59 pages • 1 hour read
Jeff ZentnerA modern alternative to SparkNotes and CliffsNotes, SuperSummary offers high-quality Study Guides with detailed chapter summaries and analysis of major themes, characters, and more.
Back on the bus, heading home for Christmas break, Cash and Delaney have an opportunity to talk about how school has tested their friendship. Delaney thinks Vi’s rejection of him may impact their friendship, telling Cash, “Maybe you should write a poem about how awesome I am to take your mind off your pain” (286).
Back in Sawyer, Cash feels oddly out of place. Christmas itself is quiet and peaceful, but Cash is aware of how much worse his grandfather seems. Because Delaney’s mother, still experiencing opioid addiction, has left town with a new lover, Delaney spends most of the break with Cash and his grandparents. They talk about their new lives, the school, their new friends, and that trip to New York.
Before heading back to Connecticut, Cash and Delaney paddle a canoe down the Pigeon River on one of “those tranquil days when the river reflects the brisk blue of the December sky” (291). Delaney counsels Cash to move on from Vi. She makes a reference to how she has lived with “unreturned love” (290), but Cash does not pick up on her hint. All Cash thinks is how great it would be to someday have a girlfriend just like Delaney.
Saying goodbye to his grandfather the next morning is particularly tough for Cash. He fears he may never see his grandfather again.
Back at school after a long bus ride, Cash meets up with Vi, who gifts him The Alphabet in the Park, a book of Adélia Prado’s poetry. She hugs Cash and tells him she wants to be friends again. “My life,” Cash decides, “is better with her in it” (297).
Back from break, Alex reveals that in Houston, friends of his family are facing deportation. Alex prays that God will protect them but is not sure God ever listens. Cash nearly shares with Alex the truth about his mother’s overdose but pulls back, uncertain what Alex might think. Alex says he will keep praying for his friends back home; quietly, Cash asks Alex to include his grandfather in his prayers.
The winter term begins. One night, as Cash struggles to write a poem about winter, he and Delaney compare their majors. Delaney argues that both poets and scientists try to understand the world, and that poetry, like science, gets people to think about processes like love, time, and death in new ways.
At three in the morning, Cash gets a phone call from his grandmother telling him to come home because Papaw’s health is failing. Cash has never flown in a plane before but gets to Sawyer by noon.
On the way to the hospital, Cash remembers to text Delaney back in Connecticut. He is not prepared to see his grandfather coughing fitfully in the hospital bed, his eyes bleary and listless as he watches a game show. In a moment of “triumphant laughter” (310), however, Papaw suddenly peels off the tubes running into his arms and makes a crude joke about the hospital gown showing his rear end, asking Cash to get them a bucket of greasy fried chicken.
As Papaw tries to sleep, he asks Cash to read him some of his poems, declaring each one to be “beautiful” (312).
There is a loud disturbance in the hospital corridor, and Delaney comes rushing into Papaw’s room carrying a small mason jar. Without saying anything, she rushes to Papaw’s IV bag and struggles to open it, intent on pouring whatever is in the mason jar into the feeding bag. By this time, nurses are swarming in and calling for security. Delaney tries to explain that the mixture, which contains her new strain of penicillin, is a promising new curative and that she is there to help Papaw.
It takes a small phalanx of security guards and orderlies to get Delaney out of the room. Out in the corridor, frustrated, she hurls the mason jar at Cash, telling him, “You should have had my back” (321). The jar shatters and the miracle muck goes everywhere. Cash takes her to his grandparents’ house where, exhausted, she falls into a deep sleep.
Cash returns to the hospital to sit with Papaw. As his grandfather lies there, weak and struggling for breath, he pulls off his oxygen mask and tells Cash a story about growing up, about learning the words for “tree” and “wind” and how learning about the world lets people “[see] the face of God” (323). Cash whispers how much he loves him, hoping to take that love with him toward “whatever unmapped land he’s journeying to” (324).
While Cash sleeps by his bedside, Papaw dies, his final breath “no more ceremony than a leaf falling” (325).
Cash feels a “great desolation” (326), a sadness beyond words. He heads outside. He is aware Delaney is approaching, and the two hold each other, saying little.
Papaw is cremated. He wanted no funeral, just Cash and Delaney to scatter his ashes along the Pigeon River. “Papaw’s existence,” Cash decides, “was quiet and small, but it was a life defined by the love he gave and got” (328). There is no eulogy as they scatter the ashes in the dark water, just their tears.
Cash remembers deer hunting with his grandfather when he was 12. He remembers taking aim with the heavy rifle and managing to hit a deer that flailed crazily in reaction. At the time, Cash knew he should be proud and happy but was disturbed by the dead animal they dragged back home. That night his grandfather assured him that Cash would never need to hunt again, and that Papaw just loved spending time with his grandson. In his recollections of this moment, Cash realizes that his grandfather taught him to love the world without taking anything from it.
His grandmother tells Cash that he needs to return to school, for his sake and for his grandfather’s sake.
Delaney and Cash board the bus back to Connecticut. Delaney tells Cash about her own frenetic bus ride to the hospital carrying the mold. Cash says little, the “cold cast-iron wrecking ball that smashed [his] life to rubbish now hang[ing] in [his]chest” (335). Along the way he reads a letter from his Papaw that his grandmother gave him before he left. “If we have a soul that lives,” Papaw writes, “then my soul will keep loving you” (336).
Alex and Vi wait for them at the bus stop. Their love and support make Cash feel that staying in Connecticut is going to be more difficult than he imagined. He just wants to be alone.
When he meets Dr. Atkins in class the next day, she tells him that now, more than ever, is the time to turn to the solace of poetry. She advises him to embrace his emotions, and not to pretend to be anything but heartbroken. As a welcome-back gift, Dr. Atkins gives him cornbread based on her own family’s Tennessee recipe. Cash breaks down in tears.
These are the winter chapters, for the various deaths that Cash endures—both of his grandfather and of his various childish illusions—mirror the cyclical “death” of the year itself. With the death of his grandfather, who was also his mentor, his advisor and his friend, Cash learns that in the end he must always let go of those he loves, and that love will taunt him, fool him, and then destroy him all over again. In his debate with Delaney over the immemorial difference between the arts and the sciences, Delaney finds common ground between the two disciplines, and these chapters test her theory. As Delaney reasons, “Does poetry try to get you to think about processes in a new way? Love. Death. Getting old. Processes” (305). These chapters test Delaney’s theory, for just as Papaw concedes to the death that has been coming for years, Cash and Delaney handle the trauma of the loss in vastly different ways, charting the novel’s nuanced conception of The Dynamic of Grief.
Initially, neither Cash nor Delaney provides an adequate or workable strategy for handling Papaw’s death. Both the arts and the sciences fail, and this section closes with the characters now mired in a winter that is as much seasonal as it is emotional. The novel first tests the ability of Delaney’s science to address Papaw’s worsening condition, and accordingly, the hospital provides the most appropriate backdrop for the novel’s critique of limitations of science. Delaney’s dramatic rush into Papaw’s room and her demand that her untested penicillin variant be administered to Papaw is both idealistic and reckless. Science is capable of miracles, but as Delaney has conveniently forgotten, those miracles take time to develop. For all the machines hooked to Papaw’s arms, for all the attention and care he is receiving, his death is inevitable, and his momentary surge of energy as he pulls himself free of the tubes and demands greasy fried chicken only reminds Cash that his Papaw, who collapses into “one last coughing maelstrom” (310), will not be leaving the hospital alive.
If Delaney’s quixotic attempt to administer an untested drug reveals the limits of her faith in science, Cash himself cannot find the solace that Dr. Atkins has promised him that poetry will provide. Although The Redemptive Power of Poetry is relatively easy to feel when Cash soaks in the wonders of the Pigeon River or sorts through his incandescent feelings for Vi, in the wake of death, the power of poetry suddenly fails him much as science has failed Delaney. As Cash takes the long bus ride back to Middleford, poetry seems distant and useless. “I don’t know how to live under the sun of a God whose harvest is everyone I know” (325). Poetry fails him. Language fails him. He all but shuts down for the 24-hour bus ride back to school. He wonders why love cannot be enough. The dynamic of grief thus begins for Cash with corrosive regret, with self-destructive guilt—his love was not enough to keep Papaw alive. “I wish our love was enough to keep whole the people we love” (329). Building on this idea, Cash’s recollection of the lesson Papaw taught him when Cash felt guilty for shooting a deer explores the ability of love to transcend loss. Love the world, his Papaw taught him, without taking anything from it. That wisdom gives Cash the initial indication that even in the intensity of his grief, he is heading toward recovery. Yes, those we love die, but as Papaw gently tells Cash in the letter he leaves behind, “my soul will keep loving you” (336).
Despite this revelation, Cash struggles to bring a new feeling of hope and emotional recovery into his poetry, for he is devastated, believing himself to be beyond repair. Referring to the earlier death of this mother, he states, “I don’t know how I’ll do this. I barely managed when I was only cracked. Now I’m broken wide open” (337). The much-vaunted redemptive power of poetry thus seemingly fails him, but Dr. Atkins counsels him that now, in the middle of such grief, is when poetry can help the most. Cash wants to tell her that words are cheap and useless and crawl along the ground harmlessly, that poetry is for pretty things and falling in love. But he simply nods, turns quickly, and leaves without saying anything. Words again have failed him. As this section ends, Cash’s world is in the grip of winter.
By Jeff Zentner