The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (28 page)

I didn’t respond. Possibly because I felt the way a convicted felon must feel when he’s been sentenced to life imprisonment. This was the abyss. And I was in it.

‘I’ll take your silence as a yes,’ she said, motioning towards a waiter. ‘Now then, back to business. The wedding …’

She outlined the plans. Under the hasty circumstances, a wedding at the family parish church in Connecticut was out of the question (‘one simply does not organize such an event with two weeks’ notice’). Instead, there would be a simple straightforward service at the Marble Collegiate Church in Manhattan - to which I would be allowed to invite four guests, including my brother (‘I presume he will be giving you away?’ she asked dryly). There would be a simple, straightforward reception afterwards here at the Plaza. George would be organizing ‘the honeymoon details’, though Mrs Grey had suggested to him ‘a nice, modest hotel’ in Provincetown, into which he had subsequently booked us for a week. After the honeymoon, we would be moving into our new home … in Old Greenwich, Connecticut.

It took a moment for this news to register. ‘George and I are moving
where?’
I asked.

‘To Old Greenwich, Connecticut. You mean, he hasn’t yet told you … ?’

‘Considering that he only informed you of our news last night …’

‘Of course, of course. The poor boy’s had so much on his mind. Anyway, when he did tell us your
wonderful
news yesterday evening, Mr Grey gave him the most marvelous surprise. As our wedding gift to you both, we’re letting you have a little house we bought as an investment a year or so ago in Old Greenwich. Do understand - it’s hardly a mansion. But it’s the perfect starter house for a young family. And it’s only five minutes’ walk to the railway station, so it will be very handy for George’s commute to Manhattan. Do you know Old Greenwich? Very sweet little town … and right near Long Island Sound, so it will be perfect for …’

Drowning myself.

‘… outings with other young mothers. After the baby arrives I’m sure you’ll find so much to do up there. Coffee mornings. Church socials. Charity yard sales. The PTA

As I listened to her delineate, with relish, my prosaic future, all I could think was: this is a masterclass in how to twist the knife.

I finally interrupted her.

‘Why can’t we live in George’s apartment for a while?’

‘That dreadful place? I wouldn’t allow it, Sara.’

It wasn’t that dreadful: a serviced one-bedroom flat in a residential hotel, the Mayflower, on 61st Street and Central Park West.

‘We could always find a bigger place in the city,’ I said.

‘The city is no place to raise children.’

‘But the baby’s not due for around seven months. I don’t want to be commuting back and forth to Connecticut to my job …’

‘Your job?’ she said, sounding amused. ‘What job?’

‘My job at
Saturday/Sunday,
of course.’

‘Oh,
that
job. You’ll be resigning at the end of next week.’

‘No I won’t.’

‘Of course you will. Because a week later you will be married. And married women do not work.’

‘I was planning to be the exception.’

‘Sorry, dear. It cannot be. Anyway, given your condition, you’d have to give up work in a few months. It’s the way motherhood works.’

I tried to remain rational, reasoned, in control.

‘Say I refused? Say I simply walked out of this hotel right now and didn’t go through with any of this?’

‘I have already outlined the consequences to you. I do believe in individual free will - so, as far as I’m concerned, you may do whatever you want to do. Sadly, the outcome of such a decision may not be to your liking - as raising a child on your own without a job or a decent place to live may be a little difficult. But we would never dream of stopping you …’

My eyes began to water. I felt tears cascading down my face. ‘Why are you doing this?’ I whispered.

Mrs Grey looked at me, baffled. ‘Doing what, dear?’

‘Ruining my life.’

‘Ruining your life?
Please spare me the cheap melodrama, Sara. I certainly didn’t force you to get pregnant, now did I?’

I said nothing.

‘Anyway, if I was in your position, I would be positively delighted with the way everything’s been arranged. After all, it’s not many girls who get given a house in a desirable suburb as a wedding gift.’

A final tight smile. I stared down at the table. There was a lengthy silence.

‘Cat got your tongue, dear? Or have you simply seen the logic of my arguments?’

My gaze remained fixed on the table.

‘Splendid,’ she finally said. ‘Our plans will proceed as agreed. Oh … and look who’s here to see us. What marvelous timing the boy has.’

I looked up. George was standing at the entrance of the Palm Court, hesitantly awaiting the wave of his mother’s hand that would beckon him to the table. No doubt, she had given him an appointed time at which to arrive at the Plaza. Just as she had told him last night exactly how she was going to stage manage our life from this day forward. Because, in the world according to Mrs Grey, this was the price one paid for transgressing her sense of order and decorum and social standing.

Mrs Grey used her right index finger to beckon George forward. He approached our table shyly, like a schoolboy being called into the principal’s office.

‘Hi there,’ he said, trying to sound cheery. ‘Everyone happy?’

He glanced at me and saw that I had been crying. Immediately, he tensed. His mother said, ‘Sara and I have been discussing future plans, and we’re in agreement on everything.’

I said nothing. I continued to stare at the table-top. Her voice became testy. ‘Aren’t we, dear?’

I didn’t raise my gaze, but I did say, ‘Yes. Everything is fine.’

‘And we now so understand each other, don’t we?’

I nodded.

‘So you see, George - everything is working out splendidly … as I told you it would. As I’m sure you well know, Sara - the poor boy is a bit of a worrier. Aren’t you, George?’

‘I guess so,’ he said nervously. Sitting down next to me, he tried to take my hand. But I pulled it away before he clutched it. Mrs Grey caught sight of this little drama and smiled.

‘I think I’ll go powder my nose, and let you lovebirds have a moment or two alone.’

As soon as she was out of earshot, George said, ‘Darling, don’t be upset …’

‘I didn’t realize I was marrying your mother.’

‘You’re not.’

‘Oh yes I am … as it seems that she is calling all the shots here.’

‘After the wedding, we can block her right out of our lives

‘After the wedding we will be living in Old Greenwich, Connecticut. How nice of you to discuss this little change of address with me …’

‘The offer of the house only came last night.’

‘So you naturally decided to accept it without consulting me.’

‘I meant to call you at work this morning.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘I was tied up in meetings.’

‘Liar. You were afraid what my reaction might be.’

He lowered his head. ‘Yes. I was afraid how you might react. But, look, the house in Old Greenwich was just a really generous offer from my parents. We don’t have to accept it.’

I stared at him with utter contempt. ‘Yes we do,’ I said, ‘and you know it.’

A pause. He squirmed in his chair. And finally said, ‘You’ll really like Old Greenwich.’

‘I’m so glad you think so,’ I said.

And if you don’t like it …’

‘Then
what?’

‘Then …’ He squirmed again. ‘I promise you, it will all work out. Let’s just get through the wedding …’

‘And then - let me guess - you’re going to tell her to stay out of our lives forever?’

Another uncomfortable pause. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, his voice a near whisper. He then made a loud coughing noise to indicate that his mother was returning. When she approached our table, George instantly stood up and held her chair. After she sat down, she nodded to indicate that he could be seated. Then she turned her gaze to me.

‘So,’ she asked, ‘did you have a nice chat about things?’

Had I been the fearless sort, I would have stood up and walked out of the Plaza, and accepted my fate. But to do that, in 1947, would have meant taking the most enormous personal gamble. And yes, as much as I loathed her, Mrs Grey was right about one thing: deciding to be a single mother would have meant instant unemployment, instant social ostracization. Back then, only widows and abandoned women were allowed to be single mothers. To decide to have a child outside of wedlock - or, worse yet, to reject an offer of marriage by the child’s father - would have been considered, at best, deeply reprehensible; at worst, deranged. And I didn’t possess the
don’t give a damn
mentality needed to buck conventionality. I longed to have Eric’s seditious streak, but knew I couldn’t pull it off. Like it or not, I was a small-c conservative. My parents may have despaired at my minor acts of rebellion - like moving to Manhattan after college. But they instilled in me such a fear of authority - and such deeply engrained notions of respectability - that I felt unable to do the impossible, awkward thing: telling George Grey and his godawful parent to go to hell.

I certainly wasn’t going to tell Eric about my conversation with Mrs Grey (or the way I was being railroaded into a life in Old Greenwich, Connecticut), because I knew he would have gone berserk. At best, I would have to listen to his very impassioned, very persuasive arguments, pleading with me to bail out of this future domestic nightmare while there was still a chance. At worst, he would have done something melodramatic … like spiriting me out of the country to Paris or Mexico City until the baby was born.

But my mind was made up. I was going to marry George. I was going to move to the Connecticut suburbs. I was going to have the child. I had landed myself in this mess. I was going to accept my fate. Because I deserved my fate.

I also began to rationalize like crazy. All right, George was dwarfed by his mother - but once we were married, I would be able to gradually excise her from our lives. All right, I would hate leaving New York - but maybe Old Greenwich would give me the peace and quiet I needed to try writing again. All right, my husband-to-be was the emotional equivalent of vanilla ice cream - but hadn’t I vowed never to fall victim to wayward passion again? Hadn’t I vowed to avoid another …

Jack.

Jack. Jack. Damn you, Jack. That night - that one absurd night - led me right into the dull, worthy arms of George Grey.

In the two weeks running up to the wedding, I assented to everything. I let Mrs Grey make all the arrangements for the ceremony and the party. I let her book me a rushed appointment at a dress-maker, who whipped up a standard-issue white wedding dress for $85 (‘Of course we wouldn’t dream of letting you pay, dear,’ Mrs Grey said at the fitting). I let her choose the order of the service, the menu at the reception, the centerpiece on the cake. I accompanied George by train to Old Greenwich to inspect our new house. It was a small two-storey Cape Codder, located on a road called Park Avenue, within a five-minute walk from the railway station. Park Avenue was very leafy, very residential. Each house had a substantial front yard, with a very green lawn. They were all immaculately manicured. Just as all the houses showed no signs of wear-and-tear: no peeling paint, or decrepit roofs, or smudged windows. From my first stroll down Park Avenue, I knew immediately that this was a community which did not tolerate such sins against the body politic as unmowed grass or badly graveled driveways.

The houses along Park Avenue were New England in character - testaments to Poe-style Gothic rubbing shoulders with white clapboard, and Federalist red brick. Ours was one of the smallest properties, with low ceilings and small, cramped rooms. They were papered in discreet floral prints or tiny red-and-blue checks - the sort of old Americana patterns that put me in mind of the inside of a Whitman’s chocolate box. The furniture was spartan in character and size - cramped, narrow sofas; hard wooden armchairs, a pair of narrow single beds in the master bedroom. There was a plain wooden table in the other bedroom with a bentwood chair.

‘This will be the perfect place to write your novel,’ George said, trying to sound cheerful.

‘So where will the baby sleep?’ I asked quietly.

‘In our room for the first few months. Anyway, we should look on this place as nothing more than a starter house. Once we have a couple of kids, we’ll definitely need …’

I cut him off.

‘One child at a time, okay?’

‘Fine, fine,’ he said, sounding anxious at my testy tone. ‘I didn’t mean to be pushing things …’