Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

The cabinet slid open with a long whoosh. My eyes snapped shut. After a moment I forced them open. Eric was lying before me - covered from the neck down by a rough white sheet. His eyes were closed. His skin seemed bleached. His lips had turned blue. He didn't look at peace. He simply looked lifeless. An empty shell that once was my brother.

I stifled a sob. I snapped my eyes shut again - because I couldn't bear to see him. Because I didn't want this final glimpse to be the one that haunted my thoughts forever.

'Is this Eric Smythe?' asked the attendant.

I nodded.

He pulled the sheet up over Eric's face, then shoved the gurney back into the cabinet. It closed with a thud. The attendant reached for a clipboard, hanging from a wall by a nail. He flipped through a few forms, found what he was looking for, and handed the clipboard to me.

'Sign at the bottom of the page, please', he said, pulling a chewed-up pencil out of the breast pocket of his grubby white coat.

I signed. I returned the clipboard to him.

'What undertaker are you using?' he asked.

'I've no idea', I said.

He pulled off a perforated edge of the form. It had the name Smythe on it, followed by a serial number. He held it out towards me.

'When you know who you're using, tell 'em to call us and quote this number. They know the drill'.

Jack pulled the slip of paper out of the attendant's hand.

'Understood', he said, shoving the slip into his jacket pocket. 'Are we done here?'

'Yeah, we're done'.

The cops escorted us out. 'Can we drop you home?' one of them asked.

'I want to go to the Ansonia', I said.

'We can do that later', Jack said. 'What you need now is rest'.

'I'm going to the Ansonia', I said. 'I want to see his apartment'.

'Sara, I don't think...'

'I am going to his apartment', I said, barely containing my anger.

'Fine, fine', Jack said, nodding to the officers. We got back into the police car. I managed to keep myself contained on the drive uptown. Jack looked exhausted and deeply preoccupied. Though he held my hand, he seemed absent. Or maybe that was because I felt as if I was in some sort of horrible reverie; a walking nightmare from which there was no escape.

At the Ansonia, Joey the night porter was still on duty. He was immediately solicitous. He found someone to cover for him at the front desk - and brought us into the bar.

'I know it's kind of early, but could you use a drink?'

'That would be good', I said.

'Whiskey?'

Jack nodded. Joey brought over a bottle of cheap Scotch and two shot glasses. He filled them to the brim. Jack downed his in one go. I took a sip and nearly gagged. I took a second sip. The whiskey burned the back of my throat - like harsh, essential medicine. By the fourth sip the glass was empty. Joey refilled it, then topped up Jack's drink.

'Was it you who found him?' I asked.

'Yeah', Joey said quietly. 'I found him. And... if I'd known, I'd never have allowed the delivery guy to...'

'What delivery guy?' I asked.

'A guy from the local liquor store. From what I can work out, your brother called the store late yesterday afternoon and asked them to deliver a couple of bottles of Canadian Club to his room. At least this is what Phil, the day man, told me. He was on duty when the guy from the liquor store showed up, asking for the number of your brother's apartment. If it'd been me at the desk, I would've called you right away - 'cause, after what happened a couple weeks ago, I knew he had problems with booze. Anyway, I came on around seven. Didn't see or hear from your brother until just after midnight, when he called me, sounding completely out of it. Like he was so gone, he was slurring his words. Couldn't understand a thing he said. So I got someone to cover for me and went upstairs. Must've knocked for around five minutes. No answer. So I went downstairs, got the pass key. When I opened the door...'

He broke off, sucked in his chest, exhaled. 'I tell ya, Miss Smythe. It wasn't pretty. He'd collapsed on the floor. Blood pumping out of his mouth. There was blood all over the phone too, which means he was hemorrhaging pretty bad when he called me. I was gonna phone you - but the situation was so bad I really felt like I had to wait for the ambulance. It didn't take 'em long to get here - ten minutes max. But by the time they arrived, he was gone. Then the cops showed up - and they took over. Telling me I couldn't call you - 'cause they had to break the news to you themselves'.

He reached for a glass, filled it with Scotch. 'Think I need a drink too', he said, throwing it back. 'I can't tell you how bad I feel about all this'.

'It's not your fault', Jack said.

'The two bottles of Canadian Club... were they empty?' I asked.

'Yeah - completely', Joey said.

My mind clicked back to that morning in Roosevelt Hospital, when I told Eric that the doctor said he'd never be able to drink again. He took the news philosophically. Though he didn't articulate it, he seemed quietly pleased to be back in the land of the living. During our two weeks in Sagaponack, he really started putting himself back together. Hell, when I dropped him off here less than twenty-four hours ago, he was...

I stifled a sob. I put my head in my hands. Jack stroked my hair.

'It's okay', he said softly.

'No, it's not', I shouted. 'He killed himself'.

'You don't know that', Jack said.

'He drank two bottles of Canadian Club, knowing full well his ulcer couldn't handle it. I warned him. The doctors warned him. He seemed so good yesterday on the train in from the Island. He really didn't worry me at all. But I obviously misread...'

I broke off and started to sob again. Jack put his arms around me and rocked me. 'Sorry, sorry', I said.

'Don't blame yourself', Jack said.

Joey coughed nervously. 'There's something else I've gotta tell you, Miss Smythe. Something Phil told me. Around three yesterday afternoon, your brother had a visitor. A guy in a suit, carrying a briefcase. He flashed some ID at Phil and said he was a federal process server. He asked Phil to phone your brother and summon him to the lobby - but not say who was here. So Phil did as ordered. Your brother came into the lobby, and the process server stuck a document into his hand and said something official like, "You are hereby served notice that blah, blah, blah." Phil couldn't hear it all. But he did say that your brother looked pretty stunned by what the guy was saying'.

'What happened after Eric was served the papers?' I asked.

'The suit left, and your brother headed back to his room. Around ninety minutes later, the delivery guy from the liquor store showed up'.

'Eric definitely didn't go out at any time?'

'Not according to Phil'.

'Then the papers must still be upstairs. Let's go'.

Joey looked hesitant. 'It's still a real mess, Miss Smythe. Maybe you should wait

'I can handle it', I said, standing up.

'This is not a good idea', Jack said.

'I'll be the judge of that', I said, and walked out of the bar. Joey and Jack followed behind me. Joey stopped by the front desk and got a key for Apartment 512 from the wall of letter boxes behind the counter. We took the elevator up to the fifth floor. We walked to a scuffed door marked 512. Joey paused before inserting the key. 'Are you sure you want to go in there, Miss Smythe?' he asked.

'I'll be fine'.

'Let me go in', Jack said.

'No. I want to see it'.

Joey shrugged and sprung the lock. The door drifted open. I stepped inside. I sucked in my breath. I had expected a stained bloody carpet. I wasn't prepared for the protracted dimensions of that stain. The blood was still wet and glistening. It covered the phone and dappled the furniture. There was the bloody outline of a hand on two of the walls, and on a table near to where Eric fell. The whole horrible sequence of my brother's final minutes suddenly came together in my head. He'd been sitting on the broken-down sofa, drinking. An empty bottle of Canadian Club was on the floor by the cheap little television. The second bottle - drained, except for a finger or two of liquid - stood on the low wood-laminated coffee table. There was a blood-splattered glass on the sofa. Eric must have started hemorrhaging while finishing the final bottle. Frightened, he covered his mouth with his hand (the reason for all the bloody hand prints). Then he staggered to the phone, and called Joey. But he was too incoherent from the Canadian Club (and from the shock of bleeding) to say anything. He dropped the phone. He fell towards the folding card table that served as his desk. He leaned against it for support. He collapsed to the floor. And died immediately. Or, at least, that's what I desperately hoped. Because I couldn't bear the thought of Eric in extended pain.