The story is complex, so we'll start with the family: a mother, a father and their two girls, one of whom is fifteen and recently lost her virginity (albeit somewhat unwittingly; she turns to the man directly thereafter and gasps, "Did we go all the way?"). Oldest daughter becomes pregnant. Mother and daughter travel to the nursing home where an elderly aunt is staying, and the daughter gives birth in a basement room where not a year earlier, an elderly woman named Alice killed herself, etching "Rot in Hell" into the windowpane. The older women attending the birth swear that the baby, born small and white-haired, screamed "Oh no, not again!" in Alice's voice upon entry. The baby is dropped on her head by a surprised nurse.
"Mister Sandman" is more than a novel about a possibly reincarnated idiot savant, though that in itself could be a formidable plot. It is about a family which, by all appearances, should be miserable: the youngest "daughter" born out of wedlock, the boy-hungry middle child, the parents, whom are respectively in the closet. It is a rare book in that family members, despite appearances or failure to satisfy conventional household norms, support one another and, together, become a content unit, secrets or no. It is that rare book in that, at the book's end, secrets disclosed do not result in isolation, but an affirmation of acceptance by those who truly love one another.
Not to be discounted is Gowdy's lyrical writing style, which seems to reach at times but ultimately makes the story's telling, and the skill taken with the small details which compose the total, compelling picture of the novel's 1960s Toronto: one sister's secret adherence to a false bra, the moldy basement apartment of the grandmother who worships Queen Elizabeth and plucks the mushrooms growing from her damp living room carpet to fry and eat on toast "as the English do", the youngest's black-carpeted "office".