Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Do you know each other?'

It was the woman talking. Check that: it was his wife. Her voice was pleasant, devoid of suspicion or mistrust - despite the evident shock experienced by myself and her husband only moments earlier. I looked at her again. Yes, she was definitely my contemporary - and pretty in a pinched sort of way. She was wearing a navy blue coat with a fur collar. She had matching gloves. Her short light brown hair was held in place by a black velvet band. She was as tall as Jack - nearly 5' 10", I reckoned - but with no bulk whatsoever. Despite her heavy coat, you could still tell that she was angular, lean. She had one of those handsome, gaunt faces which called to mind portraits of the first settlers of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I could have easily imagined her braving the hardships of 1630s Boston with steely resolve. Though she graced me with a pleasant smile, I sensed that, if necessary, she could be most formidable.

The baby was asleep. Not a baby, really - he must have been at least three years old. A little boy. And very cute, like all little boys. Swathed in a navy blue snowsuit, with little mittens that were attached to the snowsuit with metal clips. The color of his outfit matched his mother's coat. How sweet. How adorable - to be able to color-coordinate yourself and your child. What a nice privilege - though I was certain she didn't consider it a privilege. Why would she? She had a husband, a baby. She had him, damn her. Him... and a womb that worked. Though I'm sure she probably considered that all to be her right. Her goddamn Divine Right to Motherhood, and to that Man. That loathsome, abominable, self-centered, handsome Irish...

Oh God, will you listen to me.

'Yes', I heard him saying, 'of course we know each other. Don't we, Sara?'

I snapped back to Central Park.

'Yes, we do', I managed to say.

'Sara Smythe... my wife Dorothy'.

She smiled and nodded at me. I did likewise.

'And our son Charlie, of course', he said, patting the stroller.

'How old is he?'

'Just past the three-and-a-half-year mark', Dorothy said.

I did some very fast math in my head, then gazed squarely at Jack. He averted his eyes.

'Three-and-a-half?' I said. 'A nice age, I bet'.

'Just wonderful', Dorothy said, 'especially as he's now talking. A real little chatterbox, isn't he, dear?'

'Absolutely', Jack said. 'How's your now-famous brother?'

'Flourishing', I said.

'That's how Sara and I know each other', he said to Dorothy. 'We met at a party her brother threw... when was it again?'

'Thanksgiving Eve, nineteen forty-five'.

'God, you've got a better memory than I have. And who was the guy you were with that night?'

Oh, you operator. Covering your tracks like a well-heeled thief.

'Dwight D. Eisenhower', I answered.

There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by nervous laughter from Jack and Dorothy.

'You're still the fastest wit in the West', Jack said.

'Hold on', Dorothy said, 'you're not the Sara Smythe who writes for Saturday Night/Sunday Morning?'

'Yes - that's her', Jack said.

'I love your column', she said. 'I'm really a great fan'.

'Me too', Jack added.

'Thank you', I said, now staring at the ground.

She nudged her husband. 'You never told me you knew the Sara Smythe of "Sara Smythe's Real Life"'.

Jack just shrugged.

'And didn't I read in Winchell', Dorothy said, 'that your brother is one of Marty Manning's writers?'

'He's Manning's top banana', Jack added. 'His head writer'.

Without meeting Jack's eye, I said, 'You've obviously been keeping tabs on us'.

'Hey, I just read the papers like the next guy. But it's great to see you both doing so well. Please say "hi" to Eric for me'.

I nodded. Thinking, don't you remember that he really didn't like you?

'You must come over and see us sometime', Dorothy said. 'Do you live in this neighborhood?'

'Nearby, yes'.

'Us too', Jack said. 'Twenty West Eighty-Fourth Street - just off Central Park West'.

'Well, Jack and I would love to have you and your husband...'

'I'm not married', I said. Once again, Jack averted his gaze.

'Please excuse me', Dorothy said. 'That was very presumptuous of me'.

'Not at all', I said. 'I was married'.

'Oh, really?' Jack said. 'For long?'

'No - not long at all'.

'I'm so sorry', Dorothy said.

'Don't be. It was a mistake. A fast mistake'.

'Mistakes do happen', Jack said.

'Yes', I said. 'They do'.

I needed to end this conversation fast, so I glanced at my watch. 'God, look at the time', I said. 'I must be getting back'.

'You will pay us a visit?' Dorothy asked.

'Sure', I said.

'And if we wanted to get in touch with you?' Jack asked.

'I'm not in the phone book', I said. 'My number's unlisted'.

'Of course it is', Dorothy said. 'You being so famous...'

'I'm hardly famous'.

'Well, we're in the book', Jack said. 'Or you can always find me at my office'.

'Jack's with Steele and Sherwood', Dorothy said.

'The public relations agency?' I asked him. 'I thought you were a journalist?'

'I was - while there was a war to write about. Now, however, public relations is where the money is. And hey, keep this in mind: if you're ever looking for someone to bump up your public image... we're the company to do it'.

I couldn't believe his poise, the way he pretended that I was a mere casual acquaintance. Or maybe to him, I was always nothing more than that. Dorothy gave him another playful nudge.

'Will you listen to yourself', she said. 'Constantly on the make'.

'I'm serious here. Our company could do a lot for a rising young columnist like Sara. We could give you a whole new profile'.

'With or without anaesthetic?' I said. Jack and Dorothy instantly laughed.

'God, you really are the fastest wit in the West', he said. 'Nice seeing you again after so long'.

I stopped myself from saying, 'You too'.

'Nice meeting you, Dorothy', I said.

'No - the pleasure was mine. You really are my favorite journalist'.

'I'm flattered', I said.

Then, with a quick wave, I turned away and walked back toward the main footpath. When I got there, I leaned against a lamp post for a moment, and took a deep steadying breath. Then I heard their approaching voices as they too started heading this way. Instantly, I dashed across the road, then marched with speed towards the 77th Street exit. I didn't turn back, for fear of finding them behind me. I wanted to get away. Fast.

When I reached Central Park West, I hailed a taxi to take me the four long crosstown blocks to Riverside Drive. As soon as I reached my building, I slammed my apartment door behind me, tossed my coat over the sofa, and began to pace my living room. Yes, I was manic. Yes, I was unnerved. Yes, I was deeply, deeply thrown.

That bastard. That heartbreaking bastard.

How old is he?

Just past the three-and-a-half-year mark.

Three-and-a-half. A nice age.

Three-and-a-half meant that Charlie was born in the early summer of '46. If he was 'just past' that mark, that meant conception would have taken place in...

I started ticking off the months on my fingers. June, May, April, March, February, January, December, November, October...

October, '45.

Oh, you complete, total s.o.b. She was already up the spout when you worked your gimcrack magic on me.

And to think - to goddamn think - of the idiotic, schoolgirl way I bought your act. The thousands of wasted words I poured out in letters to you. The absurd months of pining while I waited to hear from you. And then... then!.. that one terse postcard.

I'm sorry.

And now I knew why. Just as I also knew that, for the past few years, he'd been tracking my career. He knew I'd been writing for Saturday/Sunday, just as he knew of Eric's success. He could have easily made contact with me through the magazine. Not, of course, that the charmer would have ever dreamed of doing something so upfront and straightforward.