Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'My sister the property owner', Eric said archly while looking around the apartment only a few days before I closed the deal.

'Next thing I know, you'll be calling me a bourgeois capitalist'.

'I'm not being ideological - just wry. There is a difference, you know'.

'Really? I never realized that, comrade'.

'Shhh...'

'Stop being paranoid. I doubt Mr Hoover's bugged this apartment. I mean, the previous owner was a little old Latvian lady...'

'To Hoover, everyone's a possible subversive. Haven't you read what's been going on in Washington? A bunch of congressmen are screaming about Reds under the Bed in Hollywood. Calling for a committee to investigate Communist infiltration of the entertainment industry'.

'That's just Hollywood'.

'Believe me, if the Congress starts trying to dig up Commies in LA, then it'll just be a matter of time before they turn their attention to New York'.

'Like I told you before - if that happens, all you'll have to tell them is that you left the Party in forty-one, and you'll be in the clear. Anyway, you can always tell the Feds you have this arch-capitalist, property-owning sister...'

'Very funny'.

'Give it to me straight, Eric: do you like the place?'

He glanced again around the empty living room.

'Yeah - it's got great potential. Especially once you get rid of that Eastern European wallpaper. What do you think it's depicting? Springtime in Riga?'

'I don't know - but along with the kitchen, it's going before I set foot in here'.

'Are you sure about living on the Upper West Side? I mean, it's kind of quiet up here in the Dakotas'.

'I'll tell you, the only thing I miss about Old Greenwich is the sense of open space. That's why I like it up here. I'm a minute from Riverside Park. I've got the Hudson. I've got my garden...'

'Stop it, or you're going to start sounding like Thoreau at Walden Pond'.

I laughed, then said, 'After I pay for this place and do it up, I should still have around thirty-two thousand in the bank - that's including the inheritance money from Mother and Father, which I put into government bonds'.

'Unlike your profligate brother'.

'Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. The real-estate agent who sold me this place told me there was another apartment going on the third floor. So why don't you let me buy it for you and...'

He cut me off. 'No way', he said.

'Don't be so dismissive of the idea. I mean, that place of yours on Sullivan Street really isn't the best...'

'It suits me fine. It's all I need'.

'Come on, Eric - it's a student place. It's like bad La Boheme - and you're nearly thirty-five years old'.

'I know exactly how old I am, S', he said crossly. 'Just as I also know what I need or don't need. What I don't need is your damn charity, understand?'

His harsh tone stunned me.

'I was only making a suggestion. I mean, I know you don't like the Upper West Side, so if you saw a place downtown you wanted to buy...'

'I want nothing from you, S'.

'But why? I can help you'.

'Because I don't want help. Because needing help makes me feel like a loser'.

'You know I don't think that about you'.

'But I think that. So... thanks but no thanks'.

'At least consider it'.

'No. Case closed. But here's a practical tip from an impractical guy: find yourself a smart stockbroker and let him invest that thirty-two grand in blue chips: GE, General Motors, RCA, that kind of thing. Rumor has it IBM is also a smart bet - although they're still finding their feet as a company'.

'I didn't know you followed the market, Eric'.

'Sure - former Marxist-Leninists always pick the best stocks'.

When the apartment became mine a few days later, I hired a decorator to strip the wallpaper, replaster the walls and paint them a plain flat white. I also had him design a simple modern kitchen, featuring a new Amana refrigerator. All the work cost $600 - and for that all-inclusive price, he also agreed to sand and revarnish the hardwood floors, build two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the living room, and retile the bathroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it too went white. The remaining $400 of my decorating budget was spent on furniture: an antique brass bed, a tall ash chest of drawers, a simple Knoll sofa upholstered in a neutral beige fabric, a big cushy easy chair (also covered in the same fabric), a large pine table which would serve as a desk. It was amazing what you could buy with $400 back then - my budget also stretched to a couple of throw rugs, a few table lights, and a chrome kitchen table with two matching chairs.

The redecoration took around a month. All the furniture arrived on the morning the painters finally moved out. By nightfall - thanks to Eric's assistance - I had the place set up. I spent the next few days buying essentials like plates and glasses and cutlery and towels. I also exceeded my budget by a hundred and fifty dollars to invest in a state-of-the-art RCA radio and phonograph - all housed in one large mahogany cabinet. It was an indulgence, but a necessary one.

There were very few material things I craved. After reading in Life about the RCA Home Concert Hall (yes, that was its actual name), I knew I was going to buy it... even though it cost a ferocious $149.95. And now here it was - sitting in a corner of an apartment I owned outright, blaring the opening movement of Brahms's 3rd Symphony. I was surrounded by the first furniture I had ever bought in my life. Suddenly I had possessions. Suddenly I felt very grown up - and very empty.

'Penny for them', Eric said, handing me a glass of celebratory fizzy wine.

'I'm just a little bemused, that's all'.

'Bemused that you are the mistress of all you survey?'

'Bemused that I've ended up here, with all this'.

'It could be worse. You could still be a resident of the Grey Penal Colony in Old Greenwich'.

'Yes - divorce does have its rewards, I guess'.

'You're feeling guilty about all this. I can tell'.

'I know this sounds stupid, but I keep telling myself that it's not right I've been handed this without...'

'What? Suffering? Martyrdom? Crucifixion?'

I laughed. 'Yes', I said. 'Something extreme and punitive like that'.

'I love a masochist. Anyway, S - as far as I'm concerned, thirty-five grand doesn't even begin to compensate you for the fact that you'll never...'

'Stop', I said.

'I'm sorry'.

'Don't be. It's my problem. I will come to terms with it'.

He put an arm around my shoulder.

'You don't have to come to terms with it', he said.

'Yes. I do. Otherwise...'

'What?'

'Otherwise I'll do something very stupid... like turning this into the central tragedy of my life. Which I don't want it to be. I'm not cut out to play the lamentable heroine. It's simply not my style'.

'At least give yourself some time to come to terms with things. It's only been two months'.

'I'm doing fine', I lied. 'I'm doing just fine'.

In truth, I wasn't doing badly. Because I was also working hard at filling every hour of the day. After moving into the apartment, I set up meetings with half-a-dozen different stockbrokers, before settling on Lawrence Braun - the husband of an old Bryn Mawr friend, Virginia Sweet. She'd married Lawrence straight out of college, and was now coping with three under-fives in a rambling colonial house in Ossining. But it wasn't the connection with Virginia that made me give Lawrence my business - rather, the fact that he was the only stockbroker I met who didn't patronize me, or say things like: 'Now I know you ladies really don't have much of a head for figures.. , except when it comes to girdle sizes, ha! ha!' (yes, that really was commonplace male wit in 1947). On the contrary, Lawrence questioned me carefully about my long-term financial goals (Security, security, and more security), and my attitude towards risk (to be avoided at all costs).