Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'I'm going to expect a copy of whatever you've been writing when it gets published'.

'It'll never get published', I said.

'Sara - one of these days you're going to actually start liking yourself'.

I spent a perfectly pleasant week in Boston. Marge Kennicott lived in a perfectly pleasant apartment in Back Bay. She had perfectly pleasant friends. She had a perfectly pleasant fiance named George Stafford, Jr - who was the heir apparent in his family's stockbroking firm. As always, Boston was a perfectly pleasant city - pretty, snobbish, dull. I resisted all of Marge's attempts to fix me up with perfectly pleasant eligible bachelors. I said nothing about the events that had driven me to Maine for seven weeks. After seven days of austere Brahman gentility, I was longing for the jangled disorder and chaotic exuberance of Manhattan. So I was relieved when I finally boarded the train back to Penn Station.

The day before I left Boston, I'd phoned Eric at home. He said he was going to be at work when my train arrived, but would meet me at Luchows for dinner that night.

'Did you get the envelope I sent you?' I asked nervously.

'Oh yes', he said.

'And?'

'I'll tell you when I see you'.

There was a huge pile of mail on the doormat outside my apartment. I sorted through it, expecting nothing from Jack. My expectations were met. But there was a letter from the Department of the Army/Office of Enlisted Personnel, informing me that Lieutenant John Joseph Malone was now stationed at Allied HQ in England. They also enclosed a postal address at which he could be reached.

I only read through the letter once. Then I dropped it in the trash basket by my desk, thinking: misjudgments are best tossed out of your life.

There was another letter in that pile of mail which caught my immediate attention - because the return address on the envelope said Saturday Night/Sunday Morning: a well-known magazine with which I had never corresponded, nor knew anyone who worked there. I tore back the flap. I pulled out the letter.

April 28th, 1946

Dear Miss Smythe,

I am pleased to inform you that your short story, 'Shore Leave', has been accepted for publication by Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. I have tentatively scheduled it for our first September '46 issue, and will pay you a fee of $125 for first publication rights.

Though I would like to run the story largely uncut, I have one or two editorial suggestions that you might be willing to consider. Please call my secretary at your convenience to set up a meeting.

I look forward to meeting you, and am delighted your fiction will be appearing in our magazine.

Sincerely yours,

Nathaniel Hunter

Fiction Editor

Three hours later - as I sat nursing a glass of champagne with Eric in Luchows - I was still in shock.

'Try to look pleased, for God's sakes', Eric said.

'I am pleased. But I'm also a little stunned that you engineered all this'.

'As I told you before, I engineered nothing. I read the story. I liked the story. I called my old Columbia friend, Nat Hunter, at Saturday Night/Sunday Morning and told him I'd just read a story which struck me as perfect Saturday/Sunday material... and which just happened to have been written by my sister. He asked me to send it over. He liked it. He's publishing it. Had I not liked it, I wouldn't have sent it to Nat. Had Nat not liked it, he wouldn't be publishing it. So your story's acceptance was completely free of nepotism. I engineered nothing'.

'Without you, however, I wouldn't have had direct access to the fiction editor'.

'Welcome to the way the world works'.

I reached over and clasped his hand.

'Thank you', I said.

'Much obliged. But, hey, it's a good story. You can write'.

'Well, dinner's on me tonight'.

'Damn right it is'.

'I missed you, Eric'

'Ditto, S. And you're looking so much better'.

'I am better'.

'As good as new?'

I clinked my glass against his. 'Absolutely', I said.

The next morning, I called Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. Nathaniel Hunter's secretary was exceedingly friendly, and said that Mr Hunter would be delighted to take me out to lunch in two days' time, my schedule permitting.

'My schedule permits', I said, trying to sound blase.

I also checked in with Leland McGuire at Life. His assistant answered the phone, then put me on hold after I asked to speak directly with my erstwhile boss. After a moment she came back on the line.

'Leland asked me to welcome you back to New York, and to say he'll be in touch as soon as he has an assignment for you'.

It was the reply I expected. I now knew for certain that, a few months from now, the dismissal notice from Life would land on my doormat. But with that $125 in my pocket from Saturday Night/ Sunday Morning, I'd be able to survive for a month or so beyond that time. And maybe I could convince this Nat Hunter to give me a journalistic assignment or two.

Naturally, I was nervous on the morning of my lunch with Mr Hunter. By eleven I was tired of pacing my little apartment - so I decided to kill the remaining hour and a half before our meeting by walking all the way uptown to Saturday/Sunday's offices on Madison and 47th Street. As I was locking my apartment door behind me, Mr Kocsis walked up the stair, a stack of letters in his hand.

'Mail early today', he said, handing me a single postcard, then heading down the corridor, depositing letters on my neighbors' mats. I stared down at the card. Though the stamp was American, it was franked 'US Army/American Occupation Zone, Berlin'. My stomach was suddenly in knots. Quickly I turned the card over. Three words were scrawled on the reverse side.

I'm sorry.

Jack

I stared at this message for a very long time. Then I forced myself to head downstairs and out into the bright spring sunshine. I turned left outside my front door, and started heading north. The card was still clutched in my hand. Crossing Greenwich Avenue, I walked by a garbage can. Without a moment's thought, I tossed the card away. I didn't look back to see if it landed in the can. I just kept walking.

Five

THE LUNCH WITH Nathaniel Hunter went well. So well that he offered me a job: assistant fiction editor of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. I couldn't believe my luck. I accepted on the spot. Mr Hunter seemed surprised by my immediate answer.

'You can think about it for a day or two, if you want', he said, lighting up one of the endless chain of Camels he smoked.

'My mind's made up. When do I start?'

'Monday, if you like. But Sara - do realize that, by accepting this job, you're not going to have much time for your own writing'.

'I'll find the time'.

'I've heard that before from many a promising writer. They get a story accepted by a magazine. But instead of trying to write fiction full time, they take on a position in advertising or public relations. Which inevitably means that they are too exhausted by the end of the day to do any writing whatsoever. As you well know, a nine-to-five job takes its toll'.

'I need to pay the rent'.

'You're young, you're single, you have no responsibilities. This is the time you should take a shot at a novel...'

'If you're so certain I should be at home writing, then why are you offering me this job?'

'Because, (a) you strike me as smart - and I need a smart assistant; and (b) as someone who gave up a promising literary career to be a wage-slave and edit other people's work, I consider it my duty to corrupt another promising young writer with a Faustian Bargain they really should refuse...'

I laughed.

'Well, you're certainly direct, Mr Hunter'.

'Make you no promises, tell you no lies - that's my credo. But do yourself a favor, Sara: don't take this job'.

But I wouldn't listen to his advice. Because I didn't have enough faith in my own talent to set up as a full-time writer. Because I was scared of failing. Because everything in my background told me to grab the secure job option. And because I also knew that Nathaniel Hunter was good news.