Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Most of the big decisions we make in life are never thought out properly. They're all done quickly, instinctively, and usually out of fear. The next thing you know, you've boxed yourself into a situation you don't want to be in.

For months after Mr Hunter's abrupt departure, I kept hearing him make that statement. I myself kept wondering: was the decision to upend his life also made quickly, instinctively, and out of fear? Fear, perhaps, of growing older, and feeling trapped, and never writing the novel he promised himself he'd write?

To the best of my knowledge, even after he vanished to New Hampshire with Jane Yates, he never got his novel published. Word had it he ended up teaching English composition at a small junior college near Franconia - until his death in 1960. 'Liver failure' was the cause given in the short New York Times obituary. He was only fifty-two years old.

But in the immediate aftermath of his departure from Saturday/Sunday, I held in constant remembrance his comments about how we never think through the big things in life. And I vowed to myself: I'll never make that mistake.

Then, in the early spring of 1947, I met a man named George Grey. He was a twenty-eight-year-old investment banker with Lehmann Brothers. Princeton-educated, erudite, courtly, handsome in a square-jawed sort of way, and a good companion. We were introduced at the wedding of one of my Bryn Mawr friends. He asked me out. I accepted. The evening went well. He asked me out again. I accepted again. The evening was even more of a success. George Grey, I decided, was good news. And, much to my surprise, he admitted (after just two dates) that he was besotted with me.

So besotted that - a month after we met - he asked me to marry him.

Did I ponder this decision? Did I ask for time to reflect, contemplate, or muse about the ramifications of this momentous question?

Of course not.

I said yes. Without a moment's thought.

Six

EVERYONE WAS SURPRISED by my news. No one more so than me.

'You're actually marrying a man named Grey?' Eric asked me when I told him about the engagement.

'I knew this is how you'd react', I said.

'I'm not reacting. I'm just asking a question'.

'Yes, Eric. His name is Grey. Happy now?'

'Thrilled. And... let me work this out... the first time you mentioned him to me was around two weeks ago. At that point you'd been seeing him for... how long was it exactly?'

'Around two weeks', I said sheepishly.

'So - just one month from the first date to the engagement announcement. He's obviously a fast worker... though nothing compared to the Brooklyn Boy'.

'I was just waiting for you to bring him up'.

'That's because he's still lurking around...'

'That is not true, damn it'.

'Of course it's true. Why else would you be marrying this other guy?'

'Maybe because I am in love with him'.

'You're talking crap - and you know it. You are not the sort of woman who falls for an investment banker named Grey'.

'I wish you would please stop telling me my own mind. George is a wonderful man. He will make me very happy'.

'He will turn you into somebody you don't want to be'.

'How the hell can you say that, when you've never even met him?'

'Because he's called George Grey, that's how. It's a name that conjures up a pipe and slippers... which he'll be asking you to fetch before you know it'.

'I am not a dog', I said, my voice tightening. 'I fetch things for no one'.

'We all end up doing things we vow never to do... especially when we're chasing the illusion of love'.

'This is not a goddamn illusion, Eric!'

'Illusion, delusion, confusion - you could describe your condition in any number of ways

'I am not suffering from a condition...'

'Yes, you are. And it's called "trapping yourself... in the name of security"'.

'Thank you for crediting me with knowing my own mind'.

'No one knows their own mind, S. No one. It's the main reason why we all make such an ongoing mess of things'.

Well, I certainly knew why I was marrying George Grey. Because he was so decent, so dependable, and so enamored of me. We all adore being flattered. Or - better yet - being told that we are special, unique, the best thing that ever happened to somebody. George did this constantly. And I couldn't resist it. Because it was exactly what I wanted to hear.

He was also supportive - especially when it came to the issue of my stalled writing career. Shortly after our engagement was announced, we went out one night with Emily Flouton - who had become one of my good friends at Saturday/Sunday in the wake of Nathaniel Hunter's departure. Emily had just been dumped by her boyfriend of two years - and when I mentioned to George that she was feeling a little fragile, he insisted that she join us for a concert at Carnegie Hall and a late supper afterwards at the Algonquin. Emily and I spent much of the meal discussing Mr Hunter's replacement - a small, angular woman in her early forties named Ida Spenser. She'd been hired away from Collier's as our new boss, and quickly established a reputation within our department for deporting herself like a perpetually inflexible headmistress (of the old-maidish variety), and for slapping down anyone who dared to contradict her rigid way of doing things. We all hated her. As we waited for our food in the Grill Room of the Algonquin, Emily and I engaged in an extended rant about Miss Spenser. George listened with rapt attention... even though our office politics were of absolutely no interest to him. But he was always solicitous.

'... and then she told me that I had no right to encourage any new authors without her approval', Emily said. 'Only she can decide whether or not a writer gets a personalized letter of encouragement'.

'She must be a very insecure woman', George said.

Emily looked at him admiringly. 'How did you know that?' she asked.

'Because George is very insightful about people', I said.

'Stop flattering me', he said, squeezing my hand. 'You'll give me a swelled head'.

'You with a swelled head?' I said. 'Not a chance. You're far too nice for that'.

'Now you are going to really make me feel stuck-up', he said, lightly kissing me on the lips. 'Anyway, the only reason I said that your boss might be insecure is because I used to work for someone like that at the bank. He had to control everything. Every letter to a client, every inter-departmental memorandum had to be personally vetted by him. He was obsessive. Because he was about the most scared person I'd ever met. He lived in terror of delegating to anyone; he felt he could trust no one. And for a very simple reason: he couldn't trust himself'.

'That's our Miss Spenser to a T', Emily said. 'She's so uncertain about herself that she thinks we're all out to get her. Which, of course, now we all are. What eventually happened to your boss?'

'He was kicked upstairs, and made a director of the company. Which was a blessing - because, quite frankly, I was on the verge of quitting my job'.

'I don't believe that for a moment', I said, nudging him playfully. 'You'd never quit a job. It would contravene every notion you have about duty and accountability'.

'Now you're making me sound all stuffy, darling'.

'Not stuffy. Just responsible. Very responsible'.

'You make it sound like a personal defect', he said with mock melodrama.

'Hardly, my love. I think responsibility is a great virtue - especially in a husband'.

'I'd drink to that', Emily said grimly. 'Every guy I get involved with seems to have been born with the irresponsibility gene'.

'You'll get lucky', I said.

'Not as lucky as you', Emily said.

'Hey, I'm the real lucky one here', George said. 'I mean, I'm marrying one of the most promising writers in America'.