Rebecca Stropoli

Joshua Henkin ably illustrates the complexity of family ties in his latest novel, The World Without You.The bucolic, picturesque haven of the Berkshires, in Western Massachusetts, is the setting for the tale of the Frankels, an upper-middle-class family torn apart by the violent death of an only son. Gathering for the one-year-anniversary memorial over the July 4th holiday weekend, the Frankels are each dealing in their own way with the death of Leo—a journalist with a daredevil streak—in Iraq in July of 2004.

Henkin delves deep into the psyches of each character, from the matriarch, Marilyn, who is considering shattering the family even further, to the three surviving siblings—sisters Clarissa (a type-A overachiever dealing with the inability to conceive), Lily (a fiery lawyer) and Noelle (the black sheep). He also gives voice to Leo’s widow, Thisbe, who comes to the reunion with their young son—and a secret.The point of view changes between these characters from chapter to chapter, weaving between the past and the present; it is notable that Henkin is so well able to voice the female characters (the patriarch, David, and the other male characters are portrayed in large part through the eyes of the women). 

It’s also worth noting that Henkin does not attempt to make these characters particularly likable. They are relatable, yes, but that is because they are so flawed. So in each character, you very well might recognize that older sister you are jealous of, or the sometimes-overbearing mother who causes you to revert to adolescent behavior. As a reader, you may feel for these people, but you may not want to hang out with them for very long in real life.

Of the sisters, Noelle—the youngest—is the one this reviewer would least like to spend time with in the real world. The family misfit, she has traveled from Israel with her Orthodox husband and three young sons, kosher food and plates in tow.A trip to her past reveals a troubled, promiscuous teen who turns to Judaism as a way to distinguish herself from her overachieving siblings and mother (an accomplished doctor). Yes, the bratty younger sibling is recognizable—and suitably insufferable.

Ultimately, Henkin’s book is a realistic and absorbing portrayal of grief and our reactions to it—from the numb to the furious to the sometimes narcissistic. You may not want to live with the Frankels, but you won’t be able to stop reading about them.

Keith Donohue, author of The Stolen Child and Angels of Destruction, now brings readers a tale that is an intriguing and ambitious mix of psychological mystery, dark comedy, historical yarn, literary criticism, post-feminist discourse and the supernatural.  The book also has a rather unique setting: One bathroom in an old house in the hours before nighttime becomes dawn. Yet within this one bathroom on this one night with an unnamed (until the end) and utterly confused protagonist, readers will also find themselves time traveling through several hundred years across the United States with a variety of fascinating characters. And while they, too, may experience moments of confusion that rival the main character’s, readers will be richly rewarded if they power through to the end.

As the story opens, our central character finds himself in a puzzling situation: Having gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, he is now splayed out on the icy floor after a hit to the head, unaware of the injury’s source. Within minutes of his fall, from which he cannot get up, he is greeted by an old man who may very well be his deceased father. “That his arrival did not surprise me can be attributed to the other startling events of the day,” he notes, “or perhaps he was not there at all . . .”

The old man is just the first visitor among many that surreal night. The rest are an eclectic mix of ghostly women ranging from Dolly, a Native American who is married to a half-human/half-bear (really); to Alice, who is embroiled in the drama of the Salem witch trials; to a New York City housewife named Bunny; to a baseball-loving broad named Adele. All of them come to our hero as he lies prostrate on the floor; they then guide him through the intimate details of their lives and loves (some rather explicit sex scenes are included in the mix) as the reader wonders how all of these disparate parts can possibly come together into a cohesive story. And, yes, there are times when the tale seems out of focus and gets slightly tiresome, yet it manages to all come together at the end in a way that is both darkly existentialist and deeply moving.

Is it possible not only to forgive but to befriend the person who murdered someone you love? In The Crying Tree, an absorbing and deeply melancholy novel by journalist Naseem Rakha, a mother does what might seem unbearable to most: she forgives the man who is on death row for brutally killing her 15-year-old son, then allows a friendship of sorts to develop, all through a series of letters.

But it’s a long road to that state of forgiveness for Irene Stanley, who spends years in a furious, depressive haze after her son, Shep, is shot in their Oregon home during an apparent robbery. From the day 19-year-old Daniel Robbin is arrested for Shep’s murder, Irene lives for the time when he is executed—until she finally lets go of her rage in order to save herself.

The Crying Tree is largely Irene’s story, but the tale is also told through the eyes of Mason Tab, the Oregon State Penitentiary superintendent who is reluctantly in charge of Robbins’ execution; Irene’s husband, Nate; her daughter, Bliss; and Daniel himself. The book opens 19 years after Shep’s murder, then goes back and forth through time, allowing the story to unfold in a non-linear fashion.  

There are some twists and turns along the way: while Irene keeps her almost eight-year correspondence with Daniel a secret, she has no idea that both Daniel and her husband are harboring a stunning secret of their own about the day of the murder—one that will change everything once it is revealed. Many readers will likely figure  out at least part of this secret before the big revelation, as many signs point to it. While this blunts the impact a bit, it still adds an intriguing layer to a story that appears straightforward at first glance.

Rakha knows her subject well; she covered an execution for public radio and also did a series of interviews with parents of murdered children. Delving into the controversial subjects of capital punishment, forbidden relationships and forgiveness for horrific acts, her debut novel seems designed to inspire heated debate in book clubs. 

Rebecca Stropoli writes from Brooklyn, New York.

How well can we know the people who we think are the closest to us? And how well can they know us? In The Last Secret, Mary McGarry Morris explores these questions with the tale of Nora Hammond, a New England wife, mother, career woman and philanthropist whose life appears enviable. But Nora exemplifies the cliché about looks being deceiving: behind her flawless facade she is hiding a violent incident from her youth. And at the same time that she is suddenly forced to face that past, she is coping with the knowledge that her marriage is not what she thought it was.

Morris, whose previous novels include the National Book Award finalist Vanished and the Oprah’s Book Club selection Songs in Ordinary Time, excels at delving into the interior lives of her characters. Nora’s inner dialogue is searingly human and relatable. And the author just as easily slips into the demented mind of Eddie Hawkins, a delusional murderer—and the only one who knows of Nora’s past sins.
The timing of Eddie’s re-emergence into Nora’s life after more than two decades, right on the heels of her husband’s confession of a four-year affair with one of their closest friends, brings to mind yet another cliché: when it rains, it pours. And the rain is certainly pouring in Nora’s life as she faces her shattered marriage and her difficult past, along with two troubled teenage children whose burdens are even heavier than she knows.

The Last Secret switches back and forth between Nora’s and Eddie’s points of view; Eddie’s passages are some of the more riveting. The reader may occasionally feel the urge to reach into the book’s pages and shake Nora—her cluelessness about one particular revelation made late in the book is hard to fathom, especially since it’s one secret that should be apparent to the reader very early on. Not that Nora fails to intrigue. In the book’s graphically violent climax, the similarity between her and Eddie is at once horrific and, disturbingly, logical. Morris refreshingly avoids a neat, easy conclusion; some things, after all, can’t be fixed.

Rebecca Krasney Stropoli writes from Brooklyn, New York.

Tom Perrotta explores the politics of suburbia once again in The Abstinence Teacher, an absorbing tale that pits the secular against the saved. Here, as in his previous works (including Election and Little Children), he fashions characters that defy predictability and whose inner dialogue is generally more gripping than the book's actual plot.

Divorced mom Ruth Ramsey is a high school sexual education teacher in Stonewood Heights, a leafy northeast 'burb whose freshly mown lawns you can almost smell coming off the pages. As the book opens, we find out that this liberal, free-talking instructor is being reined in by the conservative ranks after going one step too far in a classroom conversation about oral sex. Now she is forced to bow to an outrageously out-of-touch abstinence-only curriculum that goes against her every belief.

Tim Mason, soccer coach for Ruth's youngest daughter, is, on the surface, everything Ruth abhors. A born-again member of the local Tabernacle church, whose members helped squelch her classroom conversation, Tim infuriates Ruth by leading the soccer team in a post-game victory prayer. Thus begins their unusual relationship, born in conflict but slowly becoming something far more complex.

Tim is the book's most multifaceted character, a recovering drug addict and alcoholic who can't stop wrestling with his past and questioning his faith, even as he swears that Jesus has saved his life. But The Abstinence Teacher does sometimes go too far in driving its point home. Right after Ruth's work life and her younger daughter's soccer field are disrupted by religion, both daughters decide to start attending church. All of this Jesus-freaking at once seems a bit much. Perrotta also makes no secret of his own views. Many of the religious characters come across as vacant-eyed sheep, particularly the Tabernacle members. Can't a person have a strong faith and not be a complete drip? But despite its sometimes black-or-white viewpoint, The Abstinence Teacher is always entertaining.

Rebecca K. Stropoli writes from New York City.