“Gravel” by Alice Munro

Last week I examined a short story by O. Henry, and this week, I’m looking at a story by a famous recipient of the O. Henry Award: Alice Munro. “Gravel” is a tale told from the perspective of a narrator who is now much older, looking back on events in her childhood. The climactic occurrence in the narrative is the death of her older sister, Caro, who drowns when she attempts to swim in the gravel pit, full of melted snow, next to their home.

The narrator makes a point of establishing what a close bond she and her sister shared, despite their age difference and disagreements: “I didn’t go to kindergarten, because my mother didn’t have a car. But I didn’t mind doing without other children. Caro, when she got home, was enough for me.” But although the girls spent nearly all of their time together, there were things about Caro that the narrator could not understand, one of which is the reason Caro jumped in the pit. When the narrator goes to speak to her mother’s long since estranged ex-boyfriend Neal, Munro writes, “I said that he was not really the one that I was wondering about. Then he became the third person I’d asked, ‘What do you think Caro had in mind?’” Even many years later, the narrator wonders what her sister’s motivation was.

This sense of uncertainty surrounding her sister is further amplified by the fact that the narrator saw a counselor after Caro’s death: “I went to see a professional person about this once and she convinced me—for a time, she convinced me—that I must have tried the door of the trailer and found it locked.” The main character doesn’t quite believe that this happened, because she doesn’t remember trying the door, only sitting on the porch.

These feelings of guilt manifest themselves in her dreams: “When I dream of this, I am always running. And in my dreams I am running not toward the trailer but back toward the gravel pit.” Subconsciously, she wishes she had simply gone in after her sister right away, but, as the narrator says, “She may have thought she could manage well enough. And I may indeed have thought that she could do anything she wanted to.” Because she still viewed her sister as her hero, she didn’t believe there was anything she wasn’t capable of.

Alice Munro

But I think the most heartbreaking moments in the story are those without dialogue. Right after the incident occurs, when the narrator is with Neal, Munro writes, “I think he says something to me with a singsong sadness in his voice. Strange. Beyond that I have no details.” The narrator’s foggy memories show just how shaken and shocked she was at the time. In her much later conversation with him, Neal says, “‘I think you might want to know how it happened’” and the narrator’s internal response is, “I could not figure out how to speak.”

But later, Neal gives her some excellent advice: “‘The thing is to be happy,’ he said. ‘No matter what. Just try that. You can. It gets to be easier and easier. It’s nothing to do with circumstances. You wouldn’t believe how good it is. Accept everything and then tragedy disappears. Or tragedy lightens, anyway, and you’re just there, going along easy in the world.’” If we allow ourselves to acknowledge everything that’s happened and move forward, things really do get better. But the narrator is not wholly reassured by this. Munro writes, “I see what he meant. It really is the right thing to do. But, in my mind…I’m still caught, waiting for her to explain to me, waiting to hear the splash.” And although there is doubt in her mind, I like to think that there is deeper meaning in her brief response to Neal: “Now, goodbye.” Maybe the narrator isn’t just bidding adieu to Neal. Maybe she is finally letting go of Caro. Maybe, just maybe, she is on the path to true acceptance.