Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Or, to put it another way, I could see all the reasons why I should be sceptical and dubious about Jack Malone. The problem was: I didn't want to accept any of them.

That was the most unsettling aspect of all this - the way I refused to accede to logic, reason, good old New England common sense. I was like an attorney trying to contest a case she really didn't believe in. Whenever I thought I might just be on the verge of rational judgment, Jack would come flooding back into my mind again... and I'd be lost.

Was this, verily, love? In its most pure, undistilled form? I couldn't attach any other meaning to what I was feeling - except that it was as all-consuming, debilitating, and dizzying as a serious bout of flu.

The only problem was: unlike the flu, the fever wasn't breaking. If anything, it got worse with every passing day.

Jack Malone would not leave me be. The ache I felt for him was huge.

On the Sunday morning of Thanksgiving weekend, Eric phoned me at home. It was the first time we'd spoken since lunch at Luchows.

'Oh, hi there', I said flatly.

'Oh dear...'

'Oh dear what?' I said, sounding cross.

'Oh dear, you don't sound pleased to hear from me'.

'I am pleased to hear from you'.

'Yes - and your exuberance is noted. I was just calling to see if the Gods of Balance and Proportion had landed on your shoulder?'

'No. They haven't. Anything else?'

'I detect a certain brusqueness to your tone. Want me to come over?'

'No!'

'Fine'.

Then I suddenly heard myself saying, 'Yes. Come over. Now'.

'It's that bad, is it?'

I swallowed hard. 'Yes - it's that bad'.

It got worse. My sleep began to fracture. Every night - somewhere between the hours of two and four - I'd snap awake. I'd stare up at the ceiling, feeling empty and full of the most overpowering sense of longing. There was nothing reasonable or clearheaded about this need I had for Jack Malone. It was just always there. Omnipresent. Irrational. Absurd.

I'd finally surrender to my insomnia, and get out of bed, and go to my desk and write Jack. I wrote him every day. Usually I'd restrict myself to a postcard - but I might spend up to an hour drafting and redrafting a five-line epistle on a legal pad.

I kept carbons of every letter I wrote Jack. Sometimes I would dig out the manila file in which I kept the copies, and read through this ever-expanding volume of lovesick missives. Whenever I closed the file, I'd always find myself thinking: this is preposterous.

After a few weeks, it became even more preposterous. Because I'd yet to receive one letter from Jack.

Initially, I tried to rationalize away the absence of news from my beloved. I would work out schedules in my head, figuring: it must have taken him nearly five days to reach Europe by ship, another couple of days to make his way to wherever he was being stationed in Germany, and then at least two weeks for his first letter to cross back the Atlantic to me (this was, after all, well before the days of Air Mail). Factor in the strain put on the postal system during Christmas - and the fact that there were still hundreds of thousands of GIs stationed around the globe... and it was suddenly clear why I hadn't heard from him by Christmas.

But then the New Year arrived. And there was still no word from Jack... even though I continued to write him every day.

I waited. No response. January ebbed into February. I became obsessed with the daily delivery of mail to my apartment building. It would arrive in a bundle around ten thirty. It took the superintendent around two hours to sort through it all, and place it outside each apartment door. I began to devise my work schedule at Life so I could get home by twelve thirty and collect my mail, then race back to the subway and return to my office by one fifteen (the end of my lunch hour). For two weeks I rigorously stuck to this routine, hoping against hope that, this day, the long-awaited letter from Jack would finally arrive.

But I kept returning to the office empty-handed. And feeling a little more bereft with each passing day. Especially as my sleeplessness was beginning to escalate.

One afternoon Leland McGuire stuck his head into the tiny cubicle where I worked.

'I am about to give you the plum assignment of the week', he said.

'Oh, really', I said, sounding a little distracted.

'What do you think about John Garfield?'

'Wonderful actor. Easy on the eye. Somewhat to the left politically...'

'Yes, well, regarding that last aspect, we'll want to play down the political stuff completely. I don't think Mr Luce would appreciate reading about Garfield's socialist ideologies in the pages of his magazine. Garfield's a hunk. Women like him. So I want you to play up his "brawny, but sensitive" side...'

'Sorry, Leland - I'm not following you here. Am I going to be writing something about John Garfield?'

'Not only are you going to be writing about Garfield - you're going to be interviewing him. He's in town, and he's agreed to give us an hour of his time. So be there at eleven thirty to watch an hour of the filming, then you'll get a chance to talk with him around twelve thirty'.

I suddenly felt a stab of panic. 'I can't do twelve thirty tomorrow'.

'Pardon?'

'I'm sorry, but I just can't do twelve thirty tomorrow'.

'You already have plans?'

I heard myself say, 'I'm expecting a letter...' God, how I instantly regretted uttering that sentence. Leland looked at me incredulously.

'You're expecting a letter? I don't quite understand what that has to do with meeting John Garfield at twelve thirty?'

'Nothing, Mr McGuire. Nothing. I'll be happy to do the interview'.

He regarded me warily.

'Are you sure about that, Sara?'

'Absolutely, sir'.

'Right then', he said. 'I'll ask Garfield's press agent to call you after lunch, and give you a briefing. Unless, of course, you're busy after lunch, expecting a letter...'

I met his stare. 'I'll look forward to his call, sir'.

As soon as Leland left my cubicle, I careened down to the ladies' room, locked myself in a cubicle, and sobbed like a fool. Then I checked my watch. Twelve ten. I bolted out of the Ladies', out of the Time and Life building, then over to the subway. With several changes of train - and a quick dash from Sheridan Square - I made it to my apartment by twelve forty. There was no mail outside my door. Instantly I dashed down the stairs to the basement, and banged on the door of the superintendent's apartment. His name was Mr Kocsis - a tiny Hungarian in his fifties (he couldn't have been more than 4'11"), who always made a point of being surly... except around the holiday season, when he was expecting his annual Christmas tip. But this was mid-February, so he wasn't putting on the charm.

'What you want, Miss Smythe?' he said in brittle English after opening his door.

'My mail, Mr Kocsis'.

'You get no mail today'.

I suddenly felt jittery. 'That can't be true', I said.

'Is true, is true'.

'Are you absolutely certain?'

'You say I lie?'

'There has to be a letter. There has to be...'

'If I tell you "no letter", it's "no letter". Hokay?'

He slammed the door on me. I made it back upstairs to my apartment, collapsed across the bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling... for what only seemed like a couple of minutes. After a while, I glanced at the clock by my bed. Two forty-eight. Oh God, oh God, I thought. I am cracking up.

I leapt off the bed, ran out of the apartment, and into the first available cab. I made it to the Time and Life building just after three fifteen. When I reached my cubicle, there were four pink 'While You Were Out' slips on my typewriter. The first three were all messages from a 'Mr Tommy Glick - press agent for John Garfield'. The times of the messages were one thirty, two, and two thirty. The final message - logged in at two fifty - was from Leland: 'Come to my office as soon as you're back'.