Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Sara...'

'I'm not asking that in an accusatory manner. I'm just interested. For obvious reasons'.

He stubbed out his half-finished cigarette. He fished a fresh Chesterfield out of the pack and lit it. He took two deep drags before finally speaking. 'Yes', he said. 'I do love her. But it is not love'.

'Meaning?'

'We got thrown together because of Charlie. We adore our little boy. We get on well with each other. Or, at least, we've worked out a way of getting on with each other. There's no... passion. There's a kind of amiability...'

'You never...'

'Once in a while, sure. But it doesn't seem to be that important to her'.

'Or to you?'

'Put it this way. With Dorothy, it's... I don't know... pleasant, I guess, nothing more. With you, it's... everything. If you know what I mean'.

I leaned over and kissed him. 'I know what you mean'.

'Do yourself a favor - throw me out now. Before it gets complicated'.

'The problem is: if I threw you out, you'd be back here in five minutes, begging to be let in'.

'You're right'.

'One day at a time, eh?' I said.

'Yeah: one day at a time. And we've still got all day tomorrow'.

'That's right. Nearly twenty-four hours'.

'Come here', he said.

I walked over to where he stood. He began to kiss my face, my neck. Whispering: 'Don't move'.

'I'm not going anywhere', I said.

We slept late the next morning. It was snowing again. I made coffee and toast. We lounged on the bed, eating breakfast. For the first time in days, we said nothing for a while - the sort of pleasurable silence that usually exists between a long-established couple. We shared that morning's edition of the New York Times. The Pablo Casals recording of Bach's solo cello suites played on my Victrola. The snow kept coming down.

'I could get used to this', he said.

'So could I'.

'Let me see your story', he said.

'What story?' I said, suddenly thrown.

'The story you wrote about us'.

'How did you know about that?'

'Dorothy. As she told you in the park, she's a big fan. She's also been reading Saturday Night/Sunday Morning for years. So as we were walking home from the park, she told me that the first thing she ever read of yours was a short story you wrote for Saturday/Sunday in... when was it?'

'Nineteen forty-seven'.

'Well, when she told me what the story was about, I simply went: "Oh"... and hoped to hell she didn't see how damn shocked I looked'.

'She didn't suspect... ?'

'Hell no. I mean, she has no idea that we spent a night together. So show it to me'.

'I don't think I have a copy in the apartment'.

'Do you expect me to believe that?'

'All right', I said. 'Wait here'.

I went out into the living room, rummaged around one of my file boxes, and found the magazine containing 'Shore Leave'. I went back into the bedroom and handed it to Jack. Then I headed towards the bathroom.

'I'm having a bath', I said. 'Knock on the door when you've finished it'.

Fifteen minutes later, the knock came. Jack walked in, sat down on the edge of the tub, and lit up another cigarette.

'So?' I asked.

'Do you really think I kissed like a teenager?'

'No - but I think the guy in the story did'.

'But it's our story'.

'Yes. But it's also just a story'.

'A brilliantly written story'.

'You don't have to say that'.

'I wouldn't if it wasn't true. So where's the next one?'

'That is my entire literary output to date'.

'I'd like to read more by you'.

'You can - every week in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning!

'You know what I'm saying here'.

I reached up with my wet soapy hand and rested it on his thigh.

'I really don't mind being trivial, minor, lightweight'.

'You're better than that'.

'That's your opinion - and I'm touched by it. But I also know my limitations'.

'You're a great writer'.

'Hardly. Anyway, I'm not remotely interested in being "great". I like what I write. I do it pretty well. Sure, it's inconsequential, left-handed stuff. But it pays the bills and lets me go to movies in the afternoon. What more could a girl ask for?'

'Literary fame, I guess', he said.

'"Fame is a bee. It has a song. It has a sting. Ah too, it has a wing."'

'Emily Dickinson?'

I looked at him and smiled. 'You really know your stuff, Mr Malone'.

The day drifted by. Around five that afternoon, I pulled him back into bed. At six, he turned to me and said,

'I suppose I'd better be going'.

'Yes. I suppose you must'.

'I don't want to'.

'And I don't want you to either. But there we are'.

'Yep. There we are'.

He showered. He dressed.

'Now I'm going to leave', he said. 'Before I start kissing you again'.

'Okay', I said quietly. 'Leave'.

'Tomorrow?'

'Sorry?'

'Could I see you tomorrow?'

'Of course. Absolutely. But... will you have the time?'

'I'll find the time. Around five, if that's okay'.

'I'll be here'.

'Good'.

He leaned towards me. I put my hand against his chest, stopping him from coming closer.

'Tomorrow, Mr Malone'.

'Just one last kiss'.

'No'.

'Why?'

'Because we'll end up back in bed'.

'Point taken'.

I helped him on with his coat.

'I shouldn't be leaving', he said.

'But you are'.

I opened the door.

'Sara, I...'

I put a finger to his lips. 'Say nothing'.

'But...'

'Tomorrow, my love. Tomorrow'.

He gripped my hand. He stared directly into my eyes. He smiled.

'Yes', he said, 'tomorrow'.

Four

BY FIVE TWENTY the next afternoon, I was convinced he wouldn't be coming. I'd been pacing the floor since four fifty - certain that he'd had a change of heart, or had been found out by Dorothy, or had suddenly succumbed to guilt. But then the doorbell rang. I went dashing out of my apartment. And there he was - with a bottle of French fizz in one hand and a bouquet of lilies in the other.

'Sorry, darling', he said. 'Stuck in a meet...'

I cut him off.

'You're here', I said, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him towards me. 'That's all that counts'.

An hour or so later, he turned to me in bed and asked, 'What happened to the champagne?'

I scoured the floor - covered with our discarded clothes. The champagne was lying on its side, atop Jack's overcoat. The flowers were strewn next to it.

'That's where it landed', I said.

He jumped out of bed, picked up the bottle, ripped off the foil, and popped the cork. A geyser of foam baptised us both.

'Nice one', I said, as champagne streamed down my face.

'Oops', he said.

'You're lucky I love you', I said.

He handed me the bottle. 'Bottoms up', he said.

'I do have glasses in this house'.

'By ze neck, dahling', he said. 'It's ze Muscovite vey'.

'Okay, comrade', I said taking the bottle and tipping it back. 'And by the way, this champagne is from France, and far too expensive to be spraying around my bedroom. What is it, six or seven dollars a bottle?'

'Does it matter?'

'If you've got a family to support... then, yes, six dollars does matter'.

'God, you are deeply responsible'.

'Shut up', I said, running my hand through his hair.

'With pleasure', he said, and lowered me back down on the bed.

Afterwards, he lay against me, his arms curled around my chest. We fell into a silent reverie for a few moments. Then he said, 'Ever since I walked out of here last night, all I could think about was walking back in here again'.

'I was ticking off the hours too'.

'Around three last night, I couldn't sleep'.

'Join the club'.

'If I'd only known... because I was so tempted to call you'.

'You must never call me from your house'.