The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (67 page)

‘Are you still there, Sara?’

‘Yes. I’m here.’

I
PUT A
call in to Joel Eberts the next morning.

‘Now before you tell me anything,’ he said, ‘know this: I’m sure we could sue that shit Winchell for libel, defamation of character …’

‘I don’t want to sue him.’

‘I heard about
Saturday/Sunday
too. We could definitely squeeze them for the remaining few weeks of your leave … and probably more.’

‘I couldn’t be bothered.’

‘You’ve
got
to be bothered. If people like you don’t fight back …’

‘I’m in no mood for a fight. Because you know, and I know, that it’s a fight I won’t win. Anyway, I’m leaving the country.’

‘When did you decide that?’

‘Late last night. Actually, around five this morning.’

‘Personally, I think it’s a good idea. Can I help in any way?’

‘I need a passport. Do you think they’ll grant me one?’

‘I don’t see why not. You haven’t been subpoenaed by HUAC. You aren’t under investigation by the Feds. There’ll be no problem - though I’d probably move quickly, just in case someone in DC read that Winchell piece and decides you’re worth scrutinizing. When are you coming back to New York?’

‘I should be there tomorrow evening.’

‘I still have power-of-attorney on your bank accounts. Want me to book you passage on a boat this weekend?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’ll get to work on it now.’

‘One final thing. I sent you a letter yesterday afternoon. It was written under considerable duress … and at a moment when I really wasn’t thinking clearly at all. You must promise me that you won’t read it … that you’ll tear it up and throw it away as soon as it arrives.’

‘It must be some letter.’

‘Do I have your word?’

‘Scout’s Honor. Call me as soon as you arrive. Are you going to be staying at the apartment?’

‘Where else?’

‘Well, if you do, you might have a visitor …’

‘Oh no …’

‘Oh yes …’

‘Has he been bothering you much about me?’

‘You told me not to tell you anything …’

‘I’m asking now.’

‘I have a stack of letters from him. According to the super in your building, he’s been dropping around every other day, on the off-chance you might have come back.’

I felt a stab of guilt and remorse. It passed quickly. ‘I’ll find a hotel,’ I said.

‘That might be wise … if you really don’t want to see him.’

‘I really don’t want to see him.’

‘It’s your call, Sara. Phone me when you get into town.’

After I finished talking with Joel Eberts, I put a call in to Dr Bolduck. When I explained that I was planning to leave town tomorrow, he expressed concern.

‘It’s only two weeks since the operation. The stitches have just come out. I would be much happier if you were resting for at least another week.’

‘A transatlantic crossing isn’t exactly strenuous physical activity.’

‘Yes - but you’ll be in the middle of the ocean for five days. Say you need medical attention?’

‘I’m sure most ships travel with a doctor or two.’

‘I really wish you’d stay.’

‘I can’t. I won’t.’

He heard the adamancy in my voice. ‘I do understand your need to get away,’ he said. ‘It’s not unusual after …’

‘So, in your clinical opinion, I’m not putting my health in jeopardy by traveling.’

‘Physically, it’s a little risky … but not impossibly so. Mentally, it’s a smart idea. You know what my advice is to people who’ve been through a bereavement? Keep moving.’

I did just that. Ruth came over that afternoon and helped me pack up the apartment. I wrote a letter to Duncan Howell, resigning my column.

Please understand: I haven’t been cowed by Walter Winchell. I just need a complete break from all things journalistic. After the last year, anonymity seems like a very good thing. I thank you for your ethical stance after the Winchell column. Many an editor would have taken the easy way out and defenestrated me. You didn’t - and I will always remember that.

I also wrote a quick note to Jim:

If I was you, I wouldn’t forgive me. I played fast-and-loose with the truth - which was both unfair and unscrupulous. All I can offer in my defence is the fact that - for all the obvious reasons - I was apprehensive of talking about my pregnancy. That doesn’t excuse my behavior. The worst thing you can do in life is hurt another person … and I sense that I have hurt you.

The two letters were mailed the next morning from the Brunswick railway station. I was traveling light - a suitcase and my typewriter. I hadn’t bought much in the way of clothes since coming to Maine, and any books and records I’d acquired were being donated to the local library. The station porter checked my bags straight through to Penn Station. Ruth - who’d driven me to the station - hugged me goodbye.

‘I hope the next time you come back to Maine, you won’t be fleeing something.’

I laughed. ‘But it’s such a good place to slam the door on the rest of the country.’

‘Then why on earth do you have to go overseas?’

‘Because, thanks to Mr Winchell, I find myself abroad at home. So I’m now going to find out whether I’m at home abroad.’

I slept most of the way to New York. I was still feeling depleted. And I was still in a certain amount of pain - thanks to the way that my supply of painkillers had ended up in the fire. I hadn’t dared asked Dr Bolduck for a new prescription, so I was now using aspirin to deaden the discomfort. Every time I saw myself sitting on that sofa with the bottle of pills and the whiskey, I shuddered. Because for the two days before, the decision to take my life had seemed so logical, so reasonable … to the point where I actually felt rather elated by the prospect of terminating everything. But now, as the train snaked its way down the eastern seaboard, I couldn’t help but think:
if that phone call hadn’t come, this is a day I wouldn’t have seen.
It wasn’t even a particularly nice day - as it was overcast and gloomy. But it was
a day.
I was still here to look at it. I was grateful for that.

I arrived at Penn Station around nine that night. I had a porter help me with my bags across the street to the Hotel Pennsylvania. They had a vacancy. I paid for one night, with an option to extend for a second. I didn’t want to be in this town for long. Upstairs in my room, I stared out at the midtown skyline, then closed the blinds to block out its audacious glow. I unpacked, undressed, climbed into bed and was asleep within minutes. I woke at eight, feeling rested for the first time in months. I had a bath, I got dressed, I called Joel Eberts. He told me to come right over. On the way downtown in a taxi, I read the
New York Times.
On page eleven, there was a small story at the bottom of the page about the suicide yesterday afternoon of a Hollywood actor named Max Monroe, aged forty-six, known for his roles in a variety of RKO and Republic B-movies. He was found dead yesterday afternoon at his apartment in West Hollywood from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

According to his agent, Mr Monroe had been suffering from depression for the past two years - ever since work opportunities dried up after he was branded a hostile witness by the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities.

I put down the paper, unable to finish the story. I glanced out the window of the taxi. New York was as frantic and self-obsessed as ever. Everyone rushing somewhere. Everyone so preoccupied, so busy that they probably weren’t even aware of the deeds being perpetrated in their name - the careers crushed, the trusts betrayed, the lives destroyed. That was the thing about the blacklist - unless it touched you personally, you could carry on as if nothing dark was happening around you. I couldn’t fathom how we had allowed ourselves to be cowed by such patriotic demagogues. All I knew was: I had to leave. To put an ocean between myself and my country. Until the madness ended.

Joel Eberts greeted me with a paternal hug and a considerable amount of news. He’d booked me passage on the SS
Corinthia,
sailing that night, docking seven days later in Le Havre. He’d secured me a single inside cabin: nothing fancy, but at least I’d have the place to myself. He had all the forms ready for my passport.

‘It’s the same deal as your brother - you run up to the passport office at Rockefeller Center, you hand in all the forms and a check for twelve dollars, you show them your transatlantic boat ticket, and they should have a passport for you by five this evening. But you better hurry. The deadline for one-day processing is ten thirty. That now gives you a half-hour to get there, tops.’

Forms in hand, I grabbed a cab. It raced uptown. I made the passport office at ten twenty-five. The clerk vetted all the forms, and told me to be back at the office by close of business today. As I came out of the office, I noticed that I was opposite the
Saturday Night/Sunday Morning
building. I didn’t give it a second glance. I just hailed a cab and headed downtown again.

Joel Eberts had offered to bring me to lunch at a little Italian place near his office. We sat down. We ordered. The boss - a friend of Joel’s - insisted on bringing us each a glass of Spumante. We toasted my journey to foreign parts.

‘Have you thought about what you are going to do over there?’

‘No. I don’t even know where I’ll end up … though, initially, I’ll probably head to Paris.’

‘You will write me as soon as you’ve gotten settled somewhere?’

‘I’ll wire you. Because I’ll also need to set up bank transfer facilities.’

‘No problem. I’ll handle all that.’

‘And you will give me a bill for all that you’ve been doing on my behalf?’

‘Call it a friendly favor.’

‘I would really rather pay you properly, Joel.’

‘That’s one of the many things I like about you, Sara - you’re completely ethical.’

‘Look where it’s gotten me.’

He paused for a moment, abstractedly rubbing the rim of his glass with his stubby index finger. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

‘Yes - I still think about him a lot.’

He smiled. ‘Are my thoughts that transparent?’ he asked.

‘No - I am.’

‘As I told you on the phone, there must be fifteen, twenty letters from him, stacked up in my office. He also called me around four times. Begging me to tell him where you were.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What you told me to say: that you had left New York and were living in an undisclosed location. Then he asked if I was forwarding on his letters. I said that you instructed me to hold all personal mail until you returned.’

‘Did he leave you alone after that?’

Another pause. ‘Do you really want to know this?’ I nodded. ‘He came to see me personally. Around six weeks ago. He sat in the chair opposite my desk, and …’

‘Yes?’

‘He started to cry.’

‘I don’t want to hear this.’

‘Fine,’ he said, reaching for the menu. ‘Shall we order?’

‘What did he say?’

‘You said you
don’t
want to hear this …’

‘You’re right,’ I said, reaching for the menu. ‘I don’t. Tell me what he said.’

Joel put down the menu. ‘He told me you were the best thing that ever happened to him; the center of his life. And he tried to explain …’

‘How he killed my brother?’

‘You know that’s not true.’

‘All right, all right - he didn’t
physically
end his life. But he certainly got the ball rolling in that direction. He pointed the finger. He handed Eric to the Feds on a plate. How can I forgive that?
How?’

Joel drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Forgiveness is the hardest thing in life … and the most necessary. But it’s still the hardest.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘You’re right. It is. Eric wasn’t my brother.’

‘Exactly,’ I said, reaching for the menu. ‘And yes, I will have the veal
piccata.’

‘Good choice,’ Joel said, motioning towards the waiter. We ordered. Then Joel reached into his pocket. He pulled out an envelope, and handed it to me. I saw that it was postmarked
Brunswick, Me.

‘Here’s the letter you sent me,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ I said, suddenly uneasy. ‘You didn’t read it, did you?’

‘It’s unopened, Sara - at your request. As long as it’s legal, I always follow my clients’ instructions.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, tucking the letter into my bag. He looked at me carefully. I sensed that he knew what was in that letter - and how close I had skirted the precipice.