Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

I did as ordered. She stared at me for a long time, her lips pinched, turning them into a fine inflexible line that bisected her face. I tried to meet her disdainful stare. I began to knead my hands together. Naturally she noticed this.

'Are you feeling anxious, Sara?' she asked mildly.

My hands froze. 'Yes. I am feeling anxious'.

'I suppose, were I in your situation, I would feel anxious as well. The fact is, though - I would never have landed myself in such a situation. One always pays a huge price for impulsiveness'.

'And, I suppose, you've never been guilty of impulsiveness?'

Her lips expanded into her telltale tight smile. 'No', she said.

'Not a single act of rashness in your entire life?'

'I'm afraid not'.

'How controlled of you'.

'I will take that as a compliment, Sara. But back to business...'

'I didn't realize we were talking business'.

'Oh yes. This is, without question, a business conversation. Because, as far as I'm concerned, we have nothing else to talk about but the practical matter of arranging a wedding post haste. We don't want you walking down the aisle visibly enceinte, now do we?'

Another of her narrow smiles. I said nothing.

'Of course, everyone at the wedding will naturally know why we have so expedited the scheduling of the ceremony. Which, in turn, means that we will want to keep the event small and discreet. No doubt, this will not tally with your childhood fantasies of a big all-white wedding...'

'How do you know what my childhood fantasies were?' I asked, the anger showing.

'Don't all girls dream of a big wedding?'

'No'.

'Of course I forgot - you and your brother were always a little out of step with things, much to the distress of your very nice parents'.

I glared at her, wide-eyed.

'How dare you make such an assumption...'

'I'm not making an assumption, dear. I am simply reporting established fact. We have these very old friends in Hartford - the Montgomerys. They were your parents' neighbors, n'est-ce pas?'

'Yes. They lived a few houses away from us'.

'Well, when Mr Grey and I discovered - somewhat abruptly, I should add - that you were to be our daughter-in-law, we decided to do a little checking into your background. It turned out Mr Grey knew Mr Montgomery from Princeton. Class of nineteen oh eight. And Mr Montgomery and his wife, Miriam, were exceedingly informative about your family. I never knew, for example, that your brother is a Communist'.

'He is not a Communist'.

'He joined the Party, didn't he?'

'Yes... but that was during the thirties, when it was fashionable...'

'Fashionable? To the best of my knowledge the Communist Party wishes to overthrow the government of this country. Is that your idea of chic, Sara?'

'He left the Party in forty-one. He made a mistake. He's the first to admit that now'.

'What a pity your poor parents aren't around to hear his renunciation'.

I felt myself getting very angry.

'Eric mightn't be the most conventional of men, but he was always a good son to our parents... and he is the best brother imaginable'.

'I do so admire familial loyalty. Especially in the face of such unconventionality'.

'I don't know what you are talking about'.

'Oh yes you do. So too, I gather, did your late parents. In fact, word has it that your brother's unconventionality so upset your father that it hastened the stroke which killed him'.

'It's outrageous to blame Eric...'

'No one is apportioning blame, Sara. I'm just reporting what I heard from others. Just as I also heard that you directly contravened your father's wishes by moving to New York after Bryn Mawr. And shortly thereafter, the stroke felled him...'

I was on the verge of screaming at her. Or slapping her. Or spitting in her face. My heart was pounding, my rage immense. She saw this, and responded by affording me another of her little smiles. A smile which invited me to do something reprehensible... and pay an even bigger price than the one I was paying now. A smile which forced me to remain in control.

So, taking several deep steadying breaths, I simply stood up and said, 'We have nothing more to say to each other, Mrs Grey'.

Her tone remained temperate, steady.

'If you walk out of here now, dear, you will be creating enormous problems for yourself'.

'I don't care'.

'Oh yes you do. After all, I can't imagine a respectable family magazine like Saturday Night/Sunday Morning allowing an unwed mother to remain in their employment. And once Saturday/Sunday dismisses you on moral grounds, who on earth will hire you? Then there's the matter of your apartment. Isn't there some clause in the standard New York City tenancy lease... Mr Grey mentioned this to me en passant... about landlords being able to evict tenants who have committed acts of moral turpitude ? Granted, having a child out of wedlock might not fit the letter of the law... but could you afford to fight such an eviction in court?'

I sat down again. I said nothing. Mrs Grey lowered her head for a moment. When she raised it again, she was the picture of civility.

'I knew that, at heart, you were a sensible girl, Sara. I'm certain that, from this moment forward, we will get along just fine. Tea?'

I didn't respond. Possibly because I felt the way a convicted felon must feel when he's been sentenced to life imprisonment. This was the abyss. And I was in it.

'I'll take your silence as a yes', she said, motioning towards a waiter. 'Now then, back to business. The wedding...'

She outlined the plans. Under the hasty circumstances, a wedding at the family parish church in Connecticut was out of the question ('one simply does not organize such an event with two weeks' notice'). Instead, there would be a simple straightforward service at the Marble Collegiate Church in Manhattan - to which I would be allowed to invite four guests, including my brother ('I presume he will be giving you away?' she asked dryly). There would be a simple, straightforward reception afterwards here at the Plaza. George would be organizing 'the honeymoon details', though Mrs Grey had suggested to him 'a nice, modest hotel' in Provincetown, into which he had subsequently booked us for a week. After the honeymoon, we would be moving into our new home... in Old Greenwich, Connecticut.

It took a moment for this news to register. 'George and I are moving where?' I asked.

'To Old Greenwich, Connecticut. You mean, he hasn't yet told you... ?'

'Considering that he only informed you of our news last night...'

'Of course, of course. The poor boy's had so much on his mind. Anyway, when he did tell us your wonderful news yesterday evening, Mr Grey gave him the most marvelous surprise. As our wedding gift to you both, we're letting you have a little house we bought as an investment a year or so ago in Old Greenwich. Do understand - it's hardly a mansion. But it's the perfect starter house for a young family. And it's only five minutes' walk to the railway station, so it will be very handy for George's commute to Manhattan. Do you know Old Greenwich? Very sweet little town... and right near Long Island Sound, so it will be perfect for...'

Drowning myself.

'... outings with other young mothers. After the baby arrives I'm sure you'll find so much to do up there. Coffee mornings. Church socials. Charity yard sales. The PTA

As I listened to her delineate, with relish, my prosaic future, all I could think was: this is a masterclass in how to twist the knife.

I finally interrupted her.

'Why can't we live in George's apartment for a while?'

'That dreadful place? I wouldn't allow it, Sara'.

It wasn't that dreadful: a serviced one-bedroom flat in a residential hotel, the Mayflower, on 61st Street and Central Park West.