The Pursuit Of Happiness

by Douglas Kennedy

  'I felt I had no choice. The old Jesuit teaching kicked in: you are accountable for your actions . . . you cannot escape the sins of the flesh . . . all that enlightened Catholic guilt stuff compelled me to tell her that, yes, I would marry her.'

  'That was very responsible of you.'

  'She's a decent woman. We don't have major problems. We get along. It's . . . amiable, I guess.'

  I made no comment. After a moment, he touched one of the envelopes and said, 'I wrote the second letter to you on my way back to Hamburg. In it, I explained . . .'

  'I really don't want to know your explanations,' I said, pushing both letters back towards him.

  'At least take them home and read them . . .'

  'What's the point? What happened happened . . . and over four years ago. We had a night together. I thought it might be the start of something. I was wrong. C'est la vie. End of story. I'm not angry at you for "doing your duty" and marrying Dorothy. It's just . . . you could have saved me a lot of grief and heartache had you just come clean with me, and told me what was going on.'

  'I wanted to. That's what the second letter was about. I wrote it on the boat-train back to Hamburg. But when I arrived there, and found three of your letters waiting for me, I panicked. I didn't know what to do.'

  'So you decided that the best approach was to do nothing. To refuse to answer my letters. To keep me dangling. Or maybe you just hoped I'd finally get the message and vanish?'

  He stared down into his coffee cup, and fell silent. Eventually I spoke. 'Ego te absolvo. . . is that what you want me to say? Shame I could have dealt with. Guilt I could have dealt with. The truth I could have dealt with. But you chose silence. After swearing love to me – which is a huge thing to swear to anybody – you couldn't face up to the simple ethical problem of coming clean with me.'

  'I didn't want to hurt you . . .'

  'Oh, Jesus Christ – don't feed me that dumb cliche,' I said, a wave of anger hitting me. 'You hurt me more by keeping me in the dark. And then when you deigned to send a postcard to me, what was your message? "I'm sorry." After eight months and all those letters, that's all you could say. How I despised you when that card arrived on my doormat.'

  'Sometimes we do things we don't even understand ourselves.'

  He stubbed out the cigarette. He was about to light up another one, but thought better of it. He looked disconcerted and sad – as if he didn't know what to do next.

  'I really should go,' I said.

  I started to stand up, but he took my hand.

  'I've known exactly where you've lived for the past couple of years. I've read everything you've written in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. I've wanted to call you every day.'

  'But you didn't.'

  'Because I couldn't. Until today. When I saw you in the park, I knew immediately that . . .'

  I removed his hand from mine, and interrupted him. 'Jack, this is pointless.'

  'Please let me see you again.'

  'I don't go out with married men. And you are married, remember?'

  I turned and moved quickly out the front door, not looking back to see if he was following me. The January night air was like a slap across the face. I was about to turn back west towards my apartment, but feared that he might come calling again. So I headed south down Broadway, ducking into a bar in the lobby of the Ansonia Hotel. I sat at a table near the door. I downed a J&B. I called for one more.

  'Sometimes we do things we don't even understand ourselves.'

  Yes – like falling in love with you.

  I threw some money on the table. I stood up and left. I hailed a cab. I told him to head downtown. When we reached 34th Street, I told him to head back uptown. The cabbie was bemused by this sudden change of direction.

  'Lady, do you have any idea where you're going?' he asked.

  'None at all,' I said.

  I had the cab drop me in front of my apartment. Much to my relief, Jack wasn't loitering outside. But he had paid me a visit, as the two envelopes were waiting for me on the inside front door mat. I picked them up. I let myself into my apartment. I took off my coat. I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. I tossed both letters into the trash can. I made myself a cup of tea. I went into the living room. I put on a Budapest String Quartet recording of Mozart's K 421 quartet. I sat on the sofa and tried to listen to the music. After five minutes, I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and retrieved the letters from the trash. I sat down at the kitchen table. I laid the envelopes before me. I stared down at them for a long time, willing myself not to open them. The Mozart played on. Eventually, I picked up the first envelope. It was addressed to my old Bedford Street apartment. The address was smudged, as if it had been briefly exposed to rain. The envelope itself was crumpled, worn, aged. But it was still sealed. I tore it open. Inside was a single piece of Stars and Stripes stationery. Jack's handwriting was clear, fluent, easy to decipher.

  November 27th, 1945

  My beautiful Sara,

  So here I am – somewhere off the coast of Nova Scotia. We've been at sea for two days now. Another week to go before we dock in Hamburg. My 'state room' could be politely called 'intimate' (it's 10'x6' – the size of a jail cell). It's also less than private, as I share it with five other guys, two of whom are congenital snorers. Leave it to the Army to figure out a way of fitting six soldiers into a broom closet. No wonder we won the War.

  When we hoisted anchor in Brooklyn two days ago, I had to stop myself from jumping overboard, swimming to shore, hopping the subway back to Manhattan, and knocking on your Bedford Street door. But that would have cost me a year in the brig – whereas this current penal sentence is only nine more months. And you better be waiting for me at the Brooklyn Naval Yards when we dock in September. . . otherwise I might do something rash and self-destructive, like becoming a Christian Brother.

  What can I say, Miss Smythe? Only this: people always talk about that thing called at first sight. I never believed in it myself . . . and always thought it was the stuff of bad movies (usually starring Jane Wyman).

  But maybe the reason I didn't believe in it was because it didn't happen to me. Until you.

  Isn't life wonderfully absurd? On my last night in New York I crash a party I shouldn't be at, and . . . there you are. And almost immediately, I thought: I am going to marry her.

  And I will . . . if you'll have me.

  All right, I'm being a little premature. All right, I'm probably getting a little carried away. But love is supposed to make you a little impetuous and daffy.

  Our staff sergeant is calling us for mess duty, so I've got to end here. This gets mailed the moment I reach Hamburg. In the meantime, I will only think of you night-and-day.

  Love,

  Jack

  As soon as I finished reading the letter, I read it again. And again after that. How I wanted to be distrustful, sceptical, hard-boiled. But instead all I could feel was sadness. A sense of what was there between us in the immediate aftermath of that night. A sense of what might have been.

  I picked up the other envelope. Just as smudged, just as crumpled. A reminder that paper – like people – ages noticeably after four years.

  January 3rd, 1946

  Dear Sara,

  I did some math today, and worked out that it has been thirty-seven days since I said goodbye to you in Brooklyn. I set sail that day, thinking: I have met the love of my life. All the way across the Atlantic, I started scheming of ways I could legally get myself out of being an Army journalist and back to you in Manhattan without facing a court martial.

  Then, when we docked in Hamburg, there was a letter waiting for me. A letter which has turned my life upside down.

  For the next five paragraphs, he told me the story of how he had met an American typist named Dorothy while stationed in England, how it had been a passing fling, and how it had ended in early November.

  But then – upon docking last week in Hamburg – he had received word from her that she was pregna
nt. He'd visited her in London. Dorothy had cried with relief when he arrived – as she feared he might abandon her. But he wasn't the abandoning type.

  All actions have a potential consequence. Sometimes we get lucky and dodge the repercussions. Sometimes we pay the price. Which is what I am doing now.

  This is the hardest letter I've ever written – because you are the woman I want to be with for the rest of my life. Yes, I feel that absolute, that certain. How do I know? I just know.

  But there is nothing I can do to change the situation. I must do the responsible thing. I must marry Dorothy.

  I want to beat my head against a wall, and curse myself for losing you. Because I know that, from this moment onwards, you will haunt my every move.

  I love you.

  I am so sorry.

  Try, somehow, to forgive me.

  Jack

  Oh, you fool. You big dumb fool. Why the hell didn't you send this letter? I would have understood. I would have believed you. I would have forgiven you on the spot. I would have coped. I would have eventually gotten over it. And I would have never started hating you.

  But you couldn't face . . . what? Hurting me? Letting me down? Or simply admitting the whole damn lousy business?

  But the act of admission – of owning up to a mistake, an error of judgment, a bad call – is sometimes the hardest thing imaginable. Especially when, like Jack, you suddenly find yourself cornered by a biological accident.

  'You really believe his story?' Eric asked me later that night on the phone.

  'In a way, it makes sense, and explains . . .'

  'What? The fact that he's a moral coward, who couldn't give you the benefit of the truth?'

  'He did tell me that he'd made a terrible mistake.'

  'We all make terrible mistakes. Sometimes they're forgiven, sometimes they're not. The question is: do you want to forgive him?'

  Long pause. I finally said, 'Isn't forgiveness always easier for everyone involved?'

  Eric sighed loudly.

  'Sure – and while you're at it, why don't you shoot yourself in the foot with a tommy gun, pausing twice to reload.'

  'Ouch.'

  'You asked for my opinion, there it is. But, S – you're a big girl. Believe him if you want. You know what happened before. For your sake, I hope it doesn't happen again. So if you want a ten-cent piece of advice: caveat emptor.'

  'There's nothing to buy here, Eric. He's married, for God's sakes.'

  'Since when has "being married" ever stopped anyone from engaging in extra-marital stupidity?'

  'I won't be stupid here, Eric.'

  I really had no intention of being foolish. At three in the morning – having finally let insomnia win that night's war – I sat down at my desk and typed a letter.

  January 6th, 1950

  Dear Jack,

  Who was it who said that hindsight was always 20/20? Or that if you come to a fork in the road, you should always take it? I'm glad I read your letters . . . which I am returning to you now. They explained a lot. They made me sad – because, like you, I too felt something close to certainty in the aftermath of that Thanksgiving night. But everyone comes equipped with a back story . . . and yours mitigated against any future between us. I don't feel rancor or animosity towards you because of Dorothy. I just wished you'd had the courage to mail those letters.

  You intimated that you have a reasonably good marriage. Having myself made a very bad marriage, 'reasonably good' sounds more than reasonably good to me. You should consider yourself a lucky man.

  In closing, may I wish you and your family all good things for the future.

  Yours,

  And I signed it Sara Smythe. Because I wanted to be doubly sure that he got the letter's underlying message: goodbye.

  I looked up the address of Steele and Sherwood in the phone book. I found a large manila envelope and addressed the letter to him there. I threw on some clothes, dashed to the mailbox on the corner of Riverside Drive and 77th Street, then dashed back to my apartment. I got undressed and climbed back into bed. I could now sleep.

  But I didn't sleep late. Because, at eight a.m., the intercom began to buzz. I staggered into the kitchen to answer it. It was someone from my local florist. My heart immediately sank. I answered the door. The delivery guy handed me a dozen red roses. Inside was a card:

  I love you.

  Jack

  I put the flowers in water. I tore up the card. I spent the day away from my apartment – loitering with intent in a variety of midtown screening rooms, watching this month's releases for my movie column. When I got home that night, I was relieved to see no letters awaiting me on the inside doormat.

  At eight the next morning, however, the intercom rang again.

  'Handleman's Flowers.'

  Oh, God . . .

  This time, I received a dozen pink carnations. And, of course, a card:

  Please forgive me. Please call me.

  Love, Jack

  I put the flowers in water. I tore up the card. I prayed that my letter would arrive at his office this morning, and that he would get the message and leave me be.

  But, at eight the following morning . . . buzz.

  'Handleman's Flowers.'

  'What's it today?' I asked the delivery guy.

  'A dozen lilies.'

  'Take them back.'

  'Sorry, lady,' he said, thrusting them into my hand. 'A delivery is a delivery.'

  I found my third (and last) vase. I arranged the flowers. I opened the card.

  I am taking the fork in the road.

  And I still love you.

  Jack

  Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. I grabbed my coat and stormed off in the direction of Broadway – to a Western Union office on 72nd Street. Once there, I went over to the main counter and picked up a telegram form and a much-chewed pencil. I wrote:

  No more flowers. No more platitudes. I do not love you.

  Stay out of my life. Never see me again.

  Sara

  I walked over to a hatch in the wall, and handed the form to a clerk. He read the message back to me in a deadpan voice, saying Stop every time I had indicated a period. When he was finished, he asked me if I wanted the regular or fast rate.

  'As fast as possible.'

  The charge was a dollar-fifteen. The telegram would be delivered to Jack at his office within two hours. As I reached into my purse to pay for the telegram, my hand began to shake. On the way home, I stopped in a luncheonette and stared down into a black cup of coffee, trying to convince myself that I had done the right thing. My life – I told myself – was finally going well. I was enjoying professional success. I was materially comfortable. I had gotten through the marital breakup as cleanly as could be expected. All right, the knowledge that I would never have children continued to haunt me . . . but it always would be there, no matter who I was with. And it would most certainly be there if I was involved with a married man. Especially one who already had a child of his own.