A moving story of friendship and devotion in the wake of a life-changing traumatic injury
Robert Dyer’s poignant debut, A Small Memory delivers on a quietly powerful premise—that a friendship tested by tragedy can emerge as one of the truest forms of love.
Set in Ohio in 1975, A Small Memory follows Mike Youngstown, an eighteen-year-old college basketball player who joins his best friend, Ted, as a live-in counselor at a group home for developmentally challenged adults. Mike is strong and confident, described as an athlete with a cheerleader girlfriend, while Ted, an aspiring teacher, is the intellectual.
“Ted never failed to point out the stereotype of the jock and the cheerleader. Of course, I reminded him he was just another scrawny brain.”
But while both boys slot neatly into the 70s social stereotypes, neither feels onedimensional. Dyer makes it clear that their dynamic is one of equals. While physically stronger, Mike is aware that he will need his best friend’s help academically. Leaning into his own strength, Ted takes a leadership role at work. Dyer takes special care with Ted, whose quiet, wry authority that makes him feel just as “substantial” as his physically imposing friend. Ted retains his gravitas, even when Mike is protecting him from a resident.
“While our struggle continued, Ted grabbed a chair and climbed to his feet. He gave his head a shake and straightened his black horn-rimmed glasses. After taking a deep breath, he said, “Let him go, Mike.”
Ted’s gravity makes his injury all the more tragic, as he loses the memories that make him recognizable to himself. Later, when Ted begins to regain his memories
piecemeal, his overwhelm and distress are deeply affecting. “Why?” Ted cried out. “Can I go back? I want to go back to school! I want to help you!”
Ted’s raw confusion is undeniably touching. It’s impossible not to understand Mike’s devoted prioritization of their friendship, even as Ted’s injury begins to change him too. “I was lost in a feeling of failure that left me paralyzed. The old me was defined by a confidence that could defeat any obstacle; now I was empty.” Mike’s introspection and earnest devotion are, at times, painful to witness, but they feel real and honest as rendered by Dyer.
A Small Memory shines in the quiet moments between Mike and Ted. The nicknames “Bubs” and “Sport” form a tether between the “before” and “after” of Ted’s injury. Tragedy comes quickly in A Small Memory, but Dyer establishes the depth of their friendship with moments of easy intimacy. “Bubs,” […] I told you that you could never get rid of me. You’re stuck with me. We’re in this together.”
When a new resident at the group home attacks Ted, Mike is wildly distressed that he wasn’t there to protect his friend. As a result, Mike’s guilt buttresses Ted’s rough recovery for a great portion of the book. I love this sympathetic balancing act. Ted’s trauma is legitimately distressing, and Dyer conveys Mike’s distress with convincing authenticity.
Thanks to Dyer’s sensitive, light-handed approach, Mike’s guilt pulls at the reader, as does Ted’s confusion. Unfortunately, some of the other characters feel underdeveloped by comparison. The men in the group home are drawn in broad strokes that signal “developmental issues” rather than individuality. Similarly, the new resident is less a character and more the foreboding promise of mental instability. Even the boys’ boss feels a bit too much like a stock, bureaucratic villain. This story, however, is Mike and Ted’s, so the relative superficiality of the other characters doesn’t shake my investment in their dynamic.
There are many great portrayals of male devotion in fiction from Frodo and Sam to Holmes and Watson, but it’s rare for such a dynamic to be treated as a novel’s primary subject. Robert Dyer does well in doing so. A Small Memory is a lovely complement to the canon of male friendships.
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