Long Island Compromise

“But in recent years, since her marriage, she had begun to see all the superstitions that were her heritage as the silly burden of a poor and desperate people who had no control and no explanation of why they were constantly being chased to their death. If all those superstitions were to protect against the dangers that their poverty endowed them with, then money was the solution and it was time for them to finally relax.

But now she saw that the money had tricked her. It had made Ruth, a woman born a mere four years following the liberation of Dachau, believe she was insulated from danger.”

This passage characterizes Ruth as someone who has entered into a life of wealth through her marriage with Carl. Where Ruth previously leveraged her belief in superstition to protect herself from harm, after marrying, she relies on the security that her wealth extends—a habit that gestures toward both Wealth as a Barrier to Personal Development and The Illusory Promise of Certainty. Now that Carl has been kidnapped, she reconsiders falling back on her old beliefs to rescue her.

“Now, obviously, this isn’t a terrible ending; this was the best possible ending to a horrific story. But life wasn’t over yet, and part of what happened next had to do with the way the Fletchers believed that they had done their time—that actually it was all that they’d been through already that had blessed them to enjoy this eternal sunny day. That the safety and survival they delighted in was earned by them, a sort of hazard pay for what they had endured […]

The problem is that they didn’t stop to consider what the rest of us knew, which was that they had no right to set the conditions for safety and survival in the first place—that safety and survival might not work that way. They don’t care about you. They don’t accrue like an Israel bond. The more you bank on them as investments that feed off themselves, the more precarious and insidious their yields.”

The narrator assures the reader that the story will end in a terrible way, fulfilling the promise of the novel’s opening lines. They remain ambiguous, however, on whether the story will be horrific for the Fletchers or for the reader, inviting the possibility that the story of the Fletchers is a cautionary tale about wealth.

“And she was either not curious or not capable of understanding exactly what it was that he got out of this, which was that he was not here because he liked being here; he was here because it allowed him to exist as a normal, upright human being out in the world all the other hours of the week.”

One of Beamer’s key character traits is his addiction to sex and drugs, which is rooted in Trauma and Familial Repression. The narrative unpacks the reasons that Beamer has addictions, which he does not share with the sex workers he engages. This suggests that Beamer’s justifications are internalized, hinting at how much of himself he hides from his family, especially his wife, Noelle.

“‘I had your father to take care of,’ she snapped back. ‘I had plenty to do!’

He didn’t say anything, because he didn’t want another lecture about how his father’s ordeal hijacked her chances at a full life. So instead he said:

‘It’s not her fault that we have money, Mom.’

‘There is something so dangerous about having too much money and just enough time,’ Ruth said, almost to herself.”

While defending Noelle from his mother, Beamer inadvertently forces Ruth to reveal her thoughts on her relationship to wealth. Her observation that the abundance of wealth and a sufficient supply of time seem like a dangerous combination comes across as a non-sequitur. This foreshadows her narrative arc in the fourth chapter, where she reckons with the fact that caring for Carl is the price she has had to pay for a lifetime of wealth.

“For the millionth time since he married Noelle, but also the millionth time that day, Beamer swore he was not going to fuck this up; he swore he would do better […]

His progress had gone slower than he’d hoped, but life wasn’t over yet. It was not over yet! Inside him, the booze and the residual drugs that had not yet been flushed by his exhausted liver combined to create in him the hormones of delirious optimism, the feeling of a newborn’s potential.”

Beamer’s narrative conflict is centered around the tension between his family life and his secret life. In this passage, the narrative points out that while he knows that his family is the better option, he still has alcohol and drugs in his system. This underlines the fact that he does not think he can function without drugs and sex.

“‘The Fletchers are a great Jewish American family,’ Rabbi Weintraub was saying now. ‘They are what our ancestors hoped for us when they abandoned their terrorized homelands and made way for this world. They had to invent who they were, what a Jew could be in America—that’s what Phyllis will represent as the years go by, a creative act that allowed us all to live in peace and comfort.’”

In this passage, Brodesser-Akner calls attention to the Fletchers’ fulfillment of the American dream, as their story began with Zelig, a Jewish immigrant from Poland. Considering the way the narrator earlier framed the novel as a “terrible story,” the allusion to the American dream opens the concept to authorial critique.

“There are only two reasons to want that kind of pain: because you feel you deserve it, or because of the life-affirming quality of its disappearance. That second one is probably the most optimistic-seeming thing you could say about this predilection of Beamer’s.”

This passage not only elaborates on Beamer’s motivations for engaging in sadomasochistic sex but also foreshadows Carl’s later realization that his kidnapping should have taught him to value the freedom he enjoys for the rest of his life. It likewise foreshadows Beamer’s gratification in rehabilitation once he starts to notice the resemblance between rehabilitation and kidnapping.

“‘Your third eye,’ she said. ‘It’s not clear.’

‘I don’t know what that means,’ Beamer said.

‘It’s your creativity. It’s stopping you from doing what you have to do. You’re paralyzed. You can’t think.’

‘I just finished a screenplay and I’m tired,’ he said. ‘That’s probably it.’

But she ignored him, looking instead at his forehead like it had a stain on it. ‘It’s got a lot of muck on it, your third eye. You haven’t seen clearly in many years. You let other people see for you.’”

Phyllis the psychic points out Beamer’s primary character flaw, which is that he eschews responsibility in order to function. Just as he relies on his addictions to drugs and sex to feel “normal,” he also relies on Charlie’s talent as a writer to guarantee success in the industry. He needs others in order to survive.

“‘I just know that if I had what you had, I would not be rewriting Santiago. That’s what I’m trying to say here. You should think and look inside and ask yourself: Do I want to contribute another Santiago movie, or do I have something to say to the world? I…I have to think you have something you’ve been trying to say to the world. Beam, I know you do.’

‘I just wanted to know if it was good, Charlie.’

‘It doesn’t matter if it’s good. It’s not the thing you should be writing. Beamer, do you hear me? Don’t do this. Write your own thing. The thing you obviously have always needed to write.’”

Charlie calls Beamer out for his low aspirations, challenging him to do something better with his circumstances. Key to this passage is the emphasis on what Beamer has—his wealth—which functions as a safety net for him to write anything without much risk to his career. Charlie covets Beamer’s wealth and is frustrated that Beamer fails to appreciate it.

“It was how they don’t tell you how long the tail is on self-destruction—how you could self-destruct over and over and for so, so long without even coming close to the end, which, of course, is destruction itself. He marveled at this, how many chances there were to turn back when you saw the signs, which was exactly how many times you chose not to.”

Before he collapses outside Mandy Patinkin’s house, Beamer reflects on the innermost truth of his relationship to his addictions. He acknowledges that his addictions are part of a larger cycle of self-destruction, which also includes his resolution to get a fresh start on life and turn away from his worst habits. This inclination toward self-sabotage is what causes him to relinquish responsibility for his life to others.

“Nathan knew the correct answer but he also knew the right answer. The correct answer was that of course a tree can fall […] The right answer, on the other hand, was to say: Not to worry, son. It’s all fine. Things like that don’t happen. We will all live forever in peace and health and prosperity.

Guess which answer Nathan gave?

Nathan Fletcher had grown from that little boy making twenty-four-hour four-point contact with his mother during his father’s kidnapping into not so much a whole man but a collection of tics: a composite panic attack whose brain lived in both the unspeakable past and the terrifying future and rarely in a particular current moment unless that moment contained more fear than the past and future put together and therefore deserved his complete attention. It was the fear that always felt like the truth to him.”

Nathan’s key character trait is his overwhelming anxiety, which causes him to make judgments out of fear. In this particular passage, Brodesser-Akner demonstrates this trait by having Nathan choose to tell his son Ari the truth about falling trees rather than reassure him of his fears. While he initially thinks that it’s worse to coddle his son with falsehoods, he will belatedly realize the impact of his answer on his son’s mental health.

“‘You know what they say,’ Alyssa said. ‘First generation builds the house, second generation lives in it, third generation burns it down.’

‘Which generation are the kids?’ Nathan whispered.

‘Well, it’s funny. On my side they’re the second, since I didn’t have any money. But on your side they’re the third. Or are they fourth? And it seems like your side might be winning.’”

In this passage, Alyssa muses on the idea of family legacy, suggesting that their children may be responsible for undoing the Fletchers’ wealth. What Alyssa doesn’t realize at this point is that Nathan is quietly fulfilling the prophecy of destruction, being a member of the third generation after Zelig. This makes Nathan anxious for the future of his children, particularly if they go on to live without the advantages that he has lived with all his life.

“If his circumstances and the temperament that kept him in them was a constant, so was his lack of opportunity to transcend them, sitting in an office all day, reading arcane volumes of land use law. His colleagues were constantly out there, making deals, doing the dance along legal and ethical lines that anyone who wants to succeed in this business—Oh, Arthur, how could you not tell him that this was what it would take to succeed here?—either knew how to do or was willing to learn.

This was his moment to do. This was his moment to learn.”

Nathan arrives at a moment of clarity during a crucial meeting with Lewis Squib. He contrasts himself against his colleagues at the law firm, who use their professional skills to force outcomes to pass. While this clarity sets Nathan up to achieve his personal motivations, it also sets him up to undermine himself, which he eventually does when he decides that the best way forward is bribery.

“He had a person of his very own, to take care of him and love him the most. He’d grown up invisible to his father, bewildered by the exasperation he seemed to cause in his mother. Forget Beamer and Jenny—they were their own faction, always whispering together in a huddle, them against the world. Alyssa was his, and in return, he would be hers, honestly and faithfully.”

This passage underlines the importance of Nathan’s relationship to his wife, Alyssa. With the absence of his parents and Beamer and Jenny’s affiliation, Nathan has largely gone through life without the comfort of anyone to support him through his anxiety. Nathan values Alyssa’s companionship, which is why he struggles with his reluctance to tell her the truth about their financial situation.

“‘He spoke once about something called a plastic hour, that there are these times in our lives when everything is soft and malleable. We tend to suffer during these times, but his point was that actually, these plastic hours are times when you can make actual change.’

‘What change?’

‘Whatever change is necessary. For the better. This is a time when you can become better.’”

Through the metaphor of the “plastic hour,” Rabbi Weintraub suggests that the strife that each of the Fletchers must deal with creates an opportunity to grow as people, though part of this growth precludes the possibility of losing the family wealth forever. This passage thus speaks to wealth as a barrier to personal development as a theme.

“But what she was also born unto was a seemingly limitless potential, a voracious mind, a capacity for achievement unparalleled in her family or her community. She was born beneath a bright sun, to privileged circumstance, but also: Her brain was amazing. The world was hers to lose.

And lose it, she did.”

Jenny is distinguished by the self-awareness that her intellectual gifts grant her. Brodesser-Akner uses this character trait to introduce a compelling tension between wealth and identity. Instead of opening her up to the possibilities of her life, Jenny’s intellect makes her especially conscious of the ways she is tied to the Fletcher fortune. Like her brothers, this leads her into a pattern of self-destructive behavior.

“But does the Bible go forth with a history of the family, or the one who branches off and tries to make a go of it? What does it say of deserters? Or refuseniks?

[…] Jenny would remind you that it’s the ones who look back who turn into pillars of salt.

What Jenny got for her desertion, however, was not a nation as vast as the grains of sand. No, what she got was her mother’s passive aggression, gripes, disappointment, every comment a loaded one, and this was how she was sent off into the world, and it was also what she received when she returned, which was perhaps why she did it so rarely.”

Jenny’s narrative is framed within the larger context of her family history and the history of Middle Rock. This gives Jenny’s story biblical scale, forcing her to constantly think about her actions in the shadow of everything that came before her. This in turn increases her frustration with life as she must constantly compare grand episodes in history to the relatively miniscule tension between her and her mother.

“She could only see a blurred version of herself, indistinguishable from other blurred figures in a room, doing the same small thing, and hoping it would amount to something.

That was the problem. It all felt so small. Every single option felt like it would just lead to the life of an automaton. She didn’t much believe in fate or destiny—it was too easy to go from that belief into fully hopping on the superstition trauma carousel with her family—but she did think that it would be folly to take the opportunity she’d been given, meaning the money, and do something small. It wasn’t quite her goal to pretend she didn’t come from where she came from; no, the question was, for her, what would she be if she hadn’t? If she could answer that, she could perhaps begin to remediate some of the damage her family had done in the world.”

This passage encapsulates the primary dilemma that Jenny faces throughout her life. Thanks to her wealth and the security it affords her, she has nothing to aspire to other than a desire to live—or, at least, to understand—a life apart from her wealth. Every opportunity she pursues, however, promises the accrual of greater wealth, which makes her efforts seem futile, illustrating the power of wealth as a barrier to personal development.

“The woman ignored Jenny’s implications with a blink and a micro head shake. ‘I guess I just don’t see how a career in art history is a waste? Everyone has a calling. It takes all kinds to make a society. You could use your knowledge of art to change the world. Is that what you’re talking about?’

And sure, yes, it was, but the world to Jenny was the ecosystem of symbiosis that she lived in with her family, something she’d never admit out loud but there it was. Now she was years out of that house and she was just as much a prisoner of it as ever.”

Jenny is challenged to realize change in her chosen profession, which she finds difficult to argue against but also difficult to accept. This crucial moment exposes Jenny’s chief character flaw: as someone who has grown insulated by wealth all her life, she is unable to make sense of what change looks like apart from the loss of her wealth. This prevents her from committing to a pathway that could broaden her views of the world.

“‘I have money, but I’m not a rich girl. When you’re born with money, you’ll always be a rich girl, even if you lose all of it. If you were raised with no money, you’ll never feel rich.’

‘You don’t feel rich?’

Ruth closed her eyes for a brief second at a stoplight. ‘I don’t.’ She opened them. ‘I think the bottom could fall out anytime.’

‘I would love to know that feeling,’ Jenny said.”

Brodesser-Akner uses this exchange to draw a contrast between Ruth and Jenny. Ruth continuously aspires toward wealth even when she has it because she didn’t have it growing up. Jenny resents her insinuation that they are different because she has always known her mother to be rich. Jenny’s reaction affirms the idea that people are deeply shaped by their circumstances.

“She had thought she would have children who maybe resembled her a little more in their grit and energy. She had thought she would have children that she maybe thought more highly of. How she’d watch her three children flailing as they aimed to find meaning in a life where they didn’t have to work for anything. She felt bad for them, because once you’re born that way, even if you lose everything, the way they just had, you never feel the fire of survival in you. You never truly believe there’s a reason to get out of bed in the morning, even if now there is. Ruth had felt the survival instinct in her strongly. That was why she’d married a rich man with no thought about what this might yield in terms of her children. The danger had gone away when she’d married Carl, but the fear never did.”

In this passage, Ruth realizes the long-term impact of her aspirations to wealth. While her survival instinct drove her to marry Carl as a practical choice, she ironically finds herself saddled with many regrets over the way her life has turned out, particularly with her children. This drives Brodesser-Akner’s larger criticisms of the American dream.

“Ruth recalled the moment when the calf leaves its crate—Jenny had rigged it so that a styrofoam calf would walk down from the crate, but it can’t really walk. It doesn’t have any muscle built, because it had spent its life so far in a cage, so it just collapses on the ground, and then the mechanism Jenny created drags the supine, scared calf to its death.

Ruth’s children were the veal, she suddenly understood.

They were raised to be fattened, but never to reach a full and thriving adulthood. They’d arrived at the doorstep of life, unable to walk. Ruth used to hate them for this—hate them in a way you can only hate them because you love them—but now she saw how inevitable it was. Worse, now she saw that she was the author of their incompetence.”

The veal calf is a recurring symbol for the three Fletcher children. In this passage, Ruth realizes that all three of her children have grown up without an inkling of how to survive in the world. This makes her protective of the security that their wealth grants them but also increases the emotional burden that taking care of them entails.

“Or, put more simply, in order to be a normal person, you had to at least see normal people.

But the alternative was true, as well. What bonded them was what they alone had seen. But what evaded them was what they hadn’t. That was what Jenny thought right then, and when she truly understood it, it found her breathless: that if you don’t know to do the things that the Semanskys were doing it’s because that was an inheritance, too. If you never saw it, you couldn’t have it—no, if you never saw it, you couldn’t even know that you were supposed to want it.”

Beamer and Jenny have a pivotal revelation about wealth as a barrier to personal development at the bar mitzvah of Nathan’s sons. By looking at the Semanskys as an alternative to the Fletchers, they realize that all people are fundamentally shaped by the circumstances in which they were raised. The bar mitzvah also serves as a symbolic turnover for Nathan as he comes to affiliate himself more with the Semanskys than his own family.