Douglas Kennedy: The Pursuit of Happiness

That's why the sight of the living room still astonishes me. Because it's a testament to a lot of rational discussion about that thing known as 'a joint future' even though the two people involved secretly didn't believe in that future. We just happened to meet up at a certain juncture in time when we both wanted to be attached. And we both quickly convinced ourselves that we were compatible, worthy of being spliced together.

It is extraordinary how you can talk yourself into situations which you know aren't durable. But neediness can make just about anything seem right.

The house phone rang, interrupting my reverie. I jumped up from the sofa, crossed over to the kitchen, and answered it.

'Hi there, Miss Malone'.

'Yes, Constantine?'

'I've got a letter here for you'.

'I thought the mail didn't arrive until eleven'.

'Not that kind of a letter... a hand-delivered letter'.

'What do you mean, hand-delivered?'

'What I mean is: a letter that was delivered by hand'.

Urgh!

'That part I get, Constantine. What I'm asking is: when was it delivered, and by whom?'

'When was it delivered? Five minutes ago, that's when'.

I looked at my watch. Seven thirty-six. Who sends a messenger around with a letter at this hour of the morning?

'And by whom, Constantine?'

'Dunno. A cab pulled up, a woman rolled down the window, asked if you lived here, I said yes, she handed me the letter'.

'So a woman delivered the letter?'

'That's right'.

'What kind of woman?'

'Dunno'.

'You didn't see her?'

'She was in the cab'.

'But the cab has a window'.

'There was a glare'.

'But surely you caught a glimpse...'

'Look it, Miss Malone - I saw what I saw, which was nothin', okay?'

'Fine, fine', I said, wanting to put an end to this Abbot and Costello routine. 'Send the letter up'.

I stalked off to the bedroom, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then ran a brush through my tangled hair. The doorbell rang, but when I opened it (keeping the chain on in true New York paranoid style), there was no one there. Just a small envelope at the foot of the door.

I picked it up and shut the door behind me. The envelope was postcard-sized and made of good-quality paper. A greyish-blue paper with a ridged surface that made it exceedingly tactile. My name and address were written on the front. The calligraphy was small, precise. The words By Hand were written in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope.

I opened the envelope with care. As I lifted up the flap, it revealed the top part of a card with an embossed address:

346 West 77th Street

Apt. 2B

New York, New York 10024

(212) 555.0745

My first thought was: that's close to home. Then I pulled out the card.

It was written in the same precise, controlled handwriting. It was dated yesterday. It read:

Dear Ms Malone,

I was deeply saddened to read of your mother's death in The New York Times.

Though we've not met face-to-face in years, I knew you as a little girl, just as I knew both your parents back then... but sadly fell out of touch with your family after your father died.

I simply wanted to express my condolences to you at what must be a most difficult juncture, and to say that I'm certain someone is watching over you now... as he has been for years.

Yours,

Sara Smythe

I read through the letter again. And again. Sara Smythe? Never heard of her. But what really threw me was the line 'someone is watching over you now... as he has been for years'.

'Let me ask you something', Meg said, an hour or so later when I woke her up at home to read her this letter. 'Did she write he with a capital H?'

'No', I said. 'It was a lower-case h'.

'Then we're not dealing with a religious nut here. A big H means the guy upstairs. Mr Almighty. The Alpha and the Omega. Laurel and Hardy'.

'But you're sure you never heard Mom or Dad mention a Sara Smythe?'

'Hey, it wasn't my marriage - so I wasn't exactly privy to everybody your parents met. I mean, I doubt if your mom or dad ever knew Karoli Kielsowski'.

'Who was Karoli... how do you say his name?'

'Kielsowski. He was a Polish jazz musician I picked up one November night in fifty-one at Birdland. A catastrophe in bed - but good company, and not a bad alto sax player'.

'I'm not following this...'

'My point is a simple one. Your dad and I liked each other, but we didn't live in each other's pockets. So, for all I know, this Sara Smythe was one of their best friends. Of course, as it was all around forty-five years ago...'

'Okay, point taken. But what I don't get is, why did she drop the letter off by hand at my apartment house? I mean, how did she know where I live?'

'Do you have an unlisted number?'

'Uh, no'.

'Well, that answers that question. As to why she dropped it off... I dunno. Maybe she saw the funeral announcement in yesterday's Times, realized she'd missed the planting, didn't want to appear overdue with the condolence note, and therefore decided to drop it off on her way to work'.

'Don't you think there's a lot of coincidence at work there?'

'Sweetheart, you want a hypothesis, I'm giving you a hypothesis'.

'You think I'm over-reacting?'

'I think you're understandably tired and emotional. And you're blowing this perfectly innocuous card out of all proportion. But hey, if you need to know more, call the dame up. I mean, her phone number's on the card, right?'

'I don't need to call her up'.

'Then don't call her up. While you're at it, promise me you won't spend another night alone at your mom's apartment'.

'I'm ahead of you on that one'.

'Glad to hear it. Because I was starting to worry that you might turn into some deranged Tennessee Williams character. Putting on Mommy's wedding dress. Drinking neat bourbon. Saying stuff like, 'His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart...'

She cut herself off. 'Oh sweetheart', she said. 'I am one dumb big mouth'.

'Don't worry about it', I said.

'Sometimes I just don't know when to shut the hell up'.

'It's a Malone family trait'.

'I'm so damn sorry, Katie...'

'Enough. I've forgotten about it already'.

'I'm going to go say three acts of contrition'.

'Whatever makes you happy. I'll call you later, okay?'

I refilled my coffee cup, and returned to the big cushy sofa. I downed half the coffee, then parked the mug on the table and stretched out, putting the heels of my hands against my eyes, in an effort to black out everything.

His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart...

Actually, his name was Peter. Peter Harrison. He was the guy I was with before meeting Matt. He also happened to be my boss. And he was married.

Let's get something straight here. I am not a natural romantic. I do not swoon easily. I do not fall head-over-heels at the drop of a dime. I spent most of my four years at Smith without a boyfriend (though I did have the occasional fling whenever I felt in need of some body heat). When I hit New York after college - and picked up a temporary job at an advertising agency (an alleged one-month gig which accidentally turned into a so-called career) - I was never short of male company. But several of the mistakes I'd slept with during my twenties accused me of First Degree Aloofness. It wasn't that I was a cool customer. It was just that I had not met anyone about whom I could feel truly, madly, deeply passionate.

Until I met Peter Harrison.

Oh, I was so stupid. Oh, it was all so damn predictable. I was edging towards my mid-thirties. I had just joined a new agency - Harding, Tyrell and Barney. Peter Harrison hired me. He was forty-two. Married. Two kids. Handsome (of course). Smart as hell. For the first month at the office, there was this curious unspoken thing going on between us; a sense that we were both aware of each other's presence. When we did meet - in the corridors, in the elevator, once at a departmental meeting - we were perfectly pleasant with each other. Yet there was an undercurrent of nervousness to our trivial chat. We became shy around each other. And neither of us was, by any means, the shy type.