Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

Unlike me, however, he didn't have an Eric to counterbalance his parents. Of course, I knew all about his older brother, Edwin. He was the family star. The valedictorian of his class at Exeter. Captain of the school's lacrosse team. A brilliant student at Harvard, from which he graduated summa cum laude in 1940. And though he was accepted at Harvard Law, he decided to accept an Army commission as second lieutenant. So he deferred his admission to Harvard Law and went off to war - where he was killed during the invasion of Normandy.

'I don't think my parents have ever really recovered from his death', George told me on our second date. 'He was the repository of all their hopes, their ambitions. They adored him'.

'I'm sure they adore you too', I said.

He just shrugged sadly, then said, 'I've never really been much of a jock or an academic whizkid'.

'You got into Princeton'.

'Yes - but only because my dad went there... as he still often reminds me. My grades at Exeter weren't up to much. And at college, I didn't make any of the Varsity teams, nor did I graduate with honors. I was a B minus student. I did all right - but for my parents, "all right" was a synonym for "failure". They expected excellence. I didn't deliver'.

'There's a lot more to life than good grades or making the lacrosse team. But my parents were the same way. Their social benchmarks were all to do with an extreme form of rectitude. Probity at all costs'.

George later told me that that was the moment he fell in love with me - because I was somebody who, thanks to my own background, so understood the milieu which shaped him... and also because I used words like rectitude and probity.

'You're not just beautiful', he said later that night. 'You also have one hell of a vocabulary'.

Now, seated across the table from his profoundly constrained parents, I felt this immense kinship with George. We were cut from the same austere, uncomfortable cloth. We were both - in our own quiet way - trying to break away from the limitations of WASP-dom. We understood each other. Like me, George had been hurt in love. Though he didn't tell me much about it, he mentioned that there had been a two-year romance with a woman named Virginia: the daughter of some well-known Wall Street lawyer, thereby garnering her 'high approval status' in the eyes of his parents. When she broke off the engagement (because she had fallen for the son of a Pennsylvania senator), George's parents took the news badly - considering it yet another failure on the part of their son when it came to achieving anything. He'd asked me about Jack - but I supplied him with scant details, except to say that it was a bit of 'romantic silliness' that amounted to nothing, especially as he disappeared back off to Europe before it could develop into anything substantial.

'He was a fool to lose you', George said.

'And she you', I replied immediately.

'I doubt she thinks that'.

'Well, I do. And that's what counts'.

He actually blushed, then reached over across the table and took my hand. 'At least I got lucky this time around', he said.

'Timing is everything, I guess'.

Without question, the timing was definitely on our side. We shared similar family backgrounds, educational levels, social perspectives. Most importantly, we were both ready to get married (despite all my private protestations, I knew this to be true). George was sound. He was balanced, responsible. He loved me without reservation. Though I didn't feel any grand passion for him, I convinced myself that the absence of ardor wasn't truly important. After all, I had lost my heart to Jack and ended up feeling like a sap. Passion - as I had come to conclude - was for fools. It fogged the brain. It muddled rational thought. It led you down all the wrong paths. It was a mistake - and one which I would never make again.

And so, catching his eye across his parents' dining room table - seeing him gaze at me with such unconditional fondness - I made a decision. If he proposed marriage, I'd accept.

The rest of the dinner was a reasonable success. We made polite chit-chat. I told a few anodyne anecdotes about my work at Saturday/Sunday. I said nothing when Daddy Grey went into a tirade about how Harry S. Truman was nothing but a socialist haberdasher (if only my father had been alive to meet Daddy Grey - it would have been love at first sight). I feigned interest as Daddy Grey engaged George in a discussion about a pressing issue of the day: a new set of rules for Princeton's eating clubs which compelled them to accept members of all religious persuasions ('It's the Jewish lobby that's forced this issue', Daddy Grey thundered; a comment which George shrugged off with a non-committal nod of the head). I smiled a lot and didn't speak unless spoken to.

After dinner, we retired to the library. Though I really felt in need of a brandy, I didn't ask for one. Then again, I wasn't offered one - as Daddy Grey poured out a measure for George and himself. A fire was blazing in the hearth. I sipped a demi-tasse of coffee. An entire wall of the library was devoted to framed photographs of Edwin at assorted junctures in his life. The end table next to the sofa was also filled with additional portraits of Edwin - all in Army uniform. He did look exceptionally dashing. The room was a shrine - and my eyes scanned all additional walls and table-tops for any photos of George. There were none.

As if reading my mind, Mrs Grey said, 'We have plenty of pictures of George elsewhere in the house. The library is for Edwin'.

'Of course', I said quietly, then added: 'I don't how anyone could cope with such a loss'.

'We're not the only family who lost a son', Daddy Grey said, his voice betraying a slight tremor.

'I didn't mean to imply...'

'Grief is a private matter, don't you think?' he said, turning away from me to refill his brandy glass.

'I apologize if I said something wrong', I said.

Silence. A silence that must have lasted a full minute. It was finally broken by Mrs Grey. Her voice was hushed.

'You are right. The sense of loss will never end. Because Edwin was exceptional. A man of astonishing gifts'.

She glanced briefly at George, then stared down at her hands, threaded tightly together in her lap.

'He was utterly irreplaceable'.

Another long silence. George stared into the fire, saying nothing, his eyes full.

I excused myself shortly thereafter, and went up to the guest room in which I was being billeted. I undressed, put on my nightgown, and got into bed, pulling the blankets over my head. Sleep did not arrive - which was not a surprise, considering that I was still trying to make sense of the dinner, the scene in the library, and the way in which George's parents were subtly making him pay for Edwin's death.

The sense of loss will never end. Because Edwin was exceptional. A man of astonishing gifts...

Had she not turned towards George at that moment, I would have thought that she was simply attempting to express a mother's inexpressible grief. But by narrowing George in her sights, and saying that his brother was irreplaceable, she was letting him (and me) know: if I had to lose one child, it should have been you.

I couldn't believe her cruelty. It made me felt intensely protective towards George. It also gave me a project: to emancipate this man from his family by loving him.

And I was certain that, in time, I would love him.

I stared at the ceiling of the bedroom for nearly an hour. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by the door of George's room (located directly opposite mine) opening and closing. I waited five minutes. Then I got up, left my room, and tiptoed quickly across the corridor. Without knocking, I quietly opened George's door. He was already in bed, reading. He looked up at me, startled. I put my finger to my lips, shut the door behind me, and walked over to the bed, sitting down next to him. I noticed that he was wearing striped pajamas. I stroked his hair. He was wide-eyed with bemusement. I leaned down and kissed him deeply. He returned the kiss - nervously at first, but then with considerable ardor. After a moment, I gently broke away. Standing up, I pulled my nightgown over my head. The chill of the room made me shiver. I crawled under the covers next to him. I took his head in my hands and began to kiss him gently on the face. He was tense.