in New York, she brought Nora along. Nora's current job "had literally fallen into her lap" at a luncheon. Now, finally, Nora realizes it's past time to take control. "People go through life thinking they're making decisions," she tells herself, "when they're really just making plans, which is not the same thing at all." She has a decision to make. Is life on her cul-de-sac worth fighting for? Or is it, in fact, a dead end? SUE CORBETT is the author of the novels "12 Again," "Free Baseball" and "The Last Newspaper Boy in America."
Kirkus Review
A Manhattan comedy of manners with a melancholy undertow.The vagaries of parking in New York City figure prominently in Quindlen's ninth novel, which begins with a moment of parking karma: Charlie Nolan has just scored a permanent spot in the small outdoor lot on his Upper West Side block. Charlie, an investment banker, and his wife, Nora, who runs a jewelry museum, live in a town house surrounded by other town houses owned by affluent types much like themselves; the only blight on the block is a single-room-occupancy building. The Nolans have been married for almost 25 yearsnot unhappily, not quite serenelyand are parents of college-age twins. Nothing much happens in the first 100 pages or so, but the author's amusing digressionson dogs, rats, parking tickets, housing prices, and other city obsessionskeep things moving. Then a violent act shatters the calm on the Nolans' block: Hot-tempered Jack Fisk, partner in a white-shoe law firm, takes a golf club to mild-mannered Ricky Ramos, the neighborhood handyman, who's had the temerity to block the entrance to the parking lot with his van. And simmering issues of race and class boil over. (Earlier, when Nora visits Ricky at his home in the Bronxgetting lost, of course, on the waythere's a whiff of Bonfire of the Vanities.) The golf-club incident also has consequences for the Nolan family. The title of the book, it turns out, doesn't just refer to parking. Quindlen's sendup of entitled Manhattanites is fun but familiar. And though the author has been justly praised for her richly imagined female characters, Nora can seem more a type than a full-bodied woman.There's insight hereabout the precariousness of even the most stable-seeming marriagesand some charm, but the novel is not on a par with Quindlen's best. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
"Just look at that," Charlie Nolan said, his arm extended like that of a maître d' indicating a particularly good table. "Oh, my God, stop," said Nora Nolan, looking through the narrow opening of the parking lot, at the end of which she could just glimpse the front bumper of their car. "It's beautiful, Bun," Charlie said. "Come on, you have to admit, it's beautiful. Look. At. That." That's what Charlie did when he wanted to make sure you got his point, turned words into sentences, full stop. Some. Sweet. Deal. Big. Brass. Balls. The first night they'd met, almost twenty-five years ago, in that crowded bar in the Village that was a vegan restaurant now: You. Are. Great. Really. Really. Great. Nora could not recall exactly when she'd first begun to think, if not to say: Just. So. Annoying. In the line of narrow townhouses that made up their side of the block, standing shoulder to shoulder like slender soldiers of flawless posture and unvarying appearance, there was one conspicuous break, a man down, a house-width opening to a stretch of macadam turned into an outdoor parking lot. It held only six cars, and since nearly everyone on the block wanted a space, it had become a hot commodity, a peculiar status symbol. A book about the city's history, in the archives of a museum at which she had once interviewed for a job, had told Nora that a house in that space had been gutted in a fire, and the family that owned it had never bothered to rebuild. It had happened in the early 1930s, when the country, the city, and the west side of Manhattan had no money, which of course had happened again in the 1970s, and would doubtless happen again sometime in the future, because that was how the world worked. At the moment, however, it seemed scarcely possible. A house on the next block had just sold for $10 million in a bidding war. The couple who sold it had bought it for $600,000 when their children were young. Nora knew this because she and her neighbors talked about real estate incessantly. Their children, their dogs, and housing prices: the holy trinity of conversation for New Yorkers of a certain sort. For the men, there were also golf courses and wine lists to be discussed; for the women, dermatologists. Remembering the playground conversations when her children were small, Nora realized that the name of the very best pediatrician had given way to the name of the very best plastic surgeon. A single block in the middle of what seemed like the most populous island on earth--although it was not, a professor of geography had once told Nora; it was not even in the top ten--and it was like a small town. The people who owned houses on the block had watched one another's children grow up, seen one another's dogs go from puppy to infirmity to the crematorium at Hartsdale Pet Cemetery. They knew who redecorated when, and who couldn't afford to. They all used the same handyman. "You live on that dead-end block?" someone had asked Nora at an art opening several years before. "One of my friends rented a place there for a year. He said it was like a cult." None of those who owned on the block cared about the renters. They came and they went, with their sofa beds and midcentury-modern knockoffs, their Ikea boxes at the curb. They were young, unmoored. They didn't hang Christmas wreaths or plant window boxes. The owners all did, and they stuck. From time to time a real estate agent would troll the block, pushing his card through mail slots and scribbling notes about that odd empty parcel on the north side, to see who owned it and whether a new townhouse could be built there. For now it was a narrow, ill-kept parking lot, oddly shaped, like one of those geometry problems designed to foil students on the SATs: determine the area of this rhomboid. In the worst of the parking spaces, the one wedged into a cut-in behind the back of the neighboring house, Charlie Nolan's Volvo wagon, in a color called Sherwood Green, now sat. It had been there only for five hours, by Nora's reckoning, and already the windshield was pocked with the chalky white confetti of pigeon droppings. That morning, just after sunrise, Charlie had flipped on the overhead light in their bedroom, his face lit up the way it was when he was part of a big deal, had underestimated his bonus, or paid less for a bottle of wine than he decided it was worth. "I got a space!" he crowed. Nora heaved herself up onto her elbows. "Have you lost your mind?" she said. "Sorry sorry sorry," Charlie said, turning the light off but not moving from the doorway. There was a marital rule of long standing: Nora was to be allowed to sleep as long as she liked on weekends unless there was an emergency. She thought of herself as a person who had few basic requirements, but sleep was one of them. The six months during which her children had wanted to be fed, or were at least awake, in the middle of the night were among the most difficult months of her life. If she had not given birth to twins she might have had only one child, the sleep deprivation was so terrible. Charlie knew this. He got up and went to work earlier than Nora, and the top of his dresser, the bathroom, his closet were all equipped with small flashlights by which he would dress, and dress again after he had taken the dog to the dog run, come home, and showered. Usually by the time he was in a suit and tie and eating his All-Bran, Nora was at the kitchen table in her nightgown, although it was her preference that they talk as little as possible in the morning. Yet here was her husband, waking her on a Saturday, with the light full in her eyes. "I got a space," he said again, but less maniacally, as though he was setting his emotional temperature closer to hers. And now she could see their car in the space, already moved from the enclosed garage two blocks away to the dogleg in the lot. Charlie was humming to himself. When they had first moved to the block, Charlie asked around among the other parkers to see if he could inherit the space vacated by the people they were buying the house from. It was communicated in no uncertain terms, and in that osmotic way in which things became known on the block, that a space in the lot was a privilege, not a right, and Charlie somewhat truculently signed up for the indoor garage nearby, privately adding the failure to his list of Things That Were Not Going the Way They Should for Charlie Nolan, a list that in the last year Nora suspected had become a book, perhaps even an encyclopedia. While Charlie often complained to Nora that the fee for the enclosed garage was only slightly less than the rent on their first apartment, there had never even been a question of parking on the street. Paying for parking relieved one of those petty aggravations that was like dripping water on the stone of self, until one day you discovered it had left a hole the size of a fist in your head. Nora knew that for Charlie, living in the city meant more drips, with harder water. He reminded her of it often enough. New York was not Charlie's natural habitat. Nora hoped that this morning's triumph, small but seemingly monumental to her husband, would make up for that in some fashion. It had rankled for years, when Charlie passed the opening to the lot, and now he had finally scored a space. On the dining room table lay the typed notice, slipped through their mail slot, informing Charlie that the spot formerly allotted to the Dicksons was his if he wanted it; in the spot now was their Volvo. It was a car like their life, prosperous, understated, orderly--no food wrappers, no baby seats, no coins or crumbs on the floor. When the lease on the car was up it would barely need to be detailed before they got another just like it. Charlie always wondered aloud about other manufacturers, models, colors. Nora didn't care. She was scarcely ever in the car. A white plastic bag eddied around Nora's bare ankles for a moment in a breathless summer breeze, touching her, tickling her, circling her painted pink toes. She kicked it aside and it moved down the block, rising and falling like a tiny ghost, disappearing between two parked cars. The street smelled like dank river low tide, melting tar, and, as always in warm weather, the vinegar tang of garbage. Nora had had to yank their dog away from a cardboard container of moo shu something, pulled from a hole in a bag by some other dog and upended near the dead end. It was crazy, but there was a small, secret part of Nora that was comfortable with trash on the street. It reminded her of her youth, when she'd first arrived in a nastier, scarier, dirtier New York City and moved into a shabby apartment with her best friend, Jenny. A better New York, she sometimes thought to herself now, but never, ever said, one of the many things none of them ever admitted to themselves, at least aloud: that it was better when it was worse. Homer teased the air at the entrance to the lot with his muzzle and then sat. Their dog knew their block, their house, even their car, and he tolerated riding in it, wedging himself into the foot well alongside Oliver's enormous sneakers. Rachel complained that Homer was not as affectionate with her as he was with her brother, which Nora thought was probably true. But ten minutes of Homer on Rachel's insteps and she would be whining that her feet had fallen asleep and there was no reason their dog couldn't ride in the way back like other dogs. Nora worried that her daughter had difficulty discerning the difference between what she really wanted and what other people made seem desirable. Now that Rachel was out of her teens and in college, Nora hoped she was outgrowing this, although in New York it made her merely typical. "I don't know what you're talking about," Charlie had said when Nora mentioned it to him. Which had become a bit of a theme in their house on every subject. "Listening to you people," said Jenny, the only one in their women's lunch group who had never been married, "marriage sounds sort of like the den. It's a good place to chill out, but it's not the most important room in the house. Which makes me wonder why you're all so anxious for me to have one." "I think the den is the most important room in the house," Suzanne, who was a decorator, replied. "The kitchen is the most important room in the house," Elena said. "If you cook," Suzanne replied. "Who still cooks?" said Jean-Ann. Jenny turned to Nora. "Did everyone miss the entire point of what I said?" she asked. "Absolutely," Nora said. "Absolutely," Nora had said when Charlie asked if she wanted to walk down the block to the lot once he'd moved the car in, knowing that staying at the breakfast table to finish her bagel and read the newspapers was not conducive to a day of amity. But she balked at going any farther into the lot than that. "Come take a look," Charlie said now, as though the lot contained infinite vistas, gardens, and statuary instead of just three brick walls, several other cars, a center drain, and two of those squat, black plastic boxes that were everywhere in the parks and backyards of New York City, sheltering blocks of flavored rat poison from passing dogs. "I'm not going back there," Nora said. "Charity says that's where all the rats live." "So are the subway tracks, and you take the subway." She didn't take it much. Nora liked to walk, and when she did take the train she made certain not to look down at the tracks. She'd tried to analyze the depth of her rat phobia, but she'd given it up as pointless. Why were squirrels fine, anodyne, and rats insupportable, provoking a chemical reaction so profound that her breathing didn't return to normal for minutes at a time? Everyone had something; when they were growing up her sister had wakened her at least a dozen times because there was a spider in her room. Charlie hated snakes. "Everybody hates snakes," Rachel had said, dismissive even as a small child. "I don't," Nora had replied. And why had she chosen what seemed to be the rat capital of the world in which to make a life? She remembered her friend Becky from college, who was terrified of water--no need for deep analysis; her younger brother had nearly drowned on the Vineyard when they were children, pulled from the surf and given CPR by a lifeguard. Still, Becky had gotten a job managing a spa with an enormous saltwater pool. She'd insisted she didn't mind, but as soon as she could she'd moved on to a sprawling country inn. There was a river at the bottom of the hill on which the inn sat, but she was never required to go near it. Nora understood that, unlike Becky's phobia, most of these aversions were chemical and intuitive, the way some people immediately fell in love with New York, and other people said that they could never live there. ("I don't get it," Nora had said once to her sister, Christine, on the phone. "If I went to Greenwich and said, 'I don't understand how anyone can stand to live here,' people would think I was rude.") Charlie walked to the back of the parking lot and out again, as though he were surveying his property. It wasn't a long walk. "No rats," he said. "Just because you can't see them doesn't mean they're not there," said Nora. Halfway down the block one of the guys who worked for Ricky taking care of their houses was hosing down the sidewalk. Ricky's guys tended to be small, dark, and stocky, former residents of some Central American country who were willing to do almost any kind of work to earn money. This one had just washed out all their garbage cans, but the effort was fruitless. The greasy sheen on both the pavement and in the cans would reassert itself, summer's urban perspiration. It was one of the reasons people who could afford to do so fled New York, for Nantucket, the Hamptons, somewhere cleaner, greener. Somewhere more boring, Nora often thought to herself. Excerpted from Alternate Side by Anna Quindlen 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.
