But, at least, I had slept. For what? I reached over to the wind-up alarm clock on my bedside table. Six fourteen. Good God, I had been out for almost eighteen hours. Just as the good doctor promised. No wonder I was feeling so fogged in. I managed to sit up in bed. The thought struck me: I can actually sit up. Now that’s an improvement over yesterday. Then I realized I was under the covers, and in a nightgown. It didn’t take too long to work out who had undressed me and tucked me in, as Eric was asleep on my sofa, curled up beneath a blanket, snoring sonorously. I lifted back the bedclothes and gently put my feet to the floor. Then, taking one careful step at a time, I managed to make it into the bathroom.
I ran a very hot bath. I took off my nightgown and slid into the steamy water. Gradually, the fog around my brain lifted. I sat in the tub for the better part of an hour, staring at the ceiling, steaming away the strange interlude that had been the last day. Eighteen hours of drugged dormancy hadn’t suddenly calmed my jagged nerves overnight. I still felt an intense sense of loss - not just for Jack, but for the job I had failed to keep. But Dr Ballensweig was right: the world did seem more tangible after an extended period of unconsciousness. And I was simply grateful to be functioning normally again.
Eventually I forced myself out of the bath. I dried myself off. I wrapped my hair in a towel. I put on a bathrobe. I opened the door as quietly as possible. But as I started tiptoeing back towards my bed, I heard the sharp crack of a Zippo lighter being closed. Eric was propped up on the sofa, puffing away on the first cigarette of the morning.
‘So … the dead do walk,’ he said with a sleepy smile.
‘Eric, you really didn’t have to spend the night …’
‘Of course I did. I certainly wasn’t going to leave you alone after yesterday.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘For what? As breakdowns go, yours was about as genteel as they get. Especially as it all happened out of public view.’
‘I still feel so ashamed …’
‘Why? Because things overwhelmed you? Because, for one day, you couldn’t cope? Give yourself a break, S … and make us some coffee.’
‘Of course, of course,’ I said, going over to the kitchen area and turning on the hotplate.
‘You were really down for the count. After Doc Ballensweig gave you the needle, you didn’t stir once. Getting you into bed was like undressing a rag doll. But you don’t want to hear about that, do you?’
‘No. I really don’t.’
‘I did leave you alone for around an hour, while I popped out to the pharmacy and got a prescription filled for you. The bottle’s on your bedside table. Dr Ballensweig wants you to take two of those pills just before bedtime, to make certain you sleep through the night. Once your sleep begins to stabilize again, you can throw them away.’
‘They’re not sedatives, are they? I don’t need sedatives.’
‘They are sleeping pills. Which help you sleep. Which you desperately need if you want to avoid a repeat of yesterday. So, stop sounding like a convert to Christian Science …’
‘Point taken,’ I said, filling the percolator with ground coffee.
‘There’s another thing I did while you were sleeping. I called your boss at Life …’
‘You did what?’
‘I phoned Leland McGuire, and explained that you were unwell. And under doctor’s orders to take a sabbatical from New York …’
‘Oh my God, Eric - you shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Of course I should have. Otherwise you would have sat here for the next ten weeks, waiting for McGuire to phone you with a freelance assignment… even though whatshername, the office gossip, told you that wasn’t going to happen. I mean, doctor’s orders are doctor’s orders. You need an extended rest in somewhere wild and wooly. Which is why you’re going to Maine.’
I blinked with shock. ‘I’m going to Maine?’
‘Remember the cottage Mother and Father used to rent near Popham Beach?’
I certainly did. It was a small two-bedroom shingle cottage, located within a summer colony of houses which fronted one of the most expansive corners of the Maine coast. For ten consecutive summers, our parents rented this cottage for an annual two-week vacation in July. We knew the owners - a now-elderly couple in Hartford called the Daniels. When I was in a drug-induced trance yesterday, Eric had called Mr Daniels and explained that I was taking a leave of absence from Life to do some writing, and wanted to hole up in somewhere nice and quiet.
‘Without me saying another word,’ Eric explained, ‘Old Man Daniels offered you the cottage on the spot - telling me how pleased and proud he was of the fact that you were a staff writer at Life.’
‘If only he knew the truth.’
‘Anyway, I asked him how much he wanted in rent. He almost sounded offended by the question. “I wouldn’t dream of charging Biddy Smythe’s daughter rent … especially in the off-season”.’
‘He actually called Father “Biddy”?’ I said with a laugh.
‘WASP informality is a wonder to behold, isn’t it? Anyway, the cottage is yours free of charge … until the first of May if you like.’
‘That’s an awfully long time in an awfully isolated spot.’
‘Try it for two weeks. If you don’t like it - if it gets too lonely - come home. The only cost you’ll have is the housekeeper. Her name’s Mrs Reynolds. She lives locally. For five dollars, she’ll come in twice a week to clean the place for you, and she also has a car, so she’ll pick you up at the train station in Brunswick on Monday evening. I’ve booked you on the train leaving Penn Station at nine a.m. You get to Boston just before three, and change there for the train to Brunswick, which arrives at seven twenty that night. Mrs Reynolds will be waiting for you at the station.’
‘You really have me organized, don’t you?’
‘It’s called forcing your hand. You need this time off. Left to your own devices, you wouldn’t take it.’
My brother was right. Had he not taken charge, I would have stayed in Manhattan, waiting for word from Jack, word from Leland, word from the Department of Enlisted Personnel. And waiting desperately for something that might not come is never good for one’s well-being. So I let myself be talked into this retreat. I packed a trunk with old clothes and lots of books. Against Eric’s protest, I insisted on lugging my Remington typewriter with me.
‘You shouldn’t even be thinking about trying to write,’ he said.
‘I’m just going to bring it along in case inspiration hits … though I’d say that’s about as likely as an asteroid hitting Popham Beach.’
‘Promise me you won’t even think about writing for at least two weeks.’
I promised Eric that. I kept the promise. Because as soon as I reached Maine, I gave in to indolence. The cottage was pleasant, in a shabby genteel sort of way. It was also still suffering from late winter damp - but several days of constant wood-burning in the fireplace (coupled with the judicious use of two smelly, but effective kerosene heaters) dried it out and made it supremely cozy. I spent the days doing very little. After sleeping late, I might lounge all morning in bed with a novel, or collapse into the saggy, comfortable easy-chair by the fireplace, and leaf through ten years of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning back issues - which I discovered stacked inside a wooden chest that also served as a coffee table. At night, I might listen to the radio - especially if Toscanini and the NBC Symphony were playing - while reading into the early hours of the morning. Every time I got the urge to write Jack, I resisted it. My typewriter remained closed, and hidden from view in a closet in the bedroom.
But, of course, the centerpiece of every day was the long walk I took down Popham Beach.
The beach was three miles long. The summer colony was at its most northerly end - a cluster of weatherbeaten clapboard and shingle houses, set back a good half-mile from the water’s edge. The colony was the only hint of habitation in the area. Because once you walked out of its beachfront gates and turned right, all you could se
e was a vast open vista of sea, sky and pure white sand.
It was April - so the beach was totally deserted. It was also that seasonal interregnum between winter and spring, marked by hard blue skies and a bracing chill. I’d bundle up against the cold, step out on to the sand, and would immediately feel something close to exhilaration. The wind was sharp, the air briny, the horizon limitless. I’d walk the three miles to that extreme southerly point where the sand ended. Then I’d turn around and head for home. On average, this round trip would take me two hours. During the course of this hike, my mind would inevitably empty. Maybe it was the epic grandeur of the Maine coast. Maybe it was the sense of isolation, the primal force of wind and water, the total lack of another human voice. Whatever the reason, Dr Ballensweig was right. Walking a beach was a restorative act. The sadness I felt - the sense of loss - didn’t suddenly evaporate. But gradually, a certain equilibrium returned. With it came the dissipation of the emotional fever that had vexed me for the past few months. No, I didn’t suddenly feel wise, knowing and sage about the febrile foolishness of all-consuming love. Rather, I felt blessedly flat, tired, and pleased to be free of life’s ongoing eventfulness. For the first juncture in my life, I was spending an extended period of time by myself - and I liked it.
I had no contact with anyone - except the housekeeper, Ruth Reynolds. She was a large, cheerful woman in her late thirties. Her husband, Roy, was a welder at the nearby Bath Iron Works, they had a gaggle of kids, and in between keeping her large family organized, she picked up a little extra money as caretaker of the half-dozen cottages at Popham Beach. I was the only resident in the colony at this time of year, so Ruth lavished attention on me. The cottage had a bicycle - which I’d occasionally use to get to the nearest shop (a hilly five-mile pedal down a back road). Most of the time, however, Ruth insisted on driving me to the town of Bath to get groceries. And every Thursday night, I had a standing invitation to eat dinner with her family.
Their house was around a mile down the road from the colony - a different world from the battered gentility of this patrician enclave. Ruth and Roy lived with their five children in a cramped, tumbledown three-bedroom Cape Codder. It needed a paint job - both inside and out. Roy - a big bear of a man, with biceps like the steel girders he spent the day welding - was friendly in a shy sort of way. Their kids - ranging in ages from seventeen to five - generated extraordinary amounts of spirited chaos, yet Ruth was a real master at keeping their collective domestic life in order.
Dinner was always at five thirty. The young kids were in bed by seven. The two teenage boys then huddled in front of the radio in the kitchen, listening to Buck Rogers or The Shadow. Roy would excuse himself to start his night shift at the Iron Works. Ruth would dig out a bottle of Christian Brothers Port from the breakfront, pour out two glasses, then sit opposite me in a big squishy armchair.
It became a weekly ritual, this Thursday dinner.
‘You know why I like to have you over on Thursday nights?’ Ruth said to me as we settled into our chairs and sipped the sweet sticky port. ‘Because it’s the only day of the week when Roy works the eight-to-four a.m. shift. Which means it’s the only time I have the chance to sit down with a girlfriend and natter.’
‘I’m glad you consider me a girlfriend.’
‘Of course I do. And I tell you, I wish I could see more of you. But five kids and a house to run leaves me just about enough time every day to sleep six hours - and not much more.’
‘Well, you’ll be seeing a bit more of me, as I’ve decided to extend my stay at the cottage for a few more weeks.’
Ruth clinked her glass against mine.
‘Glad you’re sticking around for a while,’ she said.
‘Well, it’s not as if anyone’s desperate for my presence at Life.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes, I do’ - and I explained that, a few days earlier, I telegrammed my boss, Leland McGuire, explaining that I wanted to remain on in Maine, but would return to New York instantly if a freelance assignment came up. Twenty-four hours later came his reply, via Western Union:
We know where you are if we need you. Stop. Leland.
‘That’s kind of a terse answer, isn’t it?’ Ruth said.
‘But wholly expected. Around six months from now, I fully expect to be out of a job.’
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t be worried.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you’re obviously smart, and you’ve also got a lot of poise.’
‘I’m hardly poised. If you only knew the mistakes I’ve made recently …’
‘I bet they weren’t really big mistakes.’
‘Believe me, they were big. I let something foolishly overwhelm me.’
‘Something?’
‘No … someone.’
‘I did wonder if that was the case …’
‘Is it that obvious?’
‘No one comes to Maine at this time of year unless they’re really trying to put some distance between themselves and a problem.’
‘It wasn’t a problem. Just the height of foolishness. Especially as it lasted just one night. And like an idiot, I allowed myself to believe it was true love.’
‘But if you thought that, then maybe it was.’
‘Or maybe it was just pure fantasy on my part. Falling in love with love.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In Europe - with the Army. I’ve written to him so many damn times … but so far, there’s been no reply.’
‘You know what you have to do, don’t you?’
‘Forget him, I suppose.’
‘Oh, you’ll never do that. He’ll always be there - because he made such an impact on you.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘It’s simple: tell yourself it wasn’t meant to be.’
‘You know what you have to do, don’t you?’ That sentence stuck with me - because it summed up one of life’s ongoing dilemmas: how do you reconcile the head with the heart? My rational brain told me to accept the reality that Jack Malone had come and gone out of my life within twelve hours. My irrational heart said otherwise. What astounded me was how persuasive the heart could be - especially since, before that Thanksgiving night, I considered myself immune to all things illogical. But now …
Now I knew otherwise.
The morning after that talk with Ruth, I was up at dawn. I ate a light breakfast. I walked the beach. I was back in the cottage by nine. I put a pot of coffee on the stove. While it percolated, I went into the bedroom and removed my Remington typewriter from the closet. I hauled it over to the kitchen table. I removed its cover. A thin packet of typing paper was stored on the inside cover. I opened the packet, and fed a sheet of paper into the roller. The coffee pot began to jerk spasmodically back and forth on the stove. I turned down the flame and poured myself a thick black cup of steaming Chock Full O’ Nuts. I set the cup next to the typewriter. I sat down. I blew on the coffee, then took a long, steadying sip. I put the cup down. I placed my fingers over the keys. They immediately clenched up into fists. I forced myself to unclench them. Before I could think further about it, I suddenly typed a sentence:
I hadn’t planned to be at that party.
My hands left the keys. They ended up on the table, my fingers drumming its stripped pine surface as I read that sentence again and again. After a few minutes, I decided to try a second sentence.
I had planned to be elsewhere.
My fingers jumped away from the typewriter and continued their rat-a-tat hammering on the table-top. I sipped the coffee. I stared at the two sentences emblazoned on the otherwise empty page. I decided to risk a third sentence:
The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) Page 20
