Shreve, a gifted writer, has set up a no-win situation: telling a story about comedians. She must either quote generously from routines and risk flattening the comedy on the page or ask us to take her word for it that her protagonists are a stitch. Shreve chooses the latter strategy. Given that she’s not a humorist, this is probably the wiser choice, but it puts the reader at a frustrating remove from her characters’ central mode of expression.
She’s on firmer ground showing the siblings being siblings—gossiping, driving each other crazy, holding themselves together in the wake of loss. Sam, she writes, “did his best work in the quiet interior of the van, whole episodes of Plum & Jaggers surfacing, as if a birthmark on his brain had split open, spilling stories.” Shreve knows that trauma leaves marks just as indelible; storytelling is as good a way as any to survive.