The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (45 page)

Of course, we both fought like hell. But as the arrangement deepened, the arguments shifted away from the emotional complexities of my truncated life with Jack. As I had told him that night in Albany (and as I well knew myself): the moment a romance becomes bogged down in endless discussions about its inherent problems is also the moment that it ends up being labeled
terminal.

So, we steered clear of such issues. Naturally, I would always ask after Dorothy and Charlie. Every time his son was mentioned in conversation, I’d get that twinge of loss which accompanied all thoughts about my inability to have children. Jack was sensitive to this - and, on several occasions, deliberately dodged my questions about his son. But I’d force the issue, telling him that I wanted to know about Charlie’s progress … especially as he was everything to Jack.

Three months into our arrangement, the thought struck me one day that whenever we argued, it was usually about non-personal matters: like whether we really should be defending a police state like South Korea.

‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘that sonofabitch who runs South Korea … what’s his name?’

‘Sygman Rhee.’

‘Right - well, there’s no doubt that Rhee is a complete totalitarian. But at least he’s
our
totalitarian.’

‘There, you admit it. He’s a repressive dictator. And though I have nothing but contempt for Stalin and his North Korean stooge, should we really be propping up totalitarian regimes?’

‘Will you
listen
to yourself. You sound like some Adlai Stevenson liberal …’

‘I
am
an Adlai Stevenson liberal.’

‘Which essentially means that you have a
nice
soft-centered view of the world. You should learn some basic
realpolitik.
As Chamberlain discovered to his horror, appeasement gets you nowhere.’

‘Oh, please don’t give me your tough-guy view of foreign policy. “Speak quietly, but carry a big stick” might have worked for Teddy Roosevelt - but these days, the big sticks are atomic bombs … which happen to scare the hell out of me.’

‘Listen, force is the only thing that any aggressor understands. General MacArthur’s right: if we want to end the Korean conflict tomorrow, we should let North Korea and China sample our atomic bombs, then bring in Chiang Kai-shek to run the whole show.’

‘Well, thank God it’s Harry Truman in the White House, rather than that lunatic MacArthur … ‘

‘That man was a war hero.’

‘True - but he’s out of control.’

“Only if you’re a Communist.’

‘I am no Communist.’

‘Maybe not - but given that it runs in your family …’

He cut himself off. ‘Sorry,’ he said instantly. ‘That was dumb.’

‘Yes it was. Very dumb.’

‘Forgive me.’

‘On one condition: you never bring that up again. I regret ever telling you about Eric’s little past flirtation with that party.’

‘I’ll never say anything again about it.’

‘That’s a solemn promise?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Good. Because I think it’s about time I told my brother about us.’

‘How do you think he’ll take the news?’

I shrugged. But I knew the answer to that question:
not well.

I wasn’t seeing much of Eric that year - owing to the fact that he was in such demand. Between writing
The Marty Manning Show,
developing new program ideas for NBC, spending time with Ronnie, and generally living it up, his time was limited. Still, he never stopped being a loyal brother, calling me at least twice a week.

Then, shortly after Jack started to move some clothes into my apartment, Eric and Ronnie paid me a surprise visit one Sunday afternoon around five p.m. Standing on my doorstep, Eric informed me that they were whisking me out for drinks at the St Regis, dinner at 21, and a jam session at the Blue Note.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’ll just get my coat.’

Eric and Ronnie exchanged glances.

‘You mean, you’re not going to let us in?’ Eric asked.

‘Of course you can come in,’ I said nervously. ‘But what’s the point, if we’re leaving right away?’

Eric looked at me with deep scepticism. ‘S, who the hell is in there?’

‘No one. Why would there be anyone …’

‘Fine then,’ Eric said, ‘we’ll come in from the cold while you get ready.’

He pushed past me. Ronnie hovered on the doorstep, not wanting to appear rude.

‘You might as well come on in, Ronnie,’ I said. ‘Because the cat is now definitely out of the bag.’

No, Jack hadn’t paid me a surprise Sunday visit, and was not lurking inside. But evidence of his presence was everywhere in the apartment - evidence which I would have hidden had I known Eric was coming by.

‘So,’ Eric said, staring at the large pair of black wingtip shoes by my inside door, ‘not only is there a mystery man, but he also has large feet.’

He wandered around the apartment, raising his eyebrows when he saw the collection of male toiletries in the bathroom, the slippers by my bed, the collection of paperbacks on the side table in the living room.

‘I didn’t realize you were a fan of Mickey Spillane,’ Eric said, picking up a copy of
I, The Jury.

‘He’s an acquired taste,’ I said.

‘I bet,’ Eric said, ‘along with Hiram Walker bourbon and Chesterfields. My, my, S - you are developing some seriously masculine habits. Next thing I know, you’ll have installed a spittoon by your bed, and will be playing after-hours pinochle with the boys at the Twentieth Precinct.’

‘Well … I was thinking of taking up bowling.’

Eric turned to Ronnie. ‘Quite the wit, my little sister.’

‘I’ve always thought that.’

‘Thank you, Ronnie,’ I said.

‘Of course, you’d never think a man was living here, would you, Ronnie?’ Eric asked.

‘I see no sign of that,’ Ronnie said, maintaining a straight face.

‘Thank you again, Ronnie,’ I said.

‘Yes, thank you
so much,
Ronnie,’ Eric said, ‘for siding with my sister.’

‘I’m not siding with her,’ Ronnie said. ‘I’m just respecting her privacy.’

‘Touche, Ronnie,’ Eric said. ‘But as her older brother, I
don’t
have to respect her privacy. So I’ll just come straight out and ask her: why the hell didn’t you tell me you were living with someone?’

‘Because,’ I said, ‘I’m not living with someone.’

‘Well, Dr Watson,’ Eric said, ‘all the evidence points to a male presence in this household. A
permanent
male presence.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t want to tell you,’ Ronnie said.

‘Yes,’ I added, ‘maybe she doesn’t.’

‘Fine, fine,’ Eric said. ‘I would never,
ever
dream of interfering in my sister’s affairs. Does he have a name?’

‘Interestingly enough, he does. But I’m not going to tell it to you yet.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Because I’m not ready to tell it to you.’

For the rest of the night, Eric plagued me with the same question:
who’s the guy?
After his twentieth attempt to pry the information from me, Ronnie finally told him he was going to stand up and leave unless he got off the subject. Eric took the hint. But first thing the next morning, he was on the phone, demanding, yet again, to know the name of the gentleman in question.

‘He must be bad news if you’re refusing to tell me.’

‘Be patient - when I’m ready to inform you, I will.’

‘Why aren’t you ready now?’

‘Because I don’t know whether it has a future.’

‘Well, if it doesn’t, then you might as well tell me now …’

‘Can’t you accept the fact that you don’t need to know everything about me?’

‘No.’

‘Well, too bad. My lips remain sealed.’

For the next two weeks, Eric kept up the pressure - and enhanced my guilt. Because he was right: we’d always tried to be open with each other. Even Eric finally told me about his sexuality, a horribly difficult admission in those days, so surely I owed him a direct answer to his question … even though I dreaded his reaction. Finally, I suggested that Eric meet me for a drink at the Oak Room of the Plaza. We were working on our second martinis when I finally felt enough gin-fueled courage to say, ‘The man’s name is Jack Malone.’

Eric blanched. ‘You cannot be serious,’ he said.

‘I’m completely serious.’

‘Him?’
he said.

‘Yes. Him.’

‘But that’s unbelievable. Because he was gone with the wind. He messed up your life. And after you met him and his wife, didn’t you tell me you’d given him the brush-off?’

‘I know, I know, but …’

‘So how long
exactly
has this been going on?’

‘Over four months.’

Eric looked deeply shocked.

‘Four months.
Why on earth did you keep it a secret for so long?’

‘Because I was terrified of your disapproval.’

‘Oh for God’s sakes, S - I might not have liked the guy when I first met him, and I certainly didn’t like the way he ditched you, but …’

‘After Jack vanished you told me, over and over again, that I was a fool to be expending so much emotional energy on such a no-hoper. So, naturally, when he came back into my life, I was really worried about your reaction.’

‘I don’t have fangs and I don’t sleep in a coffin, S.’

‘I know, I know. And I felt terrible about concealing this for so long. But I knew that, before I told you anything, I had to find out whether or not this had a future.’

‘Which it evidently does - otherwise you wouldn’t be telling me now.’

‘I love him, Eric.’

‘So I gather.’

‘But I really mean it. This is not some dumb infatuation with a married man, some transient romance. This is it. And it’s mutual.’

Eric went quiet. He sipped his martini. He smoked. Eventually, he shrugged and said, ‘I suppose I should meet him again, shouldn’t I?’

I set up a drink a few days later - late Friday afternoon in the bar of the St Moritz, one block east from where Eric lived on Central Park South. I was nervous as hell. So too was Jack - even though I assured him that my brother had promised me he would be on his best behavior. Things got off to a bad start when we were kept waiting thirty minutes. Then a bar-man came to our table to inform us that Eric had called and said he’d been stuck in a meeting, but would be with us in ten minutes.

Another forty minutes passed, during which time Jack drank another two bourbon and sodas, and smoked three more cigarettes.

‘Is this your brother’s idea of a joke?’ he finally asked, sounding annoyed.

‘I’m sure there’s a very good reason …’ I said, sounding nervous.

‘Either that, or he believes that his time is more valuable than my own. Of course, I’m just some PR guy, whereas he’s the great gag writer.’

‘Jack,
please.’

‘You’re right, you’re right. I’m just being a hothead.’

‘No - you should be annoyed. But there’s nothing I can do …’

‘So let’s have another drink.’

‘A
fourth
bourbon and soda?’

‘Are you telling me I can’t hold my liquor?’

‘Waiter!’ I said, catching him as he passed by our table. ‘Another bourbon and soda for the gentleman, please.’

‘Thank you,’ Jack said dryly as the waiter moved off.

‘I’d never stand between a man and his booze.’

‘Is that your idea of irony?’

‘No - that’s me dropping a hint, which you won’t take.’

‘I know my limits.’

‘Fine, fine.’

Jack glanced towards the door. ‘But I don’t think your brother does.’

I looked the same way. My heart instantly sank. Because Eric had just arrived - and he was drunk. He had a dead cigarette clamped between his teeth, his eyes were glazed, his gait unsteady. When he caught sight of us, he pulled off his hat with a flourish and bowed deeply. Then he stumbled over to our table, and planted a big wet kiss on my mouth.

‘Blame it all on Mr Manning. He insisted on pouring two bottles of wine down my throat at lunch.’

‘You’re an hour and a quarter late,’ I said.

‘That’s show business,’ he said, falling into a chair.

‘At least you could say you’re sorry to Jack.’