The Pursuit Of Happiness Read online

  Predictably, my parents tried to block my move there. When I announced – around three weeks before my graduation – that I had been offered a trainee job at Life, they were horrified. I was home for the weekend in Hartford (a trip I made deliberately to break the job news to them, and also to inform them that I wouldn't be accepting Horace's marriage proposal). Ten minutes into the conversation, the emotional temperature within our household quickly hit boiling point.

  'I am not having any daughter of mine living by herself in that venal, indecent city,' my father pronounced.

  'New York is hardly indecent – and Life isn't exactly Confidential,' I said, mentioning a well-known scandal sheet of the time. 'Anyway I thought you'd be thrilled with my news. Life only accepts ten trainees a year. It's an incredibly prestigious offer.'

  'Father's still right,' my mother said. 'New York is no place for a young woman without family.'

  'Eric's not family?'

  'Your brother is not the most moral of men,' my father said.

  'And what does that mean?' I said angrily.

  My father was suddenly flustered, but he covered up his embarrassment by saying, 'It doesn't matter what it means. What matters is the simple fact that I will not permit you to live in Manhattan.'

  'I am twenty-two years old, Father.'

  'That's not the issue.'

  'You have no legal right to tell me what I can or cannot do.'

  'Don't hector your father,' my mother said. 'And I must tell you that you are making a dreadful mistake by not marrying Horace.'

  'I knew you'd say that.'

  'Horace is a splendid young man,' my father said.

  'Horace is a very nice young man – with a very nice, dull future ahead of him.'

  'You are being arrogant,' he said.

  'No – just accurate. Because I will not be pushed into a life I don't want.'

  'I am not pushing you into any life . . .' my father said.

  'By forbidding me from going to New York, you are stopping me from taking control of my own destiny.'

  'Your destiny!' my father said, with cruel irony. 'You actually think you have a destiny! What bad novels have you been reading at Bryn Mawr?'

  I stormed out of the room. I ran upstairs and fell on the bed, sobbing. Neither of my parents came up to comfort me. Nor did I expect them to. That wasn't their style. They both had a very Old Testament view of parenthood. Father was our household's version of The Almighty – and once He had spoken, all argument was silenced. So, for the rest of the weekend, the subject wasn't raised again. Instead, we made strained conversation about the recent Japanese activity in the Pacific – and I stayed button-lipped when Father went into one of his jeremiads about FDR. On Sunday he drove me to the train station. When we arrived there he patted my arm.

  'Sara, dear – I really don't like fighting with you. Though we are disappointed that you won't be marrying Horace, we do respect your decision. And if you really are that keen on journalism, I do have several contacts on the Hartford Courant. I don't think it would be too difficult to find you something there . . .'

  'I am accepting the job offer at Life, Father.'

  He actually turned white – something Father never did.

  'If you do accept that job, I will have no choice but to cut you off.'

  'That will be your loss.'

  And I left the car.

  I felt shaky all the way to New York – and more than a little scared. After all, I had directly defied my father – something I had never attempted before. Though I was trying to be dauntless and self-confident, I was suddenly terrified of the thought that I might just lose my parents. Just as I was also terrified by the thought that – if I heeded Father's wish – I would end up writing the 'Church Notes' column in the Hartford Courant, and ruing the fact that I had allowed my parents to force me into a small life.

  And yes, I did believe I had a destiny. I know that probably sounds vainglorious and absurdly romantic . . . but at this early juncture in so-called adult life, I had reached one simple conclusion about the future: it had possibilities . . . but only if you allowed yourself the chance to explore those possibilities. However, most of my contemporaries were falling into line, doing what was expected of them. At least fifty per cent of my class at Bryn Mawr had weddings planned for the summer after they graduated. All those boys trickling home from the war were, by and large, just thinking about getting jobs, settling down. Here we were – the generation who was about to inherit all that postwar plenty, who (compared to our parents) had infinite opportunities. But instead of running with those opportunities, what did most of us do? We became good company men, good housewives, good consumers. We narrowed our horizons, and trapped ourselves into small lives.

  Of course, I only realized all this years later (hindsight always gives you perfect vision, doesn't it?). Back in the spring of '45, however, all that concerned me was doing something interesting with my life – which essentially meant not marrying Horace Cowett, and definitely taking that job at Life. But by the time I reached Penn Station after that horrible weekend with my parents, I had lost my nerve. Despite four years away at college, Father still loomed large in my life. I still desperately sought his approval, even though I knew it was impossible to receive it. And I did think he really would carry out his threat to disinherit me if I went to New York. How could I live without my parents?

  'Oh, please,' Eric said when I related this fear to him. 'Father wouldn't dare cut you off. He dotes on you.'

  'No, he doesn't . . .'

  'Believe me, the old fool feels he must play the stern Victorian paterfamilias – but, at heart, he's a scared sixty-four-year-old who's about to be put out to pasture by his company next year, and is terrified of the horrors of retirement. So do you really think he's going to slam the door on his only beloved daughter?'

  We were sitting in the cocktail lounge of the Hotel Pennsylvania, opposite Penn Station. Eric had arranged to meet me off the train from Hartford that Sunday afternoon (I had a two-hour wait for my connection back to Bryn Mawr, via Philadelphia). As soon as I saw him on the platform, I threw myself against his shoulder and started to weep, simultaneously hating myself for behaving so weakly. Eric held me until I calmed down, then said, 'So, did you have fun at home?'

  I had to laugh. 'It was wonderful,' I said.

  'I can tell. The Pennsylvania's nearby. And the bartender there makes a mean Manhattan.'

  That was the understatement of the decade. After two of those Manhattans, I felt like I was under anaesthetic – which, I must admit, isn't a bad thing to feel on occasion. Eric tried to get a third drink into me – but I dug in my heels and insisted on a ginger ale. I didn't want to say anything, but I was a little concerned when my brother downed his third Manhattan in four fast gulps, then called for another. Though we'd been in regular contact by letter (long-distance calls – even from New York to Pennsylvania – were expensive back then), I hadn't seen him since Christmas. And I was genuinely taken aback by his physical state. His lanky frame had thickened. His complexion was pasty. A small, but noticeable roll of fat hung beneath his chin. He was chain-smoking Chesterfields and coughing loudly. He was only twenty-eight, but he was beginning to have that puffy look of a man who had been prematurely aged by disappointment. Of course his conversation was as fizzy and funny as ever, but I could tell that he was worried about work. I knew from his letters that his new play (something about a migrant worker revolt in southwest Texas) had just been rejected by every possible theater company in New York, and he was paying the rent by reading unsolicited scripts for the Theater Guild ('It's pretty depressing work,' he wrote me in March, 'because it's all about saying no to other writers. But it's $30 a week – which just about pays my bills'). And when he threw back his fourth Manhattan in five gulps, I decided to stop being silent about his chain-drinking.

  'One more of those Manhattans, and you'll stand up on the table to sing "Yankee Doodle Dandy".'

  'Now you're being a purita
n, S. After I see you off to beautiful Philadelphia, I shall take the subway back to my Sullivan Street atelier and write until sunrise. Believe me, five Manhattans is nothing more than creative lubrication.'

  'Okay – but you should also think about switching to filtered cigarettes. They're much kinder to your throat.'

  'Oh God! Listen to the Bryn Mawr ascetic! Ginger ale, filtered cigarettes. Next thing you'll tell me is that, if he gets the nomination, you're going to vote for Dewey against Roosevelt in the next election.'

  'You know I would never do that.'

  'I think I was making a joke, S. Though I must say Daddy would be boggled beyond belief were you to vote Republican.'

  'He'd still insist that I return to Hartford like a good little girl.'

  'You won't be returning to Hartford after graduation.'

  'He's given me a pretty stark choice, Eric'

  'No – what he's doing is playing the oldest poker ruse in the world. Putting all his chips into the pot, pretending that he holds a straight flush, and daring you to see his bet. So you're going to call his bluff by taking the job at Life. And though he will grump and groan about it – and probably do a little of his Teddy Roosevelt sabre-rattling – in the end he's going to accept your decision. Because he has to. Anyway, he knows that I'll look after you in the big bad city.'

  'That's what's scaring him,' I said, and immediately regretted that comment.

  'Why?'

  'Oh, you know . . .'

  'No,' Eric said, sounding unamused. 'I don't know.'

  'He probably thinks you'll turn me into a raging Marxist.'

  Eric lit up another cigarette. His eyes were sharply focused, and he looked at me warily. I could tell that he was suddenly sober again.

  'That's not what he said, S.'

  'Yes it was,' I said, sounding unconvincing.

  'Please tell me the truth.'

  'I told you –'

  '– that he didn't like the idea of me looking after you in New York. But surely he explained why he thought I might be a bad influence.'

  'I really don't remember.'

  'Now you're lying to me. And we don't lie to each other, S.'

  My brother took my hand, and quietly said, 'You have to tell me.'

  I looked up and met his stare. 'He said he didn't think you were the most moral of men.'

  Eric said nothing. He just took a long, deep drag on his cigarette, coughing slightly as he inhaled.

  'Of course, I don't think that,' I said.

  'Don't you?'

  'You know I don't.'

  He stabbed the cigarette into the ashtray, and threw back the remainder of his drink.

  'But if it was true . . . if I wasn't "the most moral of men" . . . would that bother you?'

  Now it was his turn to meet my gaze. I knew what we were both thinking: this was an issue that we've always dodged . . . even though it has always been lurking in the background. Like my parents, I too had had my suspicions about my brother's sexuality (especially since there had never been a girlfriend in his life). But, back then, such suspicions were never discussed. Everything was closeted. Literally. And figuratively. To openly admit your homosexuality in forties America would have been an act of suicide. Even to the kid sister who adored you. So we spoke in code.

  'I think you're about the most moral person I know,' I said.

  'But Father is using the word "moral" in a different way. Do you understand that, S?'

  I covered his hand with mine.

  'Yes. I do.'

  'And does that trouble you?'

  'You're my brother. That's all that matters.'

  'Are you sure?'

  My hand squeezed his.

  'I'm sure.'

  'Thanks.'

  'Shut up,' I said with a smile.

  He squeezed my hand back.

  'I'll always be in your corner, S. Know that. And don't worry about Father. He won't win this one.'

  A week later, a letter arrived for me at Bryn Mawr.

  Dear S,

  After seeing you last Sunday, I decided that a fast day trip to Hartford was long overdue. So I jumped the train the next morning. Needless to say, Mother and Father were just a tad surprised to see me on their doorstep. Though he refused to listen at first, eventually Father had no choice but to hear me out on your behalf. For the first hour of our 'negotiations' (the only word for it), he stuck to his 'She's coming back to Hartford, and that's the end of it' line. So I started playing the 'It would be a pity if you lost both your children' card with great finesse – making it less of a threat, more of a tragic potentiality. When he dug in his heels and said that his mind was made up, I said, 'Then you're going to end up a lonely old man.' With that, I left, and took the next train back to New York.

  The next morning the phone rang at the ungodly hour of eight a.m. It was Father Dearest. His tone was still gruff and inflexible, but his tune had definitely changed.

  'Here's what I will accept. Sara can take the job at Life, but only if she agrees to reside at the Barbizon Hotel for Women on East 63rd Street. It comes highly recommended by one of my associates at Standard Life, and operates according to strict rules, with nightly curfews and no visitors after dark. As Mother and I will know she is being carefully looked after at the Barbizon, we will therefore accede to her demands about living in Manhattan. As you seem to have cast yourself in the role of go-between, I will leave it to you to put this proposition to Sara. Please inform her that, though she has our love and support, we will not negotiate on this issue.'

  Naturally I said nothing – except that I would pass on his offer to you. But, as far as I'm concerned, this is a near-capitulation on his part. So drink five Manhattans in celebration and kiss Pennsylvania goodbye. You're going to New York . . . with parental blessing to boot. And don't worry about the Barbizon. We'll check you in there for the first month or two, then quietly transfer you to your own apartment. And then we'll figure out a way of breaking the news to Father and Mother without reactivating hostilities.

  Peace in our time.

  Your 'moral' brother,

  Eric

  I nearly screamed with delight when I finished reading this letter. Racing back to my dorm room, I grabbed a piece of stationery and a pen, and wrote:

  Dear E,

  I'm writing FDR tonight and nominating you to run the League of Nations (if it's reconstituted after the war). You're a diplomatic genius! And the best brother imaginable. Tell all the gang on 42nd Street that I will soon be there . . .

  Love, S

  I also scribbled a fast note to Father, informing him that I accepted his terms, and assuring him that I would do the family proud in New York (a coded way of letting him know I would remain 'a nice girl', even though I was living in that Sodom and Gomorrah called Manhattan).

  I never received a reply from Father to my letter. Nor did I expect to. It simply wasn't his way. But he did attend my graduation with Mother. Eric took the train down for the day. After the ceremony, we all went out for lunch at a local hotel. It was an awkward meal. I could see Father glancing between the two of us, and pursing his lips. Though Eric had put on a tie and jacket for the occasion, it was the only jacket he owned (a battered Harris tweed he'd found in a thrift shop). His shirt was Army-surplus khaki. He looked like a union organizer – and chain-smoked throughout the lunch (at least he kept his liquor intake down to two Manhattans). I was dressed in a sensible suit, but Father still regarded me with unease. Having dared to stand up to him, I was no longer his little girl. And I could tell that he was finding it difficult to be relaxed around me (though, if truth be told, my father was never relaxed in the company of his children). Mother, meanwhile, did what Mother always did: she smiled nervously, and followed my father's lead on anything he said.