Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

I said nothing. I was still watching the painkillers melt against the wooden logs in the fireplace. My suicide had gone up in smoke. But so too had the desire to take my life. Had I killed myself, it would have been interpreted as a capitulation to Winchell, McCarthy, and every other bully who used patriotism as a weapon; a means to wield power. Now I wouldn't give those bastards the satisfaction of my death. Now...

'Are you still there, Sara?'

'Yes. I'm here'.

Twelve

I PUT A call in to Joel Eberts the next morning.

'Now before you tell me anything', he said, 'know this: I'm sure we could sue that shit Winchell for libel, defamation of character...'

'I don't want to sue him'.

'I heard about Saturday/Sunday too. We could definitely squeeze them for the remaining few weeks of your leave... and probably more'.

'I couldn't be bothered'.

'You've got to be bothered. If people like you don't fight back...'

'I'm in no mood for a fight. Because you know, and I know, that it's a fight I won't win. Anyway, I'm leaving the country'.

'When did you decide that?'

'Late last night. Actually, around five this morning'.

'Personally, I think it's a good idea. Can I help in any way?'

'I need a passport. Do you think they'll grant me one?'

'I don't see why not. You haven't been subpoenaed by HUAC. You aren't under investigation by the Feds. There'll be no problem - though I'd probably move quickly, just in case someone in DC read that Winchell piece and decides you're worth scrutinizing. When are you coming back to New York?'

'I should be there tomorrow evening'.

'I still have power-of-attorney on your bank accounts. Want me to book you passage on a boat this weekend?'

'Absolutely'.

'I'll get to work on it now'.

'One final thing. I sent you a letter yesterday afternoon. It was written under considerable duress... and at a moment when I really wasn't thinking clearly at all. You must promise me that you won't read it... that you'll tear it up and throw it away as soon as it arrives'.

'It must be some letter'.

'Do I have your word?'

'Scout's Honor. Call me as soon as you arrive. Are you going to be staying at the apartment?'

'Where else?'

'Well, if you do, you might have a visitor...'

'Oh no...'

'Oh yes...'

'Has he been bothering you much about me?'

'You told me not to tell you anything...'

'I'm asking now'.

'I have a stack of letters from him. According to the super in your building, he's been dropping around every other day, on the off-chance you might have come back'.

I felt a stab of guilt and remorse. It passed quickly. 'I'll find a hotel', I said.

'That might be wise... if you really don't want to see him'.

'I really don't want to see him'.

'It's your call, Sara. Phone me when you get into town'.

After I finished talking with Joel Eberts, I put a call in to Dr Bolduck. When I explained that I was planning to leave town tomorrow, he expressed concern.

'It's only two weeks since the operation. The stitches have just come out. I would be much happier if you were resting for at least another week'.

'A transatlantic crossing isn't exactly strenuous physical activity'.

'Yes - but you'll be in the middle of the ocean for five days. Say you need medical attention?'

'I'm sure most ships travel with a doctor or two'.

'I really wish you'd stay'.

'I can't. I won't'.

He heard the adamancy in my voice. 'I do understand your need to get away', he said. 'It's not unusual after...'

'So, in your clinical opinion, I'm not putting my health in jeopardy by traveling'.

'Physically, it's a little risky... but not impossibly so. Mentally, it's a smart idea. You know what my advice is to people who've been through a bereavement? Keep moving'.

I did just that. Ruth came over that afternoon and helped me pack up the apartment. I wrote a letter to Duncan Howell, resigning my column.

Please understand: I haven't been cowed by Walter Winchell. I just need a complete break from all things journalistic. After the last year, anonymity seems like a very good thing. I thank you for your ethical stance after the Winchell column. Many an editor would have taken the easy way out and defenestrated me. You didn't - and I will always remember that.

I also wrote a quick note to Jim:

If I was you, I wouldn't forgive me. I played fast-and-loose with the truth - which was both unfair and unscrupulous. All I can offer in my defence is the fact that - for all the obvious reasons - I was apprehensive of talking about my pregnancy. That doesn't excuse my behavior. The worst thing you can do in life is hurt another person... and I sense that I have hurt you.

The two letters were mailed the next morning from the Brunswick railway station. I was traveling light - a suitcase and my typewriter. I hadn't bought much in the way of clothes since coming to Maine, and any books and records I'd acquired were being donated to the local library. The station porter checked my bags straight through to Penn Station. Ruth - who'd driven me to the station - hugged me goodbye.

'I hope the next time you come back to Maine, you won't be fleeing something'.

I laughed. 'But it's such a good place to slam the door on the rest of the country'.

'Then why on earth do you have to go overseas?'

'Because, thanks to Mr Winchell, I find myself abroad at home. So I'm now going to find out whether I'm at home abroad'.

I slept most of the way to New York. I was still feeling depleted. And I was still in a certain amount of pain - thanks to the way that my supply of painkillers had ended up in the fire. I hadn't dared asked Dr Bolduck for a new prescription, so I was now using aspirin to deaden the discomfort. Every time I saw myself sitting on that sofa with the bottle of pills and the whiskey, I shuddered. Because for the two days before, the decision to take my life had seemed so logical, so reasonable... to the point where I actually felt rather elated by the prospect of terminating everything. But now, as the train snaked its way down the eastern seaboard, I couldn't help but think: if that phone call hadn't come, this is a day I wouldn't have seen. It wasn't even a particularly nice day - as it was overcast and gloomy. But it was a day. I was still here to look at it. I was grateful for that.

I arrived at Penn Station around nine that night. I had a porter help me with my bags across the street to the Hotel Pennsylvania. They had a vacancy. I paid for one night, with an option to extend for a second. I didn't want to be in this town for long. Upstairs in my room, I stared out at the midtown skyline, then closed the blinds to block out its audacious glow. I unpacked, undressed, climbed into bed and was asleep within minutes. I woke at eight, feeling rested for the first time in months. I had a bath, I got dressed, I called Joel Eberts. He told me to come right over. On the way downtown in a taxi, I read the New York Times. On page eleven, there was a small story at the bottom of the page about the suicide yesterday afternoon of a Hollywood actor named Max Monroe, aged forty-six, known for his roles in a variety of RKO and Republic B-movies. He was found dead yesterday afternoon at his apartment in West Hollywood from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

According to his agent, Mr Monroe had been suffering from depression for the past two years - ever since work opportunities dried up after he was branded a hostile witness by the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities.

I put down the paper, unable to finish the story. I glanced out the window of the taxi. New York was as frantic and self-obsessed as ever. Everyone rushing somewhere. Everyone so preoccupied, so busy that they probably weren't even aware of the deeds being perpetrated in their name - the careers crushed, the trusts betrayed, the lives destroyed. That was the thing about the blacklist - unless it touched you personally, you could carry on as if nothing dark was happening around you. I couldn't fathom how we had allowed ourselves to be cowed by such patriotic demagogues. All I knew was: I had to leave. To put an ocean between myself and my country. Until the madness ended.