The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (46 page)

Immediately, Eric was on his feet. He snapped to attention, and exercised a crisp military salute. I now wanted to kill him. Thankfully, Jack kept his cool. He threw back his bourbon and soda, and reached for the fresh drink the waiter had just deposited on our table. ‘Nice to see you, Eric,’ he said quietly.

‘And top o’ the morning to you, Mr Malone,’ Eric said in a dreadful Pat O’Brien accent.

‘Maybe we should do this another day,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ Jack said. ‘That might be a good idea.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense,’ Eric said. ‘One little drink and my equilibrium will be completely restored. Now, what are the lovebirds going to drink with me? But, of course … Waiter! A bottle of champagne.’

‘I’ll stick to bourbon,’ Jack said.

‘Bourbon?’ Eric said. ‘Come, come - there’s no need to be proletarian …’

‘Are you calling me a prole?’ Jack said.

Eric switched into the Pat O’Brien accent again.

‘Sure, behind every common man lurks a poet.’

‘For God’s sake, Eric,’ I said.

‘I am just joking,’ he said in his normal voice. ‘No offence intended.’

Jack nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he lifted his fresh drink and downed half of it.

‘Ah,’ Eric said, ‘the strong silent type.’

‘What is your problem?’ Jack asked.

‘I have no problems,’ Eric said. ‘None at all. In fact, I am as happy as an Irishman in a bog.’

‘That’s enough, Eric,’ I said.

‘You’re absolutely right. I apologize profusely for my absurd reverie. Now, sir, let us mend fences over a glass of France’s best fizz.’

‘Like I told you, I’m sticking with bourbon.’

‘Fine, fine. I do understand. And approve.’

‘You
what?’
Jack asked.

‘I approve. Of bourbon, I mean. Especially since bourbon is such a good solid American drink.’

‘Is there anything wrong with an
American
drink?’ Jack asked.

‘Hell no, pardner,’ he said, now doing John Wayne. ‘It’s just, bourbon ain’t my firewater, son.’

‘Yeah - I forgot. All Commies drink champagne.’

Eric looked as if he’d been slapped. I wanted to flee the room. After a moment’s shock, Eric recovered face and put on a Scarlett O’Hara voice.

‘Dear, oh dear, someone’s been speaking a little too freely about my colorful past. Wouldn’t be y’all, sis, would it?’

‘Jack, let’s go,’ I said.

‘But what about our champagne?’ Eric asked.

‘Shove it,’ Jack said.

‘I so love the lyrical patois of the Brooklyn-eze.’

‘I talk American - though I’m sure talking American strikes you as far too patriotic.’

‘Hardly. After all, wasn’t it old Sam Johnson himself who said that patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel?’

‘Fuck you,’ Jack hissed, tossing the remainder of his drink into Eric’s face. Then he turned and stormed out of the bar.

Eric sat there, with bourbon and soda cascading down his cheeks. He appeared perplexed by this baptism.

‘Thank you,’ I said, my voice shaky. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘Go to hell,’ I said, and left.

I dashed through the lobby, and caught Jack just as he was walking out the door.

‘Darling,’ I said. ‘I’m so sorry …’

‘Not as sorry as I am. Why the hell did he do that?’

‘I don’t know. Nerves, I guess.’

‘That wasn’t nervousness - that was him being an asshole.’

‘Please forgive me.’

‘You’re not at fault here, sweetheart. He’s the guy with the problem. And the problem is me.’

He gave me a fast buzz on the cheek.

‘Listen, I’ve got to get home,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you over the weekend - when I’ve stopped wanting to punch a brick wall.’

He headed out into Central Park South. I wanted to chase after him, and reassure him that this whole incident meant nothing … even though I knew that wasn’t true. The worst thing you can do when something goes really wrong is to insist that everything’s just fine; that, come tomorrow, everyone will wake up as friends. If only life worked that way. If only we didn’t complicate things so damn much.

So I didn’t run after Jack, figuring it was best to talk to him once his emotional temperature was back to normal. Instead, I walked back to the bar, steeling myself for the confrontation I was about to have with my brother.

But when I entered the cocktail lounge, I now found Eric slumped in his chair, passed out. He was snoring loudly, much to the displeasure of the other patrons in the lounge, not to mention the bartender.

‘Is that guy with you?’ he asked as I crouched down beside Eric.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Well, get him out of here.’

It took a minute of constant shaking before Eric finally came around. He stared at me quizzically.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Looking at a jerk,’ I said.

The bartender found a member of the hotel staff to help me escort Eric out of the St Moritz and one block west to his apartment at Hampshire House. Thankfully, Ronnie was at home. He rolled his eyes when he saw Eric’s less than sober state. We each took an arm and led him into the bedroom.

‘I think I’m just a little tired,’ Eric mumbled before falling face down on the bed and passing out. Ronnie relieved my brother of his shoes, then covered him with a blanket.

‘Let’s let him sleep it off,’ he whispered, motioning for me to follow him back into the living room. ‘I’m sure you could use a drink.’

‘After what’s happened, I think alcohol’s about the last thing I’m interested in.’ Then I filled him in on Eric’s little performance in the bar of the St Moritz.

‘Jesus,’ Ronnie said when I finished. ‘He really knows how to mess things up.’

‘I just can’t believe he acted that way … especially knowing how important it was to me that he got along with Jack.’

‘He’s jealous.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of your guy, of course.’

‘But that’s crazy. I mean, when I was married, he wasn’t at all resentful of my husband …’

‘But, from what I can gather, that’s because he wasn’t threatened by him. Whereas with this new guy …’

‘But why the hell should he be threatened by Jack?’

‘Because he means so damn much to you, that’s why. And because he was really hurt by the fact that you kept it all from him for a couple of months.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘He told me, that’s how.’

‘I
had
to keep it from him. Until I was sure that …’

‘Hey, I’m not criticizing you here. All I’m saying is that your crazy brother adores you more than anything in the world. You should hear how he talks about you. You’re everything to him. And now along comes this guy - whom he met once before, right?’

‘Yes - and they hated each other on sight.’

‘There you go. So this Jack guy suddenly shows up again in your life - and it’s obviously so damn serious that you keep it all a secret from your brother. For months. And now he’s feeling anxious about losing you.’

‘Losing me?
That’s the last thing that would ever happen.’

‘You know that. I know that. But jealousy isn’t exactly the most rational of emotions, is it?’

I sat around with Ronnie until about six, hoping Eric might wake up. But when it became apparent that he was out for the night, I headed back to my apartment. I desperately wanted to hear from Jack - but the phone remained silent. At eight the next morning, however, my doorbell rang. I jumped out of bed, flung on a robe, and raced to the front door. Standing there was Eric. His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen. He was visibly nervous.

‘Will you ever speak to me again?’ he asked.

‘I don’t have many other options, do I?’

He came inside. I put a pot of coffee on the stove. He sat at the kitchen table, saying nothing. After a few minutes I spoke.

‘So, let’s hear the act of contrition.’

‘I was wrong.’

‘Incredibly wrong.’

‘Now Jack hates me.’

‘Do you really care whether he does or not?’

‘Yes, I do. Because I know he means so much to you.’

‘Then it isn’t just me to whom you should be apologizing.’

‘True,’ he said. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘No, it won’t. Because I don’t want to be put in a position where I am forced to choose between you and Jack. There’s no need for that choice to be made.’

‘I know, I know. Ronnie told me the same thing last night … after giving me the hardest time imaginable for what I’d done. He told me I’d behaved like a thirteen-year-old.’

‘That’s giving a thirteen-year-old too much credit.’

‘Do you think Jack will forgive me?’

‘Try him.’

I didn’t hear from Jack that weekend - which worried me, because he usually checked in at least once on Saturday. By late Sunday evening, I was wondering if, in the wake of Eric’s little performance, he’d suffered a change of heart. By Monday morning, I was certain what was coming next: a tense phone call, during which he’d inform me that, after much reflection, he’d decided that he simply could no longer sustain such divided loyalties, and had to return permanently to the bosom of his family. Or maybe a Dear John letter would arrive in the morning mail, in which he would state that Eric’s outburst on Friday had crystallized matters for him, and he now realized we had no future together. Or, worst yet, he’d resort to a telegram, with the same message that he sent me all those years ago:

I’m sorry.

Jack

It’s amazing how silence brings out our most terrible fears - and makes us expect the worst.

But then he called me at nine on Monday morning.

‘I thought I’d never hear from you again,’ I said.

‘I’m not that stupid.’

‘But you were angry.’

‘Yeah - I was angry. But not at you.’

‘You still didn’t call. And it got me worried.’

‘I needed to calm down. Then the weekend at home went all wrong. Charlie came down with a temperature of a hundred and six …’

‘Oh my God. Is he all right?’

‘Yeah. We had to get a pediatrician to make a house call. It was just a viral thing. But we were up all night Friday. Then on Saturday morning, when we were having breakfast, Dorothy suddenly broke down and started crying. When I asked her what was wrong, she refused to say. Of course, I knew why she was so upset. But when I tried to get her to tell me what was bothering her, she clammed right up. That’s when I asked, “Do you want me to leave?” Suddenly she wasn’t crying anymore. She was just angry as hell.

‘“Oh, that would suit you right down to the ground, wouldn’t it?” she said.

‘ “No,” I said, “it really wouldn’t.”

‘ “Well, I don’t know if I can stand this anymore,” she said, and went running into the bedroom. I decided it was best to leave her alone. Around a half-hour later, she came out, dressed, fully made up, looking completely calm. She gave me a kiss, asked me to forgive her for her outburst, and then told me that, since we were housebound today with Charlie, she was now going out to our local deli to buy us a big lunch. She was gone for around thirty minutes. When she came back, it was like nothing had happened. We sat down, we ate, Charlie’s fever finally broke, we watched Milton Berle on TV … one big happy family. And for the rest of the weekend, she didn’t say a thing about getting upset. This morning, I packed my suitcase, told her I’d be out of town until Thursday night. She kissed me goodbye, and said something cheerful like, “Don’t forget to call.” And I’ve got to tell you, Sara, I never felt like a bigger heel in my life.’

‘Then end this, Jack.’

‘You don’t want that, do you?’

‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘Do you?’

‘I want you more than anything. If you weren’t there, I don’t know how I’d get through the day. Sorry … I’m starting to sound like a sentimental idiot.’

‘That’s quite all right by me. Keep sounding like a sentimental idiot.’

‘I heard from your brother today.’

‘You
what?’
I said, sounding shocked.

‘There was a wrapped gift and a letter waiting for me here at the office when I walked in this morning. Want to hear what he wrote?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s short and sweet: “Dear Jack: I behaved like a child the other afternoon. A drunken child. I can’t excuse my behavior. Sometimes we do dumb things in life. This was dumber than most. I know how much my sister loves you. I would never do anything to intentionally hurt her - but I know my actions on Friday have hurt her terribly, and for that I feel shame. Just as I also feel total shame for treating you with such contempt. If you don’t want to forgive me for that outburst, I won’t blame you. All I can say, in closing, is this: I was wrong. And I am so sorry.”