Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

In the two weeks running up to the wedding, I assented to everything. I let Mrs Grey make all the arrangements for the ceremony and the party. I let her book me a rushed appointment at a dress-maker, who whipped up a standard-issue white wedding dress for $85 ('Of course we wouldn't dream of letting you pay, dear', Mrs Grey said at the fitting). I let her choose the order of the service, the menu at the reception, the centerpiece on the cake. I accompanied George by train to Old Greenwich to inspect our new house. It was a small two-storey Cape Codder, located on a road called Park Avenue, within a five-minute walk from the railway station. Park Avenue was very leafy, very residential. Each house had a substantial front yard, with a very green lawn. They were all immaculately manicured. Just as all the houses showed no signs of wear-and-tear: no peeling paint, or decrepit roofs, or smudged windows. From my first stroll down Park Avenue, I knew immediately that this was a community which did not tolerate such sins against the body politic as unmowed grass or badly graveled driveways.

The houses along Park Avenue were New England in character - testaments to Poe-style Gothic rubbing shoulders with white clapboard, and Federalist red brick. Ours was one of the smallest properties, with low ceilings and small, cramped rooms. They were papered in discreet floral prints or tiny red-and-blue checks - the sort of old Americana patterns that put me in mind of the inside of a Whitman's chocolate box. The furniture was spartan in character and size - cramped, narrow sofas; hard wooden armchairs, a pair of narrow single beds in the master bedroom. There was a plain wooden table in the other bedroom with a bentwood chair.

'This will be the perfect place to write your novel', George said, trying to sound cheerful.

'So where will the baby sleep?' I asked quietly.

'In our room for the first few months. Anyway, we should look on this place as nothing more than a starter house. Once we have a couple of kids, we'll definitely need...'

I cut him off.

'One child at a time, okay?'

'Fine, fine', he said, sounding anxious at my testy tone. 'I didn't mean to be pushing things...'

'I know you didn't'.

I moved back down the corridor to the master bedroom, and sat on one of the single beds. The mattress felt like a concrete slab. George sat down beside me. He took my hand.

'We can get a proper double bed if you like'.

I shrugged.

'And anything you want to do to this place is fine by me'.

How about burning it to the ground, darling?

'It'll be fine', I said, my voice toneless.

'Of course it will. And we'll be happy here, right?'

I nodded.

'And I know you're going to grow to love it here. Heck, Old Greenwich is a great place to raise a family'.

Heck. I was marrying a man who used the word heck.

But I still didn't attempt to bail out of the wedding. Instead, I calmly upended my life. I handed in my resignation at Saturday/Sunday. I informed my landlord that I would be vacating my apartment. As I had rented it furnished, there was little to pack up. Just some books, my Victrola and my collection of records, a few family photos, three suitcases' worth of clothing, my typewriter. Looking at my small pile of possessions made me think, I travel light.

Finally, three days before the ceremony, I conjured up the nerve to tell Eric about my impending move to Old Greenwich. My delay in informing him of this news was a strategic one - as I knew he would become vehement as soon as he heard.

Which, of course, he did.

'Have they railroaded you into this move?' he asked angrily, pacing my packed-up apartment.

'George's parents simply offered us this charming little house as a wedding gift, and I thought: why not?'

'That's all there was to it?'

'Yes'.

He looked at me with deep scepticism. 'You - the most diehard New Yorker imaginable - simply decided to close down your existence in Manhattan and move to goddamn Old Greenwich just because Georgie-boy's parents gave you a house? I don't believe it'.

'I thought it was time for a change', I said, trying to sound calm. 'And I am looking forward to the peace and quiet'.

'Oh please, S - cut the serenity crap. You don't want to be in Connecticut. I know that. You know that'.

'It's a gamble, but it could turn out wonderfully'.

'I said it once. I said it before. You can walk away now, and I will support you in every way I can'.

I touched my stomach. 'I don't have a choice in the matter'.

'You do. You just don't see it'.

'Believe me, I see it. But I just can't make that leap of imagination. I have to do what's expected of me'.

'Even if it ruins your life?'

I bit hard on my lip and turned away, my eyes hot with tears.

'Please stop', I said.

He came over and put his hand on my shoulder. For the first time ever, I shrugged him off.

'I'm sorry', he said.

'Not as sorry as me'.

'We all ruin our lives in some way, I guess...'

'Is that supposed to make me feel better?'

'No. It's supposed to make me feel better'.

I managed a laugh. 'You're right', I finally said. 'In some way or another, we all mess things up. Only some of us do it more comprehensively than others'.

To Eric's infinite credit, he never again reproached me about marrying George and moving to Connecticut. Three days after that difficult conversation in my apartment, he put on his only suit, a clean white shirt, and (for him) a subdued tie, and walked me down the aisle at the Marble Collegiate Church. George was in an ill-fitting cutaway (with a high-collar shirt) that accented his schoolboy chubbiness. The minister was a bored man with thinning hair and bad dandruff. He read the service in a reedy monotone, and at speed. From start to finish, the entire ceremony took fifteen minutes. As there were only twelve invited guests, the church seemed very cavernous - our vows echoing through the rows of empty-pews. It was very lonely indeed.

The reception afterwards was also a rushed affair. It was held in a private dining room at the Plaza. Mr and Mrs Grey weren't exactly the most welcoming of hosts. They didn't try to make conversation with Eric, or with my friends from Saturday/ Sunday. George's chums from the bank were also exceptionally stiff. Before the dinner, they huddled together in a corner, talking quietly among themselves, occasionally emitting a sharp communal snigger of laughter. I was certain they were articulating what everyone at this joyless event was thinking, so this is what's known as a shotgun marriage.

Only, of course, this being a WASP shotgun marriage, everyone was carrying on as if it was a perfectly straightforward event.

There was a sit-down meal. There was a toast from Mr Grey. Like everything else that day, it was emotionless and brisk: 'Please raise your glasses to welcome Sara to our family. We hope that she and George will be happy'.

That was it. George's toast was almost as phlegmatic: 'I just want to say that I am the luckiest man in the world, and I know that Sara and I will make a great team. And I want you all to know that we're operating an open-door policy in Old Greenwich - so we're going to expect lots of visitors real soon'.

I glanced across the table and saw my brother roll his eyes. Then he realized that I saw him being caustic, and he gave me a guilty smile. That one small private moment aside, he really had been a model of tact and diplomacy all afternoon. Even though he looked utterly respectable in his black suit, Mr and Mrs Grey still eyed him with anxious distaste - as if he was some sort of strange left-wing alien, about to jump on a table and hector us with passages from Das Kapital. At the reception, however, he made a point of chatting with my parents-in-law, and even managed to wangle a small laugh or two from them. This was an astonishing phenomenon - discovering that the Greys had a sense of humor - and I cornered Eric as he crossed the room en route to the bar for fresh drinks, whispering: