Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

I couldn't stare at the stain for long. My eyes moved towards the card table. An official-looking document was wedged under an ashtray. It too was speckled with blood. I pulled it out. I stared at it. It was a notice from the Internal Revenue Service, informing Eric that he was to be subjected to an audit - and that, based on the income information they had received from the National Broadcasting Company, they were now demanding an immediate payment of $43,545 to cover three years of back tax. The letter also stated that, if he wanted to contest this demand, he would have thirty days to present the proper certified accounts to his local IRS office, in order to appeal the specified sum. However, were he to ignore this deadline for appeal, and/or fail to pay the specified sum, he would be subject to criminal prosecution, imprisonment and confiscation of his property.

Forty-three thousand five hundred and forty-five dollars. No wonder he ordered in those two bottles of Canadian Club. If only he'd phoned me. I would have rented a car and driven him to Canada. Or I could have given him enough money to fly to Mexico and survive for a couple of months. But he panicked and succumbed to fear. Or maybe he just couldn't face the thought of another trial after the HUAC trial - followed by imprisonment, bankruptcy, and years thereafter of trying to chip away at that debt.

The letter shook in my hand. Jack was immediately at my side, steadying me. 'The bastards', I said. 'The bastards'.

He took the paper from me and scanned it. 'God', he said. 'How could they have done that?'

'How? How?' I said, sounding unhinged. 'It's easy. Had Eric cooperated and named names, this demand never would have been served on him. But if you don't play ball with those shits, they'll do everything possible to destroy you. Everything'.

I started to cry again. I buried my head in Jack's shoulder.

'I'm sorry', he said. 'I'm so damn sorry...'

I felt another hand on my shoulder. It was Joey. 'Let's get you guys out of here', he said softly. 'You don't want to look at this no more'.

We somehow made it to the elevator and back to the bar. Joey left us the whiskey and a couple of glasses. Jack poured us two shots. I was descending into deeper shock - to the point where my hands were starting to shake. The whiskey helped. For the eighth time that night, I pulled myself together. Jack was slumped in an armchair, staring ahead. I reached for his hand.

'Are you okay?' I asked.

'Just overwhelmed. And guilty that...'

He hesitated.

'Yes?'

'Guilty that I never really got on with Eric'.

'It happens'.

'I should've tried harder. I should've...'

He broke off, on the verge of sobbing. People always surprise you at the strangest moments. Here was Jack - who never really liked my brother - in tears over his death. That's the thing about a genuine tragedy. It reminds everyone that all the arguments we have with each other are ultimately pointless. Death silences the quarrel - and we're suddenly left with the realization that our dispute with the other person had a built-in obsolescence; that, like everything we do, it was of the moment. And that moment - that sliver of time we call life - counts for nothing. Yet we still have the arguments, the quarrels, the rancor, the anguish, the jealousy, the resentment... the splenetic underside which shadows everyone's existence. We live this way - even though we know it will all end; that, somehow, everything is doomed. Maybe that's the real point of anger - it's the way we rage against our complete insignificance. Anger gives consequence to that which is fundamentally inconsequential. Anger makes us believe we're not going to die.

We drank some more whiskey. It had its beneficial effects. We said nothing for a while. We just sat in that empty bar as it gradually became flooded with morning light. Eventually I spoke.

'I have to tell Ronnie'.

'Yeah', Jack said. 'I was thinking that. Do you want me to handle it?'

'No. He has to hear it from me'.

I asked Joey to go upstairs and root around Eric's papers, to find Ronnie's touring schedule. He discovered it on the same table where I found the IRS demand. Ronnie was playing in Houston that night. I waited until noon to call him - by which time I was back in my apartment, and had already begun to make arrangements for the funeral in a few days' time. Ronnie was groggy when he answered the phone. He seemed surprised to hear from me, and instantly worried.

'You sound bad', he said.

'I am bad, Ronnie'.

'It's Eric, isn't it?' he asked in a hushed voice.

And that's when I told him. I tried to keep it as simple as possible - because I knew I'd start falling apart again if I got into too much detail. There was a long silence when I finished.

'Ronnie... you okay?' I finally asked.

Another silence.

'Why didn't he call me?' he asked, his voice barely audible. 'Or you?'

'I don't know. Or maybe I do know, and I don't want to say...'

'He loved you more than...'

'Please, Ronnie. Stop. I can't deal with...'

'Okay, okay'.

Another silence.

'You still there?' I asked.

'Oh Jesus, Sara...'

He started crying. Suddenly, the phone went dead. Half-an-hour later, he called back. He sounded shaky, but under control.

'Sorry I hung up', he said. 'I just couldn't...'

'No need to explain', I said. 'You better now?'

'No', he said, sounding flat. 'I'll never get over this'.

'I know', I said. 'I know'.

'I really did love him'.

'And he you, Ronnie'.

I could hear him swallowing hard, trying not to cry. Why is it that we always try to be brave at moments when bravery is futile?

'I don't know what to say', Ronnie said. 'I can't make sense of this'.

'Then don't. The funeral's the day after tomorrow. Can you make it?'

'No way. Basie's a strict operator. He'd let you off work if it was your mother who died. But flying back to New York for a friend's funeral? No way. And people might start asking questions about the type of friend Eric was'.

'Don't worry about it'.

'I will worry about it. I want to be there. I should be there'.

'Call me when you're back in the city. Call me anytime'.

'Thanks'.

'You take care'.

'You too. Sara?'

'Yes?'

'What am I going to do?'

I knew what I was going to do. After I put down the phone, I careened into the bedroom, collapsed across the bed, and let go. I must have cried for a solid hour. Jack tried to comfort me, but I screamed at him to go away. I needed to do this - to weep my heart out; to surrender to the sheer terribleness of what had happened.

There are moments when you think you will cry forever. You never do. Eventually, sheer physical exhaustion forces you to stop, to settle, to becalm yourself amidst all the mad turbulence of bereavement. And so, after an hour (maybe even ninety minutes - I had lost all track of time), I forced myself up from the bed. I took off all my clothes, letting them drop to the floor. I ran a bath. I made it as hot as I could tolerate. Wincing as I slid into it, my body quickly adjusted to its warmth. I took a face cloth. I dunked it in the water. I wrung it out. I draped it across my face. I kept it there for the next hour, as I floated in the hot water and tried to empty my mind of everything. Jack wisely didn't come in to see how I was. He kept his distance. When I eventually emerged from the bath - covered in a robe, with a towel around my hair - he didn't try to hug me, nor did he say anything inane like, 'Feeling better, dear?' He was smart enough to realize that I shouldn't be crowded right now.

Instead, he asked, 'Hungry?'

I shook my head. I sat down on the sofa. 'Come here', I said.

He joined me. I took his face in my hands. I said nothing. I simply looked at him for a very long time. He didn't say anything. He didn't ask what I was thinking. Maybe he knew. You are everything I have now. Everything.