I'll admit, I read The Pallbearers Club by Paul Tremblay and was angry afterward. Let me explain. The book starts off with two compelling characters – Art and Mercy. They are drawn together outcasts that become good friends through their volunteer work at a funeral parlor. He's in high school, and she's in college. She shapes his life by introducing him to punk music and drugs. Meanwhile, he copes with health problems and later self-medicates with alcohol and pain meds.
After Art passes
away, he leaves a manuscript of a memoir behind for Mercy to read that
details their encounters over the years. He feels that she's a type of
vampire that lives off of stealing one's health. He doesn't have solid
proof, and the convoluted way the "vampire" is described is hard to
picture. Is it a blue blob? Is it tentacles reaching for someone? Is it a
jacket come to life? I don't know, even after finishing the book!
Mercy
edits Art's manuscript, gaslighting the reader into believing that Art
is a drugged up musician and unreliable storyteller. She makes sure to
let the reader know it's not a "memoir" but a "novel" because the way he
remembered things is wrong.
By
the middle of the book, I was reading it just to figure out what was
going on, who was telling the truth, but you don't get that
satisfaction. While I enjoyed the way it was written, with gen X
references, editing notes for the reader, and could relate it to some
friendships I've had over the years, the story fell flat for me at the
end. I still don't know who's story was true and if the ending was just
written to give Art's book closure. The Pallbearers Club was ok and an easy read,
but not what I had hoped.
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