“The fact is, though—you did turn him down. And since then, he’s been looking for a way of getting rid of you.”
“All this happened almost two years ago.”
“He’s just been waiting for you to slip up. And, sorry to say this, but you have seemed a little off-kilter for the last couple of months. If you don’t mind me asking, is it guy trouble?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Get over him, honey. All men are jerks.”
“You may have a point.”
“Believe me, I am a world-class expert on this subject. I also know this: Leland won’t be giving you a single assignment from now on. He set up this freelance idea for you as a way of easing you out of the office, and giving all the plum soft assignments to Miss Lois Rudkin . . . who, as you may have heard, isn’t merely Leland’s favorite writer of the moment, but also his occasional bedfellow.”
“I had wondered . . .”
“You wondered right. Because unlike you, the smarmy little Miss Rudkin did take up the very married Mr. McGuire’s offer of a date. From what I heard, one thing led to another, and now . . . shazam, you’re out of a job.”
I swallowed hard. “What should I do?”
“If you want my honest opinion . . . you should say nothing and do nothing. Just take Mr. Luce’s money for the next six months, and go write the Great American Novel if you feel like it. Or move to Paris. Or take some classes. Or just sleep late until the paychecks stop. But know this: there’s no way you’re going to be writing anything for Life again. He’s made sure of that. And in six months’ time, he’ll officially fire you.”
Some years later, I heard that, in Chinese, the symbol for the word “crisis” has two meanings: danger and opportunity. I wish I’d known that at the time—because my initial reaction to Lorraine’s news was one of utter panic, utter crisis. I picked up my office box from the concierge, I took a taxi downtown to my apartment, I slammed the door behind me, I sat down on my bed, I put my head in my hands, thinking that my world was completely falling apart. Yet again, I found myself mourning the loss of Jack—as if he had died. Because for all I knew, he was, indeed, dead.
The next morning, I made a trunk call to the Department of the Army in Washington, DC. The switchboard operator finally put me through to Stars and Stripes. I explained to a receptionist that I was trying to locate one of their journalists—a certain Sergeant John Joseph Malone, currently on assignment somewhere in Europe.
“We can’t give out such information on the phone,” the woman said. “You’ll have to put your request in writing to the Department of Enlisted Personnel.”
“But surely, there aren’t that many journalists named Jack Malone writing for you.”
“Army rules are Army rules.”
So I called the Department of Enlisted Personnel. A clerk gave me the address to write for a Search for Personnel form. Once they received the completed form back from me, I should expect a reply back from the Department within six to eight weeks.
“Six to eight weeks! Isn’t there anything I can do to speed up the process?”
“Ma’am, there are still something like four hundred thousand men stationed overseas. These things take time.”
I sent off for the form that afternoon. I also had a brainstorm, and paid a visit to my local newsstand, right near the Sheridan Square subway station. After explaining my problem, the guy who ran it said, “Sure, I can get you Stars and Stripes starting tomorrow. But back issues? This I’m gonna have to work on.”
The next morning, I stopped by the news stand at nine in the morning.
“You’re in luck,” the newsie told me. “My distributor can get me a month’s back copies. That’s thirty copies in all.”
“I’ll take them all.”
They arrived two days later. I scoured each edition. There wasn’t one byline under the name of Jack Malone. I continued to pick up the daily edition of Stars and Stripes. Still no sign of a Jack Malone story. Maybe he didn’t write under his own name, I told myself. Maybe he was on a top-secret special assignment, and wasn’t having anything published just now. Maybe he’d been lying to me all along—and wasn’t a journalist at all.
The search form from the Department of Enlisted Personnel arrived a week later. I mailed it back the next morning. As I returned to my apartment from the mailbox, I stared at the small stack of mail on the mat outside my door. Surely, it would be romantic justice if a letter from Jack was in that pile.
It wasn’t.
I tried to remain controlled. I tried to invent yet another rationalization for his lack of response. But all I could think was: why can’t you answer me?
The next morning—despite another night of splintered sleep—I jumped out of bed, feeling deeply decisive. The moment had come to reclaim my self-respect and put this entire moonstruck episode behind me. What’s more, I would take Lorraine and Eric’s advice, and use the time to make a serious attempt at writing fiction.
And I would begin this morning.
I had a fast shower. I dressed. I brewed up a pot of coffee. I drank two cups. I sat down in front of my Remington. I rolled a blank sheet of paper into the machine. I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keys. I exhaled. My fingers slipped down to the table. Inadvertently, they began to tap its flat surface. I took another deep breath, and forced my fingers back over the typewriter keys. That’s when I suddenly felt myself seize up—as if a nerve had been pinched in my back, throttling all movement in my fingers.
I shuddered. I tried to move my hands—to make them type a simple sentence. I couldn’t get them to work. Eventually I managed to force them away from the keys. My fingers gripped the edges of the tabletop tightly. I was in need of some sort of ballast, as I felt as if I was about to lose all sense of equilibrium. My head was whirling. I felt vertiginous, muddled, frightened. The next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom, getting ill. When the entire ghastly business was over, I forced myself up off the floor and to the phone. I called my brother.
“Eric,” I said in a near whisper. “I think I am in trouble.”
In our family, going to the doctor was always considered a sign of weakness. Even admitting that you were unwell—or feeling a little fragile—was frowned upon. Resilience was considered a crucial virtue—a sign of fortitude and self-sufficiency. Never complain was another of my father’s stoic principles—and one to which I still tried to adhere. Which is why Eric knew immediately that my trouble was an understated but definite plea for help.
“I’ll be right over,” he said, sounding worried.
He was right over. He must have dashed across the Village—because less than ten minutes after I called, he was knocking on the door of my apartment.
“It’s open,” I said, my voice barely audible.
I was seated in front of the typewriter. My fingers continued to grip the side of the table. Because I felt that the table was the only thing keeping me steady right now.
“Good God, S,” Eric said, his face registering alarm, “what’s happened?”
“I don’t know. I can’t move.”
“You’re paralyzed?”
“I just cannot move.”
He came over and touched my shoulders. It felt as if someone had goaded me with an electric cattle prod. I jumped, and let out a shrill cry, and gripped the table even tighter.
“Sorry, sorry,” Eric said, looking even more stunned by my response.
“Don’t apologize. It’s me who should be apologizing . . .”
“At least we know you’re not physically paralyzed. Are you sure you can’t get up?”
“I’m scared . . . ,” I whispered.
“That’s pretty understandable. But let’s just try to get you out of that chair and on to the bed. Okay?”
I said nothing. Eric came over and placed his hands on mine.
“Try to let go of the table, S.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes. You can.”
“Please, Eric . .
.”
He gripped my fingers. I resisted at first, but his grip tightened. With one pull, he lifted my hands off the table. They fell heavily into my lap. I stared down at them, blankly.
“Good,” he said. “That’s a start. Now I’m going to lift you out of the chair and on to the bed.”
“Eric, I’m so sorry . . .”
“Shaddup,” he said, suddenly grabbing me around the back with one arm and under my knees with the other. Then, taking a deep breath, he lifted me straight up out of the chair.
“Thank God you haven’t put on weight,” he said.
“Very unlikely, under the circumstances.”
“You’re going to be fine, S. Here we go . . .”
With that he carried me the six steps from my desk to my bed. Lowering me on to the mattress, he walked over to my closet, found the spare blanket, and draped it over me. I suddenly felt chilled to the bone. I crossed my arms, clutching my shoulders. My teeth began to chatter. Eric picked up the phone, dialed a number, then spoke quietly into the receiver. When he hung up, he turned to me and said, “I just spoke to Dr. Ballensweig’s nurse. He’s got an hour free at lunchtime, so he’s agreed to make a house call . . .”
“I don’t need a doctor,” I said. “I just need sleep.”
“You’ll get some sleep. But you really need a doctor first.”
Eric had discovered Dr. Ballensweig shortly after he graduated from Columbia. Since he swore by him, he also became my doctor when I moved to the city. We liked him because he was completely no-nonsense (the antithesis of Manhattan medical omnipotence), and because his slight stature, his hunched shoulders, and his quiet deadpan delivery put us both in mind of an old-style country GP.
He arrived at my apartment a few hours later. He was wearing an old worsted suit and half-moon glasses, and carried an ancient black medical bag. Eric let him in. He immediately approached the bed, sizing me up.
“Hello, Sara,” he said calmly. “You look tired.”
“I am,” I managed to say in a near whisper.
“You’ve also lost some weight. Any idea why?”
I clutched myself tighter.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
I nodded.
“And you find it difficult to move?”
I nodded again.
“That’s fine. I just want to speak with your brother for a few minutes. Would you excuse us?”
He motioned for Eric to step outside the apartment with him. When he returned, he was alone.
“I’ve asked Eric to take a walk while I examine you.”
He opened his case. “Now let’s see what the problem is.”
He got me to sit up. It took some work. He used a pocket light to look into my eyes. He checked my ears, my nose, my throat. He took my pulse and blood pressure. He tested my reflexes. He asked me a long list of questions about my general health, my diet, my inability to sleep, and the seizure that had me clutching the table for an hour. Then he pulled up a chair by the bed and sat down.
“Well, there’s nothing physically wrong with you.”
“I see.”
“I could dispatch you to New York Hospital for a battery of neurological tests—but I think they would show nothing. Just as I could have you admitted to Bellevue for psychiatric observation. But, once again, I think it would prove clinically pointless, and deeply distressing for you. Because I sense that you have suffered a minor breakdown . . .”
I said nothing.
“It’s less of a nervous-based breakdown, and more of a physical one—brought on by lack of sleep and serious emotional distress. Your brother did mention that you’ve been having a rather difficult time of it recently.”
“It’s all just a silly business . . .”
“If it’s brought you to this juncture, then it’s certainly not silly . . .”
“I’ve just allowed things to get out of hand. A complete romantic overreaction on my part.”
“We all overreact to those sort of things. Even the most level-headed people, like yourself. It’s the nature of the condition.”
“What’s the cure?”
He gave me a paternal smile. “If I knew that, I’d probably be the richest doctor in America. But . . . you know what I’m going to tell you: there is no cure. Except, perhaps, time. Which, of course, is about the last thing someone in the throes of that condition wants to hear. In your case, however, I think rest is crucial. A very long rest. Preferably somewhere out of your normal surroundings. Eric told me you’re on a leave of absence from work . . .”
“More like a permanent leave of absence, Doctor.”
“Then take the opportunity to go away. Not to another city—but someplace where you can walk a great deal. The seashore always works. Believe me, in my book, a walk on a beach is worth five hours on a psychiatrist’s couch . . . though I’m probably the only doctor in this city who would tell you that. Will you give serious consideration to leaving town for a while?”
I nodded.
“Good. Meanwhile—though I understand your wish to avoid sedatives—I am worried about your lack of sleep. And I want to give you an injection now that will knock you out for a while.”
“For how long?”
“Just until tomorrow morning.”
“That’s a long time.”
“You need it. The world always looks a little more manageable after a long rest.”
He opened his bag.
“Now roll up your sleeve.”
I smelled the sharp medicinal scent of rubbing alcohol as he poured it on the cotton, then swabbed it on my arm. Then I felt the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle, and another swab of the cotton after the needle was withdrawn. I lay back down on the bed. Within a moment, the world blacked out.
When it came back into focus again, it was morning. First light was seeping through the blinds. My head felt murky—as if a gauze had been placed in front of my eyes. For a moment or two I didn’t know where I was. Everything seemed fine with the world. Until thoughts of Jack came flooding back—and a residual sadness enveloped me again.
But, at least, I had slept. For what? I reached over to the wind-up alarm clock on my bedside table. Six fourteen. Good God, I had been out for almost eighteen hours. Just as the good doctor promised. No wonder I was feeling so fogged in. I managed to sit up in bed. The thought struck me: I can actually sit up. Now that’s an improvement over yesterday. Then I realized I was under the covers, and in a nightgown. It didn’t take too long to work out who had undressed me and tucked me in, as Eric was asleep on my sofa, curled up beneath a blanket, snoring sonorously. I lifted back the bedclothes and gently put my feet to the floor. Then, taking one careful step at a time, I managed to make it into the bathroom.
I ran a very hot bath. I took off my nightgown and slid into the steamy water. Gradually, the fog around my brain lifted. I sat in the tub for the better part of an hour, staring at the ceiling, steaming away the strange interlude that had been the last day. Eighteen hours of drugged dormancy hadn’t suddenly calmed my jagged nerves overnight. I still felt an intense sense of loss—not just for Jack, but for the job I had failed to keep. But Dr. Ballensweig was right: the world did seem more tangible after an extended period of unconsciousness. And I was simply grateful to be functioning normally again.
Eventually I forced myself out of the bath. I dried myself off. I wrapped my hair in a towel. I put on a bathrobe. I opened the door as quietly as possible. But as I started tiptoeing back toward my bed, I heard the sharp crack of a Zippo lighter being closed. Eric was propped up on the sofa, puffing away on the first cigarette of the morning.
“So . . . the dead do walk,” he said with a sleepy smile.
“Eric, you really didn’t have to spend the night . . .”
“Of course I did. I certainly wasn’t going to leave you alone after yesterday.”
“I am so sorry.”
“For what? As breakdowns go, yours was about as genteel as they get. Especially as it all happened
out of public view.”
“I still feel so ashamed . . .”
“Why? Because things overwhelmed you? Because, for one day, you couldn’t cope? Give yourself a break, S . . . and make us some coffee.”
“Of course, of course,” I said, going over to the kitchen area and turning on the hotplate.
“You were really down for the count. After Doc Ballensweig gave you the needle, you didn’t stir once. Getting you into bed was like undressing a rag doll. But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”
“No. I really don’t.”
“I did leave you alone for around an hour, while I popped out to the pharmacy and got a prescription filled for you. The bottle’s on your bedside table. Dr. Ballensweig wants you to take two of those pills just before bedtime, to make certain you sleep through the night. Once your sleep begins to stabilize again, you can throw them away.”
“They’re not sedatives, are they? I don’t need sedatives.”
“They are sleeping pills. Which help you sleep. Which you desperately need if you want to avoid a repeat of yesterday. So, stop sounding like a convert to Christian Science . . .”
“Point taken,” I said, filling the percolator with ground coffee.
“There’s another thing I did while you were sleeping. I called your boss at Life . . . ”
“You did what?”
“I phoned Leland McGuire, and explained that you were unwell. And under doctor’s orders to take a sabbatical from New York . . .”
“Oh my God, Eric—you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Of course I should have. Otherwise you would have sat here for the next ten weeks, waiting for McGuire to phone you with a freelance assignment . . . even though whatshername, the office gossip, told you that wasn’t going to happen. I mean, doctor’s orders are doctor’s orders. You need an extended rest in somewhere wild and woolly. Which is why you’re going to Maine.”
I blinked with shock. “I’m going to Maine?”
“Remember the cottage Mother and Father used to rent near Popham Beach?”
I certainly did. It was a small two-bedroom shingle cottage, located within a summer colony of houses which fronted one of the most expansive corners of the Maine coast. For ten consecutive summers, our parents rented this cottage for an annual two-week vacation in July. We knew the owners—a now-elderly couple in Hartford called the Daniels. When I was in a drug-induced trance yesterday, Eric had called Mr. Daniels and explained that I was taking a leave of absence from Life to do some writing, and wanted to hole up in somewhere nice and quiet.
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