The Pursuit of Happiness (2001)

by Douglas Kennedy

  I certainly wasn’t going to tell Eric about my conversation with Mrs Grey (or the way I was being railroaded into a life in Old Greenwich, Connecticut), because I knew he would have gone berserk. At best, I would have to listen to his very impassioned, very persuasive arguments, pleading with me to bail out of this future domestic nightmare while there was still a chance. At worst, he would have done something melodramatic … like spiriting me out of the country to Paris or Mexico City until the baby was born.

  But my mind was made up. I was going to marry George. I was going to move to the Connecticut suburbs. I was going to have the child. I had landed myself in this mess. I was going to accept my fate. Because I deserved my fate.

  I also began to rationalize like crazy. All right, George was dwarfed by his mother - but once we were married, I would be able to gradually excise her from our lives. All right, I would hate leaving New York - but maybe Old Greenwich would give me the peace and quiet I needed to try writing again. All right, my husband-to-be was the emotional equivalent of vanilla ice cream - but hadn’t I vowed never to fall victim to wayward passion again? Hadn’t I vowed to avoid another …

  Jack.

  Jack. Jack. Damn you, Jack. That night - that one absurd night - led me right into the dull, worthy arms of George Grey.

  In the two weeks running up to the wedding, I assented to everything. I let Mrs Grey make all the arrangements for the ceremony and the party. I let her book me a rushed appointment at a dress-maker, who whipped up a standard-issue white wedding dress for $85 (‘Of course we wouldn’t dream of letting you pay, dear,’ Mrs Grey said at the fitting). I let her choose the order of the service, the menu at the reception, the centerpiece on the cake. I accompanied George by train to Old Greenwich to inspect our new house. It was a small two-storey Cape Codder, located on a road called Park Avenue, within a five-minute walk from the railway station. Park Avenue was very leafy, very residential. Each house had a substantial front yard, with a very green lawn. They were all immaculately manicured. Just as all the houses showed no signs of wear-and-tear: no peeling paint, or decrepit roofs, or smudged windows. From my first stroll down Park Avenue, I knew immediately that this was a community which did not tolerate such sins against the body politic as unmowed grass or badly graveled driveways.

  The houses along Park Avenue were New England in character - testaments to Poe-style Gothic rubbing shoulders with white clapboard, and Federalist red brick. Ours was one of the smallest properties, with low ceilings and small, cramped rooms. They were papered in discreet floral prints or tiny red-and-blue checks - the sort of old Americana patterns that put me in mind of the inside of a Whitman’s chocolate box. The furniture was spartan in character and size - cramped, narrow sofas; hard wooden armchairs, a pair of narrow single beds in the master bedroom. There was a plain wooden table in the other bedroom with a bentwood chair.

  ‘This will be the perfect place to write your novel,’ George said, trying to sound cheerful.

  ‘So where will the baby sleep?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘In our room for the first few months. Anyway, we should look on this place as nothing more than a starter house. Once we have a couple of kids, we’ll definitely need …’

  I cut him off.

  ‘One child at a time, okay?’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ he said, sounding anxious at my testy tone. ‘I didn’t mean to be pushing things …’

  ‘I know you didn’t.’

  I moved back down the corridor to the master bedroom, and sat on one of the single beds. The mattress felt like a concrete slab. George sat down beside me. He took my hand.

  ‘We can get a proper double bed if you like.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘And anything you want to do to this place is fine by me.’

  How about burning it to the ground, darling?

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said, my voice toneless.

  ‘Of course it will. And we’ll be happy here, right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And I know you’re going to grow to love it here. Heck, Old Greenwich is a great place to raise a family.’

  Heck. I was marrying a man who used the word heck.

  But I still didn’t attempt to bail out of the wedding. Instead, I calmly upended my life. I handed in my resignation at Saturday/Sunday. I informed my landlord that I would be vacating my apartment. As I had rented it furnished, there was little to pack up. Just some books, my Victrola and my collection of records, a few family photos, three suitcases’ worth of clothing, my typewriter. Looking at my small pile of possessions made me think, I travel light.

  Finally, three days before the ceremony, I conjured up the nerve to tell Eric about my impending move to Old Greenwich. My delay in informing him of this news was a strategic one - as I knew he would become vehement as soon as he heard.

  Which, of course, he did.

  ‘Have they railroaded you into this move?’ he asked angrily, pacing my packed-up apartment.

  ‘George’s parents simply offered us this charming little house as a wedding gift, and I thought: why not?’

  ‘That’s all there was to it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked at me with deep scepticism. ‘You - the most diehard New Yorker imaginable - simply decided to close down your existence in Manhattan and move to goddamn Old Greenwich just because Georgie-boy’s parents gave you a house? I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I thought it was time for a change,’ I said, trying to sound calm. ‘And I am looking forward to the peace and quiet.’

  ‘Oh please, S - cut the serenity crap. You don’t want to be in Connecticut. I know that. You know that.’

  ‘It’s a gamble, but it could turn out wonderfully.’

  ‘I said it once. I said it before. You can walk away now, and I will support you in every way I can.’

  I touched my stomach. ‘I don’t have a choice in the matter.’

  ‘You do. You just don’t see it.’

  ‘Believe me, I see it. But I just can’t make that leap of imagination. I have to do what’s expected of me.’

  ‘Even if it ruins your life?’

  I bit hard on my lip and turned away, my eyes hot with tears.

  ‘Please stop,’ I said.

  He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. For the first time ever, I shrugged him off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Not as sorry as me.’

  ‘We all ruin our lives in some way, I guess …’

  ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’

  ‘No. It’s supposed to make me feel better.’

  I managed a laugh. ‘You’re right,’ I finally said. ‘In some way or another, we all mess things up. Only some of us do it more comprehensively than others.’

  To Eric’s infinite credit, he never again reproached me about marrying George and moving to Connecticut. Three days after that difficult conversation in my apartment, he put on his only suit, a clean white shirt, and (for him) a subdued tie, and walked me down the aisle at the Marble Collegiate Church. George was in an ill-fitting cutaway (with a high-collar shirt) that accented his schoolboy chubbiness. The minister was a bored man with thinning hair and bad dandruff. He read the service in a reedy monotone, and at speed. From start to finish, the entire ceremony took fifteen minutes. As there were only twelve invited guests, the church seemed very cavernous - our vows echoing through the rows of empty-pews. It was very lonely indeed.

  The reception afterwards was also a rushed affair. It was held in a private dining room at the Plaza. Mr and Mrs Grey weren’t exactly the most welcoming of hosts. They didn’t try to make conversation with Eric, or with my friends from Saturday/ Sunday. George’s chums from the bank were also exceptionally stiff. Before the dinner, they huddled together in a corner, talking quietly among themselves, occasionally emitting a sharp communal snigger of laughter. I was certain they were articulating what everyone at this joyless event was thinking, so this is what’s known as a shot
gun marriage.

  Only, of course, this being a WASP shotgun marriage, everyone was carrying on as if it was a perfectly straightforward event.

  There was a sit-down meal. There was a toast from Mr Grey. Like everything else that day, it was emotionless and brisk: ‘Please raise your glasses to welcome Sara to our family. We hope that she and George will be happy.’

  That was it. George’s toast was almost as phlegmatic: ‘I just want to say that I am the luckiest man in the world, and I know that Sara and I will make a great team. And I want you all to know that we’re operating an open-door policy in Old Greenwich - so we’re going to expect lots of visitors real soon.’

  I glanced across the table and saw my brother roll his eyes. Then he realized that I saw him being caustic, and he gave me a guilty smile. That one small private moment aside, he really had been a model of tact and diplomacy all afternoon. Even though he looked utterly respectable in his black suit, Mr and Mrs Grey still eyed him with anxious distaste - as if he was some sort of strange left-wing alien, about to jump on a table and hector us with passages from Das Kapital. At the reception, however, he made a point of chatting with my parents-in-law, and even managed to wangle a small laugh or two from them. This was an astonishing phenomenon - discovering that the Greys had a sense of humor - and I cornered Eric as he crossed the room en route to the bar for fresh drinks, whispering:

  ‘What did you slip into their wine?’

  ‘I was simply telling them how much they reminded me of The Magnificent Ambersons.’

  I stifled a laugh.

  ‘I’m glad to see you still have a sense of the comedic,’ he said. ‘You’re going to need it.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said, sounding unconvinced.

  ‘And if it’s not fine, you can always run back to me.’

  I clutched his hands in mine. ‘You’re the best.’

  He arched his eyebrows. ‘I’m glad you finally figured that out.’

  Eric did have one slight moment of mischief, when George called upon him ‘to speak for the bride’s family’. Standing up, he raised his glass and said, ‘The best quote about domicile conjugate came from that very short Frenchman, Toulouse-Lautrec, who said that “marriage is a dull meal, preceded by dessert”. I’m certain this will not be the case with George and Sara.’

  Well, I thought it was witty - though most of the other guests coughed nervously after Eric sat down again. Then George and I cut the cake. We posed for a few photographs. The cake was served with coffee. Ten minutes later, Mr and Mrs Grey stood up, indicating it was time to draw things to a close. So we said our goodbyes. My father-in-law gave me a fast peck on the forehead, but had no words of luck or farewell for me. Mrs Grey air-kissed my cheeks, and said, ‘You did fine, dear. Keep doing fine, and we will get along very well.’

  Then Eric came over, embraced me, and whispered, ‘Don’t let the bastards get you down.’

  He left. The room emptied out. The reception had started at 5.30 p.m. It was now eight o’clock, and it was over. There was nothing left for us to do but retreat upstairs to the ‘honeymoon suite’ which George had booked for us that night.

  So upstairs we went. George disappeared into the bathroom and emerged in his pajamas. I disappeared into the bathroom and undressed, then slipped on a robe. I re-entered the room to find George already in bed. I unfastened the robe and slid into bed next to him, naked. He pulled me close to him. He began to kiss my face, my neck, my breasts. He unfastened the fly of his pajamas. He spread my legs and climbed on top of me. A minute later, he emitted a small groan and rolled off me. Then he tucked himself back into his pajama bottom, kissed the back of my neck, and wished me ‘good night’.

  It took a moment or two for me to realize that he had passed out. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Eight forty. Eight forty on a Saturday night - my damn wedding night - and my husband is already asleep?

  I shut my eyes and tried to join him in early-to-bed unconsciousness. I failed. Opening my eyes again, I got out of bed and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I ran a bath. As the water cascaded out of the tap, I suddenly did something I had been threatening to do for the past few hours: I started to weep.

  Within moments, the weeping became uncontrollable, and so loud that it must have been discernible over the sound of running water. But there was no sudden knock at the bathroom door, followed by a huge reassuring hug from George, telling me everything was going to be all right.

  Because, of course, George was a very deep sleeper. If the loud Niagara of open taps didn’t wake him, then why should he even hear his wife sobbing?

  Eventually, I managed to regain control of myself. I turned off the taps. I caught sight of myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes were red, my wedding makeup was streaked. I slid into the bath. I took a wash towel, dipped it in the hot water, then draped it over my face. I stared up into its white emptiness. Thinking, I have made the worst mistake of my life.

  Too fast, too fast. Everything happened too fast. He made love too fast. We got engaged too fast. I agreed to this wedding too fast. He fell asleep too fast.

  And now …

  Now I was trapped … though, of course, it was me who had trapped myself.

  The honeymoon wasn’t a great success either. The hotel which Mrs Grey had suggested in Provincetown was an elderly inn, run by an elderly couple and catering largely for elderly visitors. It was shabby genteel. Our bed had a sagging mattress. The sheets stank of mildew. The bathroom was down the hall from our room. There were rust stains in the bathtub, and the sink had chipped enamel. As it was the off-season there were few places open in Provincetown for dinner, so we were forced to make do with the food at the inn - all of which was heavily boiled. It rained for three of the five days we were there - but we did manage to get a few walks in on the beach. Otherwise, we sat in the lounge of the inn, reading. George tried to be cheerful. I tried to be cheerful. I also managed to get him to make love to me without his pajamas. It was still over within a minute. I asked him not to roll over and play dead afterwards. He apologized. Profusely. Instead he put his arms around me, holding me tight. Within moments, he was fast asleep - and I was trapped in his arms. I did not sleep well that night. Nor, for that matter, did I sleep well any night in Provincetown, thanks to the droopy bed, the bad food, the charmless atmosphere of the inn, and the fact that the true reality of marriage to George was beginning to hit.

  The five nights came to an end. We boarded a bus which took five hours to drive the length of Cape Cod to Boston. We caught a train south. We arrived into Old Greenwich just before midnight. At that hour, there were no cabs at the station, so we had to carry our bags the ten minutes it took to walk up Park Avenue. As we approached our house, all I could think was, I will die here.

  All right, I was being a little melodramatic. But the house seemed so drab, so poky, so damn cheerless. Inside, assorted boxes and suitcases from our respective New York apartments lay piled up in the living room. I looked at them and thought, I could call the movers tomorrow and have all my stuff picked up while George was at work, and be gone before he arrived home that night.