The Best of Us: A Memoir

The Best of Us: A Memoir

by Joyce Maynard

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Overview

The Best of Us: A Memoir by Joyce Maynard

The San Francisco Chronicle's Best of 2017 List

From New York Times bestselling author Joyce Maynard, a memoir about discovering strength in the midst of great loss--"heart wrenching, inspiring, full of joy and tears and life." (Anne Lamott)

In 2011, when she was in her late fifties, beloved author and journalist Joyce Maynard met the first true partner she had ever known. Jim wore a rakish hat over a good head of hair; he asked real questions and gave real answers; he loved to see Joyce shine, both in and out of the spotlight; and he didn't mind the mess she made in the kitchen. He was not the husband Joyce imagined, but he quickly became the partner she had always dreamed of.

Before they met, both had believed they were done with marriage, and even after they married, Joyce resolved that no one could alter her course of determined independence. Then, just after their one-year wedding anniversary, her new husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. During the nineteen months that followed, as they battled his illness together, she discovered for the first time what it really meant to be a couple--to be a true partner and to have one.

This is their story. Charting the course through their whirlwind romance, a marriage cut short by tragedy, and Joyce's return to singleness on new terms, The Best of Us is a heart-wrenching, ultimately life-affirming reflection on coming to understand true love through the experience of great loss.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781635570359
Publisher: Bloomsbury USA
Publication date: 09/11/2018
Pages: 464
Sales rank: 170,020
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.50(d)

About the Author

Joyce Maynard is the author of sixteen books including the novels To Die For and Labor Day (both adapted for film) and the bestselling memoir At Home in the World. Her essays and columns have appeared in dozens of publications and numerous collections. She is a frequent performer with The Moth, a fellow of the MacDowell Colony and Yaddo, and founder of the Lake Atitlan Writers' Workshop. She is the mother of three grown children, and makes her home in Lafayette, California.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Ever since the end of my marriage to my children's father I had wanted to fall in love. But if you had asked me — or if I ever asked myself — what it meant to fall in love, I doubt I could have told you. "Falling in love" was an idea I had picked up from a lot of rock-and-roll songs and movies and the fairy tales that came before them.

My own experience of love had not contained the happy ending, though passion was part of it, as was romance, and certainly drama. (Drama: an addiction of mine, maybe. To look at my history, at least, you would have had to consider that possibility.)

Age had changed me in many ways, but not in this one. Into my fifties, and closing in on the next decade — my children grown and gone, along with so much else I had held onto once and now let go — I still looked for that feeling of my pulse quickening, of holding my breath when a person walked in the door — my person. But when I tried to imagine what this falling-in-love thing would look like with the passage of time, my imagination — though it seldom failed me — provided no picture. Mostly what I had known of falling in love was that heartbreak followed soon after.

I had been, at the point our story began, a writer of fiction, and in the writing of fiction, it is well understood that for a story to hold the reader's interest, conflict must exist. I might have told myself otherwise, but for years I think I carried that belief into my life off the page. Where was the drama in happiness? If there was no trouble present, what kept the story alive?

What did I know of love? What had I witnessed? My parents had started out with a big love affair, filled with extravagant emotion and conflict. The fact that when my mother met him, my father had been twenty years older than she was — and divorced — had not even been their biggest obstacle. He just wasn't Jewish.

He had courted her for ten years — writing her poems, sending her drawings, swearing his devotion, taking a job under a made-up name as a radio host on the prairies of Canada so he could recite romantic poetry to her over the airwaves without her parents knowing it. He was handsome and funny, brilliant and difficult. But romantic — and in the end, irresistible.

Within days of the wedding, our mother told my sister and me later, their love affair was finished, though my parents remained together for twenty-five years — slinging barbs across the dinner table at each other and sleeping in separate bedrooms. This was what I saw of marriage, growing up. Balanced only by a decade of situation comedies on television, in which romance between the parents never went beyond that moment when Donna Reed's husband comes back after heading out the door to work, to plant a kiss on her cheek.

At twenty-three I married a man who was as unwise a match for me as I was for him. But he was handsome and talented and interesting, and his silences seemed to suggest mysteries I was ready to spend my life exploring. When I'd tell him a story from my day, he would say, "Cut to the chase."

I was thirty-five when we divorced, and single for the two decades that followed — the phrase I employed to describe myself: "a solo operator." There had been a time when what I wanted most in life was to make a home with a partner and to raise our children together there, but after losing the home of my marriage, and the dream of what is referred to as "an intact family," I had made good homes on my own, and watched my children move back and forth — brown paper bags in hand, containing their possessions — between the worlds of two parents deeply at odds with each other. I grew accustomed to doing things alone and doing them my way, and I discovered, as I did this, the pleasure of my autonomy.

As the years passed, less and less did the idea of marriage play a role in my picture of my future. Divorce, and all the sorrow surrounding it, had left me reluctant to go down that particular road again, and anyway, what I yearned for — big love, big romance — seemed to contradict what I'd known of marriage.

By the time I reached my fifties, I had lived alone — or alone with my children — for longer than I'd lived with a man. It was living with someone that got me into trouble, so why try that again?

Still I kept searching, without knowing what I was looking for. No surprise I did not find it. And then — though it took a while to recognize this — I di-d.

CHAPTER 2

I met Jim on Match.com. I liked his photograph — a rakish hat over a head of good hair, a smile that seemed to contain genuine delight in whatever it was that had been going on as the camera captured the moment. I liked the things he said about himself in that short profile, but I had learned long before that how a person described himself in a dating profile often bore little resemblance to the real person who had posted it.

I had studied Jim's profile only briefly, anticipating (after years of this stuff) the inevitable red flag. I closed my laptop.

But the man in the photograph had taken note of the fact that I'd looked at his profile, and looked up mine. He wrote to me. "Maybe another time," I wrote back. I looked at his photograph again, and the others he'd posted — one in which he was wearing a tuxedo.

"Probably a Republican," I concluded.

There was another reason why I had been reluctant to find out more about the man whose online moniker (this alone would later indicate how little relationship exists between the man and his profile) was "Jimbunctious." At the time he sent me that first message (sent to me at "Likesred shoes") expressing an interest in meeting me, I had recently started spending time with a different man I'd met online just a few weeks before. And I was having a good time with him.

Jim wrote to me again, suggesting a conversation by phone. Without particular expectation or enthusiasm, I sent him my number. In the twenty-five years since the end of my marriage to my children's father, though no shortage of men entered, and left, my life, I had never engaged in the practice of exploring a relationship with more than one man at a time. But a special circumstance existed here. Martin, the man I had been spending time with — spending the night with, on occasion — was both a very good man and also a man with whom I knew I had no extended future.

Only recently separated from his one and only wife of twenty-six years, Martin had been called to the Bay Area in his career as a structural engineer to oversee crucial aspects involved in the rebuilding of the San Francisco Bay Bridge following its collapse in the Loma Prieta earthquake. This would be the earthquake of 1989: an event whose date contained an odd significance for me, though I had been living in my home state of New Hampshire, not in San Francisco, when it occurred. The Loma Prieta earthquake took place eleven days after the death of my mother at age sixty-seven to a brain tumor, and exactly one week after I had moved out of the home I'd shared for twelve years with my husband Steve, after he'd told me he'd fallen in love with someone else. Two not wholly unrelated events, as it turned out, that served to create the effect of an earthquake within my life as well.

Though he had been put in charge of one of the key aspects of the bridge project, Martin was a modest man, and one who lived pretty simply. He lived on a sailboat he'd bought after his marriage ended, that he kept docked in Point Richmond. That's where I was spending two or three nights a week. Sometimes, too, Martin and I would go out in the boat and dock it overnight in a bay by Angel Island. Though never a sailor, I liked sleeping on Martin's boat. I loved the feeling I had when I was there that I could leave my life back on shore for a while. At the time, I had a lot of reasons for wanting to do that.

But as much as I enjoyed sleeping in the tiny below-deck bunk room with Martin and waking up to have my coffee with him on the bay, and as good a man as this one might be, I also recognized that the two of us were not suited to be together in any long-term way.

As a person who'd been single at this point for over twenty years — a woman who had supposed, early on after the divorce, that she was ready to make a new relationship, but learned that it would take a couple of decades to get over all the bitterness and anger that had gotten in the way of that — I also believed that Martin needed to spend a lot more time on his own, and with other women, before he'd begin to know what he really wanted and needed. As enjoyable as it was spending nights on the boat with this good man, the situation could not last.

I'd encouraged Martin to continue going on dates, and he, reluctantly, agreed. The night I got that first e-mail message from Jimbunctious, Martin was in fact out on a Match.com date — at my insistence — and though later, when he got home, he would call me up and tell me again that really, he just wanted to be with me, I knew that our days of sailing in the bay were numbered.

So when Jim wrote to me I'd written back. Some people go right to the coffee-shop phase here — that event, well-known to online daters, where you pull into some Starbucks or other, scan the room for the person who resembles, however remotely, the one on the profile to which you responded, and unless he is so far from the mark as to suggest that there's not one honest thing coming from this man, you approach the table.

"You must be Bob," you say. (Sam. Joe. Bill. Ray.) At which point he looks you up and down with a gaze that conveys interest, disappointment, or nothing, and you order coffee.

I tried to avoid the coffee-shop phase. In the many years I'd spent engaging in some level or other of online dating, I had come to set far less store by the words a man posted on his profile than I did in the sound of his voice. Often I found that someone whose online profile had seemed promising would reveal himself to me within the first sixty seconds at Starbucks or Peet's to be a person as unlikely to inspire my affection as a game show host or a tax auditor. This saved me from a lot of wasted cappuccinos. And probably saved a lot of men the same.

Within minutes of receiving my phone number Jim called me, and right away, I liked his voice — the timbre of it, and a way of speaking I recognized as having its origins in the Midwest, which it turned out he did, despite having spent all but the first four years of his life in California. Though I would later discover that he was not a talkative man — more inclined to listen than to speak — it was a conversation that lasted four and a half hours.

By this point, I was all too familiar with how this type of conversation generally went. You got the basics out of the way first. How long since the divorce generally came first. It was usually a divorce, though when I met a person who had actually known the experience of a good marriage and lost his wife, I registered a humble awe. He knew something that I didn't, and even though he had also known something else I didn't — the loss of someone he loved more than anything — I still tended to view the widowers as the lucky ones. They had made a good relationship once. Maybe they'd even know how to make one again.

From there, the conversation would go to children — how many, how old — and the new question (here came a measure of just how long I'd been at this stuff): how many grandchildren. Sometimes, though, the person on the other end of the phone could not get past the ex-wife part. He'd be talking about what her lawyer did, how she got the house. Looking back on my own early years after my divorce, I know I was one of those people myself once. Endlessly reexamining old injuries, picking at the scabs, and because this was so, unable to heal them.

Then came the subject of career and living circumstances. We might tackle politics, favored recreational activities. ("I'm a naturist," a man told me once, before proposing that we meet up at a nudist colony.) Every one always said he worked out three times a week, and rode a mountain bike, and loved to dance. They generally expressed the view that they were equally comfortable in a tuxedo or jeans, and (when in jeans, no doubt) liked walks on the beach.

Jim had not read the rulebook concerning Internet-dating conversation. He read books that weren't on the best-seller list. He talked about real things. He told me about things that had been difficult. Starting with his family.

He was born in Cincinnati, he told me — an only child, though he had a beloved grandmother and cousin, and an uncle he adored — all of whom were largely lost to him when his father took a job for Hughes Aircraft when Jim was four and the family left Ohio for Southern California.

That very first night we spoke, he told me about the train ride west, which he still remembered with stunning clarity. It was just Jim and his mother together on the train, his father having gone ahead first, and if there had been nothing else good about that train ride, the fact that his father had not been a part of that trip would have been reason enough to make those four days among the happiest of his life.

But there was more. He remembered the sleeping car, and the porters on the train — all black, in those days — who were so kind to him and turned down the sheets of his small bed each night, and the meals in the dining car, the little soaps in the bathroom, the other passengers, the feeling of going to sleep every night with the rumbling of the wheels on the track beneath him. Most of all he was happy just having his mother there, without the scary part of his father's ever-present and unpredictable rages, generally directed toward him.

His mother had sewed him a train conductor's uniform in mattress ticking fabric, with patches stitched on by hand naming all the different train lines and a cap to match. As an only child he knew how to entertain himself, and he was happy spending the days looking out the window as the landscape of America unfurled before the two of them. If that train ride had lasted a year he wouldn't have minded. He wished it could have gone on forever.

When he and his mother reached L.A., there was his big, scary father, bringing him home to their little ranch house near Venice, where their new life began . A new life filled with the same old bullying and rages, but more so over time.

He missed his family back in Ohio — most particularly his uncle Al. A small, compact man built much like the one his nephew would become, and as comfortable on horseback as he was on a Cincinnati sidewalk, Al could do a headstand and backward flip while galloping, and even into his sixties could perform a hundred one-arm pushups. He was a sharpshooter who, though too old to serve in World War II himself, had trained the troops that landed at Normandy on D-Day.

That night on the phone, Jim spoke of his uncle more than his father. Al took him fishing at his cabin in Minnesota and drove around with him in his convertible talking about cars, a passion Al had instilled in his nephew. He listened. He did not yell.

Later I would come to see how those early experiences had shaped the man Jim became and the way he functioned in the world. Separated by the Southern California move from the rest of his Ohio family, Jim set out to make friends in his new neighborhood in smoggy Los Angeles. When a black family moved in down the block — the first black family in the whole neighborhood — his father called them a bad word and told him to stay away; but Jim, though he was still just four at this point, had decided he wanted to say hello, so he ventured down the street by himself and knocked at their door. There was a Jewish woman living on the street, too — also a source of his father's displeasure. It turned out she was some of kind of editor who had once worked at the New Yorker and liked to talk about ideas and art and politics. Well into his teens, Jim continued to pay her visits, where the two of them would sit for hours talking about these things.

He read a lot. This included the encyclopedia. He had a chemistry set, and he loved doing experiments, though sometimes these had to be conducted in secret. Who knew why this got on his father's nerves? Everything did.

(Continues…)



Excerpted from "The Best of Us"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Joyce Maynard.
Excerpted by permission of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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The Best of Us: A Memoir 4.4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 5 reviews.
Jaruwa More than 1 year ago
I approached this book with some hesitation. I had heard many great things about it, but I still had my doubts that a story about two older people who finally find their soulmates and then one of them dies a long and painful death could be anything but depressing. I was pleasantly surprised. I found this memoir as gripping as a thriller, and became quickly engrossed each time I returned to it. I didn't find it depressing at all. It was surprisingly uplifting. I was deeply moved by this starkly honest account of how two people met, fell in love, and then soon after, faced death together. It was fairly long, but never dragged. The story moved along at just the right pace. I'm still not quite sure how she did it, but it was brilliant. In my opinion, a great book is one that makes you think and feel and brings light to some part of your life. This memoir qualifies. It certainly gave me a much deeper understanding of how people deal with death, both their own, or a loved one's. I have dear friends, an older couple, who recently went through a very similar experience. The husband had prostate cancer and I observed how they both tried to cope with this nightmare. At the time, some of what they chose to do seemed surprising or baffling, but after reading this memoir, I now understand their behavior much better. Reading this book, I recognized many of my friends' reactions to the cancer as it progressed. I saw the heartbroken look in the wife's face, the pain and stumbling gait of the dying husband, but also the determination to enjoy what time was left for them. It had always been evident that these two were not only still deeply in love, but also best friends. I watched their suffering as they gradually gave up hope for a cure and faced the remainder of time together. There were many similarities with the experiences of Joyce Maynard and her husband. With these new insights, I hope to be a better friend and support if I find myself in this situation again. Joyce Maynard teaches workshops on how to write memoirs, and I have a feeling that after reading this book, many more people will want to learn from her. What an amazing gift she has. I hope she spawns many more talented writers of memoirs. I intend to read all of her books soon. Highly recommended.
sh2rose More than 1 year ago
This book is a step out of my normal path of reading. I was intrigued by what this memoir could hold. I was not disappointed. Joyce Maynard’s writing is real and vulnerable. She shares her life and last love in rich and vivid detail. She opens the door to what becomes an agonizing saga of finding love and being forced to let it go. I grew to care very much for Joyce and her second husband who marry later in life. There’s joy, sadness, delight, and heartache. I’m glad I veered off my path. This book was very well written, held my attention throughout, and inspired me to live each moment fully. I received a copy from NetGalley. All thoughts were my own. I was not compensated for this review.
CRSK More than 1 year ago
”Let us be lovers, We’ll marry our fortunes together. I’ve got some real estate Here in my bag.” ”So we bought a pack of cigarettes, And Mrs. Wagner pies And walked off To look for America.” “America” by Simon & Garfunkel, words by Paul Simon I began the year reading Joyce Maynard’s “Under the Influence” and years before that, I read “Labor Day,” which later became a movie. I have not read her 1998 memoir “At Home in the World” – yet. There’s vulnerability apparent in her writing, underneath the self-protecting armor she’s wrapped around herself. She’d been divorced for twenty-five years, children more or less grown. And then, one day Jim walks into her life, and after a period of time he manages to convince he’s really “the one.” It wasn’t an easy task. ”On the Fourth of July weekend three years ago, at the age of fifty-nine, I married the first true partner I had ever known. “ This memoir is the story of their love, of this man who cherished her, who taught her so much about herself, her capacity to love, her willingness to give of herself, but also her determination to keep a portion of herself to herself. Some might see this as a fight to retain her own identity, but I felt it was more of an acclimation, a gradual allowing herself to fall into believing in this new land of Love. ”Not long after our one-year anniversary, my husband was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.” This is lovely, but heartbreaking. Sad, but life affirming, and love affirming, as well. During the time they were pursuing various medical avenues for treatment, their love was tested, and strengthened. There were moments they each undoubtedly had when throwing in the towel might have tempted either one, but when she was weak, he was strong. And then, as time passed, more and more often it was her turn to be the strong one. This is an incredibly poignant memoir, with many shared moments of the times they spent driving around in various cars, listening to music, meeting new people – a parking valet who would remember them years later after a simple, if generous gift they bestowed upon him. People they never met in person, but befriended who were in similar circumstances, wives needing to share their sorrows watching the man they love deteriorate, trying to do all, be all for everyone. This isn’t a fun story, although there are sweet, fun, funny moments mentioned in their years spent together, moments of great joy, but there are also moments of despair, frustration, anger at the world, or no one in particular at the unfairness of it all. Life. The thing that makes this hard to read, and also makes this so beautiful, is Joyce Maynard’s willingness to bare her soul to show others that they are not alone. To know that someone else out there has been through this feeling, and is willing to put it out there for the world to read, to judge, and as much as some of those judgmental words have hurt her in the past, she’s doing it again. Just so someone else won’t have to feel so alone, so someone else will feel known and understood. Isn’t that what we all want, when it comes down to it? ”So I looked at the scenery, She read her magazine; And the moon rose over an open field. ‘Kathy, I’m lost,’ I said, Though I knew she was sleeping, ‘I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.’” “America” by Simon & Garfunkel, words by Paul Simon Recommended Many thanks for the ARC provided to Bloomsbury
SheTreadsSoftly More than 1 year ago
"Not until we learned of his illness, and we walked the path of that terrible struggle together, did I understand what it meant to be a couple - to be a true partner and to have one. I only learned the full meaning of marriage as mine was drawing to a close. I discovered what love was as mine departed the world." The Best of Us by Joyce Maynard is a highly recommended memoir of the author finding true love in her late fifties and then losing her beloved. In her late fifties and after two decades of being single, Maynard begins this honest memoir stating that she was done with love and marriage. Then she met Jim on Match(dot)com and quickly changed her mind. The first part of her account is a detailed, open examination of her life and failings. She is quite open with her poor life choices and the fall-out from some of those decisions. Jim accepted her as she was and gave her the support she didn't even realize she needed. After they married it seemed that she finally had the love and a true partner for the rest of her life. Then, just after their first anniversary, Jim was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and their dreams changed. For the next nineteen months they battled his illness together, including frequent hospital visits, surgeries, and medication. Even as the narrative becomes increasingly painful and difficult to read, it also moves closer to acceptance of the inevitable heart-break end. Maynard celebrates her once-in-a-lifetime love and the heart-wrenching experience of losing him. This is certainly a worth-while, well-written memoir. Maynard is extremely open and honest with her life and the choices and mistakes she has made. Some of these choices were rather impulsive and made without much forethought or consideration of the outcome or wisdom of her actions. The fact that she has openly written about some of these events indicts that she chose to do so despite the fact that they may reflect on how individual readers react to her. (It should be noted that Jim and Joyce were in a much better financial situation than many who face similar trials.) Disclosure: My review copy was courtesy of Bloomsbury USA.
TUDORQUEEN More than 1 year ago
I've never read any of Joyce Maynard's writings until this book, but unknowingly appreciated her work several months ago. I happened upon the movie "Labor Day" while it was being offered as a free screening to Amazon Prime members, and thought it was brilliant. When I noticed the book that inspired the movie on sale one day, I instantly snapped it up. As Maynard states in this book, she is usually writing fictional stories, and those stories need to have some inherent conflict to interest the reader. Well, this is a work of non-fiction, an open and honest recounting of her husband's battle with pancreatic cancer. The major conflict here is that this woman has been searching for real love all her life, she finally finds it, and it is ultimately taken away from her due to her husband's terminal illness. First of all, Ms. Maynard is a fascinating individual who really loves life. She takes a lot of chances, travels broadly and is a great communicator. She also is an extremely attractive woman. With all her talents and gifts, I was surprised that she felt the need to use a dating website to find available men. But, that's how she met her beloved husband Jim. There are a couple of things in the book that can potentially turn off the reader. For one, she adopted two girls (who were sisters) from Ethiopia before she ever met Jim. It didn't work out, so she gave them up to another adoptive couple. Another thing, she kept referring to the recent Presidential election and she and her husband's aversion to Republicans in general and Donald Trump in particular. The late great Johnny Carson, while always funny, stayed right in the middle with the butts of his jokes. He equally roasted both political parties, so you did not really know exactly where his own politics stood. In that way, you don't insult or alienate half of your audience. This is an autobiographical piece, and she did make clear her and her husband's political leanings throughout the book, since such an unusual Presidential election was taking place at the time of Jim's battle with cancer. Ms. Maynard takes you intimately on her and her husband's journey from the cancer diagnosis through Jim's doctor visits, treatments, hospice and death. However, the distinct beauty of this book is the way they live life to the fullest together...right until the end. I think it was a wonderful way for her to memorialize the way she loved her husband, and as a kind of guide/roadmap for people going through the same agonizing experience that they did. This was a very special book that I highly recommend. Many thanks to NetGalley for an advance reader copy in return for my honest review