Skip to main content

A Great Book

 I haven’t consistently loved Laura Lippman’s most recent titles, but this week I flashed back ten (ten-ish) years and borrowed Lippman’s one volume of short stories, “Hardly Knew Her.”

 

This is mostly tales of women murdering men. A high-powered madam assists with the cover-up after her awful brother-in-law “falls down the stairs.” A young person in a “nude” suit – with a little pony-tail – eats a man’s heart on Mardi Gras, in New Orleans.

 

Elsewhere, a divorcee worries that she will lose her house to her ex, so she feigns lesbian love for a fellow PTA Mom—and the smitten Mom then has a convenient “car accident.”

 

In one rare story—told, unusually, from a boy’s perspective—a woman brings a cooler of sandwiches to the races. But, in fact, there’s something hidden under the sandwiches—a collection of human organs.

 

As usual, Lippman shows off her eye for detail. A madam at Starbucks thinks about how the Pike Place empire revolutionized the café world—how Starbucks-addicted Americans now know to “demand more from their coffee.” The madam then wonders if she could allude to the greatness of Starbucks with a new name for her call-girl service—“Starfucks.”

 

A woman who can’t stand her husband gets agitated when the husband complains about “travel soccer.” “Why did we need to send our kid to this? He isn’t headed for the World Cup….” The wife argues: “How does this impact you?” Even as she launches herself into the senseless argument, she realizes that, secretly, she is in full agreement with her husband.

 

And if you ever need to ruin a local Cuban restaurant (because you yourself want to open a diner)? Just slip some poison into the Cuban-entrée delivery that somehow makes its way into the stomach of the star Orioles short-stop (who then spews his guts in the middle of a crucial late-season game)……

 

I’m having fun following Lippman’s imagination. I hope she’ll publish another story collection….

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...
2 comments
Read more

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...
Post a Comment
Read more