While she was out, I made a phone call to the first attorney-at-law in the Brunswick phone book. His name was Alan Bourgeois. He answered the phone himself. I explained that I had a will on file with my lawyer in New York, but it had left my entire estate to my brother, who was now deceased. How could I change it? He said he'd be happy to draw up a new will – which would supersede the old one. Might I stop down tomorrow? Or if I was free this afternoon, he could make time for me. It was a slow day.
I arranged to see him at two p.m. Ruth returned an hour later with the filled prescription. 'The druggist said you're to take no more than two every three hours. There's a week's supply.'
Forty-two pills. That should be enough to do the job.
'I can't thank you enough for everything,' I said to Ruth. 'You've been a great friend.'
'I'll check in tomorrow, if that's okay.'
'No need,' I said. 'I'll be fine.'
She looked at me with care. 'I'll still stick my head in,' she said.
That afternoon, I called a cab to take me down Maine Street to the office of Alan Bourgeois. His office was a room over a haberdasher's. He was a small man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a nondescript grey suit, beneath which was a v-neck sweater. A pen holder adorned his breast pocket. He looked like the perfect country lawyer: quiet, direct, businesslike. He took down all my personal details. He asked for the name of my New York lawyer. He then asked how I wanted to divide up my estate.
'Fifty per cent should go to Ruth Reynolds of Bath, Maine,' I said.
'And the remaining half?'
I drew a breath. 'The remaining half should be left in trust for Charles Malone until his twenty-first birthday.'
'Is Charles Malone a nephew?'
'The son of a friend.'
Mr Bourgeois said that the will would be a straightforward document, and he would have it ready tomorrow.
'Is there no chance we could finalize it all today?' I asked.
'Well, I suppose I could take care of it before close-of-business. But it would mean you having to come back in a few hours.'
'That's not a problem,' I said. 'I have some errands I have to run.'
'Fine by me,' he said, and we arranged to meet again just before five.
I wasn't able to walk very far – so I called a cab again. I asked the driver to wait while I made a trip to a hardware store, where I bought some bags and a wide roll of packing tape. I moved on to the bank, where I withdrew fifty dollars to cover the cost of Mr Bourgeois's legal fees. Then the cabbie drove me up to the Maine State Liquor Store near the college. I was about to buy a fifth of J&B when I saw a bottle of Glenfiddich next to it. The difference in price was six dollars. I decided to splurge.
I was dropped off home. I arranged for the cabbie to collect me again just before five. I had ninety minutes. I used them productively. I gathered up all check books and deposit books, and assembled them on the table. I found my few pieces of jewelry, and placed them alongside the bank stuff. I rolled a piece of paper in my typewriter and punched out a fast letter to Joel Eberts, explaining about the new will. I gave him the name of Alan Bourgeois, and told him I'd arrange for a copy of the document to be mailed to him.
By the time the will reaches you, I will have left this life. I am not going to offer a great defense for my decision to put an end to things. Except this: I simply know I can't go on.
In the new will, you have been listed as my executor, so I'll trust you to sell the apartment, liquidate the stock, and set up a trust for Charles Malone – to whom half of my estate is being left. I'm certain you find it strange that I am making him such a major beneficiary. My rationale is a simple one: Jack Malone was the man I loved most in my life. Yes, he destroyed that love by betraying Eric, but that betrayal doesn't negate his central role in the final part of my life. I always wanted children, but I didn't get that wish. Malone has a son. Let him benefit from the love I once had for his father . . . but please make certain that under no circumstances can Malone himself have any access to the trust.
In closing, let me say that you have always been a great friend to me. Do understand: I know this is the right choice. I look upon it as something akin to the breakdown of a protracted negotiation. I've fought my corner to the best of my ability – yet I find myself constantly overwhelmed, constantly defeated. It's time to surrender to the inevitable – and admit that the negotiation should come to an end.
I wish you well. I thank you for everything.
I signed the letter. I folded it and placed it in an envelope. I addressed the envelope, and attached a stamp to it. Then I rolled another sheet of paper into my Remington and typed a short note that I planned to leave in an envelope on my front doormat:
Dear Ruth:
Don't go inside. Do call the police. Do accept my apologies for landing you with this unpleasant chore. Do contact Alan Bourgeois at his office on Maine Street in Brunswick. Do know that I think you were about the best ally imaginable.
Love,
I scrawled my signature. I placed the note in the envelope. I wrote Ruth on its front. I left it on the dining table, to be placed outside later this evening.
A knock came at the door. It was the taxi. I picked up my coat and the letter to Joel Eberts. I posted it in the mail box near my front door. Then I climbed into the cab and returned to the office of Alan Bourgeois. He greeted me with a stern nod, and motioned for me to sit in the steel chair which faced his desk. Then he picked up a legal document on his desk, and handed it to me.
'Here it is,' he said. 'Read through it carefully – because if there are any amendments or codicils, now's the time to get them done.'
I studied the document. Everything seemed to be in order. I said so.
'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 towards 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 offence 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 . . .'
'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?'
The Pursuit Of Happiness Page 63
