Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'Let's cut the crap, Imogen', I said loudly. 'What you're really saying is that Saturday/Sunday is worried about having a columnist whose brother is a former Communist and a practicing homosexual...'

That brought the bar to a silent standstill. Imogen looked like she wanted to vanish into the floor.

'Yes', she said quietly. 'That is the essence of their dilemma'. She motioned me towards her. 'But it's compounded by another problem. His Godship knows about you and the married man'.

I sat back in my chair, stunned.

'Who told him?' I finally said.

'The FBI guy'.

My shock deepened. 'But how the hell did he know?'

'I gather that when they decided to investigate your brother a couple of months ago, they also figured they should look into your background. And although they didn't find any political stuff, they did discover that you were having this thing with a married guy...'

'But the only way they could have done that was by spying on me. Or listening in on my phone calls. Or...'

'I don't know how they found out. All I know is: they know. And they've told Linklater... and Linklater has told the board'.

'But... but... it's my private life. It has no impact whatsoever on my column. I mean, I'm not exactly someone in the public eye. As you know, I even balked at having a photo of me in the magazine. No one knows who I am. I like it that way. So why... why?.. should anyone worry about with whom I share my life?'

'Now that your brother's been exposed, I think Linklater is worried word might slip out about your own domestic arrangements. I mean, it's only a matter of time before Eric is subpoenaed by HUAC. His testimony will make the papers. If he still refuses to cooperate, he'll be cited for contempt, and he'll probably do time. This will mean even more publicity. Who's to say the Feds mightn't feed Winchell or some other hack a little tidbit about you and your married friend? And you know what that asshole would write: "It isn't just Redder-than-Red Eric Smythe who's got an interesting private life. Single Sis Sara - she who writes that funny 'Real Life' column in Saturday/Sunday - has her own interesting set-up with a guy who's got a wedding band on his left finger. And I thought Saturday/Sunday called itself a family magazine'"

'But that's insane logic...'

'I know it's insane... but this is how people are thinking right now. I've got a brother, he's a professor of chemistry out at Berkeley. And the University Regents have just asked him to sign a loyalty oath - yes, an actual piece of paper, in which he swears that he's not a member of any subversive organization endangering the stability of the United States. Every faculty member at the university's been forced to do the same thing. To me, this sort of thing is repugnant. Just as I also think it's repugnant what's happening to your brother. And to you'.

'What is happening to me, Imogen?'

She met my gaze. 'They want to put both your columns on hold for a while'.

'In other words, you're firing me'.

'No, we are definitely not firing you'.

'What the hell do you call it then?'

'Hear me out. His Godship really likes you, Sara - as we all do. We don't want to lose you. We just think that, until this entire issue with your brother is resolved, it's best if you lie low for a while'.

'Better known as vanishing from view'.

'Here's the deal - and, under the circumstances, I don't think it's a bad one. We announce in the next issue of the magazine that you're taking a leave of absence for six months to do some other writing. We continue to pay you a retainer of two hundred dollars a week. Then, six months from now, we review the entire situation'.

'And if my brother's still in trouble then?'

'Let's cross that bridge when we come to it'.

'Say I decide to fight this? To go public about the way you are buckling to pressure from...'

'I really wouldn't do that if I were you. You can't win this one, Sara. If you try to fight it, they'll simply fire you, and you'll end up with nothing. At least this way you come out of the situation with no loss of face, no major loss of income. Consider it a paid sabbatical, courtesy of Saturday/Sunday. Go to Europe. Go write a novel. All His Godship asks for is...'

'I know - my complete and total silence'.

I stood up. 'I'm going now', I said.

'Please don't do anything rash', she said. 'Please think this all through'.

I nodded. Imogen stood up. She took my hand.

'I'm sorry', she whispered.

I pulled my hand away.

'Shame on you', I said.

I left the Roosevelt. I marched north up Madison Avenue, oblivious to the wave of pedestrians heading south. I was in something close to a rage, and would have chewed the head off of anybody who dared to bump into me. I hated the world at that moment. I hated its pettiness - its malevolence and spite. More than anything, I hated the way people used fear as a way of gaining control over others. Right now I wanted to jump the next train to Washington, and walk straight into the office of J. Edgar Hoover, and ask him what he really felt could be achieved by persecuting my brother. You say you 're defending our way of life, I'd tell him. But all you 're really doing is enhancing your power. Information is knowledge. Knowledge is control. Control is based on fear. Because you now have us all afraid, you win. And all we like sheep have no one but ourselves to blame for your power, because we've given it to you.

I was so enraged that I ended up walking nearly twenty blocks before realizing where I was. I looked up and noticed a street sign saying East 59th Street. I was only five minutes away from Eric's apartment. But I knew I couldn't see him in the state I was in. Just as I knew that I couldn't really tell him about the conversation I'd just had with Imogen Woods... though I also realized that as soon as he saw the notice in Saturday/Sunday next week that I had 'gone on sabbatical', he'd blame himself.

I leaned against a phone booth, wondering what my next move should be. I answered that question immediately by stepping inside the booth, dropping a nickel in the slot, and doing something I vowed never to do: calling Jack at work.

He'd been due back from Boston this morning, and was planning to stop by and see me on his way home tonight. I needed to see him now. But when I rang his office, his secretary told me he was in a meeting.

'Would you let him know that Sara Smythe called'.

'Will he know what this is about?'

'Yeah - I'm an old friend from the neighborhood. Tell him I'm in Manhattan, and was hoping to take him to lunch at Lindy's. I'll be there at one, if he can make it. If not, ask him to phone me there'.

Jack walked into Lindy's exactly at one. He looked very nervous. As we never met during the day, let alone in a public place, he did not kiss me hello. Instead, he sat down opposite me, and took my hands under the table.

'I saw Winchell', he said.

I took him through everything that had happened: Eric refusing to name names, the Winchell column, the eviction notice from Hampshire House, and my conversation with Imogen Woods. When I got to the part about the FBI informing Saturday/Sunday about my relationship with a married man, Jack tensed.

'Don't worry', I said. 'I doubt any of this will ever go public. I won't let it go public'.

'I don't believe this', he said. 'I can't fathom how...'

He broke off. He let go of my hands, and anxiously patted his jacket pockets for his cigarettes.

'Are you all right?'

'No', he said, fishing out a Chesterfield and his lighter.

'I promise you, Jack - your name will never be linked with...'

'To hell with my name. Eric and you have been smeared. And that... those bastards... they...'

He broke off. His distress in the face of our predicament touched me beyond words. At that moment, I loved him unconditionally.