He looked at me with care. 'Really?'
'Don't sound so damn surprised.'
'I'm not surprised. Just pleased, that's all.'
'Believe me, so am I. Because everything is going so well.'
He leaned down and kissed me. 'Life can be sweet.'
'Yes,' I said, kissing him back. 'It can be that.'
And when life is sweet, time seems to pass at an accelerated rate. Perhaps because the days are marked by a certain euphonious rhythm – a sense of events moving at an easy, well-ordered pace; of circumstances working in everyone's favor. My columns were going well. Harper and Brothers paid me a whopping five thousand (big money in those days) to bring out a book of my 'Real Life' pieces in 1952. Jack was promoted. He became a Senior Account Executive – and though he was still handling all those insurance companies, at least his salary had doubled. Meanwhile, Eric had his contract renewed at NBC with a salary increase which inflated his bank balance even more. Meg was promoted to a senior editor's position at McGraw-Hill, and took up with a bassist in the Artie Shaw band (it lasted around six months – something of a romantic epic by normal Meg standards). Most tellingly, my life with Jack settled into a pleasant routine. From what I could glean, Dorothy too had adjusted to her husband's curious domestic arrangements – even though she still refused to refer to his days with me as anything but out of town.
It's a much-uttered truism that we never really recognize happiness until after it has passed us by. But during the last half of 1951,I was aware of the fact that this was, without doubt, a wonderful juncture in time.
Then it ended. I even remember the exact day: the eighth of March, 1952. At six in the morning. When I was woken out of bed by the repeated ringing of my doorbell. Jack was out of town in Pittsburgh on business – so I couldn't imagine who the hell would be bothering me at this pre-dawn hour.
I opened the front door, and found Eric shivering outside. He looked like he'd been up all night. He also appeared spooked. I was instantly scared.
'What's happened?' I asked.
'They want me to name names,' he said.
Six
'THEY' WERE THE network: the National Broadcasting Corporation. The afternoon before, a Senior Vice President for Corporate Affairs – a certain Mr Ira Ross – called Eric at his office on the thirty-second floor of Rockefeller Center, and asked if he had a moment or two to meet with him and a colleague. Eric wondered if the meeting could wait for tomorrow – as he was on deadline for next week's edition of The Marty Manning Show.
'Sorry,' Ross said, 'but we need to see you now.'
'We,' Eric said. 'As soon as that sonofabitch said we, I knew I was a dead man.'
Eric paused for a moment to sip his coffee. He asked if I had any whiskey in the house.
'Eric, it's six in the morning.'
'I know what time it is,' he said. 'But the coffee's a little weak, and a shot of rye would perk it up a bit.'
When I hesitated, he said, 'Please, S. This is not the moment to start arguing about the rights or wrongs of pre-dawn drinking.'
I stood up and retrieved a bottle of Hiram Walker from a kitchen cabinet.
'It's not rye, it's bourbon. Jack doesn't drink rye.'
'As long as it's over fifty proof, I don't give a damn what it is.'
He poured a large belt of bourbon into his coffee cup. Then he sipped it again, flinching slightly as the whiskey went down.
'That's better,' he said, then continued with the story.
'So up I went to Ross's office on the forty-third floor. Among the NBC writers, Ross has always been known as Himmler – because he's the guy who exterminates anyone the company wants out of the way. His secretary visibly paled when she saw me – a sure-fire sign that I was in deep shit. But instead of escorting me into his office, she brought me to an adjoining conference room. There were five guys sitting around a table. When I came in, all of them stared up at me, as if I was some death-row inmate who's been hauled in front of the appeals board for one final stab at clemency. There was a long tense silence. Idiot that I am, I tried to lighten things up by cracking a joke.
'"All this for me?" I said. But nobody laughed. Instead, Ross stood up. He's a real bloodless guy, Ross. The nondescript accountant type with thick glasses and greasy brown hair. No doubt he was bullied like hell at school – and has been getting his revenge ever since, as he so clearly delights in the small amount of power that his job gives him. Especially at a moment like this – when he was about to conduct his very own UnAmerican Activities investigation on the forty-third floor of Rockefeller Center.
'So up he stood and tonelessly introduced everyone at the table. There was Bert Schmidt, the network's head of Variety and Comedy. There were two guys – Golden and Frankel – from Legal Affairs. And there was this gentleman named Agent Brad Sweet from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You should have seen this Sweet guy. He looked like he just walked out of Central Casting. A real big, square-jawed Midwestern type, with a crew cut and a short, thickening neck, I'm sure he played linebacker when he was at high school in Nebraska, married the girl he brought to the senior prom, and probably spent his entire four years at Wichita State dreaming of the moment he could go to work for Mr Hoover, and defend Mom and the American flag from dangerous gag-writing subversives like me. Got the picture?'
'Yes,' I said, pouring a small measure of bourbon into my coffee. 'I've got the picture.'
'What's with the whiskey?'
'I think I need it too.'
'Anyway, Ross motioned to a chair. I sat down. As I did, I noticed that, in front of Agent Sweet, was a big thick file with my name on it. I glanced over to the lawyers. They had my NBC contracts laid out on the table. I tried to make eye contact with Bert Schmidt – he's always been my biggest supporter within NBC – but he looked away. Scared shitless.
'Ross now got the inquisition going with that standard opening question: "I'm sure you know why you're here."
'"Not exactly," I said, "but if there are two lawyers involved, I must have done something pretty damn heinous. Let me guess? I pinched a couple of jokes from Ernie Kovaks, and now you've got me up on a plagiarism charge."
'Once again, the laugh quotient was less than zero. Instead, Ross got tetchy, and asked me to show everyone in the room a little respect. I said, "I'm not trying to be disrespectful. I'm just wondering what I'm doing here . . . and what the hell I've done wrong."
'That was when Agent Sweet stared at me with his fanatical Audie-Murphy-school-of-patriotism eyes, and uttered the question I knew I'd eventually be called upon to answer.
'"Mr Smythe, are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?"
'Without even thinking about it, I instantly said, "No." Agent Sweet tried to control a smirk as he opened my very substantial file, and said, "You're lying, Mr Smythe. If this was a court of law, you could be indicted for contempt."
'"But this isn't a court of law," I said. "It's a kangaroo court . . ."
'That really infuriated Ross. "Listen, smartass," he said in a low, threatening hiss, "you'd better cooperate here, or . . ."
'One of the lawyers – Frankel, I think it was – put a hand on his arm, as if to say: no threats. Then he turned to me and tried to sound all pleasant and reasonable.
'"You're absolutely right, Mr Smythe. This is not a court of law. This is not an investigation, or a congressional committee. This is simply a meeting convened for your benefit . . ."
'"" My benefit!" I said, a little too loudly. "Now that's a good one.
'"All we're trying to do here," Frankel said, "is to help you avoid a potentially damaging situation."
'"Oh, so we're all friends here?" I said, looking straight at Bert Schmidt. "Well, golly gosh gosh, I never knew I had so many friends in high places . . ."
'"This is pointless," Ross said to his fellow inquisitors. At which point Schmidt tried to play good cop.
'"Eric, please – try to cooperate here."
'"All right, al
l right," I said. "Fire away."
'Agent Sweet turned back to the file. "As I said, Mr Smythe, we have evidence here that refutes your last statement. According to our records, you joined the Communist Party in March of nineteen thirty-six, and were a member of its New York cell for five years, resigning only in nineteen forty-one."
'"Okay, I confess. For a short period of my life, just after I left college, I was a member of the Party. But that was ten long years ago . . ."
'"Why did you just lie to me about this past affiliation?" Agent Sweet asked me.
'"Would you want to admit to such a dumb old allegiance?"
'"Of course not – but if asked by a federal officer of the United States Government, I'd tell the truth. A mistake is a mistake. But a mistake can only be rectified if you own up to it, and try to put the matter right."
'"As I just told you, I quit the Party over a decade ago."
'The other lawyer, Golden, came in here, trying to sound friendly.
'"What made you leave the Party, Eric?"
'"I'd lost faith in the doctrines they were pushing. I thought they were ideologically wrong about a lot of things. And I also began to believe the rumors that were being spread about Stalin's repressive policies in Russia."
'"So," said the ever-helpful Counselor Golden, "you realized Communism was wrong."
'He didn't pose that sentence as a question – rather, as a statement. Bert Schmidt shot me this pleading, don't be stupid here look. I said, "That's right. I decided Communism was wrong. And evil."
'That was certainly the right answer – because immediately everyone at the table relaxed a little bit, though Ross himself looked disappointed that I had suddenly stopped playing the hostile witness. No doubt he would have really enjoyed shining a bright lamp in my face and hitting me over the head with a phone book in an attempt to dredge the truth from me. Instead, everyone became sweetness and light. For a moment or two, anyway.
'"Given your admirable change of heart on the matter of Communism," Agent Sweet said, "would you call yourself a patriotic American?"
'I was also expecting this dumb question. And I knew I'd have to lie. So I assured Agent Sweet – and everyone else at the table – that I loved my country more than life itself, or some such crap. Sweet seemed pleased with my response.
'"Then you'd be willing to cooperate?" he asked me.
'"Cooperate? What do you mean by cooperate?"
'"I mean, helping us infiltrate the Communist network that is threatening the fundamental stability of the United States."
'"I wasn't aware of such a threat," I said.
'"Believe me, Mr Smythe," Agent Sweet said, "it is there and very formidable. But with the cooperation of former Party members like yourself, we can burrow deep into the heart of the Party and root out the real ringleaders."
'I tell you, S – at that precise moment, I almost lost it completely. I wanted to tell Agent Sweet that he sounded like one of the Hardy Boys, on the trail of the Big Bad Commies. Help us infiltrate the Communist network that is threatening the fundamental stability of the United States. Can you believe such garbage? As if there was ever a Communist network in this country to begin with.
'I tried to sound logical. "Listen, Mr Sweet – back in the nineteen thirties, a lot of people joined the Party because it was the thing to do at the time. It was a fad, like the hoola-hoop."
'Ross loved that comment: "You dare to equate an evil doctrine like Communism with something as benign as a hoola-hoop?"
'"My point, Mr Ross, is that I was a naive kid just out of Columbia who bought into the whole Rights-of-Man, equal-distribution-of-wealth clap-trap that the Party peddled. But, when you get right down to it, the real reason I joined was because it was the thing to do. I was working in the Federal Theater Project . . ."
'"A hotbed of subversive activity," Ross said, cutting me off.
'"Mr Ross, when the hell have a bunch of actors and directors ever threatened the fundamental stability of any regime anywhere?"
'"Oh!" said Ross triumphantly. "You consider the US government to be a regime, do you?"
'"That's not what I was saying . . ."
'"A truly patriotic American would know that the Founding Fathers gave us the most democratic system of government this planet has ever seen."
'"I've read The Federalist Papers, Mr Ross. I fully understand the separation-of-powers doctrine, as hammered out by Hamilton, Madison and all those other enlightened men . . . who, quite frankly, would be appalled to see a citizen of this country being interrogated about his allegiance to the flag . . ."
'"This is not an interrogation," Ross barked, banging his fist on the table. Once again, Frankel put a steadying hand on his arm. Then he said, "Eric, I think all that Agent Sweet – and everyone here – is trying to establish is whether or not you are still tied to the Party."
'"Doesn't that big file of mine show that I quit over ten years ago?'
'"Indeed, it does," Sweet said. "But who's to say that your resignation from the Party wasn't a sham? For all we know, you could still be one of their covert operatives, masquerading as a former Communist . . ."
'"You're not being serious, are you?" I said.
'"Mr Smythe, the FBI is always serious. Especially when it comes to matters of national security."
'"I've said it once, I'll say it again: I quit the Party in nineteen forty-one. I've had no further associations with the Party. I don't like the goddamn Party, and I now rue the day I joined it. For God's sake, I'm just one of Marty Manning's writers. Since when has a gag man been considered a threat to national security?"
'"Mr Smythe," Agent Sweet said, "our files indicate that, over the past ten years, you have consorted with many Communists." Then he began to list a whole bunch of names – mainly other writers, with whom I had, at best, a passing professional connection. I tried to explain that, like me, most of the guys were of the generation which joined the Party. Do you know what Sweet said?
'"My brother's from your generation, and he didn't join the Party."
'Once again, I stopped myself from saying something like: "That's because your brother was probably a Midwest hick, and not some over-educated East Coast writer who was stupid enough to read Marx and buy into his Workers of the World Unite garbage." Instead, I attempted, yet again, to explain that I had made a youthful mistake, for which I was now deeply sorry. Yet again, Golden tried to lead me out of trouble.
'"Eric, I know that everyone at this table is very pleased to hear your admission of error. Like Agent Sweet said, we all make mistakes – especially when we're young. And though I personally believe you when you say that you've had no contact with the Party since nineteen forty-one, I'm sure that you can appreciate the fact that some further proof of your complete disengagement from the Party is necessary."
'I knew what was coming next – though I was still hoping against hope that I could somehow manage to dodge the question they were about to put to me.
'"Quite simply," Golden said, "all Agent Sweet needs to know are the names of the people who brought you into the Party, and those individuals who are still active Party members today."
'"And," Agent Sweet added, "by naming these names, you will not only be demonstrating your complete lack of affiliation with present Communist activity . . . you will also be confirming your patriotism."
'"Since when has denouncing innocent people been considered an act of patriotism?" I asked.
'"Communists are not innocents," Ross shouted at me.
The Pursuit Of Happiness Page 45