When Jimmy, a middle-aged writer and television producer, gets a letter from the mayor of his New Jersey hometown, he’s thrown for a loop. Apparently they’re naming the new municipal complex in memory of his father, and they’d love to have him attend. Jimmy hasn’t been back home since 1974 when he was 13, and he’s not sure he wants to return.
“Maybe all that stuff catches up to you in the end, the demons you think you’ve outrun, the bad memories you locked away in a metal box, and then you hid the box in a dark corner of the basement under a heap of dirty blankets, and then you moved far away and did your best to pretend you were someone else. But that box is always right there, right where you left it.”
Thinking about the invitation takes him back to 1974, the year that everything changed. His mother died of lung cancer, his hippie cousin and his wife moved in next door, and he was just trying to make sense of growing up and really see the world around him.
For the most part, the plot is composed of Jimmy’s reminiscences about losing his mother, befriending a local dirtbag, having a crush on a girl, feeling betrayed by his best friend, and watching everything fall apart. There’s also his desire to hold onto his mother’s memory, and perhaps see and feel her presence.
As always, Perrotta’s observations of New Jersey suburban life are dead-on. But for me, unfortunately, the rest of the book never felt complete. There’s some brief discussion of racial tensions—but not enough for Perrotta to give voice to them—and a weird, unfinished ghost story plot thread. Beyond that, nothing really was that interesting, not even Jimmy himself.
The book will publish 4/28.
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