Douglas Kennedy: The Pursuit of Happiness

So I went into my bedroom and stripped off my disgusting suit, and stood under a very hot shower for around ten minutes. Then I put on a bathrobe, wrapped my hair in a towel, and went out to the kitchen to make coffee. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I rewound the answer phone and listened to yesterday's accumulated messages.

There were nine altogether - five from assorted friends and people at work, offering solace and all finishing up with that standard what-do-you-say-to-a-bereaved-person line: if there's anything we can do. (Which, though formulaic, was still rather touching to hear). There was a message from Matt - at eight thirty last night, telling me that Ethan was just fine, that they'd had a great day out, and he was now tucked up in bed, and... 'if there's anything I can do'.

It's too late for that, chum. Far too late.

Naturally enough, there was a call from my aunt. It was classic Meg.

'Hi, it's just me, thinking you might have finally gotten some sense and come home. I thought wrong. Now I'm not going to bother you at your mom's place, because (a) you might chew my ear off, and (b) you probably want to be left the hell alone. But if you have decided that you've done enough penance for one evening, and have come home, give me a call... as long as it's a reasonable hour. Which, for me, means anytime before three a.m. Love ya, sweetheart. Kiss Ethan for me. And keep taking the medicine'.

Medicine being a Meg synonym for whiskey.

Finally, there were two messages where the caller failed to leave a message. The first came (according to the answering machine, which electronically tags the time of the call) at 6.08; the second at 9.44 p.m. Both were marked by an eerie moment or two of silence... when it was clear that the person on the line was deciding whether or not to say something. I hate it when people do that. Because it makes me feel vulnerable, spooked. And on my own.

The kettle began to whistle. I turned down the gas flame, grabbed the cafetiere and a vacuum jar of freshly ground, extra-strength French Roast, and shoveled enough coffee into the cafetiere for seven cups. I added the boiling water and pushed down the plunger. I poured out a large mug. I drank it down quickly. I poured out another cup. After one more charring gulp of coffee (I have an asbestos mouth), and a quick glance at my watch (7.12 a.m.), I decided I could face calling Matt's place.

'H... e... l... l... o...?'

The voice at the end of the line sounded half awake, and female. Her.

'Uh, hi...' I said, stumbling badly. 'Is, uh, Ethan there?'

'Ethan? Who's Ethan?'

'Who do you think Ethan is?'

That woke her up. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry. Ethan. Of course I know who...'

'Could I speak with him?'

'Is he still here?' she asked.

'Well, I don't really know the answer to that question', I said, 'because I'm not there'.

She now sounded totally flustered. 'I'll just see if... Is that you, Kate?'

'That's right'.

'Hey, I was going to write you... but now that you're here, like, I just wanted to say...'

Cut to the chase, dufus.

'Like... I was real, real sorry to hear about your mom'.

'Thank you'.

'And, well, uh, if there's anything I can do...'

'Just put Ethan on, please'.

'Uh... sure'.

I could hear Her whispering in the background. Then Matt picked up the phone.

'Hi there, Kate. I was just wondering how the rest of yesterday went'.

'Terrific. I haven't had such fun in years'.

'You know what I mean'.

I took another sip of coffee. 'I got through it. Can I speak with Ethan now, please?'

'Sure', he said. 'He's right here'.

I heard Matt pass the phone over to him.

'Sweetheart, you there?' I asked.

'Hi, Mom', Ethan said, sounding half awake. My heart immediately lifted. Ethan, for me, is instant Prozac.

'How are you doing, big guy?'

'The IMAX movie was cool. These people were climbing a mountain, and then it started to snow, and they got into trouble'.

'What was the name of the mountain they were climbing?'

'I forget'.

I laughed.

'And after the movie, we went to the toy shop'.

Figures.

'What did Daddy get you?'

'A Power Rangers CD-Rom'.

Great.

'And a Lego spaceship. Then we went to the television station -'

Wonderful. Just what I needed to hear.

'- and Blair was there. And she brought me and Dad into the room where they talk to the cameras. And we watched her on television'.

'Sounds like a terrific afternoon'.

'Blair was real cool. Then we all went out to a restaurant afterwards. The one in the World Trade Center. You could see all the city at night. And this helicopter came by. And a lot of people came to our table to ask Blair for her autograph...'

'You missing me, sweetheart... ?' I blurted out.

'Yeah, sure, Mom', he said, sounding deflated. I suddenly felt like a needy idiot.

'I love you, Ethan'.

'Bye, Mom', he said and hung up.

Jerk, jerk, jerk. You should never expect a child to make you feel wanted.

I stood by the phone for several minutes, willing myself not to break down again (I had done enough of that in the last twenty-four hours). When I felt myself under control again, I refilled my mug of coffee, walked out into the living room, and flopped down on the big cushy sofa - the last major domestic purchase that Matt and I made before his dramatic exit.

But he hasn't really vanished from my life. That's part of the problem. If we didn't have Ethan, the breakup would have been far easier. Because - after the initial period of shock, anger, grief, and mourning - I could have at least taken solace in the fact that I would never have to see the guy again.

But Ethan means that, like it or not, we must continue to interact, co-exist, acknowledge each other's presence (take your pick). As Matt said during that pre-divorce horse-trading process known as 'mediation': 'For everyone's sake, we really have to establish a little detente between us'. By and large, this detente has been achieved. Five years after the event, we've long since stopped screaming at each other. We deal with each other in (more or less) a correct manner. I have decided that the marriage was, from the outset, a huge mistake. But, despite my best efforts at so-called 'closure', the wound still remains curiously raw.

When I recently mentioned this to Meg during one of our weekly drunken dinners, she said, 'Sweetheart, you can tell yourself over and over again that he wasn't the guy for you, and that it was all one big blooper. But the fact remains that you're not going to totally get over it. It's just too big, too consequential. The pain will always be there. It's one of the many rotten things about life: the way it becomes an accumulation of griefs, both big and small. But survivors - and, sweetheart, you definitely fall into that category - figure out how to live with all that grief. Because, like it or not, grief is kind of interesting, and kind of essential. Because it gives things real import. And it's also the reason why God invented booze'.

Trust Meg to articulate a cheerful Irish-Catholic view of life.

'For everyone's sake, we really have to establish a little detente between us'.

Yeah, Matt - I do think that. But after all this time I still don't know how to pull it off. Whenever I sit in this living room, the thought strikes me: everything is so random, isn't it? Take the interior decor of this apartment. A large, cushy Pottery Barn sofa in stylish cream-colored upholstery (I think the name of the actual shade was Cappuccino). Two matching armchairs, a pair of smart Italian floor lamps, and a low-slung coffee table with a collection of magazines fanned across its beechwood top. We spent a significant amount of time deliberating about all this furniture. Just as we also debated the veneered beechwood floors that we eventually had installed in this room. And the high-tech grey-steel kitchen units we chose at IKEA in Jersey City (yes, we were so serious about this life we were building together that we actually made a trip to New Jersey to size up a kitchen). And the oatmeal-knit carpet which replaced that dreadful aquamarine shag which your grandfather lived with. And the Shaker-style four-poster bed which set us back $3200.