Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Sara...'

'I know, I know. It's just... Damn it, it's not fait, you going away tomorrow'.

'Listen, had I met you two days ago, I would never have volunteered for this tour...'

'But we didn't meet two days ago. We met tonight. And now...'

'We're talking nine months, no more. September first, nineteen forty-six - I'm home'.

'But will you come looking for me?'

'Sara, I'm planning to write you every day of those nine months...'

'Don't get too ambitious. Every other day will do'.

'If I want to write you every day, I'll write you every day'.

'Promise?'

'I promise', he said. 'And will you be here when I get back?'

'You know I will'.

'You are wonderful, Miss Smythe'.

'Ditto, Mr Malone'.

I pushed him down against the mattress, then climbed on top of him. This time, we were less shy, less clumsy. And totally unbridled. Even though I was scared to death. Because I'd just lost my heart to a stranger... who was about to vanish across the ocean for nine months. No matter how hard I tried to avoid it, this was going to hurt.

Night ended. Light seeped in through the blinds. I peered at the bedside clock. Seven forty. Instinctively I clutched him closer to me.

'I've decided something', I said.

'What?'

'To keep you prisoner here for the next nine months'.

'And then, when you release me, the Army can keep me prisoner in some brig for the next two years'.

'At least I'd have you to myself for nine straight months'.

'Nine months from now, you'll have me to yourself for as long as you want me'.

'I want to believe that'.

'Believe it'.

He got up and began to pick up his uniform off the floor. 'I'd better make tracks'.

'I'm coming with you to the Navy Yards', I said.

'There's no need...'

'There's every need. It gives me another hour with you'.

He reached back and took my hand.

'It's a long subway ride', he said. 'And it is Brooklyn'.

'You might just be worth the trip to Brooklyn', I said.

We dressed. I filled my little tin percolator with Maxwell House and put it on the stove. When brown liquid began to splash upwards into its dome, I poured out two cups. We raised one each, clinking them together, but said nothing. The coffee tasted weak, anaemic. It only took a minute or two to slurp it down. Jack looked at me.

'It's time', he said.

We left the apartment. Thanksgiving morning 1945 was cold and bright. Far too bright for two people who'd been up all night. We squinted all the way to Sheridan Square station. The train to Brooklyn was deserted. As we barreled through Lower Manhattan, we remained silent, clinging on to each other tightly. As we crossed under the East River, I said, 'I don't have your address'.

Jack pulled out two matchbooks from his pocket. He handed one to me. Then he dug out a pencil stub from the breast pocket of his uniform. Licking it, he opened his book of matches and scribbled a US Army postal address on the inside cover. He gave me the matches. I clutched them in one hand, then relieved him of the pencil and scribbled my address on the inside flap of my matchbook. When I handed it back to him, he instantly put it into his shirt pocket, buttoning the flap for safe keeping.

'Don't you dare lose that book of matches', I said.

'They have just become my most prized possession. And you'll write me too?'

'Constantly'.

The train continued its headlong plunge under the river and through subterranean Brooklyn. When it jerked to a halt at Borough Hall, Jack said, 'We're here'.

We climbed back up into the Thanksgiving light, emerging right near a dockyards. It was a grim industrial landscape, with half-a-dozen naval frigates and troop ships berthed in a series of docks. They were all painted battleship grey. We were not the only couple approaching the gates of the Navy Yards. There must have been six or seven others, embracing against a lamp post, or whispering final declarations of love to each other, or just looking at each other.

'Looks like we've got company', I said.

'That's the problem with Army life', he said. 'There's never any privacy'.

We stopped walking. I turned him towards me.

'Let's get this over with, Jack'.

'You sound like Barbara Stanwyck - the original tough dame'.

'I think it's called - in war movie parlance - "trying to be brave"'.

'There's no easy way to do this, is there?'

'No, there isn't. So kiss me. And tell me you love me'.

He kissed me. He told me he loved me. I whispered the same thing back to him. Then I yanked him by the lapels.

'One last thing', I said. 'Don't you dare break my heart, Malone'.

I released him.

'Now go get on that ship', I said.

'Aye-aye, sir'.

He turned and walked to the gates. I stood on the sidewalk, frozen to the spot, forcing myself to remain stoic, controlled, sensible. The guard at the gates swung them open. Jack spun around and shouted to me, 'September first'.

I bit down hard on my lip and shouted back: 'Yes. September first... without fail'.

He snapped to attention and executed a crisp salute. I managed a smile. Then he turned and marched into the Yards.

For a moment or two I couldn't move. I simply stared ahead, until Jack vanished from view. I felt as if I was in freefall - as if I had just walked into an empty elevator shaft. Eventually, I forced myself back to the subway station, down the stairs, and on to a Manhattan-bound train. One of the women at the Navy Yards gates sat opposite me in the same car. She couldn't have been more than eighteen. As soon as the train lurched out of the station, she fell apart, her heartbreak loud and unrestrained.

Being my father's daughter, I would never have dreamed of crying in public. Grief, affliction, heartache were all to be suffered in silence: that was the Smythe family rule. If you wanted to break down, you had to do it behind closed doors, in the privacy of your own room.

So I kept myself in check all the way back to Bedford Street. As soon as my apartment door closed behind me, I fell on the bed and let go.

I wept. And wept. And wept some more. All the time thinking: you are a fool.

Four

'YOU REALLY WANT my opinion?' Eric asked me.

'Of course I do', I said.

'My completely honest opinion'.

I nodded nervously.

'Okay then, here it is: you're an idiot'.

I gulped, reached for the bottle of wine, refilled my glass, and drank half of it in one go.

'Thank you, Eric', I finally said.

'You asked me for an honest reaction, S'.

'Yes. That is true. And you certainly gave me one'.

I finished the glass of wine, reached again for the bottle (our second of the afternoon), and refilled my glass.

'Apologies for the bluntness, S', he said. 'But it's still no excuse to hit the bottle'.

'Everyone occasionally deserves a glass or two more than usual. Especially when there's something to celebrate'.

Eric looked at me with amused scepticism.

'And what are we celebrating here?'

I raised my glass.

'Thanksgiving, of course'.

'Well, Happy Thanksgiving', he said wryly, clinking his glass against mine.

'And I'll have you know that, on this Thanksgiving Day, I am happier than I ever have been. In fact, I am so damn happy I am delirious'.

'Yes, delirium is the operative word here'.

All right, I was feeling a little cockeyed. Not to mention emotionally overwhelmed, spent, and exhausted. Especially since, once I finally brought my crying under control, I only had an hour or so before I had to meet Eric at Luchows for Thanksgiving lunch. Which gave me no time to do anything restorative (like sleep). So I had a fast bath, heated up the remnants of the coffee I'd made earlier that morning, and tried not to cry when I saw the cup Jack drank from, sitting forlornly in the sink. Then, after I finished the pot of now-acidic coffee, I caught a taxi over to Luchows on 14th Street.