Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

I remember leaning over to kiss him, and saying: 'You're a good man'.

I saw him after Eric's death standing in that godawful room at the Ansonia, looking down at the bloodstain, then sobbing into my shoulder. Once again, he said, 'I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry...' Once again, I was so touched by his sense of emotional solidarity, of shared grief. He was crying for Eric, for me - for the tragedy of it all, I remember thinking later.

But now, it turns out it was guilt that was making him cry. Guilt and shame and remorse and...

I swallowed hard. My hands tightened into fists. Not only did he betray us... he cried about it.

'Did the committee exonerate Malone?' I asked.

Malone. Not Jack. He would never be Jack again. He'd now be Malone. The man who destroyed my brother.

'Of course', Joel Eberts said. 'He was cleared completely. According to Marty, Steele and Sherwood was so pleased with the way he handled everything with HUAC, they slipped him a bonus'.

'You know, you really don't have to be doing this', I'd said after he'd insisted on paying to have Eric's belongings moved, and for the paint job at the Ansonia.

'Hiring a couple of painters for two days isn't exactly going to break the bank', he'd said. 'Anyway, I had a bit of a bonus windfall. Out of nowhere I was handed a commission check for over eight hundred dollars. It's Steele and Sherwood's way of saying thank you

For naming names. For saving your own skin. For decimating Eric's life. For killing any love or trust between us. For ruining everything. All that for eight hundred dollars. At today's exchange rates, would that be the equivalent of thirty pieces of silver?

'So Malone doesn't have a clue that anyone knows he fingered Eric?' I asked.

'I doubt it. Sara, I said it once, I'll say it again: you don't know how bad I feel about this...'

'Why should you feel guilty?' I said, standing up. 'I thank you'.

'For what?'

'For telling me the truth. It couldn't have been an easy decision. But it was the right one'.

'What are you going to do about this, Sara?'

'There is nothing to do', I said. 'It's done'.

I left his office. I stepped out into the street. I took two steps, then reached out for a nearby lamp post and held it tightly. No, I didn't break down. Or let out a scream of anguish. Instead, a second wave of shock ran through me. I gulped for air. My stomach heaved. I bent over and was sick in the street.

I retched until there was nothing left to retch. My body was drenched in sweat. I managed to right myself up. I found a tissue in my jacket pocket, and used it to dab my mouth. Then I worked up the strength to raise my right hand and hail a cab home.

When I reached my apartment, I walked into the living room, and sat down in an armchair. I stayed seated for what only seemed like minutes. When I glanced at my watch, however, I realized that more than an hour had gone by. The shock was still so penetrating that I wasn't conscious of time. Instead, I felt glazed, hollow - to the point where standard emotional responses seemed futile. I just sat there, blankly. Not knowing what to do.

Another hour went by. Then I heard a key in the lock. Jack walked in. He was fresh from a road trip, with a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

'Hey there!' he said, putting down his suitcase and approaching me. I stared down at the floor. I suddenly couldn't stand the idea of looking at him. Instantly, he sensed that something was very wrong.

'Sara, darling...' he said.

I said nothing. He leaned over and tried to touch me. I shrugged him off. He now looked alarmed.

'What's happened?' he whispered, crouching down beside me.

'I want you to leave, Jack. Leave and never come back'.

He dropped the flowers. 'I don't understand', he said, his voice now barely a whisper.

'Yes you do', I said, standing up. 'Now go'.

'Sara, please', he said. As I turned towards the bedroom, he put his hand on my shoulder. I turned on him.

'Never, never touch me again'.

'Why are you...'

' Why? Why? You know why, Jack. You just thought I would never find out'.

His face crumpled. He sat down on the sofa. He put his face in his hands. He didn't say anything for a very long time.

'Can I explain?' he finally asked.

'No. Because nothing you say matters anymore'.

'Sara, my love...'

'No terms of endearment. No explanations. No rationalizations. We have nothing to say to each other anymore'.

'You've got to hear me out'.

'No. I don't. There's the door. Use it'.

'Who told you?'

'Joel Eberts. He knew someone who knew the guy who represented you when you went in front of the committee. Joel said that - according to his lawyer friend - you put up no resistance. You sang on the spot'.

'I had no choice. None'.

'Everyone has a choice. You made yours. Now you have to live with it'.

'They had me in a corner, Sara. I was going to lose...'

'What? Your job? Your income? Your professional standing?'

'I have a kid. I have to pay the rent. I have to put food on the table'.

'Everyone has to do that. Eric had to do that'.

'Look, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt your brother'.

'But you still gave his name to the FBI and the House UnAmerican Activities Committee'.

'I thought...'

'What? That the Feds would let him off with a warning?'

'Someone gave them my name. They insisted I give them names'.

'You could have said no'.

'Don't you think I wanted to?'

'But you didn't'.

'There was no way out. If I refused to give names, I'd lose my job. But then someone else would come along and name the people I named'.

'But that would have been someone else, not you'.

'I had to put my responsibilities first...'

'Responsibilities to whom, Jack?'

'To Dorothy and Charlie'.

'But not to me? Or to my completely innocent brother? Or were we simply expendable?'

'You know I don't think that'.

'I don't know you anymore'.

'Don't say that, Sara'.

'Why not? It's the truth. You've destroyed everything'.

My voice remained somehow controlled. Jack buried his head deeper in his hands. He fell silent again. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded diminished, small.

'Please try to understand: they insisted, demanded, that I give them a name. Believe me, I tried to explain that I had never been a Communist; that I had joined that anti-Fascist committee when I was a kid of eighteen, and only because I believed it was making a principled stand against Hitler, Mussolini and Franco. The FBI guys said they understood that. Just as they also knew that I had served my country in the war - and hadn't dabbled in politics since then. As far as they were concerned, I was a "good American" who'd made a small youthful mistake. Other people who were on that committee had also made mistakes - and in a demonstration of their patriotism, they had given the names of those who were associated with this group at the time, or had once had Communist sympathies.

'"They're probably as innocent as you are," one of the Fed guys told me. "But you must understand: we are investigating a vast conspiracy which poses a threat to national security. We simply need to discover who is at the heart of the conspiracy. Which is why we need names. By giving us information not only are you doing a service to your country; you are also eliminating yourself from our investigations. But by refusing to assist us, the cloud of suspicion still hovers over you. Face fact, anyone who's been a Communist in the past is going to get found out. So you might as well make a clean breast of everything... while you still can'."

Jack paused again. He lifted his head up, attempting to look me in the eye. But I turned away.

'Their argument had a ruthless logic to it. Someone had named me. I would prove my innocence by naming someone else. They, in turn, would prove their innocence by naming someone else. Everyone was betraying each other. But the thing about this betrayal was - no one had a choice'.