The Louise Penny Mysteries

There is a scene in "The Cruelest Month" that nicely illustrates what I dislike about Louise Penny's writing.

Armand Gamache, the hero, is watching his little grandson. The grandson walks too close to a pond. Armand stands to correct the error, and his wife stops him. "Don't," she says. "That is your son's job now."

Touched by this feedback, Armand kisses his wife, in a reverent way. "Thank you," he whispers. He doesn't say the words; he whispers them.

All of this reeks of bullshit. Who says a grandparent can't save a small child from drowning? And, in a marriage, even a functional long-term marriage, might one spouse be tempted to say to the other, in a peevish tone, "I wasn't actually seeking any guidance here" --?

I sometimes have to take a few deep breaths so that I don't throw the physical object, the book, across the room.

That said, I like Penny's use of an omniscient narrator. This feels old-fashioned. The narrator closely observes several of the characters, dipping into their thoughts, jumping out, pulling the camera backward, pulling the camera in. A Penny novel feels a bit like "The Sopranos"; I'm often in Tony's point of view, but I'm not *always* in Tony's point of view. Penny also has a curious approach to a villain. A chief antagonist in "The Cruelest Month," Yvette Nichol, seems insufferable: She consistently feels she has the right answer, and she is dismissive and cruel toward colleagues when they seem to waste her time. Yvette's scenes are compelling because Penny clearly has empathy for her; Penny seems to be saying, to the reader, "I know that *you* have behaved this way, as well."

I also like Penny's sense of place, and her decision to do her own thing. These Three Pines novels do not follow several current trends; we don't see an unreliable narrator, or a weird resistance to linear storytelling, or a reliance on reconstructed emails, or text exchanges, or letters-to-the-editor. Penny is writing for herself. I appreciate that.

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...

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...

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...

Liars and Saints

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