Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

So now he would permanently commingle with the habitues of his favorite open-air bolthole.

Of course, I couldn't take a cab downtown. Though Eric might have gotten very free and easy with money in his final years, he would have loved the idea of heading to his final resting place for a nickel on the subway. Nor was I going to bring anyone along to help me scatter the ashes. This was my last moment with my brother. I wanted it to be a private one.

So I slipped a token in the turnstile on 72nd Street, and caught the No. I train south. It was ten o'clock. Rush hour was over - but it was still crowded. There were no seats, so I stood, holding on to a strap. Someone bumped into me. Instantly, my hand went down to my pocket. A wicked thought crossed my mind: imagine if it had been a pickpocket, and he had stolen the box. The poor thief would have suffered a coronary when he saw what he'd lifted.

I stood all the way downtown. I got off at Sheridan Square, and started heading east. I made a detour down Bedford Street - the location of my first apartment in Manhattan. I strolled on to Sullivan Street, and walked past the door of the brownstone in which Eric had lived for over a decade. I thought back to those years in the Village. I wondered if Eric would still be alive if he hadn't achieved such esteem. If he hadn't been such a high-profile writer in such a high-profile new medium, would the Feds have ignored him? No amount of success was worth the price my brother had paid. None at all.

When I reached Washington Square Park, the sun was at full wattage. There were a couple of drunks asleep on the benches. There were two young sharpies hustling chess. There were a couple of NYU students breaking the 'Don't Sit on the Grass' rules. There was an organ grinder, with a pet monkey on his shoulder. As he cranked his machine, it churned out a honky-tonk version of 'La donna e mobile' from Rigoletto. Eric would have approved - both of the Verdi and the eccentric instrumentalist churning out this final musical send-off. I looked up into the cloudless sky, and was pleased that the wind had decided to absent itself today. I took the box out of my pocket. I removed the cover. I stared down into the chalky white powder. I started to walk around the little path that circumnavigated the entire park - a ten-minute journey at the absolute maximum. Every few yards, I took a handful of ashes and scattered them on the path. I didn't look up to see if anyone was noticing what I was doing. I paced myself, making certain that I did the complete circuit of the park. When I reached the Fifth Avenue gate again, the box was empty. Eric was gone. Then I turned north and started walking uptown.

I walked all the way home. The next day I walked down Broadway straight to Battery Park. A day or so later (my calendrical sense had vanished), I headed north, ending up at the Cloisters in Fort George Park. As promised, Jack called twice a day, deeply concerned about my emotional state. I told him I was fine. He had been called out of town to Wilmington and Baltimore - and felt guilty about not being there with me.

'You don't have to worry about me at all', I said. 'I'm coping'.

'Are you sure?'

'There's nothing to worry about', I lied.

'I miss you. Desperately'.

'You're the best, Jack. I couldn't have gotten through this without you'.

But I wasn't getting through this, I'd stopped sleeping. My diet consisted of saltines, tins of Campbell's Tomato Soup, and non-stop coffee. And I was spending eight hours a day walking, killing the rest of the time at double-features in the big picture palaces that lined Broadway. Like my brother in the weeks after he was fired, I too had become a professional drifter.

A week after the funeral, I received a phone call from Joel Eberts. He sounded preoccupied.

'You free this morning?' he asked.

'Since being suspended with pay, I'm a woman of leisure'.

'Then drop by the office. There are one or two things I need to go over with you'.

I was there an hour later. Joel seemed unusually edgy. He gave me a fast paternal hug, and told me I looked tired. Then he motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite his desk. He picked up a file marked 'Eric Smythe' and started rifling through it.

'There are a couple of things we need to discuss. The first is - the matter of his insurance policy'.

'His what?'

'Eric, as it turns out, had his life insured by NBC. It was part of the medical cover which paid for his bills after his hospitalization last month. As we know, the network hadn't canceled his medical policy after sacking him. What I've since discovered is that the bastards also never canceled his life cover. What's more, last year, when everyone at NBC thought he was the best thing since sliced bread - and, more to the point, commercially valuable - they upped his life insurance to seventy-five thousand dollars'.

'Good God'.

'Yeah - it's a hell of a chunk of change. And it all goes to you'.

'You can't be serious'.

'Well, let's say around half of it will end up in your bank. The other half, I'm afraid, will fall into the hands of the IRS. I know their actual demand is around forty-three thousand... but I've got a good tax guy I use - a tough s.o.b. I've talked through this case with him, and he's pretty sure he can get their demand shaved down by around seven to ten grand. Still, that's around thirty-five thousand to you... which ain't bad'.

'I don't believe it'.

'Eric would've been pleased, knowing it was going to you'.

'But without a will, who's to say it will go to me?'

'You're his only extant family member. There are no other siblings, right? We'll have to jump a few standard legal hurdles. But, trust me, it'll be a cinch. The money is yours'.

I sat there, saying nothing. Because I didn't know what to say. Joel Eberts sat opposite me, studying me with care.

'So that's the good news', he said.

'By which you mean...'

He hesitated, then said, 'There is something else I want to talk with you about'.

I was worried by his tone. 'Something serious?' I asked.

'I'm afraid so, yes'.

Another apprehensive pause. Joel Eberts was never apprehensive.

'Sara', he said, leaning forward. 'I need to ask you a question'.

'All right', I said, my anxiety rising. 'Ask'.

'Say I told you...'

He broke off. He looked supremely uncomfortable.

'What's wrong, Joel?'

'Part of me doesn't really want to go into this'.

'Go into what!'

'The question I have to ask you'.

'Ask it'.

He paused.

'All right. Here it is. Say I told you that I knew the name of the individual who named your brother to the FBI...'

'You do?'I said loudly.

He held his hand up.

'One thing at a time. Say I did know. The question is... and I really think you should consider this carefully: would you want to know that individual's name?'

'Are you kidding me? Absolutely. So tell me. Who was the shit... ?'

'Sara... are you sure? Really sure?'

I suddenly felt very cold. But I still nodded. And said, 'I want to know'.

He stared directly at me, fixing me in his gaze.

'It was Jack Malone'.

Ten

I COULDN'T MOVE. I sat rigid in the chair, staring down at my hands. I felt as if I had just been kicked in the face.

Though I wasn't looking at him directly, I could feel Joel Eberts' gaze on me.

'Are you all right?' he asked.

I shook my head.

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

'You've known about this since... ?'

'The day after the funeral'.

'You waited this long to tell me?'

'I needed to check a lot of things out first. I really didn't want to hit you with this, until I was absolutely certain that it was true. Even then, I debated for days about whether to tell you...'

'You were right to tell me. I had to know this'.