Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'You now have a new will', he said. Then he reached over to his in-tray and handed me a bill for forty-one dollars. I took out my purse, counted out the money and put it on his desk. He put my copy of the will into a thick manila envelope and, with a hint of ceremony, placed it in my hands.

'Thank you for the speedy service', I said, standing up to leave.

'Anytime, Miss Smythe. I hope I can be of service to you again'.

I said nothing. I headed towards the door. Mr Bourgeois said, 'Mind if I ask you a nosy question?'

'Go ahead'.

'Why did you need this will so quickly?'

I had already anticipated this question, and had prepared a reasonable answer. 'I'm going away on a trip tomorrow'.

'But I thought you just got out of the hospital today?'

'How on earth did you know that?' I asked, my tone sharp.

'I know your column from the paper, and I also heard you'd been unwell'.

'From whom?'

He looked taken aback by my stridency. 'From... uh... just around Brunswick. It's a small town, you know. I was just curious, that's all'.

'I'm taking a trip. I wanted to have my will in order, especially as my brother

'I do understand. No offence meant, Miss Smythe'.

'None taken, Mr Bourgeois. Nice doing business with you'.

'And you, ma'am. Going anywhere nice?'

'Sorry?'

'I was just wondering if the place you were going is nice'.

'I don't know. I've never been there before'.

I took the taxi back to my house, determined to get this over with as soon as possible... just in case Mr Bourgeois had sensed that I was up to something self-destructive and dispatched the police over to my apartment. I stared out at the now-dark streets of Brunswick, thinking: this will be my last glimpse of the outside world. When the cab pulled up in front of my house, I tipped the driver ten dollars. He was stunned, and thanked me profusely. Well, it's my last cab ride, I felt like saying. Anyway, come tomorrow, I won't have any use for money.

I went inside. I retrieved the letter to Ruth and placed it on my outside mat. Then I bolted the door behind me. I took off my coat. The cleaner had laid a fire in the grate. I touched the kindling with a match. It ignited instantly. I went into the bathroom. I retrieved the bottle of painkillers. I walked into the kitchen. I pulled out a bag, a roll of tape and a pair of scissors. I went to the bedroom. I placed the bag on my pillow, then I cut off four long strips of tape and attached them to the bedside table. I picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich and a glass. I went into the living room. I sat down on the sofa. My hands began to shake. I poured a slug of Glenfiddich into the glass. I downed it. My hands were still trembling. I poured myself another finger of whiskey. Down it went in one go. I took a deep breath and felt the glow of the whiskey spread across my body. My plan was straightforward. I would down all the pills in clusters of five, chasing each handful with a large glass of Glenfiddich. When the bottle was empty, I'd move quickly into the bedroom, get the bag taped around my head, and lie down on the bed. The combination of Scotch and painkillers would ensure unconsciousness within minutes. I'd never wake up again.

I pulled the bottle of pills out of my skirt pocket. I popped off the cap. I counted out five pills into my hand. The phone began to ring. I ignored it. The phone continued to ring. I poured a very large glass of whiskey. The phone wouldn't stop ringing. I began to fear that Alan Bourgeois might have been checking up on me - and that if I didn't answer it, he'd think the worst. It was best to answer it, and assure him I was just fine. I put the pills back into the bottle. I reached for the phone.

'Sara, Duncan Howell here'.

Damn. Damn. Damn. I tried to sound agreeable.

'Hi, Duncan'.

'Am I calling you at a bad moment?'

'No', I said, taking another swig of Scotch. 'Go ahead'.

'I heard you were discharged from Brunswick Regional today. How are you faring?'

'I'm just fine'.

'You've had us all worried. And I must have had at least a dozen letters from readers, wondering when your column would be returning'.

'That's very nice', I said, the bottle of pills rattling in my hand. 'But... might I call you later? Or tomorrow perhaps? It's just... I am still rather drained, and...'

'Believe me, Sara - knowing how sick you've been, I really didn't want to call tonight. But I felt I should talk to you before you found out...'

'Found out what?'

'You mean, no one from New York has been on to you this afternoon?'

'I was out. But why would anyone from New York get on to me?'

'Because you were prominently featured in Walter Winchell's column today'.

'What?'

'Would you like me to read it to you?'

'Absolutely'.

'It's not exactly flattering...'

'Read it, please'.

'All right, here we go. It was the fourth item from the top: "She used to be a hot-shot columnist with Saturday Night/ Sunday Morning, but now she's doing time in Hicksville. Sara Smythe - the yuck-yuck dame behind the popular 'Real Life' column - vanished from print a couple of months ago... right after her Redder-than-Red brother, Eric, was booted from his job as Marty Manning's head scribe. Seems that Eric wouldn't sing about his Commie past... a major unpatriotic no-no which also made Saturday/Sunday nervous about keeping Sister Sara in print. A month later, the ole demon rum sent Eric to an early grave, and Sara disappeared into thin air. Until one of my spies - on vacation in the great state of Maine - picked up a little local rag called the Maine Gazette... and guess who was churning out words in its big-deal pages? You got it: the once-famous Sara Smythe. Oh, how the mighty do fall when they forget a little tune called 'The Star Spangled Banner'."'

Duncan Howell paused for a moment, nervously clearing his throat.

'Like I said, it's hardly nice. And I certainly took umbrage at our paper being called "a little local rag"'.

'That son of a bitch'.

'My conclusion entirely. And we're standing right behind you in all of this'.

I rattled the pills in my hand again, saying nothing.

'There's something else you need to know', Duncan Howell said. 'Two things, actually. Neither pleasant. The first is that I received a call this afternoon from a man named Platt. He said he was in the legal affairs department of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. He'd been trying to track you down... but as he didn't have any idea of your whereabouts, he'd decided to call me - having discovered, from Winchell's column, that you were writing for us. Anyway, he asked me to inform you that, by writing for us, you were in breach of contract...'

'That's total garbage', I said, my voice surprisingly loud.

'I'm just passing on what he told me. He also wanted you to know that he was stopping your leave-of-absence payments from this moment on'.

'That's all right. There were only a few more weeks to go. Any other good news?'

'I'm afraid there have been some repercussions from the Winchell column'.

'What kind of repercussions?'

'I received two phone calls late this afternoon from the editors of the Portland Press Herald and the Bangor Daily News. They both expressed grave concern about the anti-American allegations in the Winchell item...'

'I am not anti-American. Nor was my late brother'.

'Sara, I assured them of that. But like so many people these days, they're scared of being associated with anything or anyone who has even the slightest Communist taint'.

'I am not a goddamn Communist', I shouted, then suddenly hurled the bottle of painkillers across the room. The bottle smashed into the fireplace, fragmenting into pieces.

'No one from the Maine Gazette is saying that. And I want to be very clear about something: we are completely behind you. I've spoken with half the members of our board this afternoon, and everyone agrees with me: you are an asset to the paper, and we will certainly not be intimidated by a yellow journalist like Mr Winchell. So you have our complete support, Sara'.