‘Because,’ I said, ‘I’m not living with someone.’
‘Well, Dr Watson,’ Eric said, ‘all the evidence points to a male presence in this household. A permanent male presence.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t want to tell you,’ Ronnie said.
‘Yes,’ I added, ‘maybe she doesn’t.’
‘Fine, fine,’ Eric said. ‘I would never, ever dream of interfering in my sister’s affairs. Does he have a name?’
‘Interestingly enough, he does. But I’m not going to tell it to you yet.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Because I’m not ready to tell it to you.’
For the rest of the night, Eric plagued me with the same question: who’s the guy? After his twentieth attempt to pry the information from me, Ronnie finally told him he was going to stand up and leave unless he got off the subject. Eric took the hint. But first thing the next morning, he was on the phone, demanding, yet again, to know the name of the gentleman in question.
‘He must be bad news if you’re refusing to tell me.’
‘Be patient - when I’m ready to inform you, I will.’
‘Why aren’t you ready now?’
‘Because I don’t know whether it has a future.’
‘Well, if it doesn’t, then you might as well tell me now …’
‘Can’t you accept the fact that you don’t need to know everything about me?’
‘No.’
‘Well, too bad. My lips remain sealed.’
For the next two weeks, Eric kept up the pressure - and enhanced my guilt. Because he was right: we’d always tried to be open with each other. Even Eric finally told me about his sexuality, a horribly difficult admission in those days, so surely I owed him a direct answer to his question … even though I dreaded his reaction. Finally, I suggested that Eric meet me for a drink at the Oak Room of the Plaza. We were working on our second martinis when I finally felt enough gin-fueled courage to say, ‘The man’s name is Jack Malone.’
Eric blanched. ‘You cannot be serious,’ he said.
‘I’m completely serious.’
‘Him?’ he said.
‘Yes. Him.’
‘But that’s unbelievable. Because he was gone with the wind. He messed up your life. And after you met him and his wife, didn’t you tell me you’d given him the brush-off?’
‘I know, I know, but …’
‘So how long exactly has this been going on?’
‘Over four months.’
Eric looked deeply shocked.
‘Four months. Why on earth did you keep it a secret for so long?’
‘Because I was terrified of your disapproval.’
‘Oh for God’s sakes, S - I might not have liked the guy when I first met him, and I certainly didn’t like the way he ditched you, but …’
‘After Jack vanished you told me, over and over again, that I was a fool to be expending so much emotional energy on such a no-hoper. So, naturally, when he came back into my life, I was really worried about your reaction.’
‘I don’t have fangs and I don’t sleep in a coffin, S.’
‘I know, I know. And I felt terrible about concealing this for so long. But I knew that, before I told you anything, I had to find out whether or not this had a future.’
‘Which it evidently does - otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me now.’
‘I love him, Eric.’
‘So I gather.’
‘But I really mean it. This is not some dumb infatuation with a married man, some transient romance. This is it. And it’s mutual.’
Eric went quiet. He sipped his martini. He smoked. Eventually, he shrugged and said, ‘I suppose I should meet him again, shouldn’t I?’
I set up a drink a few days later - late Friday afternoon in the bar of the St Moritz, one block east from where Eric lived on Central Park South. I was nervous as hell. So too was Jack - even though I assured him that my brother had promised me he would be on his best behavior. Things got off to a bad start when we were kept waiting thirty minutes. Then a bar-man came to our table to inform us that Eric had called and said he’d been stuck in a meeting, but would be with us in ten minutes.
Another forty minutes passed, during which time Jack drank another two bourbon and sodas, and smoked three more cigarettes.
‘Is this your brother’s idea of a joke?’ he finally asked, sounding annoyed.
‘I’m sure there’s a very good reason …’ I said, sounding nervous.
‘Either that, or he believes that his time is more valuable than my own. Of course, I’m just some PR guy, whereas he’s the great gag writer.’
‘Jack, please.’
‘You’re right, you’re right. I’m just being a hothead.’
‘No - you should be annoyed. But there’s nothing I can do …’
‘So let’s have another drink.’
‘A fourth bourbon and soda?’
‘Are you telling me I can’t hold my liquor?’
‘Waiter!’ I said, catching him as he passed by our table. ‘Another bourbon and soda for the gentleman, please.’
‘Thank you,’ Jack said dryly as the waiter moved off.
‘I’d never stand between a man and his booze.’
‘Is that your idea of irony?’
‘No - that’s me dropping a hint, which you won’t take.’
‘I know my limits.’
‘Fine, fine.’
Jack glanced towards the door. ‘But I don’t think your brother does.’
I looked the same way. My heart instantly sank. Because Eric had just arrived - and he was drunk. He had a dead cigarette clamped between his teeth, his eyes were glazed, his gait unsteady. When he caught sight of us, he pulled off his hat with a flourish and bowed deeply. Then he stumbled over to our table, and planted a big wet kiss on my mouth.
‘Blame it all on Mr Manning. He insisted on pouring two bottles of wine down my throat at lunch.’
‘You’re an hour and a quarter late,’ I said.
‘That’s show business,’ he said, falling into a chair.
‘At least you could say you’re sorry to Jack.’
Immediately, Eric was on his feet. He snapped to attention, and exercised a crisp military salute. I now wanted to kill him. Thankfully, Jack kept his cool. He threw back his bourbon and soda, and reached for the fresh drink the waiter had just deposited on our table. ‘Nice to see you, Eric,’ he said quietly.
‘And top o’ the morning to you, Mr Malone,’ Eric said in a dreadful Pat O’Brien accent.
‘Maybe we should do this another day,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Jack said. ‘That might be a good idea.’
‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ Eric said. ‘One little drink and my equilibrium will be completely restored. Now, what are the lovebirds going to drink with me? But, of course … Waiter! A bottle of champagne.’
‘I’ll stick to bourbon,’ Jack said.
‘Bourbon?’ Eric said. ‘Come, come - there’s no need to be proletarian …’
‘Are you calling me a prole?’ Jack said.
Eric switched into the Pat O’Brien accent again.
‘Sure, behind every common man lurks a poet.’
‘For God’s sake, Eric,’ I said.
‘I am just joking,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘No offence intended.’
Jack nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he lifted his fresh drink and downed half of it.
‘Ah,’ Eric said, ‘the strong silent type.’
‘What is your problem?’ Jack asked.
‘I have no problems,’ Eric said. ‘None at all. In fact, I am as happy as an Irishman in a bog.’
‘That’s enough, Eric,’ I said.
‘You’re absolutely right. I apologize profusely for my absurd reverie. Now, sir, let us mend fences over a glass of France’s best fizz.’
‘Like I told you, I’m sticking with bourbon.’
‘Fine, fine. I do understand. And approve.’
; ‘You what?’ Jack asked.
‘I approve. Of bourbon, I mean. Especially since bourbon is such a good solid American drink.’
‘Is there anything wrong with an American drink?’ Jack asked.
‘Hell no, pardner,’ he said, now doing John Wayne. ‘It’s just, bourbon ain’t my firewater, son.’
‘Yeah - I forgot. All Commies drink champagne.’
Eric looked as if he’d been slapped. I wanted to flee the room. After a moment’s shock, Eric recovered face and put on a Scarlett O’Hara voice.
‘Dear, oh dear, someone’s been speaking a little too freely about my colorful past. Wouldn’t be y’all, sis, would it?’
‘Jack, let’s go,’ I said.
‘But what about our champagne?’ Eric asked.
‘Shove it,’ Jack said.
‘I so love the lyrical patois of the Brooklyn-eze.’
‘I talk American - though I’m sure talking American strikes you as far too patriotic.’
‘Hardly. After all, wasn’t it old Sam Johnson himself who said that patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel?’
‘Fuck you,’ Jack hissed, tossing the remainder of his drink into Eric’s face. Then he turned and stormed out of the bar.
Eric sat there, with bourbon and soda cascading down his cheeks. He appeared perplexed by this baptism.
‘Thank you,’ I said, my voice shaky. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘Go to hell,’ I said, and left.
I dashed through the lobby, and caught Jack just as he was walking out the door.
‘Darling,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry …’
‘Not as sorry as I am. Why the hell did he do that?’
‘I don’t know. Nerves, I guess.’
‘That wasn’t nervousness - that was him being an asshole.’
‘Please forgive me.’
‘You’re not at fault here, sweetheart. He’s the guy with the problem. And the problem is me.’
He gave me a fast buzz on the cheek.
‘Listen, I’ve got to get home,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you over the weekend - when I’ve stopped wanting to punch a brick wall.’
He headed out into Central Park South. I wanted to chase after him, and reassure him that this whole incident meant nothing … even though I knew that wasn’t true. The worst thing you can do when something goes really wrong is to insist that everything’s just fine; that, come tomorrow, everyone will wake up as friends. If only life worked that way. If only we didn’t complicate things so damn much.
So I didn’t run after Jack, figuring it was best to talk to him once his emotional temperature was back to normal. Instead, I walked back to the bar, steeling myself for the confrontation I was about to have with my brother.
But when I entered the cocktail lounge, I now found Eric slumped in his chair, passed out. He was snoring loudly, much to the displeasure of the other patrons in the lounge, not to mention the bartender.
‘Is that guy with you?’ he asked as I crouched down beside Eric.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, get him out of here.’
It took a minute of constant shaking before Eric finally came around. He stared at me quizzically.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Looking at a jerk,’ I said.
The bartender found a member of the hotel staff to help me escort Eric out of the St Moritz and one block west to his apartment at Hampshire House. Thankfully, Ronnie was at home. He rolled his eyes when he saw Eric’s less than sober state. We each took an arm and led him into the bedroom.
‘I think I’m just a little tired,’ Eric mumbled before falling face down on the bed and passing out. Ronnie relieved my brother of his shoes, then covered him with a blanket.
‘Let’s let him sleep it off,’ he whispered, motioning for me to follow him back into the living room. ‘I’m sure you could use a drink.’
‘After what’s happened, I think alcohol’s about the last thing I’m interested in.’ Then I filled him in on Eric’s little performance in the bar of the St Moritz.
‘Jesus,’ Ronnie said when I finished. ‘He really knows how to mess things up.’
‘I just can’t believe he acted that way … especially knowing how important it was to me that he got along with Jack.’
‘He’s jealous.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of your guy, of course.’
‘But that’s crazy. I mean, when I was married, he wasn’t at all resentful of my husband …’
‘But, from what I can gather, that’s because he wasn’t threatened by him. Whereas with this new guy …’
‘But why the hell should he be threatened by Jack?’
‘Because he means so damn much to you, that’s why. And because he was really hurt by the fact that you kept it all from him for a couple of months.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He told me, that’s how.’
‘I had to keep it from him. Until I was sure that …’
‘Hey, I’m not criticizing you here. All I’m saying is that your crazy brother adores you more than anything in the world. You should hear how he talks about you. You’re everything to him. And now along comes this guy - whom he met once before, right?’
‘Yes - and they hated each other on sight.’
‘There you go. So this Jack guy suddenly shows up again in your life - and it’s obviously so damn serious that you keep it all a secret from your brother. For months. And now he’s feeling anxious about losing you.’
‘Losing me? That’s the last thing that would ever happen.’
‘You know that. I know that. But jealousy isn’t exactly the most rational of emotions, is it?’
I sat around with Ronnie until about six, hoping Eric might wake up. But when it became apparent that he was out for the night, I headed back to my apartment. I desperately wanted to hear from Jack - but the phone remained silent. At eight the next morning, however, my doorbell rang. I jumped out of bed, flung on a robe, and raced to the front door. Standing there was Eric. His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen. He was visibly nervous.
The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) Page 44