That was the most unsettling aspect of all this—the way I refused to accede to logic, reason, good old New England common sense. I was like an attorney trying to contest a case she really didn’t believe in. Whenever I thought I might just be on the verge of rational judgment, Jack would come flooding back into my mind again . . . and I’d be lost.
Was this, verily, love? In its most pure, undistilled form? I couldn’t attach any other meaning to what I was feeling—except that it was as all-consuming, debilitating, and dizzying as a serious bout of flu.
The only problem was: unlike the flu, the fever wasn’t breaking. If anything, it got worse with every passing day.
Jack Malone would not leave me be. The ache I felt for him was huge.
On the Sunday morning of Thanksgiving weekend, Eric phoned me at home. It was the first time we’d spoken since lunch at Luchow’s.
“Oh, hi there,” I said flatly.
“Oh dear . . .”
“Oh dear what?” I said, sounding cross.
“Oh dear, you don’t sound pleased to hear from me.”
“I am pleased to hear from you.”
“Yes—and your exuberance is noted. I was just calling to see if the Gods of Balance and Proportion had landed on your shoulder?”
“No. They haven’t. Anything else?”
“I detect a certain brusqueness to your tone. Want me to come over?”
“No!”
“Fine.”
Then I suddenly heard myself saying, “Yes. Come over. Now.”
“It’s that bad, is it?”
I swallowed hard. “Yes—it’s that bad.”
It got worse. My sleep began to fracture. Every night—somewhere between the hours of two and four—I’d snap awake. I’d stare up at the ceiling, feeling empty and full of the most overpowering sense of longing. There was nothing reasonable or clearheaded about this need I had for Jack Malone. It was just always there. Omnipresent. Irrational. Absurd.
I’d finally surrender to my insomnia, and get out of bed, and go to my desk and write Jack. I wrote him every day. Usually I’d restrict myself to a postcard—but I might spend up to an hour drafting and redrafting a five-line epistle on a legal pad.
I kept carbons of every letter I wrote Jack. Sometimes I would dig out the manila file in which I kept the copies, and read through this ever-expanding volume of lovesick missives. Whenever I closed the file, I’d always find myself thinking: this is preposterous.
After a few weeks, it became even more preposterous. Because I’d yet to receive one letter from Jack.
Initially, I tried to rationalize away the absence of news from my beloved. I would work out schedules in my head, figuring: it must have taken him nearly five days to reach Europe by ship, another couple of days to make his way to wherever he was being stationed in Germany, and then at least two weeks for his first letter to cross back the Atlantic to me (this was, after all, well before the days of air mail). Factor in the strain put on the postal system during Christmas—and the fact that there were still hundreds of thousands of GIs stationed around the globe . . . and it was suddenly clear why I hadn’t heard from him by Christmas.
But then the New Year arrived. And there was still no word from Jack . . . even though I continued to write him every day.
I waited. No response. January ebbed into February. I became obsessed with the daily delivery of mail to my apartment building. It would arrive in a bundle around ten thirty. It took the superintendent around two hours to sort through it all, and place it outside each apartment door. I began to devise my work schedule at Life so I could get home by twelve thirty and collect my mail, then race back to the subway and return to my office by one fifteen (the end of my lunch hour). For two weeks I rigorously stuck to this routine, hoping against hope that, this day, the long-awaited letter from Jack would finally arrive.
But I kept returning to the office empty-handed. And feeling a little more bereft with each passing day. Especially as my sleeplessness was beginning to escalate.
One afternoon Leland McGuire stuck his head into the tiny cubicle where I worked.
“I am about to give you the plum assignment of the week,” he said.
“Oh, really,” I said, sounding a little distracted.
“What do you think about John Garfield?”
“Wonderful actor. Easy on the eye. Somewhat to the left politically . . .”
“Yes, well, regarding that last aspect, we’ll want to play down the political stuff completely. I don’t think Mr. Luce would appreciate reading about Garfield’s socialist ideologies in the pages of his magazine. Garfield’s a hunk. Women like him. So I want you to play up his ‘brawny, but sensitive’ side . . .”
“Sorry, Leland—I’m not following you here. Am I going to be writing something about John Garfield?”
“Not only are you going to be writing about Garfield—you’re going to be interviewing him. He’s in town, and he’s agreed to give us an hour of his time. So be there at eleven thirty to watch an hour of the filming, then you’ll get a chance to talk with him around twelve thirty.”
I suddenly felt a stab of panic. “I can’t do twelve thirty tomorrow.”
“Pardon?”
“I’m sorry, but I just can’t do twelve thirty tomorrow.”
“You already have plans?”
I heard myself say, “I’m expecting a letter . . .” God, how I instantly regretted uttering that sentence. Leland looked at me incredulously.
“You’re expecting a letter? I don’t quite understand what that has to do with meeting John Garfield at twelve thirty?”
“Nothing, Mr. McGuire. Nothing. I’ll be happy to do the interview.”
He regarded me warily.
“Are you sure about that, Sara?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Right then,” he said. “I’ll ask Garfield’s press agent to call you after lunch, and give you a briefing. Unless, of course, you’re busy after lunch, expecting a letter . . .”
I met his stare. “I’ll look forward to his call, sir.”
As soon as Leland left my cubicle, I careened down to the ladies’ room, locked myself in a cubicle, and sobbed like a fool. Then I checked my watch. Twelve ten. I bolted out of the Ladies’, out of the Time & Life Building, then over to the subway. With several changes of train—and a quick dash from Sheridan Square—I made it to my apartment by twelve forty. There was no mail outside my door. Instantly I dashed down the stairs to the basement, and banged on the door of the superintendent’s apartment. His name was Mr. Kocsis—a tiny Hungarian in his fifties (he couldn’t have been more than four-eleven), who always made a point of being surly . . . except around the holiday season, when he was expecting his annual Christmas tip. But this was mid-February, so he wasn’t putting on the charm.
“What you want, Miss Smythe?” he said in brittle English after opening his door.
“My mail, Mr. Kocsis.”
“You get no mail today.”
I suddenly felt jittery. “That can’t be true,” I said.
“Is true, is true.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“You say I lie?”
“There has to be a letter. There has to be . . .”
“If I tell you ‘no letter,’ it’s ‘no letter.’ Hokay?”
He slammed the door on me. I made it back upstairs to my apartment, collapsed across the bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling . . . for what only seemed like a couple of minutes. After a while, I glanced at the clock by my bed. Two forty-eight. Oh God, oh God, I thought. I am cracking up.
I leaped off the bed, ran out of the apartment, and into the first available cab. I made it to the office just after three fifteen. When I reached my cubicle, there were four pink “While You Were Out” slips on my typewriter. The first three were all messages from a “Mr. Tommy Glick—press agent for John Garfield.” The times of the messages were one thirty, two, and two thirty. The final message—logged in at tw
o fifty—was from Leland: “Come to my office as soon as you’re back.”
I sat down at my desk. I put my head in my hands. I had missed the press agent’s calls. We had lost the interview with Garfield. And now I was about to be fired.
I knew this was going to happen. Now it had happened. I’d let irrationality triumph—and I was about to pay a huge price for it. Yet again, I heard my father’s voice in my head: There’s no use crying over a mistake, young lady. Simply accept the consequences with dignity and grace—and learn from your infraction.
So I stood up, and smoothed out my hair, and took a deep breath, and walked slowly down the corridor, ready to face my punishment. I knocked twice on the door. Leland McGuire: Features Editor was stenciled onto the frosted glass.
“Come in,” he said.
As soon as I was halfway through the door, I was already talking.
“Mr. McGuire, I am so terribly sorry . . .”
“Please shut the door behind you, Sara, and sit down.”
His tone was cool, detached. I did as ordered, sitting in the hard wood chair facing his desk, my hands neatly folded in my lap—like a recalcitrant schoolgirl called into the headmistress’s study. Only in this instance, the authority figure sitting in judgment of me could destroy my livelihood, my career.
“Are you all right, Sara?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Mr. McGuire. Just fine. If I could simply explain . . .”
“You are not fine, Sara. In fact, you haven’t been fine for weeks, have you?”
“I cannot tell you how sorry I am about missing Mr. Glick’s calls. But it’s only three thirty. I can ring him right back, and get all the info on Garfield . . .”
Leland cut me off.
“I’ve reassigned the Garfield interview. Lois Rudkin will be handling it. Do you know Lois?”
I nodded. Lois was a recent graduate of Mount Holyoke, who’d joined our department in September. She was also quite the ambitious young journalist. I knew she looked upon me as her direct interoffice competition . . . even though I refused to play those games (believing, perhaps foolishly, that good work would always win out). I realized what was coming next: Leland had decided that there was need for only one woman writer in Features, and Lois was that writer.
“Yes,” I said quietly, “I know Lois.”
“Talented writer.”
Had I wanted to be fired on the spot, I could have said, And I’ve seen the charm offensive she’s launched on you. Instead, I just nodded.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Sara?” he asked.
“Have you not been happy with my work, Mr. McGuire?”
“I have no serious complaints. You write reasonably well. You are prompt. Barring today, you are basically reliable. But you also look exhausted all the time, and completely distracted—to the point where, workwise, you appear to be just going through the motions. And I’m not the only one in the office who’s noticed . . .”
“I see,” I said, sounding noncommittal.
“Has something terrible happened?”
“No—nothing terrible.”
“Is it . . . a matter of the heart?”
“It could be.”
“You obviously don’t want to talk about this . . .”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Apologies are not necessary. Your private life is your private life. Until it begins to affect your working life. And though the old newspaperman in me rebels against the idea of company boosterism, my superiors at Time & Life believe that everyone who works here should be a ‘team player’, with a real commitment to the magazine. And in your case, I’m afraid that you are widely regarded as somewhat remote—to the point where certain people also consider you haughty and patrician.”
This was news to me—and I was deeply distressed by it.
“I certainly do not try to be haughty, sir.”
“Perception is everything, Sara—especially within a company environment. And the perception among your colleagues at Life is that you’d rather be elsewhere.”
“Are you going to fire me, Mr. McGuire?”
“I’m not that brutal, Sara. Nor have you done anything that merits the ax. At the same time, however, I would like you to consider working for us independently . . . from home, perhaps.”
Later that night—drinking rough red wine with Eric in his apartment—I filled my brother in on the remainder of my conversation with Leland McGuire.
“So after he dropped that bombshell about thinking I should work from home, he offered me his terms. He’d keep me on full salary for six months—for which I’d be required to write a story every two weeks. I would no longer be considered a Time & Life staffer—just a freelancer, so I’d have no benefits.”
“Believe me, there are huge benefits in not having to go to an office in the morning.”
“That thought has crossed my mind. But I’ve also been wondering how I’d adjust to working on my own.”
“You’ve said you wanted to write fiction for a long time. Surely, this would now give you the chance . . .”
“I’ve given up on that idea. I’m not a writer . . .”
“You’re just twenty-four years old. Don’t dismiss yourself as a lost literary cause. Especially when you haven’t really tried.”
“Well, there’s a little problem with my fiction writing career: I can’t get started.”
“You could sing that.”
“Very funny . . . But not only am I a failed writer, I am also—according to Leland McGuire—something of a failure as a team player.”
“Who wants to be a ‘team player’?”
“It’s easier than being considered haughty or detached or patrician. I’m not really that patrician, am I?”
Eric laughed.
“Put it this way: you wouldn’t be mistaken as a Brooklynite.”
I gave him a sour smile. “Thanks for that.”
“I’m sorry. That was thoughtless.”
“Yes. It was.”
“Still no news from him?”
“You know I would have said something . . .”
“I know. And I haven’t wanted to ask you . . .”
“Because . . . let me guess . . . you think I’m a romantic fathead—who’s lost her heart to a rogue after just one night of dumb passion.”
“True—but I would actually thank your Brooklyn Irish rogue for forcing you out of Time & Life. Neither of us is a team player, S. Which means we’ll always be outside of the mainstream. And, believe me, that’s no bad thing . . . if you can handle that. So, consider this an opportunity to discover if you are your own best company. My hunch is: you’ll really take to working by yourself. You have that remote temperament, after all.”
I punched him lightly in the shoulder.
“You are impossible,” I said.
“But you give me such wonderful opportunities to be impossible.”
I breathed a sad sigh.
“I’m not going to hear from him again, am I?”
“Reality finally dawns.”
“I keep wondering if . . . I don’t know . . . maybe he had an accident, or was transferred to somewhere so remote that he can’t be contacted.”
“Then again, he could be on a top-secret spying assignment with Mata Hari—even though the French took the liberty of shooting her in nineteen seventeen.”
“All right, all right.”
“Get over him, S. Please. For your own sake.”
“God knows I want to. It’s just . . . he won’t go away. Something happened that night. Something so inexplicable, yet fundamental. And though I keep trying to convince myself that it’s all folly, I simply know: he was it.”
The next morning, I cleared out my desk at Life. I walked down the corridor and popped my head into Leland’s office.
“I just came to say goodbye,” I said.
He didn’t motion for me to come in or sit down, nor did he stand up. He seemed a bit nervous in my presence.
“Well,
it’s not really a goodbye, Sara. We’ll still be working together.”
“Have you thought about my first freelance assignment?”
He avoided my eyes. “Not yet—but I will be in touch within a couple of days to discuss a few things with you.”
“So I should expect a call from you?”
“Of course, of course—as soon as we’ve put this week’s issue to bed. Meanwhile, you might as well enjoy a couple of days off.”
He reached for a pile of papers and went back to work. It was my cue to leave. So I collected the cardboard box on my desk which contained the meager contents of my cubicle, then walked to the elevator. As the door opened, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Lorraine Tewksberry. She worked as a layout designer in the art department, and was the acknowledged office gossip. She was a tall, narrow woman in her thirties, with a beaklike face and bobbed black hair. She got on the elevator with me. As the door closed behind us, she leaned over and whispered into my ear (out of range of the uniformed elevator operator), “Meet me at the Chock full o’Nuts on Forty-sixth and Madison in five minutes.”
I looked at her quizzically. She merely winked, put her index finger to her lips, then hurried out of the elevator as soon as we reached the lobby.
I deposited my box with the concierge at the reception desk, and walked around the corner to Chock full o’Nuts. Lorraine was seated at a booth in the back.
“This will just take a minute, because a minute’s all I’ve got. It’s production day.”
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Only from where you’re sitting. I just want you to know that there are a lot of us on the magazine who are sorry to see you go.”
“That’s surprising—considering that Mr. McGuire told me everyone thought I was aloof and haughty.”
“Of course he’d tell you that—because from the moment you refused to go out with him, he had it in for you.”
“How did you know he asked me out?”
Lorraine cast her eyes heavenward. “It’s not that big an office,” she said.
“But he only asked me out once . . . and I was rather polite about turning him down.”
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 15
