“Sara . . . ,” he said, trying to sound patient.
“I need to know.”
“We shared the same bed.”
“Cut the crap, Jack.”
“She wanted to, so . . .”
“You had no choice. Oops! Miss Sarcastic strikes again.”
“You shouldn’t ask me about that.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t. It’s self-injurious and self-defeating. Like being in love with a married man. Can you come over now?” I asked, cutting him off.
“Now?”
“Yes. Now. Because I need you now.”
He walked through my door thirty minutes later. An hour afterward, he jumped up from my bed, and made a fast telephone call, informing some client that he was running ten minutes late. As he dressed, he said, “I’m out of town tomorrow.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Hartford and Springfield, allegedly. But I could actually be here—if that fits in with your schedule.”
“I’ll see if I can move a few things around.”
When he showed up the next night, he had a large suitcase with him.
“I just thought I might leave a few things here. If that’s all right.”
“I suppose you’d like your very own closet.”
“That would be handy.”
That night, he unpacked two suits, two pairs of shoes, three shirts, and several changes of underclothes. His umbrella soon found a home next to mine in a stand by the front door. A spare overcoat ended up in his closet. So too did a raincoat and one of his favorite snap-brim hats. Gradually, a complete second wardrobe appeared in my spare closet. His bathrobe hung next to mine on the back of the bedroom door. His shaving cream, brush, and razor monopolized a corner of the bathroom sink. His ties dangled off the closet doorknob (until I bought him a tie rack). There were two spare cartons of Chesterfields in a kitchen cabinet. There were bottles of Ballantine Ale (his favorite) in the ice box. There was always a fifth of Hiram Walker in the living room.
He now lived here.
Or, at least, he lived here two days a week. The other two days, he was legitimately out of town. Traveling north to the more dismal corners of New England (Worcester, Lowell, Manchester). Or west to the Rust Belt cities of Pennsylvania. Or south on the Philadelphia-Washington axis. Some weeks, I would pack my Remington and accompany him on these journeys (though, snob that I am, I generally stuck to the Washington or Philadelphia runs). On Friday night, he would return home to Dorothy and Charlie. Though he would make a point of calling me daily (always from a phone booth), I wouldn’t see him again until Monday. Initially, I didn’t like this long three-day absence. Within a month or so, however, I began to appreciate the symmetry of our domestic schedule. I loved being with Jack. I loved his camaraderie. I loved having him in my bed. I was never bored in his company. He made me happy.
But I also came to like the fact that, come the weekend, my privacy would be returned to me. As I had discovered during my brief, wretched marriage to George, I was not a natural cohabiter. Even with Jack—a man I adored—there was a part of me which was pleased to see him leave on Friday, because it meant that, for three entire days, my life would be unencumbered. I could move at my own speed, set my own schedule, not worry about the needs of someone else. Yet, by Sunday night, I’d be desperate to see him again. And, come Monday at six, I’d start listening for him—waiting to hear the front door open (he now had his own set of keys), and the key to turn in my lock.
I also came to accept that this was, verily, an arrangement. Because unlike a conventional marriage, our relationship was conducted within strict parameters. We knew when we could (and couldn’t) see each other. I never called him at the office. I never called him at home. I had him for a set time each week. If I wanted, I could extend that time by accompanying him out of town. Come Friday, he was no longer mine. But rather than mourn his seventy-two-hour absence, I quickly recognized it as something of a gift. In many ways, the arrangement suited me perfectly—and afforded me benefits (in terms of personal latitude and basic time to myself) that eluded most married women. More tellingly, I didn’t have to engage in the power struggle which so defines most marriages. Our arrangement—the deal we struck between ourselves (without ever properly verbalizing it)—operated according to a very simple principle: no one was in charge here. No one was the head of the household. No one played the role of the breadwinner and of the little woman at home. We were equals.
Of course, we both fought like hell. But as the arrangement deepened, the arguments shifted away from the emotional complexities of my truncated life with Jack. As I had told him that night in Albany (and as I well knew myself): the moment a romance becomes bogged down in endless discussions about its inherent problems is also the moment that it ends up being labeled terminal.
So, we steered clear of such issues. Naturally, I would always ask after Dorothy and Charlie. Every time his son was mentioned in conversation, I’d get that twinge of loss which accompanied all thoughts about my inability to have children. Jack was sensitive to this—and, on several occasions, deliberately dodged my questions about his son. But I’d force the issue, telling him that I wanted to know about Charlie’s progress . . . especially as he was everything to Jack.
Three months into our arrangement, the thought struck me one day that whenever we argued, it was usually about non-personal matters: like whether we really should be defending a police state like South Korea.
“Look,” Jack said, “that sonofabitch who runs South Korea . . . what’s his name?”
“Syngman Rhee.”
“Right—well, there’s no doubt that Rhee is a complete totalitarian. But at least he’s our totalitarian.”
“There, you admit it. He’s a repressive dictator. And though I have nothing but contempt for Stalin and his North Korean stooge, should we really be propping up totalitarian regimes?”
“Will you listen to yourself. You sound like some Adlai Stevenson liberal . . .”
“I am an Adlai Stevenson liberal.”
“Which essentially means that you have a nice soft-centered view of the world. You should learn some basic realpolitik. As Chamberlain discovered to his horror, appeasement gets you nowhere.”
“Oh, please don’t give me your tough-guy view of foreign policy. ‘Speak quietly, but carry a big stick’ might have worked for Teddy Roosevelt—but these days, the big sticks are atomic bombs . . . which happen to scare the hell out of me.”
“Listen, force is the only thing that any aggressor understands. General MacArthur’s right: if we want to end the Korean conflict tomorrow, we should let North Korea and China sample our atomic bombs, then bring in Chiang Kai-shek to run the whole show.”
“Well, thank God it’s Harry Truman in the White House, rather than that lunatic MacArthur . . .”
“That man was a war hero.”
“True—but he’s out of control.”
“Only if you’re a Communist.”
“I am no Communist.”
“Maybe not—but given that it runs in your family . . .”
He cut himself off. “Sorry,” he said instantly. “That was dumb.”
“Yes, it was. Very dumb.”
“Forgive me.”
“On one condition: you never bring that up again. I regret ever telling you about Eric’s little past flirtation with that party.”
“I’ll never say anything again about it.”
“That’s a solemn promise?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Because I think it’s about time I told my brother about us.”
“How do you think he’ll take the news?”
I shrugged. But I knew the answer to that question: not well.
I wasn’t seeing much of Eric that year—owing to the fact that he was in such demand. Between writing the Marty Manning Show, developing new program ideas for NBC, spending time with Ronnie, and generally living it up, his time was limited. Still, he never stopped being a loyal
brother, calling me at least twice a week.
Then, shortly after Jack started to move some clothes into my apartment, Eric and Ronnie paid me a surprise visit one Sunday afternoon around five PM. Standing on my doorstep, Eric informed me that they were whisking me out for drinks at the St. Regis, dinner at 21, and a jam session at the Blue Note.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll just get my coat.”
Eric and Ronnie exchanged glances.
“You mean, you’re not going to let us in?” Eric asked.
“Of course you can come in,” I said nervously. “But what’s the point, if we’re leaving right away?”
Eric looked at me with deep scepticism. “S, who the hell is in there?”
“No one. Why would there be anyone . . .”
“Fine then,” Eric said, “we’ll come in from the cold while you get ready.”
He pushed past me. Ronnie hovered on the doorstep, not wanting to appear rude.
“You might as well come on in, Ronnie,” I said. “Because the cat is now definitely out of the bag.”
No, Jack hadn’t paid me a surprise Sunday visit, and was not lurking inside. But evidence of his presence was everywhere in the apartment—evidence which I would have hidden had I known Eric was coming by.
“So,” Eric said, staring at the large pair of black wingtip shoes by my inside door, “not only is there a mystery man, but he also has large feet.”
He wandered around the apartment, raising his eyebrows when he saw the collection of male toiletries in the bathroom, the slippers by my bed, the collection of paperbacks on the side table in the living room.
“I didn’t realize you were a fan of Mickey Spillane,” Eric said, picking up a copy of I, The Jury.
“He’s an acquired taste,” I said.
“I bet,” Eric said, “along with Hiram Walker bourbon and Chesterfields. My, my, S—you are developing some seriously masculine habits. Next thing I know, you’ll have installed a spittoon by your bed, and will be playing after-hours pinochle with the boys at the Twentieth Precinct.”
“Well . . . I was thinking of taking up bowling.”
Eric turned to Ronnie. “Quite the wit, my little sister.”
“I’ve always thought that.”
“Thank you, Ronnie,” I said.
“Of course, you’d never think a man was living here, would you, Ronnie?” Eric asked.
“I see no sign of that,” Ronnie said, maintaining a straight face.
“Thank you again, Ronnie,” I said.
“Yes, thank you so much, Ronnie,” Eric said, “for siding with my sister.”
“I’m not siding with her,” Ronnie said. “I’m just respecting her privacy.”
“Touché, Ronnie,” Eric said. “But as her older brother, I don’t have to respect her privacy. So I’ll just come straight out and ask her: why the hell didn’t you tell me you were living with someone?”
“Because,” I said, “I’m not living with someone.”
“Well, Dr. Watson,” Eric said, “all the evidence points to a male presence in this household. A permanent male presence.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to tell you,” Ronnie said.
“Yes,” I added, “maybe she doesn’t.”
“Fine, fine,” Eric said. “I would never, ever dream of interfering in my sister’s affairs. Does he have a name?”
“Interestingly enough, he does. But I’m not going to tell it to you yet.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because I’m not ready to tell it to you.”
For the rest of the night, Eric plagued me with the same question: who’s the guy? After his twentieth attempt to pry the information from me, Ronnie finally told him he was going to stand up and leave unless he got off the subject. Eric took the hint. But first thing the next morning, he was on the phone, demanding, yet again, to know the name of the gentleman in question.
“He must be bad news if you’re refusing to tell me.”
“Be patient—when I’m ready to inform you, I will.”
“Why aren’t you ready now?”
“Because I don’t know whether it has a future.”
“Well, if it doesn’t, then you might as well tell me now . . .”
“Can’t you accept the fact that you don’t need to know everything about me?”
“No.”
“Well, too bad. My lips remain sealed.”
For the next two weeks, Eric kept up the pressure—and enhanced my guilt. Because he was right: we’d always tried to be open with each other. Even Eric finally told me about his sexuality, a horribly difficult admission in those days, so surely I owed him a direct answer to his question . . . even though I dreaded his reaction. Finally, I suggested that Eric meet me for a drink at the Oak Room of the Plaza. We were working on our second martinis when I finally felt enough gin-fueled courage to say, “The man’s name is Jack Malone.”
Eric blanched. “You cannot be serious,” he said.
“I’m completely serious.”
“Him?” he said.
“Yes. Him.”
“But that’s unbelievable. Because he was gone with the wind. He messed up your life. And after you met him and his wife, didn’t you tell me you’d given him the brush-off?”
“I know, I know, but . . .”
“So how long exactly has this been going on?”
“Over four months.”
Eric looked deeply shocked.
“Four months. Why on earth did you keep it a secret for so long?”
“Because I was terrified of your disapproval.”
“Oh for God’s sake, S—I might not have liked the guy when I first met him, and I certainly didn’t like the way he ditched you, but . . .”
“After Jack vanished you told me, over and over again, that I was a fool to be expending so much emotional energy on such a no-hoper. So, naturally, when he came back into my life, I was really worried about your reaction.”
“I don’t have fangs and I don’t sleep in a coffin, S.”
“I know, I know. And I felt terrible about concealing this for so long. But I knew that, before I told you anything, I had to find out whether or not this had a future.”
“Which it evidently does—otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me now.”
“I love him, Eric.”
“So I gather.”
“But I really mean it. This is not some dumb infatuation with a married man, some transient romance. This is it. And it’s mutual.”
Eric went quiet. He sipped his martini. He smoked. Eventually, he shrugged and said, “I suppose I should meet him again, shouldn’t I?”
I set up a drink a few days later—late Friday afternoon in the bar of the St. Moritz, one block east from where Eric lived on Central Park South. I was nervous as hell. So too was Jack—even though I assured him that my brother had promised me he would be on his best behavior. Things got off to a bad start when we were kept waiting thirty minutes. Then a barman came to our table to inform us that Eric had called and said he’d been stuck in a meeting, but would be with us in ten minutes.
Another forty minutes passed, during which time Jack drank another two bourbon and sodas, and smoked three more cigarettes.
“Is this your brother’s idea of a joke?” he finally asked, sounding annoyed.
“I’m sure there’s a very good reason . . . ,” I said, sounding nervous.
“Either that, or he believes that his time is more valuable than my own. Of course, I’m just some PR guy, whereas he’s the great gag writer.”
“Jack, please.”
“You’re right, you’re right. I’m just being a hothead.”
“No—you should be annoyed. But there’s nothing I can do . . .”
“So let’s have another drink.”
“A fourth bourbon and soda?”
“Are you telling me I can’t hold my liquor?”
“Waiter!” I said, catching him as he passed by our table. “Another bourbon and s
oda for the gentleman, please.”
“Thank you,” Jack said dryly as the waiter moved off.
“I’d never stand between a man and his booze.”
“Is that your idea of irony?”
“No—that’s me dropping a hint, which you won’t take.”
“I know my limits.”
“Fine, fine.”
Jack glanced toward the door. “But I don’t think your brother does.”
I looked the same way. My heart instantly sank. Because Eric had just arrived—and he was drunk. He had a dead cigarette clamped between his teeth, his eyes were glazed, his gait unsteady. When he caught sight of us, he pulled off his hat with a flourish and bowed deeply. Then he stumbled over to our table, and planted a big wet kiss on my mouth.
“Blame it all on Mr. Manning. He insisted on pouring two bottles of wine down my throat at lunch.”
“You’re an hour and a quarter late,” I said.
“That’s show business,” he said, falling into a chair.
“At least you could say you’re sorry to Jack.”
Immediately, Eric was on his feet. He snapped to attention, and exercised a crisp military salute. I now wanted to kill him. Thankfully, Jack kept his cool. He threw back his bourbon and soda, and reached for the fresh drink the waiter had just deposited on our table. “Nice to see you, Eric,” he said quietly.
“And top o’ the morning to you, Mr. Malone,” Eric said in a dreadful Pat O’Brien accent.
“Maybe we should do this another day,” I said.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “That might be a good idea.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” Eric said. “One little drink and my equilibrium will be completely restored. Now, what are the lovebirds going to drink with me? But, of course . . . Waiter! A bottle of champagne.”
“I’ll stick to bourbon,” Jack said.
“Bourbon?” Eric said. “Come, come—there’s no need to be proletarian . . .”
“Are you calling me a prole?” Jack said.
Eric switched into the Pat O’Brien accent again.
“Sure, behind every common man lurks a poet.”
“For God’s sake, Eric,” I said.
“I am just joking,” he said in his normal voice. “No offense intended.”
Jack nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he lifted his fresh drink and downed half of it.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 36
