Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Brunswick, therefore, was an easy place to live. After five years of turning out journalistic copy week after week, it was pleasant to take a sabbatical from my typewriter. I caught up with reading. I audited a conversational French course at the college, and spent at least three hours a day studying verb conjugations and vocabulary. Once a week, Ruth insisted on picking me up in her Studebaker and bringing me to her house for dinner. Once a week, I would walk the three blocks to Dr Bolduck's office, and submit myself to an examination. Six weeks into the pregnancy, he pronounced himself pleased with my progress to date.

'So far so good', he said after I got dressed and sat down in the chair opposite his desk. 'As long as we get you to the second trimester without complications, you really should have a good chance of seeing this all the way through. You are taking it easy, right?'

'Brunswick isn't exactly a strenuous town'.

Dr Bolduck winced. 'Do I take that as a back-handed compliment?'

'I'm sorry. That came out all the wrong way'.

'No - you're right. This is a pretty quiet place'.

'Which makes it the right place for me at this moment in time'.

'I've been meaning to ask you: are you doing any writing while you're here?'

I went white. He immediately looked apologetic.

'I'm sorry', he said. 'That was intrusive of me'.

'How did you know I was a writer?'

'I do subscribe to Saturday Night/Sunday Morning, Sara. Just as I also read the Maine Gazette every afternoon. Your brother's death made the paper up here, you know'.

'I don't believe it'.

'It was a wire service report: a short piece about his sudden death, and his earlier dismissal from NBC after Winchell exposed his past. And how Sara Smythe of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning was his sister'.

'Why didn't you mention this before?'

'Because that would have been nosy. In fact, now I feel like a right fool for that slip of the tongue. I really would never have mentioned anything'.

'Do you think other people in Brunswick know who I am?' He shifted uneasily in his chair. 'They do, don't they?'

'Well...' he said hesitantly. 'It is a small place. And though no one would directly ask questions to your face, they do talk among themselves. The other night, for example, I was at a dinner with a couple of college people and Duncan Howell - the editor of the Maine Gazette. I don't know how your name came up in conversation, but Duncan turned to me and said, "Do you know who I hear is living in Brunswick? Sara Smythe - who wrote that really smart column in Saturday/Sunday. I'd love to approach her about maybe writing something for us... but I don't want to intrude. Especially as I gather she's up here to get away from New York and that whole business with her brother...'

I suddenly felt ill.

'Dr Bolduck, you didn't say anything about me being a patient of yours?'

'God, no. That would have been completely unethical. I'd never, never dream of...'

'Fine, fine', I said weakly.

'I now feel terrible. But I promise you this: Maine being Maine, people will never let on they know who you are'.

'Who I am is completely inconsequential. What worries me is the stares in the street I'll begin to get once my pregnancy is apparent'.

'Once again, no one will ever shun you because of your marital status'.

'They'll just gossip behind my back'.

'As small towns go, this is a pretty tolerant place. I think you'll find more sympathy than anything else. And I tell you this: everyone at that dinner the other night said what happened to your brother was an awful thing... and wasn't he a brave man to stand up for what he believed'.

'So you don't think he was a Communist stooge? A flunky of Stalin, disguised as Marty Manning's top banana? You're smiling. Why?'

'Because encountering Manhattan wit, face to face, in Brunswick is a rare thing. But can I say something? Like a lot of people I know around here, I have great doubts about what McCarthy and his ilk are up to. Especially as they are supposedly running this witch hunt in our name... which makes me very uncomfortable. And I just want to say: I am truly sorry for your loss. Do you have other siblings?'

'He was my only family'.

Dr Bolduck said nothing... and I was grateful for that. I quickly changed the subject back to medical matters, asking whether my need to urinate every half-hour was particularly worrisome.

'I'm afraid it's a common complaint during pregnancy', he said. 'And one which medical science has no answer for'.

'Until next week then?' I asked, standing up.

Bolduck got up from his chair. 'Once again, I am sorry for that faux pas'.

'No... it's better to know these things'.

'Would you mind if I told you something else then?'

'Go ahead'.

'I know that Duncan Howell, being the decent guy that he is, would never dream of calling you to see if you want to write for the Maine Gazette. But from the way he sounded, I'm sure he'd be thrilled to bits if you were interested'.

'I'm taking a break from the word business', I said. 'But thanks for the tip'.

Naturally, two days later, I picked up the phone and called Duncan Howell at the Maine Gazette. I was put through to him immediately.

'Well, this is an honor', he said.

'You are about the first editor in history who's ever said that'.

'Glad to hear that. It's nice to have you in Brunswick'.

'It's nice to be here'.

'How about letting me buy you lunch, Miss Smythe?'

'That would be fine'.

'Now we have two choices of venue. I could take you to the Brunswick version of posh - which means the dining room of our best inn, the Stowe House. Or I could introduce you to some proper local color, in the form of our best diner: the Miss Brunswick'.

'Oh, the diner without question', I said.

Duncan Howell was a pleasant, portly man in his early thirties. He dressed like a college professor: tweed jacket, v-neck sweater, knit tie. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. He smoked a pipe. He was a son of Brunswick. He'd grown up knowing he'd go to Bowdoin and eventually work for the paper his family had owned for the past seventy-five years. He spoke with the slow, no-rush, back-country cadences that defined the Maine inflection. But like everyone else I'd met in the state, he was anything but a hick.

He was already seated at a booth in the Miss Brunswick when I entered. It was a proper diner: a prefabricated corrugated aluminum structure with a laminated vinyl lunch counter, and six booths, and a clientele of truckers and soldiers from the local naval air station, and a short order cook with a lit cigarette in his mouth, and waitresses who used pencils as bobby pins. I liked it immediately. Just as I also liked Duncan Howell.

He stood up as I entered. He waited until I sat down opposite him before taking his seat again. The waitress called him 'Duncan'. He insisted on referring to me as Miss Smythe. He suggested I try The Trucker's Special: a steak, a stack of pancakes, three eggs, home fries, six pieces of toast, bottomless coffee. When I said that I might stick to a modest hamburger and a cup of Joe, he said that I'd never have a future driving a rig.

We ordered. We made small talk. He talked a bit about local politics, about the expansion of the local paper mill, and regional worries that the Boston train might soon be canceled, due to lack of economic viability. He told me a bit about the Maine Gazette: how his great-grandfather founded it in 1875, how it maintained an independent political stance, and (like most of Maine) refused to slavishly back a specific political party.

'By inclination, this is a Republican state', he explained. 'But that doesn't mean that we've always supported Republican candidates for national or state office. We always came out in favor of Roosevelt. Twice, we supported Democrats in our senate races...'