“You left the funeral arrangements section somewhat vague,” Mr. Bourgeois said.
“I want a vague funeral,” I said lightly. Immediately, Mr. Bourgeois looked at me with concern, so I added: “Fifty years from now, of course.”
He pursed his lips and said nothing. I returned the document to his desk.
“It all seems just fine. Shall I sign it now?”
He reached into his pocket and produced a fountain pen. Unscrewing the cap he handed it to me.
“I’ve made three copies of the will. One for your records, one for your lawyer in New York, and one for my files. You’ll need to sign them all, then I’ll put on my notary public hat and notarize the lot. By the way, I meant to tell you: the notary charge is two dollars per document. I hope that isn’t too exorbitant.”
“No problem,” I said, scribbling my signature in the appropriate place on all three documents. As I handed them back, Mr. Bourgeois used an old-fashioned engraver to stamp his seal on each of the signed pages. Then he added his own signature below the seal.
“You now have a new will,” he said. Then he reached over to his in-tray and handed me a bill for forty-one dollars. I took out my purse, counted out the money and put it on his desk. He put my copy of the will into a thick manila envelope and, with a hint of ceremony, placed it in my hands.
“Thank you for the speedy service,” I said, standing up to leave.
“Anytime, Miss Smythe. I hope I can be of service to you again.”
I said nothing. I headed toward the door. Mr. Bourgeois said, “Mind if I ask you a nosy question?”
“Go ahead.”
“Why did you need this will so quickly?”
I had already anticipated this question, and had prepared a reasonable answer. “I’m going away on a trip tomorrow.”
“But I thought you just got out of the hospital today?”
“How on earth did you know that?” I asked, my tone sharp.
“I know your column from the paper, and I also heard you’d been unwell.”
“From whom?”
He looked taken aback by my stridency. “From . . . uh . . . just around Brunswick. It’s a small town, you know. I was just curious, that’s all.”
“I’m taking a trip. I wanted to have my will in order, especially as my brother . . .”
“I do understand. No offense meant, Miss Smythe.”
“None taken, Mr. Bourgeois. Nice doing business with you.”
“And you, ma’am. Going anywhere nice?”
“Sorry?”
“I was just wondering if the place you were going is nice.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there before.”
I took the taxi back to my house, determined to get this over with as soon as possible . . . just in case Mr. Bourgeois had sensed that I was up to something self-destructive and dispatched the police over to my apartment. I stared out at the now-dark streets of Brunswick, thinking: this will be my last glimpse of the outside world. When the cab pulled up in front of my house, I tipped the driver ten dollars. He was stunned, and thanked me profusely. Well, it’s my last cab ride, I felt like saying. Anyway, come tomorrow, I won’t have any use for money.
I went inside. I retrieved the letter to Ruth and placed it on my outside mat. Then I bolted the door behind me. I took off my coat. The cleaner had laid a fire in the grate. I touched the kindling with a match. It ignited instantly. I went into the bathroom. I retrieved the bottle of painkillers. I walked into the kitchen. I pulled out a bag, a roll of tape and a pair of scissors. I went to the bedroom. I placed the bag on my pillow, then I cut off four long strips of tape and attached them to the bedside table. I picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich and a glass. I went into the living room. I sat down on the sofa. My hands began to shake. I poured a slug of Glenfiddich into the glass. I downed it. My hands were still trembling. I poured myself another finger of whiskey. Down it went in one go. I took a deep breath and felt the glow of the whiskey spread across my body. My plan was straightforward. I would down all the pills in clusters of five, chasing each handful with a large glass of Glenfiddich. When the bottle was empty, I’d move quickly into the bedroom, get the bag taped around my head, and lie down on the bed. The combination of Scotch and painkillers would ensure unconsciousness within minutes. I’d never wake up again.
I pulled the bottle of pills out of my skirt pocket. I popped off the cap. I counted out five pills into my hand. The phone began to ring. I ignored it. The phone continued to ring. I poured a very large glass of whiskey. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. I began to fear that Alan Bourgeois might have been checking up on me—and that if I didn’t answer it, he’d think the worst. It was best to answer it, and assure him I was just fine. I put the pills back into the bottle. I reached for the phone.
“Sara, Duncan Howell here.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. I tried to sound agreeable.
“Hi, Duncan.”
“Am I calling you at a bad moment?”
“No,” I said, taking another swig of Scotch. “Go ahead.”
“I heard you were discharged from Brunswick Regional today. How are you faring?”
“I’m just fine.”
“You’ve had us all worried. And I must have had at least a dozen letters from readers, wondering when your column would be returning.”
“That’s very nice,” I said, the bottle of pills rattling in my hand. “But . . . might I call you later? Or tomorrow perhaps? It’s just . . . I am still rather drained, and . . .”
“Believe me, Sara—knowing how sick you’ve been, I really didn’t want to call tonight. But I felt I should talk to you before you found out . . .”
“Found out what?”
“You mean, no one from New York has been on to you this afternoon?”
“I was out. But why would anyone from New York get on to me?”
“Because you were prominently featured in Walter Winchell’s column today.”
“What?”
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Absolutely.”
“It’s not exactly flattering . . .”
“Read it, please.”
“All right, here we go. It was the fourth item from the top: ‘She used to be a hot-shot columnist with Saturday Night/Sunday Morning, but now she’s doing time in Hicksville. Sara Smythe—the yuck-yuck dame behind the popular “Real Life” column—vanished from print a couple of months ago . . . right after her Redder-than-Red brother, Eric, was booted from his job as Marty Manning’s head scribe. Seems that Eric wouldn’t sing about his Commie past . . . a major unpatriotic no-no which also made Saturday/Sunday nervous about keeping Sister Sara in print. A month later, the ole demon rum sent Eric to an early grave, and Sara disappeared into thin air. Until one of my spies—on vacation in the great state of Maine—picked up a little local rag called the Maine Gazette . . . and guess who was churning out words in its big-deal pages? You got it: the once-famous Sara Smythe. Oh, how the mighty do fall when they forget a little tune called “The Star Spangled Banner.” ’ ”
Duncan Howell paused for a moment, nervously clearing his throat.
“Like I said, it’s hardly nice. And I certainly took umbrage at our paper being called ‘a little local rag.’ ”
“That son of a bitch.”
“My conclusion entirely. And we’re standing right behind you in all of this.”
I rattled the pills in my hand again, saying nothing.
“There’s something else you need to know,” Duncan Howell said. “Two things, actually. Neither pleasant. The first is that I received a call this afternoon from a man named Platt. He said he was in the legal affairs department of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. He’d been trying to track you down . . . but as he didn’t have any idea of your whereabouts, he’d decided to call me—having discovered, from Winchell’s column, that you were writing for us. Anyway, he asked me to inform you that, by writing for us, you were in breach of contract . . .”
<
br /> “That’s total garbage,” I said, my voice surprisingly loud.
“I’m just passing on what he told me. He also wanted you to know that he was stopping your leave-of-absence payments from this moment on.”
“That’s all right. There were only a few more weeks to go. Any other good news?”
“I’m afraid there have been some repercussions from the Winchell column.”
“What kind of repercussions?”
“I received two phone calls late this afternoon from the editors of the Portland Press Herald and the Bangor Daily News. They both expressed grave concern about the anti-American allegations in the Winchell item . . .”
“I am not anti-American. Nor was my late brother.”
“Sara, I assured them of that. But like so many people these days, they’re scared of being associated with anything or anyone who has even the slightest Communist taint.”
“I am not a goddamn Communist,” I shouted, then suddenly hurled the bottle of painkillers across the room. The bottle smashed into the fireplace, fragmenting into pieces.
“No one from the Maine Gazette is saying that. And I want to be very clear about something: we are completely behind you. I’ve spoken with half the members of our board this afternoon, and everyone agrees with me: you are an asset to the paper, and we will certainly not be intimidated by a yellow journalist like Mr. Winchell. So you have our complete support, Sara.”
I said nothing. I was still watching the painkillers melt against the wooden logs in the fireplace. My suicide had gone up in smoke. But so too had the desire to take my life. Had I killed myself, it would have been interpreted as a capitulation to Winchell, McCarthy, and every other bully who used patriotism as a weapon; a means to wield power. Now I wouldn’t give those bastards the satisfaction of my death. Now . . .
“Are you still there, Sara?”
“Yes. I’m here.”
TWENTY-THREE
I PUT A CALL in to Joel Eberts the next morning.
“Now before you tell me anything,” he said, “know this: I’m sure we could sue that shit Winchell for libel, defamation of character . . .”
“I don’t want to sue him.”
“I heard about Saturday/Sunday too. We could definitely squeeze them for the remaining few weeks of your leave . . . and probably more.”
“I couldn’t be bothered.”
“You’ve got to be bothered. If people like you don’t fight back . . .”
“I’m in no mood for a fight. Because you know, and I know, that it’s a fight I won’t win. Anyway, I’m leaving the country.”
“When did you decide that?”
“Late last night. Actually, around five this morning.”
“Personally, I think it’s a good idea. Can I help in any way?”
“I need a passport. Do you think they’ll grant me one?”
“I don’t see why not. You haven’t been subpoenaed by HUAC. You aren’t under investigation by the Feds. There’ll be no problem—though I’d probably move quickly, just in case someone in DC read that Winchell piece and decides you’re worth scrutinizing. When are you coming back to New York?”
“I should be there tomorrow evening.”
“I still have power of attorney on your bank accounts. Want me to book you passage on a boat this weekend?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll get to work on it now.”
“One final thing. I sent you a letter yesterday afternoon. It was written under considerable duress . . . and at a moment when I really wasn’t thinking clearly at all. You must promise me that you won’t read it . . . that you’ll tear it up and throw it away as soon as it arrives.”
“It must be some letter.”
“Do I have your word?”
“Scout’s Honor. Call me as soon as you arrive. Are you going to be staying at the apartment?”
“Where else?”
“Well, if you do, you might have a visitor . . .”
“Oh no . . .”
“Oh yes . . .”
“Has he been bothering you much about me?”
“You told me not to tell you anything . . .”
“I’m asking now.”
“I have a stack of letters from him. According to the super in your building, he’s been dropping around every other day, on the off chance you might have come back.”
I felt a stab of guilt and remorse. It passed quickly. “I’ll find a hotel,” I said.
“That might be wise . . . if you really don’t want to see him.”
“I really don’t want to see him.”
“It’s your call, Sara. Phone me when you get into town.”
After I finished talking with Joel Eberts, I put a call in to Dr. Bolduck. When I explained that I was planning to leave town tomorrow, he expressed concern.
“It’s only two weeks since the operation. The stitches have just come out. I would be much happier if you were resting for at least another week.”
“A transatlantic crossing isn’t exactly strenuous physical activity.”
“Yes—but you’ll be in the middle of the ocean for five days. Say you need medical attention?”
“I’m sure most ships travel with a doctor or two.”
“I really wish you’d stay.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
He heard the adamancy in my voice. “I do understand your need to get away,” he said. “It’s not unusual after . . .”
“So, in your clinical opinion, I’m not putting my health in jeopardy by traveling.”
“Physically, it’s a little risky . . . but not impossibly so. Mentally, it’s a smart idea. You know what my advice is to people who’ve been through a bereavement? Keep moving.”
I did just that. Ruth came over that afternoon and helped me pack up the apartment. I wrote a letter to Duncan Howell, resigning my column.
Please understand: I haven’t been cowed by Walter Winchell. I just need a complete break from all things journalistic. After the last year, anonymity seems like a very good thing. I thank you for your ethical stance after the Winchell column. Many an editor would have taken the easy way out and defenestrated me. You didn’t—and I will always remember that.
I also wrote a quick note to Jim:
If I was you, I wouldn’t forgive me. I played fast-and-loose with the truth—which was both unfair and unscrupulous. All I can offer in my defense is the fact that—for all the obvious reasons—I was apprehensive of talking about my pregnancy. That doesn’t excuse my behavior. The worst thing you can do in life is hurt another person . . . and I sense that I have hurt you.
The two letters were mailed the next morning from the Brunswick railway station. I was traveling light—a suitcase and my typewriter. I hadn’t bought much in the way of clothes since coming to Maine, and any books and records I’d acquired were being donated to the local library. The station porter checked my bags straight through to Penn Station. Ruth—who’d driven me to the station—hugged me goodbye.
“I hope the next time you come back to Maine, you won’t be fleeing something.”
I laughed. “But it’s such a good place to slam the door on the rest of the country.”
“Then why on earth do you have to go overseas?”
“Because, thanks to Mr. Winchell, I find myself abroad at home. So I’m now going to find out whether I’m at home abroad.”
I slept most of the way to New York. I was still feeling depleted. And I was still in a certain amount of pain—thanks to the way that my supply of painkillers had ended up in the fire. I hadn’t dared ask Dr. Bolduck for a new prescription, so I was now using aspirin to deaden the discomfort. Every time I saw myself sitting on that sofa with the bottle of pills and the whiskey, I shuddered. Because for the two days before, the decision to take my life had seemed so logical, so reasonable . . . to the point where I actually felt rather elated by the prospect of terminating everything. But now, as the train snaked its way down the eastern seaboard, I couldn�
��t help but think: if that phone call hadn’t come, this is a day I wouldn’t have seen. It wasn’t even a particularly nice day—as it was overcast and gloomy. But it was a day. I was still here to look at it. I was grateful for that.
I arrived at Penn Station around nine that night. I had a porter help me with my bags across the street to the Hotel Pennsylvania. They had a vacancy. I paid for one night, with an option to extend for a second. I didn’t want to be in this town for long. Upstairs in my room, I stared out at the midtown skyline, then closed the blinds to block out its audacious glow. I unpacked, undressed, climbed into bed, and was asleep within minutes. I woke at eight, feeling rested for the first time in months. I had a bath, I got dressed, I called Joel Eberts. He told me to come right over. On the way downtown in a taxi, I read the New York Times. On page eleven, there was a small story at the bottom of the page about the suicide yesterday afternoon of a Hollywood actor named Max Monroe, aged forty-six, known for his roles in a variety of RKO and Republic B-movies. He was found dead yesterday afternoon at his apartment in West Hollywood from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
According to his agent, Mr. Monroe had been suffering from depression for the past two years—ever since work opportunities dried up after he was branded a hostile witness by the House Committee on Un-American Activities.
I put down the paper, unable to finish the story. I glanced out the window of the taxi. New York was as frantic and self-obsessed as ever. Everyone rushing somewhere. Everyone so preoccupied, so busy that they probably weren’t even aware of the deeds being perpetrated in their name—the careers crushed, the trusts betrayed, the lives destroyed. That was the thing about the blacklist—unless it touched you personally, you could carry on as if nothing dark was happening around you. I couldn’t fathom how we had allowed ourselves to be cowed by such patriotic demagogs. All I knew was: I had to leave. To put an ocean between myself and my country. Until the madness ended.
Joel Eberts greeted me with a paternal hug and a considerable amount of news. He’d booked me passage on the SS Corinthia, sailing that night, docking seven days later in Le Havre. He’d secured me a single inside cabin: nothing fancy, but at least I’d have the place to myself. He had all the forms ready for my passport.
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 54
