“Why the hell not? The Greys have got the money. Medically speaking, they’re partially to blame for what happened to you. More to the point, this is a good deal for them. Once they pay you off, they’ll never have another responsibility toward you again . . . which is how you wanted it, right?”
“Yes, but . . . I had agreed to the sum of twenty-five.”
“That’s until you hired a lawyer. And trust me on this one: they owe you.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Just take the money . . . and don’t feel any guilt about it.”
“At least let me pay you more than a hundred and twenty dollars.”
“Why? That’s my fee.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you. I had great fun finally winning one against Edwin-goddamn-Grey. The agreement should be here tomorrow, so I’ll call you when it’s ready for signature. And here’s another little bit of good news: they’re gonna give you the entire thirty-five grand right now, on the condition that you don’t contest the divorce.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that?”
“That’s what I told him. So, there we go. Happy?”
“Overwhelmed.”
“Don’t be. But if you wouldn’t mind a small piece of advice, Miss Smythe?”
“Please.”
“As we used to say in Brooklyn, spend the money smart.”
I heeded that advice. When the payment came through a month later, I put it in the bank and went shopping. For an apartment. It only took a week to find what I was looking for: a sunny one-bedroom place on the first floor of a turn-of-the-century brownstone on West 77th Street off Riverside Drive. The apartment was spacious, with three bright rooms, high ceilings, hardwood floors. There was a small alcove area off the living room which would make a perfect study. But the best selling point—the thing that made me want the place immediately—was the fact that it had its own private garden. All right, it was only a ten by ten patch of cracked paving stones and dead grass—but I knew I could do wonderful things with it. More tellingly, I would have my own private garden in the center of Manhattan—a little dash of green in the middle of all that high-rise concrete and brick. True, the walls of the apartment were covered in heavy brown floral wallpaper. And yes, the kitchen was a little old-fashioned—it had an antiquated ice box that actually required regular deliveries from the local ice man. But the real estate broker said that she’d be willing to shave $300 off the asking price of $8,000 to compensate for the renovations I would need to make. I told her to add another $200 to that figure, and we’d have a deal. She agreed. As it was a brownstone, I didn’t have to be vetted by the board of the cooperative. There was just a monthly maintenance fee of twenty dollars. I used Joel Eberts again to handle the legal work. I paid cash. I owned the apartment a week after I saw it.
“My sister the property owner,” Eric said archly while looking around the apartment only a few days before I closed the deal.
“Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me a bourgeois capitalist.”
“I’m not being ideological—just wry. There is a difference, you know.”
“Really? I never realized that, comrade.”
“Shhh . . .”
“Stop being paranoid. I doubt Mr. Hoover’s bugged this apartment. I mean, the previous owner was a little old Latvian lady . . .”
“To Hoover, everyone’s a possible subversive. Haven’t you read what’s been going on in Washington? A bunch of congressmen are screaming about Reds under the Bed in Hollywood. Calling for a committee to investigate Communist infiltration of the entertainment industry.”
“That’s just Hollywood.”
“Believe me, if the Congress starts trying to dig up Commies in L.A., then it’ll just be a matter of time before they turn their attention to New York.”
“Like I told you before—if that happens, all you’ll have to tell them is that you left the Party in forty-one, and you’ll be in the clear. Anyway, you can always tell the Feds you have this archcapitalist, property-owning sister . . .”
“Very funny.”
“Give it to me straight, Eric: do you like the place?”
He glanced again around the empty living room.
“Yeah—it’s got great potential. Especially once you get rid of that Eastern European wallpaper. What do you think it’s depicting? Springtime in Riga?”
“I don’t know—but along with the kitchen, it’s going before I set foot in here.”
“Are you sure about living on the Upper West Side? I mean, it’s kind of quiet up here in the Dakotas.”
“I’ll tell you, the only thing I miss about Old Greenwich is the sense of open space. That’s why I like it up here. I’m a minute from Riverside Park. I’ve got the Hudson. I’ve got my garden . . .”
“Stop it, or you’re going to start sounding like Thoreau at Walden Pond.”
I laughed, then said, “After I pay for this place and do it up, I should still have around thirty-two thousand in the bank—that’s including the inheritance money from Mother and Father, which I put into government bonds.”
“Unlike your profligate brother.”
“Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The real estate agent who sold me this place told me there was another apartment going on the third floor. So why don’t you let me buy it for you and . . .”
He cut me off. “No way,” he said.
“Don’t be so dismissive of the idea. I mean, that place of yours on Sullivan Street really isn’t the best . . .”
“It suits me fine. It’s all I need.”
“Come on, Eric—it’s a student place. It’s like bad La Bohème—and you’re nearly thirty-five years old.”
“I know exactly how old I am, S,” he said crossly. “Just as I also know what I need or don’t need. What I don’t need is your damn charity, understand?”
His harsh tone stunned me.
“I was only making a suggestion. I mean, I know you don’t like the Upper West Side, so if you saw a place downtown you wanted to buy . . .”
“I want nothing from you, S.”
“But why? I can help you.”
“Because I don’t want help. Because needing help makes me feel like a loser.”
“You know I don’t think that about you.”
“But I think that. So . . . thanks, but no thanks.”
“At least consider it.”
“No. Case closed. But here’s a practical tip from an impractical guy: find yourself a smart stockbroker and let him invest that thirty-two grand in blue chips: GE, General Motors, RCA, that kind of thing. Rumor has it IBM is also a smart bet—although they’re still finding their feet as a company.”
“I didn’t know you followed the market, Eric.”
“Sure—former Marxist-Leninists always pick the best stocks.”
When the apartment became mine a few days later, I hired a decorator to strip the wallpaper, replaster the walls, and paint them a plain flat white. I also had him design a simple modern kitchen, featuring a new Amana refrigerator. All the work cost $600—and for that all-inclusive price, he also agreed to sand and revarnish the hardwood floors, build two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the living room, and retile the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it too went white. The remaining $400 of my decorating budget was spent on furniture: an antique brass bed, a tall ash chest of drawers, a simple Knoll sofa upholstered in a neutral beige fabric, a big cushy easy chair (also covered in the same fabric), a large pine table which would serve as a desk. It was amazing what you could buy with $400 back then—my budget also stretched to a couple of throw rugs, a few table lights, and a chrome kitchen table with two matching chairs.
The redecoration took around a month. All the furniture arrived on the morning the painters finally moved out. By nightfall—thanks to Eric’s assistance—I had the place set up. I spent the next few days buying essentials like plates and glasses and cutlery and towels. I also exc
eeded my budget by a hundred and fifty dollars to invest in a state-of-the-art RCA radio and phonograph—all housed in one large mahogany cabinet. It was an indulgence, but a necessary one.
There were very few material things I craved. After reading in Life about the RCA Home Concert Hall (yes, that was its actual name), I knew I was going to buy it . . . even though it cost a ferocious $149.95. And now here it was—sitting in a corner of an apartment I owned outright, blaring the opening movement of Brahms’s Third Symphony. I was surrounded by the first furniture I had ever bought in my life. Suddenly I had possessions. Suddenly I felt very grown up—and very empty.
“Penny for them,” Eric said, handing me a glass of celebratory fizzy wine.
“I’m just a little bemused, that’s all.”
“Bemused that you are the mistress of all you survey?”
“Bemused that I’ve ended up here, with all this.”
“It could be worse. You could still be a resident of the Grey Penal Colony in Old Greenwich.”
“Yes—divorce does have its rewards, I guess.”
“You’re feeling guilty about all this. I can tell.”
“I know this sounds stupid, but I keep telling myself that it’s not right I’ve been handed this without . . .”
“What? Suffering? Martyrdom? Crucifixion?”
I laughed. “Yes,” I said. “Something extreme and punitive like that.”
“I love a masochist. Anyway, S—as far as I’m concerned, thirty-five grand doesn’t even begin to compensate you for the fact that you’ll never . . .”
“Stop,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s my problem. I will come to terms with it.”
He put an arm around my shoulder.
“You don’t have to come to terms with it,” he said.
“Yes. I do. Otherwise . . .”
“What?”
“Otherwise I’ll do something very stupid . . . like turning this into the central tragedy of my life. Which I don’t want it to be. I’m not cut out to play the lamentable heroine. It’s simply not my style.”
“At least give yourself some time to come to terms with things. It’s only been two months.”
“I’m doing fine,” I lied. “I’m doing just fine.”
In truth, I wasn’t doing badly. Because I was also working hard at filling every hour of the day. After moving into the apartment, I set up meetings with half a dozen different stockbrokers, before settling on Lawrence Braun—the husband of an old Bryn Mawr friend, Virginia Sweet. She’d married Lawrence straight out of college, and was now coping with three under-fives in a rambling colonial house in Ossining. But it wasn’t the connection with Virginia that made me give Lawrence my business—rather, the fact that he was the only stockbroker I met who didn’t patronize me, or say things like: “Now I know you ladies really don’t have much of a head for figures . . . except when it comes to girdle sizes, ha! ha!” (yes, that really was commonplace male wit in 1947). On the contrary, Lawrence questioned me carefully about my long-term financial goals (security, security, and more security), and my attitude toward risk (to be avoided at all costs).
“Do you want this money to provide an immediate income for you?” he asked.
“Absolutely not,” I said. “I’m planning to go back to work as soon as possible. I refuse to be the so-called lady of leisure. It’s a waste of a life.”
“And if marriage happens again for you?”
“It won’t. Ever.”
He thought about that one for a moment, then said, “Fine. Then let’s think very long term.”
His financial plan was a straightforward one. My five thousand dollars in government bonds would be moved into a pension plan that would mature when I was sixty. Twenty thousand dollars would be used to acquire a portfolio of blue-chip stocks—with the aim of achieving at least six percent growth per annum. The remaining five thousand would be mine to play with—or to live on while I found work.
“All going well, you will have quite a substantial war chest behind you by the time you’re into middle age. Add to this the fact that you will be sitting on an appreciable asset—a completely paid-off apartment—and it looks like you will be financially dependent on no one.”
That was what I wanted—complete independence. Never again would I allow myself to be dependent on someone else. I wasn’t slamming the door on men, or sex, or the possibility of falling in love. But there was no damn way I was going to stumble into a situation where I would be reliant on a man for my sense of self, my social status, or the cash in my pocket. From now on, I would be an autonomous unit: self-sufficient, unimpeded, unattached.
So I agreed to Lawrence’s financial plan. Checks were written, investments made. Though I now had five thousand dollars in my bank account—to spend however I wanted—I forced myself to be prudent, determined not to squander it on frivolities. Because money now meant independence. Or, at least, the illusion of independence.
After sorting out my financial situation, I paid a call to Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. Nathaniel Hunter’s appalling successor had only lasted a few months in the job. She’d been replaced by a tiny, impish woman named Imogen Woods—a real Dorothy Parker type who was known for her long lunches, her perpetual hangovers, and her spot-on taste in fiction. When I called her office, she told me to drop by the next afternoon around five. She was sitting in an armchair next to her desk, correcting some proof pages from the magazine. A Pall Mall was smoldering in an already brimming ashtray. A highball was in one hand, a pencil in the other. She had a pair of half-moon glasses on the end of her nose, through which she studied me with care.
“So—another refugee from married life,” she said.
“News obviously travels fast.”
“Hey—it’s a magazine. Which, in turn, means it’s filled with people who think they’re doing something important, but secretly know they’re doing nothing of importance, and therefore like nothing better than gossiping about other people’s more interesting lives.”
“My life isn’t particularly interesting.”
“A marriage that only lasts five months is always interesting. The shortest of my three marital disasters lasted six months.”
“And the longest?”
“A year and a half.”
“Impressive.”
She cackled loudly, exhaling a lungful of smoke. “Yeah—like hell. So, tell me—when are you going to write another story for us? I dug your first one out of the file. Pretty damn good. Where’s the next one?”
I explained that I considered myself a one-hit wonder—that I had tried writing fiction again, but found that I had nothing to say.
“So that’s really going to be your only story?” she asked.
“I think so, yes.”
“He must have been quite a guy, your sailor.”
“He was fictitious.”
She threw back her highball.
“Yeah—and I’m Rita Hayworth. Anyway, I’m not going to pry, much as I’d like to. How can I help?”
“I know my old job is filled, but I was wondering if I might be able to do a little freelance reading for you . . .”
“No problem,” she said. “Ever since the goddamn war ended, everyone in America’s decided they’re a writer. We’re deluged with unsolicited crap. So we’d be happy to throw around twenty manuscripts your way each week. We pay three bucks a report. It ain’t a fortune, but it should pay for some groceries. Your friend Emily Flouton was telling me that you’ve just moved into your own place.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“So tell me about it,” she said.
I did as instructed, explaining a bit about how I threw myself into apartment hunting after leaving George, how I’d found this place on West 77th Street, and had stripped the apartment bare, redecorating it in neutral tones.
“That’ll work,” she said.
“What will work?”
“Your story about the a
partment. We’ll call it ‘Act Two’ or ‘Starting Over’ or something goddamn similar. What I want from you is a smart, funny account of finding your own place after your marriage got torpedoed.”
“But, like I told you, I’m not writing fiction anymore.”
“And I’m not asking you to write fiction. I’m asking you to be the first contributor to a new slot His Godship the Editor has asked me to develop. He wants to call it ‘Slice of Life’—which shows you the sort of imagination he’s got. But that’s the gist of it—a quick, elegant dispatch from that battlefront called ‘real life.’ A thousand words, no more, the fee is forty bucks, and to make sure you don’t spend too much time sweating over it, I’m going to expect it on my desk five days from now. That’s start of business Monday. Are you clear on that, Smythe?”
I gulped. Loudly. “Are you sure you want me to write this?” I said.
“No—I always waste my time commissioning stuff I really don’t want. Come on, Smythe: are you going to do this or what?”
After a nervous pause, I said, “Yes—I’ll do it.”
“That’s settled then. Meanwhile, I’ll have one of my lackeys dig out twenty new arrivals from the slush pile of The Great Unsolicited Short Story and have them sent over to your place. But do your own story first. And Monday means Monday. Okay?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“No—you’ll do it very well. Because that’s what I’m expecting from you. One final thing—write sharp. I like sharp. Sharp always works.”
Naturally enough, by ten that Sunday night, I had given up hope of making the deadline the next morning. The area around my desk looked like a do-it-yourself snowfall, as it was knee-deep in balled-up typing paper. I was blocked, congealed, mentally barricaded. Over the previous four days, I had tried dozens of different openings to the piece. Each time, I had thrown my hands up in despair, ripped the paper from my Remington, and cursed myself for accepting this commission. I wasn’t a writer—I was a fraud. Someone who’d gotten lucky the first time around, but had been a muse-free zone since then. Worse yet, I knew full well that inspiration only constituted around fifteen percent of the ingredients needed for writing. Craft, diligence, and sheer obstinacy made up the rest of the equation—and I was certainly lacking in all these departments. Because if I didn’t possess the stubbornness—and self-assurance—required to toss off a dumb thousand-word feature about redecorating my new apartment, then how would I ever do this sort of thing professionally?
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