The
Wife Between Us, by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen
This book engages you from
page one, which is really not the beginning of the book, it’s only the
prologue.
“The street is loud and busy,
with yellow cabs racing by, commuters returning from work, and shoppers
entering the deli on the corner. But my
eyes never stray from her.
She pauses in her entryway and
briefly glances back over her shoulder.
An electrical charge seems to pulse through me.”
And farther on:
“She’s oblivious to what I
have done to her.”
“She is unaware of the damage
I have wrought; the ruin I have set in motion.”
And right away you wonder, who
is who in this drama, this mystery, this psychological thriller? The characters are sharply drawn, yet
distantly indistinct.
Who is following whom and why
are the players first one name and then another, with the time sequences a
puzzle of inconsistencies?
The people are New Yorkers,
politically correct, shallow enough to be oh-so-sensitive and they attach
importance to the most remarkably unremarkable bits of clothing and jewelry and
shifts of weather and scents. The
details are held up and examined.
But even as unsympathetic as
the characters are, I kept reading.
Why? It’s like a baseball
smashing through your window. All you
really need to do is clean up the glass and have the windowpane replaced,
right? For humans, that’s not nearly
enough. We want to know the whole
flipping story! Whose ball is it? And
most of all, who’s the bastard who didn’t fess up?
I readily admit that normally after
a first few pages of a book like this, I would have slammed it closed and
tossed it across the room, irate that the author(s) had wasted my time.
But, instead I read on. I had to face it, that I was in some inner
way thrilled by the exacting perversity of people I wouldn’t have spent five
minutes alone with. They seem normal,
yet creepy. The kind of people who may
speak kindly and be impeccably dressed, yet you wouldn’t be surprised to find
them drinking directly from a fifty dollar bottle of wine, while they used
pliers to pinch the heads off rats.
Want to find a character to
like? Look somewhere else. These folks
seem to all have secrets you may not want to know about. But, I’m curious. Always. Did curiosity really kill the cat! Nine freaking times? How about dogs? Does curiosity kill them too?
Along the way, the plot comes
together. But, maybe not. Maybe it’s unraveling. You find yourself saying , “Ah, now I’ve got
it.” NO, you don’t. Shreds of evidence are starting to feel like
splinters embedded in your fingertips.
I turned pages faster than a
mother of triplets changes diapers. And,
the last two or three dozen pages were a breathless sprint!
I found myself thinking, I
really do not like these characters!
Maybe I kept reading because I like revenge, or maybe I’m just a curious
cat.
Nice review. Can't decide if I want to read the book or not.
ReplyDelete