55 pages • 1 hour read
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Content Warning: This section of the guide describes and discusses the source text’s treatment of infertility, pregnancy loss, child death, abuse, racism, sexism, and anti-gay bias.
Saturday Night at the Lakeside Supper Club looks at four generations of mothers and daughters in the Miller-Prager family: Betty, her daughter Florence, Florence’s daughter Mariel, and Mariel’s daughter Julia. These relationships are fraught. Florence initially dislikes her mother’s propensity to insistently make the best of bad situations, something she later regards as Betty’s strength. Mariel blames Florence for her difficult childhood and for the death of her son, Gus, though ultimately reconciles with her. Julia grows up without her mother, yearning for connection to a woman she didn’t get the chance to know. The novel’s narrative structure, in which daughters narrate before becoming mothers themselves, focuses on what it means to be a daughter, the text nevertheless offers a view of motherhood that is both burdensome and full of joy.
These burdens and joys are not felt equally by all characters, which the novel positions as a function of choice. Florence’s relentless anxiety about her daughter’s safety is only partially tied to Florence’s personality (which tends toward selfishness that she rationalizes as being, ultimately, for the benefit of others). Rather, her unhappiness and lost sense of self during early motherhood are linked more to her reluctance to become a mother in the first place. Florence ends her relationship with her beloved Al due to not wanting to have children; she marries Gustav committed to remaining childfree, only to have him, after 15 years of marriage, get her to drunkenly agree to try for a baby. Florence, though terrified of motherhood and clearly coerced into it, does not attempt to go back on this promise. Instead, she frames her motherhood as a compromise—an internalization of gender expectations that “normal” women (as Al calls them during their breakup) must naturally desire children. Despite loving Mariel intensely, Florence suffers for her motherhood.
Mariel, by contrast, deeply longs for a child. This wanting, despite being societally normalized, is nevertheless burdensome to Mariel, who has infertility in her late 30s. Mariel feels shame about needing fertility treatments, which grates against her internalized gender-specific ideals about motherhood as a natural state for women. Though Mariel ultimately gets her wish and derives great joy from her daughter, Julia, the novel presents Mariel’s motherhood as characterized by self-abnegation. When she collapses in her driveway in her last narrative chapter, Mariel is not concerned about her own health—extreme selflessness that Julia thinks contributed to her death. Instead, Mariel only cares that her daughter is safe and happy. This important self-erasure indicates the novel’s perspective on motherhood: Even when joyous, it is a great burden.
The novel foregrounds the way various generations in Bear Jaw, Minnesota, interact with one another. These connections operate in three registers. The first is openly shared intergenerational knowledge, in which characters know and discuss their overlapping histories. The second is trivial intergenerational connections intended as bonuses for readers, such as when Julia’s friend Grubbs dates Al’s great-grandson—a detail only available to readers who note that one of Mariel’s narration chapters mentions the last name of the man Al’s granddaughter married. The third is unshared, but crucial, intergenerational knowledge, which only the reader and one of the characters know—the non-dissemination of which has long-term effects on the narrative. Each of these has a different influence on the novel’s structure, plot, and atmosphere.
When characters openly share their histories with one another, their reactions to these intergenerational stories not only build characterization but also show characters’ relationships to events and to each other. Florence sees Mariel’s conception at the Majestic as an options-limiting fate tying her to Bear Jaw. Mariel, in contrast, sees this story as an unfortunate reminder of her parents’ sex life; given her love of the Lakeside, the fatedness of the event strikes her in a happier light. These differing views indicate how each character structures their differently complex feelings about Bear Jaw, which Mariel sees more positively than does her mother.
The “Easter egg” connections made visible to readers are a form of worldbuilding, a way for fiction in the realist mode to simulate authenticity. By making us aware of details characters don’t pay attention to or can’t see, the novel implies that Bear Jaw exists beyond the page. Readers know that Travis McBroom is Al’s great-grandson without Julia ever thinking of him as such, and Julia’s friend dates Travis without affecting the plot. In other words, life goes on in Bear Jaw, even when that life is not directly reported or immediately important to the protagonists. This manufactured reality lets Stradal emphasize the interconnectedness of the community he has created and builds a meta-relationship between author and reader, bypassing the characters. In moments of recognition, the author winks and asks, “Do you see what I did there?” The “Easter eggs” therefore do not just emphasize a community in the text, they create a community around the text, in which author and reader communicate with one another.
Finally, the unshared intergenerational knowledge draws upon the novel’s theme that knowing someone and loving them are not identical concepts. Mariel, for example, never learns anything about her grandparents’ complicated marriage or about her grandfather’s closeted homosexuality or clandestine affair with Archie. Because of this, she loves Betty and Floyd intensely uncomplicatedly—unlike Florence, who was troubled by this intimate knowledge of her mother and stepfather. The novel ultimately suggests that not knowing every detail about someone may make loving them somewhat easier, as seeing the full truth behind a person can be a difficult burden to bear.
“Nobody remembered anything anymore” (205), Florence laments after she learns Mariel is to inherit the Lakeside, which means Florence’s dreams of selling the restaurant to buy the yellow house of her childhood nostalgia are forever out of reach. The realization becomes even starker when she learns the house has been torn down. Florence’s assertion about collective memory is not supported in the novel; indeed, the novel depends largely on what various characters do remember, though often those memories are only ambiguously accurate. However, Florence’s statement does emphasize the extent to which nostalgia (which, by definition, describes memories that have been artificially overwritten by positive implications) is a driving force in the novel, one that stands in contrast to dreams of the future.
A longing for the past is framed as part of the Lakeside’s charm. When Brenda says she used to go to the Lakeside during its long-gone “golden era,” Mariel thinks, “People had said things like this to her before, but she didn’t take it personally; they were usually talking about their golden era, not the Lakeside’s” (219). Though Mariel notes the limits of nostalgia in this characterization of her restaurant, she does not necessarily recognize the limits of her own optimistic dreams for the future. By framing the Lakeside as connected to a vague “golden era” of the person discussing it, Mariel tacitly frames the restaurant as future-oriented; she hopes her own golden era (in which she will have another child) lies ahead of her. Mariel’s attitude echoes that of the relentlessly positive Betty. Yet the novel suggests that these perspectives are both false; Mariel, for example, likely dies due to years spent in smoky (yet perpetually golden) Lakeside.
These optimistic visions of both past and future, though apparently contradictory, have a similar goal: to handle the anxieties of the present by dreaming of an easier alternative time. Adding to the complexity is the novel’s shifting sense of the “present”—each narrator’s present is by definition another narrator’s future or past. The structure leaves time objectively unmoored and subjectively attached to narrators’ memories. The most troubled time, in the text, is the era in which few of its characters are happy—the midcentury. Florence, in these years, feels bogged down by the incessant labors of motherhood; Mariel is struggling through her difficult childhood overseen by a highly protective and manipulative parent. For Florence, therefore, the “golden era” of her life is her childhood, when she is unburdened by the expectations of traditional womanhood (in compulsory heterosexuality), while Mariel’s vision is also tied to childhood—just not her own. Her “golden era” is the one in which she has a child of her own, which occupies a hazy, happy future.
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By J. Ryan Stradal
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