“Don’t be silly,” I said. “They wouldn’t play the guilt-by-association card.”
But they did. The morning after the Winchell piece appeared, I received a call from Imogen Woods, my editor at Saturday/Sunday. She was trying to sound calm and casual—but she was clearly nervous. She suggested we meet for a coffee. When I told her I was really behind in work—thanks to the chaotic events of this week—and couldn’t see her until after the weekend, her tone changed.
“I’m afraid it’s a matter of some urgency,” she said.
“Oh,” I said, suddenly nervous. “Well, could we talk about it now?”
“No. I don’t think this is something for the phone . . . if you take my meaning.”
I did. And I was now genuinely worried. “Okay—where do you want to meet?” I asked.
She suggested the bar of the Roosevelt Hotel near Grand Central Station in an hour’s time.
“But I have a deadline for you this afternoon,” I said.
“It can wait,” she said.
I reached the Roosevelt at the appointed hour of eleven. Imogen had a Manhattan on the table in front of her. She smiled tightly as I approached. She stood up and kissed me on the cheek. She offered me a drink. I said I’d prefer coffee at this hour of the morning.
“Have a drink, sweetheart,” she said, radiating uneasiness.
“Okay,” I said, now thinking that alcohol might be necessary. “A Scotch and soda.”
She ordered the drink. She made small talk about attending the Broadway opening of a Garson Kanin play the previous night.
“Winchell was there too,” she said, studying my face for a reaction. I gave her none.
“I think he’s a monster,” she said.
“So do I.”
“And I just want you to know that I really felt for you yesterday, after I saw that item in Winchell’s column,” she said.
“Thank you—but it was my brother who was smeared . . .”
“Listen, I just want you to know that, personally speaking, I am completely behind you both . . .”
Alarm bells began to ring between my ears. “That’s nice to know,” I said, “but, like I told you, it’s Eric who’s taking the heat right now, not me.”
“Sara . . .”
“What the hell is wrong, Imogen?”
“Early this morning, I got a call from His Godship the Editor. It seems the magazine’s board had their monthly meeting last night, and one of the big topics of conversation was the controversy swirling around your brother. Because, let’s face it, it’s not just his past political associations that have upset them. It’s also his private life.”
“That’s right. It’s his private life. His past political associations. Not mine.”
“We know you were never politically involved . . .”
“What do you mean, we?”
“His Godship, Ralph J. Linklater, had a visit yesterday morning from a guy named Sweet from the FBI. He told him that they had been running quite a substantial investigation into your brother’s political past. It had been going on for a few months. Naturally enough, they also decided to run a background check on you.”
“I don’t believe this. Why on earth would they be interested in me?”
“Because, like your brother, you have a certain public platform . . .”
“I write movie reviews and a completely frivolous column about completely frivolous things . . .”
“Sara, please . . . I’m just the messenger here.” Then after a quick scan around the bar, she leaned forward and whispered: “Personally, I think these investigations are insane. And even more un-American than the un-American activities they’re supposed to be rooting out. But I’m caught in the middle like everyone else.”
“I have never, ever been a Communist,” I hissed. “Jesus Christ, I voted for Truman in forty-eight, not Wallace. I am about the most apolitical person imaginable.”
“That’s what the Feds told Linklater.”
“Then what’s the problem here?”
“There are two problems. The first is, your brother. If he had cooperated with NBC, there would have been no problem. The fact that he didn’t means there is now a problem vis-à-vis you and Saturday/Sunday.”
“But why? I am not his keeper.”
“Listen, had Eric talked, the Winchell item would have never appeared, and all this would have been forgotten about. But now he’s been exposed as a one-time Communist, and as a man who does not have . . . how can I say this? . . . a typical domestic home life. From what Linklater told me this morning, the board’s great worry is that his problems will somehow cast a bad light on you . . .”
“Let’s cut the crap, Imogen,” I said loudly. “What you’re really saying is that Saturday/Sunday is worried about having a columnist whose brother is a former Communist and a practicing homosexual . . .”
That brought the bar to a silent standstill. Imogen looked like she wanted to vanish into the floor.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “That is the essence of their dilemma.” She motioned me toward her. “But it’s compounded by another problem. His Godship knows about you and the married man.”
I sat back in my chair, stunned.
“Who told him?” I finally said.
“The FBI guy.”
My shock deepened. “But how the hell did he know?”
“I gather that when they decided to investigate your brother a couple of months ago, they also figured they should look into your background. And although they didn’t find any political stuff, they did discover that you were having this thing with a married guy . . .”
“But the only way they could have done that was by spying on me. Or listening in on my phone calls. Or . . .”
“I don’t know how they found out. All I know is: they know. And they’ve told Linklater . . . and Linklater has told the board.”
“But . . . but . . . it’s my private life. It has no impact whatsoever on my column. I mean, I’m not exactly someone in the public eye. As you know, I even balked at having a photo of me in the magazine. No one knows who I am. I like it that way. So why . . . why? . . . should anyone worry about with whom I share my life?”
“Now that your brother’s been exposed, I think Linklater is worried word might slip out about your own domestic arrangements. I mean, it’s only a matter of time before Eric is subpoenaed by HUAC. His testimony will make the papers. If he still refuses to cooperate, he’ll be cited for contempt, and he’ll probably do time. This will mean even more publicity. Who’s to say the Feds mightn’t feed Winchell or some other hack a little tidbit about you and your married friend? And you know what that asshole would write: ‘It isn’t just Redder-than-Red Eric Smythe who’s got an interesting private life. Single Sis. Sara—she who writes that funny “Real Life” column in Saturday/Sunday—has her own interesting setup with a guy who’s got a wedding band on his left finger. And I thought Saturday/Sunday called itself a family magazine.’”
“But that’s insane logic . . .”
“I know it’s insane . . . but this is how people are thinking right now. I’ve got a brother, he’s a professor of chemistry out at Berkeley. And the University Regents have just asked him to sign a loyalty oath—yes, an actual piece of paper, in which he swears that he’s not a member of any subversive organization endangering the stability of the United States. Every faculty member at the university’s been forced to do the same thing. To me, this sort of thing is repugnant. Just as I also think it’s repugnant what’s happening to your brother. And to you.”
“What is happening to me, Imogen?”
She met my gaze. “They want to put both your columns on hold for a while.”
“In other words, you’re firing me.”
“No, we are definitely not firing you.”
“What the hell do you call it then?”
“Hear me out. His Godship really likes you, Sara—as we all do. We don’t want to lose you. We just think that, until this entire issue wit
h your brother is resolved, it’s best if you lie low for a while.”
“Better known as vanishing from view.”
“Here’s the deal—and, under the circumstances, I don’t think it’s a bad one. We announce in the next issue of the magazine that you’re taking a leave of absence for six months to do some other writing. We continue to pay you a retainer of two hundred dollars a week. Then, six months from now, we review the entire situation.”
“And if my brother’s still in trouble then?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Say I decide to fight this? To go public about the way you are buckling to pressure from . . .”
“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. You can’t win this one, Sara. If you try to fight it, they’ll simply fire you, and you’ll end up with nothing. At least this way you come out of the situation with no loss of face, no major loss of income. Consider it a paid sabbatical, courtesy of Saturday/Sunday. Go to Europe. Go write a novel. All His Godship asks for is . . .”
“I know—my complete and total silence.”
I stood up. “I’m going now,” I said.
“Please don’t do anything rash,” she said. “Please think this all through.”
I nodded. Imogen stood up. She took my hand.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I pulled my hand away.
“Shame on you,” I said.
I left the Roosevelt. I marched north up Madison Avenue, oblivious to the wave of pedestrians heading south. I was in something close to a rage, and would have chewed the head off of anybody who dared to bump into me. I hated the world at that moment. I hated its pettiness—its malevolence and spite. More than anything, I hated the way people used fear as a way of gaining control over others. Right now I wanted to jump the next train to Washington, and walk straight into the office of J. Edgar Hoover, and ask him what he really felt could be achieved by persecuting my brother. You say you’re defending our way of life, I’d tell him. But all you’re really doing is enhancing your power. Information is knowledge. Knowledge is control. Control is based on fear. Because you now have us all afraid, you win. And all we like sheep have no one but ourselves to blame for your power, because we’ve given it to you.
I was so enraged that I ended up walking nearly twenty blocks before realizing where I was. I looked up and noticed a street sign saying East 59th Street. I was only five minutes away from Eric’s apartment. But I knew I couldn’t see him in the state I was in. Just as I knew that I couldn’t really tell him about the conversation I’d just had with Imogen Woods . . . though I also realized that as soon as he saw the notice in Saturday/Sunday next week that I had “gone on sabbatical,” he’d blame himself.
I leaned against a phone booth, wondering what my next move should be. I answered that question immediately by stepping inside the booth, dropping a nickel in the slot, and doing something I vowed never to do: calling Jack at work.
He’d been due back from Boston this morning, and was planning to stop by and see me on his way home tonight. I needed to see him now. But when I rang his office, his secretary told me he was in a meeting.
“Would you let him know that Sara Smythe called.”
“Will he know what this is about?”
“Yeah—I’m an old friend from the neighborhood. Tell him I’m in Manhattan, and was hoping to take him to lunch at Lindy’s. I’ll be there at one, if he can make it. If not, ask him to phone me there.”
Jack walked into Lindy’s exactly at one. He looked very nervous. As we never met during the day, let alone in a public place, he did not kiss me hello. Instead, he sat down opposite me, and took my hands under the table.
“I saw Winchell,” he said.
I took him through everything that had happened: Eric refusing to name names, the Winchell column, the eviction notice from Hampshire House, and my conversation with Imogen Woods. When I got to the part about the FBI informing Saturday/Sunday about my relationship with a married man, Jack tensed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I doubt any of this will ever go public. I won’t let it go public.”
“I don’t believe this,” he said. “I can’t fathom how . . .”
He broke off. He let go of my hands, and anxiously patted his jacket pockets for his cigarettes.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he said, fishing out a Chesterfield and his lighter.
“I promise you, Jack—your name will never be linked with . . .”
“To hell with my name. Eric and you have been smeared. And that . . . those bastards . . . they . . .”
He broke off. His distress in the face of our predicament touched me beyond words. At that moment, I loved him unconditionally.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I am so goddamn sorry. How’s Eric bearing up?”
“I think he’s scrambling to find a new place to live. The eviction notice is six PM tomorrow.”
“Tell him if there’s anything . . . anything . . . I can do . . .”
I suddenly leaned over and kissed him.
“You’re a good man,” I said.
He had to run back to the office. But he promised to call me tonight before returning home to Dorothy. Not only did he phone—but he also rang Eric at his apartment that evening, offering support. The next day, he showed up at the Hampshire House at five to help my brother move his stuff to the Ansonia on Broadway and 74th Street. The Ansonia was a residential hotel, favored by people in the mid-to-lower echelons of show business. Eric’s new apartment was a dark, one-bedroom suite, overlooking a back alley. It had peeling green floral wallpaper, a threadbare green carpet pockmarked by cigarette burns, and a tiny kitchenette, consisting of a hot plate and a faulty icebox. But the rent was cheap: twenty-five dollars a week. And the management didn’t seem terribly concerned about the cohabiting arrangements of its residents. As long as the rent was paid on time—and you didn’t disturb the peace—their attitude was: we don’t want to know.
Eric hated the new apartment. He hated the grim, last-chance-saloon atmosphere of the Ansonia. But he had few options. Because he was so damn broke. After his little shopping spree, he had less than a hundred bucks in his pocket. With the eviction notice from the Hampshire House came a bill for four hundred dollars—covering assorted room service and hotel charges. When Eric told the hotel management that he wouldn’t be able to settle the bill before his departure, they informed him that they would impound all his belongings. So Ronnie and I paid Tiffany’s a visit, and collected a seven-hundred-and-twenty-dollar refund on the diamond earrings and the silver cigarette case. After settling his Hampshire House bill, the remaining three hundred and twenty dollars paid for a month’s deposit and two months’ rent at the Ansonia. Jack insisted on organizing the van which moved Eric’s stuff to his new apartment. Just as he also arranged for two painters to strip the new apartment of its cheerless wallpaper, and brighten the place up with several coats of white emulsion.
Eric and I were both overwhelmed by Jack’s generosity.
“You know, you really don’t have to be doing this,” I told Jack as I cooked dinner at my place. It was the Monday after Eric moved apartments, and the painters had started work that day.
“Hiring a couple of painters for two days isn’t exactly going to break the bank. Anyway, I had a bit of a bonus windfall. Out of nowhere, I was handed a check for over eight hundred dollars. It’s Steele and Sherwood’s way of saying thank you for bagging a new insurance client. When things are going well for you, you should help others, right?”
“Sure. But I always thought that, when it came to Eric . . .”
“Hell, that’s all in the past. As far as I’m concerned, he’s family. And he’s in trouble. I know how I’d feel if I was forced to move from the Hampshire House to the Ansonia. So, if a coat of paint cheers the new place up a little bit for your brother, it’s money well spent. I also hate what’s happened to you.”
“I’ll be ok
ay,” I said, not exactly sounding convinced.
“Have you gotten back to Saturday/Sunday since the meeting with your editor?”
“No.”
“You have to accept their offer, Sara. Your editor’s right—if you fight Saturday/Sunday, you’ll lose. Take the money, darling. Take a break. In a month or two, all this naming names stuff should blow over. It’s gotten way out of hand. It’s gone crazy.”
I wanted to believe Jack that the nightmarish game called blacklisting would be over soon. Just as I wanted to reject Saturday/Sunday’s offer of two hundred dollars a week as a retainer fee. Because, after all, what they were offering me was a Faustian Bargain: money to balm their guilt at suspending me . . . out of the absurd fear that their so-called “family magazine” mightn’t look so “family” if it was discovered that one of their columnists shared her bed with a married man, and had an ex-Communist brother who also practiced “the love that dare not speak its name.”
His Godship really likes you, Sara—as we all do. We don’t want to lose you. We just think that, until this entire issue with your brother is resolved, it’s best if you lie low for a while.
God, Imogen looked so conscience-stricken when she hit me with that suggestion. But, of course, like everyone else, she too felt under threat. Had she not “followed orders,” she might have found her own position at the magazine in jeopardy. Or maybe questions would have been asked about her loyalty to God and Country. That was the worst thing about the blacklist—the way it scared everyone away from acts of common good, and appealed to the most basic of human instincts: personal survival . . . at all costs.
“Take the money, darling.”
In the end, I did. Because Jack was right: this was a fight I could not win. And because I also knew that Saturday/Sunday could have simply dropped me without cause. At least this way, I would be guaranteed a salary for the next six months—and the money would be very useful in keeping Eric afloat.
The Winchell column about Eric’s dismissal didn’t just result in his eviction from the Hampshire House. One by one, every restaurant or emporium that once welcomed him as a great customer (and, noting his free-spending ways, granted him credit) slammed the door in his face. A few days after his move to the Ansonia, he arranged to meet Ronnie for an after-midnight drink at the Stork Club. But when he showed up, the maître d’ informed him that his presence wasn’t desired. Eric knew the guy by name (“Hell, I used to give him a ten-buck tip every week”). He pleaded to be let in.
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