All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 23
I’m just wondering. What kind of guy could sue his own father?
Let me guess: the kind of guy who would take a mulligan.
I’m being serious, Jeff.
Okay, let’s be serious. How about: the kind of guy whose father killed his mother.
Oh, that is such bullshit. Naive, sanctimonious, melodramatic, self-righteous bullshit. You don’t even believe it yourself.
I do, actually. Not the naive, sanctimonious part.
You can’t believe it. It makes no sense. It’s completely ridiculous.
Why?
Because this is your own father. You get that, right?
Yeah, I get it. It’s not a complicated point.
Then how could you do it? How could you even consider it? You’re going to blow up your own family? What the fuck is wrong with you?
Is that a trick question? What’s wrong with me is I have a conscience.
A conscience?
Don’t worry, I’m trying to get rid of it.
Is that what you tell yourself? It’s your conscience? Well, aren’t you precious.
You know what, Alex? I just got it. I thought you wanted to play golf. What an idiot I am! This is why you brought me out here, isn’t it? So I’d be trapped on a golf course and you could grill me about this.
No, I thought we could talk about it like adults.
Why would you ever think that?
Jeff, if you do this…I don’t know what. If you do this, there’ll be nothing left. You’ll destroy the whole thing, what little we have left. You won’t have a family to go back to.
Do I have one now?
Yes! I’m right here! What am I? I’m your family.
Not your best argument.
What about Miranda? What about Dad?
What about Mom? Oh, right.
He groaned. Jeff, I get it. Something bad happened to you. You lost your mother.
I didn’t lose her. She wasn’t a set of keys.
She died, okay? It was a tragedy. A complete fucking tragedy. It was cruel, it was awful. And you’re not the only one who got hurt, by the way. But it was a long time ago, and nothing we do will ever change it. The world just keeps on turning. What else are we going to do?
So just forget it?
No, don’t forget it. Just stop feeling sorry for yourself. Stop thinking of yourself as a victim your whole life and start building something instead. Stop blaming other people. Help yourself. Man up. Jesus.
Man up? Really? Like for the big game against Yale?
No, like: be a man. Your family needs you. You’re not a kid anymore.
I’m starting to think you’re not going to give me that mulligan.
Jeff, stop, all right? If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for Miranda. She needs you. Help her, don’t pull her under the waves with you. Help your family. Help your family.
You mean help Dad.
Yes, help your father. Is that so ridiculous?
It is, actually.
Jeff, here’s how I think about it. It’s real simple. I want to make things better, not worse. That’s it.
That’s it? That’s your big idea?
Yes. I want to put this family back together again, at least a little.
Alex, that’s not realistic.
Of course it is.
The whole family’s broken. Everyone except you.
Then heal! Change! At least try.
I’m trying, Alex. Believe me, I’m trying.
Are you? Are you making things better? If not, why not?
He obviously believes it too. To Alex anything is possible. Why not, indeed? What has he ever failed to achieve? Imagine yourself succeeding, and you will. Who am I to say he’s wrong?
Alex, it’s a lie. You’re all worked up about a mulligan—
Oh, I don’t give a fuck about the mulligan.
—but you’re willing to look the other way on this? I don’t get you.
I’m not looking the other way on anything, Jeff. I’m just trying to prevent you from making a huge mistake. That’s all.
* * *
—
After the district attorney’s decision not to prosecute, it takes nearly a week to release my mother’s remains. Aunt Kate and my father argue for days over who will arrange the funeral—who will control the bones—until my father relents, allowing Kate to plan a short, unpublicized family-only graveside ceremony, to keep away the gawkers. Her hatred of my father is total. When he makes a public statement to a Globe reporter that the DA has cleared him of the crime—including the cliché about Where do I go to get my good name back?—Aunt Kate calls the same reporter to clarify that the DA has said no such thing and that the family still considers him Jane Larkin’s murderer. She seems to be daring him to sue for slander. Dad is right, however, that he has not been charged, so presumably he has some right to be heard on the question of his wife’s burial (or reburial). In the end, he allows Kate to make the arrangements, but there is no way to prevent him from attending.
So, on a warm morning in July, our little family stands together in a graveyard in West Roxbury. Mimi and me. Alex, his wife and kids. Aunt Kate and Uncle Stephen. Nine people, that’s all that’s left.
A full-size casket is suspended on thick canvas straps above an open grave, with bunting draped around it to hide the view down into the hole.
A dozen folding chairs.
A man from the funeral home stands nearby. Balding, florid complexion, black suit. A drinker, I imagine, though who would begrudge him? He has agreed to recite some rote funereal comments, relieving us all of the obligation to speak.
Dad arrives last. I suspect he wants to minimize his time here, around Aunt Kate especially. He marches toward us with theatrical dignity, a man with a grievous duty to perform but also with nothing to hide. His suit is tailored, charcoal gray. I have to hand it to him: the man knows how to dress. His coat is buttoned despite the heat. I am struck again by how gray his hair is, though I saw him only a couple of weeks ago. How handsome he is, the sort of guy you would pass on the sidewalk and think, That must be someone important. I am struck, too, by how little I feel for him today. Not love or hate or anger or anything at all. He is just a guy I used to know.
Alone among our group, Alex steps forward to greet him. A handshake, then a shoulders-only man-hug. Neither of them is a hugger. The disparity in their heights only makes it worse.
The easy bit done, Dad comes to stand awkwardly in front of Mimi and me.
He sticks out his hand toward me. He knows it is safe to do this, that I will not embarrass him. There is a phrase in the newspapers a lot lately: President Clinton is said to be “conflict averse.” It describes me, too, and I accept the handshake dutifully. God, at moments like this I loathe myself.
After me, however, comes the more volatile business of greeting Miranda. Dad stands before her a moment regarding her, as if she is a safe to crack or a bomb to defuse. He says, Hello, Mimi.
Hello.
Not Hello, Daddy. Just Hello.
He puts a hand on each of her upper arms, a gesture meant as a modest hug, I guess, but it comes off as a sort of wrestler’s hold. Grasping her this way, he kisses her cheek.
She recoils from his kiss, but only a little, and half-heartedly. When it is over, Mimi’s eyes are brimming.
Sweetheart, he says.
Aunt Kate tells him: Dan, just get away from her.
Dad, leave her alone, please.
Dad bristles but goes to stand with Alex.
The man from the funeral home makes a short speech, welcoming us, explaining that he understands the family wants as brief a ceremony as possible. He knows we are not a religious family, but at Aunt Kate’s request he will read a single Bible passage. It is from Proverbs, he tells us, as he opens a worn softcover Bible:
A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies. Her husband has full confidence in her and lacks nothing of value. She brings him good, not harm, all the days of her life.
The passage goes on at length, a litany of the noble wife’s deeds:
She selects wool and flax…. She gets up while it is still night…. She watches over the affairs of her household…. Her children arise and call her blessed.
Through it all, Kate glares at Dad.
When the funeral director finishes the peroration—Honor her for all that her hands have done, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate—he looks up to find us all slack-jawed. Mistaking our shock for grief, he mutters on our behalf, Amen.
He asks, Is there anyone who would like to say a few words?
Aunt Kate comes forward to stand by him. She is wearing a black skirt suit with a band collar notched at the hollow of her throat, like a priest’s collar, and beside this professional funeralist she looks the much more solemn, more righteous. Kate has gotten so lean over the years; there is something hard and puritanical in her look now.
She says in an even, controlled tone: I was going to talk about my sister. I wrote down all these…remarks. I lay awake last night hoping I’d get it just right. I wanted to remember her. And be with her, in a way, just for a minute. She was beautiful and she was mischievous and she was fun and she was loving and she was good. I wanted to enjoy the memory of my sister here, all together. As a family.
A beat.
But Dan, Dan. You profane this moment by being here, Dan. Your presence here is an obscenity. It’s monstrous.
Miranda murmurs, Oh my God.
Did you come here to bury her, Dan? Why don’t you grab a shovel? It wouldn’t be the first time.
Uncle Stephen says, Kate, stop. This isn’t the time. You have to stop.
But Kate will not stop.
What is that look on your face, Dan? What does it mean?
Aunt Kate, please don’t.
Would you please tell me why, Dan. Tell me why you did this.
Dad turns his head to his right, as if he would spare Kate the indignity of being seen this way.
Because I can live without my sister, I guess. I’ve done it long enough. But for the life of me, Dan, I cannot live without knowing why.
There is a long moment of silence. City noise, like distant applause.
She was so good to you, Dan. She gave you everything. And you took it all. Even her bones. Didn’t you?
I didn’t.
Yes, you did. Yes, you did.
No.
Why are you here, Dan? What is the point of you being here?
Same as you: I loved her. She was my wife. I lost her, too, Kate.
You don’t belong here. You should leave.
No.
Kate’s mouth is slightly open, tensed, so that the tips of her teeth are just visible in her skeletal face.
I have to go, then. I can’t do this. Kids, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry.
Miranda pleads, Aunt Kate—
But Kate is already walking away. Head down, as if the footing is uneven and she might trip if she looks up.
For a moment Uncle Stephen hesitates, then he bustles off after her without a word.
I am watching them leave when I hear my father say: I’d like to say something.
Miranda says, Oh my God, please don’t.
Dad says, with little practiced gestures of his arms honed over years in courtrooms: I’m sorry you kids had to hear that. Your aunt Kate is very upset, obviously. I don’t bear her any ill will. People can say what they like. I loved your mother very much. Very much. And I miss her terribly. Don’t let anyone or anything make you think otherwise.
And that’s it. That’s all Dan Larkin has to say about his wife of seventeen years, now dead for eighteen. That’s all the sorrow and memory he can muster. I loved her very much.
Alex says, We know, Dad.
Mimi and I say nothing. There is simply nothing to say anymore.
The funeral man, with an exquisite sense of the macabre, says in a soothing, priestly voice—as if nothing odd has happened here—This is the end of the service. If any family members would like to stay as the casket is lowered into the grave, you are welcome. If not, the service is concluded.
I say, I’ll stay.
Miranda grumbles into my coat sleeve, Please make him go, Jeff.
Dad, you have to go.
My father then takes a step toward Miranda, presumably to comfort her. She is his daughter, after all. He says, Miranda.
Get! Out! she orders.
Dad, go.
Get out! What is wrong with you?
Something in Mimi’s rising voice seems to break him a little. His iron posture slips, his shoulders round forward perceptibly.
Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—
He turns and walks off. I can only hope that Aunt Kate has already left the parking lot or we may have another funeral before the day is over. Maybe there is a discount if we buy in bulk.
Alex’s wife, Laurel Marcus-but-not-Larkin, says, We should get the kids home. They don’t need to see this.
She glances at the coffin meaningfully, and Alex nods.
I don’t want to see it either, Miranda says.
I do.
Why, Jeff? It’s ghoulish.
I don’t know, Meem. It just feels like something I want to do. It’s okay. Go wait by the car. I’ll meet you.
When we are alone with the coffin, me and the funeral man, a quartet of shadowy men with shovels appears in the shade of a tree nearby, uncertain if their cue has come. He waves the shovel crew over. They avoid eye contact, avoid conversation. They move quickly, efficiently. The bunting around the coffin is pulled away and laid on the grass, near a neat conical pile of dirt covered by a tarp. Hand cranks are attached to the straps that support the coffin. The cranks are turned, the coffin descends. Afterward, the straps are tugged out from under it.
The men flip the tarp off the dirt pile and, avoiding my eyes, they begin the work of refilling the hole they dug a few hours ago. The dirt and stones clatter on the wood coffin. Then a softer chatter, then a sifting sound, dirt falling on dirt, as the coffin begins to disappear.
I step forward and hold my hand out for the shovel held by one of the gravediggers. Can I do this?
He hesitates, unsure.
It’s okay, I assure him.
He hands me the shovel. His fingers are stained with dirt.
The others stand aside to let me work. They seem unsure whether I want them to help, so I give them a little wave and say, It’s okay, I’ll do it.
The shoveling is easy. There has not been much rain lately; the ground is dry. The soil is loose and light. It is good to be moving, to be doing. Oddly, the chore is not sad at all. It feels productive, useful, practical. It is satisfying to fill this hole. I do the work carefully, spread the dirt evenly; I do not want to screw it up as I usually do. This is the closest I have been to my mother in nearly eighteen years, which is longer than I’d been alive when she vanished. It is the first thing I have done for her in all that time, and I feel helpful, a good son, as if I am standing at her elbow in the kitchen all those years ago.
I had a mother once. How odd. I wish I could have a moment with her, as Aunt Kate said. Just a few minutes to visit. I would like to hear her voice. I would like to do right by her. Not for her (she is past caring) but for me. I would like to go back to the place where I lost my way and choose a different road.
* * *
—
In the afternoon, still wearing the suit and tie I wore to the funeral, I go into town to return Mr. Bailis’s case file and tell him I’m in.
He comes to the lobby of his office. His shirt collar is crooked. His belt is cinched tight, causing his pants to bunch. Does he live alone? Is there no wife to fix his collar, to ask why he is losing weight?
When I give him the news, he only nods and says, Okay.
You have your lead plaintiff. Larkin versus Larkin. Isn’t that what you wanted?
It’s not what we want. It’s what we have to do.
I thought you’d be happier.
I am happy for the opportunity. It’s just, it can’t end well, can it? But here we are: damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
* * *
—
The next morning, Miranda drives me back to Logan to catch a flight to SFO.
At the gate she says with fake offhandedness, Jamie asked me to tell you goodbye.
Did she?
Yeah.
She’s totally in love with me, isn’t she?
I don’t think so. She called you Steve.
See, now that’s funny.
She bear-hugs me in her guileless way and tells me, I won’t miss you.
Why don’t you come with me, Miranda? You’d love San Francisco. It’s all a bunch of hippies burning their bras. You’ll fit right in.
Do you have any idea what a decent bra costs?
I mean it, Mimi. Come. Why not?
Because it isn’t home.
She gazes at me earnestly, hoping I will agree.
Jeff, just make me one promise, okay? Stop drinking. For a while, at least. And forget that girl.
That’s two promises.
No. The drinking and the girl are the same thing.
The girl, fine. Can I at least keep the drinking?
No.
You sound like Alex.
Maybe Alex is right. You’re better than this. This isn’t you.
I’m not better than this. This is me. I am exactly this.
That’s not true, Jeff. I love you but please, please get your shit together. For me.
Miranda is right, of course. It is time to grow up, put childish things aside. Lord knows, this isn’t the first time I’ve heard it. She is wrong about the drinking, though. Drinking is the symptom, not the disease. The disease is unhappiness. And it seems to me that I am done with it, it seems to me that it is time to stop. All the romantic obsession, the rumination, the melancholy, the indiscipline—the whole Sad Young Man routine. It is beginning to feel like a coat I have outgrown, a coat I am ready to take off.
