William Landay - All That Is Mine I Carry With Me

All That Is Mine I Carry With Me is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2023 by William Landay

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

BANTAM BOOKS is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

Hardback ISBN9780345531841

Ebook ISBN9780345531858

randomhousebooks.com

Book design by Diane Hobbing, adapted for ebook

Cover design: Carlos Beltrn

Cover image: Linwood Estate, Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Barry Winiker/Getty images

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Contents

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A FTER I FINISHED writing my last novel, I fell into a long silence. You might call it writers block, but most writers dont use that term or even understand it. When a writer goes quiet, nothing is blocking and nothing is being blocked. He is just empty. I dont know why this silence settled over me. Now that its over, I dont like to think about it. I only know that for months, then a year, then two years, I could not write. It did no good to struggle; the more I struggled, the tighter the noose became. I could not write, then I could not sleep, then I could not bear my own presence and I began to think dark thoughts. I wont dwell on the details; in my profession, there is a saying that a writers troubles are of interest only to other writers. I mention my silent period here only because it is the reason I wrote this book, for it was during this time, when I would have grabbed at any plausible idea for a story, that I got an email from an old friend named Jeff Larkin.

I have known Jeff since we were twelve years old. We met in September 1975 when we entered the seventh grade together at a very august and (to me) terrifying private school for boys, and we became pals almost immediately.

Let me say, I am uneasy about starting a book this way, with friends and confessions about my childhood. I am not nostalgic for that time in my life. Im not even sure an honest account is possible. I do not trust my own memories. I tell myself so many stories about my past, as we all do. Worsemuch worseI dont think a writer ought to insert himself into his stories this way. It generally distracts more than it deepens. A writers place is offstage. But what choice do I have? If I am going to tell this story, there is no way around a little autobiography. So:

When I was in sixth grade, my teacher called my parents, out of the blue, to suggest I was bored at school, which was certainly true. Had they considered sending me to a private school? Someplace rigorous and rules-y, where I would not continue to be (I will paraphrase here) a daydreamer and a smart-ass. My folks had never thought of it. They had both gone to public schools, and they presumed that fancy private schools were for Yankees. But Mom and Dad grasped the teachers essential meaning: what I needed was a swift kick in the pants.

So the next fall I found myself at a school that probably had not looked much different twenty or even fifty years earlier. There were no girls. There was a school necktie. Spanish was not taught, but ancient Latin was required. The gym was called a palestra; the cafeteria, the refectory. Portraits of mustachioed old masters hung in the hallways. There was a half-length painting of King Charles I gazing down at us with his needle nose and Vandyke beard, which alone might have cured me of daydreaming and smart-assery. Even my parents were dazzled and intimidated by the place. My mother warned me, They smile at you, these WASPs, but I promise you, behind closed doors they call us kikes.

Jeff Larkin felt no such anxiety when he arrived at school. He was a prince. His older brother, Alex, was a senior and a three-sport star, with the heroic aura that surrounds high school athletes. Jeffs dad was well known too. He was a criminal defense lawyer, the kind that showed up in the newspaper or on TV standing beside a gangster, swaggering on about the incompetence of the police and the innocence of his wrongly accused client. There was a dark glamour to Mr. Larkins work, at least before the catastrophe, when his association with violent crime stopped being a thing to admire. But that came later.

Forbidding as the school was, at least I had a new friend. Jeff and I hit it off right away. We were inseparable. It was one of those childhood friendships that was so natural and uncomplicated, we seemed to discover it more than we created it. I have no adult friendships like the one I had with Jeff. I am sure I never will. Once we slip on the armor of adulthood, we lose the ability to form that kind of naive, unqualified connection.

But forty years later, when I got Jeffs email in 2015, we had been out of touch for a very long time. He reached me by sending a fan email from my author website, just as any stranger would do.

Hey, his email read in its entirety. Loved the book. Mr. K_____ would be proud. (Mr. K_____ was a beloved English teacher.) You up for a beer sometime?

Im up for three, I emailed back. Or forty-three. Just name the place.

T HE place he named was Doyles, an ancient pub in Jamaica Plain, now gone. It was a nostalgic choice. In our twenties, Jeff and I hung out there night after night, shooting the shit. The place had changed over the years. It was bigger and brighter now, more of a family restaurant than the grungy, patinaed old pub I remembered. But the long bar was still the same, and the ornate Victorian mirror behind the bartender.

When I arrived, Jeff was waiting at the bar. His hair was gray, and his face was fuller and more deeply lined than I had expected, but when he saw me and stood up, grinning, he became my old friend again.

Its the famous author, Philip Solomon, he teased. What an honor. And we hugged in the clumsy, equivocal way men do.

For the next couple of hours, we drank and bantered as we always had. We picked up our conversation after twenty-odd years as if we had just seen each other the day before. I am a shy man, and I was particularly quiet during that hard time, but this night I yammered like a fool and I laughed harder than I had in a long time.

It was late, around midnight, when Jeff finally mentioned his mothers case and the forty years of misery that followed. We had moved from the bar to a booth by then. His voice was low and confidential.

You heard about my dad?

No.

He has Alzheimers.

Whoa. Im sorry.

Convenient, isnt it?

Thats not how most people think of it.

He gets to forget. Or pretend to.

You think hes pretending?

I dont know. Havent seen him. I get my information from Miranda.

Miranda is Jeffs little sister, younger by a year and a half.

Miranda talks to him?

Shes taking care of him.

I made a face: Really?

She wants me to go see him. Before its too late.

So go. Whats the difference?

I wouldnt give him the satisfaction.

He has Alzheimers. He wont remember anyway.

Thats what Mimi says. She says its gone on long enough. He put on a mocking tone: Im lost in the maze of hate .

The maze of hate? Thats a thing?

Dont evenI cant. He shook his head. Miranda.

Its a good name for a band, Maze of Hate.

She says when I hate him, Im only hurting myself.

That could actually be true.

Maybe. Doesnt mean Im gonna stop.

Attaboy. You stay in that maze of hate. Great decision.

You should call her, Phil. Shed love to hear from you.

Miranda? Nah. Well, maybe. I dunno.

Dont worry, I wont tell your wife.

Thats very considerate, thank you.