All That Is Mine I Carry With Me, page 31
She turns to show me a shirt, chattering—How about this? I like this color on you—but at the sight of me in my underpants, her offhand manner cracks for a moment. A little gasp escapes her. She closes her eyes and draws a deep breath, like an actress preparing to step onstage, and when she reopens them, she is back in character. We are treating my last day as if it was any other.
She says, I think this one is good.
Thank you, I tell her. Then: It’s going to be okay.
She nods. Jeans? I think jeans. Jeans and sneakers. You’ll be most comfortable that way.
When I am dressed, she looks me over and smiles. She hugs me. You look very handsome, she says.
Thank you.
What else? Are you hungry? You’re not supposed to eat, but I think if you had something very light, it would be okay.
I’m not hungry.
Have you thought about what you might say to Alex and Jeff? You could write something, maybe. I could help you.
I don’t have anything to say.
Anything you want to give them?
They’ll take what they want, after.
What about for you? You have a lot of stuff, you know. Here, let me show you.
She goes into my closet, where a small safe is on the floor, purchased at Home Depot and deposited here when I became ill.
She says, We put all this stuff away so nothing would happen to it. You even knew the combination to the safe back then. Can you imagine?
She punches in a code on a keypad, which beeps with each button-push. She takes out a jewelry box and hands it to me.
Nothing to save it for now, right? You always liked fancy things. Watches and collar pins and cuff links. You were very dapper.
Was I?
Yes. Go on. Pick something out. Show ’em a little style.
I sit down with this jewelry box in my lap. It is a big leather-wrapped box. Inside are watches and rings, men’s bracelets, even a necklace with some sort of tornado-shaped horn pendant that I must have worn at some point. Some things hidden in small jewelry bags.
My daughter plucks out a ring. You used to wear this one a lot. A cat’s-eye ring. Here. Try it.
I try the ring on.
Too tight.
Try it on your pinkie. There, that’s better. Do you like it? How about a watch? I never knew a man with so many watches. Pick one, I’ll set it for you.
There’s so much!
I know! It’s like a treasure chest! Pick one.
What are these?
They’re studs. You wear them with a tuxedo.
You want them?
Daddy, I don’t wear tuxedos.
Neither do I. Take a watch.
No, the watch is for you. Pick one. Go ahead, they’re all yours.
She sits beside me. The tattoo on her arm catches my eye, but she covers it with her other hand, intentionally or not.
How about this one?
Okay. Very pretty. Ooh, Rolex—very fancy. I remember you wearing that too. Let me see if I can set it. What time is it?
She gets up to check the time and set the watch, and I go back to rummaging in the box.
When she comes back, she is holding the watch loosely in her fingers. She says, I think I did it. It’s a little fussy.
But I have something for her too. A gift. I hold it out for her in the palm of my hand.
I want you to have this.
What have you got there, Daddy? You don’t have to give me anything.
I want to. I found it. Here, put out your hand.
She offers her hand, and I slide the ring onto her ring finger. It goes on so smoothly, it seems to settle in place at the base of her finger as if it had always belonged there. As if it might have jumped onto her finger on its own, like a dog onto its owner’s lap.
She looks down at this ring. Her face falls, her mouth is open. She lowers her head to examine it more closely.
Oh no no no no no no no no. Daddy, what did you do?
The question makes no sense to me, but my mind is so untrustworthy I don’t want to speak and embarrass myself.
Daddy, what did you do?
What’s wrong?
Daddy, what did you do?
She backs away from me until she is against the wall, staring at the ring on her finger.
It’s pretty. It has hearts on it. It’s for you.
What did you do?
It’s okay, you can have it. What’s wrong?
She screams: What did you do!
What? I hear my own voice rising with confusion and fear. What did I do to upset her?
What did you do!
She rushes at me, grabs my shirt in her fists, and we topple onto the floor. She is above me, shaking me, screaming, What did you do? What did you do? What did you do?
I don’t know. You’re hurting me, you’re hurting me.
When she has exhausted herself, her head falls onto my chest and she says one last time—now with resignation—What did you do?
(Bewildered:) What did I do?
Don’t you understand? She never took it off. She never took it off.
Who?
She was wearing it that day. They never found it. You had it. Oh, Daddy. Oh my God. What did you do?
* * *
—
Later, a man arrives. It has all been arranged. My sons and their families will not be here. No one can help me or they will go to jail. Only my daughter will be nearby—but not in the room—and this man to serve as witness so no one gets in trouble. This is what I requested, apparently. No ceremony, no hysterics.
My daughter is quiet. She is upset for some reason.
I ask what’s wrong, is there anything I can do for her, to make this easier.
She says there’s no use explaining. I wouldn’t understand.
Is she angry? Why is she angry?
It’s too late, is all she will tell me.
My head hurts. It is because I fell, she explains. I fell? When did I fall?
Together, the three of us go into my bedroom.
My daughter asks if I am comfortable.
I am.
Do you want to take your shoes off so you can lie down?
No, I’m okay.
Do you need to use the bathroom?
No.
Do you need anything?
I’m a little hungry.
I think you’d better not eat, you know, before. You could—it might come back up.
After, then.
At this, she shoots a glance at her friend, who seems uncomfortable.
Yeah, after. Daddy, I’m going to leave the room now. I can’t be here for this, it’s not allowed. You remember?
No.
My friend Phil is going to be with you. All he can do is watch, though. He can’t actually help you. But if you have any questions, you can just ask him, okay?
Okay.
Do you remember what you’re going to do?
No.
There are two glasses on your night table. One is the medicine. You’re going to open the little bottle and pour it into the first glass and drink it. The second glass is just wine. It’s a nice Barolo like you used to like. The medicine might taste a little bitter, so if you don’t like the taste, you can drink a little wine and that will help. Then all you have to do is lie down on the bed and close your eyes and relax.
Why can’t you stay?
Because what you’re doing—what you’ve chosen to do—it isn’t legal for me to help you. No one can. You have to do this yourself.
Her friend breaks in: Mr. Larkin, do you understand what’s happening here?
Yes.
You’re ending your life. You understand that, right?
Yes.
And that’s what you want?
Yes.
And you know you can stop at any time. You don’t have to do this.
I know.
The man nods, not quite convinced.
Okay, Daddy. I’m going to say goodbye. Can I give you a hug?
Yes.
She hugs me and I am happy. She kisses me on the cheek.
I tell her, I love you.
She nods. She says, Okay, I’m going to go.
Okay.
When she has gone and the door is closed, I go to the night table. Bottle, empty drinking glass, full wineglass. I take up the wineglass and sip. The wine is dark and earthy.
The man says, Do you remember what to do?
No.
First you’re going to open the little bottle and pour it into the glass.
Which glass?
The empty one.
I put the wineglass down, pick up the small vial. There is a plastic wrapper over the top. I try to take it off by twisting it and picking at it with my fingernail.
I can’t open it. It has a thing on it.
Keep trying. I really can’t, you know, touch anything.
After more struggling, the man relents and comes over to help.
Okay, here you go.
He puts the plastic scrap on the night table then thinks better of it and slips it into his pocket.
Thank you. So what do I…?
Pour it in the glass.
I pour the clear liquid into the drinking glass.
The man says, Do you know what that is?
No, what?
It’s pentobarbital.
Pentobarbital.
It’s poison. If you drink it, you’ll die.
I understand.
You’re sure?
Yeah.
Okay. Do you want to sit down first? I don’t know how fast it’ll work. Maybe you should sit down.
I sit on the side of the bed.
How much should I drink?
All of it, I guess. I’m not really sure.
I hold the glass under my nose. I do not smell anything. I take a small sip. The liquid is tangy but not awful. Still, I spit it back into the glass.
Does it taste bad?
Yes.
Try it with the wine maybe. You could take a little of one then the other.
It tastes bad.
Yes, that’s what the wine is for. You want to try again?
I don’t know. I’m not sure.
It’s okay, you don’t have to.
I’m not sure. I don’t know.
Okay. Let’s just stop right here, then. Do you want to stop?
Yes. I want to stop.
All right, I’ll get Miranda. Just wait here.
I’ll drink this one, though.
Just remember, the wine is the red one. Don’t—well, never mind, I’ll just take that with me.
He takes the glass of clear liquid, opens the bedroom door, calls Miranda’s name.
Footsteps, bustling.
She meets him at the threshold.
The man tells her, He doesn’t want to go through with it.
He hands the glass to the woman.
Why don’t you wait outside, Phil.
Miranda—
It’s okay. Go wait outside.
Miranda.
I’m just going to talk to him.
She steps aside so he can exit the room.
For a moment, he does not move. Then a sigh—a little heave of his back—and he steps out.
The woman comes in, holding the glass, and begins to shut the door.
The man puts his hand on the door to stop its closing. His face visible in the doorway, peering in, he says, Miranda!
She closes the door.
By William Landay
All That Is Mine I Carry With Me
Defending Jacob
The Strangler
Mission Flats
About the Author
William Landay is the author of three previous novels: Defending Jacob, which won the Strand Critics Award for best novel; The Strangler, listed as a best crime novel of the year by the Los Angeles Times, Daily Telegraph, and others; and Mission Flats, winner of the Dagger Award for best first crime novel. He lives in Boston.
williamlanday.com
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William Landay, All That Is Mine I Carry With Me
