3.5 stars
Like pineapple on pizza or the over/under orientation of the toilet paper roll, the artistic slow burn is one of those weirdly contentious issues that sees people usually taking an intractable stand in one specific camp with no room in the middle for compromise.
Opponents to the slow burn usually complain that nothing’s happening, or at least that it’s not happening quickly enough. Fans of the slow burn (and I count myself in this camp) enjoy the careful world-building and character development, trusting the author to deliver a satisfying payoff without needing a lot of bells and whistles along the way.
Neither side is “right” (although I personally think there’s value in patience and delayed gratification), but how you feel about the slow burn is going to dictate – for better or worse – how you feel about certain books.
You can probably figure out where I’m going with this.
Aimee Hardy’s Pocket Full of Teeth boasts a title that sounds like it’ll bludgeon you into submission, delivering some hard-boiled noir that rockets along on sheer adrenaline and attitude.
You’d think that, but you’d be wrong.
Because what it really is, is a Southern gothic ghost story that sneaks up behind you and delicately lays a hand on your shoulder before slipping the garotte around your throat.
I’m taking a little time to set this up – a slow burn review, if you will – precisely because I know how some readers feel about books that unspool slowly. And I want to establish up front that this is what you’re getting, but also reassure you that the payoff is real and substantial.
The complexity of what Hardy has done in this book – essentially telling two complementary narratives that eventually slot into alignment with a nearly audible CLICK – is kind of astonishing. Narrative 1 begins with a transcript. We know that Eddy Sparrow is being interviewed by someone, presumably the police. She talks about a body, a troubled girl, and a mysterious manuscript. We know there’s been a murder, but not much else. And then Eddy proceeds to read from the manuscript.
Narrative 2, then, is the manuscript. 17-year-old Cat returns to her small Alabama home after a stay in a psychiatric hospital following her mother’s death. Ray, her mother’s abusive boyfriend, has been assigned by the court to take care of her until she turns 18. The townspeople look at her suspiciously. Rumors abound. Did Cat play a role in her mother’s death?
Once in her childhood home, eerie things start occurring. Phantom phone calls. Half-glimpsed figures in the window. Wet footprints where no one else has walked. But Cat is resolute in making it through the year and leaving for college. She gets a job at a cafe and starts a halting relationship with Liz, its manager. She avoids Ray. If life isn’t good, it’s at least comfortable.
But, to crib a line from the movie Magnolia, Cat soon learns that we may be through with the past, but the past isn’t through with us.
For the rest of the novel, the book’s chapters alternate between Eddy’s interview transcript and Cat’s story. But rather than simply using the transcript as a framing device – which is how I initially interpreted it – Hardy is doing something much more sophisticated and satisfying in telling Eddy’s story at the same time as Cat’s. How these two narratives speak to one another is one of the book’s great pleasures, and it’s a feat that I’m still not sure how Hardy pulled off.
There’s a lot going on, much more than I can describe here. It’s a ghost story, it’s a romance, it’s a family history, and it’s also a clever exercise in meta-narrative. But by placing a romantic heart at the center of the book, Hardy’s story deftly manages to avoid coming across like a clinical intellectual exercise in storytelling mechanics.
But, to return to my introduction, what Hardy has accomplished wouldn’t be possible unless she took her time. The complexity of the novel practically demands it. Even if you’re a reader averse to the slow burn, I still recommend this one enthusiastically. It’s just that good.
So pick it up. Slow down.
Enjoy.