Almost a Family: A Memoir, by John Darnton; Knopf; 348 pp.; $27.95
By Bill Williams
John Darnton was 11 months old when his father, Barney Darnton, was killed during World War II while reporting on the war in the Pacific for The New York Times.
Almost a Family is a meticulous reconstruction of the lives of the Darnton family – the author, his older brother and their mom and dad. The book is, by turns, illuminating, gripping and sad.
Growing up, the author knew little about his dad, beyond the idealistic portrait painted by his mother. The younger Darnton eventually followed in his dad’s footsteps when he, too, became a reporter at The New York Times. After the author retired several years ago, he decided to find out more about the mysterious man who was his father.
Darnton knew that his dad had been killed by friendly fire when a U.S. pilot mistook an American warship for a Japanese vessel. A bomb fragment pierced Barney’s skull, killing him. Darnton chronicles his dogged effort to learn as much as possible about that ill-fated day.
He even hired a private detective to track down the son of the now-deceased U.S. pilot, but the son knew nothing about the errant bombing. After considerable research, the author concluded that his dad’s death resulted from a “tragic series of blunders both in the air and on water.”
Darnton learned that his dad was a heavy drinker and a womanizer, swept up in the bohemian culture of the Roaring Twenties.
He was shocked when he discovered that his mom and dad were not married, despite what everyone had believed. When they met, each was already married. They both got a divorce, but stopped short of marrying each other.
The book excels in its discussion of memory, alcoholism and the craft of investigative reporting, tied together by the author’s agile prose and smooth storytelling. Reporters who spend their careers writing breaking news stories often stumble when they try to write a book, but Darnton’s account is a notable exception.
Not long after Barney died, Darnton’s mother got a job as a reporter in The New York Times Washington bureau, and later became the newspaper’s woman’s editor. But the author was mystified by his mom’s increasingly bizarre behavior. Meals were missed, and the house started to fall apart. When a neighborhood boy suggested that Darnton’s mom was a drunk, he refused to believe it.
Eventually, Mom hit bottom and sought help from Alcoholics Anonymous. She pledged never to drink again, and apparently kept that promise. She later died of cancer at age 61. The author’s vivid description of the devastation of alcoholism is pitch-perfect. He describes the night mom was suffering from withdrawal-induced convulsions, and a doctor instructed him over the phone to press a spoon into her mouth so she would not swallow her tongue.
Almost a Family reminds one of another recent memoir, The Memory Palace, because of each book’s honest discussion of the fragility of memory.
Darnton scrupulously reports only what he can verify. He displays the best instincts of an investigative reporter, tracking down people who might have known his dad and poring over old newspaper files and government records.
As a fascinating aside, Darnton describes his career at The New York Times, starting as a copyboy and eventually including assignments in Africa and Poland, which led to a Pulitzer Prize for foreign reporting.
Despite the irresistible pull of this memoir, I have two minor reservations. Darnton recalls his days as a youthful “troublemaker” who stole cars, was kicked out of prep school, and lost his virginity in a whorehouse in Mexico. But he says nothing about the morality or appropriateness of his wanton behavior, nor does he voice any regrets.
In addition, Darnton’s frank discussion of his parents’ sexual, alcoholic escapades raises the touchy question of what is fair game in memoir writing when mom and dad are dead and cannot offer a rebuttal.
Nevertheless, Almost a Family is a richly detailed account of one family’s tumultuous intersection with culture, addiction, war and changing values in American society.
Bill Williams is a free-lance writer in West Hartford, Conn., and a former editorial writer for The Hartford Courant. He is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and can be reached at billwaw@comcast.net.