The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  “This is it, S,” Eric said. “This moment is definitely it. So savor it. Because it might not last. It might vanish overnight. But now—right now—we’re winning. We’ve won the fucking argument. For the time being, anyway.”

  The party broke up at dawn. I greeted the first sunrise of 1950 with bleary eyes. I was in desperate need of my bed. The doorman at the Hampshire House found me a cab. Back at my apartment, I fell asleep within seconds of climbing between the sheets. When I woke again, it was two in the afternoon. It was snowing outside. By night, that snowfall had upgraded itself into a major blizzard. It didn’t stop until the morning of January third. The city was paralyzed by all the stacked-up snow. Venturing outside was virtually impossible for two more days. So I lived off assorted canned goods in my pantry, and managed to write a month’s worth of “Real Life” columns to make some reasonable use of this forced period of incarceration.

  On the morning of January fifth, the radio reported that the city was getting back to normal. It was a bright, cold day. The streets had been cleared of snow; the sidewalks shoveled and salted. I stepped outside, and took a deep pleasing breath of bad Manhattan air. I knew I needed to do some serious grocery shopping (all my cupboards were now bare). But before I replenished my stocks, what I really craved—after five days indoors—was a long brisk walk. Riverside Park was my usual exercise yard—but this morning, I suddenly decided to head east.

  So I turned right down 77th Street. I passed a series of local landmarks: the Collegiate School for Boys, Gitlitz’s Delicatessen, the Belle-claire Hotel. I crossed Broadway. I walked by the shabby brownstones huddled together between Amsterdam and Columbus avenues. I stared up at the gargantuan gothic splendor of the Museum of Natural History. I crossed Central Park West. I entered the park.

  The footpaths in Central Park had yet to be cleared, so I had to negotiate the snowbound road. Within moments of walking downhill, I was no longer in New York City—rather, in some wintry corner of backwoods New England: a white, frozen landscape, in which all sound had been absorbed by the sheer density of snow.

  I made my way further down the hill, then crossed over to the path that ran by the lake. There was a narrow little laneway which led down to a gazebo. I took it. When I got there, I sat down on a bench. The lake was frozen. Above it loomed the midtown skyline: proud, lofty, impervious. Of all the vistas in Manhattan, this was my favorite—the pastoral stillness of the park overshadowed by the brash mercantile splendor of this mad island. No wonder I had headed here after five days indoors. A new decade had arrived—with all its edgy promise. This was my first proper chance to acknowledge it. Where better to do it but here?

  After a few minutes, I heard murmurs in the distance. A woman my age entered the gazebo. She had a lean, patrician face—an attractive severity that made me instantly categorize her as a fellow New Englander. She was pushing a stroller. I smiled at her and looked inside. Wrapped up tightly against the cold was a little boy. I felt the usual stab of sadness that now hit me every time I saw a child. As always, I masked it with a tight smile and a platitude.

  “He’s beautiful,” I said.

  “Thank you,” the woman said, smiling back at me. “I agree.”

  “What’s his name?”

  The question was answered by another voice. The voice of a man. It was a voice I had heard before.

  “His name’s Charlie,” the voice said.

  The man—who had been two or three steps behind the woman and child—now joined us in the gazebo. Immediately, he put a proprietorial hand on the woman with the stroller. Then he turned toward me. And suddenly went white.

  I felt a gasp well up in my throat. I managed to control it. Somehow—after a few seconds of shocked silence—I compelled myself to say, “Hello.”

  It also took Jack Malone a moment or two to regain his voice. Finally he forced himself to smile.

  “Hello, Sara,” he said.

  THIRTEEN

  HELLO, SARA.”

  I stared at him without speaking. How long had it been? Thanksgiving Eve 1945. Four years—give or take a month or two. Good God, four years. And somehow, some way, he’d haunted me all that time. Not a day went by when I didn’t think of him. Always wondering where he was. If I would ever see him again. Or if that three-word postcard—I’m sorry . . . Jack—was his final statement on the matter.

  Four years. Could it have evaporated so quickly? Blink once, you’re a neophyte New Yorker, just out of college. Blink twice, you’re a divorced woman of twenty-eight—suddenly face to face again with a man with whom you spent a night nearly fifty months ago . . . yet whose presence has loomed over everything since then.

  I studied his face. Four years on, he still looked so damn Irish. His skin had remained ruddy, his jaw square. This altar boy was yet unlined. He was wearing a dark brown overcoat and thick leather gloves, and a flat cap. At first sight, Jack Malone was an exact facsimile of the man I’d met in 1945.

  “Do you know each other?”

  It was the woman talking. Check that: it was his wife. Her voice was pleasant, devoid of suspicion or mistrust—despite the evident shock experienced by myself and her husband only moments earlier. I looked at her again. Yes, she was definitely my contemporary—and pretty in a pinched sort of way. She was wearing a navy blue coat with a fur collar. She had matching gloves. Her short, light-brown hair was held in place by a black velvet band. She was as tall as Jack—nearly five-ten, I reckoned—but with no bulk whatsoever. Despite her heavy coat, you could still tell that she was angular, lean. She had one of those handsome, gaunt faces which called to mind portraits of the first settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I could have easily imagined her braving the hardships of 1630s Boston with steely resolve. Though she graced me with a pleasant smile, I sensed that, if necessary, she could be most formidable.

  The baby was asleep. Not a baby, really—he must have been at least three years old. A little boy. And very cute, like all little boys. Swathed in a navy blue snowsuit, with little mittens that were attached to the snowsuit with metal clips. The color of his outfit matched his mother’s coat. How sweet. How adorable—to be able to color-coordinate yourself and your child. What a nice privilege—though I was certain she didn’t consider it a privilege. Why would she? She had a husband, a baby. She had him, damn her. Him . . . and a womb that worked. Though I’m sure she probably considered that all to be her right. Her goddamn Divine Right to Motherhood, and to that Man. That loathsome, abominable, self-centered, handsome Irish . . .

  Oh God, will you listen to me.

  “Yes,” I heard him saying, “of course we know each other. Don’t we, Sara?”

  I snapped back to Central Park.

  “Yes, we do,” I managed to say.

  “Sara Smythe . . . my wife, Dorothy.”

  She smiled and nodded at me. I did likewise.

  “And our son, Charlie, of course,” he said, patting the stroller.

  “How old is he?”

  “Just past the three-and-a-half-year mark,” Dorothy said.

  I did some very fast math in my head, then gazed squarely at Jack. He averted his eyes.

  “Three and a half?” I said. “A nice age, I bet.”

  “Just wonderful,” Dorothy said, “especially as he’s now talking. A real little chatterbox, isn’t he, dear?”

  “Absolutely,” Jack said. “How’s your now-famous brother?”

  “Flourishing,” I said.

  “That’s how Sara and I know each other,” he said to Dorothy. “We met at a party her brother threw . . . when was it again?”

  “Thanksgiving Eve, nineteen forty-five.”

  “God, you’ve got a better memory than I have. And who was the guy you were with that night?”

  Oh, you operator. Covering your tracks like a well-heeled thief.

  “Dwight D. Eisenhower,” I answered.

  There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by nervous laughter from Jack and Dorothy.

  “You�
��re still the fastest wit in the West,” Jack said.

  “Hold on,” Dorothy said, “you’re not the Sara Smythe who writes for Saturday Night/Sunday Morning?”

  “Yes—that’s her,” Jack said.

  “I love your column,” she said. “I’m really a great fan.”

  “Me too,” Jack added.

  “Thank you,” I said, now staring at the ground.

  She nudged her husband. “You never told me you knew the Sara Smythe of “Sara Smythe’s Real Life.”’

  Jack just shrugged.

  “And didn’t I read in Winchell,” Dorothy said, “that your brother is one of Marty Manning’s writers?”

  “He’s Manning’s top banana,” Jack added. “His head writer.”

  Without meeting Jack’s eye, I said, “You’ve obviously been keeping tabs on us.”

  “Hey, I just read the papers like the next guy. But it’s great to see you both doing so well. Please say ‘hi’ to Eric for me.”

  I nodded. Thinking, don’t you remember that he really didn’t like you?

  “You must come over and see us sometime,” Dorothy said. “Do you live in this neighborhood?”

  “Nearby, yes.”

  “Us too,” Jack said. “Twenty West Eighty-fourth Street—just off Central Park West.”

  “Well, Jack and I would love to have you and your husband . . .”

  “I’m not married,” I said. Once again, Jack averted his gaze.

  “Please excuse me,” Dorothy said. “That was very presumptuous of me.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I was married.”

  “Oh, really?” Jack said. “For long?”

  “No—not long at all.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Dorothy said.

  “Don’t be. It was a mistake. A fast mistake.”

  “Mistakes do happen,” Jack said.

  “Yes,” I said. “They do.”

  I needed to end this conversation fast, so I glanced at my watch. “God, look at the time,” I said. “I must be getting back.”

  “You will pay us a visit?” Dorothy asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “And if we wanted to get in touch with you?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not in the phone book,” I said. “My number’s unlisted.”

  “Of course it is,” Dorothy said. “You being so famous . . .”

  “I’m hardly famous.”

  “Well, we’re in the book,” Jack said. “Or you can always find me at my office.”

  “Jack’s with Steele and Sherwood,” Dorothy said.

  “The public relations agency?” I asked him. “I thought you were a journalist?”

  “I was—while there was a war to write about. Now, however, public relations is where the money is. And hey, keep this in mind: if you’re ever looking for someone to bump up your public image . . . we’re the company to do it.”

  I couldn’t believe his poise, the way he pretended that I was a mere casual acquaintance. Or maybe to him, I was always nothing more than that. Dorothy gave him another playful nudge.

  “Will you listen to yourself,” she said. “Constantly on the make.”

  “I’m serious here. Our company could do a lot for a rising young columnist like Sara. We could give you a whole new profile.”

  “With or without anesthetic?” I said. Jack and Dorothy instantly laughed.

  “God, you really are the fastest wit in the West,” he said. “Nice seeing you again after so long.”

  I stopped myself from saying, “You too.”

  “Nice meeting you, Dorothy,” I said.

  “No—the pleasure was mine. You really are my favorite journalist.”

  “I’m flattered,” I said.

  Then, with a quick wave, I turned away and walked back toward the main footpath. When I got there, I leaned against a lamp post for a moment, and took a deep steadying breath. Then I heard their approaching voices as they too started heading this way. Instantly, I dashed across the road, then marched with speed toward the 77th Street exit. I didn’t turn back, for fear of finding them behind me. I wanted to get away. Fast.

  When I reached Central Park West, I hailed a taxi to take me the four long crosstown blocks to Riverside Drive. As soon as I reached my building, I slammed my apartment door behind me, tossed my coat over the sofa, and began to pace my living room. Yes, I was manic. Yes, I was unnerved. Yes, I was deeply, deeply thrown.

  That bastard. That heartbreaking bastard.

  How old is he?

  Just past the three-and-a-half-year mark.

  Three and a half. A nice age.

  Three and a half meant that Charlie was born in the early summer of ’46. If he was “just past” that mark, that meant conception would have taken place in . . .

  I started ticking off the months on my fingers. June, May, April, March, February, January, December, November, October . . .

  October, ’45.

  Oh, you complete, total s.o.b. She was already up the spout when you worked your gimcrack magic on me.

  And to think—to goddamn think—of the idiotic, schoolgirl way I bought your act. The thousands of wasted words I poured out in letters to you. The absurd months of pining while I waited to hear from you. And then . . . then! . . . that one terse postcard.

  I’m sorry.

  And now I knew why. Just as I also knew that, for the past few years, he’d been tracking my career. He knew I’d been writing for Saturday/Sunday, just as he knew of Eric’s success. He could have easily made contact with me through the magazine. Not, of course, that the charmer would have ever dreamed of doing something so up front and straightforward.

  I kicked a table. I cursed myself for being such a fool, for over-reacting, for still finding him so damn attractive. I went to the kitchen. I found a bottle of J&B Scotch in a cabinet. I poured myself a shot and threw it back, thinking: I never drink before sunset. But I was in need of something strong. Because of all the jumbled emotions whirling around my brain right now, the most predominant one was sheer, absolute longing for that bloody man. I wanted to hate him—to despise him for his dishonesty, and for the snow job he perpetrated on me. Better yet, I wanted to dismiss him from my thoughts with detached coolness—to shrug my shoulders and move on. But here I was—less than twenty minutes after seeing him—feeling simultaneously furious and covetous. I so loathed him. I so wanted him. For the life of me I couldn’t fathom the instantaneous rush of shock, anger, and desire when I first saw him in the park. All right, the shock and the anger I could comprehend. But that ardent surge of sheer want had thrown me completely. And left me in desperate need of another small Scotch.

  After downing the second shot, I put away the bottle—and left the apartment. I forced myself to eat lunch at a local coffee shop, then decided to lose myself in a double feature at my neighborhood fleapit, the Beacon. The B-movie part of the program was some forgettable war picture with Cornell Wilde and Ward Bond. But the main feature—Adam’s Rib with Hepburn and Tracy—was a complete delight: smart, sassy, and urbane (not to mention set in the world of magazines—which amused me no end). Not only do movie stars get the best lines, they also land themselves in on-screen romantic conundrums that are inevitably resolved . . . or which end with wonderful tragic gravitas. For the rest of us mere mortals, things never turn out so clear-cut. It’s always a state of ongoing mess.

  I returned home around six. As soon as I walked through the door, the phone began to ring. I answered it.

  “Hello there,” he said.

  Immediately, my heart skipped a beat.

  “Are you still on the line, Sara?” Jack asked.

  “Yes. I’m still here.”

  “So your number’s not unlisted after all.”

  I said nothing.

  “Not that I blame you for telling me it was.”

  “Jack—I really don’t want to talk to you.”

  “I know why. And I deserve that. But if I could just . . .”

  “What? Explain?
”

  “Yes—I’d like to try to explain.”

  “I don’t want to hear your excuses.”

  “Sara . . .”

  “No. No excuses. No explanations. No justifications.”

  “I’m sorry. You don’t know how sorry . . .”

  “Congratulations. You deserve to be sorry. Sorry for deceiving me. For deceiving her. She was part of your life when you met me, wasn’t she?”

  Silence.

  “Well, wasn’t she?”

  “These things are never simple.”

  “Oh, please . . .”

  “When I met you, I didn’t . . .”

  “Jack, like I said, I don’t want to know. So just go away. We have nothing to say to each other anymore.”

  “Yes, we do . . . ,” he said with vehemence. “Because for the last four years . . .”

  “I’m putting the phone down now . . .”

  “. . . for the last four years I have thought about you every hour of every day.”

  Long silence.

  “Why are you telling me this now?” I finally asked.

  “Because it’s the truth.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m not surprised. And yes, yes . . . I know I should have written . . . Should have answered all those amazing letters you sent me. But . . .”

  “I really don’t want to hear any more of this, Jack.”

  “Please meet me.”

  “No way.”

  “Look, I’m on Broadway and Eighty-third Street. I could be at your place in five minutes.”

  “How the hell do you know where I live?”

  “The phone book.”

  “And let me guess what you told your wife . . . that you were going out for a pack of cigarettes and a little fresh air. Right?”

  “Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “Something like that.”

  “Surprise, surprise. More lies.”

  “At least let me buy you a cup of coffee. Or a drink . . .”

  “Goodbye.”

  “Sara, please . . . give me a chance.”

  “I did. Remember?”

  I put down the phone. Instantly it rang again. I lifted the receiver.

  “Just ten minutes of your time,” Jack said. “That’s all I ask.”