Millard Salter's Last Day

LIST PRICE $16.00
Price may vary by retailer
BUY FROM:
BUY FROM SIMON & SCHUSTER:
In Stock: Usually ships within 1 business day

About The Book

In the spirit of the New York Times bestselling A Man Called Ove, this is the heartwarming story of a man who decides to end his life before he’s too old—but then begins to reconsider when he faces complications from the world around him.

In an effort to delay the frailty and isolation that comes with old age, psychiatrist Millard Salter decides to kill himself by the end of the day—but first he has to tie up some loose ends. These include a tête-à-tête with his youngest son, Lysander, who at forty-three has yet to hold down a paying job; an unscheduled rendezvous with his first wife, Carol, whom he hasn’t seen in twenty-seven years; and a brief visit to the grave of his second wife, Isabelle. Complicating this plan though is Delilah, the widow with whom he has fallen in love in the past few months. As Millard begins to wrap up his life, he confronts a lifetime of challenges during a single day—and discovers that his family has a big surprise for him as well.

Excerpt

Millard Salter’s Last Day 1


On the day he was to hang himself, Millard Salter made his bed for the first time in fifty-seven years. He struggled briefly with the fitted sheet, but by bracing the mattress against his good knee, he managed to hook the elastic bindings over the corners. Then came the flat sheet, the pillowcases, the silk comforter that his second wife, a dialysis nurse, had received as a gift from an elderly Taiwanese patient. Millard had called it a duvet, until Isabelle—rest her soul—pointedly explained the difference. (Words had mattered to Isabelle: Pictures are hung, he could hear her chiding. People are hanged.) Finally, he drew the spread over the comforter, letting the fringe hang loose at the foot like a skirt hem, and propped the breakfast pillows and the flanged shams against the headboard. When he’d finished, shortly after six o’clock, the queen-sized bed looked togged up for a fashionable hotel. Only a mint on the pillow was lacking. I suppose they’ll cut me down and lay me out on the covers, Millard reflected. And if they assume that I tidied my bedding so fastidiously every morning, is that such a crime?

Soon the birthday wishes would be arriving—from his children, or at least the three who were likely to remember, because with Lysander, you could never tell, and from his baby sister in Tucson (his baby sister who was now sixty-eight!), and from Virginia Margold, a high school acquaintance who, post-divorce, had taken to phoning the surviving Hager Heights graduates of the class of 1957 to commemorate their special occasions. Virginia was certain to take poorly the news that solid Millard Salter—or “Salty,” as she’d previously known him—had shut his own book at seventy-five. That, fortunately, would not be his concern.

How strange it was, reflected Millard, as he tied his shoelaces—an elaborate procedure since his disc had slipped—that the act of dressing proved no different in its final rendering. Same Lancing tie. Same crew neck cardigan. Same black bag, a gift from his own father at his medical school graduation. Only choosing a belt required reflection. He retrieved his two best belts from the bathroom closet—the closet where Isabelle’s used cosmetics decomposed in a water-warped carton, waiting to be discarded—and looped the leather around his fists, tugging each to test its strength. He intended to use one for his slacks, the other for his neck; the last thing he desired was for them to find him dangling in the bathroom with his trousers bunched around his ankles. Besides, he’d read once that hanging triggered erections, and while the prospect of greeting his “rescue” party with an alert member struck him as amusing, sort of like a raised middle finger on steroids, he didn’t wish to leave the world with the impression that he’d been angry in life, or even disappointed, because he had not.

Millard claimed the elevator for himself from the ninth floor to the fourth, when Elsa Duransky boarded in a cloud of lavender. She carried an ancient Yorkshire terrier in the crook of one elbow, its tiny black paws scampering through empty air. Her husband, Saul, once a respected endocrinologist, had become another of those unfortunate creatures who dressed for work every morning, impeccable as a military guard, but with no patients to see, doddered from staff meetings to clinical grand rounds to case conferences, leaving behind a trail of tangential, long-winded questions. He was everything, in short, that Millard had determined not to become.

“How’s the old-timer?” he asked, meaning the dog. He could never recall the animal’s name, which was either Mr. Spark or Mr. Spike or something similar.

“The old-timer was out the door thirty minutes ago,” replied Elsa, rolling her eyes, and Millard realized she believed he’d been referring to her husband. Yet she didn’t seem offended—and it was one of those misunderstandings not worth correcting. Certainly not during his final encounter with Elsa Duransky, which this was likely to be. No, a clarification now would only sound awkward, insincere. Far better to grin like an imbecile while Saul’s wife filled the elevator car with plumes of gossip. (“Grin like an imbecile”—they’d probably fire him these days if he used an expression like that in the hospital—or, at a minimum, make him sit through some pointless online sensitivity training.) He recalled how Isabelle had summed up their neighbor, after a particularly tedious meeting of the co-op board: “Half of what that woman says is true. The problem is she doesn’t know which half.” Isabelle had possessed a knack for distilling people.

“I ran into Lysander,” said Elsa. “Did I tell you?”

The boy’s name corralled Millard’s attention. Not that you could legitimately call him a boy anymore, not at forty-three. At twenty-five, even at thirty-five, you could get away with such terms, you could speak of him as a good kid with potential, of his early penchant for mathematics and his prodigious imagination—he’d graduated from Wesleyan, after all—but two decades later, Lysander hadn’t harnessed that imagination for anything except daydreams.

“In the park,” said Elsa. “Walking his dogs.”

“Did you?”

“Sweetest dogs he has,” said Elsa. “Although Mr. Scratch here might beg to differ.”

The terrier glowered at Millard—his snub nose Elsa’s, his shaggy cliff of a brow distinctly Saul’s, as though the beast had grown into the son the couple never had. The elevator stopped on two, but the corridor stood vacant; someone had given up and taken the stairs.

“We’re having lunch,” said Millard. “I’ll send Mr. Scratch’s regards.”

Elsa hardly registered his remark. “What are their names?” she asked.

A moment elapsed before he realized she meant the dogs—and then he felt a pulse of anger, uncharacteristic anger, that Elsa cared about something so trivial. Or maybe she didn’t care, merely needed to fill the time-space continuum or dormant gray matter. And, dammit, what were the names of those dogs? The car opened and they stepped into the lobby, where a cologne of damp hardwood—an “Old New York” scent—hung perpetually in the shadows.

“Adolf and Benito,” he replied.

They’d been the first duo to pop into his head. He could easily have said Abbott and Costello or Sonny and Cher. Not that it really mattered. This was the solace of knowing that you wouldn’t live to see the dawn: unabashed irreverence.

Elsa’s neck stiffened perceptibly, then relaxed. “Well, in any case, he’s so good with those animals,” she said. “Maybe you’ll make a veterinarian of him yet . . . .”

Maybe, but unlikely. What gnawed at Millard wasn’t that his younger son had piddled away twenty-one post-graduate years without a full-time job, or a serious relationship, or even filing his own tax returns, but that Millard, embroiled in extraneous affairs, had let him. Still, in preparing for death, Millard found himself pondering whether a man who hadn’t yet amounted to a bucket of warm glue might not generate an artistic or literary masterwork at the age of forty-three . . . or, at least, embark upon a career. That was indeed the purpose of their lunch—their final lunch, Millard reminded himself, his last opportunity to steer the boy onto “the straight and narrow,” as his own father would have said.

All week—all month—he’d been ticking off his “lasts”: his last visit to the public library, his last lecture to the medical students, his last dental checkup, although what a man planning to live ten days wanted with a biannual dental cleaning was hard to articulate. He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t deviate from his usual routine. So he’d renewed his subscriptions to Psychosomatic Medicine and Architectural Digest, prepaid his dues at the faculty club, requested an absentee ballot, as he always did, for a primary election in which he’d no longer be alive to vote. That afforded him the opportunity to back out, to reverse course even to the end. Yet as the appointed day approached, rather than fearful, or even reluctant, he found himself resigned—as though, to paraphrase the High Holiday Amidah, his name had already been inscribed on the casualty list inside the Book of Life.

Millard’s only lingering concern was of method, not purpose. Self-destruction hadn’t been designed for the faint-hearted, which explained why most attempts failed. How many patients had he encountered who’d downed a bottle of Tylenol—and, “rescued” by a concerned neighbor or intrusive letter carrier, had awakened to a transplanted liver? No, pills entailed too much uncertainty. With carbon monoxide, one ran the risk of asphyxiating the neighbors. Or, heaven forbid, blowing up the entire building—leaving a legacy of rage and fragmented plaster. For weeks, he’d considered purchasing an unlicensed handgun, but illicit firearms proved hard to come by in his social circle. (Obtaining a legal pistol, even if he could eventually secure one, entailed navigating months of red tape.) He finally appreciated the truth of those Dorothy Parker lines that had merely amused him as an adolescent: “Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.” Since living wasn’t an option that Millard seriously entertained, a makeshift noose seemed the least-worst alternative. Assuming, of course, he marshaled the nerve to kick the chair from beneath his feet.

“And you, Millard?” asked Elsa—as though suddenly realizing his presence. She adjusted his necktie while she spoke, stymieing a quick exit. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he said. “Life is good.”

Life, on the whole, had been good to Millard—probably more generous, he conceded, than he had been in return. With his ex-wife, Carol, a benevolent tyrant, he’d raised three adult children, two of them successfully. The older boy, Arnold, had moved out to St. Louis, where he served as general counsel to a consortium of beer distributors and coached little league soccer. Their daughter, Sally, married a naval architect who’d inherited a lumber fortune, and had twin six-year-old girls of her own. She divided her time between Suffolk County, home to a renovated nineteenth-century farmhouse overlooking Long Island Sound, and a two-story pied-à-terre on Gramercy Square. And with Isabelle, there’d been Maia—striving, crystal-eyed Maia—a magnificent late-life blessing. If not for Lysander . . . “In baseball,” Millard had once half-joked to Isabelle, “three out of four is Hall of Fame material.”

“Good,” said Elsa. “I’m glad.”

Yet the woman managed to inflect just enough doubt into her words that, when she vanished through the revolving doors, he found himself wondering if she hadn’t meant more—if she’d intended to insinuate that he wasn’t well, but that she’d be willing to maintain the illusion of his prosperity if he wished her to do so. And was he really in such fine shape? He was going to kill himself, after all. Had he been one of his own patients, he’d have phoned 911 immediately. Who could ever say whether a suicide was rational or irrational, justified or unpardonable? A lifetime reading Hume and Durkheim drew one no closer to any defensible truth; one simply had to operate on blind instinct, a visceral sense of right and wrong. He remembered his mother’s father, gout-hobbled, emphysemic, escorting him to hunt acorns in Van Cortlandt Park, warning, “One day, Mil, you blink your eyes open and you’re an old man.” Well, one day, he’d been a married, mid-career psychiatrist enjoying a casual fling with a dialysis nurse—and then he’d blinked his eyes open and he’d had a second family, a daughter two decades younger than her half-siblings, and somehow one of those half-siblings had slipped through his grasp.

“You’re a regular Tony Randall,” jibed Storch, his late best friend. And, slapping him on his back, “A regular Saul Bellow . . . regular Strom Thurmond.” How he missed Hal Storch. Others had called Millard different things, less generous, from a distance. The chatter always looped back to him like a poisonous vine.

That was what they’d talk about at the funeral. Not the desperate souls he’d helped in forty-nine years of practice. Not his passion for German opera, for fishing excursions on Sheepshead Bay. Not that morning five decades earlier, at the butterfly conservatory in the Natural History Museum, when the moment had seized him and he’d proposed to Carol. No, they’d blather in hushed tones about the second family, whispering knowingly that his affair with Isabelle, rather than any intrinsic character shortcoming, had frittered away Lysander’s potential. And they’d blame his death on despair, on his two years of widowhood, because who, other than a depressed person, hangs himself in a Fifth Avenue bathroom—a once luxurious bathroom equipped with mood lighting and solid brass fixtures—on his seventy-fifth birthday? But that would also not be his concern, although he couldn’t resist wondering whether Carol, to whom he hadn’t spoken since the split, would make a cameo at the graveside. She’d surprised him with a sympathy card when Isabelle died, tasteful if impersonal, so maybe she’d catch him off guard yet again.

What fools they’d be to think they understood his motives. He hardly understood them himself. All Millard knew for certain was that he did not want to die dependent or diminished like so many of his threadbare colleagues—like Hal Storch—like Isabelle!—and that everyone had to go someday, eventually—and, dammit, that he had fallen madly in love with the woman he intended to kill.

Reading Group Guide

This readers group guide for Millard Salter’s Last Day includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.

Introduction

Millard Salter’s Last Day is the heartwarming story of a man who decides to end his life before he’s too old—but then begins to reconsider when he faces complications from the world around him.

Rather than suffer the indignities of aging, psychiatrist Millard Salter has decided to kill himself by the end of the day—but only after tying up some loose ends. These include a tête-à-tête with his youngest son, Lysander, who at forty-three has yet to hold down a paying job; an unscheduled rendezvous with his first wife, Carol, whom he hasn’t seen in twenty-seven years; and a brief visit to the grave of his second wife, Isabelle. Complicating this plan, though, is Delilah, the widow with whom he has fallen in love over the past few months. As Millard begins to wrap up his life, he confronts a lifetime of challenges during a single day—and discovers that his family has a big surprise for him as well.

Topics & Questions for Discussion

1. Discuss the book’s epigraph. Why do you think Appel chose to include that particular line from Larkin’s Aubade? Read the full poem. What themes does it share with Millard Salter’s Last Day? Did the epigraph affect your reading for Millard Salter’s Last Day? If so, how?

2. Millard believes that “comprehension wasn’t the same as compassion” (p. 181). Explain this statement. Do you agree with Millard that “open[ing] your mind too much” (p. 181) can be detrimental? Why does Millard hold this viewpoint? What are the dangers of sympathizing with every person equally?

3. Who is Virginia Margold? On Millard’s birthday, she presents him with a box full of mementos. Why do you think that Virginia has held on to these items? Following the visit, Millard feels sorry for Virginia. What do you think has led to his change of opinion about her?

4. Given the circumstances under which Millard and Delilah met, were you surprised by how their relationship progressed? After Millard confesses his feelings to Delilah, he apologizes, telling her, “It was a selfish thing to say” (p. 15). Do you agree with his assessment? How would you have handled the situation if you were Delilah?

5. As Millard tours his childhood neighborhood reminiscing, he chastises himself for wishing that Delilah was with him because “None of this should have mattered to him—love was about the present, not the past” (p. 159). Why do you think Millard wants to share this experience with Delilah? How might knowing someone’s past deepen a romantic connection?

6. Late in his life, Millard comes to realize that “marriage—heterosexual marriage, at least . . . was a tortuous cat-and-mouse game of implicit contracts between the sexes” (p. 70). Describe Millard’s marriages. Can you think of any examples of game-playing from his relationships with Carol and Isabelle that would have led him to have this viewpoint? Discuss them with your book club.

7. When Carol and Millard discuss their son, Lysander, Carol tells Millard, “You know Stanley and Livingstone, right? Well, Livingstone didn’t consider himself lost, even if Stanley chose to find him” (p. 81). What does she mean? Do you agree with Millard’s assessment of Lysander? Does Millard’s opinion about his son change throughout the novel? If so, how? Did your opinion of Lysander change? Why or why not?

8. In Isabelle’s final days, she tells Millard that she’s filled a notebook with lists of what he should do after her death, saying, “All you have to do is follow the directions” (p. 11). Why does Isabelle do this for Millard? How might it provide her with some solace? What is the effect of having Isabelle’s instructions on Millard?

9. Despite its serious themes, Millard Salter’s Last Day is a very funny book. Were there any scenes that you thought were particularly hilarious? What were they? How does using humor help Millard cope with mortality? Do you think it is an effective coping method? Why or why not?

10. In his youth, Millard believed that “true devotion was about breaking down barriers” (p. 24). Contrast this with his current view of love. What are the characteristics of “authentic love” (p. 24) in Millard’s view? How does this impact what information he shares with Delilah? Do you agree with his decision to keep his plans from her?

11. Lysander’s failure to mature and assume adult responsibilities gnaws at Millard because “Millard, embroiled in extraneous affairs, had let him” (p. 6). Is Millard being too harsh on himself? What responsibility do you think Millard, as a parent, has to his son? Do you think Millard has been a good father to Lysander?

12. Based on Millard’s interactions with Lauren Pastarnack, did you think that she would make a good psychiatrist? Does Millard? Do you agree with Lauren that the quiz Millard gives her when she asks him to write a letter of recommendation is unfair? What’s the lesson in the quiz for Lauren? For Millard? Do you witness any other teaching moments that occur between Millard and Lauren? If so, what are they?

13. Ezra Steinmetz tells Millard, “There’s nothing special about dying. . . . It’s one of the few universals” (p. 61). Do you agree? In what ways is death universal? Are there any ways in which it is unique? What effect does each of the deaths detailed in Millard Salter’s Last Day have on Millard?

Enhance Your Book Club

1. Millard believes that “maturity meant accepting the infinite expanse of existence, that there were many things one would simply never know or do” (p. 18). In contemplating his mortality, Millard begins to catalog these things, effectively making “a bucket list in reverse” (p. 18). Discuss Millard’s list, then come up with one of your own. What sort of things have you wished to do? Pick one to attempt to accomplish and share reports of your progress with your book club.

2. On his way back from visiting Isabelle’s grave, Millard tours his childhood home, remembering anecdotes from his childhood. Tell your book club about the place where you grew up, sharing some stories from your younger days.

3. Millard Salter’s Last Day is filled with reminiscences, from Millard’s tour through his childhood neighborhood to the slide show he’s presented. If you were going to create a slide show representing your life, what would you include in it? Share your photographs and the accompanying memories with the members of your book club.

4. Millard Salter’s Last Day has drawn comparisons to A Man Called Ove. Read both books and discuss them with your book club. Do you think the comparisons are apt? In what way, if any, are Millard and Ove similar?

5. To learn more about Jacob M. Appel, read more about his other books, and find out when he will be in a city near you, visit his official site at jacobmappel.com.

About The Author

Jacob M. Appel is the author of many novels and short story collections including The Man Who Wouldn’t Stand Up, Scouting for the Reaper, Phoning Home, Einstein’s Beach House, and Millard Salter’s Last Day. His short fiction has appeared in many literary journals including Agni, Colorado Review, Gettysburg Review, and more. His prose has won many awards including the Boston Review Short Fiction Competition and the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Award. His stories have also been shortlisted for the O. Henry Award and the Best American Short Stories. He has taught most recently at Brown University, at the Gotham Writers’ Workshop in New York City, and at Yeshiva College, where he was the writer-in-residence. His essays have appeared in The New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Detroit Free Press, Orlando Sentinel, The Providence Journal, and many regional newspapers.

Product Details

  • Publisher: Gallery Books (November 2017)
  • Length: 272 pages
  • ISBN13: 9781507204085

Raves and Reviews

"Millard Salter’s Last Day wins readers in a number of ways."

– The Associated Press

"The author has a gift for schtick — above all, Jewish New York City schtick. And in spite of Salter’s claim to being in a profound funk, when all is said and done, the man is full of life."

– The Associated Press

"The author is clever — coy, even — in how he treats the reader. He has Salter tease us. Thus, our protagonist can be exceedingly comical, careening from innermost stream of consciousness to conversations with workaday hospital colleagues to quirky, lovable family and friends."

– The Associated Press

"Millard calls up comparisons to the late John Updike’s visited and revisited character, Rabbit."

– The Associated Press

"The more we get to know Millard Salter, the more we want him to live."

– The Associated Press

Resources and Downloads

High Resolution Images

You may also like: Our November Book Club Picks