Much of Arnett’s talent rests in depicting the places where her characters hover between seclusion and exposure, between never talking to the people around them to revealing their sex lives in a menagerie to their family members. Their shadows flicker, trailing between the alligator jaws and deer hooves and peacock feathers in this book of inheritances, this cabinet of wonders. Subtly, unmistakably a beautiful lineage is suggested in these echoes of the great heroines of American literature - so many tomboys, so many queer women. And the pulse in this book emanates not only from its sun-drunk, word-drunk wit, but from what it knows about life. Not that it matters much in fiction as much as taxidermy, it is the feeling of vigor and spirit that matters, that is proof of success.
The climax feels rushed and muted, the resolution a little pat. The setup is expert, but the pace occasionally stutters. Corner me, though, and I’ll admit that it suffers slightly from some first-novel blues. The action flips from the past to the present, swimming through first love and first grief on a slick of red Kool-Aid and vodka, suntan oil and fruity lip gloss, easy and unforced.
She writes comic set pieces to make you laugh, sex scenes to turn you on. There’s none of the shyness and self-consciousness of so much American fiction that masks itself as austerity. Arnett possesses all the bravery her characters dream of.
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