The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (19 page)

‘Then again, he could be on a top-secret spying assignment with Mata Hari - even though the French took the liberty of shooting her in nineteen seventeen.’

‘All right, all right.’

‘Get over him, S.
Please.
For your own sake.’

‘God knows I want to. It’s just … he won’t go away. Something happened that night. Something so inexplicable, yet fundamental. And though I keep trying to convince myself that it’s all folly, I simply know: he was it.’

The next morning, I cleared out my desk at
Life.
I walked down the corridor and popped my head into Leland’s office.

‘I just came to say goodbye,’ I said.

He didn’t motion for me to come in or sit down, nor did he stand up. He seemed a bit nervous in my presence.

‘Well, it’s not really a goodbye, Sara. We’ll still be working together.’

‘Have you thought about my first freelance assignment?’

He avoided my eyes. ‘Not yet - but I will be in touch within a couple of days to discuss a few things with you.’

‘So I should expect a call from you?’

‘Of course, of course - as soon as we’ve put this week’s issue to bed. Meanwhile, you might as well enjoy a couple of days off.’

He reached for a pile of papers and went back to work. It was my cue to leave. So I collected the cardboard box on my desk which contained the meagre contents of my cubicle, then walked to the elevator. As the door opened, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Lorraine Tewksberry. She worked as a layout designer in the art department, and was the acknowledged office gossip. She was a tall, narrow woman in her thirties, with a beak-like face and bobbed black hair. She got on the elevator with me. As the door closed behind us, she leaned over and whispered into my ear (out of range of the uniformed elevator operator), ‘Meet me at the Chock Full O’Nuts on Forty-sixth and Madison in five minutes.’

I looked at her quizzically. She merely winked, put her index finger to her lips, then hurried out of the elevator as soon as we reached the lobby.

I deposited my box with the concierge at the reception desk, and walked around the corner to Chock Full O’Nuts. Lorraine was seated at a booth in the back.

‘This will just take a minute, because a minute’s all I’ve got. It’s production day.’

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘Only from where you’re sitting. I just want you to know that there are a lot of us on the magazine who are sorry to see you go.’

‘That’s surprising - considering that Mr McGuire told me everyone thought I was aloof and haughty.’

‘Of course he’d tell you that - because from the moment you refused to go out with him, he had it in for you.’

‘How did you know he asked me out?’

Lorraine cast her eyes heavenwards. ‘It’s not that big an office,’ she said.

‘But he only asked me out once … and I was rather polite about turning him down.’

‘The fact is, though - you did turn him down. And since then, he’s been looking for a way of getting rid of you.’

‘All this happened almost two years ago.’

‘He’s just been waiting for you to slip up. And, sorry to say this, but you have seemed a little off-beam for the last couple of months. If you don’t mind me asking, is it guy trouble?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Get over him, honey. All men are jerks.’

‘You may have a point.’

‘Believe me, I am a world-class expert on this subject. I also know this: Leland won’t be giving you a single assignment from now on. He set up this freelance idea for you as a way of easing you out of the office, and giving all the plum soft assignments to Miss Lois Rudkin … who, as you may have heard, isn’t merely Leland’s favorite writer of the moment, but also his occasional bedfellow.’

‘I had wondered …’

‘You wondered right. Because unlike you, the smarmy little Miss Rudkin did take up the very married Mr McGuire’s offer of a date. From what I heard, one thing led to another, and now … shazam, you’re out of a job.’

I swallowed hard. ‘What should I do?’

‘If you want my honest opinion … you should say nothing and do nothing. Just take Mr Luce’s money for the next six months, and go write the Great American Novel if you feel like it. Or move to Paris. Or take some classes. Or just sleep late until the paychecks stop. But know this: there’s no way you’re going to be writing anything for
Life
again. He’s made sure of that. And in six months’ time, he’ll officially fire you.’

Some years later, I heard that, in Chinese, the symbol for the word ‘crisis’ has two meanings: danger and opportunity. I wish I’d known that at the time - because my initial reaction to Lorraine’s news was one of utter panic, utter crisis. I picked up my office box from the concierge, I took a taxi downtown to my apartment, I slammed the door behind me, I sat down on my bed, I put my head in my hands, thinking that my world was completely falling apart. Yet again, I found myself mourning the loss of Jack - as if he had died. Because for all I knew, he was, indeed, dead.

The next morning, I made a trunk call to the Department of the Army in Washington, DC. The switchboard operator finally put me through to
Stars and Stripes.
I explained to a receptionist that I was trying to locate one of their journalists - a certain Sergeant John Joseph Malone, currently on assignment somewhere in Europe.

‘We can’t give out such information on the phone,’ the woman said. ‘You’ll have to put your request in writing to the Department of Enlisted Personnel.’

‘But surely, there aren’t that many journalists named Jack Malone writing for you.’

‘Army rules are Army rules.’

So I called the Department of Enlisted Personnel. A clerk gave me the address to write for a Search for Personnel form. Once they received the completed form back from me, I should expect a reply back from the Department within six to eight weeks.

‘Six to eight weeks! Isn’t there anything I can do to speed up the process?’

‘Ma’am, there are still something like four hundred thousand men stationed overseas. These things take time.’

I sent off for the form that afternoon. I also had a brainstorm, and paid a visit to my local news stand, right near the Sheridan Square subway station. After explaining my problem, the guy who ran it said, ‘Sure, I can get you
Stars and Stripes
starting tomorrow. But back issues? This I’m gonna have to work on.’

The next morning, I stopped by the news stand at nine in the morning.

‘You’re in luck,’ the newsie told me. ‘My distributor can get me a month’s back copies. That’s thirty copies in all.’

‘I’ll take them all.’

They arrived two days later. I scoured each edition. There wasn’t one byline under the name of Jack Malone. I continued to pick up the daily edition
of Stars and Stripes.
Still no sign of a Jack Malone story. Maybe he didn’t write under his own name, I told myself. Maybe he was on a top-secret special assignment, and wasn’t having anything published just now. Maybe he’d been lying to me all along - and wasn’t a journalist at all.

The search form from the Department of Enlisted Personnel arrived a week later. I mailed it back the next morning. As I returned to my apartment from the postbox, I stared at the small stack of mail on the mat outside my door. Surely, it would be romantic justice if a letter from Jack was in that pile.

It wasn’t.

I tried to remain controlled. I tried to invent yet another rationalization for his lack of response. But all I could think was:
why can’t you answer me?

The next morning - despite another night of splintered sleep - I jumped out of bed, feeling deeply decisive. The moment had come to reclaim my self-respect and put this entire moonstruck episode behind me. What’s more, I would take Lorraine and Eric’s advice, and use the time to make a serious attempt at writing fiction.

And I would begin this morning.

I had a fast shower. I dressed. I brewed up a pot of coffee. I drank two cups. I sat down in front of my Remington. I rolled a blank sheet of paper into the machine. I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keys. I exhaled. My fingers slipped down to the table. Inadvertently, they began to tap its flat surface. I took another deep breath, and forced my fingers back over the typewriter keys. That’s when I suddenly felt myself seize up - as if a nerve had been pinched in my back, throttling all movement in my fingers.

I shuddered. I tried to move my hands - to make them type a simple sentence. I couldn’t get them to work. Eventually I managed to force them away from the keys. My fingers gripped the edges of the table-top tightly. I was in need of some sort of ballast, as I felt as if I was about to lose all sense of equilibrium. My head was whirling. I felt vertiginous, muddled, frightened. The next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom, getting ill. When the entire ghastly business was over, I forced myself up off the floor and to the phone. I called my brother.

‘Eric,’ I said in a near-whisper. ‘I think I am in a spot of bother.’

In our family, going to the doctor was always considered a sign of weakness. Even admitting that you were unwell - or feeling a little fragile - was frowned upon. Resilience was considered a crucial virtue - a sign of fortitude and self-sufficiency.
Never complain
was another of my father’s stoic principles - and one to which I still tried to adhere. Which is why Eric knew immediately that my
spot of bother
was an understated, but definite plea for help.

‘I’ll be right over,’ he said, sounding worried.

He
was
right over. He must have dashed across the Village - because less than ten minutes after I called, he was knocking on the door of my apartment.

‘It’s open,’ I said, my voice barely audible.

I was seated in front of the typewriter. My fingers continued to grip the side of the table. Because I felt that the table was the only thing keeping me steady right now.

‘Good God, S,’ Eric said, his face registering alarm, ‘what’s happened?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t move.’

‘You’re paralyzed?’

‘I just cannot move.’

He came over and touched my shoulders. It felt as if someone had goaded me with an electric cattle prod. I jumped, and let out a shrill cry, and gripped the table even tighter.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ Eric said, looking even more stunned by my response.

‘Don’t apologize. It’s me who should be apologizing …’

‘At least we know you’re not physically paralyzed. Are you sure you can’t get up?’

‘I’m scared …’ I whispered.

‘That’s pretty understandable. But let’s just try to get you out of that chair and on to the bed. Okay?’

I said nothing. Eric came over and placed his hands on mine.

‘Try to let go of the table, S.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes. You can.’

‘Please, Eric …’

He gripped my fingers. I resisted at first, but his grip tightened. With one pull, he lifted my hands off the table. They fell heavily into my lap. I stared down at them, blankly.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘That’s a start. Now I’m going to lift you out of the chair and on to the bed.’

‘Eric, I’m so sorry …’

‘Shaddup,’ he said, suddenly grabbing me around the back with one arm and under my knees with the other. Then, taking a deep breath, he lifted me straight up out of the chair.

‘Thank God you haven’t put on weight,’ he said.

‘Very unlikely, under the circumstances.’

‘You’re going to be fine, S. Here we go …’

With that he carried me the six steps from my desk to my bed. Lowering me on to the mattress, he walked over to my closet, found the spare blanket, and draped it over me. I suddenly felt chilled to the bone. I crossed my arms, clutching my shoulders. My teeth began to chatter. Eric picked up the phone, dialed a number, then spoke quietly into the receiver. When he hung up, he turned to me and said, ‘I just spoke to Dr Ballensweig’s nurse. He’s got an hour free at lunchtime, so he’s agreed to make a house call …’

‘I don’t need a doctor,’ I said. ‘I just need sleep.’

‘You’ll get some sleep. But you really need a doctor first.’

Eric had discovered Dr Ballensweig shortly after he graduated from Columbia. Since he swore by him, he also became my doctor when I moved to the city. We liked him because he was completely no-nonsense (the antithesis of Manhattan medical omnipotence), and because his slight stature, his hunched shoulders, and his quiet deadpan delivery put us both in mind of an old-style country GP.

He arrived at my apartment a few hours later. He was wearing an old worsted suit and half-moon glasses, and carried an ancient black medical bag. Eric let him in. He immediately approached the bed, sizing me up.