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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of addiction.
As characters navigate the conflicts that shape the romantic relationships they participate in, they struggle to grasp what ties them to others: “The beloved may be treacherous, greasy-headed, and given to evil habits. Yes, and the lover may see this as clearly as anyone else—but that does not affect the evolution of his love one whit. A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild” (26). Love is unpredictable and is not based on merit. Flaws are recognized yet ignored, and the power differential in the relationship may spur a deeper affection. For instance, in “The Ballad of the Sad Café,” Miss Amelia’s affection for Cousin Lymon, much like Marvin Macy’s former affections for Miss Amelia, defies logic. Her love persists despite being seemingly despised; although Cousin Lymon abuses Miss Amelia’s partiality to him, she treats him with a generosity, kindness, and protective feeling she displays for no one else.
In “A Domestic Dilemma,” Martin Meadows faces the challenge of his wife’s substance use disorder after their move from Alabama to New York. As her drinking becomes more severe, her ability to care for their two young children suffers; Martin takes on a greater share of parental responsibilities while worrying about the damage Emily might be doing to their son and daughter. However, despite Martin’s anger toward Emily, his love for her also persists. He struggles to understand his conflicting emotions: “By moonlight he watched his wife for the last time. His hand sought the adjacent flesh and sorrow paralleled desire in the immense complexity of love” (140). Emily’s behavior is dangerous and frightening; Martin is unsure of how to help her, so his resentment grows. At the same time, the empathetic sadness he feels over her unraveling prompts a resurgence of the love he still holds for his wife. As he reaches toward her, the story ends on a hopeful but ambivalent note of these feelings mixing.
The man in “A Tree, A Rock, A Cloud” casts himself as a scientific expert on love. He explains to the paper boy that after his first serious love, he decided that loving a woman was an advanced form of love that one needs to work up to, so he began trying to love objects to better understand love between people. The exercise appears to have worked: “Son. I can love anything. No longer do I have to think about it even. I see a street full of people and a beautiful light comes in me. I watch a bird in the sky. Or I meet a traveler on the road. Everything, Son. And anybody. All strangers and all loved!” (151). This man believes his scientific method has cracked the mysteries of unconditional love, overcoming the trauma of his failed marriage. However, the story reveals the many flaws in his approach. The man’s one-sided version of love cannot connect to others; he does not know anything about the “anybody” he thinks he can love—having the same amount of love for “all” is ultimately just as isolating as having no love in his life. As an example, although he pours out his heart to the boy, he is unable to impart anything meaningful. Moreover, when the paper boy asks if the man now loves a woman, the man says he is not ready to.
In these stories, characters often challenge gender expectations and exist outside of gender conformity. The best example is Miss Amelia in “The Ballad of the Sad Café.” Miss Amelia begins the story as a fiercely independent and even rugged woman who lives counter to the gender expectations of her small Southern town: She runs a store and a distillery, sells alcohol to the townspeople, and prides herself on her physical strength. When she marries Marvin Macy, her role in their short relationship is stereotypically masculine: “The bride took second helpings of everything, but the groom picked at his food. Then the bride went about her ordinary business—reading the newspaper, finishing an inventory of the stock in the store, and so forth” (30). Miss Amelia consumes food and participates in the world of business and politics while ignoring the more ascetic Marvin, who anxiously hovers nearby. She rejects the expectation of being a subservient wife and ultimately ends the marriage 10 days into it. However, this successful approach to navigating gender expectations fails when Miss Amelia falls for Cousin Lymon, starting a relationship with an even more sharply gender-nonconforming dynamic. Miss Amelia’s obsession with Cousin Lymon and her willingness to satiate his every whim while caring for him bodily and financially as traditionally a male partner would do, becomes her undoing.
While Miss Amelia rejects gender conformity out of a desire to live her life in a certain way, Martin Meadows does so out of necessity. His wife Emily has a substance use disorder, so Martin must take on the role of caregiver for his two young children in a way that few men in the middle of the 20th century were expected to in the US. As the crisis worsens, Emily withdraws from the children, and her parenting suffers; she fails to live up to the expectations of motherhood. Meanwhile, Martin comfortably picks up the duties once expected of Emily: “Martin went on with the preparations for the meal. He opened a can of soup and put two chops in the frying pan. Then he sat down by the table and took his Marianne on his knees for a pony ride” (134). Martin not only cares for his children’s physical needs, like helping Andy take out a loose tooth, but also is deeply concerned about their emotional and psychological health; as he bathes and feeds them, he turns over in his mind how to make sure that what they remember best are warm moments with him rather than Emily’s alcohol-fueled outbursts. His engagement comes out of a need to fill the void left by Emily; he has little interest in adhering to mid-20th-century gendered parental expectations.
Mr. Bilderbach is not only Frances’s music teacher in “Wunderkind” but also a parental figure. He cares for her deeply and sees her as a daughter. In this, he merges both paternal and maternal support, defying rigid gender expectations. When Frances needs a dress for her graduation from Junior High, Mr. Bilderbach—not Frances’s mother or Mr. Bilderbach’s wife—helps her: “His thick fingers smoothed over the filmy nets and crackling taffetas that the saleswomen unwound from their bolts. He held colors to her face, cocking his head to one side, and selected pink […] he interrupted his lessons to stand by and suggest ruffles around the hips and neck” (84). Mr. Bilderbach’s concerns for the dress’s aesthetics go beyond what is expected of even the most devoted teacher. Moreover, it is when Mr. Bilderbach acts outside of gender norms that Frances feels the most success in her playing.
Many characters in McCullers’s stories face crushing loneliness that seeps into every facet of their lives. Loneliness does not always stem from physical isolation. Miss Amelia feels most alone when she sees Cousin Lymon in the café, interacting with townspeople whom she cannot connect with. Her response is alienation and jealousy: “There was in her expression pain, perplexity, and uncertain joy. […] Her look that night, then, was the lonesome look of the lover” (23). When Cousin Lymon gives his attention to others, Miss Amelia most acutely feels how her love for him is not returned. Similarly, in “The Jockey,” the isolation and heartbreak that Bitsy Barlow feels from the injury to his friend manifests in his growing distance from his surroundings. All around him are people enjoying their friendships, celebrating the holiday, and otherwise connecting with one another. Although he remains physically near them, he feels an enormous remove from their revelry.
Eventually, loneliness manifests in physical transformations. When Cousin Lymon betrays and then abandons Miss Amelia’s for her nemesis, Marvin Macy, loneliness destroys Miss Amelia, both financially and physically, as she closes the café and becomes a shell of her former self, locked away in her rooms. Her formerly robust frame shrinks, and her hair goes gray, as she leaves the world of the town for good. Likewise, when the three rich men watch the unraveling jockey Bitsy, they believe that his loneliness is impacting his ability to remain small enough to be a jockey: “If he eats a lamb chop, you can see the shape of it in his stomach a hour afterward. He can’t sweat things out of him any more […] He’s gained three pounds since we left Miami” (97-98). Jockeys need to be as light as possible for their horses to be fast, but after the injury to Bitsy’s friend, Bitsy is so burdened by despair that alcohol and food are transformed into permanent weight gain, seemingly undigested. The men’s comments reflect the shallow nature of their concern for him: They do not care that his loneliness is having a negative impact on his mental health but are only worried that weight gain will impact their ability to profit from him. This only amplifies Bitsy’s isolation, as no one around him can share his pain.
Loneliness can also lead to off-putting and odd ways of trying to reach out to other people. In “Madame Zilensky and the King of Finland,” Mr. Brook finds Madame Zilensky strange, especially because of her outlandish—and clearly fictitious—stories about her world travels and everyday life. Eventually, Mr. Brook comes to understand that these lies are a coping mechanism for Madame Zilensky, who does little other than work to teach and create music, and raise her children: “Through the lies, she lived vicariously. The lies doubled the little of her existence that was left over from work and augmented the little rag end of her personal life” (109). As her narrow existence leaves her isolated, she attempts to form relationships with those around her by impressing them with alternative versions of herself that are more exciting and engaging. In her case, it works, though not entirely as she intends it to. When Mr. Brook understands where her lies are coming from, he feels a deep and abiding sense of empathy and affection for her, creating the kind of bond that she seeks.



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