Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

His face fell. 'You don't like the flowers?'

'I was just trying to be funny'.

'Of course, of course', he said. 'I was just checking'.

'Thank you'.

'No - thank you'.

'For what?'

'For putting up with me. I know it can't be easy'.

'All I want is a degree of equitableness between us'.

'You've got it. I promise'.

'Honestly?'

He took me in his arms.

'I've gotten this all wrong. And I'm going to change that'.

'Good', I said, and kissed his forehead.

'I love you'.

'You too', I said quickly, hoping I didn't sound unconvincing. But George had his mind on other things, as he asked, 'Is that meatloaf I smell?'

I nodded.

'You are wonderful'.

For the next few weeks, George really did make an effort to establish an entente cordiale between us. He excised all domestic demands from his conversation. He didn't ask Bea to call me with more of his favorite recipes. He accepted the fact that I couldn't iron a suit. He agreed when I suggested we start spending five dollars twice a week for a cleaning woman. He tried to be attentive - especially as my pregnancy had now become visible, and I was starting to tire easily. He tried to be loving and considerate.

In short, he tried. And I tried too. I tried to adjust to a life at home; a life away from the edgy rhythms and manic diversity of a great city. I tried to adjust to the business of running a house; to being that creature I always secretly vowed never to become: a homemaker in the suburbs.

Most of all, I tried to adjust to marriage - to that sense of shared space, shared preoccupations, shared purpose and destiny. Only I knew deep down that there was no real sense of shared anything. Had it not been for our little biological accident, our engagement would have collapsed within months (especially after I'd gotten a whiff of just how controlling his mother could be). But now, here we were, playing house, trying to pretend that we were happy newlyweds, yet also secretly knowing that all this was fraudulent. Because there was no real basis between us - no solid foundation of camaraderie or true rapport. Let alone love.

I sensed that George knew this too. Within a month of our wedding, we started to run out of things to say to each other. Yes, we made conversation, but it was forced, labored, prone to longueurs. We didn't share each other's interests. His Connecticut friends were country club types. The men all seemed to talk about golf, the Dow Jones average, and the ongoing horror that was Harry S. Truman. The women traded recipes and maternity tips, and planned coffee mornings, and looked upon me with great suspicion. Not that I was flashing my former Greenwich Village credentials in their face. I went to three coffee mornings, and tried to join in the conversations about the perils of stretch marks and the impossibility of making a really moist Angel Food cake. But I know that they smelled my disinterest. I wasn't 'one of them'. I struck them as bookish, and reserved, and not at all enthralled by my newfound status as a kept woman. I really did work hard at 'fitting in', but ambivalence is always sniffed out. Especially when it's a clique that's doing the sniffing.

Eric insisted on paying me a visit once a week. He'd catch a late morning train up from Grand Central, and spend the entire day with me, grabbing the 6.08 that night back to the city... just in time to avoid having to deal with George. I'd make us lunch. Then, if the weather was good, I'd arrange for him to have use of a bicycle from Flannery's Garage (the owner, Joe Flannery, and I had become friends), and we'd head off to Todd's Point, squandering the entire afternoon at the beach.

'I'll tell you something, S', he said one balmy Thursday afternoon in mid-May, while we were sprawled on the blanket, staring up at an early summer sun. 'Old Greenwich may be the most white-bread place on earth... but I sure as hell could get used to the beach'.

'This beach is my sanity', I said.

'It's that bad, is it?'

'Well, he's not beating me with a lead pipe or chaining me to a radiator...'

'At least that would be colorful...'

I laughed loudly. 'You have a serious sick streak, Eric'.

'You've only figured that out now?'

'No - but maybe when I was in the Sodom and Gomorrah of Manhattan, your wit didn't seem so extreme'.

'Whereas here, in WASP Central...'

'Oh, if you lived here, you'd be considered the Antichrist. They'd probably have you in the stocks on the village green'.

'How do you stand it?'

'I come to this beach a lot'.

'Do you miss the city?'

'Only five times an hour'.

'Then tell him you want to move back'.

'I might as well say that I want to move to Moscow. Anyway, his mother wouldn't hear of it. And if Julia Grey won't hear of something, then the matter is closed'.

'I bet she's subtly meddlesome'.

'Not subtly. Unapologetically. For the first two weeks or so, she left us alone. But now that the honeymoon is well and truly over, she calls me up at least once a day'.

'Lucky you'.

'I've never said this about somebody before... but I actually hate her'.

'It's that bad?'

'Yes - it's really that bad'.

From all indications, it was going to get worse. Because now that I was legally ensconced with her son, Mrs Grey felt it her right to direct all aspects of my life. She also made it very clear that her only real interest in me was in my role as the Grey Family Breeder.

The daily phone call would come promptly every morning at nine a.m.

'Hello, dear', she'd say briskly. Then, without any of the usual pleasantries, she'd immediately launch into her agenda du jour.

'I've made an appointment for you with an excellent obstetrician in Greenwich'.

'But I like the doctor I've been seeing locally'.

'You mean Dr Reid?'

'Yes, I mean Peter Reid. His office is a five-minute walk from my house - and, more to the point, I'm really comfortable with him'.

'I'm sure he's very nice. But do you know where he went to medical school? McGill in Montreal'.

'McGill is an excellent university. And, to the best of my knowledge, babies are born in Canada. So I'm certain Dr Reid...'

She cut me off.

'My dear, McGill may be a good university, but it is not an American university. Whereas the specialist I'm sending you to - Dr Eisenberg - went to Harvard. You have heard of Harvard, haven't you, dear?'

I said nothing.

'He also happens to be chief of obstetrics at Doctors Hospital, with practices both in Manhattan and Greenwich. And he's Jewish'.

'Why should that matter?'

'Jews always make the best doctors. It's something about their innate sense of social inferiority: it makes them far more conscientious and rigorous. Because, of course, they always feel the need to try harder and prove a point. Especially in the case of Dr Eisenberg - who's still trying to gain membership of the Greenwich Country Club. You don't have any objections about being attended to by a Jew, do you, dear?'

'Of course not. What I object to is being told which doctor I will be attending'.

'But dear, we are paying for your care...'

'It's my husband who's paying...'

'No, dear. George's salary at the bank might stretch to cover the services of Dr Reid, but it certainly wouldn't pay for an eminent man like Milton Eisenberg'.

'Then I won't go to Dr Eisenberg'.

'Yes you will, dear. Because it is our grandchild. And we must have the best for him'.

'Let me be the judge of which doctor is the best for...'

'The matter is closed, dear. The appointment with Dr Eisenberg is at ten thirty tomorrow morning. I will send a taxi to collect you at ten'.

Then she put down the phone without saying goodbye. When I vented my anger that night at George, he just shrugged and said, 'But she means well'.