Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'You know what I loved most about Paris?' he said. 'Besides, of course, the sheer absurd beauty of the place? The ability to walk until dawn. I must have squandered half my time there, staying up all night, wandering from cafe to cafe, or just meandering for miles. I had this tiny room in the Fifth, right off the rue des Ecoles. I could pay my rent and stuff my face for fifty dollars a month. I could spend all day reading at this great brasserie - Le Balzar - just around the corner from my garret. And I had a librarian girlfriend named Stephanie who moved in with me for the last four months of my stay... and couldn't understand why the hell I wanted to exchange Paris for a teaching post in Brunswick, Maine'.

He paused for a moment, suddenly looking embarrassed. 'And that's the last glass of wine I'm drinking tonight - otherwise I'll start sounding like a walking edition of True Confessions'.

'Go on, encore un verre', I said, tipping the rest of the bottle into his glass.

'Only if you join me'.

'I'm a cheap date. Two glasses is my limit'.

'Have you always been that way?'

I was about to say something foolish and revealing like, 'I'm under doctor's orders to drink no more than a glass or two a day'. Instead, I kept it simple: 'It always goes to my head'.

'Nothing wrong with that', he said, raising his glass. 'Sante'.

'So why did you throw away Stephanie and la vie parisienne for Bowdoin College?'

'Don't get me started. I might commit an act of self-revulsion'.

'Sounds like a grisly prospect. But you still haven't answered my question'.

'What can I say... except that I'm the son of an ultra-conservative, ultra-safe insurance executive from Indianapolis. And if you're brought up in the insurance world, you always think cautiously. So, though Paris was a great dream, when the job offer from Bowdoin came through... well, it's a salary, right? And the potential for tenure, security, professional prestige. All that boring, cautionary stuff... about which I'm sure you happily know nothing'.

'On the contrary, my father was a big cog in the Hartford insurance machine. And my guy did public relations for...'

I suddenly cut myself off.

'Oh, there's a guy in your life?' he asked, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible.

'There was a guy. It's over'.

He tried to stop himself from beaming. He failed. 'I'm sorry', he said.

'It all happened around the same time as my brother... You know about my brother?'

He put on a serious face again. 'Yes. When I mentioned you were auditing my course to a colleague at the college, he said that he read a news story about him...'

'Dying'.

'Yes. Dying. I really am sorry. It must have been...'

'It was'.

'And that's why you moved to Maine?'

'One of the reasons'.

'Was your former guy another reason?'

'He added to the mess, yes'.

'God, what a tough year you've...'

'Stop right there...'

'Sorry, have I... ?'

'No, you've been very sweet. It's just... I really can't take much in the way of sympathy...'

'Okay', he said. 'Then I'll play tough and cynical'.

'You can't - you're from Indiana'.

'Is everyone from Manhattan as smart as you are?'

'Is everyone from Indianapolis as fulsome as you are?'

'Ouch'.

'That wasn't meant in a derogatory way'.

'But it wasn't exactly fulsome either'.

'Touche. You are quick'.

'For a guy from Indianapolis'.

'It could be worse'.

'How's that?'

'You could be from Omaha'.

He shot me one of his mischievous smiles. And said, 'I like your style'.

Truth be told, I liked his too. When he walked me back to my front door that night, he asked if I might be willing to risk life and limb by taking a day-trip in his car this coming Saturday.

'What's so dangerous about your car?' I asked.

'The driver', he said.

His car was a two-seater, soft-top Alfa-Romeo, in bright tomato red. I did a double-take when he pulled up in it outside my house that Saturday morning.

'Aren't you a bit young for a mid-life crisis?' I asked, sliding into one of the low bucket seats.

'Believe it or not, it was a gift from my father'.

'Your dad, Mr Indianapolis Insurance King? I don't believe it'.

'I think it was his way of applauding my decision to return home and take the job here'.

'Oh, I get it. It's a variation on How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down On the Farm After They've Seen Paree? With a sports car, naturally'.

'A heavily insured sport scar'.

'Surprise, surprise'.

We spent the day zooming north on Route 1. Past Bath. Past splendidly atmospheric small towns like Wiscasset and Damriscotta and Rockland, eventually reaching Camden around lunchtime. We killed an hour or so in a wonderful used bookshop on Bayview Street. Then we walked down to a little waterfront joint, and ate steamers, washed down with beer. Afterwards, Jim lit up a Gauloise. I declined his offer of a cigarette.

'Good God', he said. 'A low alcohol tolerance, and an aversion to cigarettes. You must be a secret Mormon in disguise'.

'I tried to be a smoker in college. I failed. I don't think I ever got the knack of inhaling'.

'It's an easy knack to master'.

'One of my many lapses in talent. But answer me this: how the hell can you smoke those Frenchie butts? They smell like an exhaust pipe'.

'Ah, but they taste like...'

'... a French exhaust pipe. I bet you're the only guy in Maine who smokes them'.

'Should I take that as a compliment?' he asked.

Jim was great fun. We kept up an entertaining banter all day. He had wit. He was ferociously literate. He could also mock himself. I liked him enormously... as a pal, a chum, un bon copain. Nothing more. Even if I'd been in the market for romance, he wouldn't have fit the bill. Too gawky. Too doting. Too needy. I wanted his company, but I didn't want to fuel his hopes that this might lead to anything more than camaraderie. So - when he suggested a date a few days later - I pleaded work.

'Oh, come on', he said lightly. 'Surely you could manage a movie and a cheeseburger one night this week'.

'I'm really trying to focus on my column', I said, and instantly hated myself for sounding like a precious prig. To his credit, Jim laughed. And said,

'You know, as kiss-off lines go, that stinks'.

'You're right. It does stink. What's the movie?'

'Ace in the Hole, directed by the very great Billy Wilder'.

'I saw it last year in Manhattan'.

'Any good?'

'The nastiest movie about journalism ever made'.

'Then you'll see it again'.

'Yeah. I guess I will'.

So much for trying to put Jim off. But, to his infinite credit, he never hinted at a romantic subtext to our nights out. Like me, he was new in Brunswick. He craved company. And - though I didn't like admitting it - so did I. Which made it very hard to refuse his offer of a movie, or a chamber music concert in Portland, or an evening with a few of his faculty friends (yes, I was finally becoming sociable). Even after a month of seeing each other, the goodnight kiss was always planted on my cheek. There was (dare I say it) a part of me that wondered: why the hell isn't he making a move? Even though I sensed that his reticence in that department came from the fact that he knew I wasn't interested.

I also knew that, eventually, I would have to own up about my pregnancy. Because - now nearly five months on - I was beginning to develop a telltale bulge in my belly. But I kept putting off this revelation. Because, coward that I am, I feared the effect it might have on our friendship. I so liked him. So wanted him to continue being my pal... and sensed that it would all fall apart when he discovered my news.

I resolved to tell him, however, after one of my weekly appointments with Dr Bolduck.