Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'I phone him about twice a week', Ronnie said, 'and he always sounds okay to me'.

'He said you left him some money...'

'Yeah, around thirty bucks'.

'But you went off on tour ten days ago. He must be broke. He's got to accept my money'.

'He won't - out of guilt for what happened to you at Saturday/Sunday'.

'But he knows they're paying me two hundred dollars a week as a retainer. And I've got no mortgage, no dependents. So why shouldn't he take fifty? It still leaves me plenty...'

'I don't have to tell you how your brother works, do I? The guy's got a huge conscience and a lousy streak of pigheadedness. It's a bad combination'.

'Would he accept the money from you?'

'Yeah - he might. But there's no way I could come up with fifty bucks a week'.

'I've got an idea'.

That afternoon, I walked down to Western Union and wired fifty dollars to Ronnie at his hotel in Cleveland. The next day, he wired it back to Eric at the Ansonia. I called Ronnie that night in his next port of call: Cincinnati.

'I had to feed Eric some crap about Basie giving everyone in the band a raise', he said, 'but he didn't seem particularly suspicious. I think he really needs the cash. Because he told me he'd go straight down to Western Union with the wire and pick up the cash'.

'Well, at least we know that he'll now have enough money each week to keep himself fed. Now if I could just get him to see me'.

'He'll want to see you when he's ready to see you. I know he's missing you'.

'How do you know that?'

'Because he told me, that's how'.

As instructed, I kept my distance. I made my daily phone call to check up on his well-being. If I was lucky, I reached Eric when he was sober and reasonably lucid. Usually, however, he sounded either drunk or hung over, and basically dispirited. I stopped enquiring about whether he'd been exploring other possible work options. Instead, I listened to his monologues about the five movies he'd seen the previous day. Or the books he'd been reading at the Forty-Second Street Library (he'd become one of the habitues of its Reading Room). Or the Broadway show he'd 'second-acted' last night:

'Second-acting is such an easy thing to do', he told me. 'You stand near the theater until the first intermission. When everyone comes pouring out for a cigarette, you mingle with the crowd, step inside and find yourself an empty seat at the back of the orchestra. And you get to see the next two acts free of charge. What a ruse, eh?'

'Absolutely', I said, trying to sound cheerful, trying to pretend that sneaking into Broadway shows was a perfectly acceptable activity for a man crowding forty.

What I really wanted to do was to intervene - to run down to the Ansonia, bundle Eric into a car, and take him up to Maine for a few weeks. I'd actually broached this idea with him on the phone - arguing that some time out of New York would be beneficial, and would give him some perspective.

'Oh I get it', he said. 'After a week of walking along an empty beach, my equilibrium will be repaired, my faith in humanity restored, and I will be in tip-top shape to parry with all the delightful folk on the UnAmerican Affairs Committee'.

'I just think a change of scene might prove beneficial'.

'Sorry-no sale'.

I stopped begging to see him. Instead, I found a desk clerk at the Ansonia - Joey - who was happy to keep me informed about Eric's comings-and-goings for five bucks a week. I knew this was a form of surveillance - but I had to somehow keep tabs on his general mental and physical condition. Joey had my home number, in case of an emergency. A week before his HUAC appearance, the phone rang at three in the morning. Jack - asleep next to me - bolted upright. So did I. I reached for the receiver, expecting the worst.

'Miss Smythe, Joey here at the Ansonia. Sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but you did say I should phone anytime if there was a problem...'

'What's happened?' I said, genuinely frightened.

'Don't worry - your brother's not hurt. But he showed up here around fifteen minutes ago, bombed out of his head. I tell you, he was so gone that myself and the night detective had to carry him in from the cab. As soon as we got him upstairs, he was sick everywhere. He was bringing up a lot of blood...'

'Call an ambulance'.

'It's already been done. They should be here in a couple of minutes'.

'I'm on my way'.

Jack and I were dressed and out the door in an instant. We grabbed a cab down to the Ansonia. An ambulance was parked out front. As we raced into the lobby, Eric was being brought downstairs on a stretcher. In the last three weeks since we met, he'd aged around ten years. His face seemed emaciated, skeletal. He had a scraggy beard, currently dappled in blood. His hair had become flimsy, his hands bony, his fingernails ravaged and dirty. He looked undernourished, cadaverous. But it was his eyes that scared me the most. Red, bloodshot, glassy - as if he had been permanently shellshocked by life. I took his hand. It felt so thin, so devoid of weight. I called his name. He just stared blankly at me. I started to cry. Jack - white with shock - held me as the ambulance men rolled him outside and loaded him into the back of their van.

We were allowed to ride with him. The ambulance took off down Broadway at speed. I held Eric's hand during the five-minute ride to Roosevelt Hospital. My eyes were brimming. I kept shaking my head.

'I should never have left him on his own', I said.

'You did everything you could'.

'Everything? Look at him, Jack. I failed him'.

'Stop that', he said. 'You've failed nobody'.

At the hospital, Eric was rushed straight into the emergency room. An hour went by. Jack disappeared to an all-night coffee shop around the corner and came back with doughnuts and coffee. He smoked cigarette after cigarette. I kept pacing the floor of the waiting room, wondering why the hell we hadn't heard anything. Eventually, a tired-looking doctor in a white coat emerged through the swing doors of the ER. He was around thirty, and had a lit cigarette in a corner of his mouth.

'Someone here waiting for a Mr -' he glanced down at the chart in this hand ' - Eric Smythe?'

Jack and I immediately approached the doctor. He asked me my relationship to Mr Smythe. I told him.

'Well, Miss Smythe - your brother is suffering from a combination of malnutrition, alcoholic poisoning, and a ruptured duodenal ulcer that would have probably killed him in another two hours if he hadn't been rushed here. How the hell did he get so undernourished?'

I heard myself say, 'It's my fault'. Immediately, Jack jumped in:

'Don't listen to her, Doctor. Mr Smythe has been having some serious professional career problems, and has essentially allowed himself to go to hell. His sister has done all she could...'

The doctor cut him off. 'I'm not trying to apportion blame here. I just want to know what brought him to the state he's in now. Because we've had to rush him up to operating theater...'

'Oh my God', I said.

'When the duodenal gland ruptures, it's either surgery or death. But I think we got to him just in time. The next couple of hours will be crucial. Please feel free to make yourself at home. Or if you give us a number, we'll call...'

'I'm staying', I said. Jack nodded in agreement.

The doctor left us. I sank into a waiting room seat, trying to keep my emotions in check. Jack sat down next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders.

'He's going to make it', he said.

'This should never have happened...'

'It's not your fault'.

'Yes, it is. I shouldn't have left him to his own devices'.

'I'm not going to listen to you beat yourself up...'

'He's everything to me, Jack. Everything'.

I put my face into his shoulder. After a moment I said, 'That didn't come out the way I meant it to...'