The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (51 page)

I leapt up from the bed. I threw my arms around him.

‘Thank God …’ I said.

Eric managed a tired smile. ‘He had nothing to do with it,’ he said.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Here and there.’

‘You had me frantic. I’d thought you’d left town.’

‘I did. Sort of. At seven yesterday morning, I woke up and decided that the only thing I could do was get the next flight to Mexico City. Because, outside of Canada, Mexico’s the only foreign country you can enter without a passport. And hell, I’d done time down there after Father died, so I figured it was a logical destination for me.

‘Of course, I knew the Feds would be out in front of the building, so I tipped the doorman and had him slip me out of the side entrance. I hopped a cab, and told him to take me to Idlewild. Want to know something funny? If the cabbie hadn’t taken the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge, I’m sure I’d be on a flight to Mexico right now. But there we were, heading to Queens on that bridge. And I made the mistake of turning around in the back seat, and seeing that midtown skyline framed by the rear window. And before I had time to think about it, I told the cabbie, “Change of plan. As soon as you get off the bridge, turn around and bring me back to Manhattan.”

‘The driver didn’t like this one bit. “You crazy or somethin’?” he asked me.

‘“Yeah, I’m crazy. Crazy enough to stay here when I shouldn’t.”

‘I got him to drop me off at Grand Central Station. I checked my bag at the left luggage place there - but it was raining, so before I turned the bag over to the guy, I opened it up to get a folding umbrella I’d packed away for London. That’s when I found your gift. I tell you, I cried when I saw the inscription. Because I also knew that this was the pen I’d use to name names.’

I swallowed hard. And said nothing.

‘That’s what I had decided, halfway across the Fifty-Ninth Street Bridge. I was going to be a stoolie. I was going to sing like a canary. I was going to sell out several people who I hadn’t seen in years, and who were as innocent as I was. I was going to keep my job, and keep my lifestyle, and keep being able to run a tab at 21. Yeah, I’d feel bad about it … but
dem’s de breaks,
right? I mean, if the Feds knew I’d been a member of the Party, then they also knew that the people I’d be naming had been members too. So all I’d be doing is telling them stuff they already knew.

‘Or, at least, that’s how I rationalized it to myself.

‘So I clipped the pen inside my jacket pocket, and decided that I’d celebrate my last eight hours as a man with a relatively clean conscience by doing whatever the hell I wanted to do. Especially since I had a thousand bucks in traveler’s checks in my wallet. So I treated myself to a champagne breakfast at the Waldorf. Then I wandered into Tiffany’s and dropped some serious cash on a sterling silver cigarette case for Ronnie and a little something for you.’

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small blue box marked
Tiffany’s.
He tossed it over to me. I stared down at it.

‘Are you crazy?’ I asked.

‘Absolutely. Well go on, open the damn thing.’

I lifted off the lid, and stared down at an absurdly dazzling pair of platinum teardrop earrings, studded with small, perfect diamonds. I was speechless.

‘Does your silence indicate ambivalence?’ he asked.

‘They’re beautiful. But you shouldn’t have done this.’

‘Of course I should have. Don’t you know that the great American rule of thumb is - when committing an act of moral cowardice, always soften the blow for yourself by spending a lot of money?

‘Anyway, after my little spree at Tiffany’s I walked up Fifth Avenue and spent a few leisurely hours at the Metropolitan Museum, looking at Rembrandts. They’ve got
The Return of the Prodigal Son
on loan from Amsterdam. Helluva picture, as Jack Warner would say. The misery of family, the need for redemption, the tug between responsibility and desire - all wrapped up in one really dark canvas. I tell you, S - the only person to use black better than Rembrandt is Coco Chanel.

‘After the Met, it was lunchtime. Off to 21. Two martinis, an entire Maine lobster, half a bottle of Pouilly-Fume … and I was ready for a little more
hoch kultur.
The New York Phil was doing a matinee at Carnegie Hall with your old favorite, Bruno Walter, on the podium. And the band were playing Bruckner’s Ninth Symphony. Amazing stuff. A big cathedral of sound. A guided tour of heaven in the company of a devout believer - and a sense that there is something just a little grander and more all-encompassing than our trivial endeavors on Planet Stupid.

‘The audience went nuts when the concert ended. I too was on my feet, cheering my lungs out. Until I glanced at my watch. Four thirty. Time to stroll down to Rockefeller Center and engage in some very dirty work.

‘Agent Sweet and that shithead Ross were waiting for me on the forty-third floor. Once again, I was escorted into the conference room. Once again, Ross glowered at me.

‘“So,” he said, “you’ve decided to cooperate.”

‘“Yes,” I said. “I’ll give you some names.”

‘“Agent Sweet told me about your little escapade at the passport office yesterday.”

‘“I panicked,” I said.

‘“That’s one way of describing your actions.”

‘“But if the passport had come through, you’d be out of the country by now,” Sweet said.

‘“And I would have rued that decision for the rest of my life,” I said.

‘“Liar,” Ross said.

‘“You mean, you’ve never heard of a Pauline conversion, Mr Ross?”

‘“Didn’t that happen on the road to Damascus?” Agent Sweet asked.

‘“Yes - and it’s about to happen here right now in Rockefeller Center,” I said. “What do you want to know?”

‘Sweet sat down opposite me. He was working hard at containing his excitement, knowing full well that I was about to inform on my friends.

‘“We’d like to know,” he said, “who brought you into the Party, who ran your cell, and who were the other members of the cell.”

‘“Fine,” I said. “Would you mind if I wrote this down.”

‘Sweet handed me a yellow legal pad. I pulled out your beautiful new pen. I uncapped it. I took a deep troubled breath. And I wrote eight names. It took less than a minute - and the funny thing was, I remembered them all with ease.

‘When I was finished, I recapped the pen, put it back in my pocket, then pushed the pad forward - as if I couldn’t bear to look at it. Sweet came around and patted me on the shoulder. “I know this couldn’t have been easy, Mr Smythe. But I’m glad you’ve done the proper, patriotic thing.”

‘Then he picked up the pad. He stared at it for a moment, then threw it back in front of me and said, “What the hell is this?”

‘“You wanted names,” I said. “I gave you names.”

‘“Names,” he said, snatching up the pad again. “This is your idea of names?” Then he started reading them one by one.

‘“Sleepy, Grumpy, Dopey, Bashful, Happy, Sneezy, Doc, and … who the fuck is SW?”

‘“Snow White, of course,” I said.

‘Ross grabbed the pad from Sweet’s hand. He glanced at it, then said, “You have just committed professional hara-kiri.”

‘“Didn’t know you spoke Japanese, Ross. Maybe you were one of their spies during the last war.”

‘“Get out,” he yelled at me. “You’re dead here.”

‘As I left, Sweet told me to expect a subpoena from HUAC any day. “See you in Washington, asshole,” he shouted as I left.’

I stared at Eric, wide-eyed. ‘You
really
wrote the names of the Seven Dwarfs?’ I asked.

‘Well, they were the first Communists that came to mind. Because, let’s face it, they lived collectively, they shared their communal wealth, they …’

His face fell. He started to shudder. I ran over and held him. ‘It’s okay, it’s okay,’ I said. ‘You did wonderfully. I’m so damn proud of …’

‘Proud of what? The fact that I killed my career this afternoon? The fact that I’m now unemployable? The fact that I’m about to lose everything?’

I suddenly heard Ronnie’s voice. ‘You haven’t lost us,’ he said.

I looked up. Ronnie was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. Eric glanced in his direction.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked tonelessly. ‘You’re not due back till Monday.’

‘Sara and I were just a little worried that you might have vanished into thin air.’

‘I really think you both could spend your time worrying about more important matters.’

‘Will you listen to Mr False Modesty,’ Ronnie said. ‘And where the fuck have you been since naming the Seven Dwarfs?’

‘Oh, here and there. Mainly a bunch of seedy bars on Broadway, then an all-night movie theater on Forty-Second Street. Saw a honey of a new Robert Mitchum thriller:
His Kind of a Woman.
Howard Hughes produced. Jane Russell co-starred, natch. Pretty nifty script: “I was just taking my tie off, wondering if I should hang myself with it.” Kind of summed up how I felt last night.’

‘Mr Self-Pity,’ Ronnie said. ‘Too bad you couldn’t have dropped a nickel and told us you were alive and well.’

‘Oh - but that would have been easy. And I don’t do easy.’

I tousled his hair.

‘But you did good, Mr Smythe,’ I said. ‘Didn’t he, Ronnie?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, coming over and taking his hand. ‘He did real good.’

‘This calls for a toast,’ I said, picking up the phone. ‘Will room service deliver champagne this early?’

‘Sure,’ Eric said. ‘And while you’re at it, tell them I want an arsenic chaser.’

‘Eric, don’t worry,’ I said. ‘You’re going to survive this.’

He leaned his head on Ronnie’s shoulder.

‘I doubt it,’ he said.

T
HE STORY BROKE
in the papers the next morning. Predictably, it was that great patriot, Walter Winchell, who dished the dirt. It was just a five-line item in his
Daily Mirror
column. But it did a lot of damage.

He may be Marty Manning’s best scribe … but he used to be a Red. And now Eric Smythe’s in nowheresville after taking the Fifth with the Feds. He may know how to crack a joke, but he doesn’t know how to sing ‘God Bless America’. And what about the romantic company the never-married Smythe is keeping at his swank Hampshire House pad? No wonder NBC showed him the door marked ‘Get Lost’.

Winchell’s column hit the streets at noon. An hour later, Eric called me at my apartment. I was still in deep shock from reading this decimation job on my brother, but I didn’t know if he’d seen it yet. Until, of course, I heard his voice. He sounded dazed.

‘You’ve read it?’ he asked.

‘Yes. I read it. And I’m sure you could sue that bastard Winchell for defamation of character.’

‘I’ve just been handed an eviction notice,’ he said.

‘You
what?’

‘A letter was just pushed under my front door from the management of Hampshire House, informing me that I’m to vacate my apartment in forty-eight hours.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘What do you think? Winchell’s line about the “romantic company” I’m keeping at my “swank Hampshire House pad”.’

‘But surely, the management knew that Ronnie was living there with you.’

‘Sure. But the deal was, I didn’t say anything and they didn’t ask anything. But now, that shit Winchell has blown everyone’s cover - and the Hampshire House management are being forced to do something public and noticeable … like evicting the pervert.’

‘Don’t call yourself that.’

‘Why not? It’s how everyone’s going to see me now. After all, I’m the
never-married Smythe,
right? You don’t have to be Lionel Trilling to grasp the underlying meaning of that sentence.’

‘Call Joel Eberts - ask him to get an injunction blocking the eviction notice, then fight the bastards in the courts.’

‘What’s the point? They’ll win anyway, and I’ll be even deeper in debt.’

‘I’ll pay the legal bills. Anyway, Mr Eberts isn’t that expensive …’

‘But we’re probably talking about a six-month battle … which I’ll end up losing. I’m not going to drain your bank account on my behalf. Especially as you’re going to need the money. Because, thanks to me, your position at
Saturday/Sunday
is probably now in jeopardy.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ I said. ‘They wouldn’t play the guilt-by-association card.’

But they did. The morning after the Winchell piece appeared, I received a call from Imogen Woods, my editor at
Saturday/Sunday.
She was trying to sound calm and casual - but she was clearly nervous. She suggested we meet for a coffee. When I told her I was really behind in work - thanks to the chaotic events of this week - and couldn’t see her until after the weekend, her tone changed.

‘I’m afraid it’s a matter of some urgency,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ I said, suddenly nervous. ‘Well, could we talk about it now?’

‘No. I don’t think this is something for the phone … if you take my meaning.’

I did. And I was now genuinely worried. ‘Okay - where do you want to meet?’ I asked.

She suggested the bar of the Roosevelt Hotel near Grand Central Station in an hour’s time.

‘But I have a deadline for you this afternoon,’ I said.

‘It can wait,’ she said.

I reached the Roosevelt at the appointed hour of eleven. Imogen had a Manhattan on the table in front of her. She smiled tightly as I approached. She stood up and kissed me on the cheek. She offered me a drink. I said I’d prefer coffee at this hour of the morning.

‘Have a drink, sweetheart,’ she said, radiating uneasiness.

‘Okay,’ I said, now thinking that alcohol might be necessary. ‘A Scotch and soda.’

She ordered the drink. She made small talk about attending the Broadway opening of a Garson Kanin play the previous night.

‘Winchell was there too,’ she said, studying my face for a reaction. I gave her none.

‘I think he’s a monster,’ she said.

‘So do I.’

And I just want you to know that I really felt for you yesterday, after I saw that item in Winchell’s column,’ she said.

‘Thank you - but it was my brother who was smeared …’

‘Listen, I just want you to know that, personally speaking, I am completely behind you both …’

Alarm bells began to ring between my ears. ‘That’s nice to know,’ I said, ‘but, like I told you, it’s Eric who’s taking the heat right now, not me.’

‘Sara …’

‘What the hell is wrong, Imogen?’

‘Early this morning, I got a call from His Godship the Editor. It seems the magazine’s board had their monthly meeting last night, and one of the big topics of conversation was the controversy swirling around your brother. Because, let’s face it, it’s not just his past political associations that have upset them. It’s also his private life.’

‘That’s right. It’s
his
private life.
His
past political associations. Not mine.’

‘We know you were never politically involved …’

‘What do you mean,
we?

‘His Godship, Ralph J. Linklater, had a visit yesterday morning from a guy named Sweet from the FBI. He told him that they had been running quite a substantial investigation into your brother’s political past. It had been going on for a few months. Naturally enough, they also decided to run a background check on you.’

‘I don’t believe this. Why on earth would they be interested in me?’

‘Because, like your brother, you have a certain public platform …’

‘I write movie reviews and a completely frivolous column about completely frivolous things …’

‘Sara,
please
… I’m just the messenger here.’ Then after a quick scan around the bar, she leaned forward and whispered: ‘Personally, I think these investigations are insane. And even more un-American than the un-American activities they’re supposed to be rooting out. But I’m caught in the middle like everyone else.’

‘I have never,
ever
been a Communist,’ I hissed. ‘Jesus Christ, I voted for Truman in forty-eight, not Wallace. I am about the most apolitical person imaginable.’

‘That’s what the Feds told Linklater.’

‘Then what’s the problem here?’

‘There are two problems. The first is, your brother. If he had cooperated with NBC, there would have been no problem. The fact that he didn’t means there is now a problem vis-a-vis you and
Saturday/Sunday.’

‘But
why?
I am not his keeper.’

‘Listen, had Eric talked, the Winchell item would have never appeared, and all this would have been forgotten about. But now he’s been exposed as a one-time Communist, and as a man who does not have … how can I say this? … a
typical
domestic home life. From what Linklater told me this morning, the board’s great worry is that his problems will somehow cast a bad light on you …’

‘Let’s cut the crap, Imogen,’ I said loudly. ‘What you’re really saying is that
Saturday/Sunday
is worried about having a columnist whose brother is a former Communist
and
a practicing homosexual …’

That brought the bar to a silent standstill. Imogen looked like she wanted to vanish into the floor.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘That is the essence of their dilemma.’ She motioned me towards her. ‘But it’s compounded by another problem. His Godship knows about you and the married man.’

I sat back in my chair, stunned.

‘Who told him?’ I finally said.

‘The FBI guy.’

My shock deepened. ‘But how the hell did he know?’

‘I gather that when they decided to investigate your brother a couple of months ago, they also figured they should look into your background. And although they didn’t find any political stuff, they did discover that you were having this thing with a married guy …’

‘But the only way they could have done that was by spying on me. Or listening in on my phone calls. Or …’

‘I don’t know how they found out. All I know is:
they know.
And they’ve told Linklater … and Linklater has told the board.’

‘But … but … it’s my private life. It has no impact whatsoever on my column. I mean, I’m not exactly someone in the public eye. As you know, I even balked at having a photo of me in the magazine. No one knows who I am. I like it that way. So why …
why?
… should anyone worry about with whom I share my life?’

‘Now that your brother’s been exposed, I think Linklater is worried word might slip out about your own domestic arrangements. I mean, it’s only a matter of time before Eric is subpoenaed by HUAC. His testimony will make the papers. If he still refuses to cooperate, he’ll be cited for contempt, and he’ll probably do time. This will mean even more publicity. Who’s to say the Feds mightn’t feed Winchell or some other hack a little tidbit about you and your married friend? And you know what that asshole would write:
“It isn’t just Redder-than-Red Eric Smythe who’s got an interesting private life. Single Sis Sara - she who writes that funny ‘Real Life’ column in
Saturday/Sunday -
has her own interesting set-up with a guy who’s got a wedding band on his left finger. And I thought
Saturday/Sunday
called itself a family magazine’”

‘But that’s insane logic …’

‘I know it’s insane … but this is how people are thinking right now. I’ve got a brother, he’s a professor of chemistry out at Berkeley. And the University Regents have just asked him to sign a loyalty oath -
yes,
an actual piece of paper, in which he swears that he’s not a member of any subversive organization endangering the stability of the United States. Every faculty member at the university’s been forced to do the same thing. To me, this sort of thing is repugnant. Just as I also think it’s repugnant what’s happening to your brother. And to you.’

‘What
is
happening to me, Imogen?’

She met my gaze. ‘They want to put both your columns on hold for a while.’

‘In other words, you’re firing me.’

‘No, we are definitely
not
firing you.’

‘What the hell do you call it then?’

‘Hear me out. His Godship really likes you, Sara - as we all do. We don’t want to lose you. We just think that, until this entire issue with your brother is resolved, it’s best if you lie low for a while.’

‘Better known as vanishing from view.’

‘Here’s the deal - and, under the circumstances, I don’t think it’s a bad one. We announce in the next issue of the magazine that you’re taking a leave of absence for six months to do some other writing. We continue to pay you a retainer of two hundred dollars a week. Then, six months from now, we review the entire situation.’

‘And if my brother’s still in trouble then?’

‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’

‘Say I decide to fight this? To go public about the way you are buckling to pressure from …’

‘I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. You can’t win this one, Sara. If you try to fight it, they’ll simply fire you, and you’ll end up with nothing. At least this way you come out of the situation with no loss of face, no major loss of income. Consider it a paid sabbatical, courtesy of
Saturday/Sunday.
Go to Europe. Go write a novel. All His Godship asks for is …’

‘I know - my complete and total silence.’

I stood up. ‘I’m going now,’ I said.

‘Please don’t do anything rash,’ she said. ‘Please think this all through.’

I nodded. Imogen stood up. She took my hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

I pulled my hand away.

‘Shame on you,’ I said.

I left the Roosevelt. I marched north up Madison Avenue, oblivious to the wave of pedestrians heading south. I was in something close to a rage, and would have chewed the head off of anybody who dared to bump into me. I hated the world at that moment. I hated its pettiness - its malevolence and spite. More than anything, I hated the way people used fear as a way of gaining control over others. Right now I wanted to jump the next train to Washington, and walk straight into the office of J. Edgar Hoover, and ask him what he really felt could be achieved by persecuting my brother.
You say you ‘re defending our way of life,
I’d tell him.
But all you ‘re really doing is enhancing your power. Information is knowledge. Knowledge is control. Control is based on fear. Because you now have us all afraid, you win. And all we like sheep have no one but ourselves to blame for your power, because we’ve given it to you.