The Pursuit Of Happiness

by Douglas Kennedy

  So I reserved a seat on the first train out of town, packed a suitcase, and fled . . . leaving Jack crying on a doorstep. Now, here I was, back in Maine. Being enveloped in one of Ruth Reynolds' bear hugs.

  'Well, don't you look great,' she lied.

  'You too,' I said, even though I blanched when I first saw her on the station platform – and noted that she had put on at least thirty pounds in the intervening years.

  'No need to fib, honey,' she said. 'I'm fat.'

  'No, you're not.'

  'You're a nice girl, Sara – but a terrible liar.'

  We drove north out of Brunswick towards Bath. 'So . . . how's it feel being a journalistic star?' she asked me.

  'I'm hardly a star. Anyway, I'm on leave of absence from Saturday/Sunday!

  'Is that why you decided to come back to Maine?'

  'Yeah,' I lied. 'There's some stuff I want to get down on paper.'

  'Well, you picked the perfect place for peace and quiet. I'm afraid I couldn't get you your old cottage, because Mr and Mrs Daniels sold their place years ago. You still in touch with them?'

  I shook my head.

  'Anyway, I found you something very cute. And it's got an extra bedroom if you want a guest . . . or if your brother pays you a visit.'

  I stiffened. Ruth noticed this. 'Something wrong?' she asked.

  'No,' I said – as I vowed to myself I would remain tight-lipped about events of the past few months.

  'How is that brother of yours?'

  'Fine, fine.'

  'Nice to hear it.'

  We made small talk for the rest of the drive. When we reached Bath, we turned right down Rt. 209, stopping in the general store at a village called Winnegance to pick up supplies. Then we continued along the lonely two-lane blacktop that snaked its way down the spindly peninsula which ended at Popham Beach. The beach was as empty as ever.

  'Nothing ever changes around here, does it?' I said.

  'That's Maine.'

  Ruth told me I was welcome at her house that night for dinner. But I begged off, saying I was tired.

  'How about tomorrow then?' she asked.

  'Let's talk in a couple of days,' I said, 'after I've settled in.'

  'You sure everything's all right?'

  'Of course. The house suits me just fine.'

  'I was talking about you, Sara. Is everything okay with you?'

  'You said how good I looked, didn't you?'

  She was taken aback by the sharp tone. 'And I was telling the truth. But . . .'

  Before she could pose another question, I cut her off.

  'It's been a difficult few months, all right?'

  'Sara, I do apologize. I didn't mean to pry.'

  'You're not prying. And excuse my tone. It's just . . . I need time by myself.'

  'Well, up here in Maine, we never crowd anyone. So when you want company, you know where to find it.'

  I didn't want company. Or conversation. Or any form of human contact. I wanted to shut down; to close myself off from everyone. I did just that. I wrote a letter to the accounts department of Saturday/Sunday, informing them that I wanted all pay checks to be dispatched directly to my bank. I wrote Joel Eberts, authorizing him (when Eric's insurance check came through) to pay off the IRS and then deposit the remainder of the payment in my stock market fund. I also sent him a set of keys to my apartment and asked if (for a fee) he would hire someone to collect my mail; to hold all correspondence and pay all bills . . . on the condition that he kept my whereabouts private from anyone who was trying to contact me. A few days later, he wrote back, agreeing to get his part-time secretary to drop by once a week and gather up all correspondence. He also enclosed power-of-attorney forms, allowing him to write checks from my account to cover all bills.

  'But are you sure,' he said in his covering letter to me, 'that you don't want me to forward on any personal letters?'

  'Absolutely sure,' I wrote back. 'And you must keep my forwarding address a secret – especially from Jack Malone, should he contact you. More specifically, I do not want to know if he does contact you. So you must also keep this information from me.'

  I was determined to kill all potential contact between myself and Jack. Not just because I refused to budge from my irreconcilable position, but also because I was terrified that, were I to read one of his pleading letters (or, worse yet, allow myself to encounter him face to face), I would crumble on the spot . . . as I had done all those years ago when he had accidentally barged back into my life. We were finished together. Nothing he said or did would change that. He was gone from my life. I was alone now. I wanted it that way.

  I didn't make contact with Ruth for the first three weeks I was at the cottage. Of course, she did come down twice a week to clean the place and change the sheets. But I made certain I was out walking on the beach when she arrived. She accepted my aloofness – and left me notes asking if she could run any errands for me. I drew up lists for her – for groceries and for books I asked her to borrow from the local library. Besides leaving her cash for these essentials, I always ended my list with an apology for my aloofness: 'Sorry for being so distant. One day, when I am back on Planet Earth, I will come over with a bottle of something strong and Scottish, and explain all. But for the moment, let me wallow in my solipsism . . . a big dumb word meaning "self-pity".'

  A few days later, I came back from my morning stroll to find all the groceries I requested, and three thick novels I'd always dodged reading (Mann's The Magic Mountain, James's The Wings of a Dove, and – as my popcorn antidote to all that serious literature – Thomas Heggen's wonderful Second World War yarn, Mister Roberts). There was also a bottle of J&B. A note was enclosed:

  Sara:

  No need for apologies. Just know we're here when you need us. As it's still kind of nippy at night, I thought the bottle of Scotch might be effective heating . . . especially if you get bored lighting fires every evening.

  A week slipped by. Then another. Then another. I read. I walked. I slept. I received one letter – from Joel Eberts, informing me that the seventy-five-thousand-dollar insurance check had cleared. Through his 'tax guy', he had also cut a deal with the IRS on the matter of Eric's back payments.

  They settled for $32,500. I wanted to push them lower, but as my tax guy pointed out, we still managed to haul them down quite a bit. So we have to be grateful for that. I had a chat with Lawrence Braun – your stockbroker. He plans to invest the balance in solid blue-chip companies – unless (as he put it) 'Miss Smythe has suddenly become adventurous'. I told him that, unless I heard otherwise from you, blue chips were the way to go.

  That's all my news from this end, except to say that you do have a stack of private correspondence here. I'm happy to keep it in storage. When you want it, just say the word.

  In closing, Sara – let me add this one personal hope: that you are somehow coming to terms with all that has happened. No one deserves what you had to face in the past couple of months. By its very nature, life is unfair. But it has been, of late, mercilessly unfair to you. This will change. You may never get over the loss of your brother. Just as you may never get over Mr Malone's act of betrayal. But I know you will eventually come to terms with both events. Because to move forward, we all must somehow come to terms with every damn thing that life throws in our path.

  For now, however, take your time. Put the world on hold. Find your way through this difficult juncture. And do know that I am here, whenever you need me.

  But I needed no one. Until the beginning of my fourth week at the cottage. It was a Tuesday morning. I woke up feeling odd. Two minutes later, I was violently ill. I spent a ghastly quarter-of-an-hour in the toilet. The next morning I was sick again. On Thursday, the dawn chorus of nausea passed me by. But it returned again on Friday, and hit me throughout the weekend.

  I needed to see a doctor. Especially as my period was also two weeks late. So I made contact with Ruth again. I didn't go into the nature of my complaint. I simply told her it was a me
dical problem. She dispatched me to her family doctor – a severe-looking man in his fifties named Grayson. He wore a crisp white shirt, a crisp white medical jacket, rimless glasses, and a permanent scowl. He looked like a mean-minded druggist. His offices were on Center Street in Bath. His patients were the men employed at Bath Iron Works and their families. He had no bedside manner whatsoever. I told him the nature of my problem, and the fact that my period was so late.

  'Sounds like you could be pregnant,' he said tonelessly.

  'That's impossible,' I said.

  'You mean, you and your husband haven't been having . . .'

  He paused, then uttered the word 'relations' with considerable distaste.

  'I'm not married,' I said.

  His eyes flickered down to my left hand. He noticed the absence of a wedding ring. He hesitated, then said, 'But you have been having relations with . . .'

  'With someone, yes. But there is no medical way I could be pregnant.'

  Then I explained about my earlier failed pregnancy and how the obstetrician at Greenwich Hospital told me I could never have children.

  'Maybe he was wrong,' Dr Grayson said, then asked me to roll up my sleeve. He drew some blood. He handed me a glass vial and directed me towards the toilet. When I returned with the urine sample, he told me to come back two days later for the results.

  'But I already know the outcome,' I said. 'I can't be pregnant. It's an impossibility.'

  But I kept getting sick every morning. When I returned to Dr Grayson's office two days later, he looked up briefly from my file and said, 'The test was positive.'

  I was dazed beyond belief. I didn't know what to say. Except, 'That can't be.'

  'These tests are rarely wrong.'

  'In this instance, I'm certain it's mistaken.'

  The doctor shrugged with disinterest.

  'If you want to be delusional, that's your choice.'

  'What a horrible thing to say.'

  'You are pregnant, Miss Smythe,' he said, putting particular emphasis on my single status. 'That is what the test said – so that is my clinical diagnosis. Choose to believe it or not.'

  'May I have a second test?'

  'You can have as many tests as you want – as long as you are willing to pay for them. But I would also advise you to see an obstetrician as soon as possible. You're staying locally, yes?'

  I nodded.

  'The nearest obstetrician is Dr Bolduck in Brunswick. He's located off Maine Street, right near the college. I'll give you his number.'

  He scratched a few numbers on to a prescription pad, then tore it off and handed it to me. 'You can settle with my receptionist on the way out.' I stood up. 'One last thing, Miss Smythe,' he said.

  'Yes?'

  ' Congratulations.'

  Ruth was waiting for me in the lobby. I paid my bill, then nodded that I was ready to leave. Prior to this, I hadn't told her about the pregnancy test. I certainly wasn't going to tell her now. But my face betrayed my worries. Because, as soon as we were outside, she touched my arm and said, 'It isn't anything fatal, is it?'

  I nearly managed a laugh. 'I wish it was.'

  'Oh dear,' she said. And I instantly realized that I had given the game away. Suddenly I put my head against her shoulder. I felt stunned, stupefied.

  'How about a nice breakfast somewhere?' she asked.

  'I might throw it all up.'

  'Then again, you might not.'

  She brought me to a little diner near the Iron Works. She insisted that I eat scrambled eggs and home fries and two thick buttery slices of toast. I was reluctant at first – but quickly dug in. After three days of nausea, the food tasted wonderful. It also helped dull the shock of my news.

  'I know you're a private kind of person,' Ruth said, 'so I'm not gonna pry. But if you want to talk about it . . .'

  I suddenly found myself telling her everything that had happened to me since my last stay at the cottage. It all came pouring out. She blanched when I told her about losing the baby and being told I would never conceive again. She took my arm when I informed her about Eric – and Jack's role in my brother's collapse.

  'Oh, Sara,' she whispered. 'I wish to God I'd known about your brother.'

  'I doubt his death made the Maine papers.'

  'I never read 'em anyway. No time.'

  'Believe me, you're better off.'

  'What a terrible year for you.'

  'I have known better ones,' I said. 'And now, just to unhinge things completely, it turns out I'm pregnant.'

  'I can only begin to imagine the sort of shock you're feeling.'

  'About a ten on the Richter scale.'

  'Are you pleased?'

  'I've never been in a train wreck – but I think I now understand what it feels like.'

  'I don't blame you.'

  'But once the after-shock wears off . . . yeah, I'm going to feel pretty damn pleased.'

  'That's good.'

  'This is like news from outer space. I had accepted the fact that I would never have kids.'

  'That must have been hard.'

  'Very.'

  'Doctors often get things wrong.'

  'Thankfully.'

  'May I ask you something?'

  'Of course.'

  'Are you going to tell him?'

  'No way.'

  'Don't you think he deserves to know?'

  'No.'

  'I'm sorry – it's none of my business.'

  'I can't . . . won't . . . tell him. Because I can't forgive him.'

  'I could see how that would be hard.'

  I heard the ambivalence in her voice.

  'But . . . ?' I asked.

  'Like I said, Sara – it's not for me to be sticking my nose into some tough stuff.'

  'Go on – say what you want to say.'

  'It's his kid too.'

  'And Eric was my brother.'

  Silence.

  'You've got a point there. Matter dropped.'

  'Thank you.'

  I raised my coffee cup. And said, 'But it's good news.'

  She raised her cup and clinked it against mine. 'It's great news,' she said. 'The best news.'

  'And totally unbelievable.'

  Ruth laughed.

  'Honey,' she said, 'all good news is unbelievable. For a lot of very obvious reasons.'

  Eleven

  I WENT TO see Dr Bolduck a few days later. I braced myself for another flinty, stern medic – who would glare at my ringless finger and play the New England Puritan. But Bolduck was a pleasant, genial man in his late thirties – a Bowdoin graduate who'd returned to his college town after medical school to set up practice. He put me at my ease immediately.