Anna Quindlen’s best novels, such as Black and Blue, burrow into violence and death. A writer who immerses her readers, she weaves a tapestry of characters into richly imagined lives and then . . . crunch, the horror of it all. So it is with Every Last One. Deftly Quindlen shoves the reader into the pell-mell world of Mary Beth Latham, a very modern upper middle class American mom: a job as a landscape designer; husband Glen, a busy ophthalmologist; forthright, rebellious seventeen-year-old daughter Ruby; younger, sporty achiever son Alex; and his moody, geeky twin brother Max. In the Ann Tyler mode of copious, vividly revealed detail, but with even more verve, Quindlen invites us into this bustling family and sets us up for tragedy, one transplanted intact from the lurid American tabloids. The terrible event seems to be withheld forever, so when it arrives it bludgeons. And then the real work of the novelist unfurls, portraying with insight Mary Beth’s existential struggles with the aftermath, a struggle made more poignant because she has a narrow view of the world.
Quindlen is a flawless stylist and Every Last One is an adrenaline rush of a read. No easy answers are rolled out, not one sappy cliche is employed. I’ll remember Mary Beth for a long time. 3½ stars.