The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (71 page)

‘For six months.’

‘Good God …’

‘Steele and Sherwood have been pretty understanding. Full pay for the first three months, half pay since then. It’s meant things have been a little tight, especially with the beautiful Kate now in our lives. But we’ve managed.’

‘Are things now better between you and Dorothy?’

‘Kate’s made a difference. It’s given us something to talk about. Other than Charlie, that is.’

‘There must have been some sort of thaw between the two of you before then,’ I said, nodding towards the baby carriage.

‘Not really. Just a night when we both had four Scotches too many, and Dorothy momentarily forgot that, at heart, she didn’t like me.’

‘I hope Kate makes you both very …’

He cut me off. His tone was suddenly harsh.

‘Yeah, thanks for the Hallmark Cards sentiment.’

‘I mean that, Jack. I don’t wish you any ill.’

‘You sure?’

‘I never did.’

‘But you didn’t forgive me either.’

‘You’re right. For a long time, I found it very hard to forgive what you’d done.’

‘And now?’

‘The past is the past.’

‘I can’t undo what happened.’

‘I know.’

He reached over to where my right hand was resting on the table. He covered it with his own. As soon as he touched me, I felt something akin to a small electrical charge course up my arm … the same charge I’d felt on that first night in 1945. After a moment, I moved my left hand on top of his.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s okay,’ I said.

‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘it will never be okay.’

I suddenly heard myself say, ‘I forgive you.’

Silence. We said nothing for a very long time. Then Kate began to stir - some quiet burbling sounds quickly escalating into a full-scale lament. Jack stood up and hunted around the baby carriage until he found the pacifier she had spit out. As soon as it was back between her lips, she ejected it again and continued crying.

‘She’s in the market for a bottle, I’m afraid,’ Jack said. ‘I’d better get home.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

He sat down quickly again opposite me.

‘Can I see you again?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I understand …’

‘There’s no one else.’

‘That’s not what I was implying.’

‘It’s just … well … I guess I don’t know what I think right now.’

‘No rush,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I have to go out of town for a week or so. It’s a business thing. Up in Boston. Some account Steele and Sherwood wants me to handle when I go back to work next month.’

‘Are you well enough to travel?’

‘I look worse than I am.’

Kate’s crying now escalated.

‘You’d better go,’ I said.

He squeezed my hand one last time.

‘I’ll call you from Boston,’ he said.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Call me.’

He stood up. He rearranged the blanket around Kate. He turned towards me again. I stood up. Suddenly he pulled me towards him - and kissed me. I met his kiss. And held it. It only lasted a moment. When he ended it, he whispered:

‘Goodbye.’

Then he put both hands on the baby carriage and pushed it forward.

I sat down in the booth. I crossed my arms on the table. I laid my head atop them. I sat that way for a very long time.

For the next week, the shock lingered. I did my work. I saw movies. I saw friends. I kept replaying that kiss in my head. I didn’t know what to make of it. I didn’t know anything anymore.

He said he would call. He didn’t call. But he did write. A short card, with a Boston postmark. It was scribbled in a shaky hand.

I’m still here. It should be over soon.

I love you.

Jack

I read that card over and over, trying to decipher its underlying meaning. Eventually I decided there was no underlying meaning. He was still in Boston. Whatever he was doing would end shortly. He loved me.

And I still loved him.

But I expected nothing. Because - as I had learned - if you expect nothing, then anything is a surprise.

Another week went by. No calls. No cards. I remained calm. On Monday morning, April fifteenth, I was running out the door, en route to a press screening of some film. I was late, the traffic on Broadway was grim, so I decided to skip the bus and grab the subway downtown. I walked briskly to the 79th Street station, buying a
New York Times
from the newsie who was always out in front. I climbed aboard the downtown train. I did my usual quick scan of the paper. When I reached the Obituary page, I noticed that the lead death of the day was a Hartford insurance executive who once worked with my father. I quickly read his obituary, and was about to move on to the opposite page when my gaze stumbled on a short listing amidst the page-wide columns of Deaths:

MALONE, John Joseph, age 33, at Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston, on April 14th. Husband of Dorothy, father of Charles and Katherine. Formerly of Steele and Sherwood Public Relations Inc., New York. Will be much mourned by family and friends. Funeral Mass, Wednesday, April 17th, Holy Trinity Church, West 82nd Street, Manhattan. House private. No flowers please.

I only read it once. Then I lowered the paper on to my lap. I stared ahead of me. I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I didn’t notice the passage of time. Until a man in a uniform came over to me and said, ‘You okay, lady?’

I now realized that the train had stopped. The carriage was empty.

‘Where are we?’ I managed to ask.

‘The end of the line.’

T
WO DAYS LATER,
I went to the funeral. The church - Holy Trinity - wasn’t large, but it still seemed cavernous. There were only twenty or so mourners in attendance. They all sat in the front two pews - directly facing the casket. It was surrounded by four lit candles, and draped in an American flag - because, as befitting any veteran of the Armed Forces, Jack was entitled to a funeral with full military honors. Two soldiers in dress uniform stood at attention on either side of the coffin. The service began with the tolling of a bell. A priest and two altar boys marched down the aisle. One of the boys held a smoking censer of incense. The other carried a large gold cross. The priest - a short, greying man with a hard face - walked around the coffin, sprinkling it with holy water. Then he mounted the pulpit and began the Latin Mass. His voice was tough, no-nonsense. Like the man he was burying, the priest was a Brooklyn boy. I kept wondering if he had ever heard Jack’s confession.

A baby began to cry in the front row. It was Kate. She was being held by her mother. Dorothy’s face was drawn and tired. Next to her sat Charlie - in a blazer and a pair of flannel pants. He was the image of his father. So much so that I found it hard to look at him.

The priest moved briskly through the Latin prayers of the Mass. Whenever he reverted back to English and spoke about ‘our dear departed brother, Jack’, I felt my eyes sting. There were a few muffled sobs - largely from Meg, who sat on the other side of Charlie, her arm around his shoulders. I didn’t recognize any of the other mourners. I sat in the back row of the church, far away from the assembled crowd. I mixed in with a few local parishioners who had wandered in to say prayers, or simply seek shelter from the wet April day.

I had to be here. I had to say goodbye. But I also knew that I belonged in the back of the church - away from Dorothy and the children; away from Meg. I had caused enough grief within this family. I didn’t want to cause more by making an appearance. So I arrived at the church fifteen minutes before the funeral, and waited in a doorway on the opposite side of 82nd Street. I watched as two limousines pulled up out front, and the family entered the church. I loitered opposite for another five minutes - until I was certain that all the other mourners had entered. Then, wrapping a scarf tightly around my head, I crossed the street, climbed the church stairs and - with my head lowered - slipped quickly into the back row. The sight of the coffin was like a kick in the stomach. Up until this moment, the idea that Jack was dead seemed absurd, inconceivable. After reading his obituary in the
New York Times,
I forgot all about the screening I was supposed to attend, and instead found myself wandering aimlessly around the city for the balance of the day. At some juncture, I made my way home. It was dark. I opened the door. I let myself inside. I took off my coat. I sat down in an armchair. I remained in that armchair for a very long time. Only after an hour or so did I notice that I had failed to turn a light on in the apartment; that I was sitting alone in the dark. The phone started to ring. I ignored it. I went into my bedroom. I undressed and got into bed. I pulled the covers tight over me. I stared up at the ceiling. I kept expecting to fall apart, to come asunder and weep uncontrollably. But I was too concussed to cry. The enormity of it all - the terrible realization that I would never talk to him again - rendered me insensible. I couldn’t fathom his loss. Nor could I now fathom why I had spent four years being so stubborn, so intractable, so unforgiving. Four years separated from the man I loved - a separation sparked by his dire mistake … but then fueled by my inability to be understanding, to show mercy. By punishing him I had punished myself. Four years. How could I have squandered those four years?

I didn’t sleep that night. At some point I got out of bed, I got dressed. I left the apartment and sat for two hours in an all-night coffee shop on Broadway and 76th Street. Dawn arrived. I stood up. I paid my bill. I walked over to Riverside Park. I walked down to the river. I sat on a bench. I stared out at the Hudson. I kept willing myself to break down - to have that big cathartic moment. But all I could do was look out blankly at the water and wonder whether I had, in my own way, killed him.

I finally returned to the apartment. The clock in the kitchen read nine fifteen a.m. The phone rang. This time I answered it. It was Joel Eberts.

‘Thank God,’ he said, after I picked up. ‘I called all day yesterday. You had me worried.’

‘No need,’ I said.

‘You sound tired.’

‘I had a bad night.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ he said. ‘After I saw the announcement in the
Times
yesterday, I wondered …’

‘I’m handling it,’ I said quietly.

‘Do you have any idea about the cause of death?’

‘No.’

‘He didn’t try to make contact since you were back in the city?’

‘No, never,’ I lied, unable to talk about anything right now.

‘That was probably for the best.’

I said nothing.

‘You sure you’re okay, Sara?’

‘It’s just a shock, that’s all.’

‘Well, if you’re not okay, I just want you to know that I’m here. Call me anytime.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And whatever you do … don’t feel guilty. It was all a long time ago.’

But I did blame myself. Totally.

Sheer exhaustion forced me into bed at seven that evening. I woke just after five. It was still dark outside - but I had slept deeply, so I felt curiously rested. I knew that the funeral would begin in just over four hours. I dreaded going. I had no choice but to go.

Now, sitting in the rear of the church, I kept my head lowered as the words of the Mass reverberated around my ears.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona eis requiem.

Lamb of God, thou takest away the sins of the world, grant them rest.

Or, even more piercing:

Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla judicandus homo reus; huic ergo parce, Deus.

On this day full of tears, when from the ashes arises guilty man, to be judged: Oh Lord, have mercy upon him.

I pressed my fingers hard against my eyes. I had judged him. And yes, I had finally forgiven him. Far too late.

Kate started to cry again. Only this time she could not be consoled. After a few minutes, she was wailing. I had been keeping my head bowed - but I raised it just as Meg was coming up the aisle. She had obviously decided to relieve Dorothy of the baby, as she had her niece in her arms, and was heading for the door. She saw me and froze - her face initially registering shock. Then it hardened into something approaching pure cold contempt. I quickly lowered my head again. I wanted to flee - but I knew she would be outside with the baby. I sat there for ten minutes, feeling total shame. The Mass forged on - the priest asking us again to pray for the soul of ‘a good husband, a good father, a fine responsible man’. As he fell silent for a moment, I heard footsteps. I stole a quick glance, and saw Meg already halfway down the central aisle, carrying a now-subdued Kate back towards the front row. Immediately, I ducked out of the pew and moved quickly through the front door, down the steps, and into the first cab I could hail.

‘Where you going?’ the driver asked.

‘I don’t know. Just drive.’

He headed down Broadway. At 42nd Street, I left the cab and ducked into the first movie house I could find. I sat through a double-feature. Then I moved on to the next movie house, and sat through another double-feature. Then I walked to the Automat and drank a cup of coffee. While there, I reached a decision that had been formulating in my brain during all those hours of non-stop movies. I finished the coffee. I checked my watch. It was just after seven p.m. I went back out on to 42nd Street and hailed a cab going east. At First Avenue, I asked the taxi to pull up in front of an apartment complex called Tudor City. There was a doorman on duty. He was busy with a delivery of groceries. I told him I was here to see Margaret Malone. He looked me over and decided I didn’t appear sinister.

‘Is she expecting you?’

I nodded.

‘Apartment Seven E. Go right on up.’

I took the elevator to the seventh floor. I marched straight down the corridor to Apartment E. Before I lost my nerve, I rang the bell. After a moment, the door opened. Meg was standing there, still dressed in the black suit she had worn to the funeral. She looked drained, exhausted. A lit cigarette was in her left hand. She flinched when she saw me. Her lips tightened.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ she said.

‘Meg, can I … ?’

‘No. You can’t. Now get lost.’

‘If you’d just hear me out …’

‘You mean, the way you heard my brother out? Go fuck yourself.’

With that, she slammed the door. I put a hand against the wall for support, until I stopped shaking. After a moment, the door opened again. Meg suddenly looked crushed, heartbroken. I took a step towards her. She buried her head in my shoulder. She wept loudly. I put my arms around her - and finally cried too.

When we both calmed down, she brought me into her living room and motioned me towards an armchair. The apartment was a small one-bedroom efficiency - indifferently furnished, crammed with books and periodicals and overflowing ashtrays. Meg disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

‘Medicine,’ she said, pouring out two shots. She handed me a glass, collapsed into an armchair opposite mine, and lit a fresh cigarette. After two deep drags, she finally spoke.

‘I really never wanted to see you again.’

‘I don’t blame you,’ I said.

‘But I also understood you. If it had been Jack, instead of Eric, I would have been merciless.’

‘I was too merciless.’

Another deep drag on her cigarette. ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘You were. But … he told me you forgave him.’

‘He said that?’

‘Yeah. Around a week before he died. He knew he was going for over a year.’

‘A year?’

‘At least. Leukemia is pretty damn remorseless. Once you’ve got it, you know the jig is up.’

‘Leukemia?’ I said, sounding shocked. ‘But he had no history …’

‘Yeah - it just came out of nowhere. Like most catastrophes.’

‘So Jack wasn’t in Boston on business?’

‘No - he was at Mass General Hospital, under the care of some big-cheese blood specialist - one of the best in the country. He was trying some last-ditch treatment to save him. But as the doc told me around a week before Jack went, he was beyond treatment.’

‘At least Steele and Sherwood was picking up the bill.’

‘Are you kidding me? Steele and Sherwood didn’t pay a penny of his medical costs.’

‘But he told me he was going back to work for them … that they had him on sick leave.’

‘That’s because he didn’t want to tell you the truth.’

‘What truth?’

‘They fired him two years ago.’

I reached for the whiskey glass and took a long drink.

‘But he was one of their star executives,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ Meg said. ‘
Was.
Until he fell apart after …’

She hesitated a minute.

‘All right: I’ll give it to you straight, Sara. After Eric died and you refused to deal with him, Jack had something of a breakdown. He stopped sleeping, he lost a lot of weight, he started showing up for meetings looking unshaven and sloppy. Once or twice - he actually broke down in front of clients. To their credit, Steele and Sherwood were pretty understanding. After around eight months of this kind of wayward behavior, they put him on sick leave, and actually dispatched him to a psychiatrist at the company’s expense. Everyone thought he was getting better. But we were wrong.’

‘Was that when you wrote me in Paris?’

‘Yes. That is when I wrote you.’

One letter. One short, generous letter was all that was asked of me. And I couldn’t bring myself even to do that. Pride is the most blinding and self-indulgent of all emotions.

‘Anyway,’ Meg said, ‘during his few weeks back at work, everyone thought that he was returning to his old self. But he couldn’t pull it off. He started missing meetings, and seemed unable to close any deal. They put up with him for another six months, then finally called him in one day and asked him to clear his desk. Again, they were decent with him: six months’ severance pay, and health care benefits for a year. But he was now completely unemployable - especially as he sank back into a depression after they laid him off. At least Kate’s birth picked him up a bit - but right after she came along, he started looking very anemic, and the lymph nodes in his neck began to bulge. I kept telling him that he shouldn’t worry - that his body was reacting to all the stress he’d been under. But personally, I feared the worst. So did Jack. And when the diagnosis finally came …’