'Take it from a guy who's compromised himself into a corner – we have control over nothing. We think we do, but the truth is: most of the big decisions we make in life are never thought out properly. They're all done quickly, instinctively, and usually out of fear. The next thing you know, you've boxed yourself into a situation you don't want to be in. And you find yourself asking, "how the hell did I get here?" But we all know the answer: we wanted to be here . . . even though we might spend the rest of our lives denying it.'
'So what you're saying is: we trap ourselves.'
'Absolutely. You know that old line from Rousseau: man is born free, but everywhere in chains. Well, in America today, most of the chains are self-imposed . . . courtesy of marriage.'
'I'm never getting married.'
'I've heard that one before. But, believe me, you will. And probably without even thinking too much about it.'
I laughed and said, 'How on earth can you know that?'
'Because it's the way it always happens.'
At the time, I dismissed Nathaniel Hunter's comments as those of a metropolitan cynic – and one who was ruing the approach of middle-age and the loss of his literary prospects. But I also knew of his devotion to his family – and how that probably tempered any professional disappointments he might be bearing. He might be 'in chains', but he secretly liked the chains.
Then, two weeks after Christmas, I came to work one morning to discover a notice posted on the door of the literary department, asking all staff members to attend an urgent meeting in the managing editor's office at ten that morning. Everyone from the department was already gathered by Mr Hunter's desk, speaking in low conspiratorial tones. But Mr Hunter wasn't there.
'What's happened?' I asked as I joined my colleagues.
'You mean you haven't heard?' asked Emily Flouton, one of the other assistant fiction editors.
'Heard what?'
'That our happily married boss just ran off with Jane Yates.'
I blanched with shock. Jane Yates was a quiet, angular-faced woman in her late twenties who worked in Saturday/Sunday's art department. With her sharp features, her long braided hair, and her rimless round glasses, she always looked like the sort of New England librarian who was destined to end up a spinster.
'Mr Hunter ran off with her?' I heard myself saying.
'It's something, isn't it?' Emily said. 'Not only that – he's also quit his job. Rumor has it that he and Jane are planning to move to New Hampshire or Vermont, so he can write full time.'
'But I thought he was happily married.'
Emily rolled her eyes and said, 'Honey, what man is ever happily married? Even if you give the guy complete freedom, he'll still end up feeling trapped.'
I never saw Nat Hunter again. Because he never showed his face again in the offices of Saturday/Sunday. With good reason. In 1947, running out on your marriage was considered a major misdemeanor . . . and one which was punishable by professional demotion, if not ostracization. Had he just continued cheating on his wife, there would have been no problem – as adultery was tolerated (so long as you were never caught). But abandoning your family back then was regarded as immoral and downright unAmerican. In the case of Nat Hunter, it was also mind-boggling. Especially given that the object of his desire was a woman who reminded me of Mrs Danvers in Rebecca.
Most of the big decisions we make in life are never thought out properly. They're all done quickly, instinctively, and usually out of fear. The next thing you know, you've boxed yourself into a situation you don't want to be in.
For months after Mr Hunter's abrupt departure, I kept hearing him make that statement. I myself kept wondering: was the decision to upend his life also made quickly, instinctively, and out of fear? Fear, perhaps, of growing older, and feeling trapped, and never writing the novel he promised himself he'd write?
To the best of my knowledge, even after he vanished to New Hampshire with Jane Yates, he never got his novel published. Word had it he ended up teaching English composition at a small junior college near Franconia – until his death in 1960. 'Liver failure' was the cause given in the short New York Times obituary. He was only fifty-two years old.
But in the immediate aftermath of his departure from Saturday/Sunday, I held in constant remembrance his comments about how we never think through the big things in life. And I vowed to myself: I'll never make that mistake.
Then, in the early spring of 1947, I met a man named George Grey. He was a twenty-eight-year-old investment banker with Lehmann Brothers. Princeton-educated, erudite, courtly, handsome in a square-jawed sort of way, and a good companion. We were introduced at the wedding of one of my Bryn Mawr friends. He asked me out. I accepted. The evening went well. He asked me out again. I accepted again. The evening was even more of a success. George Grey, I decided, was good news. And, much to my surprise, he admitted (after just two dates) that he was besotted with me.
So besotted that – a month after we met – he asked me to marry him.
Did I ponder this decision? Did I ask for time to reflect, contemplate, or muse about the ramifications of this momentous question?
Of course not.
I said yes. Without a moment's thought.
Six
EVERYONE WAS SURPRISED by my news. No one more so than me.
'You're actually marrying a man named Grey?' Eric asked me when I told him about the engagement.
'I knew this is how you'd react,' I said.
'I'm not reacting. I'm just asking a question.'
'Yes, Eric. His name is Grey. Happy now?'
'Thrilled. And . . . let me work this out . . . the first time you mentioned him to me was around two weeks ago. At that point you'd been seeing him for . . . how long was it exactly?'
'Around two weeks,' I said sheepishly.
'So – just one month from the first date to the engagement announcement. He's obviously a fast worker . . . though nothing compared to the Brooklyn Boy.'
'I was just waiting for you to bring him up.'
'That's because he's still lurking around . . .'
'That is not true, damn it.'
'Of course it's true. Why else would you be marrying this other guy?'
'Maybe because I am in love with him.'
'You're talking crap – and you know it. You are not the sort of woman who falls for an investment banker named Grey.'
'I wish you would please stop telling me my own mind. George is a wonderful man. He will make me very happy.'
'He will turn you into somebody you don't want to be.'
'How the hell can you say that, when you've never even met him?'
'Because he's called George Grey, that's how. It's a name that conjures up a pipe and slippers . . . which he'll be asking you to fetch before you know it.'
'I am not a dog,' I said, my voice tightening. 'I fetch things for no one.'
'We all end up doing things we vow never to do . . . especially when we're chasing the illusion of love.'
'This is not a goddamn illusion, Eric!'
'Illusion, delusion, confusion – you could describe your condition in any number of ways
'I am not suffering from a condition . . .'
'Yes, you are. And it's called "trapping yourself . . . in the name of security".'
'Thank you for crediting me with knowing my own mind.'
'No one knows their own mind, S. No one. It's the main reason why we all make such an ongoing mess of things.'
Well, I certainly knew why I was marrying George Grey. Because he was so decent, so dependable, and so enamored of me. We all adore being flattered. Or – better yet – being told that we are special, unique, the best thing that ever happened to somebody. George did this constantly. And I couldn't resist it. Because it was exactly what I wanted to hear.
He was also supportive – especially when it came to the issue of my stalled writing career. Shortly after our engagement was announced, we went out one night with Emily Flouton – who had become one of my good fr
iends at Saturday/Sunday in the wake of Nathaniel Hunter's departure. Emily had just been dumped by her boyfriend of two years – and when I mentioned to George that she was feeling a little fragile, he insisted that she join us for a concert at Carnegie Hall and a late supper afterwards at the Algonquin. Emily and I spent much of the meal discussing Mr Hunter's replacement – a small, angular woman in her early forties named Ida Spenser. She'd been hired away from Collier's as our new boss, and quickly established a reputation within our department for deporting herself like a perpetually inflexible headmistress (of the old-maidish variety), and for slapping down anyone who dared to contradict her rigid way of doing things. We all hated her. As we waited for our food in the Grill Room of the Algonquin, Emily and I engaged in an extended rant about Miss Spenser. George listened with rapt attention . . . even though our office politics were of absolutely no interest to him. But he was always solicitous.
'. . . and then she told me that I had no right to encourage any new authors without her approval,' Emily said. 'Only she can decide whether or not a writer gets a personalized letter of encouragement.'
'She must be a very insecure woman,' George said.
Emily looked at him admiringly. 'How did you know that?' she asked.
'Because George is very insightful about people,' I said.
'Stop flattering me,' he said, squeezing my hand. 'You'll give me a swelled head.'
'You with a swelled head?' I said. 'Not a chance. You're far too nice for that.'
'Now you are going to really make me feel stuck-up,' he said, lightly kissing me on the lips. 'Anyway, the only reason I said that your boss might be insecure is because I used to work for someone like that at the bank. He had to control everything. Every letter to a client, every inter-departmental memorandum had to be personally vetted by him. He was obsessive. Because he was about the most scared person I'd ever met. He lived in terror of delegating to anyone; he felt he could trust no one. And for a very simple reason: he couldn't trust himself.'
'That's our Miss Spenser to a T,' Emily said. 'She's so uncertain about herself that she thinks we're all out to get her. Which, of course, now we all are. What eventually happened to your boss?'
'He was kicked upstairs, and made a director of the company. Which was a blessing – because, quite frankly, I was on the verge of quitting my job.'
'I don't believe that for a moment,' I said, nudging him playfully. 'You'd never quit a job. It would contravene every notion you have about duty and accountability.'
'Now you're making me sound all stuffy, darling.'
'Not stuffy. Just responsible. Very responsible.'
'You make it sound like a personal defect,' he said with mock melodrama.
'Hardly, my love. I think responsibility is a great virtue – especially in a husband.'
'I'd drink to that,' Emily said grimly. 'Every guy I get involved with seems to have been born with the irresponsibility gene.'
'You'll get lucky,' I said.
'Not as lucky as you,' Emily said.
'Hey, I'm the real lucky one here,' George said. 'I mean, I'm marrying one of the most promising writers in America.'
'Oh, please . . .' I said, turning beet red. 'I've only published one story.'
'But what a story,' George said. 'Don't you agree, Emily?'
'Absolutely,' she said. 'Everyone in the department thought it was one of the top three or four stories we published last year. And considering that Faulkner, Hemingway and J.T. Farrell were the other three writers
'Stop!' I said. 'Or I'll crawl under the table.'
Emily groaned. And said, 'What this woman needs, George, is a massive dose of self-confidence.'
'Well, I'm the man for the job,' he said with a smile.
'And you must convince her to leave Saturday/Sunday before it kills her talent.'
'It was just one damn story,' I said. 'I doubt I'll ever write another.'
'Of course you will,' George said. 'Because after we're married, you won't have to worry about paying the rent anymore, or even having to put up with the dreadful Miss Spenser at Saturday/Sunday. You'll be free of all that, and able to concentrate full time on your fiction.'
'Sounds great to me,' Emily said.
'I'm not at all sure if I'll be leaving Saturday/Sunday right away,' I said.
'Of course you will,' George said sweetly. 'It's the ideal moment to make the break.'
'But it's my job . . .'
'Writing's your real job . . . and I want to give you the opportunity to do it full time.'
He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. Then he stood up and excused himself.
'Nature calls,' he said with a chuckle. 'How about getting another couple of drinks. Being in love is thirsty work.'
I smiled. Tightly. And found myself thinking, what a dumb line. Instantly, my mind replayed some of our lovey-dovey conversation ('Hey, I'm the real lucky one here . . . I mean, I'm marrying one of the most promising writers in America'). I couldn't believe that we were already exchanging 'settled married couple' epithets like darling and my love. I felt myself flinch. It was just a minor contraction of the shoulders. It couldn't have lasted more than a nanosecond. But in the aftermath of that tiny shudder came a question: was that the first twinge of doubt?
Before I had time to consider that query, Emily said, 'Boy, are you one lucky girl.'
'Do you think so?'
'Think so? He's wonderful.'
'Yes. I guess he is.'
'Guess? Guess? Don't you see what you've landed?'
'A very nice man.'
'Nice? What's happened to you tonight? Did you take "understatement" tablets or something?'
'I'm just . . . I don't know . . . a little nervous, that's all. And I could really use another martini. Waiter!'
I caught the eye of a passing man with a tray, and motioned for a refill.
'Of course you're nervous,' Emily said. 'You're getting married. But, at least, you're marrying someone who clearly adores you.'
'I suppose so . . .'
'Suppose? He worships the ground you walk on.'
'Wouldn't you find it a bit worrying if you were the object of such adoration?'
Emily rolled her eyes and gave me a dark frown. 'Will you listen to yourself,' she said. 'Here you are – a published writer, engaged to a man who actually believes in your talent, who's going to free you from the worry of earning a living so you can dedicate yourself completely to your "art", and who also considers you the most wonderful person on the planet. And all you can talk about is your fear of being adored. I mean, really.'
'Everyone's entitled to a few last-minute doubts, aren't they?'
'Not when they've landed the catch of the year.'
'He's not a fish, Emily.'
'There you go again!'
'All right, all right . . .'
'Tell you what: if you really don't want to marry George, I'm happy to take your place. In the meantime, try to accept the fact that you've struck it lucky in love. I know it's difficult for you to admit such a terrible thing . . .'
The Pursuit Of Happiness Page 23