The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) (44 page)

I waited a moment, then opened the door. Jack was lighting up a cigarette and pouring a shot of Hiram Walker bourbon into a hotel tooth glass. He tried to force a smile, but looked strained. I came over, put my arms around his neck and said, ‘Tell me.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘It’s hardly nothing if it’s making you look so tense.’

He shrugged. ‘Just a bad business call, that’s all.’

I let go of his neck, walked into the bathroom, took the remaining tooth glass off the sink, returned to the room and poured myself two fingers of bourbon.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘I hate being lied to.’

‘How have I lied to you?’

‘ “Just a bad business call.”
I heard who you were talking to on the phone.’

‘What do you mean, you heard?’

‘I mean, I was standing outside the door …’

‘Eavesdropping?’

‘I didn’t want to walk in right when you were speaking with Dorothy.’

‘Either that or you wanted to listen in …’

‘Why the hell would I want to listen in, Jack?’

‘I don’t know. You were the one who was standing outside the door …’

‘That’s because I didn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position by bursting into the room …’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said suddenly.

‘Never lie to me, Jack.
Never.’

He turned away, looking out the grimy window at the dim lights of downtown Albany. ‘I just thought … I don’t know … the last thing you wanted to hear was that I’d had a fight with Dorothy.’

‘You’re a fool, Malone. I may not like the idea you’re married, but that’s the territory you occupy - and I accept that. But if this is going to continue, you’ll have to keep lying to Dorothy. If you can handle that, fine. If you can’t, I’ll catch the last train back to Grand Central tonight.’

He turned and touched my arm. ‘Don’t catch that train.’

‘What was the argument about?’

‘She wanted me back tonight.’

‘Then you should have gone home.’

‘But I wanted to stay here with you.’

‘Much appreciated - but not when you start lying to me, in order to cover up lying to Dorothy.’

‘I’m a jerk.’

I managed a smile.

‘No - you’re a
married
jerk. Is she suspicious?’

‘Not at all. Just lonely. And I’m so damn muddled. There are times when I wish Dorothy wasn’t so decent and understanding. If she was a bitch …’

‘Everything would be fine?’

‘I wouldn’t feel so bad.’

‘Poor, poor you: she’s not a bitch.’

‘God, you can be a hard case, he said.

‘That’s because I have to be. It’s not easy loving someone with divided loyalties.’

‘They’re not really that divided. I adore you.’

‘But you are also committed to her.’

He shrugged. And said, ‘I have no choice.’

‘So, you’re dealing with a conundrum. The question is: are you going to let the conundrum remain insoluble?’

‘What do you suggest I do?’

‘Work out a way of being with me and with Dorothy. Compartmentalize. Be French.’

‘Can you handle that?’

‘I don’t know. Time will tell. The real question is: can you handle it, Jack?’

‘I don’t know either.’

‘Well, I’d try to figure that one out, Jack. Because if this romance becomes one long exercise in bad conscience, I’ll walk. I know what I can - and cannot - expect out of this. It’s up to you, my love.’

We returned to Manhattan the next morning. At Grand Central Station, he held me tightly.

‘I’d better stick close to home for the next few days,’ he said.

‘That’s probably smart.’

‘Can I call you?’

‘Do you really have to ask that question?’

He kissed me lightly on the lips.

‘Love you,’ he said.

‘You sound tentative.’

‘I’m trying not to be.’

I didn’t hear from him the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Naturally, his silence drove me crazy. Because it could only mean one thing: it was over.

The weekend came and went. On Monday, I stayed by the phone all day, just in case. But he never called. Then, at six thirty on Tuesday morning, the doorbell rang. He was standing outside. Behind him, a taxi was waiting in the street. His face lit up when I answered the door - even though I was still in a nightgown and was the picture of post-sleep disarray.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ I asked, groggily.

‘I’ll talk with you about that later. Right now, I want you to get dressed, get packed …’

‘I’m not following you.’

‘It’s simple: we’re booked on the eight forty-seven from Penn Station to Washington, DC. We’re staying three days at the Mayflower Hotel, and …’

‘Jack, I’d like an explanation …’

He leaned forward and kissed me.

‘Later, darling. I’ve got to run to the office before we depart.’

‘Who says I’m going. And why the hell are you suddenly springing this on me?’

‘Because I just decided to spring this on you ten minutes ago. Track seventeen at Penn Station. Be there no later than eight thirty. Which gives you around ninety minutes to pack and get down there.’

‘I don’t know, Jack.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he said, kissing me again. ‘Bye.’

Before I could say another word, he turned and headed into the taxi. When he got inside, he rolled down the window and shouted, ‘Be there.’

Then the taxi headed off.

I went back inside. I kicked a chair. I made a fast, firm decision: I wouldn’t be railroaded into running out of town with Jack - just because he’d suddenly decided I should accompany him. Hell, the bum hadn’t called me in six whole days. So there was absolutely no way that I was going to capitulate to his demands.

Having reached this judgment, I went straight into my bedroom and packed a suitcase. Then I jumped into the shower, dressed hurriedly, grabbed my typewriter and found a taxi heading south on West End Avenue.

I made the train with around ten minutes to spare. As planned, Jack was waiting for me on the platform. A porter walked ahead of me, my suitcase and Remington balanced on his trolley. Seeing me approach, Jack whipped off his snap-brim hat and bowed with a flourish.

‘I’m a fool to be doing this,’ I said.

‘Kiss me,’ he said.

I gave him a fast buzz on the lips.

‘That’s not much of a kiss,’ he said.

‘I want some answers first.’

‘You’ll get them,’ he said, handing the porter a tip.

We found our seats. As soon as the train pulled out of the station, Jack suggested we go to the dining car for breakfast. We ordered coffee. Jack made small talk - breezily asking me about the past six days, what movies I’d seen, how my work was going, and did I really think that Stevenson had a chance against Ike if (as expected) they did go head to head in the ‘52 election. Eventually, I cut him off.

‘What the hell has you so happy this morning?’

‘Oh, this and that,’ he said, still sounding far too cheerful.

‘Are you going to explain to me why you vanished for six days?’

‘Yes, I will.’

The coffee arrived. We fell silent until the waiter left.

‘Well, go on then,’ I said.

The requisite cigarette was placed between his lips. After lighting it, he glanced around the car, noting that there wasn’t anyone sitting directly next to us. Then he leaned forward and said, ‘I told her.’

This took a moment to register.

‘What did you just say?’ I asked.

‘I told her.’

‘You told
Dorothy
… ?’

‘Yes. I told Dorothy.’

My shock was deepening.

‘What exactly did you say?’

‘I told her everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Everything.’

T
HE TRAIN WAS
just emerging into New Jersey when I was able to speak again.

‘When did you tell her?’ I whispered.

‘The night I got back from Albany with you.’

‘How did you explain …’

‘I gave her the whole story. How we met after I came back to the States in forty-five. How I knew instantly that you were …’

He stopped and took a deep drag on his cigarette. After a moment or two he started talking again.

‘Dorothy is no fool. She got the entire gist of the story immediately. Then she said, “So you’re going to leave us?” I said no, I wouldn’t leave, because I had made a commitment … taken a vow … to her. And, of course, because we had Charlie. But I wouldn’t give you up either. Of course, if she now wanted me to leave, I’d go. But it would have to be her choice, her decision.’

‘So she threw you out?’

‘No. She told me she needed time to think. And she made me promise
not
to contact you until she had considered all this. Which is why you didn’t hear from me for nearly a week. I respected her wishes - even though she froze me out for five straight days. Then, last night, she finally spoke to me.

‘“I don’t have much choice in the matter,” she said. “But understand this: I
never
want to know. As far as I’m concerned, you’re on the road a couple of days a week. You are
out of town.
But when you’re home with Charlie and me, you’re
completely
with us.’”

I finally spoke again. ‘Of course she has a choice. She could throw you out. If I was in her position, I would. In a heartbeat.’

‘Yeah - I probably deserve that.’

I put down my coffee cup. I leaned forward and spoke quietly. ‘You don’t really think that, Jack. I mean, you should have seen your face ten minutes ago when you saw me walking down the platform. You looked like the cat who’d gotten the cream. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. Now, of course, I know exactly why you’re so damn happy. What a fantastic position for a guy like you to be in: the loyal little wife at home with the baby … and then, there’s
the other woman,
to whom the loyal little wife has suddenly decided to turn a blind eye, on the proviso that she’s never referred to as anything but
out of town.
In fact, here’s a thought: why don’t you stop using my real name and start calling me by my new acronym:
O.O.T … out of town.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased with this news.’

‘Of course you’d think that. After all, you’re the one who’s suddenly been transformed overnight from a guilt-laden Catholic to a happily polygamous Mormon. Because your poor wife has given you the license to have it your own damn way.’

‘I am not being smug.’

‘No - you’re just totally pleased with yourself. Why shouldn’t you be? You’ve confessed, you’ve been absolved. And now you can screw me two or three times a week, then waltz back home with a bouquet of roses, feeling irreproachable …’

‘Shhh …’ he said, nervously looking around the dining car.

‘Never tell me to shut up,’ I said, standing up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Leaving.’

He was on his feet. ‘What do you mean,
leaving?’

I stormed off down the corridor. Jack threw some money down on the table, and chased after me. He caught me between coaches. I shrugged him off.

‘I don’t get this,’ he said, yelling above the roar of the wheels.

‘Of course you don’t. That’s because you never think about other people’s feelings …’

‘I told Dorothy because I couldn’t lie …’

‘No - you told Dorothy because you needed her to absorb the remorse that you felt about cheating on her. You gambled that she wouldn’t throw you out. You gambled right. Now you have the ideal arrangement. Except there’s one little problem: I want nothing to do with it.’

‘If you’d just let me explain …’

‘Goodbye,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘I’m getting off at Newark.’

I moved into the next car. Jack followed me. ‘Don’t get off the train,’ he said.

‘I won’t be part of an arrangement.’

‘It is not an “arrangement”.’

‘Well, it sure as hell looks like that to me. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Darling …’ he said, lightly touching my shoulder.

‘Get off!’ I barked. Suddenly all eyes in the carriage were on us. I blushed deeply. Jack turned white.

‘Fine, fine,’ he whispered. ‘Have it your way.’

With that, he turned and went back towards the dining car.

With my gaze firmly fixed on the ground - to avoid seeing the disapproving glances of my fellow passengers - I slunk back to my seat. I sat down. I stared out the window, feeling the sort of jumpy after-shock that always accompanies an
exchange of words.
A few moments later, a conductor wandered down the aisle, shouting, ‘Newark. Next stop, Newark.’

I was about to stand up and grab my suitcase and typewriter. I didn’t move. The train shunted into Newark. I remained seated. After a few minutes, the conductor blew his whistle, and we continued our journey south.

Around half an hour later, Jack came walking down the aisle. He did a double-take when he saw me. But he did not smile.

‘You’re still here,’ he said, sitting down opposite me.

‘Clearly,’ I said.

‘I’m surprised.’

‘So am I.’

‘What made you change your mind?’

‘Who said I’ve changed my mind?’ I said. ‘I might still get off at Philadelphia.’

‘That’s your choice, Sara. Just like it’s also your choice whether …’

‘I will not be cast in the role of
the other woman.’

‘But that is exactly
why
I told her,’ he whispered. ‘That’s why I admitted to her that I loved you. Because I didn’t want you to be forced into that
mistress
role. Because Dorothy had to know - no matter how painful it was - that I was in love with you. Because that, in turn, gave her some options - like throwing me out, if she wanted to.’

‘Weren’t you disappointed when she foolishly decided to keep you?’

‘On one level,
yes
… I was disappointed. Because it would have freed me to be with you all the time. But it would have distressed the hell out of me as well. Because of Charlie, and because of Dorothy, who is too damn nice to be with a bum like me.’

I sighed loudly.

‘I still wish you’d never told her. Because now, every time you’re with me, I’ll find myself thinking:
she knows.’

‘All right, now she knows. But it’s not as if Dorothy and I were ever the love of each other’s life. She wouldn’t be with me if it hadn’t been for that little accident. She knows that too. So, it’s with her that I have the
arrangement.
Not you.
Never you.
Believe me: this is all going to work out fine.’

‘I don’t know …’

‘It will. I promise.’

‘Never promise anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you open up the prospect of disappointment. And because - now that Dorothy knows - things will change between us. Change is always unsettling.’

‘I won’t let things change between us.’

‘They will, my love. Because we’ll be no longer living in fear of discovery.’

‘But that’s a good thing.’

‘Agreed,’ then I added: ‘But it will never be as romantic, will it?’

At Washington, we immediately checked into a hotel and made love. We made love again late that night. And the next night in Baltimore. And the night after that in Wilmington. We returned to Manhattan. We shared a cab uptown. He dropped me at my apartment. He kissed me long and hard. He promised to call me tomorrow.

He kept his promise, phoning me the next afternoon from work. I asked him how he was greeted at home yesterday. I could hear him choose his words with care.

‘She was happy to see me.’

‘No questions asked about
out of town
… ?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘How’s Charlie?’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Did you sleep with her?’ I suddenly heard myself asking.

‘Sara …’ he said, trying to sound patient.

‘I need to know.’

‘We shared the same bed.’

‘Cut the crap, Jack.’

‘She wanted to, so …’

‘You had no choice. Oops! Miss Sarcastic strikes again.’

‘You shouldn’t ask me about that.’

‘You’re right. I shouldn’t. It’s self-injurious and self-defeating. Like being in love with a married man. Can you come over now?’ I asked, cutting him off.

‘Now?’

‘Yes.
Now.
Because I need you
now.’

He walked through my door thirty minutes later. An hour afterwards, he jumped up from my bed, and made a fast telephone call, informing some client that he was running ten minutes late. As he dressed, he said, ‘I’m out of town tomorrow.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Hartford and Springfield, allegedly. But I could actually be here - if that fits in with your schedule.’

‘I’ll see if I can move a few things around.’

When he showed up the next night, he had a large suitcase with him.

‘I just thought I might leave a few things here. If that’s all right.’

‘I suppose you’d like your very own closet.’

‘That would be handy.’

That night, he unpacked two suits, two pairs of shoes, three shirts, and several changes of underclothes. His umbrella soon found a home next to mine in a stand by the front door. A spare overcoat ended up in his closet. So too did a raincoat and one of his favorite snap-brim hats. Gradually, a complete second wardrobe appeared in my spare closet. His bathrobe hung next to mine on the back of the bedroom door. His shaving cream, brush and razor monopolized a corner of the bathroom sink. His ties dangled off the closet doorknob (until I bought him a tie rack). There were two spare cartons of Chesterfields in a kitchen cabinet. There were bottles of Ballantine Ale (his favorite) in the ice box. There was always a fifth of Hiram Walker in the living room.

He now lived here.

Or, at least, he lived here two days a week. The other two days, he was legitimately
out of town.
Traveling north to the more dismal corners of New England (Worcester, Lowell, Manchester). Or west to the Rust Belt cities of Pennsylvania. Or south on the Philadelphia-Washington axis. Some weeks, I would pack my Remington and accompany him on these journeys (though, snob that I am, I generally stuck to the Washington or Philadelphia runs). On Friday night, he would return home to Dorothy and Charlie. Though he would make a point of calling me daily (always from a phone booth), I wouldn’t see him again until Monday. Initially, I didn’t like this long three-day absence. Within a month or so, however, I began to appreciate the symmetry of our domestic schedule. I loved being with Jack. I loved his camaraderie. I loved having him in my bed. I was never bored in his company. He made me happy.

But I also came to like the fact that, come the weekend, my privacy would be returned to me. As I had discovered during my brief, wretched marriage to George, I was not a natural cohabiter. Even with Jack - a man I adored - there was a part of me which was pleased to see him leave on Friday, because it meant that, for three entire days, my life would be unencumbered. I could move at my own speed, set my own schedule, not worry about the needs of someone else. Yet, by Sunday night, I’d be desperate to see him again. And, come Monday at six, I’d start listening for him - waiting to hear the front door open (he now had his own set of keys), and the key to turn in my lock.

I also came to accept that this was, verily, an
arrangement.
Because unlike a conventional marriage, our relationship was conducted within strict parameters. We knew when we could (and couldn’t) see each other. I never called him at the office. I never called him at home. I had him for a set time each week. If I wanted, I could extend that time by accompanying him out of town. Come Friday, he was no longer mine. But rather than mourn his seventy-two-hour absence, I quickly recognized it as something of a gift. In many ways, the arrangement suited me perfectly - and afforded me benefits (in terms of personal latitude and basic time to myself) that eluded most married women. More tellingly, I didn’t have to engage in the power struggle which so defines most marriages. Our arrangement - the deal we struck between ourselves (without ever properly verbalizing it) - operated according to a very simple principle: no one was in charge here. No one was the head of the household. No one played the role of the breadwinner and of the little woman at home. We were equals.