FICTION

A MARRIAGE MADE AT WOODSTOCK by Cathie Pelletier (Crown: $22; 288 pp.) No wonder Chandra leaves Frederick. You would too. This guy is boring. A real nerd. Anal-retentive as a Pamper. In his Maine suburb, he has to be the first one up. Before shopping he alphabetizes his grocery list. While shopping, he advises housewives to choose the welded cans, not the soldered ones. He cuts out of his wife’s Christmas party “to explore a new spreadsheet update.” He calculates the annual cost of his razor blades. He doesn’t remember, he “downloads cerebral data.” When his wife finally splits--”I’m not leaving for another man. I’m leaving for Chandra”--he doesn’t hesitate to speak his mind: “You’d better not take my Ultra-Brite.” It’s tough to wrap a novel around a wimp. Cathie Pelletier gives it her best shot. She misses.

Since Woodstock, the real one, where they met, Chandra has continued to be caring, concerned, committed, etc. She boycotts a lot. Gives seminars. That sort of thing. Frederick has chosen to become an accountant; somebody has to pay the bills. Why they’ve been married for 20 years is anyone’s guess. The problem is, Pelletier’s men all are cretins. Bourgeois cretins. They “mill about their yards like plump locusts that surface periodically, seven-day cycles.” Or they preen middle-agedly in taverns, hitting on numb, nubile chicks and wearing hand-painted cravats (“If Leonardo da Vinci were alive today he’d be doing neckties”). Chandra isn’t entirely a prize; Pelletier’s too smart for that. Chandra hangs with women named Sukie and Halona; she counts women’s rights instead of sheep. But Frederick’s the main man here. Will he see the light? Is the Pope Italian?