Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

I had to be here. I had to say goodbye. But I also knew that I belonged in the back of the church - away from Dorothy and the children; away from Meg. I had caused enough grief within this family. I didn't want to cause more by making an appearance. So I arrived at the church fifteen minutes before the funeral, and waited in a doorway on the opposite side of 82nd Street. I watched as two limousines pulled up out front, and the family entered the church. I loitered opposite for another five minutes - until I was certain that all the other mourners had entered. Then, wrapping a scarf tightly around my head, I crossed the street, climbed the church stairs and - with my head lowered - slipped quickly into the back row. The sight of the coffin was like a kick in the stomach. Up until this moment, the idea that Jack was dead seemed absurd, inconceivable. After reading his obituary in the New York Times, I forgot all about the screening I was supposed to attend, and instead found myself wandering aimlessly around the city for the balance of the day. At some juncture, I made my way home. It was dark. I opened the door. I let myself inside. I took off my coat. I sat down in an armchair. I remained in that armchair for a very long time. Only after an hour or so did I notice that I had failed to turn a light on in the apartment; that I was sitting alone in the dark. The phone started to ring. I ignored it. I went into my bedroom. I undressed and got into bed. I pulled the covers tight over me. I stared up at the ceiling. I kept expecting to fall apart, to come asunder and weep uncontrollably. But I was too concussed to cry. The enormity of it all - the terrible realization that I would never talk to him again - rendered me insensible. I couldn't fathom his loss. Nor could I now fathom why I had spent four years being so stubborn, so intractable, so unforgiving. Four years separated from the man I loved - a separation sparked by his dire mistake... but then fueled by my inability to be understanding, to show mercy. By punishing him I had punished myself. Four years. How could I have squandered those four years?

I didn't sleep that night. At some point I got out of bed, I got dressed. I left the apartment and sat for two hours in an all-night coffee shop on Broadway and 76th Street. Dawn arrived. I stood up. I paid my bill. I walked over to Riverside Park. I walked down to the river. I sat on a bench. I stared out at the Hudson. I kept willing myself to break down - to have that big cathartic moment. But all I could do was look out blankly at the water and wonder whether I had, in my own way, killed him.

I finally returned to the apartment. The clock in the kitchen read nine fifteen a.m. The phone rang. This time I answered it. It was Joel Eberts.

'Thank God', he said, after I picked up. 'I called all day yesterday. You had me worried'.

'No need', I said.

'You sound tired'.

'I had a bad night'.

'I'm not surprised', he said. 'After I saw the announcement in the Times yesterday, I wondered...'

'I'm handling it', I said quietly.

'Do you have any idea about the cause of death?'

'No'.

'He didn't try to make contact since you were back in the city?'

'No, never', I lied, unable to talk about anything right now.

'That was probably for the best'.

I said nothing.

'You sure you're okay, Sara?'

'It's just a shock, that's all'.

'Well, if you're not okay, I just want you to know that I'm here. Call me anytime'.

'Thanks'.

'And whatever you do... don't feel guilty. It was all a long time ago'.

But I did blame myself. Totally.

Sheer exhaustion forced me into bed at seven that evening. I woke just after five. It was still dark outside - but I had slept deeply, so I felt curiously rested. I knew that the funeral would begin in just over four hours. I dreaded going. I had no choice but to go.

Now, sitting in the rear of the church, I kept my head lowered as the words of the Mass reverberated around my ears.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi: dona eis requiem.

Lamb of God, thou takest away the sins of the world, grant them rest.

Or, even more piercing:

Lacrimosa dies illa, qua resurget ex favilla judicandus homo reus; huic ergo parce, Deus.

On this day full of tears, when from the ashes arises guilty man, to be judged: Oh Lord, have mercy upon him.

I pressed my fingers hard against my eyes. I had judged him. And yes, I had finally forgiven him. Far too late.

Kate started to cry again. Only this time she could not be consoled. After a few minutes, she was wailing. I had been keeping my head bowed - but I raised it just as Meg was coming up the aisle. She had obviously decided to relieve Dorothy of the baby, as she had her niece in her arms, and was heading for the door. She saw me and froze - her face initially registering shock. Then it hardened into something approaching pure cold contempt. I quickly lowered my head again. I wanted to flee - but I knew she would be outside with the baby. I sat there for ten minutes, feeling total shame. The Mass forged on - the priest asking us again to pray for the soul of 'a good husband, a good father, a fine responsible man'. As he fell silent for a moment, I heard footsteps. I stole a quick glance, and saw Meg already halfway down the central aisle, carrying a now-subdued Kate back towards the front row. Immediately, I ducked out of the pew and moved quickly through the front door, down the steps, and into the first cab I could hail.

'Where you going?' the driver asked.

'I don't know. Just drive'.

He headed down Broadway. At 42nd Street, I left the cab and ducked into the first movie house I could find. I sat through a double-feature. Then I moved on to the next movie house, and sat through another double-feature. Then I walked to the Automat and drank a cup of coffee. While there, I reached a decision that had been formulating in my brain during all those hours of non-stop movies. I finished the coffee. I checked my watch. It was just after seven p.m. I went back out on to 42nd Street and hailed a cab going east. At First Avenue, I asked the taxi to pull up in front of an apartment complex called Tudor City. There was a doorman on duty. He was busy with a delivery of groceries. I told him I was here to see Margaret Malone. He looked me over and decided I didn't appear sinister.

'Is she expecting you?'

I nodded.

'Apartment Seven E. Go right on up'.

I took the elevator to the seventh floor. I marched straight down the corridor to Apartment E. Before I lost my nerve, I rang the bell. After a moment, the door opened. Meg was standing there, still dressed in the black suit she had worn to the funeral. She looked drained, exhausted. A lit cigarette was in her left hand. She flinched when she saw me. Her lips tightened.

'You've got to be kidding', she said.

'Meg, can I... ?'

'No. You can't. Now get lost'.

'If you'd just hear me out...'

'You mean, the way you heard my brother out? Go fuck yourself'.

With that, she slammed the door. I put a hand against the wall for support, until I stopped shaking. After a moment, the door opened again. Meg suddenly looked crushed, heartbroken. I took a step towards her. She buried her head in my shoulder. She wept loudly. I put my arms around her - and finally cried too.

When we both calmed down, she brought me into her living room and motioned me towards an armchair. The apartment was a small one-bedroom efficiency - indifferently furnished, crammed with books and periodicals and overflowing ashtrays. Meg disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

'Medicine', she said, pouring out two shots. She handed me a glass, collapsed into an armchair opposite mine, and lit a fresh cigarette. After two deep drags, she finally spoke.