Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Hear me out', I said.

Meg did just that. And sat quietly for a moment or so after I finished talking with her.

'All right', she said. 'I'll see what I can do'.

A few days later, she called me at home.

'I've spoken with Dorothy. It took some work - but she's agreed to see you. I didn't explain much to her. In fact, I kept it all very vague - except to say that I thought it was important you met. Believe me, she was very reluctant. But I brought her around - telling her that you had a crucial matter you needed to discuss with her. Don't expect this to be pleasant, Sara. She feels you're responsible for many of her problems'.

'She's right. I am'.

'There's a coffee shop on the corner of Amsterdam and Eighty-Sixth. Can you make tomorrow at four? I've arranged to leave work early, so I can stay with Charlie and Kate while she meets you'.

I agreed. The next afternoon, I got to the coffee shop just before four. I found a booth at the back. I ordered tea, and found myself stirring it constantly as I waited for Dorothy to arrive. She showed up ten minutes late. She was dressed in a simple tweed skirt and a Peck and Peck blouse. She looked very tired - the dark moons under her eyes accentuated by the way her hair was pulled back in a tightly woven bun. She sat down opposite me. She did not exchange a greeting. She simply said, 'You wanted to see me'.

'Thanks for coming', I said, sounding deeply tense. 'Coffee?'

She shook her head.

'Anything else. Tea? Hot chocolate? A sandwich?'

'Nothing. You wanted to see me. Here I am. I have about twenty minutes, no more'.

'Isn't Meg with the kids?'

'Yes, but Charlie's got tonsillitis - and we're expecting the pediatrician to make a house call around four thirty. So this will have to be fast'.

'Well...' I said, clearing my throat, really not knowing how to broach the subject I was about to bring up. 'Meg was telling me you were having some difficulties'.

'My sister-in-law has a big mouth. My difficulties are my business, not yours'.

'I wasn't trying to pry or be nosy. It's just... I would like to try to help'.

'Help?' she said with a hollow laugh. 'You help me? No thanks'.

'I can understand why you might feel...'

'Don't patronize me, Miss Smythe'.

'I'm not patronizing you'.

'Then don't tell me how I feel. I know how I feel - which is angry. Angry that I didn't have the courage, ten years ago, to tell Jack that we didn't have to get married, just because I was pregnant. Angry that I stayed in a marriage when there was no love between us. And angry that I didn't have the guts to end it when he first told me about you'.

'I never pushed him to leave you'.

'Oh, I was well aware of that. He told me that you refused to play the happy home-wrecker; that you were oh-so-understanding of his need to keep his family together - even though you oh-so-adored him'.

'I did adore him'.

'Congratulations. He was just as gooey about you. It was like living with a lovesick adolescent. I don't know why the hell I put up with it'.

'Why did you put up with it?'

'Because there was a child. Because I was brought up to believe that you lived with your mistakes. Because I was also brought up to believe that respectability meant everything. And because I'm a stupid, weak woman who didn't have the courage to realize that she could live without a husband. And then, of course, it turned out that my husband was a stupid, weak man who also ratted on others'.

'He only did that because he was terrified of losing his job, and undermining his ability to support you and Charlie'.

'Don't tell me you're defending him now? Especially after you emotionally crippled the fool by rejecting him. Anyway, the great dumb irony of the situation was that, by turning snitch, he lost everything: you, the job, me for a while...'

'You took him back, though...'

'More weakness on my part. Charlie missed him desperately. I decided that he needed his father'.

'But you didn't?'

Long silence.

'Of course I needed him. I didn't love him... but I still needed him. And then, after he got sick... it's a strange thing, isn't it, how we sometimes discover our real feelings about people a little too late. It was awful watching him go. Awful. And I was suddenly desperate to keep him. At any cost. That's why he went to Boston - because I'd heard of this specialist at Mass General who was trying a new sort of treatment for leukemia. Jack didn't want to go - mainly because he knew how much it was going to cost, and because we didn't have the money. But I insisted. Because I so wanted him to live'.

'Then you did love him'.

She shrugged. 'Eventually. Yes. When he was finally free of you'.

I said nothing.

'He never made contact with you after you came back to the city?' she asked.

'No'.

'Are you telling me the truth?'

'Yes, I am', I said, trying my best to look truthful.

'I'm glad to hear that. Because I didn't want him to see you again. Because you didn't deserve...'

She broke off, and absently began to shred the paper napkin on the table.

'How I hated you', she whispered. 'And the reason I so hated you is because: you had his love'.

'But then I threw it away'.

'Yes, you did. And I'll admit something rather ugly: I was so pleased when you did that. Because I thought: she will come to regret this. Which you have'.

She tossed away the shredded napkin. We fell silent again. I said, 'I know that you now have financial problems'.

'What concern is that of yours?'

'I'd like to help you'.

'No way'.

'Please hear me out. When Eric died, there was an insurance policy from NBC which was worth forty-two thousand dollars. I had it invested. It's now worth almost sixty-five thousand. What I'd like to propose is this: I give you eight thousand straight away to settle all the medical and funeral debts. Then I take the remaining fifty-seven thousand, and set up a trust for Kate and Charlie. The trust will generate an income which you can use for their school and eventually college, and anything else you think...'

She cut me off.

'And what do you want out of this?'

'Nothing'.

'I don't believe that'.

'It's the truth'.

'You're actually willing to give me and my children nearly sixty grand... with no strings attached?'

'That's right'.

'Why?'

'Because it's the right thing to do'.

'Or maybe because it's a way for you to salve your conscience'.

'Yes, maybe it is'.

She reached for another napkin, and began to shred it.

'No strings?' she asked.

'None', I said.

'I am not a charity case'.

'This is a gift, not charity'.

'And what will you live on when you're old and no longer writing columns?'

'I had quite a reasonable divorce settlement. It's all invested. One day, it will turn into a very nice pension'.

The napkin came apart in her fingers.

'You couldn't have children, could you?' she asked.

I met her gaze.

'That's right: I couldn't have children. He told you that?'

'Yes, he did - as a way of assuaging my fears that he'd start a second family with you, and then disappear. At the time, I was really pleased that you'd never have children. Isn't that terrible? But that's how much I hated you. In my mind, you threatened everything I had'.

'Isn't that always the basis of hate?'

'I guess it is'.

Pause.

'I want you to take the money, Dorothy'.

'And if I did...?'

'It's the end of the matter. The money is yours'.

'This... gift... will never, never give you any entitlement to Kate or Charlie...'

'I expect nothing in return'.

'You will get nothing in return. That's the one string I will attach to this gift: I will accept it only if you agree that, as long as I'm alive, you will never make contact with my children. And one more thing: after today, I never want to see or hear from you ever again'.