Skip to main content

Pandemic Thrills

 Oliver and Ciara meet at a fancy bodega. One is wearing a NASA bag on the shoulder; the other happens to love NASA. Discussions about famous launches ensue.


The two decide to meet--again and again--and soon a romance is brewing. But this is Dublin, in the recent past, and COVID wants to rear its head.

As the restrictions get tighter, Ciara and Oliver have a joint brainstorm. What if they use the lockdown to live together in secret? What if they really pursue this romance--but without interference from the world? What if they have fun in an apartment, and they make a point of withholding their news from prying relatives, prying friends?

Flash forward 56 days. A cop finds a rotting body in a shower. We know the body is Oliver--or it's Ciara.

This is the setup for "56 Days," a novel by Catherine Ryan Howard. It's on at least two "10 Best 2021 Thrillers" lists (in the Times and in the Washington Post). Howard notes, in a letter to the reader, that many writers made a point of avoiding the pandemic in their work. (The stories of "Younger," "Succession," and "Fiftysomething Carrie Bradshaw" come to mind.) But Howard thought: Why not *lean in* to the pandemic? Why not make a tale that is *all about* awkward post-apocalyptic trips to Tesco, and enforced travel limits, and working from home, and smelling one's stale breath in one's own face-mask?

I like a contrarian thinker, and I liked this novel. I thought of the famous Chekhov line: "A story needs only a He and a She." Some great pulpy works have drawn inspiration from the new-couple should-I-or-shouldn't-I-trust-him scenario. I'm thinking of "Double Indemnity" and "Gone Girl." Howard's novel belongs in the "Gone Girl" tradition.

I'll keep an eye on this still-sort-of-youthful career.

Comments

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...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...