The Pursuit of Happiness (2001)

by Douglas Kennedy

  ‘Yes, that thought did cross my mind.’

  ‘I would like to simplify matters in that regard. I am willing to accept a one-off payment from George. Once that is made, I will ask for no further financial maintenance from him.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘And what sort of sum were you considering?’

  ‘I was married to George for almost five months. I was with him for two months before then. Let’s call it a total of seven months. I would like a year’s alimony for each of those months. That works out at …’

  He was already scribbling figures on his desk blotter. ‘Twenty-five thousand two hundred dollars,’ he said.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘It’s a large sum.’

  ‘Not if you consider that, all going well, I should be alive for another forty-five or fifty years.’

  ‘That is a point. And is that sum simply an opening offer?’

  ‘No - it’s the final offer. Either George agrees to pay me that amount up-front, or he can support me until the day I die. Are we clear about that, Mr Thomson?’

  ‘Exceedingly. Naturally, I will have to discuss this with the Greys … sorry, with George.’

  ‘Well, you know where to find me,’ I said, standing up.

  He proffered his hand. I took it. It was soft and spongy. ‘May I ask you something, Mrs Grey?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘This may sound strange, given that I am representing your husband, but I am nonetheless curious to know one thing: why on earth don’t you want ongoing alimony?’

  ‘Because I want nothing to do with the Greys ever again. And you can convey my feelings to your clients, should you so wish.’

  He let go of my hand. ‘I sense they know that already. Goodbye, Mrs Grey.’

  On the way out of the offices of Potholm, Grey and Connell, I saw Edwin Grey, Sr, walking towards me in the corridor. Immediately, he lowered his eyes to avoid meeting mine. Then he passed by me without saying a word.

  As soon as I was out of the building, I hailed a taxi and headed back to Sullivan Street. The meeting had drained me. I wasn’t used to playing the role of the hard negotiator. But I was pleased with the way I had handled things. Just as I had surprised myself with the statement that I would never marry again. It was said off the top of my head, without premeditation. I hadn’t considered the matter before making this declaration. But it evidently reflected what I was thinking right now. Whether I would still be thinking this same way about marriage several years from now was another matter. What I did know was this: it didn’t work when your heart led your head. It didn’t work when your head led your heart. Which, in turn, meant …

  What?

  Maybe that we never get it right. We just muddle through.

  Which is perhaps one of the great reasons why love always disappoints. We enter it hoping it will make us whole - that it will shore up our foundations, end our sense of incompleteness, give us the stability we crave. Then we discover that, on the contrary, it is a deeply exposing experience. Because it is so charged with ambivalence. We seek certainty in another person. We discover doubt - both in the object of our affection and in ourselves.

  So perhaps the trick of it is to recognize the fundamental ambivalence lurking behind every form of human endeavor. Because once you recognize that - once you grasp the flawed nature of everything - you can move forward without disappointment.

  Until, of course, you fall in love again.

  Two days after my meeting with Dudley Thomson, a letter from him arrived in the mail. In it, he informed me that George Grey had accepted my proposal of a once-off payment of $25,200 - on the condition that I would abnegate (his word) any further claims to alimony and/or other forms of financial maintenance. He also suggested that fifty per cent of this sum would be payable to me on signature of a legally binding agreement (which he would draw up once I informed him that, in principle, I accepted these terms), and fifty per cent when the official divorce decree came through twenty-four months from now (New York State was very reluctant back then to issue divorces with ease).

  I picked up the phone and called Mr Thomson, informing him that I agreed to these terms. Within a week of that call, a legal agreement arrived through the mail. It was lengthy and semantically challenging for anyone like myself who hadn’t been to law school. Eric also read it and decided it was labyrinthine. So, that day, he found me a local attorney in the neighborhood. His name was Joel Eberts. He was a beefy man in his late fifties, built like a stevedore. He had his office on the corner of Thompson and Prince Streets. It was one room, with scuffed linoleum and fluorescent lighting. His handshake was like a vise. But I liked his blunt style.

  After briefly perusing the contract, he whistled through his blackened teeth and said, ‘You were actually married to Edwin Grey’s son?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Do you know the Greys?’

  ‘I think I’m a little too Semitic for their social tastes. But in my younger days, I used to practice labor law, and for a while I represented the dockers over at the Brooklyn Navy Yards. You ever been over to the Navy Yards?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said quietly. ‘Once.’

  ‘Anyway, Old Man Grey’s firm made a lot of money representing the private contractors at the Navy Yards. Grey himself had this really fearsome reputation for actually taking pleasure in screwing the workers, especially when it came to negotiating contracts. And the thing was: the guy always won. I hated the sonofabitch - ‘scuse my French - so I’ll be happy to look this over for you. Six bucks an hour is what I charge. Is that okay?’

  ‘Very reasonable. Too reasonable, in fact. Shouldn’t I be paying you more?’

  ‘This is the Village, not Wall Street. Six bucks an hour is my rate, and I’m not going to jack it up just because you’re dealing with Potholm, Grey and Connell. But lemme ask you something: why just accept a one-off payment from the bastards?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘As I am representing you, you’d better tell me them.’

  Hesitantly, I informed him about the awfulness of the marriage, the nightmare that was my mother-in-law, and the miscarriage - with all its permanent implications. When I finished, he leaned over his desk and quickly squeezed my hand.

  ‘That’s a tough call, Miss Smythe. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll have all this sorted out in a couple of days. It shouldn’t take more than around ten to twelve hours of my time, max.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said.

  A week later, Mr Eberts called me at Eric’s apartment.

  ‘Sorry it took me some time to get back to you, but this took a little longer to negotiate than expected.’

  ‘I thought it was all pretty straightforward.’

  ‘Miss Smythe - when it comes to law, nothing’s straightforward. Anyway, here’s the deal. First the Bad News: I ended up spending twenty hours on this agreement, so it’s gonna cost you a hundred and twenty dollars … which I know is twice the originally quoted price, but that’s how these things go. Especially since the Good News is really Good News. They’re now gonna pay you a one-off settlement of thirty-five grand.’

  ‘Thirty-five thousand dollars? But Mr Thomson and I had agreed twenty-five thousand.’

  ‘Yeah - but I always like to get my clients a little more than they bargained for. Anyway, I spoke to a doctor friend of mine, who told me that we could have a case against that quack specialist your mother-in-law imposed on you. What was his name again?’

  ‘Dr Eisenberg.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the gonif. Anyway, according to my doc friend, Eisenberg was negligent in not detecting the catastrophic nature of your pregnancy - and therefore could be held responsible for the permanent damage you suffered. Of course, that jerk Dudley Thomson at Potholm, Grey and Connell tried to pooh-pooh the idea of medical negligence - until I told him that if the Greys really wanted a nasty public divorce case, we were prepared to give them one.’

  ‘But I
would never have agreed to that.’

  ‘Believe me, I was aware of that. All I was doing was playing Call My Bluff. And then I told them we now wanted a settlement of fifty grand …’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Of course I knew they’d never agree to that. But it did scare the pants off them - because within a day they came back with a counter-offer of thirty-five. Thompson says it’s their absolutely final offer, but I’m pretty sure I can get them up to forty …’

  ‘Thirty-five will do just fine,’ I said. ‘Very honestly, I don’t think I should accept this new sum at all.’

  ‘Why the hell not? The Greys have got the money. Medically speaking, they’re partially to blame for what happened to you. More to the point, this is a good deal for them. Once they pay you off, they’ll never have another responsibility towards you again … which is how you wanted it, right?’

  ‘Yes, but … I had agreed to the sum of twenty-five.’

  ‘That’s until you hired a lawyer. And trust me on this one: they owe you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Say nothing. Just take the money … and don’t feel any guilt about it.’

  ‘At least let me pay you more than a hundred and twenty dollars.’

  ‘Why? That’s my fee.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, thank you. I had great fun finally winning one against Edwin-goddamn-Grey. The agreement should be here tomorrow, so I’ll call you when it’s ready for signature. And here’s another little bit of good news: they’re gonna give you the entire thirty-five grand right now, on the condition that you don’t contest the divorce.’

  ‘Why on earth would I want to do that?’

  ‘That’s what I told him. So, there we go. Happy?’

  ‘Overwhelmed.’

  ‘Don’t be. But if you wouldn’t mind a small piece of advice, Miss Smythe?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘As we used to say in Brooklyn, spend the money smart.’

  I heeded that advice. When the payment came through a month later, I put it in the bank and went shopping. For an apartment. It only took a week to find what I was looking for: a sunny one-bedroom place on the first floor of a turn-of-the-century brownstone on West 77th Street off Riverside Drive. The apartment was spacious, with three bright rooms, high ceilings, hardwood floors. There was a small alcove area off the living room which would make a perfect study. But the best selling point - the thing that made me want the place immediately - was the fact that it had its own private garden. All right, it was only a ten by ten patch of cracked paving stones and dead grass - but I knew I could do wonderful things with it. More tellingly, I would have my own private garden in the center of Manhattan - a little dash of green in the middle of all that high-rise concrete and brick. True, the walls of the apartment were covered in heavy brown floral wallpaper. And yes, the kitchen was a little old-fashioned - it had an antiquated ice box that actually required regular deliveries from the local ice man. But the real-estate broker said that she’d be willing to shave $300 off the asking price of $8000 to compensate for the renovations I would need to make. I told her to add another $200 to that figure, and we’d have a deal. She agreed. As it was a brownstone, I didn’t have to be vetted by the board of the cooperative. There was just a monthly maintenance fee of $20. I used Joel Eberts again to handle the legal work. I paid cash. I owned the apartment a week after I saw it.

  ‘My sister the property owner,’ Eric said archly while looking around the apartment only a few days before I closed the deal.

  ‘Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me a bourgeois capitalist.’

  ‘I’m not being ideological - just wry. There is a difference, you know.’

  ‘Really? I never realized that, comrade.’

  ‘Shhh …’

  ‘Stop being paranoid. I doubt Mr Hoover’s bugged this apartment. I mean, the previous owner was a little old Latvian lady …’

  ‘To Hoover, everyone’s a possible subversive. Haven’t you read what’s been going on in Washington? A bunch of congressmen are screaming about Reds under the Bed in Hollywood. Calling for a committee to investigate Communist infiltration of the entertainment industry.’

  ‘That’s just Hollywood.’

  ‘Believe me, if the Congress starts trying to dig up Commies in LA, then it’ll just be a matter of time before they turn their attention to New York.’

  ‘Like I told you before - if that happens, all you’ll have to tell them is that you left the Party in forty-one, and you’ll be in the clear. Anyway, you can always tell the Feds you have this arch-capitalist, property-owning sister …’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Give it to me straight, Eric: do you like the place?’

  He glanced again around the empty living room.

  ‘Yeah - it’s got great potential. Especially once you get rid of that Eastern European wallpaper. What do you think it’s depicting? Springtime in Riga?’

  ‘I don’t know - but along with the kitchen, it’s going before I set foot in here.’

  ‘Are you sure about living on the Upper West Side? I mean, it’s kind of quiet up here in the Dakotas.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, the only thing I miss about Old Greenwich is the sense of open space. That’s why I like it up here. I’m a minute from Riverside Park. I’ve got the Hudson. I’ve got my garden …’

  ‘Stop it, or you’re going to start sounding like Thoreau at Walden Pond.’

  I laughed, then said, ‘After I pay for this place and do it up, I should still have around thirty-two thousand in the bank - that’s including the inheritance money from Mother and Father, which I put into government bonds.’

  ‘Unlike your profligate brother.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. The real-estate agent who sold me this place told me there was another apartment going on the third floor. So why don’t you let me buy it for you and …’

  He cut me off. ‘No way,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be so dismissive of the idea. I mean, that place of yours on Sullivan Street really isn’t the best …’

  ‘It suits me fine. It’s all I need.’

  ‘Come on, Eric - it’s a student place. It’s like bad La Boheme - and you’re nearly thirty-five years old.’

  ‘I know exactly how old I am, S,’ he said crossly. ‘Just as I also know what I need or don’t need. What I don’t need is your damn charity, understand?’

  His harsh tone stunned me.

  ‘I was only making a suggestion. I mean, I know you don’t like the Upper West Side, so if you saw a place downtown you wanted to buy …’

  ‘I want nothing from you, S.’

  ‘But why? I can help you.’

  ‘Because I don’t want help. Because needing help makes me feel like a loser.’

  ‘You know I don’t think that about you.’

  ‘But I think that. So … thanks but no thanks.’

  ‘At least consider it.’

  ‘No. Case closed. But here’s a practical tip from an impractical guy: find yourself a smart stockbroker and let him invest that thirty-two grand in blue chips: GE, General Motors, RCA, that kind of thing. Rumor has it IBM is also a smart bet - although they’re still finding their feet as a company.’