Compared to Strout’s other novels that I’ve read, the famous Olive Kitteridge, Amy and Isabelle, and, most recently, My Name is Lucy Barton, The Burgess Boys was a disappointment. This novel will not let you down if you’re seeking relatable character development and subtly crafted family dysfunction that Strout adroitly molds into her novels; however, this one fell flat for me.
Based on the flap copy, I expected this story to focus on the inflammatory tale of a young boy, Zach, arrested for throwing a pig’s head into a mosque in a small town in Maine, and the racially-divided townspeople’s reactions to this hate crime. Strout introduces some Somali characters here, but never takes them anywhere, and occasionally drops in mild epithets to explain the complacent attitudes of the Mainers towards the immigrant Somalis, but that’s as far as it goes. This aspect of the story just eventually faded into nowhere. Instead, Strout takes a left turn and begins to explore the relationships among Zach’s mother, Susan, and her two brothers, Jim and Bob.
The Susan/Jim/Bob dysfunction was mildly interesting, but not nearly as introspective as the relationships explored in Strout’s other work. These characters were slightly more one-dimensional: the difficult sister, the ignored but has a heart of gold middle brother, the asshole litigator eldest brother. I didn’t really care for any of them. The minor characters were much more fascinating – the Somali refuge, the woman minister whose aims are only vaguely described, Bob’s conflicted ex-wife. Those characters would have possibly made a more interesting story than the trio of Maine upper-middle-classers dealing with a long ago family tragedy.
My main complaint with this book? Jim was a self-indulgent, insecure, arrogant asshole and everyone kowtowed to him. Over and over and over again. “It’s okay, Jim, we know that you were rude to everyone, but you’ve had a difficult time keeping up with all your lies. Poor Jim! Come here and give me a hug!”
Kill him, already. Come on, Bob, throw a drink in his face. Kick him out, Susan, and slash his tires. I kept waiting for this to happen and it never did. It left me exhaling at the end with a “that’s it?” expression on my face.
If you’ve never read Strout, start with Olive Kitteridge or Amy and Isabelle. They’re both awe-inspiring. Try this one if you’re a die-hard fan, as I am. I’ll keep reading anything she puts on paper and I’d love to take her out for tea. Call me, Elizabeth, I still love you!