Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

As it turned out, the two weeks passed in a delicious blur. On the night before we left, Eric and I planted ourselves on the beach to watch the sun dissolve into the Sound. As the beach was bathed in a malt whiskey haze of fading light, Eric said,

'At moments like this, I think to myself: it's cocktail time'.

'At least you're still here to see moments like this'.

'But moments like these are much better with a gin martini. In the coming weeks, I know I'm really going to miss alcohol'.

'Everything will be fine'.

'No. It won't. Four days from now, I face that fucking committee'.

'You'll survive it'.

'We'll see'.

The next morning we returned to the city. We reached Penn Station by noon and shared a cab uptown. I dropped Eric off at the Ansonia.

We agreed to meet for breakfast tomorrow at nine - after which I was going to accompany him downtown for a meeting with Joel Eberts.

'Do we really have to do this Eberts thing?' he asked me as the Ansonia's doorman took his bag out of the trunk.

'He's your lawyer. He's going to be with you when you face the committee on Friday. So it's best if he runs through with you some sort of strategy beforehand'.

'There's no strategy involved in taking the Fifth'.

'Let's worry about this tomorrow', I said. 'Now go upstairs and call Ronnie. Where's he playing tonight?'

'I don't know. I've got his tour schedule buried somewhere'.

'Go find it - and make that call. I'm sure he's dying to hear from you'.

'Thank you for the last two weeks. We should do this more often'.

'We will'.

'You mean, after I get out of jail'.

I kissed him goodbye. I climbed back into the cab and rode the four blocks north to West 77th Street. I spent the afternoon sorting through my accumulated mail. There was a substantial package from Saturday Night/Sunday Morning - containing twenty letters from assorted readers, all of whom saw the notice in the magazine of my so-called sabbatical, and wished me a speedy return into print.

'I'm going to miss you', a Miss M. Medford of South Falmouth, Maine, wrote me. I felt a sharp stab of loss when I read that. Because - though I'd never say so in front of Eric or Jack - I desperately missed being in print.

Around four, I left the apartment and ran out for groceries. I was back just before five. Then minutes later, I heard a key turn in the front lock. I pulled open the door, I pulled Jack into the apartment. Within a minute, I had him in bed. Half an hour later, we finally spoke.

'I think I missed you', I said.

'I think I missed you too'.

Eventually we got up. I made us dinner. We ate, we drank a bottle of Chianti, we went back to bed. I don't remember what time we fell asleep. I do remember waking with a jolt. Someone was ringing my doorbell. It took me a moment or two to realize that it was the middle of the night. Four eighteen, according to the bedside clock. The doorbell rang again. Jack stirred.

'What the hell... ' he said groggily.

'I'll deal with it', I said, putting on my robe and heading into the kitchen. I picked up the earpiece of the intercom. I pressed the talk button and muttered a sleepy 'Hello'.

'Is this Sara Smythe?' asked a gruff voice.

'Yes. Who are you?'

'Police. Could you please let us in'.

Oh no. Oh God, no.

For a moment or two, I was rooted to the spot, unable to move. Then I heard the gruff voice again in my ear.

'Miss Smythe... are you still there?'

I hit the button that opened the street door. A moment or two later, I heard a knock on my own door. But I couldn't bring myself to answer it. The knocking became louder. I heard Jack getting out of bed. He came into the kitchen, tying his robe around him He found me standing near the intercom, leaning my head against the wall.

'Jesus Christ, what's happened?' he said.

'Please answer the door', I said.

The knocking was now insistent.

'Who the hell is there?'

'The police'.

He turned white. He walked out into the foyer. I heard him unlock the door.

'Is Sara Smythe here?' asked the same gruff voice I heard on the intercom.

'What's going on, officer?' asked Jack.

'We need to speak with Miss Smythe'.

A moment later, two uniformed policemen entered the kitchen. Jack was behind them. One of them approached me. He was around fifty, with a large soft face, and the vexed look of someone with bad news to impart.

'Are you Sara Smythe?' he asked.

I nodded.

'Do you have a brother named Eric?'

I didn't answer him. I just sank to the floor, crying.

Nine

THE POLICE DROVE us downtown. I sat in the back of the car with Jack. My head was buried in his shoulder. He had both his arms around me. He held me so tightly it felt as if he was almost restraining me. I needed to be restrained - because I was on the verge of coming apart.

First light was creeping into the night sky as we headed east on 34th Street. No one in the car said anything. The two cops stared ahead at the rain-streaked windscreen, ignoring the crackling static of their two-way radio. Jack was doing his best to be silently supportive - but his sense of shock was palpable. I could hear the hammer-blow pounding of his heart against his chest. Maybe he was frightened I might start howling again - which is what I did with uncontrollable anguish after they told me the news. For around half an hour afterwards, I lay on my bed, the sheets gripped tightly against my chest. I was inconsolable. Whenever Jack tried to comfort me, I screamed at him to go away. I was so out of control - so desolate - that I could not bear the idea of anyone offering me comfort at a moment when I was beyond comfort, beyond solace. Eventually one of the cops asked me if I needed medical assistance. That's when I somehow managed to pull myself together, and got dressed. Jack and one of the cops each took an arm to help me out of the car - but I politely shrugged them off. As Eric himself would have said (wickedly imitating Father): a Smythe never falls apart in public. Even when she has just been given the worst possible news.

Now, I was too incapacitated to cry. The grief I felt was so infinite, so incalculable that it went beyond mere tears, or howls of anguish. I was devoid of speech, devoid of reason. All the way downtown, all I could do was lay my head against Jack, and try to force myself to remain contained.

We turned south on Second Avenue for two blocks, then headed east again on 32nd Street until we pulled up at the side entrance of a squat brick building. Chiseled above its front door were the words: 'Office of the Medical Examiner of the City of New York'.

The police escorted us through a side entrance, marked: 'Deliveries'. Inside, there was an elderly black gentleman sitting behind a desk. He was the morgue's St Peter. When one of the officers leaned forward and said, 'Smythe', the gentleman opened a large ledger, and ran his finger down a page until he stopped at my brother's name. Then he picked up a phone and dialed a number.

'Smythe', he said quietly into the receiver. 'Cabinet fifty-eight'.

I felt myself getting precarious again. Sensing this, Jack put his arm around my waist. After a moment, a white-coated attendant came into this waiting area. 'You here to identify Smythe?' he asked tonelessly.

One of the cops nodded. The attendant motioned with his thumb to follow him. We trooped down a narrow corridor, painted an institutional green and lit by fluorescent tubes. We stopped in front of a metal door. He opened it. We were now in a small room, as refrigerated as a meat locker. There was a wall of numbered stainless-steel cabinets. The attendant walked over to Cabinet 58. One of the officers gently nudged me forward. Jack stood by my side. He tightened his grip on my arm. There was a long silent moment. The officers glanced awkwardly at me. The attendant began to absently drum his fingers against the steel door. Finally I took a long deep breath and nodded at the attendant.