Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'I'm sorry', he finally said. 'I am so goddamn sorry. How's Eric bearing up?'

'I think he's scrambling to find a new place to live. The eviction notice is six p.m. tomorrow'.

'Tell him if there's anything... anything... I can do...'

I suddenly leaned over and kissed him.

'You're a good man', I said.

He had to run back to the office. But he promised to call me tonight before returning home to Dorothy. Not only did he phone - but he also rang Eric at his apartment that evening, offering support. The next day, he showed up at the Hampshire House at five to help my brother move his stuff to the Ansonia on Broadway and 74th Street. The Ansonia was a residential hotel, favored by people in the mid-to-lower echelons of show business. Eric's new apartment was a dark, one-bedroom suite, overlooking a back alley. It had peeling green floral wallpaper, a threadbare green carpet pockmarked by cigarette burns, and a tiny kitchenette, consisting of a hotplate and a faulty ice box. But the rent was cheap: twenty-five dollars a week. And the management didn't seem terribly concerned about the cohabiting arrangements of its residents. As long as the rent was paid on time - and you didn't disturb the peace - their attitude was: we don't want to know.

Eric hated the new apartment. He hated the grim, last-chance-saloon atmosphere of the Ansonia. But he had few options. Because he was so damn broke. After his little shopping spree, he had less than a hundred bucks in his pocket. With the eviction notice from the Hampshire House came a bill for four hundred dollars - covering assorted room service and hotel charges. When Eric told the hotel management that he wouldn't be able to settle the bill before his departure, they informed him that they would impound all his belongings. So Ronnie and I paid Tiffany's a visit, and collected a seven-hundred-and-twenty-dollar refund on the diamond earrings and the silver cigarette case. After settling his Hampshire House bill, the remaining three hundred and twenty dollars paid for a month's deposit and two months' rent at the Ansonia. Jack insisted on organizing the van which moved Eric's stuff to his new apartment. Just as he also arranged for two painters to strip the new apartment of its cheerless wallpaper, and brighten the place up with several coats of white emulsion.

Eric and I were both overwhelmed by Jack's generosity.

'You know, you really don't have to be doing this', I told Jack as I cooked dinner at my place. It was the Monday after Eric moved apartments, and the painters had started work that day.

'Hiring a couple of painters for two days isn't exactly going to break the bank. Anyway, I had a bit of a bonus windfall. Out of nowhere, I was handed a check for over eight hundred dollars. It's Steele and Sherwood's way of saying thank you for bagging a new insurance client. When things are going well for you, you should help others, right?'

'Sure. But I always thought that, when it came to Eric...'

'Hell, that's all in the past. As far as I'm concerned, he's family. And he's in trouble. I know how I'd feel if I was forced to move from the Hampshire House to the Ansonia. So, if a coat of paint cheers the new place up a little bit for your brother, it's money well spent. I also hate what's happened to you'.

'I'll be okay', I said, not exactly sounding convinced.

'Have you gotten back to Saturday/Sunday since the meeting with your editor?'

'No'.

'You have to accept their offer, Sara. Your editor's right - if you fight Saturday/Sunday, you'll lose. Take the money, darling. Take a break. In a month or two, all this naming names stuff should blow over. It's gotten way out of hand. It's gone crazy'.

I wanted to believe Jack that the nightmarish game called blacklisting would be over soon. Just as I wanted to reject Saturday/Sunday's offer of two hundred dollars a week as a retainer fee. Because, after all, what they were offering me was a Faustian Bargain: money to balm their guilt at suspending me... out of the absurd fear that their so-called 'family magazine' mightn't look so 'family' if it was discovered that one of their columnists shared her bed with a married man, and had an ex-Communist brother who also practiced 'the love that dare not speak its name'.

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.

God, Imogen looked so conscience-stricken when she hit me with that suggestion. But, of course, like everyone else, she too felt under threat. Had she not 'followed orders', she might have found her own position at the magazine in jeopardy. Or maybe questions would have been asked about her loyalty to God and Country. That was the worst thing about the blacklist - the way it scared everyone away from acts of common good, and appealed to the most basic of human instincts: personal survival... at all costs.

'Take the money, darling'.

In the end, I did. Because Jack was right: this was a fight I could not win. And because I also knew that Saturday/Sunday could have simply dropped me without cause. At least this way, I would be guaranteed a salary for the next six months - and the money would be very useful in keeping Eric afloat.

The Winchell column about Eric's dismissal didn't just result in his eviction from the Hampshire House. One by one, every restaurant or emporium which once welcomed him as a great customer (and, noting his free-spending ways, granted him credit) slammed the door in his face. A few days after his move to the Ansonia, he arranged to meet Ronnie for an after-midnight drink at the Stork Club. But when he showed up, the maitre d' informed him that his presence wasn't desired. Eric knew the guy by name ('Hell, I used to give him a ten-buck tip every week'). He pleaded to be let in.

'Sorry, Mr Smythe', the maitre d' said. 'I don't make the rules. And I think the management is a little worried about the tab you owe us'.

The next day, the Stork Club tab arrived: seven hundred and forty-four dollars and thirty-eight cents. To be paid within twenty-eight days, or else.

This demand was quickly followed by similar ones from Alfred Dunhill, 21, El Morocco, and Saks Fifth Avenue - all of which asked that he settle up his accounts within four weeks or face legal proceedings.

'I never knew so many people read Walter Winchell', I said, sifting through this small stack of threatening letters.

'Oh, that bastard is enormously popular. Because, of course, he's such a great American'.

'Did you really spend a hundred and seventy-five dollars on a pair of hand-made brogues?' I asked, scanning one of the attached bills.

'A fool and his money are quickly parted'.

'Let me guess: Bud Abbott, or maybe it was Lou Costello? Of course, it wouldn't be Oscar Wilde'.

'I don't think so - though he's a gentleman with whom I am now feeling a growing rapport. Especially as I can write my own "Ballad of Reading Gaol" after HUAC finds me in contempt of court'.

'One drama at a time, please. You haven't been subpoenaed by the committee yet'.

'Oh yes I have', he said, picking up a document off the chipped card table that he was now using as a makeshift desk. 'Good news comes in big bundles. This arrived this morning. A Federal official actually showed up here personally, and shoved it into my hand. I've even got a date for my appearance: July twenty-first. Washington's pretty humid in July, isn't it? So are most federal penitentiaries'.

'You're not going to jail, Eric'.

'Oh yes I am. Because the committee will demand names. Under oath, of course. When I refuse to provide them with this information, I will most definitely be going to jail. That's how it works'.

'We'll call Joel Eberts. You need some legal counsel'.