The Pursuit of Happiness (2001)

by Douglas Kennedy

  Get well soon … From the staff of the Maine Gazette.

  I didn’t expect an effusive note. But the generic quality of the message made me wonder whether Mr Howell had discovered the real reason behind my medical emergency.

  Dr Bolduck informed me that - due to my surgical wounds and the amount of blood I had lost - I could expect to spend ten more days in the care of Brunswick Hospital. I was anxious about missing my forthcoming deadlines for the column - and put a call through to the editor’s office. For the first time since I started writing for the Maine Gazette, Mr Howell didn’t take my call. Instead his secretary got on the line - and informed me that the editor was ‘in a meeting’, but that he wanted me to have the next two weeks off, ‘at full pay’.

  ‘That’s very generous of Mr Howell,’ I said. ‘Please thank him for me.’

  I spent much of the next ten days in a post-operative blur. Even though the worst of the pain had dissipated, I let it be known that I was in serious physical discomfort. I must have sounded convincing to Dr Bolduck and the nursing staff, as they kept my morphine bag topped up. There are moments in life when certain things shouldn’t be confronted; when you don’t want clarity, forthrightness, the truth. This was one of them. Every time I felt myself veering towards terrible lucidity, I reached for the morphine plunger. I knew that, at the end of ten days, I would have to get out of this bed, and continue my life. Until then, however, I craved chemical denial.

  Ruth dropped in every other day. She brought home-made oatmeal cookies, and magazines, and a bottle of Christian Brothers brandy.

  ‘Who needs brandy when you’ve got this?’ I said, brandishing the morphine plunger.

  ‘Whatever works,’ she said with a worried smile.

  She offered to collect my mail for me. ‘No mail, no newspapers, nothing tangible. I’m on a vacation from everything.’

  I could see her eyeing the plunger in my hand. ‘Is that stuff helping things?’ she asked.

  ‘You bet,’ I said. ‘In fact, I might get it installed on tap in my apartment.’

  ‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said. Her tone was so pleasant that I knew she was humoring me. ‘You sure you don’t need anything?’

  ‘I do need something.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘A complete memory loss.’

  Two days before I was discharged, one of the nurses rolled away the morphine drip.

  ‘Hey! I need that,’ I said.

  ‘Not anymore,’ she said.

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Dr Bolduck.’

  ‘But what about the pain?’

  ‘We’ll be giving you some pills …’

  ‘Pills aren’t the same.’

  ‘They do the job.’

  ‘Not as well as the morphine.’

  ‘You don’t need the morphine.’

  ‘Oh yes I do.’

  ‘Then take it up with the doctor.’

  The pills diminished the pain, but they certainly didn’t dispatch me to Never-Never Land like the morphine. I couldn’t sleep. I spent the night watching the hospital ward ceiling. Somewhere near dawn, I decided that I hated this life. It was too agonizing, too appallingly fragile. Everything hurt too much. It was best to make an exit now. Because I knew full well that once the morphine had drained out of my system, I would enter a realm beyond endurance. All reserves of strength, stoicism, resilience had been depleted. I didn’t want to grapple anymore with such ruthless sorrow. I couldn’t face the idea of living in a state of permanent anguish. So the alternative was a simple one: permanent escape.

  The nurse had left two painkillers by my bedside if I needed them during the night. I would ask Dr Bolduck for an extra-large prescription to take with me when I checked out of here. I would go home. I would open a bottle of decent whiskey. I would chase all the pills with copious amounts of J&B. Then I would tie a bag round my head, sealing all potential air leaks with tape. I’d get into bed. The pill-and-Scotch cocktail would knock me out. I’d quietly smother to death in my sleep.

  I reached for the two pills. I swallowed them. I continued to stare at the ceiling. I suddenly felt rather wonderful, knowing that I would only have to cope with forty-eight hours more of life. I began to organize to-do lists in my mind. I would have to make certain my will was up-to-date. No doubt, there would be a local lawyer in town who could offer me express service … as long as I didn’t let on that the new will would be in probate only a day after I signed it. I would have to decide on funeral arrangements. No religious send-off. No memorials. Maybe a listing in the New York Times obituary, so a few people back in Manhattan would be informed of my demise. But definitely no organized memorial service. Just a local cremation here in Maine, and the local undertakers could do what the hell they wanted with my ashes. And my money? My so-called estate? Leave it all to …

  Who?

  There was no one. No husband. No family. No child. No loved ones.

  Loved ones. What a facile expression to describe the most central need in life. But who were my loved ones? To whom would I bequeath my estate? I was flying solo. My death would mean nothing. It would hurt no one … so my suicide would not be a selfish or vengeful act. It would simply be a drastic, but necessary form of pain relief.

  The painkillers kicked in. I fell into a deep sleep. I woke sometime during mid-morning. I felt curiously calm, almost elated. I had a plan, a future, a destination.

  Dr Bolduck came around that afternoon. He checked my war wounds. He seemed pleased with the healing process. He asked me about the pain. I complained of a constant nasty ache.

  ‘How are those pills working?’ he asked.

  ‘I miss the morphine.’

  ‘I bet you do. Which is why there’s no way I’m letting you near it again. I don’t want you leaving here thinking you’re Thomas de Quincey.’

  ‘I think opium was his substance of choice.’

  ‘Hey, I’m a doctor, not a literary critic. But I do know morphine is addictive.’

  ‘You will give me something for the pain.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll give you a week’s supply of those pills. Within three or four days, the pain should finally vanish, so I doubt you’ll need them all.’

  ‘That’s good to know.’

  ‘How are you faring otherwise?’

  ‘Surprisingly all right.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s a difficult time, but I’m coping.’

  ‘Don’t be surprised if you feel depressed. It’s a common reaction.’

  ‘I’ll be vigilant,’ I said.

  He then said that I could go home tomorrow. I called Ruth and asked if she could pick me up in the morning. She was there at nine. She helped me into her car. She brought me back to my apartment. It had been cleaned the day before. There were fresh sheets on the bed. Ruth had gone shopping, and the larder was stocked with basic provisions. A small pile of mail was on my kitchen table. I decided it could all remain unopened.

  Ruth asked me if there was anything else she could do for me.

  ‘There’s a prescription from Dr Bolduck …’

  ‘No problem,’ she said, taking the scrawled form from my hand. ‘I’ll just pop down to the druggist on Maine Street and get it filled right away. Don’t want you in pain, after all.’

  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.