The Pursuit Of Happiness Page 9

  Long pause.

  'No,' he said. 'She didn't deserve it. What can I say, Kate? Except that I allowed myself to be wrongly influenced by . . .' He cut himself off, and lowered his voice. 'Put it this way: the argument was always presented in "It's either her or me" terms. And I was so weak, I bought it.'

  Another silence. Then I said, 'Okay, I'll Fedex you a check for five thousand today.'

  It took a moment to sink in. 'Are you serious?'

  'It's what Mom would have wanted.'

  'Oh God, Kate . . . I don't know what to . . .'

  'Say nothing . . .'

  'I'm overwhelmed . . .'

  'Don't be. It's family business.'

  'I promise, swear, I'll pay it all back as soon as . . .'

  'Charlie . . . enough. You'll have the check tomorrow. And when you're in a position to pay me back, you pay me back. Now I need to ask you . . .'

  'Anything. Any favor you need.'

  'It's just a question I need answered, Charlie.'

  'Sure, sure.'

  'Did you ever know a Sara Smythe?'

  'Never heard of her. Why?'

  'I've received a condolence letter from her, saying she knew Mom and Dad before I was born.'

  'Doesn't ring any bells with me. Then again, I don't remember most of Mom and Dad's friends from back then.'

  'That's not surprising. I can't remember who I met last month. Thanks anyway.'

  'No – thank you, Kate. You don't know what that five grand means to all of us . . .'

  'I think I have an idea.'

  'Bless you,' he said quietly.

  After I hung up, a thought struck me: I actually missed my brother.

  I spent the balance of the morning tidying the apartment and dealing with domestic chores. When I returned from the laundry room in the basement of the building, I found a message on my answering machine:

  'Hello, Kate . . .'

  It was a voice I hadn't heard before; a deeply refined voice with a noticeable New England twang.

  'It's Sara Smythe here. I do hope you received my letter and I do apologize for calling you at home. But it would be nice to meet up. As I said in my letter, I was close to your family when your father was alive, and would very much like to renew contact with you after all these years. I know how busy you are, so whenever you have a chance please give me a ring. My number is five-five-five oh-seven-four-five. I am in this afternoon, if you're around. Once again, my thoughts are with you at this difficult time. But I know you're tough and resilient – so you'll get through this. I so look forward to meeting you face-to-face.'

  I listened to the message twice, my alarm (and outrage) growing by the second. I would very much like to renew contact with you after all these years . . . I know how busy you are . . . I know you're tough and resilient. . . Jesus Christ, this woman was sounding like she was an old dear family friend, or someone on whose knee I climbed when I was five. And didn't she have the decency to realize that, just having buried my mother yesterday, I wasn't exactly in the mood for socializing?

  I picked up the letter she had hand-delivered earlier today. I walked into Ethan's room. I powered up his computer. I wrote:

  Dear Ms Smythe,

  I was enormously touched both by your letter and by your kind message.

  As I'm certain you know, grief affects people in such curious, singular ways. And right now, I simply want to withdraw for a while and be alone with my son and my thoughts.

  I appreciate your understanding. And, once again, my thanks for your sympathy at this sad juncture.

  Yours,

  Kate Malone

  I read the letter twice through before hitting the button marked Print, then signing my name at the bottom. I folded it, placed it in an envelope, scribbled Smythe's name and address on the front, then sealed it. Returning to the kitchen, I picked up the phone, and called my secretary at the office. She arranged for our courier service to pick up the letter at my apartment and deliver it to Ms Smythe's place on West 77th Street. I knew I could have posted the letter, but feared that she might try to call me again tonight. I wanted to make certain I didn't hear from her again.

  Half-an-hour later, the doorman rang me to say that the courier was downstairs. I grabbed my coat and left the apartment. On my way out the front door, I handed the letter to the helmeted motorcycle messenger. He assured me that he'd deliver it across town within the next thirty minutes. I thanked him, and headed up toward Lexington Avenue. I stopped by our local branch of Kinko's on 78th Street. I removed another envelope from my coat pocket and placed it inside a Federal Express folder. Then I filled out the dispatch form, requesting guaranteed next-day delivery to a certain Charles Malone in Van Nuys, California. I tossed it in the Fedex box. When he opened the letter tomorrow, he'd find a five-thousand-dollar cheque, and a very short note which read:

  Hope this helps.

  Good luck.

  Kate

  I left Kinko's and spent the next hour or so drifting around my neighborhood. I shopped for groceries at D'Agostino's, arranging to have the order delivered to my apartment later that afternoon. I walked around Gap Kids, and ended up buying Ethan a new denim jacket. I headed two blocks west and killed half-an-hour browsing in the Madison Avenue Bookshop. Then, realizing that I hadn't eaten a thing since yesterday afternoon, I stopped at Soup Burg on Madison and 73rd Street, and ordered a double bacon-cheeseburger with fries. I felt immense high-caloric guilt as I gobbled it down. But it was still wonderful. As I nursed a cup of coffee afterwards, my cellphone rang.

  'Is that you, Kate?'

  Oh God, no. That woman again.

  'Who is this?' I asked, even though I knew the answer to that question.

  'It's Sara Smythe.'

  'How did you get this number, Miss Smythe?'

  'I called the Bell Atlantic cellphone directory.'

  'You needed to speak with me that urgently?'

  'Well, I just received your letter, Kate. And . . .'

  I cut her off. 'I'm surprised to hear you calling me by my first name, as I don't seem to remember ever meeting you, Ms Smythe . . .'

  'Oh, but we did. Years ago, when you were just a little . . .'

  'Maybe we did meet, but it didn't lodge in my memory.'

  'Well, when we get together, I'll be able to . . .'

  I cut her off again. 'Ms Smythe, you did read my letter, didn't you?'

  'Yes, of course. That's why I'm calling you.'

  'Didn't I make it clear that we are not going to be getting together?'

  'Don't say that, Kate.'

  'And will you please stop calling me Kate?'

  'If I could just explain . . .'

  'No. I want to hear no explanations. I just want you to stop bothering me.'

  'All I'm asking is . . .'

  'And I suppose that was you who made all those message-less phone calls to my apartment yesterday . . .'

  'Please hear me out . . .'

  'And what's this about being an old friend of my parents? My brother Charlie said he never knew you when he was young . . .'

  'Charlie?' she said, sounding animated. 'You're finally talking to Charlie again?'

  I was suddenly very nervous. 'How did you know I hadn't been speaking to him?'

  'Everything will come clear if we could just meet . . .'

  'No.'

  'Please be reasonable, Kate . . .'

  'That's it. This conversation's closed. And don't bother calling back. Because I won't speak with you.'

  With that, I hit the disconnect button.

  All right, I over-reacted. But . . . the intrusiveness of the woman. And how the hell did she know about the breach with Charlie?

  I left the restaurant, still fuming. I decided to squander the rest of the afternoon in a movie. I walked east and wasted two hours at the Loew's 72nd Street watching some cheesy action film, in which inter-galactic terrorists hijacked an American space shuttle, and killed all the crew – bar some beefcake astronaut who naturally foiled
the baddies and single-handedly brought the damaged shuttle back to earth, landing it on top of Mount Rushmore. Ten minutes into this stupidity, I asked myself why on earth I ended up walking into this movie. I knew the answer to that question: because everything's out of synch today.

  When I got back to the apartment, it was nearly six o'clock. Constantine the doorman was thankfully off. Teddy, the nice night guy, was on duty.

  'Package for you, Miss Malone,' he said, handing me a large bulky manila envelope.

  'When did this arrive?' I asked.

  'Around half-an-hour ago. It was delivered by hand.'

  I silently groaned.

  'A little old lady in a taxi?' I asked.

  'How'd you guess?'

  'You don't want to know.'

  I thanked Teddy and went upstairs. I took off my coat. I sat down at the dining table. I opened the envelope. Reaching inside, I pulled out a card. The same greyish-blue stationery. Oh God, here we go again . . .

  346 West 77th Street

  Apt. 2B

  New York, New York 10024

  (212) 555.0745

  Dear Kate,

  I really think you should call me, don't you?

  Sara

  I reached back into the envelope. I withdrew a large rectangular book. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a photo album. I opened the cover and found myself staring at a set of black-and-white baby photos, carefully displayed behind transparent sheeting. The photos were pure fifties – as the newborn infant was shown asleep in one of those huge old-fashioned strollers that were popular back then. I turned the page. Here, the infant was being held in the arms of her dad – a real 1950s dad, with a herringbone suit, a rep tie, a crew cut, big white teeth. The sort of dad who, just eight years earlier, was probably dodging enemy fire in some German town.

  Like my dad.

  I stared back at the photos. I suddenly felt ill.

  That was my dad.

  And that was me in his arms.

  I turned the page. There were pictures of me at the age of two, three, five. There were pictures of me at my first day of school. There were pictures of me as a Brownie. There were pictures of me as a Girl Scout. There were pictures of me with Charlie in front of Rockefeller Center, circa 1963. Wasn't that the afternoon when Meg and Mom brought us to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall?

  I began to turn the pages with manic rapidity. Me in a school play at Brearley. Me at summer camp in Maine. Me at my first dance. Me on Todd's Point Beach in Connecticut, during summer vacation. Me with Meg at my high school graduation.

  It was an entire photographic history of my life – including pictures of me in college, at my wedding, and with Ethan, right after he was born. The remaining pages of the album were taken up with newspaper clippings. Clippings of stories I wrote for the Smith College newspaper. Clippings from the same newspaper, showing me in a college play (Murder in the Cathedral). Clippings of my assorted print ad campaigns. There was the New York Times announcement of my wedding to Matt. And the New York Times announcement of Ethan's birth . . .

  I continued flicking wildly through the album. By the time I reached the penultimate page, my head was reeling. I flipped over the final page. And there was . . .

  No, this was unbelievable.

  There was a clipping from the Allan-Stevenson newspaper, showing Ethan in gym clothes, running a relay race at the school gymkhana last spring.

  I slammed the album shut. I shoved it under my arm. I grabbed my coat. I raced out the door, raced straight into an elevator, raced through the downstairs lobby, raced into the backseat of a cab. I told the driver, 'West Seventy-Seventh Street.'

  Four

  SHE LIVED IN a brownstone. I paid off the cab and went charging up the front steps, taking them two at a time. Her name was on the bottom bell. I held it down for a good ten seconds. Then her voice came over the intercom.

  'Yes?' she said hesitantly.

  'It's Kate Malone. Open up.'

  There was a brief pause, then she buzzed me in.

  Her apartment was on the first floor. She was standing in the doorway, awaiting me. She was dressed in grey flannel pants and a grey crew-neck sweater that accented her long, delicate neck. Her grey hair was perfectly coiffed in a tight bun. Up close, her skin appeared even more translucent and smooth – with only a few crow's feet hinting at her true age. Her posture was perfect, emphasizing her elegant stature, her total poise. As always, her eyes were sharply focused – and alive with pleasure at seeing me . . . something I found instantly unsettling.

  'How dare you,' I said, brandishing the photo album.

  'Good afternoon, Kate,' she said, her voice controlled and untroubled by my outburst. 'I'm glad you came.'

  'Who the hell are you? And what the hell is this?' I said, again holding up the photo album as if it was the smoking gun in a murder trial.

  'Why don't you come inside?'

  'I don't want to come inside,' I said, now sounding very loud. She remained calm.

  'We really can't talk here,' she said. 'Please . . .'

  She motioned for me to cross the threshold. After a moment's nervous hesitation I said, 'Don't think I'm going to stay long . . .'

  'Fine,' she said.

  I followed her inside. We entered a small foyer. On one wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, heaving with hardcover volumes. There was a closet next to the shelf. She opened it, asking, 'Can I take your coat?'

  I handed it to her. As she hung it up, I turned around, and suddenly felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Because there – on the opposite side of the foyer – were a half-dozen framed photos of myself and of my father. There was that picture of my dad in his Army uniform. There was an enlargement of that photo of Dad cradling me when I was a newborn baby. There was a picture of me at college, and holding Ethan when he was just a year old. There were two black-and-white photos showing Dad in a variety of poses with a younger Sara Smythe. The first was an 'at home' shot: Dad with his arms around her, standing near a Christmas tree. The remaining shot was of the happy couple in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington. From the age of the photos and the style of clothes they were wearing, I guessed they were taken in the early 1950s. I spun around and stared at Sara Smythe, wide-eyed.

  'I don't understand . . .' I said.

  'I'm not surprised.'

  'You've got some explaining to do,' I said, suddenly angry.

  'Yes,' she said quietly. 'I do'

  She touched my elbow, leading me into the living room.

  'Come sit down. Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?'

  'Stronger,' I said.

  'Red wine? Bourbon? Harvey's Bristol Cream? That's about it, I'm afraid.'

  'Bourbon.'