Every once in a while we’re reminded that bad things can happen to good people. The good people in this case are Calvin, the writer, and his dearly departed wife, Alice. As you might expect from a loving tribute, pedestals and pathos are intrinsic. The earnest Trillin, smitten to the core, did his best to make her real, but still may have crossed into too-good-to-be-true territory. In a way, I had hoped for as much. Devotion suits him. Other things I’d read made him seem like such a pleasant fellow: humorous without trying too hard (in contrast to, say, Dave Barry), ironic without seeming smug (unlike many post-modern types), and self-deprecating without being disingenuous (unlike me, for instance (I say with what I hope is the right kind of irony)). In a piece like this, he had to veer a few degrees away from his usual drollery and light touch. He still came across as a mensch, but a sadder one given his loss.
To hear him tell it, Alice was too good for him. She was smart, attractive, classy, and kind. He mentioned how when he first met her at a party, at the apex of his own charm and wit, she seemed to him to glow. In the scant seventy some pages that followed, he shared a handful of stories about their family life together. They were, to use the most precise word I can think of, nice – simple and spare with no hint of pretense or deeper understanding. I just wish there were more. Come to think of it, that’s what Trillin himself would have wanted.