'Now we just need to fix you up.'
'Forget it,' I said sharply. And I meant it. Because though I wasn't short of male company – let alone suitors – I deliberately sidestepped involvement. Yes, I did see a Random House editor, Donald Clark, for around four months. And yes, I did have a short-lived fling with a Daily News journalist named Gene Smadbeck. But I ended them both – possibly because Clark was too much of a pleasant stiff, whereas Smadbeck was, at the age of thirty, already trying to drink himself to death (though, when sober, he was a total charmer). When I told Gene that it was over, he didn't take the news very well – as he'd delusionally convinced himself he was in love with me.
'Lemme guess,' he said, 'you're dropping me for some corporate type, who will give you all the security I can't.'
'I was married to that sort of man – as you well know – and I left him after five months. So, believe me, I don't need a man to give me security. I've got enough of it myself.'
'Well, you've got to be leaving me for someone.'
'Why is it that men always have this preposterous idea that, if a woman doesn't want to see them anymore, it's because there must be someone else? Sorry to disappoint you – but I'm leaving you for no one. I'm leaving you because you're determined to self-destruct before the age of thirty-five . . . and I don't want a supporting role in your melodrama.'
'Christ, will you listen to the tough little broad.'
'I have to be tough,' I said. 'Because tough's the only way you hold your own . . . as a broad.'
This exchange took place in the bar of the New Yorker Hotel on 34th and Seventh. After finally extricating myself, I caught the subway home and spent the evening listening, yet again, to that amazing Ezio Pinza performance of Don Giovanni. Of all the records in my ever-growing collection, it was the one to which I kept returning. Tonight, however, I figured out why. In the opera, Donna Elvira is swearing revenge against Giovanni – because he's robbed her of her virtue. In truth, however, Elvira's anguish is rooted in the fact that she fell head over heels for the Don who had seduced and abandoned her. Meanwhile Donna Anna is doing her damnedest to avoid the dull, cautious Don Ottavio who so desperately wants her as his wife.
For some curious reason, this story rang a bell with me.
I had surrendered to Don Giovanni. I had surrendered to Don Ottavio. But why surrender again to anyone when you're finding your own way in the world?
On New Year's Eve, 1949, Eric threw a bash at his Hampshire House apartment. There must have been forty people there, not to mention a five-piece band, featuring Ronnie (naturally) on sax. My contract with Saturday/Sunday had just been renewed for another two years. Thanks to Joel Eberts, my per column price had risen to a hundred and fifty dollars. The magazine had also just appointed me as their movie critic, at an additional hundred and fifty dollars per week. And I was still writing the monthly 'Music for Middlebrows' column. All told, I would be making sixteen grand in 1950 – crazy money for such easy, fun work. Meanwhile, Eric had also just finished an extended contractual renegotiation with NBC. Besides retaining his position as Marty Manning's chief writer, the network also wanted him to develop new ideas for other shows. To keep him sweet (and out of the prying hands of CBS), they upped his salary to four hundred dollars a week, and also handed him an annual twelve-thousand-dollar consultancy fee, along with his own office and a secretary.
And so, here we were, crammed in Eric's living room overlooking Central Park, shouting 'five-four-three-two-one' as the dying moments of the nineteen-forties vanished, and we all screamed 'Happy New Year' and embraced a new decade.
After being kissed by two dozen strangers, I managed to find my brother – standing near one of the windows. A fireworks display within the park was illuminating the midnight sky. Eric – giddy on too much champagne – grabbed me in a bear hug.
'Can you believe it?' he asked me.
'Believe what?'
'You. Me. This. Everything.'
'No. I can't believe it. Nor can I believe our luck.'
Outside, there was a rat-a-tat explosion, followed by a supernova flash of streaking red, white and blue light.
'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 Belleclaire Hotel. I crossed Broadway. I walked by the shabby brownstones huddled together between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues. I stared up at the gargantuan gothic splendour 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 snow-bound 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 towards 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.<
br />
'Hello, Sara,' he said.
Two
'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 5' 10", 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 anaesthetic?' I said. Jack and Dorothy instantly laughed.
The Pursuit Of Happiness Page 36
