English Critical Essay

There are 3 parts/questions of the essay. Each question needs to be 2 pages exactly. Each question needs to be based on the story attached separately. 

your general argument/interpretation (the thesis), followed and supported by your specific evidence and analysis. In other words, I’d like this essay to have a thesis, a main point/interpretation, which should probably be stated early on in your essay.

Here are some possibilities: 

• Make a claim about the (larger, more universal) argument a particular work of literature seems to be making—what is its intended or unintended implied message? Think of the literary work as an essay—what is it arguing, through its portrayal of ___________? Essentially, what is your argument about the story’s argument? (Another way of looking at this prompt: what is the story trying to say about the real world? What sort of commentary or argument is the story offering about society? For instance, what argument is Fun Home making about homosexuality? Or the effects of suppressing who you really are?)
• Identify a particular abstract idea, concept, or term that the work of literature addresses in some form. Then, make a claim about how the literature defines (or, if you prefer, re-defines) this idea, concept, or term. (For example, how does a story like “Doe Season” define masculinity? Or how does Fun Home define family? Or more specifically, how does the novel define what a father is?) 
• Identify a specific, core, fundamental value or belief—a value or belief shared by a particular culture or subculture; then, examine one work of literature through the lens of this value/belief, arguing whether the story ultimately condones and endorses this belief/value—or criticizes, challenges, or even rejects it. (For instance, is “Territory” condoning or endorsing homophobia? Or is it challenging or arguing against it? Is “Emergency” condoning a belief in God? Or rejecting this belief?)

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Amy Bloom’s “Silver Water”

My sister’s voice was like mountain water in a silver pitcher; the clear
blue beauty of it cools you and lifts you up beyond your heat, beyond
your body. After we went to see La Traviata, when she was fourteen and
I was twelve, she elbowed me in the parking lot and said, “Check this
out.” And she opened her mouth unnaturally wide and her voice came
out, so crystalline and bright that all the departing operagoers stood
frozen by their cars, unable to take out their keys or open their doors
until she had finished, and then they cheered like hell.

That’s what I like to remember, and that’s the story I told to all of
her therapists. I wanted them to know her, to know that who they saw
was not all there was to see. That before her constant tinkling of
commercials and fast-food jingles there had been Puccini and Mozart
and hymns so sweet and mighty you expected Jesus to come down off
his cross and clap. That before there was a mountain of Thorazined fat,
swaying down the halls in nylon maternity tops and sweatpants, there
had been the prettiest girl in Arrandale Elementary School, the belle of
Landmark Junior High. Maybe there were other pretty girls, but I didn’t
see them. To me, Rose, my beautiful blond defender, my guide to
Tampax and my mother’s moods, was perfect.

She had her first psychotic break when she was fifteen. She had
been coming home moody and tearful, then quietly beaming, then she
stopped coming home. She would go out into the woods behind our
house and not come in until my mother went after her at dusk, and
stepped gently into the briars and saplings and pulled her out,
blankfaced, her pale blue sweater covered with crumbled leaves, her
white jeans smeared with dirt. After three weeks of this, my mother; who
is a musician and widely regarded as eccentric, said to my father, who is
a psychiatrist and a kind, sad man, “She’s going off.”

“What is that, your professional opinion?” He picked up the
newspaper and put it down again, sighing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to
snap at you. I know something’s bothering her. Have you talked to her?”

“What’s there to say? David, she’s going crazy. She doesn’t need a
heart-to-heart talk with Mom, she needs a hospital.”

They went back and forth, and my father sat down with Rose for a
few hours, and she sat there licking the hairs on her forearm, first one

way, then the other. My mother stood in the hallway, dry-eyed and pale,
watching the two of them. She had already packed, and when three of
my father’s friends dropped by to offer free consultations and
recommendations, my mother and Rose’s suitcase were already in the
car. My mother hugged me and told me that they would be back that
night, but not with Rose. She also said, divining my worst fear, “It won’t
happen to you, honey. Some people go crazy and some people never do.
You never will.” She smiled and stroked my hair. “Not even when you
want to.”

Rose was in hospitals, great and small, for the next ten years. She
had lots of terrible therapists and a few good ones. One place had no
pictures on the walls, no windows, and the patients all wore slippers
with the hospital crest on them. My mother didn’t even bother to go to
Admissions. She turned Rose around and the two of them marched out,
my father walking behind them, apologizing to his colleagues. My
mother ignored the psychiatrists, the social workers, and the nurses, and
played Handel and Bessie Smith for the patients on whatever was
available. At some places, she had a Steinway donated by a grateful, or
optimistic, family; at others, she banged out “Gimme a Pigfoot and a
Bottle of Beer” on an old, scarred box that hadn’t been tuned since
there’d been English-speaking physicians on the grounds. My father
talked in serious, appreciative tones to the administrators and unit chiefs
and tried to be friendly with whoever was managing Rose’s case. We all
hated the family therapists.

The worst family therapist we ever had sat in a pale green room
with us, visibly taking stock of my mother’s ethereal beauty and her
faded blue t-shirt and girl-sized jeans, my father’s rumpled suit and
stained tie, and my own unreadable seventeen-year-old fashion
statement. Rose was beyond fashion that year in one of her dancing
teddybear smocks and extra-extra-large Celtics sweatpants. Mr. Walker
read Rose’s file in front of us and then watched in alarm as Rose began
crooning, beautifully, and slowly massaging her breasts. My mother and
I laughed, and even my father started to smile. This was Rose’s usual
opening salvo for new therapists.

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Mr. Walker said, “I wonder why it is that everyone is so
entertained by Rose behaving inappropriately.”

Rose burped, and then we all laughed. This was the seventh family
therapist we had seen, and none of them had lasted very long. Mr.
Walker, unfortunately, was determined to do right by us.

“What do you think of Rose’s behavior, Violet?” They did this
sometimes. In their manual it must say, If you think the parents are too
weird, try talking to the sister.

“I don’t know. Maybe she’s trying to get you to stop talking about
her in the third person.”

“Nicely put,” my mother said.
“Indeed,” my father said.
“Fuckin’ A,” Rose said.
“Well, this is something that the whole family agrees upon,” Mr.

Walker said, trying to act as if he understood or even liked us.
“That was not a successful intervention, Ferret Face.” Rose tended

to function better when she was angry. He did look like a blond ferret,
and we all laughed again. Even my father; who tried to give these people
a chance, out of some sense of collegiality, had given it up.

After fourteen minutes, Mr. Walker decided that our time was up
and walked out, leaving us grinning at each other. Rose was still nuts,
but at least we’d all had a little fun.

The day we met our best family therapist started out almost as
badly. We scared off a resident and then scared off her supervisor; who
sent us Dr. Thorne. Three hundred pounds of Texas chili, cornbread,
and Lone Star beer, finished off with big black cowboy boots and a small
string tie around the area of his neck.

“O frabjous day, it’s Big Nut.” Rose was in heaven and stopped
massaging her breasts immediately.

“Hey, Little Nut.” You have to understand how big a man would
have to be to call my sister “little.” He christened us all, right away.
“And it’s the good Doctor Nut, and Madame Hickory Nut, ‘cause they
are the hardest damn nuts to crack, and over here in the overalls and not
much else is No One’s Nut” – a name that summed up both my sanity
and my loneliness. We all relaxed.

Dr. Thorne was good for us. Rose moved into a halfway house
whose director loved Big Nut so much that she kept Rose even when
Rose went through a period of having sex with everyone who passed her

door. She was in a fever for a while, trying to still the voices by fucking
her brains out.

Big Nut said, “Darlin’, I can’t. I cannot make love to every
beautiful woman I meet, and furthermore, I can’t do that and be your
therapist too. It’s a great shame, but I think you might be able to find a
really nice guy, someone who treats you just as sweet and kind as I
would if I were lucky enough to be your beau. I don’t want you to settle
for less.” And she stopped propositioning the crack addicts and the
alcoholics and the guys at the shelter. We loved Dr. Thorne.

My father went back to seeing rich neurotics and helped out one
day a week at Dr. Thorne’s Walk-In Clinic. My mother finished a
recording of Mozart concerti and played at fundraisers for Rose’s
halfway house. I went back to college and found a wonderful linebacker
from Texas to sleep with. In the dark, I would make him call me
“darlin’.” Rose took her meds, lost about fifty pounds, and began
singing at the A.M.E. Zion Church, down the street from the halfway
house.

At first they didn’t know what do to with this big blond lady,
dressed funny and hovering wistfully in the doorway during their
rehearsals, but she gave them a few bars of “Precious Lord” and the choir
director felt God’s hand and saw that with the help of His sweet child
Rose, the Prospect Street Choir was going all the way to the Gospel
Olympics.

Amidst a sea of beige, umber, cinnamon, and espresso faces, there
was Rose, bigger, blonder, and pinker than any two white women could
be. And Rose and the choir’s contralto, Addie Robicheaux, laid out their
gold and silver voices and wove them together in strands as fine as silk,
as strong as steel. And we wept as Rose and Addie, in their billowing
garnet robes, swayed together, clasping hands until the last perfect note
floated up to God, and then they smiled down at us.

Rose would still go off from time to time and the voices would tell
her to do bad things, but Dr. Thorne or Addie or my mother could
usually bring her back. After five good years, Big Nut died. Stuffing his
face with a chili dog, sitting in his unairconditioned office in the middle
of July, he had one big, Texas-sized aneurysm and died.

Rose held on tight for seven days; she took her meds, went to
choir practice, and rearranged her room about a hundred times. His
funeral was like a Lourdes for the mentally ill. If you were psychotic,
borderline, bad-off neurotic, or just very hard to get along with, you

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were there. People shaking so bad from years of heavy meds that they fell
out of the pews. People holding hands, crying, moaning, talking to
themselves. The crazy people and the not-so-crazy people were all
huddled together, like puppies at the pound.

Rose stopped taking her meds, and the halfway house wouldn’t
keep her after she pitched another patient down the stairs. My father
called the insurance company and found out that Rose’s new, improved
psychiatric coverage wouldn’t begin for forty-five days. I put all of her
stuff in a garbage bag, and we walked out of the halfway house, Rose
winking at the poor drooling boy on the couch.

“This is going to be difficult – not all bad, but difficult – for the
whole family, and I thought we should discuss everybody’s expectations.
I know I have some concerns.” My father had convened a family
meeting as soon as Rose finished putting each one of her thirty stuffed
bears in its own special place.

“No meds,” Rose said, her eyes lowered, her stubby fingers, those
fingers that had braided my hair and painted tulips on my cheeks,
pulling hard on the hem of her dirty smock.

My father looked in despair at my mother.
“Rosie, do you want to drive the new car?” my mother asked.
Rose’s face lit up. “I’d love to drive that car. I’d drive to

California, I’d go see the bears at the San Diego Zoo. I would take you,
Violet, but you always hated the zoo. Remember how she cried at the
Bronx Zoo when she found out that the animals didn’t get to go home
at closing?” Rose put her damp hand on mine and squeezed it
sympathetically. “Poor Vi.”

“If you take your medication, after a while you’ll be able to drive
the car. That’s the deal. Meds, car.” My mother sounded
accommodating but unenthusiastic, careful not to heat up Rose’s
paranoia.

“You got yourself a deal, darlin’.”
I was living about an hour away then, teaching English during the

day, writing poetry at night. I went home every few days for dinner. I
called every night.

My father said, quietly, “It’s very hard. We’re doing all right, I
think. Rose has been walking in the mornings with your mother, and
she watches a lot of TV. She won’t go to the day hospital, and she won’t
go back to the choir. Her friend Mrs. Robicheaux came by a couple of
times. What a sweet woman. Rose wouldn’t even talk to her. She just sat

there, staring at the wall and humming. We’re not doing all that well,
actually, but I guess we’re getting by. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t mean
to depress you.”

My mother said, emphatically, “We’re doing fine. We’ve got our
routine and we stick to it and we’re fine. You don’t need to come home
so often, you know. Wait ‘til Sunday, just come for the day. Lead your
life, Vi. She’s leading hers.”

I stayed away all week, afraid to pick up my phone, grateful to my
mother for her harsh calm and her reticence, the qualities that had
enraged me throughout my childhood.

I came on Sunday, in the early afternoon, to help my father
garden, something we had always enjoyed together. We weeded and
staked tomatoes and killed aphids while my mother and Rose were down
at the lake. I didn’t even go into the house until four when I needed a
glass of water.

Someone had broken the piano bench into five neatly stacked
pieces and placed them where the piano bench usually was.

“We were having such a nice time, I couldn’t bear to bring it up,”
my father said, standing in the doorway, carefully keeping his gardening
boots out of the kitchen.

“What did Mommy say?”
“She said, ‘Better the bench than the piano.’ And your sister lay

down on the floor and just wept. Then your mother took her down to
the lake. This can’t go on, Vi. We have twenty-seven days left, your
mother gets no sleep because Rose doesn’t sleep, and if I could just pay
twenty-seven thousand dollars to keep her in the hospital until the
insurance takes over, I’d do it.”

“All right. Do it. Pay the money and take her back to Hartley-
Rees. It was the prettiest place, and she liked the art therapy there.”

“I would if I could. The policy states that she must be symptom-
free for at least forty-five days before her coverage begins. Symptom-free
means no hospitalization.”

“Jesus, Daddy, how could you get that kind of policy? She hasn’t
been symptom-free for forty-five minutes.”

“It’s the only one I could get for long-term psychiatric.” He put
his hand over his mouth, to block whatever he was about say, and went
back out to the garden. I couldn’t see if he was crying.

He stayed outside and I stayed inside until Rose and my mother
came home from the lake. Rose’s soggy sweatpants were rolled up to her

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knees, and she had a bucketful of shells and seaweed, which my mother
persuaded her to leave on the back porch. My mother kissed me lightly
and told Rose to go up to her room and change out of her wet pants.

Rose’s eyes grew very wide. “Never. I will never . . . “ She knelt
down and began banging her head on the kitchen floor with rhythmic
intensity, throwing all her weight behind each attack. My mother put
her arms around Rose’s waist and tried to hold her back. Rose shook her
off, not even looking around to see what was slowing her down. My
mother lay up against refrigerator.

“Violet, please…”
I threw myself onto the kitchen floor, becoming the spot that Rose

was smacking her head against. She stopped a fraction of an inch short
of my stomach.

“Oh, Vi, Mommy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, don’t hate me.” She
staggered to her feet and ran wailing to her room.

My mother got up and washed her face brusquely, rubbing it dry
with a dishcloth. My father heard the wailing and came running in,
slipping his long bare feet out of his rubber boots.

“Galen, Galen, let me see.” He held her head and looked closely
for bruises on her pale, small face. “What happened?” My mother
looked at me. “Violet, what happened? Where’s Rose?”

“Rose got upset, and when she went running upstairs she pushed
Mommy out of the way.” I’ve only told three lies in my life, and that
was my second.

“She must feel terrible, pushing you, of all people. It would have
to be you, but I know she didn’t want it to be.” He made my mother a
cup of tea, and all the love he had for her, despite her silent rages and
her vague stares, came pouring through the teapot, warming her cup,
filling her small, long-fingered hands. She rested her head against his
hip, and I looked away.

“Let’s make dinner, then I’ll call her. Or you call her, David,
maybe she’d rather see your face first.”

Dinner was filled with all of our starts and stops and Rose’s
desperate efforts to control herself. She could barely eat and hummed
the McDonald’s theme song over and over again, pausing only to spill
her juice down the front of her smock and begin weeping. My father
looked at my mother and handed Rose his napkin. She dabbed at herself
listlessly, but the tears stopped.

“I want to go to bed. I want to go to bed and be in my head. I
want to go to bed and be in my bed and in my head and just wear red.
For red is the color that my baby wore and once more, it’s true, yes, it is,
it’s true. Please don’t wear red tonight, oh, oh, please don’t wear red
tonight, for red is the color – ”

“Okay, okay, Rose. It’s okay. I’ll go upstairs with you and you can
get ready for bed. Then Mommy will come up and say good night too.
It’s okay, Rose.” My father reached out his hand and Rose grasped it,
and they walked out of the dining room together, his long arm around
her middle.

My mother sat at the table for a moment, her face in her hands,
and then she began clearing the plates. We cleared without talking, my
mother humming Schubert’s “Schlummerlied,” a lullaby about the
woods and the river calling to the child to go to sleep. She sang it to us
every night when we were small.

My father came into the kitchen and signaled to my mother. They
went upstairs and came back down together a few minutes later.

“She’s asleep,” they said, and we went to sit on the porch and
listen to the crickets. I don’t remember the rest of the evening, but I
remember it as quietly sad, and I remember the rare sight of my parents
holding hands, sitting on the picnic table, watching the sunset.

I woke up at three o’clock in the morning, feeling the cool night
air through my sheet. I went down the hall for a blanket and looked into
Rose’s room, for no reason. She wasn’t there. I put on my jeans and a
sweater and went downstairs. I could feel her absence. I went outside
and saw her wide, draggy footprints darkening the wet grass into the
woods.

“Rosie,” I called, too softly, not wanting to wake my parents, not
wanting to startle Rose. “Rosie, it’s me. Are you here? Are you all right?”

I almost fell over her. Huge and white in the moonlight, her
flowered smock bleached in the light and shadow, her sweatpants now
completely wet. Her head was flung back, her white, white neck exposed
like a lost Greek column.

“Rosie, Rosie – ” Her breathing was very slow, and her lips were
not as pink as they usually were. Her eyelids fluttered.

“Closing time,” she whispered. I believe that’s what she said.
I sat with her, uncovering the bottle of white pills by her hand,

and watched the stars fade

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When the stars were invisible and the sun was warming the air, I
went back to the house. My mother was standing on the porch, wrapped
in a blanket, watching me. Every step I took overwhelmed me; I could
picture my mother slapping me, shooting me for letting her favorite die.

“Warrior queens,” she said, wrapping her thin strong arms around
me. “I raised warrior queens.” She kissed me fiercely and went into the
woods by herself.

Later in the morning she woke my father, who could not go into
the woods, and still later she called the police and the funeral parlor. She
hung up the phone, lay down, and didn’t get back out of bed until the
day of the funeral. My father fed us both and called the people who
needed to be called and picked out Rose’s coffin by himself.

My mother played the piano and Addie sang her pure gold notes
and I closed my eyes and saw my sister, fourteen years old, lion’s mane
thrown back and eyes tightly closed against the glare of the parking lot
lights. That sweet sound held us tight, flowing around us, eddying
through our hearts, rising, still rising.

Source:

Access: 15 Sept. 2003

From the collection:

Bloom, Amy. “Silver Water.” Come to Me: Stories. New York:

HarperCollins, 1993.