Maybe the Moon is the second book that I’ve read by Armistead Maupin. The first was The Night Listener. In my review I said that “Maupin is in command of his art and never trips.” That still holds true in this book, which was written well before Listener.
Maupin does not hide behind easy subjects, and handles what might be uncomfortable subjects (for some) with great care and intelligence. In Listener, Maupin stared pederasty in the face and came away with a remarkably delicate tale. Moon is a tale woven from the diary entries of a little person. A dwarf, to be specific, named Cadence. Not just any dwarf, mind you, the littlest dwarf in the world, at least for one cycle of Guinness’ famous book. After a few chapters, you are convinced that Maupin must have been showered with letters from little people praising him for his accuracy. It certainly felt like an honest portrayal to me.
Maupin splendidly depicts the difficulty of being a dwarf in a big person’s world. Observe Cady alone in the kitchen trying to retrieve instructions for a mouse trap. Observe her trying to negotiate a set of stairs, or an ATM, or a shower, or a drinking fountain. Observe finally that she never whines about these things. She’s tough, and I adore her.
The supporting cast is beautifully crafted too. Jeff is a liberal, borderline activist gay man who’s in the final stages of his grief over the death of a prior lover. Renee is a salt of the earth, somewhat dizzy girl who screams at the sight of celebrities and has really bad luck with men. Neil is a black gentleman and pianist who’s separated from his wife and comes to adore Cady but who can’t quite get past the size difference. To give you a taste of how good Maupin is at character development, consider this: when Cady and Neil finally have sex, you’re not only ready for it, you’re looking forward to it. Egad!
And then, the ending. Maupin is a true master of endings. Maybe the Moon is not a tragedy in the strictest sense. At Swim, Two Boys and The Front Runner were tragic tales because the deaths were delivered at the hands of someone else. Here, death is presented as a natural, if unexpected ending. Thus, death itself is not heartbreaking, but what follows almost is. Observe the obituary and see if it hits you hard. Observe the “Hollywoodization” discussion of the diary and see if you’re not made hopping mad. Then observe that everything turned out as it should have, and perhaps one person’s dream did come true. For a moment, you wonder if this really was fiction, and that is Maupin’s true gift: providing strong, provocative stuff that lingers well after the book has been put down.
I had only one complaint when I read this, and I’ll attribute it to “early Maupin.” The word “chuckle” becomes annoying and ugly if overused. It is definitely overused!
That aside, I definitely recommend this book. I have now set a high bar for Armistead Maupin, and hope that I have the pleasure of reviewing more of his stuff in the future.