The Pursuit Of Happiness

by Douglas Kennedy

  'So, I had a problem. I had to give them an ex-Communist. But I didn't know any ex-Communists.'

  'Except my brother.'

  'I was desperate. But the way I put it to the Feds, I told them: "Look, the only guy I know who may have a connection with the Party quit so long ago, it's irrelevant." They said, "Then he can exonerate himself, just like you're about to do."'

  'So, that's when you gave them Eric's name.'

  'Sara, darling . . . given his high-profile status in the television business, he was bound to get rumbled for his political past sooner or later. Surely you can see that.'

  'Oh yes – I do see that. And, quite frankly, ever since all this godawful blacklisting business started, I knew that, eventually, Eric's very brief flirtation with the Party would catch up with him. What I did not expect was that the man I once loved would turn out to be the snitch, the Judas.'

  Long pause.

  'Once loved?' he asked.

  'Yes. Once. No more.'

  He looked up at me, devastated.

  'Never for a moment did I want to harm him,' he said. 'And I figured that, like everybody else, he'd also play the game.'

  'Fortunately, Eric had something called a conscience.'

  'You don't think I don't have a conscience?' he said, now on his feet, his voice loud with edgy despair. 'You don't think I haven't been haunted by what happened to Eric?'

  'You played along so brilliantly after he was fired, didn't you? You should have been an actor. You were so utterly sympathetic and supportive. You couldn't do enough for the guy.'

  'That wasn't playing along. That was . . .'

  'I know. Guilt and anguish and penitential shame. You're the perfect Catholic. I bet you even went to confession after you shopped him.'

  'I never, never expected him to fall apart . . .'

  'So that made it all right to name him?'

  'Please try to understand . . .'

  'There is nothing to understand . . .'

  'I didn't mean harm.'

  'But you did harm.'

  'I just didn't know . . .'

  I stared at him.

  'What did you just say?' I asked quietly.

  He took a short intake of breath.

  'I said, "I didn't know".'

  'Ich babe nichts davon gewußt,' I said.

  'What?'

  'Ich habe nichts davon gewußt. I didn't know.'

  'I don't understand . . .'

  'Yes, you do. Dachau, nineteen forty-five. You were with the Army battalion that liberated the camp. Ike ordered that all the townspeople be marched through the barracks and crematoria, so they could see the horror that had been perpetrated in their names. And there was this one fat, well-dressed banker who broke down and kept telling you . . . Ich habe nichts davon gewußt . . . Ich habe nichts davon gewußt. Remember?'

  He nodded.

  'That did happen, didn't it?' I asked. 'Or is it just another of your lies?'

  'No,' he said, 'it did happen.'

  'Ich habe nichts davon gewußt. You told me that story on my first evening with you. I was already in love with you before you told it to me. Afterwards –' I gulped hard '– afterwards, I thought you were the most remarkable man I had ever met. Wasn't I a fool? Especially given your little disappearing act. I should have known better. But you had my heart, you shit . . .'

  'You still have my heart, Sara . . .'

  'Liar.'

  'It's the truth.'

  'If that was the truth, you would have never named Eric. But you thought you could get away with it. You thought I'd never find out.'

  He started to weep. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

  'Apology not accepted. You and Eric were my entire world. Now that's gone.'

  'Darling, I'm still here.'

  'No, you're not.'

  'Sara, please, I beg you . . .'

  'Get out.'

  'Don't do this.'

  'Get out.'

  He staggered towards me, his arms open. 'I love you,' he said.

  'Don't you dare say that word.'

  'I love you.'

  'Out now!'

  'I . . .'

  He tried to hold me. I screamed at him to go away. Then I began to hit him. I slapped him around the face and the head. He put up no resistance, no defence. Suddenly, I too was crying. Weeping uncontrollably. My blows were ineffectual. I collapsed to the floor, bawling my eyes out. Once again, he tried to reach for me. This time, I used my right fist and caught him in the mouth. He reeled backwards, colliding with an end-table. It fell over, smashing a lamp to the ground. He followed it, landing on his knees. My crying jerked to a halt. We stared at each other, wide-eyed. He touched his lips. They were bleeding. He stood up and staggered into the bathroom. I couldn't move. A minute went by. He came out, holding a handkerchief against his mouth. It was reddened with blood. He said nothing. I started getting to my feet. He proffered his free hand to help me. I declined it. I went into the kitchen. I found a dish towel. I took out a block of ice from the ice-box. I put it into the sink and used an ice pick to chip away at it. I wrapped a baseball-sized chunk of ice in the dish towel, and returned to the living room.

  'Here,' I said, handing it to him. 'This will keep the swelling down.'

  He took it and put it to his mouth.

  'I want you to leave now, Jack.'

  'All right,' he mumbled.

  'I'll pack up your things tomorrow. I'll leave a message at your office, telling you when I'm not here, so you can collect them.'

  'Let's talk tomorrow . . .'

  'No.'

  'Sara . . .'

  'Never call me again.'

  'Sara . . .'

  'Give me your keys for here.'

  'Let's wait until tomorrow before . . .'

  'The keys!' I said, my voice loud again. With reluctance, he fished out his key ring, unfastened the top clasp, and took off two keys. Then he dumped them into my outstretched hand.

  'Now let yourself out,' I said, and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

  I fell on to the bed. Jack rapped on the door several times, begging to be let in. I pulled a pillow over my head to block out his voice. Eventually, after a few minutes, the banging stopped.

  'I'll call you later,' he said through the door. 'Please try to forgive me.'

  I didn't reply. I simply pulled the pillow tighter around my head.

  I remained on the bed after I heard the front door close. My anguish was soon replaced by a numb clarity. There would be no forgiveness, no absolution. What Jack had done was so grievous – such a complete breach of trust – that I could never excuse it. He had betrayed Eric. He had betrayed me. Yes, I understood the reasons why he named my brother. Yes, I understood the pressures he was under. But I still couldn't pardon him. Though you might be able to forgive stupidity or lack of thought, it's impossible to condone a cynical, calculated action. All right, it might have only been a matter of time before Eric was accused by somebody of having former Communist sympathies. But how could I ever sleep again next to the man who made the accusation? That's what so astonished me about Jack's decision – his inability to fathom the fact that the moment he pointed the finger at my brother, he killed our life together. He knew just how inseparable Eric and I were. He knew that he was the only family I had left. He was, I always sensed, silently jealous of our devotion to each other. Is that why he undermined everything? Or was there a deeper, even more disturbing truth lurking behind his action: Jack Malone was a moral coward. A man who refused to face the music – and who, when presented with a critical choice, would always grab the expedient, self-serving option. He couldn't face writing me after discovering that Dorothy was pregnant. Years later, when he accidentally barged back into my life, he pleaded with me to understand the shame that made him vanish for so long. Fool that I was, I eventually bought his excuse, his passionate apologies. By letting him back into my life, I began the process that eventually led to my brother's death.

  Now, sprawled across
my bed, I heard the voice of my brother echoing in my head: 'Forget him,' he told me repeatedly during that year when I so openly pined for Jack. 'He's a bum.'

  Just as I also remembered that disastrous meeting I organized in the bar of the St Moritz – when Eric showed up drunk and became so insulting that Jack threw his drink in his face.

  They always hated each other . . . even though they both denied it. When that Fed turned to Jack and asked him for the name of a Communist, did he perhaps think: now I can finally nail that bastard?

  But such speculation was now pointless. Because one simple fact stared me in the face: I would never again have anything to do with Jack Malone.

  The phone began to ring. I ignored it. An hour later, flowers arrived. I refused to accept them – telling the delivery man to throw them in the nearest trash can. Later that afternoon, a telegram arrived. I tore it up without opening it. At six that night, the doorbell began to ring. It kept ringing for fifteen minutes. When it finally stopped, I waited another fifteen minutes before opening my front door and peering out into the lobby. There was a letter waiting by the main door. I went out and retrieved it. I recognized the handwriting on the envelope. I went back into my apartment and tossed the letter into the trash. Then I put on my coat. I picked up my typewriter and the suitcase I had packed earlier that afternoon. I locked my apartment door behind me, and struggled with the bags to the front door.

  As soon as I stepped out into the street, Jack was there – huddled in my doorway, looking ashen, manic, and sodden from the rain.

  'Go away,' I shouted.

  He eyed the luggage with alarm. 'What are you doing?'

  'Leaving.'

  'For where?'

  'None of your business,' I said, heading down the steps.

  'Please don't go . . .'

  I said nothing. I turned right towards West End Avenue. He followed behind.

  'You can't leave. You are everything to me.'

  I kept walking.

  'I will be lost if you go.'

  I kept walking. He suddenly dashed in front of me and fell to his knees.

  'You are the love of my life.'

  I looked down at him. Not with anger or pity. Rather, with total dispassion.

  'No,' I said quietly. ' You are the love of your life.'

  He reached for the hem of my raincoat. 'Sara, darling . . .' he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.

  'Please get out of my way, Jack.'

  He grabbed the hem and held on. 'No,' he said. 'Not until you hear me out.'

  'I'm going, Jack.'

  I tried to move. He held on tightly.

  'Jack – it's over.'

  'Don't say that.'

  'It's over.'

  'You have to hear me out.'

  'It is over. Now let go . . .'

  I was interrupted by a voice.

  'You got a problem here, lady?'

  I turned around. A cop approached us.

  'Ask him,' I said, nodding toward Jack, still on his knees. The cop looked down at him with disdained amusement.

  'So what's the problem, fella?' the cop asked him.

  Jack let go of my hem. 'No problem,' he said. 'I was just . . .'

  'Beggin' forgiveness is what it looks like to me,' the cop said.

  Jack stared down at the pavement. The cop turned to me. 'Was he botherin' you?'

  'I just wanted to get into a cab. He thought otherwise.'

  'You gonna let her get into a cab, fella?'

  Jack hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly.

  'Good call. Now what I want you to do is stand up and sit on the stoop there while I help your lady friend into a taxi. You gonna do that like a smart guy?'

  Jack got to his feet, walked over to a nearby stoop, and sat down – looking totally defeated. The cop picked up my bags and walked me to the corner of 77th Street and West End Avenue. He put out his hand. A cab stopped within seconds. The driver came out and put my bags in the trunk.

  'Thank you,' I said to the cop.

  'No problem. That guy didn't do anything stupid to you, did he?'

  'Nothing criminal, if that's what you mean.'

  'Okay then. Have a good trip – wherever you're going. I'll keep an eye on lover boy for a couple of minutes, so he doesn't go chasing after you.'

  I got into the cab. I said 'Penn Station' to the driver. We pulled out into the traffic. I looked back and saw Jack still sitting on the stoop, crying uncontrollably.

  At Penn Station, I collected a ticket I had reserved that afternoon, and had a porter bring my bags to the sleeping compartment I had booked on the night train to Boston. I'd paid a supplement to ensure that I had a single compartment. I needed to be alone tonight. After I settled in, a steward knocked on my door. I told him I wouldn't be eating, but a double whiskey and soda would be most welcome. I changed into a nightgown and a robe. I lowered the bed. The steward returned with my whiskey. I drank it slowly. Once or twice the glass began to shake in my hand. I finished the whiskey. I climbed in between the stiff sheets. I turned off the light. The train shunted out of the station. I fell asleep.

  I awoke again to a knock on the door. The steward entered, bearing toast and coffee. We were half-an-hour outside Boston. First light was bleaching the night sky. I sat up in bed, sipping the coffee, watching the emergence of a New England dawn. I had slept deeply, without dreams. My stomach felt taut with sadness. But no tears stung my eyes. My decision had been made; my heart hardened. It was morning. I was on the move. And the steward's coffee was actually drinkable.

  At South Station in Boston, I switched trains. By noon that day, I had arrived in Brunswick, Maine. As arranged, Ruth Reynolds was at the station to collect me. It had been over five years since I'd fled to Maine in the spring of 1946 after everything went wrong in the wake of Jack's disappearance. Yesterday afternoon, when I felt myself hitting bottom again, I decided that the only thing to do was to leave town; to disappear without trace for a while. Had I stayed in Manhattan, Jack would have constantly bombarded me with phone calls, flowers, telegrams, and late-night appearances on my doorstep. More tellingly, I needed to go somewhere away from everything to do with the blacklist, NBC, Saturday Night/Sunday Morning, Walter Winchell, and all the painful resonances which I now associated with Manhattan. So that's when I reached for my address book and found the phone number of Ruth Reynolds in Bath, Maine. She remembered me immediately ('Hell, I am one of the biggest fans of your column. Why aren't you writing it anymore?'). And yes, she had a couple of summer cottages for rent right now. There would be no problem accommodating me as of tomorrow, if need be.