Trillin gracefully carries off 'About Alice,' his adored wife

It's difficult to imagine anyone other than Calvin Trillin reading one of his books.

They are so personal, and his writer's voice is so strong.

Fortunately for listeners, the audio industry paid attention. In 1996, he recorded Piece by Piece, a collection of essays, and it won an audio humor award.

Next was Messages From My Father - "the second most stubborn member of the Trillin family."

In 2001, Trillin treated listeners to Tales From the Tummy Trilogy, a series of culinary essays in which he exhorts listeners to be lavish in their eating, visiting often the kinds of places they'd go to "the night you came home after fourteen months in Korea."

But never before, perhaps, has his speaking voice been so integral to the content than with his latest book, About Alice, a succinct and loving portrait of his adored wife, who died on Sept. 11, 2001.

Random House has recorded it unabridged (75 minutes; $19.95 on CD), with Trillin, of course, reading.

It's classic Trillin humor - a bit droll, but also very sweet. He tries to be a curmudgeon, but he's much too kind. It is also somehow very joyful. People always say when someone dies that you'll always have your memories, and Trillin really does seem as if he gets sustenance from them.

They met in 1963. He says she was wearing a white hat cocked to the side. She says she never owned a hat like that. But he can still picture her in it. She was, a friend noted, "so very, very pretty."

And so very, very smart. And so very, very interested in others, tuned in to the world around her, devoted to her daughters.

She was the kind of person who said "Wowsers!" and who thought that once people earned money above a certain threshold, they should be required to give it away - the Alice tax.

She was the one who kept family life level, "despite the antics of her marginally goofy husband." She playfully resented the fact that his portrayal of her in various essays and books made her sound like "a dietitian in sensible shoes," which she was not. She loved pretty clothes and once said she didn't want "to live like a graduate student."

Never a smoker, she was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1976. She beat incredible odds to survive 25 more years, when she died waiting for a heart transplant. The radiation had damaged her heart, leading Trillin to conclude that it was, indeed, the treatment rather than the disease that killed her.

The book came after a short profile Trillin wrote for the New Yorker, where he has worked since 1963. But it presents special problems for a narrator, even one as skilled as Trillin.

As a narrator, how does one reconcile the joy of memory with the ache of loss? Where do the two meet in your voice?

It's one thing to write a loving tribute to your departed wife; quite another to sit in front of a microphone and maintain your composure while reading it.

His voice definitely seems to catch sometimes, as when he speaks of the dedication in the first book he wrote after her death, "I wrote this for Alice."

"Actually," he says, his voice deepening and gaining huskiness, "I wrote everything for Alice." He wanted her approval. He wanted her to laugh.

How much more compelling it is to actually hear that, to know unequivocally how heartfelt it is, how opposite of casual.

Yet this is not for voyeurs looking for a breakdown. Trillin is neither gushy nor sentimental. He is dignified to the end, reading with a relaxed ease and, I feel sure, a frequent smile.

In fact, I was so taken with About Alice that I immediately listened to it a second time, just because it was so lovely.

After Alice died, Trillin got many letters that began something like, "Although I know I never really knew her," they felt as if they did.

The same goes for anyone who experiences About Alice. You can't know the sum of someone after only 75 minutes of hearing about her, but if the writing is good enough, you can capture the essence.

Trillin has succeeded, masterfully. I can only think that Alice would be impressed.