The Pursuit of Happiness (2001)

by Douglas Kennedy

  That column (written in one of my flippant H.L. Mencken-esque moods) caused my phone to ring off the hook for a few days - as it was picked up by the Paris correspondent of the very conservative San Francisco Chronicle, who used large quotes from it in a piece he wrote about the sort of anti-American rubbish that was being printed in an allegedly respectable paper like the Paris Herald-Tribune. Before I knew it, I was back in Walter Winchell’s column:

  News Flash: Sara Smythe, one-time yuckster for Saturday Night/Sunday Morning and recent professional American-in-Paris, is back in Gotham City … but not too happily. According to our spies, she’s churning out a column featuring a lot of cheap cracks about Our Way of Life for all those bitter expats who choose to live away from these great shores. Memo to Miss Smythe: if you don’t like it here, why not try Moscow?

  Four years earlier, Winchell’s smear would have killed all potential employment prospects in New York. How times had changed - for now, I received a series of calls from editors whom I used to know around town during the late forties and early fifties, asking if I’d like to have lunch and talk things over.

  ‘But, according to Winchell,’ I told Imogen Woods, my former editor at Saturday/Sunday (now the number two at Harper’s), ‘I’m still the Emma Goldman of West Seventy-Seventh Street.’

  ‘Honey,’ Imogen said, digging into her Biltmore Hotel cobb salad, and simultaneously signaling to the waiter for more drinks, ‘Walter Winchell is yesterday’s chopped liver. In fact, you should be pleased Winchell took another swing at you. Because it’s how I found out you were back in New York.’

  ‘I was surprised to get your call,’ I said carefully.

  ‘I was really glad you agreed to meet me. Because … and I’m being totally honest here … I was ashamed of myself when Saturday/Sunday let you go. I should have stuck up for you. I should have insisted that someone else give you the news. But I was scared. Terrified of losing my lousy little job. And I hated myself for being such a coward. But I still went along with them. And that will always weigh on my conscience.’

  ‘Don’t let it.’

  ‘It will. And when I read about your brother’s death …’

  I cut her off before she could say anything more.

  ‘We’re here now,’ I said. ‘And we’re talking. That’s what counts.’

  By the end of that lunch, I was the new Harper’s film critic. The phone continued to ring at home. The book editor of the New York Times offered me reviewing work. So too did his counterpart at the New Republic. And a commissioning editor at Cosmopolitan arranged a lunch meeting, telling me she’d love to revive the ‘Real Life’ column - ‘only tailored to today’s sophisticated fifties woman’.

  I accepted the reviewing work. I turned down the Cosmopolitan offer, on the grounds that my erstwhile column was erstwhile. But when the editor asked if I’d like to do a lucrative six-month stint as the magazine’s agony aunt - I accepted on the spot. Because I was about the last person in the world who should be giving out sensible advice.

  The Cosmopolitan editor - Alison Finney - took me to lunch at the Stork Club. While we were eating, Winchell came in. The Stork Club had always been his haunt, his outer office - and though everyone in New York now considered Winchell’s power to be on the wane (as Imogen Woods had told me), he still commanded the most highly visible of all corner tables, furnished with its very own telephone. Alison nudged me and said, ‘There’s your greatest fan.’ I shrugged. We finished our lunch. Alison excused herself and disappeared off to the Ladies’. Without thinking about what I was doing, I suddenly stood up and walked towards Winchell’s table. He was correcting some copy, so he didn’t see me approach.

  ‘Mr Winchell?’ I said pleasantly.

  He looked up and quickly scrutinized my face. When it was clear I wasn’t worth his attention, he picked up his pencil and glanced back down at his copy.

  ‘Do I know you, young lady?’ he said, a hint of gruffness in his voice.

  ‘Actually you do,’ I said. ‘But you know my brother even better.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What’s his name?’

  ‘Eric Smythe.’

  I could tell that the name didn’t register, as he pursed his lips for a second, then continued making a correction.

  ‘And how’s Eric?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s dead, Mr Winchell’

  His pencil stopped for a moment, but his eyes remained fixed on his copy.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ he said, sounding dismissive. ‘My condolences.’

  ‘You don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?’

  He said nothing. He continued to ignore me.

  ‘“He may be Marty Manning’s best scribe … but he used to be a Red.” You wrote that about my brother, Mr Winchell. He lost his job after that, and ended up drinking himself to death. And you don’t even remember his name.’

  Winchell now glanced up - in the direction of the maitre d’.

  ‘Sam,’ he shouted, pointing towards me. I continued speaking - the tone of my voice remaining conversational, strangely calm.

  ‘And I bet you don’t even remember me, do you? Even though you wrote about me just a week ago. I’m the Sara Smythe who, “according to our spies, is churning out a column featuring a lot of cheap cracks about Our Way of Life for all those bitter expats who choose to live away from these great shores. Memo to Miss Smythe: if you don’t like it here, why not try Moscow?” Amazing how I can quote you chapter and verse, Mr Winchell.’

  I felt a hand touch my arm. It was Sam, the maitre d’.

  ‘Miss, would you mind going back to your table, please?’ he asked.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ I said, then turned back to Winchell. ‘I just wanted to thank you for that recent mention, Mr Winchell. You wouldn’t believe how many work offers I’ve had since you wrote about me. It just shows how much clout you still wield these days.’

  Then I turned and headed back to my table. I said nothing to Alison about what had just happened when she returned from the Ladies’. I just suggested we order a final round of drinks. Alison agreed, and motioned to the waiter to freshen up our gimlets. Then she said, ‘I bet you Winchell will now write something about you drinking too much at lunchtime.’

  ‘That man can write whatever the hell he wants,’ I said. ‘He can’t hurt me anymore.’

  But, after our one and only meeting, Walter Winchell never mentioned me in his column again.

  Still, he really had been most useful on the professional front. I now had so much work on hand that I was pleased when the phone eventually went quiet again. It allowed me to get on with a large backlog of assignments. As always, I especially liked writing over the weekends - as it was a time when all my assorted editors weren’t working, and when the vast majority of my friends were with their families. Sunday, in fact, was the one day I was assured of never getting a single call - which also made it the perfect day to work straight through without distraction.

  Until the phone rang one Sunday morning in May at the early hour of nine. I reached for it.

  ‘Sara?’

  My pulse spiked. The phone shook in my hand. I had been wondering if this call would ever come. Now it had.

  ‘Are you still there?’ the voice asked.

  A long pause. I wanted to hang up. I didn’t.

  ‘I’m here, Jack.’

  Fourteen

  ‘SO,’ HE SAID.

  ‘So,’ I said.

  ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Fine.’

  He didn’t sound fine. His voice was constricted, diminished. He was as nervous as I was. I heard street noises in the background.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘The corner of Seventy-Seventh and Broadway.’

  Just like old times, I thought. Sneaking out of the house to phone me.

  ‘Are you busy right now?’ he asked.

  ‘Kind o
f. I’ve got a deadline …’

  ‘Oh. Too bad.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s just … well, work.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘How did you know I was back in town?’

  ‘Walter Winchell.’

  ‘My biggest admirer.’

  He laughed - but the laugh quickly transformed into a cough. It took him a moment to bring it under control.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I asked

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a little bronchial infection …’

  ‘You shouldn’t be standing on a cold street corner …’

  ‘Well, it was my turn to take the baby out.’

  That took a minute to sink in.

  ‘You have a baby?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. A daughter. Kate.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Seventeen months.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  Another pause.

  ‘Well …’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sara … Meet me. Please.’

  ‘Jack, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘It’s been four years.’

  ‘I know, but …’

  ‘Four years. That’s a long time. I’m asking for nothing. I just want to see you. Half an hour of your time. No more.’

  The phone started shaking again in my hand. I finally said, ‘Gitlitz’s in ten minutes.’

  I hung up. I stood by the phone, unable to move. A baby. A daughter. Kate. No …

  I wanted to flee. To pack a bag, and run to Penn Station, and catch the next train to …

  Where?

  Where could I run to this time? And even when I got there, he’d still be with me. As always.

  I resisted the temptation of a steadying slug of Scotch. I forced myself into the bathroom. I stared at myself in the mirror. He’ll think I look older … because I am older. I brushed my teeth. I quickly applied lipstick. I brushed my hair. I put down the brush. I gripped the sink, trying to steady myself. The urge to flee hit me again. I forced myself out of the bathroom. I put on my coat. I left the apartment. It had started to snow outside. I turned my collar up against the cold. I lowered my head. I marched the two blocks east to Gitlitz’s.

  When I entered the deli, the first thing I saw was a large blue baby carriage parked by a booth. I approached the booth. Jack was sitting there, both hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, staring down into its black surface. He didn’t notice my initial arrival. This was fortunate - as it gave me a moment to absorb the shock of his appearance. He had lost a frightening amount of weight. His cheeks were hollow, his skin pasty. His hair had thinned. His eyes radiated fatigue. He did not look well. He had aged twenty years since I’d last seen him.

  He glanced up. His eyes met mine. He attempted a smile, but he couldn’t bring it off. I tried to smile back - but I could see that he registered my alarm at his condition. Instantly, he slid out of the booth and got to his feet. Standing up, the severity of his weight loss was even more disturbing. He reached for me with both hands, then thought better of it, and proffered his right one. I took it. It felt thin, emaciated. His eyes were locked on me. I found it difficult to meet his gaze.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘You look wonderful.’

  I didn’t supply the normal refrain - ‘You do too’ - because it was impossible to do so. Instead, I looked down into the baby carriage. Kate was asleep - a pretty, chubby baby in a snowsuit, covered by a thick plaid blanket. I reached into the carriage. I stroked one of her hands. Instinctively, it opened. Her tiny finger closed around my pinky. I stood there, trying to hold everything in check.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ I said.

  He stood by my side and looked down with me.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she is that.’

  ‘Dorothy and you must be very pleased.’

  He nodded, then motioned for me to take a seat. I gently disengaged my pinky from her hand. I slid into the booth. He sat down opposite me. He ordered more coffee. His hands curved around his cup again. We said nothing for a while. He finally spoke, his eyes focused on the table.

  ‘This is … I was always wondering … I … I’m glad to see you, Sara.’

  I didn’t know what to say. So I stayed quiet.

  ‘I don’t blame you for hating me,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t hate you.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Maybe. For a while. But … hate is a hard thing to sustain. Grief isn’t. Grief is something that can stay with you for a very long time.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘There have been periods over the last four years when I thought: will it ever get bearable?’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘No. Never. I missed you every hour of every day.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And your grief for Eric. Did it ever … ?

  ‘Dissipate? No. But I learned to live with it. Just as I learned to live with my grief for you.’

  He looked up at me again.

  ‘You grieved for me? he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Endlessly.’

  He stared at me with wounded bemusement.

  ‘But … you refused to talk to me.’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘And you never read my letters?’

  ‘That’s right, they were never opened.’

  ‘Then how can you say …’

  ‘That I missed you all the time? Because I did. Because I loved you. More than anyone.’

  He put his head in his hands. ‘Then why the hell didn’t you let me make contact, Sara?’

  ‘Because … I couldn’t. The grief was too big. I loved you so damn much that, when you betrayed Eric and me … when Eric died … I couldn’t face you. What had happened was just too terrible. What made it even more terrible was … the fact that I understood why you had to do what you did. How you’d been put in an appalling situation; a situation in which it would have been easy to panic, to make a very wrong call. But that still … still … didn’t lessen the repercussions of your choice. Because it took away the two people I valued most.’

  The coffee arrived. He continued looking down at the table. He said, ‘Do you know how often I’ve replayed that scene in my head?’