She wants to go to Three Fish, she says, because she always “feels
good” there. So I arrange to meet her on a Wednesday evening at 7. But
when I arrive at ten minutes ‘til, she’s already sitting at the bar,
holding a martini, laughing at something the bartender just said, and
wearing a dark velvety suit that looks like a cross between an Asian
pantsuit and very high-class pajamas.
We sit, and before even looking at the menu, I tell her why
I’m here. I want to talk about writing, sure, but mostly I want to
learn now how to age with her kind of style. She pauses, looking
startled for a couple seconds; then something happens and she vaults
right over the surprise. Sullivan grins and reaches out to pat my hand.
“Beware, whoever you are, if you try to make me feel out of
it,” she says. “I’ve never had a ten-year birthday — not 40 or 50 or 60
or even 70 — that seemed daunting. Each time, I looked at my life and
said, ‘OK, this is a lot of fun.’ And I don’t feel any older than I did
at 16. I’m still just as naughty as I was then and proud of it. I go to
book clubs and there are young women there, 30 years old; I get them
and they get me. We’re sisters under the skin.”
It’s true that despite their vintage feel, Sullivan’s novels
are read by a wide range of ages. She captures the experience of being
nine or 12 or 17 as well as she does the complications of being 32 or
60. Poor, privileged, married, divorced, child of a morbidly depressed
mother or mother of an adult son ruined by war. She’s written
authentically about all of these conditions and says it’s the
perspective she’s gained in 74 years of life that’s allowed her to do
so.
“Sometimes age makes you more philosophical, sometimes it
makes you angrier and more active.” She pauses and drinks her
Tanqueray, sliding the olives off a plastic spear and chewing them one
by one. “I think the secret is to stay interested. And interesting. You want to be an old person who’s involved and attracts younger people so you have friends all across the ages.”
Part of it is the life she leads. Sullivan and her husband are
activists who moved from South Minneapolis to North in 2003, in part to
show other people what a wonderful part of the city it is.
“We live in a very mixed neighborhood — racially,
economically, in every way you could imagine — and that’s exactly what
I want in my life,” she says. “Too many people as they get older feel
less secure and want to be “safe” all the time. Consequently, they’re
cut off from the real world.”
But Faith and Dan wouldn’t dream of limiting themselves to
some safe, doddering existence. While she teaches and mentors writers
through the Loft, and drives herself around the five-state area doing
readings and public library events, Dan runs a critics program for the
Eugene O’Neill Center in Connecticut and writes frequent political
editorials. Both will campaign full-time for the Democratic candidate —
whomever that turns out to be — in the next presidential election.
Our waiter arrives at this point, pleasant but clearly distracted.
He’s brought me a long-ago ordered glass of wine. When I ask if they
can substitute vegetables for the mashed potatoes that usually come
with the salmon and he says, “Of course.” Sullivan declines a second
martini and orders the grilled prawns.
After he is gone, we resume a desultory conversation, mostly
about literature. Her favorite authors, Sullivan tells me after she
drains her glass, are William Trevor and P.G. Wodehouse. She’s been
reading mysteries, too, and revisiting Jane Austen, whom she loves.
When her new book is finished — and it will be a while, she warns,
because of these ridiculous headaches — she intends to go back to
Milkweed Press “if they’ll have [her].” (They would be crazy not to; Gardenias was one of their top books in 2005.)
“I love Milkweed,” Sullivan says. “Their integrity and the way
they treat their writers. I love that they’re local and I feel
personally connected to the operation. That would definitely be my
first choice.”
Abruptly, I return to the original line of questioning. This
time, I describe the scene of the locker room at my Y. And when I’m
done, she tips her head thoughtfully.
“I used to be more judgmental than I am now,” she tells me.
“In fact, I was a bit of a bitch as a young woman. But I think that was
basically being insecure. You knock around and reach a certain age and
begin to feel good about yourself and who you are. Then there’s nothing
to protect: you’re just you and you open yourself up at that point to
the vulnerabilities of everyone around you. And you get to be” — here,
she leans forward — “fucking mellow.”
This is exactly when the waiter arrives with our meals and
sets down my dinner: bare salmon draped over a heaping mound of mashed
potatoes.
I clear my throat, preparing to demand that my meal go back to
the kitchen and be made right. But when I look across the table, I see
Sullivan pick up her fork, eyes glittering, to dig in. “I just love the
food here!” she says.
And I realize that making my stand would demolish our dinner
together. Even if they took her meal away and brought her a fresh one
timed to match mine, it would diminish her enjoyment. And besides, the
man served our plates and left without a word; so, there’s no longer
anyone there to whom I can complain.
The potatoes are not only plentiful, they’re way too salty.
But the salmon is quite good and underneath, in a snowdrift of spuds,
there are a few thin strips of braised spinach. I eat these and for
once, I shut up.
This, I’ve decided, may be step number one on my self-improvement plan.