The Splendid Things We Planned: A Family Portrait (29 page)

They say that the Dead die not, but remain

Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.

I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,

In wise, majestic, melancholy train,

And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,

And men . . .

It was hard to go on. At the moment it seemed rather likely that Scott would spend eternity in some cloudy limbo, watching us all, the way he used to skulk around strange houses in the middle of the night and stare at family photos on the wall and wish . . . God knows what. I gave my father a helpless look, but his smile had faded like an old poster on a ruined wall. Finally I managed to gasp

. . . coming and going on the earth.

and returned red-faced to my chair. My wife rubbed my back, and Sandra, touched, came over and gave me a hug that made her hat fall off.

Finally we each scooped a bit of Scott’s ashes into the hole Dave had dug for the pawpaw tree. It was planted next to a little plaque that gave Scott’s name and the legend:

United States Marine Corps

Born 1960

Died 2003

Next to Scott was the grave of Rosebud, his favorite cat. Rosebud alone had never let on that she minded his incessant, boozy stroking.

My father slipped away as the rest of us headed back to the house, and nobody went looking for him. Maybe twenty minutes later he returned for the feast my mother had prepared with Kent’s help. Smiling again, he took his place at the table and began eating with good appetite, as did we all.

FOR A FEW
months after his death I thought a lot about Scott, and sometimes I’d cry a little as I remembered reading those lines from Rupert Brooke. Part of me knew such sentiment was maudlin and all for myself—the bereft little brother who could have tried harder—and I’d take a deep breath and think of other things. A better kind of mourning was the times I’d laugh at something and realize that Scott, and perhaps Scott alone, would have laughed too.

It strikes me as odd that I never once dreamed about Scott after his death. Marlies reports the same phenomenon, and it’s a lot weirder in her case. She tells me that every other day or so she visits her pet cemetery and sits on the bench next to Scott’s pawpaw tree, chattering at him. Whimsically she invests him with the supernatural powers of the dead: “You were a pain in the ass when you were alive, Scott,” she notes fondly, “so tomorrow I want you to give us a little rain. My herbs are dying!” Mostly, though, she scolds him for his conspicuous absence from her dreams: “Why don’t you ever
visit
?”

“Does he ever answer?” I asked her one day.

“No,” she said. She sipped her martini and stared at a hummingbird droning at a feeder there on her porch. “I think he’s in a place where he just doesn’t think of us anymore.”

And I remembered why I’d started crying as a child, thirty-odd years ago, in that paneled room at the back of my grandmother’s house in Vinita. Scott had just confided about his second family who lived in the other dimension, and then he’d added—without vindictiveness, as if he were simply stating a poignant, intractable fact—that someday he’d disappear into their loving arms forever.

“You won’t even
visit
?” I sobbed.

“No,” he said, holding my hand. “I’ll never come back.”

acknowledgments

This was not an easy book to write; indeed, it took about eleven years in all—during which, granted, a couple of hefty biographies intervened. Amid the many stillborn drafts, I would have been hopelessly stymied without the help of Matt Weiland, an editor of genius and one of the nicest guys I know. “Wow,” he’d say, in effect, whenever I presented him with the latest draft, “this is
such
an improvement, Blake. Now all you have to do is . . .” And so on, I know not how many times. Thank you, Matt, for the caress of your velvet goad.

This is my first book with Matt’s employer, Norton, and so far it’s been wonderful. Sam MacLaughlin is a marvel of efficiency and tact; India Cooper is quite simply the best copy editor I’ve ever had (and I’ve been very fortunate in that respect). I also thank the many nice people who have responded so competently via Matt or Sam on points of design, marketing, and whatever else. I look forward to knowing each and every one of you by name.

My thanks to David McCormick, whose services as an agent include being a superlative reader. A very busy man, he spent hours marking up these pages in their various forms, and meanwhile said nothing about the more lucrative work we might have been doing.

My friend Michael Ruhlman was generous, as always, in his enthusiasm for this book, and it’s made all the difference. I’m a better writer and human being for knowing him, as I’ve said before and will certainly have occasion to say again.

Claire Dederer wrote me a long and priceless critique simply because she’s an exceptionally nice person and so smart she has to do something with the overflow.

Thanks to the dear old friends of my youth, who have remained friends over the years despite the vagaries recorded in this story, and despite (in some cases) their appearing in this story in whatever form. You know who you are, and you know I love you.

My most heartfelt thanks, by far, to my family. At his best, my brother Scott was a very lovable man, and—in case I haven’t made this clear enough yet—he and I had a
great
deal in common, both for better and worse. I tend to laugh whenever I remember him nowadays, and that’s not a bad compliment. As for my father, Burck, I hope I’ve captured something of his sweetness and decency, and I wish him nothing but happiness. Above all, I thank my long-suffering mother, Marlies, who disagrees with certain interpretive points in this book, and yet has been unfailingly helpful, loving, and loyal—to me, to everyone, always. She’s an heroic figure in my life, and I wouldn’t have made it without her.

To my beloved Mary and Amelia: here we are. It’s lovely.

also by blake bailey

Farther & Wilder: The Lost Weekends and
Literary Dreams of Charles Jackson

Cheever: A Life

A Tragic Honesty: The Life and Work of Richard Yates

copyright

Author’s Note

Most non-family names have been changed, for the sake of both privacy and clarity (for example, to avoid confusion when two different people have the same name). In some cases, a few identifying details have been changed as well.

Copyright © 2014 by Blake Bailey

Excerpt from
Up in the Old Hotel
by Joseph Mitchell, copyright © 1992 by Joseph Mitchell. Used by permission of Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

“Yesterday When I Was Young” (“Hier Encore”). English Lyric by Herbert Kretzmer. Original French Text and Music by Charles Aznavour, © Copyright 1965 (Renewed) 1966 (Renewed) Editions Musicales Charles Aznavour, Paris, France. TRO – Hampshire House Publishing Corp., New York, New York controls all publication rights for the U.S.A. and Canada. Used by permission.

Portrait of Bailey family by David G. Fitzgerald used courtesy of David McNeese.

Photographs of Blake and Scott Bailey used courtesy of Marlies Bailey.

All rights reserved

First Edition

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bailey, Blake, 1963–

The splendid things we planned : a family portrait / Blake Bailey. — First Edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-393-23957-7 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-0-393-24288-1 (e-book)

1. Bailey, Blake, 1963–—Childhood and youth. 2. Bailey, Blake, 1963–—
Family. 3. Bailey family. 4. Authors, American—Biography.
5. Biographers—United States—Biography. I. Title.

PS3602.A526Z46 2014

814'.6—dc23

[B]

2013039720

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