57 pages • 1 hour read
Elizabeth StroutA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Summary
Chapter Summaries & Analyses
Character Analysis
Themes
Symbols & Motifs
Important Quotes
Essay Topics
Tools
Author Elizabeth Strout frames this first short story within the memories of Henry Kitteridge, the husband of Olive Kitteridge; most of the events of the story have already passed, as Henry is now retired. Henry, recalling fondly his many years running his small pharmacy, notes how he strove to be attentive to his customers. His helpfulness stemmed from his experience of having “witnessed twice in childhood the nervous breakdowns of a mother who had otherwise cared for him with stridency” (4).
When Henry’s somewhat poorly tempered assistant, Mrs. Granger, dies, Henry hires Denise Thibodeau. Denise, 22 years old and a recent graduate, has a husband who is also named Henry, and Henry Kitteridge quickly warms to the couple. Olive, who dismisses Denise as “mousy” (5), discourages her husband’s wish to invite the young couple to dinner, but Henry invites them anyway. At dinner, Henry and Olive’s nearly adolescent son, Christopher Kitteridge, sulks while the adults discuss how working in a pharmacy reveals the secrets of everybody in a town, and Olive is short with Henry Kitteridge when he spills the ketchup. Henry nonetheless seems pleased to spend time with the young couple, especially Denise.
Henry seems to find great joy in Denise’s presence. Denise is an efficient worker, and though she is described as “plain as a plate” (9), Henry appreciates her conservativeness and simplicity. In contrast, at home one evening, Henry fights with Olive, who says she is exhausted. Olive refuses to go to church, leaving Henry feeling as if “his soul was suffocating in tar” (9). Their fight concludes only after Olive mentions Jim O’Casey (a fellow teacher) the next morning: “in that way their fight was done” (9). The next day at work, Denise describes digging potatoes at night with her husband, relating how she had to retreat at one point, feeling everything “too good to be true” (10). In his deepening fixation, Henry tends to infantilize Denise and even her husband, insisting he is not in love with her. In fact, Denise’s presence “caused him [Henry] to desire Olive with a new wave of power” (11), and in making love to Olive, he describes how it is not Denise who comes to mind but, “oddly,” Denise’s husband: “the fierceness of the young man as he gave way to the animalism of possession” (11).
Henry Thibodeau and Henry Kitteridge bond over their high school football experiences. While Olive continues to dismiss Denise as a dull person, Henry disagrees. Olive and Henry argue at home again, with Olive announcing that Jim O’Casey has a better understanding of Christopher than Henry does. Denise encourages Jerry McCarthy, the delivery boy, to take an evening class and, together with Henry, they celebrate when he earns an “A.”
Years later, in the present once again, Henry attends church without Olive. Congregation attendance has decreased, which worries and saddens Henry. A “large chain drugstore” (15) has replaced the pharmacy, and Denise has moved to Texas. The week before, Henry did not receive his annual birthday card from her. He slips back into his memories, recalling the evening that Denise called him at home with her “tiny voice” (18); her husband, Henry Thibodeau, has died, mistakenly shot by his best friend on a hunting trip. Henry, Olive, and Jerry attend the funeral. Henry pities Denise, who is devastated by the loss, and takes on the task of teaching her to drive—though he still worries that she is helpless. His concern affects his work, and he finds that “his own life felt unbearable” (22).
On a whim, Henry brings Denise a kitten. She names it Slippers, and it spends its days at the pharmacy. Months and seasons pass; the anniversary of the death arrives but passes without incident. A few weeks later, however, Denise accidentally runs over Slippers in her car, and she calls Henry’s house in tears. Olive tells Henry to “go over and comfort your girlfriend” (24). Henry is angry at the comment, but he goes to Denise’s house. There, as Denise settles, she admits to often talking to Henry in her head. Henry “put her to bed like a child” (24), and as he drives home, he imagines living with her, even having a daughter with her who would adore him. The next day, Henry and Denise work together in an “intimate silence” (24), and as the shop closes, Henry promises to take care of her—though in his current reflection, he admits “[t]o this day he does not know what he was thinking” (25).
Back in the past, Henry’s relationship with Denise grows complicated. He offers to take Denise square dancing, insisting she needs local friends, but she seems disinclined to join him. Tension mounts inside Henry as he comes to understand he could never be with Denise: “To leave Olive was as unthinkable as sawing off his leg. In any event, Denise would not want a divorced Protestant; nor would he be able to abide her Catholicism” (26). Though there are moments of reprieve, in which Henry believes their softer relationship returns, Henry begins taking sleeping tablets for the first time.
In the present, standing in church, Henry reflects on the last time he saw Denise. She and Jerry, whose education resulted in a good salary, were married with an infant son; the couple had stopped by while visiting Jerry’s parents nearby. Denise already had “a look of the gravity of life weighing her down” (27), and Jerry spoke sharply to her, much in the way that Olive speaks to Henry.
At home, Olive tells Henry that a birthday card arrived for him the day before, but she forgot about it. The note inside is longer than usual; Denise speaks of a health scare that has changed her. For the first ever time, she signs the card with “love” (29). Henry thinks about Olive—the way his wife mourned when Jim O’Casey died and how her grief made clear that she had loved the man. Henry never told Olive “of the gripping, sickening need he felt for Denise” (29), not even when Denise told him that Jerry had proposed, and Henry told her to “go.” Now, though, he realizes that his guilt about Denise has, in a small way, kept Denise with him; though “in a moment,” the narrator indicates, this thought “will be gone, dismissed as not true” (29). The story ends with Henry telling Olive that his friend from church “has a fellow,” so they must “have them over soon” (30).
Kevin Coulson returns to Crosby for the first time since his childhood. Patty Howe, from inside the diner where she works, notices Kevin sitting in his car as he stares at the sea; she recognizes him from their time growing up together. Kevin, in turn, recalls driving past his childhood home earlier in the day. Kevin has a rifle in his car, and it soon becomes clear that he plans to kill himself at his childhood home—though he is worried about the child of the family who lives there now finding his body. He understands how traumatizing such a discovery could be, as he found his own mother’s body after she had died by suicide.
Kevin is surprised when a face appears beside his car window. It’s Olive Kitteridge, and she bluntly invites herself into the car to talk with him. Kevin lives in New York City, she knows, and they talk about Patty, who “keeps having miscarriages and it makes her sad” (35). Kevin, who has been training to become a psychiatrist, has bipolar disorder; he believes that everyone in his field is striving to figure out what’s wrong with themselves, though they rarely know it. Once, Kevin notes, he had planned to work in the Hauge with torture victims: “he’d been attracted to crazy” (36). Olive tells him that her father and her son both struggle with depression. In discussing Kevin’s mother, Olive further reveals that her father also died by suicide. Kevin wants to end the conversation, though he does not know how. He imagines a bullet and wonders where it will go after passing through “the roof of a mouth” (39), but he talks about the boats in the harbor instead. Olive observes that it is unusual for a woman to kill herself with a gun, as Kevin’s mother did, and they agree that his mother was an “unusual woman” (40).
Patty, intending to cut a bouquet of lilies for her mother, approaches the far side of the marina—an area notorious for its dangerous, steep drop into the water. She passes Kevin and Olive talking in his car.
Kevin and Olive discuss the mental health conditions of Olive’s son, Christopher Kitteridge; Kevin oscillates between wanting the conversation to end, disliking the sound of Olive’s voice, and being drawn back into the discussion. He thinks of his apparently disastrous romantic relationship with a woman named Clara Pilkington, who was covered in self-harm scars. Kevin asks a bit more after Olive’s husband and son, and when Olive asks after Kevin’s brother, he reveals that his brother has a drug addiction and lives on the streets.
Kevin reflects on having lived in many places in effort to combat his isolation. Though each seemed promising at first, “all became places that sooner or later, one way or another, assured him that he didn’t, in fact, fit” (43). He has developed a longing for his childhood house—not out of love, but out of nostalgia. Kevin finally finds solace in the sound of Olive’s voice as she seems to prepare to leave. The waves crash against the marina walls. Suddenly, he does not want Olive to go. He feels that “hope [is] a cancer inside him” (45).
Olive spots something and hops out of the car. She runs to the marina, shouting; Patty has fallen into the water. Kevin acts on instinct, jumping into the freezing water. On his second attempt, he manages to grab hold of Patty. He fights to keep her “from falling away” (47) as Olive gets help. He seems deeply moved as he sees in Patty’s face “how she wanted to live […] how she wanted to hold on” (47).
Angie O’Meara is a piano player. It is nearly Christmas, and she is performing four nights a week at the same bar and grill she has played at for many years. Now in her fifties, her beauty is slipping, but elements of her attractive appearance remain. Joe, the bartender, is aware that her breath regularly smells of alcohol and mints, and he assumes that she experiences stage fright. He is right. A self-taught pianist, Angie was a child prodigy. As a child who always wanted to play music, she would often say “my hands are hungry” (51). Nonetheless, for years, Angie has started drinking vodka several hours before each performance to calm her nerves. Specifically, she fears playing her first notes, which carries with it the “responsibility” of “changing the atmosphere in the room” (50).
Olive and Henry Kitteridge arrive in the bar. Angie makes a note to play “Good Night, Irene” when Henry leaves, knowing it is his favorite song. She often tries to make such adjustments for patrons. However, Angie also notices that, tonight, her hands are trembling; this has become more common lately, as the vodka is no longer doing “what it had done for many years, which was to make her happy and make everything feel pleasantly at a distance” (51). As she begins to play tonight, she thinks about how Malcolm Moody, a married selectman with whom she has been having an affair for several years; Malcolm’s treatment of her has lately grown colder, and his judgmental attitude toward others always gave her pause.
A man in a dark coat enters and sinks into a chair. Angie asks for an Irish coffee, and shortly after, the man submits a request for her to play “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Angie keeps playing Christmas carols, now trying to ignore the man whose name is Simon. Simon, she notes, “had once been a piano player, too” (53). When Angie runs out of carols, for the time in years, she avails herself of her 20-minute break. Then, for the first time ever, in their 22-year affair, Angie goes to the payphone and calls Malcolm at his home. As soon as the phone picks up, she says that she cannot see him anymore and apologizes. The line is silent, and Angie suspects that “his wife was probably right there” (54). She returns to the piano and plays “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” Near the end, she looks at Simon, but he does not return her smile.
Returning to her piano, she thinks about Simon. They dated when she had been “just a girl” (55), so many of her memories of him feature her mother in the background. Simon had been the piano player in the bar before her, though his playing lacked feeling. He broke up with Angie, complaining that he felt it was as though he had “to date both [her] and [her] mother” (55). Later, he accused her of being “neurotic” and wounded.
Simon was the only person who knew Angie’s mother had “taken money from men” (55), which the text indicates was for sex work. Later, after music school rejected Simon, he became a real estate lawyer in Boston. At age 15, Angie was offered a scholarship, though her mother refused to allow Angie to leave for the school. Angie wonders whether Simon is having a midlife crisis. Eventually, he comes to stand beside the piano; he has aged and become unremarkable.
They talk. Simon’s eyes lack the warmth they once held. He wears a thick wedding ring, and when Angie asks, he talks about his wife and three children, “all grown” (56). He asks whether she finishes at nine tonight; Angie confirms she does, but she says that she has to “skedaddle right out of here” (57). Simon seems to accept her goodbye. A regular sends Angie another coffee, and as Henry Kitteridge leaves, she starts to play “Good Night, Irene.”
Simon suddenly returns to the piano. He bends down and whispers into Angie’s ear that her mother once visited him in Boston. She “asked for a drink and started taking off her clothes” (57). Simon claims he has pitied Angie ever since. Angie gives no reaction besides bidding Simon goodnight. She then quickly drinks the entire Irish coffee and slips into her music, and “[i]nside the music like this, she understood many things” (58). Among those things is that while Simon likely took comfort from what he said, “it was thin milk, this form of nourishment” (58).
Angie finishes playing and leaves the bar. As she stumbles through the cold, she slips and swears. Malcolm appears from the shadows. He is angry that she called his house and accuses her of having an alcohol addiction. Malcolm tells her to call him at work tomorrow when she sobers up, but even drunk, Angie knows that she won’t. She returns home and sits in the stairwell, convinced that everyone she knows is pathetic in their own way. Angie decides to visit the church the following day and play the piano—just as she did when she was young.
Life in a small town is central to the novel. While every story is situated within the unique world of each relevant character’s perspective, all the stories in this section, and all the stories in the novel except one, take place in the small town of Crosby, Maine. Nearly all the main characters, in turn, have deep roots or connections to Crosby, Maine. The town is small enough that everyone knows one another, but large enough that their lives are not entirely codependent. The structure of the novel is a reflection of life in this small town. Each person in Crosby is their own main character, existing within a private world of their own making—the people of Crosby are each independent yet all intertwined. Structuring the novel in this manner allows author Elizabeth Strout to demonstrate How Perspective Shapes Reality. This theme is evident in the first chapter, “Pharmacy,” as Henry’s story and perception of Denise takes place via his own memory and gaze. Henry lives in both the past and present, which are all of his own making, and his reality is actively shaped by his own unfolding thoughts, an effect captured in the final lines of the story:
[A]ll these years of feeling guilty about Denise have carried with them the kernel of still having her […] He cannot even bear this thought, and in a moment it will be gone, dismissed as not true. For who could bear to think of himself this way, as a man deflated by the good fortune of others? No, such a thing is ludicrous (29).
In these lines, the third-person omniscient narrator allows a glimpse at how Henry, much like the other characters, are constantly rewriting their own truths to what serves them best—or at least to what allows their own egos to survive.
The act of observing others, as well as the sense of being always observed, shapes Strout’s manner of narration. Louisa Thomas, in her review of the novel in the New York Times, observes how Olive Kitteridge uses structure to this effect:
It [the novel] manages to combine the sustained, messy investigation of the novel with the flashing insight of the short story. By its very structure, sliding in and out of different tales and different perspectives, it illuminates both what people understand about others and what they understand about themselves (Thomas, Louisa. “The Locals.” New York Times, 20 Apr. 2008).
Strout is sensitive to the power of perspective in the context of small-town life due to her own time spent growing up and living in Maine. In an article for The Guardian, Strout compares her time in Maine with her life in New York City, where she is able to feel invisible:
What changes for me when I am in our small town in Maine is a sense of exposure, a sense of the vastness of space around me, and this destabilises me at times […] when I am in Maine, where there are very few people on the streets, I am encumbered by that sense of self – who is watching me? (Strout, Elizabeth. “Elizabeth Strout: ‘If I ever return to a small town, I want you to kill me.’“ The Guardian, 9 Jun. 2017).
In short, the novel’s structure captures and heightens this sense of being surrounded by others, always observed, while nonetheless feeling isolated.
This dual effect of observation and isolation is especially evident with how Strout introduces the personality of Olive Kitteridge in these first chapters, that is, through the eyes of others. For example, in the first chapter, through her husband’s eyes, Olive appears judgmental, short tempered, and even hypocritical, as she has also had, at the least, an emotional affair. In the second chapter, through Kevin Coulson’s eyes, a more compassionate side of Olive emerges, and the tragedies in Olive’s life that have shaped her as a person emerge. In the third chapter, through Angie O’Meara’s eyes, the reader gains a more bird’s-eye-view perspective of the woman. For Angie, seeing Henry is “like moving into a warm pocket of air” (51). In contrast, Olive’s entrance into the bar brings a “momentary chill” with the cold weather, and in her “loud voice,” she announces, “Too damn bad. I like the cold” (51). Taken together, these stories form a kaleidoscope image of Olive. The rich complexity of Henry’s relationship with his wife in the first chapter, from Henry’s perspective, is suddenly reduced in the third chapter, with Angie perceiving the two as simple opposites: warmth versus chill. The second chapter reveals some of the most intimate aspects of Olive’s past, but it does so from the perspective of a character long absent from Crosby. The set of three chapters, despite never dipping into Olive’s own mind, hint at a complex woman: She is deeply flawed, but for good reasons, and those reasons appear to be something she emotionally keeps at arm’s length from herself.
These three chapters also work together to introduce the theme of The Necessity of Human Connection, with each character suffering deeply for their failed connections. Henry’s emotional affair with Denise is marked by his deeper wish to see everyone married. When his agonized son asks why Henry “can’t just leave people alone” (28), the answer, to Henry, seems simple: “He doesn’t want people alone” (28). Kevin’s emotional turmoil, while complex, stems heavily from his devastating isolation. His mother died long ago by suicide, his father has died, and his brother has long been out of his life. All the cities he moves to, at first, seem to offer a sense of home: “You can live here. You can rest here. You can fit” (43). Yet the hope always falls through, as “they all became places that sooner or later, one way or another, assured him that he didn’t, in fact, fit” (43). In both these stories, what rescues the characters, however temporarily, is human connection—a sense that they are being seen, or seeing another, on a level beyond the surface. The third chapter, in turn, deepens the exploration of the theme by suggesting our helplessness in the face of human connection, which Angie seems to argue is sometimes beyond explanation or control:
You couldn’t make yourself stop feeling a certain way, no matter what the other person did. You had to just wait. Eventually the feeling went away because others came along. Or sometimes it didn’t go away but got squeezed into something tiny, and hung like a piece of tinsel in the back of your mind (56-57).
Trying to understand time, in turn, Angie observes, “was like trying to make sense of music and God and why the ocean was deep” (54). The necessity of human connection, in other words, is so powerful that we are, more often than not, helpless to it.
These opening chapters also establish the foundation for Olive’s journey, situating her deeply flawed character within a cast of other flawed characters. The Trials of Grief and Mental Illness are both explicit and implicit throughout these chapters, in which the characters wrestle with the myriad ways in which depression can manifest. In the first chapter, in response to Henry’s fears for the now-widowed Denise, Olive asserts that “[p]eople are never as helpless as you think they are” (21). Her position is not without empathy, though, as indicated in the second chapter, where she reveals the loss of her father to suicide. Olive is keenly aware of the risks of untreated depression. She is also a woman who has developed her own coping mechanisms for continuing after profound and shocking loss of a loved one. The third chapter, in which Angie observes how helpless humans are in the face of our feelings, lends weight to Olive’s somewhat brutal, if realistic, take on things: “You couldn’t make yourself stop feeling a certain way, no matter what the other person did. You had to just wait” (56). Olive’s orientation seems to be toward enduring, not necessarily overcoming, the worst of what life presents. This approach to life makes her, at once, both admirable and repugnant, someone strong enough to survive, but perhaps not strong enough to change.
By Elizabeth Strout