...[a] bristling, funny and ultimately savage novel ... Macy has clearly observed the world of aspiration and failure up close, which is why Mrs. has such a tonic air of authenticity. Within this novel, there’s almost an entire treatise on the decorating habits of the wealthy — and not so wealthy ... The boldest thing about Mrs. is that it focuses on the depths of women’s experiences as wives and mothers ... Mrs. could easily have been a glossy, rushed novel about bitchy, bored housewives nursing social resentment. Plenty of those have been published, passing from memory as quickly as the pages fly under your fingers. But Macy hasn’t written that kind of book.
Mrs. is a novel that suffers — or benefits — from so many comparisons that it’s hard to categorize. Here we have the tiresomely familiar — or cattily amusing, take your pick — New York City mothers jockeying for their offspring’s position in primary school, as they speculate about a newcomer’s provenance, worry about an unsavory influence, lobby for an invitation to a party that will prove a) excruciating, b) hilarious or c) enlightening … As Caitlin Macy brings these characters into conflict, ostensibly because of differences of class, what registers instead is how conflicts of class are really matters of character — at least in this case … Mrs. gives us two classes of fiction: one a character-driven drama, in which people make bad choices or stupid mistakes and have to pay; the other a social comedy of sorts, where the difference between old money and new supplies the conflict and determines the outcome.
Macy throws her characters together in the crucible of a small, tony Upper East Side preschool. The novel opens brilliantly, with the makings of a terrific screenplay … Mrs. is fueled in part by scorn and Schadenfreude, but it might appeal most to the self-absorbed strata Macy mocks – or those who found Wednesday Martin's Primates of Park Avenue fascinating. The plot relies on too many small world coincidences, some of which are easier to buy than others, but it'll keep you turning pages anyway … I have mixed feelings about the ending — I'm being careful not to say too much — which plays with readers' expectations and hopes.
Macy is deft at employing class to create conflict. By using multiple points of view and flashbacks, she weaves together a clever story that spurs the reader along. Each narrative provides a piece of the puzzle that is Philippa Lye, warts and all. Mrs. is a solid read, more entertaining than enlightening. But there is something missing … there is something lacking in Gwen. She is real, but she is not relatable. Or perhaps it is the under-development of the Greek chorus Macy employs to show the perceived difference in classes. The observations of this nameless group of mothers come so infrequently that they prove superfluous. What Mrs. does best is prove that class is mostly a state of mind.
Macy switches perspective each chapter, telling her story from the points of view of protagonists, peripheral characters, and even Greek-style choruses. The attention to behavioral detail, especially when seen through the eyes of Philippa’s young daughter Laura, is piercing and honest. Ultimately, a thesis emerges about the simplicity and selfishness of human nature.
Congratulations! You’ve been invited to take an inside look at the most exclusive preschool in Manhattan ... It's all very stylized and entertaining, and if the characters never spring fully to life inside their expensively casual outfits and two-story entrance halls, that feels almost beside the point. Reading this sharply observed novel about New York's wealthier denizens is doubtless more enjoyable than it would be to actually join their crowd.
