“I can tell,” I said, laughing.
“Jack always said that I inherited the cynical genes in the family. Unlike himself—who, despite the tough Brooklyn mick exterior, is so damn soft about everything. You should hear how he talks about you. As far as he’s concerned, you’re his salvation, his redemption from everything that has trapped him in life. When he first tried to tell me about you, he was so damn jittery, so apprehensive. Finally I cut him off and said, ‘For Christ’s sake, Jack—I’m not Father Gilhooey. Do you love the girl?’ To which he said, ‘More than anything.’ And . . . will you look at that . . . you’re blushing.”
“Yes,” I said. “I am blushing.”
“Blush away. I’m just pleased for you both. As some guy in the Brill Building once wrote, ‘Love is a wonderful thing.’”
“He was terrified of telling you.”
“That’s because my brother is the worst kind of Irish Catholic. He really believes in Original Sin, Man’s fall from grace, hellfire and damnation, and all the rest of that cheerful Old Testament crap. Whereas I told him, morality is bullshit. All that counts is a certain degree of decency between people. From what I gather, he’s been pretty decent to Dorothy about the whole thing.”
“Maybe—but I sometimes feel guilty as hell about her.”
“Listen, he could have been a total bad guy and walked right out on her and Charlie. Face it, a lot of men would’ve done that. But he’s loyal. Just as Dorothy’s loyal. I mean, I’ve always thought that Dorothy was basically a decent woman. Not exactly sparky, or a laugh a minute, but fundamentally all right. So what if their marriage isn’t about grand passionate love—he’s got that with you. With Dorothy, there’s a basic, working comradeship—and that’s no bad thing. Most marriages I know are based on mutual loathing.”
“Does that mean you’ll never get married?”
“I’d never say never. But, at heart, I think I’m cut out for the single life. I like a guy around . . . but I also like when he leaves.”
“I can sympathize with that position.”
“So you can handle being ‘the other woman’?”
“It is amazing, discovering how much you can actually handle in life.”
After this lunch, Meg and I became firm friends, and made a point of having a Girls’ Night Out every six weeks or so. Jack was delighted that we’d hit it off so well . . . even though he was always a little worried about what we talked about during these boozy dinners. One night at my apartment, curled up against him on the sofa, he started giving me the third degree about my recent conversations with his sister.
“What we talk about is none of your business,” I teased him.
“I bet it’s all girls’ talk,” he said.
“Girls’ talk! Here we are—a pair of professional women, Bryn Mawr and Barnard educated—and you imagine us trading recipes for brownies.”
“No—but I could see you talking about nail polish or nylons.”
“If I didn’t know you were winding me up, I’d let you have it.”
“So come on—what do you talk about?”
“Your performance in bed.”
He turned white. “Are you serious?”
“Totally. And Meg wants to know every last detail.”
“Jesus God . . .”
“Well, what else do you expect us to talk about?”
“You are joking, right?”
“Why are men so dumb?”
“Because we make the mistake of falling for smart cookies like you.”
“Would you rather a dumb cookie?”
“Never.”
“That was a smart answer.”
“So you’re not going to tell me . . .”
“No. Our conversations are private ones . . . as they should be. But I will let you in on a small thing I admitted to her yesterday: I’m happy.”
He looked at me with care. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so damn surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. Just pleased, that’s all.”
“Believe me, so am I. Because everything is going so well.”
He leaned down and kissed me. “Life can be sweet.”
“Yes,” I said, kissing him back. “It can be that.”
And when life is sweet, time seems to pass at an accelerated rate. Perhaps because the days are marked by a certain euphonious rhythm—a sense of events moving at an easy, well-ordered pace; of circumstances working in everyone’s favor. My columns were going well. Harper and Brothers paid me a whopping five thousand (big money in those days) to bring out a book of my “Real Life” pieces in 1952. Jack was promoted. He became a senior account executive—and though he was still handling all those insurance companies, at least his salary had doubled. Meanwhile, Eric had his contract renewed at NBC with a salary increase that inflated his bank balance even more. Meg was promoted to a senior editor’s position at McGraw-Hill, and took up with a bassist in the Artie Shaw band (it lasted around six months—something of a romantic epic by normal Meg standards). Most tellingly, my life with Jack settled into a pleasant routine. From what I could glean, Dorothy too had adjusted to her husband’s curious domestic arrangements—even though she still refused to refer to his days with me as anything but out of town.
It’s a much-uttered truism that we never really recognize happiness until after it has passed us by. But during the last half of 1951, I was aware of the fact that this was, without doubt, a wonderful juncture in time.
Then it ended. I even remember the exact day: the eighth of March 1952. At six in the morning. When I was woken out of bed by the repeated ringing of my doorbell. Jack was out of town in Pittsburgh on business—so I couldn’t imagine who the hell would be bothering me at this pre-dawn hour.
I opened the front door, and found Eric shivering outside. He looked like he’d been up all night. He also appeared spooked. I was instantly scared.
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“They want me to name names,” he said.
SEVENTEEN
THEY” WERE THE network: the National Broadcasting Company. The afternoon before, a senior vice president for Corporate Affairs—a certain Mr. Ira Ross—called Eric at his office on the thirty-second floor of Rockefeller Center, and asked if he had a moment or two to meet with him and a colleague. Eric wondered if the meeting could wait for tomorrow—as he was on deadline for next week’s edition of the Marty Manning Show.
“Sorry,” Ross said, “but we need to see you now.”
“We,” Eric said. “As soon as that sonofabitch said we, I knew I was a dead man.”
Eric paused for a moment to sip his coffee. He asked if I had any whiskey in the house.
“Eric, it’s six in the morning.”
“I know what time it is,” he said. “But the coffee’s a little weak, and a shot of rye would perk it up a bit.”
When I hesitated, he said, “Please, S. This is not the moment to start arguing about the rights or wrongs of predawn drinking.”
I stood up and retrieved a bottle of Hiram Walker from a kitchen cabinet.
“It’s not rye, it’s bourbon. Jack doesn’t drink rye.”
“As long as it’s over fifty proof, I don’t give a damn what it is.”
He poured a large belt of bourbon into his coffee cup. Then he sipped it again, flinching slightly as the whiskey went down.
“That’s better,” he said, then continued with the story.
“So up I went to Ross’s office on the forty-third floor. Among the NBC writers, Ross has always been known as Himmler—because he’s the guy who exterminates anyone the company wants out of the way. His secretary visibly paled when she saw me—a surefire sign that I was in deep shit. But instead of escorting me into his office, she brought me to an adjoining conference room. There were five guys sitting around a table. When I came in, all of them stared up at me, as if I was some death-row inmate who’s been hauled in front of the appeals board for one final stab at clemency. There was a long tense
silence. Idiot that I am, I tried to lighten things up by cracking a joke.
“‘All this for me?’ I said. But nobody laughed. Instead, Ross stood up. He’s a real bloodless guy, Ross. The nondescript accountant type with thick glasses and greasy brown hair. No doubt he was bullied like hell at school—and has been getting his revenge ever since, as he so clearly delights in the small amount of power that his job gives him. Especially at a moment like this—when he was about to conduct his very own Un-American Activities investigation on the forty-third floor of Rockefeller Center.
“So up he stood and tonelessly introduced everyone at the table. There was Bert Schmidt, the network’s head of Variety and Comedy. There were two guys—Golden and Frankel—from Legal Affairs. And there was this gentleman named Agent Brad Sweet from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You should have seen this Sweet guy. He looked like he just walked out of central casting. A real big, square-jawed Midwestern type, with a crew cut and a short, thickening neck. I’m sure he played linebacker when he was at high school in Nebraska, married the girl he brought to the senior prom, and probably spent his entire four years at Wichita State dreaming of the moment he could go to work for Mr. Hoover, and defend Mom and the American flag from dangerous gag-writing subversives like me. Got the picture?”
“Yes,” I said, pouring a small measure of bourbon into my coffee. “I’ve got the picture.”
“What’s with the whiskey?”
“I think I need it too.”
“Anyway, Ross motioned to a chair. I sat down. As I did, I noticed that, in front of Agent Sweet, was a big thick file with my name on it. I glanced over to the lawyers. They had my NBC contracts laid out on the table. I tried to make eye contact with Bert Schmidt—he’s always been my biggest supporter within NBC—but he looked away. Scared shitless.
“Ross now got the inquisition going with that standard opening question: ‘I’m sure you know why you’re here.’
“‘Not exactly,’ I said, ‘but if there are two lawyers involved, I must have done something pretty damn heinous. Let me guess? I pinched a couple of jokes from Ernie Kovacs, and now you’ve got me up on a plagiarism charge.’
“Once again, the laugh quotient was less than zero. Instead, Ross got tetchy, and asked me to show everyone in the room a little respect. I said, ‘I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I’m just wondering what I’m doing here . . . and what the hell I’ve done wrong.’
“That was when Agent Sweet stared at me with his fanatical Audie Murphy–school-of-patriotism eyes, and uttered the question I knew I’d eventually be called upon to answer.
“‘Mr. Smythe, are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?’
“Without even thinking about it, I instantly said, ‘No.’ Agent Sweet tried to control a smirk as he opened my very substantial file, and said, ‘You’re lying, Mr. Smythe. If this was a court of law, you could be indicted for contempt.’
“‘But this isn’t a court of law,’ I said. ‘It’s a kangaroo court . . .’
“That really infuriated Ross. ‘Listen, smart-ass,’ he said in a low, threatening hiss, ‘you’d better cooperate here, or . . .’
“One of the lawyers—Frankel, I think it was—put a hand on his arm, as if to say: no threats. Then he turned to me and tried to sound all pleasant and reasonable.
“‘You’re absolutely right, Mr. Smythe. This is not a court of law. This is not an investigation, or a congressional committee. This is simply a meeting convened for your benefit . . .’
“‘My benefit!’ I said, a little too loudly. ‘Now that’s a good one.’
“‘All we’re trying to do here,’ Frankel said, ‘is to help you avoid a potentially damaging situation.’
“‘Oh, so we’re all friends here?’ I said, looking straight at Bert Schmidt. ‘Well, golly gosh gosh, I never knew I had so many friends in high places . . .’
“‘This is pointless,’ Ross said to his fellow inquisitors. At which point Schmidt tried to play good cop.
“‘Eric, please—try to cooperate here.’
“‘All right, all right,’ I said. ‘Fire away.’
“Agent Sweet turned back to the file. ‘As I said, Mr. Smythe, we have evidence here that refutes your last statement. According to our records, you joined the Communist Party in March of nineteen thirty-six, and were a member of its New York cell for five years, resigning only in nineteen forty-one.’
“‘Okay, I confess. For a short period of my life, just after I left college, I was a member of the Party. But that was ten long years ago . . .’
“‘Why did you just lie to me about this past affiliation?’ Agent Sweet asked me.
“‘Would you want to admit to such a dumb old allegiance?’
“‘Of course not—but if asked by a federal officer of the United States Government, I’d tell the truth. A mistake is a mistake. But a mistake can only be rectified if you own up to it, and try to put the matter right.’
“‘As I just told you, I quit the Party over a decade ago.’
“The other lawyer, Golden, came in here, trying to sound friendly.
“‘What made you leave the Party, Eric?’
“‘I’d lost faith in the doctrines they were pushing. I thought they were ideologically wrong about a lot of things. And I also began to believe the rumors that were being spread about Stalin’s repressive policies in Russia.’
“‘So,’ said the ever-helpful counselor Golden, ‘you realized Communism was wrong.’
“He didn’t pose that sentence as a question—rather, as a statement. Bert Schmidt shot me this pleading, don’t be stupid here look. I said, ‘That’s right. I decided Communism was wrong. And evil.’
“That was certainly the right answer—because immediately everyone at the table relaxed a little bit, though Ross himself looked disappointed that I had suddenly stopped playing the hostile witness. No doubt he would have really enjoyed shining a bright lamp in my face and hitting me over the head with a phone book in an attempt to dredge the truth from me. Instead, everyone became sweetness and light. For a moment or two, anyway.
“‘Given your admirable change of heart on the matter of Communism,’ Agent Sweet said, ‘would you call yourself a patriotic American?’
“I was also expecting this dumb question. And I knew I’d have to lie. So I assured Agent Sweet—and everyone else at the table—that I loved my country more than life itself, or some such crap. Sweet seemed pleased with my response.
“‘Then you’d be willing to cooperate?’ he asked me.
“‘Cooperate? What do you mean by cooperate?’
“‘I mean, helping us infiltrate the Communist network that is threatening the fundamental stability of the United States.’
“‘I wasn’t aware of such a threat,’ I said.
“‘Believe me, Mr. Smythe,’ Agent Sweet said, ‘it is there and very formidable. But with the cooperation of former Party members like yourself, we can burrow deep into the heart of the Party and root out the real ringleaders.’
“I tell you, S—at that precise moment, I almost lost it completely. I wanted to tell Agent Sweet that he sounded like one of the Hardy Boys, on the trail of the Big Bad Commies. Help us infiltrate the Communist network that is threatening the fundamental stability of the United States. Can you believe such garbage? As if there was ever a Communist network in this country to begin with.
“I tried to sound logical. ‘Listen, Mr. Sweet—back in the nineteen thirties, a lot of people joined the Party because it was the thing to do at the time. It was a fad, like the Hula-hoop.’
“Ross loved that comment: ‘You dare to equate an evil doctrine like Communism with something as benign as a Hula-hoop?’
“‘My point, Mr. Ross, is that I was a naive kid just out of Columbia who bought into the whole “Rights of Man,” equal-distribution-of-wealth claptrap that the Party peddled. But, when you get right down to it, the real reason I joined was because it was the thing to do. I was
working in the Federal Theatre Project . . .’
“‘A hotbed of subversive activity,’ Ross said, cutting me off.
“‘Mr. Ross, when the hell have a bunch of actors and directors ever threatened the fundamental stability of any regime anywhere?’
“‘Oh!’ said Ross triumphantly. ‘You consider the U.S. government to be a regime, do you?’
“‘That’s not what I was saying . . .’
“‘A truly patriotic American would know that the Founding Fathers gave us the most democratic system of government this planet has ever seen.’
“‘I’ve read The Federalist Papers, Mr. Ross. I fully understand the separation-of-powers doctrine, as hammered out by Hamilton, Madison, and all those other enlightened men . . . who, quite frankly, would be appalled to see a citizen of this country being interrogated about his allegiance to the flag . . .’
“‘This is not an interrogation,’ Ross barked, banging his fist on the table. Once again, Frankel put a steadying hand on his arm. Then he said, ‘Eric, I think all that Agent Sweet—and everyone here—is trying to establish is whether or not you are still tied to the Party.’
“‘Doesn’t that big file of mine show that I quit over ten years ago?’
“‘Indeed, it does,’ Sweet said. ‘But who’s to say that your resignation from the Party wasn’t a sham? For all we know, you could still be one of their covert operatives, masquerading as a former Communist . . .’
“‘You’re not being serious, are you?’ I said.
“‘Mr. Smythe, the FBI is always serious. Especially when it comes to matters of national security.’
“‘I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: I quit the Party in nineteen forty-one. I’ve had no further associations with the Party. I don’t like the goddamn Party, and I now rue the day I joined it. For God’s sake, I’m just one of Marty Manning’s writers. Since when has a gag man been considered a threat to national security?’
“‘Mr. Smythe,’ Agent Sweet said, ‘our files indicate that, over the past ten years, you have consorted with many Communists.’ Then he began to list a whole bunch of names—mainly other writers, with whom I had, at best, a passing professional connection. I tried to explain that, like me, most of the guys were of the generation which joined the Party. Do you know what Sweet said?
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 38
