The Pursuit of Happiness

Hell, E - I've never even fallen in love. So no wonder nothing happens when I sit down at the typewriter.

I sent the letter c/o Poste Restante, Zihuantanejo, DF, Mexico. Eric was temporarily living in this corner of the Mexican tropics, having rented a house on the beach. Seven weeks later, I received a reply - scribbled in dense tiny print on a postcard, datemarked Tegucigalpa, Honduras.

S,

What you're really saying in your letter is that, as yet, you don't think you have a story to tell. Believe me, everybody has a story to tell - because all life is narrative. But knowing that is probably of little comfort to somebody suffering from writer's block (a condition of which I have ongoing experience). The rule of the game is a simple one: if you want to write, you will write. And know this: if you want to fall in love, you will find someone to fall in love with. But take it from your older, battle-scarred brother: you should never set out to fall in love. Because those sort of romances always seem to end up as the stuff of cheap melodrama. Real love, on the other hand, sneaks up on you unawares... then gives you a kick in the head.

I should never have left Mexico. The best thing about Tegucigalpa is the bus out of Tegucigalpa. I'm heading south. Will write again when I've unpacked somewhere.

Love,

E

Over the course of the next ten months - as I worked hard at Life and spent every free moment roaming New York - I tried not to rue too much my stalled literary career. And I certainly met nobody with whom I felt like falling in love. But I did receive plenty of postcards from Eric, datemarked Belize, San Jose, Panama City, Cartagena, and eventually Rio. He returned to New York in June of '45, dead broke. I had to lend him two hundred dollars to see him through his first month home, during which time he moved back into his apartment and scrambled for work.

'How'd you manage to run through all that money?' I asked him.

'Living the high life', he said, sounding sheepish.

'But I thought the high life was against all your political principles'.

'It was. It is'.

'So what happened?'

'I blame it all on too much sun. It turned me into a very generous, very dumb loco gringo. But I promise to resume wearing a hairshirt immediately'.

Instead, he landed a job writing a few episodes of Boston Blackie. When he was fired off of that show, he talked his way on to The Quiz Bang Show, churning out gags for Joe E. Brown. He never mentioned the play he was supposed to be writing during his year away - and I never asked. His silence said it all.

But he dropped right back into his wide circle of arty friends. And on the night before Thanksgiving of '45, he threw a party for all of them.

I had already been invited to an annual soiree given by one of Life's senior editors. He lived on West 77th St between Central Park West and Columbus - the street where the balloons for next morning's Macy's Thanksgiving Parade were being inflated. I promised Eric that I would drop by his bash on my way home. But the editor's party ran late. Thanks to the Macy's balloons (and the crowds who had come out to watch them being pumped up), all the streets around Central Park West were closed, so it took over half an hour to find a cab. It was now midnight. I was dead tired. I told the driver to take me to Bedford Street. As soon as I walked into my apartment, the phone rang. It was Eric. In the background I could hear his party in full swing.

'Where the hell have you been?' he asked.

'Playing office politics on Central Park West'.

'Well, get over here now. As you can hear, the joint is jumping'.

'I think I'll pass, E. I need to sleep for a week'.

'You have the rest of the weekend to do that'.

'Please let me disappoint you tonight'.

'No. I insist you hop a fast cab, and present yourself tout de suite at chez moi, ready to drink 'til dawn. Hell, it's the first Thanksgiving in years without a war. Surely that's a good enough excuse to destroy some brain cells...'

I sighed loudly, then said,

'Will you provide the aspirin tomorrow?'

'You have my word as a patriotic American'.

So I reluctantly put my coat back on, headed downstairs, hailed a cab, and within five minutes, found myself smack dab in the middle of Eric's party. The place was packed. There was loud dance music on the Victrola. A low cloud of cigarette smoke bathed his tiny apartment in a fuggy haze. Someone pushed a bottle of beer into my hand. I turned around. And that's when I saw him. A fellow around twenty-five, dressed in a dark khaki Army uniform, with a narrow face with sharply etched cheekbones. His eyes were also scanning the room. They suddenly happened upon me. I met his gaze. Only for a second. Or maybe two. He looked at me. I looked at him. He smiled. I smiled back. He turned away. And that was it. Just a simple glance.

I shouldn't have been there. I should have been home, fast asleep. And I've often wondered: had I not turned around at that very moment, would we have missed each other completely?

Fate is such an accidental thing, isn't it?

Two

THE FRONT DOOR suddenly flew open. Ten more folk tumbled into the apartment. They were all very loud, very boisterous, and very well lubricated. The room was now so crowded it was impossible to move. I still couldn't see my brother - and was beginning to get a little cross about being talked into coming to this absurd party. I loved Eric's friends, but not en masse. Eric knew this - and often teased me about being anti-social.

'I'm not anti-social', I'd retort. 'I'm just anti-crowds'.

Especially - I could have added - crowds in tiny apartments. My brother, on the other hand, adored mob scenes, and being part of a pack. He always had tons of friends. A quiet night at home was never pondered. He had to be meeting pals at bars, or finding a party to crash, or hitting jazz joints, or (at the very worst) squandering the evening in one of those all-night movie houses that lined 42nd Street - and showed triple features for twenty-five cents. Since his return from South America, his talent for gregariousness had reached new heights - to the point where I was beginning to wonder if he was ever finding time to sleep. He'd also reluctantly changed his appearance to get that job as a gag writer for Joe E. Brown. He'd trimmed his hair and stopped dressing like Trotsky - because he knew he wouldn't be hired unless he conformed to the buttoned-down sartorial norm that was demanded back then.

'I bet Father's rolling with laughter in his grave', he said to me late one evening, 'knowing that his redder-than-Red son now buys his clothes at Brooks Brothers'.

'Clothes mean nothing', I said.

'Stop trying to sweeten the pill. They mean everything. Everyone who knows me understands what these clothes mean: I've failed'.

'You're not a failure'.

'Anyone who starts off thinking he's the next Bertolt Brecht - but finally ends up churning out jokes for a quiz show - is allowed to call himself a failure'.

'You'll write another great play', I said.

He smiled sadly.

'S - I've never written a great play. You know that. I've never even written a good play. And you know that too'.

Yes, I did know that - though I would never have said so. Just as I also knew that Eric's increasingly manic social life was a form of anaesthetic. It deadened the ache of disappointment. I knew he was blocked. And I also knew what was causing the block: a total collapse of confidence in his talent. But Eric refused to let me sympathize with him - always changing the subject whenever I brought it up. I finally took the hint and dropped the matter completely - ruing the fact that I couldn't get him to talk about his obvious distress, and feeling rather helpless as I watched him obsessively fill every waking moment with a binge of diversions... of which this party was yet another syndrome.

As the noise level in his living room reached the level of uproar, I quickly decided to make an exit if I didn't see my brother in the next sixty seconds.

Then I felt a hand lightly touch my shoulder, and heard a male voice in my ear.

'You look like someone who's looking for an escape hatch'.

I spun around. It was the fellow in the Army uniform. He was standing inches away from me, a glass of something in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. Up close, he looked even more damn Irish. It was something about the ruddiness of his skin, the squareness of his jaw, the touch of mischief in his eyes, the fallen angel face which hinted at both innocence and experience. He was a less pugnacious version of Jimmy Cagney. Had he been an actor, he would have been perfect casting as the sort of idealistic young neighborhood priest who gave Cagney last rites after some rival gangster peppered him with lead.

'Did you hear me the first time?' he shouted over the roar of the party. 'You look like someone who's looking for an escape hatch'.

'Yes, I did hear you. And yes, you're very perceptive', I said.

'And you're blushing'.

I suddenly felt my cheeks redden a little more. 'It must be the heat in here'.

'Or the fact that I am the most handsome guy you've ever seen'.

I looked at him with care, and noted that he was raising his eyebrows playfully.

'You're handsome, all right... but not drop-dead handsome'.

He studied me admiringly for a moment, then said, 'Nice counterpunch. Didn't I see you fight Max Schelling at the Garden?'

'Would you be talking about the Bronx Botanical Gardens?'

'Your name wouldn't happen to be Dorothy Parker, would it?'

'Flattery will get you nowhere, soldier'.

'Then I'll have to try getting you drunk', he said, pushing a bottle into my empty hand. 'Have a beer', he said.

'I already have a beer', I said, raising the bottle of Schlitz in my other hand.

'A two-fisted drinker. I like that. You also wouldn't happen to be Irish, would you?'

'I'm afraid not'.

'Surprise, surprise. I was certain you were an O'Sullivan from Limerick... and not some horsey Kate Hepburn type...'

'I don't ride horses', I said, interrupting him.

'But you're still a WASP, right?'

I scowled at him.

'That's a WASP smile, right?'

I tried not to laugh. I failed.

'Hey! She has a sense of humor. I thought that didn't come with the WASP package'.

'There are always exceptions to the rule'.

'Delighted to hear it. So... are we getting out of here?'

'Sorry?'

'You said you were looking for a way out of here. I'm offering you one. With me'.

'But why should I go with you?'

'Because you find me funny, charming, absorbing, alluring, appealing...'

'No, I don't'.

'Liar. Anyway, here's another reason why you should leave with me. Because we've clicked'.

'Says who?'

'Says me. And says you'.

'I've said nothing'.

I heard myself saying, 'I don't even know you'.

'Does that matter?'

Of course it didn't. Because I was already smitten. But I certainly wasn't going to let on just how smitten I was.

'A name might help', I said.

'Jack Malone. Or Sergeant Jack Malone, if you want to get official about it'.

'And where are you from, Sergeant?'

'A paradise, a Valhalla, a place where White Anglo-Saxon Protestants fear to tread...'

'Known as?'

'Brooklyn. Flatbush, to be exact'.

'I don't know Flatbush'.

'See! My point exactly. When it comes to WASPs, Brooklyn has always been a no-go zone'.

'Well, I have been to Brooklyn Heights'.

'But have you been to the Depths?'

'Is that where you're bringing me tonight?'

His face brightened.

'Game, set, match already?'

'I never concede that easily. Especially when the opponent in question has forgotten to ask me my name'.

'Whoops!'

'So go on - pop the question'.

'Vat ist your name?' he asked in a mock German accent.

I told him. He pursed his lips.

'That's Smythe with a y and an e?'

'I am impressed'.

'Oh, we're taught how to spell in Brooklyn. Smythe...'

He rolled the name around on his tongue, pronouncing it again in an arch English accent.

'Smythe... I bet you anything that, once upon a time, it was good old plain Smith. But then one of your hoity-toity New England forebears decided it was far too common, so he changed it to Smythe...'

'How do you know I'm from New England?'

'You've got to be kidding. And if I was a betting man, I'd put a ten-spot on the fact that you probably spell Sara without an h'.

'And you'd win the bet'.

'I told you I was a sharp cookie. Sara. Very pretty... if you like New England Puritans'.

I heard Eric's voice behind me.

'You mean, like me?'

'And who the hell are you?' Jack asked, sounding a little annoyed at having our banter interrupted.

'I'm her puritanical brother', Eric said, putting his arm around my shoulder. 'More to the point: who the hell are you?'

'I'm Ulysses S. Grant'.

'Very funny', Eric said.

'Does it matter who I am?'

'I just don't remember inviting you to this party, that's all', Eric said, all smiles.

'This is your place?' Jack asked pleasantly, without a hint of embarrassment.

'Excellent deduction, Dr Watson', Eric said. 'Mind telling me how you ended up here?'

'A guy I met at the USO club near Times Square told me he had this friend who had a friend who had another friend who knew of this bash on Sullivan Street. But listen, I don't want to make any trouble, so I'll leave now, if that's okay'.

'Why should you leave?' I said so quickly that Eric gave me a questioning, wry smile.

'Yes', Eric said, 'why should you leave when certain people obviously want you to stay'.

'You sure you don't mind?'

'Any friend of Sara's...'

'I really appreciate it'.

'Where were you serving?'

'Germany. And I wasn't serving exactly. I was reporting'.

'For Stars and Stripes?' Eric asked, mentioning the official newspaper of the United States Army.

'How did you ever guess?' Jack Malone asked.

'I think the uniform tipped me off. Whereabouts were you stationed?'

'England for a while. Then, after the Nazi surrender, I was in Munich. Or, at least, what was left of Munich'.

'Did you ever get to the Eastern Front?'

'I write for Stars and Stripes... not the Daily Worker'.

'I'll have you know that I read the Daily Worker for ten years', Eric said, sounding a little too self-important.

'Congratulations', Jack said. 'I used to read the funnies every day as well'.

'I don't get the connection', Eric said.

'We all outgrow the juvenile'.

'The Daily Worker is your idea of juvenilia?'

'Badly written juvenilia... like most propaganda sheets. I mean, if you're going to write a daily jeremiad on class warfare, at least write it well'.

'A jeremiad', Eric said, sounding arch. 'My, my. We do know some big words, don't we?'

'Eric...' I said, glowering at him.

'Have I said something wrong?' he said, the words slightly slurred. That's when I realized he was drunk.

'Not wrong', Jack said. 'Just classist. Then again, talking as an illiterate Brooklyn mick...'

'I never said that', Eric said.

'No - you simply implied it. But, hey, I'm well used to parvenus making fun of my inelegant vowels'.

'We are hardly parvenus', Eric said.

'But you are impressed with my command of French, n'est-ce pas?'

'Your accent could use some work'.

'Just like your sense of humor. Of course, speaking as one of your intellectual inferiors from the wrong side of the Manhattan Bridge, I always find it amusing that the biggest snobs in the world also happen to whistle the "Internationale" through their Ivy League teeth. Or maybe you read Pravda in the original Russian, comrade?'

'And I bet you're one of Father Coughlin's most devoted admirers'.

'Eric, for God's sake', I said, appalled that he would make such an inflammatory comment - as Father Charles E. Coughlin was an infamous right-wing priest; a precursor of McCarthy who had a weekly radio broadcast, in which he hectored on against communists and all foreigners and anyone who didn't bow down and kiss the flag. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence hated him. But I was relieved to see that this Jack Malone fellow wasn't rising to my brother's bait.

His voice still calm, he said, 'Consider yourself fortunate that I'm going to file that one away under banter'.

I nudged my brother with my elbow. 'Apologize', I said.

After a moment's hesitation, Eric spoke.

'That was an inappropriate thing to say. I apologize'.

Instantly, Jack's face broke into a mild smile.

'Then we leave friends, right?' he asked.

'Uh... sure'.

'So... Happy Thanksgiving'.

Eric reluctantly took Jack's outstretched hand.

'Yes. Happy Thanksgiving'.

'And sorry for playing the gate-crasher', Jack said.

'No need. Make yourself at home'.

With that, Eric beat a hasty retreat across the room. Jack turned to me.

'I kind of enjoyed that', he said.

'Really?' I said.

'Damn right. I mean, the Army isn't exactly brimming with erudite types. And it's been a long time since I've been insulted in such a literate way'.

'I really do apologize. He can get awfully grand when he's had ten too many'.

'Like I said, it was fun. And I now know where you get the hefty left hook. It's obviously a family specialty'.

'I never knew we came across as heavy hitters'.

'And you're just being modest. Anyway, Sara-without-an-h-Smythe... it's time for me to make an exit, as I have to report for duty at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow morning'.

'Then let's go', I said.

'But I thought... ?'

'What?'

'I don't know. After the show I put on with your brother, you wouldn't want anything more to do with me'.

'You thought wrong. Unless, of course, you've changed your mind?'

'No, no... we're out of here'.

Taking me by the elbow, he led me towards the door. As we were halfway into the hall, I turned back and caught Eric's eye.

'You're leaving already?' he shouted over the din, looking appalled that I was being escorted off by Jack.

'Thanksgiving lunch tomorrow at Luchows?' I shouted back.

'If you ever get there', he said.

'Believe me, she will', Jack said, and we headed down the stairs. As soon as we reached the front door of the house, he pulled me towards him, and kissed me deeply. The kiss lasted a long time. When it was finished, I said,

'You didn't ask my permission to do that'.

'You're right. I didn't. May I kiss you, Sara-without-an-h?'

'Only if you drop that without-an-h line'.

'Done deal'.

This time the kiss seemed to last about an hour. When I finally broke it, my head was whirling like a roulette wheel. Jack also looked punch-drunk. He took my face in his hands.

'Hello there', he said.

'Yes. Hello there'.

'You know I have to be at the Navy Yards...'

'You told me: by oh-nine-hundred sharp. But it's now, what? Just before one'.

'So, factor in travel time to Brooklyn, and we've got...'

'Seven hours'.

'Yeah - just seven hours'.

'It'll have to do', I said, then kissed him again. 'Now buy me a drink somewhere'.

Three

WE ENDED UP at The Lion's Head on Sheridan Square. As it was Thanksgiving Eve, there wasn't much of a late-night crowd - which meant we could find a quiet table in an alcove. I drank two Manhattans quickly, and let myself be talked into a third. Jack threw back boilermakers: neat shots of bourbon, followed by steins of beer. The lights were always dimmed down low in The Lion's Head. There were candles on the tables. Ours had a flame that kept flicking back and forth, like an illuminated metronome. The glow repeatedly danced off Jack's face. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was becoming more handsome by the second. Perhaps because - as I was also discovering - he was smart as hell. A great talker. Better yet, a great listener. And men are always ten times more attractive when they just listen.

He got me talking about myself. He seemed to want to know everything - about my parents, my childhood, my school days in Hartford, my time at Bryn Mawr, my job at Life, my thwarted literary ambitions, my brother Eric.

'Did he really read the Daily Worker for ten years?'

'I'm afraid so'.

'Is he a fellow traveler?'

'Well, he was a member of the Party for a couple of years. But that's when he was writing plays for the Federal Theater Project, and rebelling against everything he was brought up to be. And though I'd never tell him this, I really think the Party was nothing more than fashion to him. It was this year's color, or a certain style of suit that all his friends were wearing at a certain time... but one which he happily outgrew'.

'So he's no longer a member?'

'Not since forty-one'.

'That's something, I guess. But does he still sympathize with Uncle Joe?'

'Loss of faith doesn't always mean instant atheism, does it?'

He beamed at me. 'You really are a writer'.

'On the basis of one clever sentence? I don't think so'.

'I know it'.

'No, you don't - because you've never seen anything I've written'.

'Will you show me some stuff?'

'It's not very good'.

'O ye of little faith in yourself'.

'Oh, I have faith in myself. But not as a writer'.

'And what's the basis of that faith?'

'The basis?'

'Yes - as in, what do you believe in?'

'That's a big question'.

'Give it a shot'.

'Well, let's see...' I said, suddenly feeling expansive (courtesy of all those Manhattans). 'Right... first and foremost, I don't believe in God, or Jehovah, or Allah, or the Angel Moroni, or even Donald Duck'.

He laughed.

'Okay', he said, 'we've got that one cleared up'.

'And, much as I love this damn country of ours, I really don't believe in wrapping yourself up in the flag. Rabid patriotism is like Bible-thumping: it scares me because it's so doctrinaire. Real patriotism is quiet, understated, thoughtful'.

'Especially if you're a New England WASP'.

I punched his arm. 'Will you stop that!'

'No, I won't. And you're still dodging the question'.

'That's because the question's far too big to answer... and I've had far too much to drink'.

'I'm not letting you off on a self-inflicted technicality like too much booze. State your case, Miss Smythe. What the hell do you believe in?'

After a moment's pause, I heard myself say, 'Responsibility'.

Jack appeared bemused. 'What did you just say?'

'Responsibility. You asked me what I believed in. I'm telling you: responsibility'.

'Oh, got it now', he said with a smile. 'Responsibility. Admirable concept. One of the cornerstones of our nation'.

'If you're a patriot'.

'I am'.

'Yeah, I figured that. And respect that. Honestly. But... how can I put this without sounding dumb? The responsibility I'm talking about, the responsibility which I actually believe in... well, I guess it all comes down to the responsibility you have to yourself. Because I really don't know much about life, and I haven't traveled or done anything really interesting... but when I look around me, and listen to my contemporaries talking, all I hear is stuff about how other people will work out life's problems for you. How getting married by the time you're twenty-three is a good thing, because you're suddenly relieved of the burden of making a living, or dealing with personal choice, or even spending time by yourself. Whereas I'm rather scared of the idea of entrusting my entire future to another person. Because, hell, aren't they as fallible as I am? And just as scared?'

I cut myself off. 'Am I ranting here?'

Jack threw back his shot of bourbon, and motioned to the bartender for more drinks. 'You're doing fine', he said. 'Keep going'.

'Well, there's not a lot else to say, except that the moment you entrust your happiness to another person, you endanger the very possibility of happiness. Because you remove personal responsibility from the equation. You say to the other person, make me feel whole, complete, wanted. But the fact is: only you can make yourself feel whole or complete'.

He looked at me straight in the eye.

'So love is not a factor in this equation?'

I met his stare.

'Love shouldn't be about dependency, or what you can do for me, or I need you/you need me. Love should be about

I was suddenly at a loss for words. Jack threaded his fingers through mine.

'Love should be about love'.

'That'll do', I said, then added, 'Kiss me'.

And he did.

'Now you've got to tell me something about yourself', I said.

'Like what? My favorite color? My star sign? Whether I prefer Fitzgerald or Hemingway?'

'Well?'

'Fitzgerald any time'.

'I concur - but why?'

'It's an Irish thing'.

'Now it's you who's dodging the question'.

'There's not much to say about me. I'm just a guy from Brooklyn. That's about it'.

'You mean, there's nothing else about you I should know?'

'Not really'.

'Your parents might be a bit offended to hear you say that'.

'They're both dead'.

'I'm sorry'.

'Don't be. My mom died twelve years ago - just before my thirteenth birthday. An embolism. Very fast. Very nasty. And yeah, she was a saint... but I would say that'.

'And your father?'

'Dad went while I was overseas in the Army. He was a cop, and a professional hothead who liked to pick arguments with everyone. Especially me. He also liked to drink. As in: a fifth of whiskey a day. Suicide on the installment plan. Eventually he got his wish. So did I - as I spent much of my childhood dodging his belt whenever he was drunk... which was all the time'.

'That must have been awful'.

He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

'This is the world's smallest violin'.

'So you're all alone in the world?'

'No, there's a kid sister, Meg. She's the real brains of the family: a senior now at Barnard. Full scholarship too. Pretty damn impressive for someone from a family of ignorant micks'.

'Didn't you go to college too?'

'No - I went to the Brooklyn Eagle. They took me on as a copy boy right after high school. And I was a junior reporter there by the time I enlisted. That's how I found my way on to Stars and Stripes. End of story'.

'Oh, come on. You're not going to stop there, are you?'

'I'm not that interesting'.

'I smell a whiff of false modesty - and I don't buy it. Everyone's got a story to tell. Even guys from Brooklyn'.

'You really want a long story?'

'Absolutely'.

'A war story?'

'If it's about you'.

He reached for his cigarettes, and lit one up.

'For the first two years of the war, I was behind a desk at the Stars and Stripes office in Washington. I begged for an overseas transfer. So they sent me to London - and a desk job covering stuff in Allied HQ. I kept screaming to be sent out into the field, but I was told I'd have to wait my turn. So I missed the Normandy landings, and the liberation of Paris, and the fall of Berlin, and us Yanks liberating Italy, and all those big sexy stories which went to the paper's senior writers - college guys mainly; all second lieutenants upwards. But, after a lot of wangling, I did get myself attached to the Seventh Army, as they marched into Munich. It was a real eye-opener. Because as soon as we arrived there, a battalion was dispatched to a village about eight miles outside of the city. I decided to go along for the ride. The village was called Dachau. The mission was a simple one: to liberate a penal camp there. The town of Dachau was actually rather sweet. It hadn't taken too many hits from our Air Force or the RAF, so the center of the village was pretty much intact. Nice gingerbready houses. Well-tended gardens. Clean streets. And then, this camp. Have you read anything about that camp?'

'Yes. I have'.

'I tell you, every member of the battalion went silent as soon as they'd marched through the gates. They'd expected to meet armed resistance from the camp guards - but the last of them had fled just twenty minutes before we showed up. And what they... we... found...'

He paused for a moment, as if censoring himself.

'What we found was... unspeakable. Because it defied description. Or comprehension. Or simple basic human reason. It was so evil - such an outrage - that it actually seemed unreal... to the point where even talking about it now almost cheapens it...

'Anyway, around an hour after we marched into the camp, the order came from Allied HQ to round up every adult resident of Dachau. The company's captain - a real hard-assed Southern boy named Dupree from New Orleans - gave the job to two sergeants. I'd only spent a few hours with this battalion, but had already reached the conclusion that Dupree was the world's biggest loudmouth - a graduate of The Citadel ('The Confederate West Point', as he kept reminding us Yankees), and the original Mr Gung Ho. But after taking an inspection tour of Dachau, he was the color of chalk. And his voice just about made it to a whisper.

'"Take four men each," he told the sergeants, "and knock on every door of every house and shop in the village. Everyone over the age of sixteen - men and women, no exceptions - is to be ordered into the street. Once you have rounded up every adult resident of Dachau, I want them marched up here in a perfectly ordered single line. Is that clear, gentlemen?"

'One sergeant raised his hand. Dupree nodded for him to speak.

'"Say they show any resistance, sir?" he asked.

'His eyes narrowed. "Make certain they don't, Davis - by whatever means necessary."

'But none of the good people of Dachau resisted the US Army. When our boys showed up at their front door, they all came out meekly - hands above or behind their heads, a few of the women gesturing wildly towards their children, pleading in a language they didn't understand... although it was pretty damn clear what they thought we might do. One young mother - she couldn't have been more than seventeen, with a tiny infant in her arms - saw my uniform and my gun, and literally fell at my feet, screaming in horror. I tried to reason with her, saying over and over again, " We're not going to hurt you... we're not going to hurt you"... but she was hysterical. Who could blame her? Eventually, an older woman in the line grabbed hold of her, slapped her hard on the face, then whispered fiercely into her ear. The young woman struggled to calm down - and clutching her baby to her chest, she joined the line, sobbing quietly. The older woman then looked towards me with fearful respect, giving me a submissive nod, as if to say: She's under control now. Please don't do us harm.

' Harm you! Harm you! I felt like shouting. We're Americans. We're the good guys here. We are not you.

'But I said nothing. I just curtly nodded back, and returned to my observer status.

'It took nearly an hour to round up every adult present in Dachau. There must have been over four hundred people in that line. As they began the slow march toward the camp, many of them began to weep. Because I'm certain they thought they were going to be shot.

'It was only a ten-minute walk from the middle of town to the gates of the camp. Ten minutes. Maybe half-a-mile at most. Ten minutes separating this cozy little village - where everything was neat and tidy and so damn manicured - from an atrocity. That's what made Dachau about ten times even more extraordinary and terrible: the knowledge that normal life was going on just a half-mile down the street.

'When we got to the gates of the camp, Captain Dupree was waiting for us.

'"What do you want us to do with the townspeople, sir?" Sergeant Davis asked him.

'"Just march them through the camp. The entire camp. That's the order from Allied Command - rumor has it, from Ike himself. They're to see everything. Spare 'em nothing."

'"And after they've seen the camp, sir?"

'"Let' em go."

'They did as ordered. They marched those four hundred townspeople through every damn corner of the camp. The barracks, with human waste piled up on the floors. The ovens. The dissecting tables. The mountain of bones and skulls piled up right near the crematorium. As they took them on this guided tour, the camp survivors - there must have been a couple of hundred of them - stood silently in the courtyard. Most of them were so emaciated they looked like the walking dead. I tell you, not one of the townspeople looked a survivor in the face. In fact, most of them kept their eyes fixed firmly on the ground. They were just as silent as the survivors.

'But then, this one guy lost it. He was a well-dressed, well-fed banker type. He must have been in his late fifties: good suit, well-polished shoes, gold watch in his vest pocket. Out of nowhere, he suddenly started to cry. Uncontrollably. The next thing we knew, he broke out of the line, and went staggering towards Captain Dupree. Immediately, two of our guys had their guns drawn. But Dupree waved them away. The banker type fell to his knees in front of the Captain, sobbing wildly. And he kept saying this one thing over and over again. He said it so much I remembered it:

'"Ich habe nichts davon gewufsst... Ich habe nichts davon gewusst... Ich habe nichts davon gewusst."

'Dupree looked down at him, really puzzled. Then he called for Garrison - the translator who'd been assigned to our battalion. He was this shy, bookish type, who never looked directly at anyone. He stood by the Captain and stared wide-eyed at the weeping banker.

'"The hell is he saying, Garrison?" Dupree asked him. The banker's words were now so garbled that Garrison had to crouch down beside him.

'After a moment he stood up again.

'"Sir, he's saying - I didn't know... I didn't know."

'Dupree's eyes went white. Then, suddenly, he reached down and pulled up the banker by the lapels of his suit, until they were face-to-face.

'"The fuck you didn't know," Dupree hissed at him, then spat in his face and pushed him away.

'The banker staggered back to the line. As the townspeople continued to be marched through the camp, I kept my eye on the guy. Never once did he try to wipe Dupree's spit off his face. Over and over again, he kept mumbling that phrase, Ich habe nichts davon gewusst... Ich habe nichts davon gewusst. A soldier standing near me said, "Listen to that kraut sonofabitch. He's gone off his rocker."

'But all I could think was: it sounds like an act of contrition. Or a Hail Mary. Or anything you say again and again to yourself, in an attempt to do penance, seek forgiveness, whatever. And I actually felt for the guy. Because I sensed what he was really saying was, Yes, I knew what was going on in this camp. But I could do nothing about it. So I shut my eyes... and convinced myself that life in my village was as normal as ever'.

He paused for a moment.

'I tell you, I don't think I'll ever shake the memory of that fat little man in a suit, saying Ich habe nichts davon gewusst again and again and again. Because it was such a plea for forgiveness. And the basis of the plea was so frighteningly goddamn human: we all do what we have to do to get through the day'.

Jack reached for his cigarette. It was dead, so he fished out another Chesterfield and lit it up. After he took a puff, I pulled it out of his lips and took a long, deep drag.

'I didn't know you smoked', he said.

'I don't. I dabble. Especially when I'm pensive'.

'You're feeling pensive?'

'You've given me a lot to think about'.

We fell silent for a moment, passing the cigarette back and forth between us.

'Did you forgive that German banker?' I finally asked.

'Forgive him? Hell, no. He deserved his guilt'.

'But you sympathized with his predicament, didn't you?'

'Sure, I sympathized. But I wouldn't have offered him absolution'.

'But say you had been him. Say you were the manager of the local bank, and you had a wife and kids and a nice secure life. But say you also knew that, just down the street from your nice little house, there was the slaughterhouse, in which innocent men, women and children were being butchered - all because your government had decided that they were enemies of the state. Would you have raised your voice in protest? Or would you have done what he did - keep your head down, get on with your life, pretend not to notice?'

Jack took a final drag on the cigarette, then stubbed it into the ashtray. 'You want an honest answer?' he asked.

'Of course'.

'Then the honest answer is: I don't know what I would have done'.

'That is an honest answer', I said.

'Everyone talks about doing "the right thing", taking a stand, thinking about the so-called greater good. But talk like that is cheap. When we find ourselves on the front line - with flak coming at us - most of us decide we're not the heroic type. We duck'.

I stroked his cheek with my hand. 'So you wouldn't call yourself a hero?'

'Nah - a romantic'

He kissed me deeply. When he ended it, I pulled him back towards me and whispered, 'Let's get out of here'.

He hesitated. I said, 'Is anything wrong?'

'I have to come clean on something', he said. 'I'm not just going to the Brooklyn Navy Yards today'.

'Where are you going?'

'Europe'.

'Europe? But the war's over. Why are you going to Europe?'

'I volunteered...'

'Volunteered? There's no war to fight, so what's to volunteer for... ?'

'There may be no more war, but there's still a big US Army presence on the continent, helping handle stuff like refugees, bomb clearance, repatriation of POWs. And Stars and Stripes asked if I wanted to sign on to cover the postwar clean-up. In my case, it also meant instant promotion to the rank of lieutenant, not to mention another stint overseas. So...'

'And how long is this additional tour of duty?'

He lowered his eyes, avoiding mine.

'Nine months'.

I said nothing... even though nine months suddenly seemed like an epoch.

'When did you sign up for this tour?' I asked quietly.

'Two days ago'.

Oh God, no...

'Just my luck', I said.

'Just my luck too'.

He kissed me again. Then whispered, 'I'd better say goodbye then'.

I felt my heart miss a beat... or three. For a moment I found myself wondering what sort of madness I was getting myself into. But that moment vanished. All I could think was: this is it.

'No', I said. 'Don't say goodbye. Not yet anyway. Not until oh-nine-hundred'.

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. I'm sure'.

It was only a five-minute walk from Sheridan Square to my apartment on Bedford Street. We said nothing en route, just silently clutching on to each other as we negotiated the empty city streets. We said nothing as we climbed the stairs. I opened the door. We stepped inside. I didn't offer him a drink or coffee. He didn't ask. He didn't look around. He didn't make admiring noises about the apartment. There was no nervous small talk. Because, for the moment, there was nothing more either of us wanted to say. And because - as soon as the door shut behind us - we began to pull each other's clothes off.

He never asked me if it was my first time. He was just so exceptionally gentle. And passionate. And a little clumsy... though hardly as clumsy as me.

Afterwards, he was a little aloof. Almost shy. As if he had revealed too much.

I lay against him, amidst the now tangled, damp sheets. My arms were entwined around his chest. I let my lips linger on the nape of his neck. Then, for the first time in around an hour, I spoke.

'I'm never allowing you out of this bed'.

'Is that a promise?' he asked.

'Worse', I said. 'It's a vow'.

'Now that is serious'.

'Love is a serious business, Mr Malone'.

He turned around and faced me.

'Is that a declaration of sorts, Miss Smythe?'

'Yes, Mr Malone. It is a declaration. My cards are - as they say - on the table. Does that scare you?'

'On the contrary... I'm not going to let you out of this bed'.

'Is that a promise?'

'For the next four hours, yes'.

'And then?'

'And then, once again, I become the property of the United States Army - who, for the time being, dictate the course of my life'.

'Even in matters of love?'

'No - love is the one area over which they have no control'.

We fell silent again. 'I will come back', he finally said.

'I know that', I said. 'If you survived the war, you'll definitely survive the peace over there. The thing is: will you come back for me?'

As soon as I uttered that sentence, I hated myself for saying it.

'Will you listen to me', I said. 'I sound like I have some sort of proprietorial hold on you. I'm sorry - I'm being deeply silly'.

He held me tighter. 'You're not being deeply silly', he said. 'Just nominally silly'.

'Don't you make light of this, Brooklyn boy', I said, gently poking him in the chest with my finger. 'I don't give up my heart that easily'.

'Of that I am absolutely certain', he said, kissing my face. 'And, believe it or not, nor do I'.

'There's not a girl stashed away over in Brooklyn?'

'Nope. Promise'.

'Or some Fraulein waiting for you in Munich?'

'There is no one'.

'Well, I'm sure you'll still find Europe very romantic...'

Silence. I felt like kicking myself for sounding so astringent. Jack smiled at me.

'Sara...'

'I know, I know. It's just... Damn it, it's not fait, you going away tomorrow'.

'Listen, had I met you two days ago, I would never have volunteered for this tour...'

'But we didn't meet two days ago. We met tonight. And now...'

'We're talking nine months, no more. September first, nineteen forty-six - I'm home'.

'But will you come looking for me?'

'Sara, I'm planning to write you every day of those nine months...'

'Don't get too ambitious. Every other day will do'.

'If I want to write you every day, I'll write you every day'.

'Promise?'

'I promise', he said. 'And will you be here when I get back?'

'You know I will'.

'You are wonderful, Miss Smythe'.

'Ditto, Mr Malone'.

I pushed him down against the mattress, then climbed on top of him. This time, we were less shy, less clumsy. And totally unbridled. Even though I was scared to death. Because I'd just lost my heart to a stranger... who was about to vanish across the ocean for nine months. No matter how hard I tried to avoid it, this was going to hurt.

Night ended. Light seeped in through the blinds. I peered at the bedside clock. Seven forty. Instinctively I clutched him closer to me.

'I've decided something', I said.

'What?'

'To keep you prisoner here for the next nine months'.

'And then, when you release me, the Army can keep me prisoner in some brig for the next two years'.

'At least I'd have you to myself for nine straight months'.

'Nine months from now, you'll have me to yourself for as long as you want me'.

'I want to believe that'.

'Believe it'.

He got up and began to pick up his uniform off the floor. 'I'd better make tracks'.

'I'm coming with you to the Navy Yards', I said.

'There's no need...'

'There's every need. It gives me another hour with you'.

He reached back and took my hand.

'It's a long subway ride', he said. 'And it is Brooklyn'.

'You might just be worth the trip to Brooklyn', I said.

We dressed. I filled my little tin percolator with Maxwell House and put it on the stove. When brown liquid began to splash upwards into its dome, I poured out two cups. We raised one each, clinking them together, but said nothing. The coffee tasted weak, anaemic. It only took a minute or two to slurp it down. Jack looked at me.

'It's time', he said.

We left the apartment. Thanksgiving morning 1945 was cold and bright. Far too bright for two people who'd been up all night. We squinted all the way to Sheridan Square station. The train to Brooklyn was deserted. As we barreled through Lower Manhattan, we remained silent, clinging on to each other tightly. As we crossed under the East River, I said, 'I don't have your address'.

Jack pulled out two matchbooks from his pocket. He handed one to me. Then he dug out a pencil stub from the breast pocket of his uniform. Licking it, he opened his book of matches and scribbled a US Army postal address on the inside cover. He gave me the matches. I clutched them in one hand, then relieved him of the pencil and scribbled my address on the inside flap of my matchbook. When I handed it back to him, he instantly put it into his shirt pocket, buttoning the flap for safe keeping.

'Don't you dare lose that book of matches', I said.

'They have just become my most prized possession. And you'll write me too?'

'Constantly'.

The train continued its headlong plunge under the river and through subterranean Brooklyn. When it jerked to a halt at Borough Hall, Jack said, 'We're here'.

We climbed back up into the Thanksgiving light, emerging right near a dockyards. It was a grim industrial landscape, with half-a-dozen naval frigates and troop ships berthed in a series of docks. They were all painted battleship grey. We were not the only couple approaching the gates of the Navy Yards. There must have been six or seven others, embracing against a lamp post, or whispering final declarations of love to each other, or just looking at each other.

'Looks like we've got company', I said.

'That's the problem with Army life', he said. 'There's never any privacy'.

We stopped walking. I turned him towards me.

'Let's get this over with, Jack'.

'You sound like Barbara Stanwyck - the original tough dame'.

'I think it's called - in war movie parlance - "trying to be brave"'.

'There's no easy way to do this, is there?'

'No, there isn't. So kiss me. And tell me you love me'.

He kissed me. He told me he loved me. I whispered the same thing back to him. Then I yanked him by the lapels.

'One last thing', I said. 'Don't you dare break my heart, Malone'.

I released him.

'Now go get on that ship', I said.

'Aye-aye, sir'.

He turned and walked to the gates. I stood on the sidewalk, frozen to the spot, forcing myself to remain stoic, controlled, sensible. The guard at the gates swung them open. Jack spun around and shouted to me, 'September first'.

I bit down hard on my lip and shouted back: 'Yes. September first... without fail'.

He snapped to attention and executed a crisp salute. I managed a smile. Then he turned and marched into the Yards.

For a moment or two I couldn't move. I simply stared ahead, until Jack vanished from view. I felt as if I was in freefall - as if I had just walked into an empty elevator shaft. Eventually, I forced myself back to the subway station, down the stairs, and on to a Manhattan-bound train. One of the women at the Navy Yards gates sat opposite me in the same car. She couldn't have been more than eighteen. As soon as the train lurched out of the station, she fell apart, her heartbreak loud and unrestrained.

Being my father's daughter, I would never have dreamed of crying in public. Grief, affliction, heartache were all to be suffered in silence: that was the Smythe family rule. If you wanted to break down, you had to do it behind closed doors, in the privacy of your own room.

So I kept myself in check all the way back to Bedford Street. As soon as my apartment door closed behind me, I fell on the bed and let go.

I wept. And wept. And wept some more. All the time thinking: you are a fool.

Four

'YOU REALLY WANT my opinion?' Eric asked me.

'Of course I do', I said.

'My completely honest opinion'.

I nodded nervously.

'Okay then, here it is: you're an idiot'.

I gulped, reached for the bottle of wine, refilled my glass, and drank half of it in one go.

'Thank you, Eric', I finally said.

'You asked me for an honest reaction, S'.

'Yes. That is true. And you certainly gave me one'.

I finished the glass of wine, reached again for the bottle (our second of the afternoon), and refilled my glass.

'Apologies for the bluntness, S', he said. 'But it's still no excuse to hit the bottle'.

'Everyone occasionally deserves a glass or two more than usual. Especially when there's something to celebrate'.

Eric looked at me with amused scepticism.

'And what are we celebrating here?'

I raised my glass.

'Thanksgiving, of course'.

'Well, Happy Thanksgiving', he said wryly, clinking his glass against mine.

'And I'll have you know that, on this Thanksgiving Day, I am happier than I ever have been. In fact, I am so damn happy I am delirious'.

'Yes, delirium is the operative word here'.

All right, I was feeling a little cockeyed. Not to mention emotionally overwhelmed, spent, and exhausted. Especially since, once I finally brought my crying under control, I only had an hour or so before I had to meet Eric at Luchows for Thanksgiving lunch. Which gave me no time to do anything restorative (like sleep). So I had a fast bath, heated up the remnants of the coffee I'd made earlier that morning, and tried not to cry when I saw the cup Jack drank from, sitting forlornly in the sink. Then, after I finished the pot of now-acidic coffee, I caught a taxi over to Luchows on 14th Street.

Luchows was a great New York institution: a vast German-American restaurant, which was allegedly modeled after the Hofbrauhaus in Munich - though, to me, it always looked like the extravagant interior of some Erich von Stroheim movie. Germanic art deco... and just a little over the top. I think it appealed to Eric's sense of the absurd. He also had a soft spot (as I did) for Luchows' schnitzels and wursts and Frankenwein... though the management deliberately stopped serving German-produced wine during the war.

I was a little late, so Eric was already seated at our table when I arrived. He was puffing away on a cigarette, buried in that morning's edition of the New York Times. He looked up as I approached, and seemed a little stunned.

'Oh my God', he said melodramatically. 'Love at first sight'.

'It's not that obvious, is it?' I said, sitting down.

'Oh no... not at all. Your eyes are only redder than your lipstick, and you have that post-coital glow...'

'Shhh', I hissed. 'People might hear you...'

'They don't need to hear me. One look at you, and they'd know in a minute. You've got it bad, haven't you?'

'Yes. I do'.

'And where, pray tell, is your uniformed Don Giovanni now?'

'On a troop ship, bound for Europe'.

'Oh, wonderful. So not only do we have love, we also have instant heartache. Perfect. Just perfect. Waiter! A bottle of something sparkling, please. We need urgent lubrication'.

Then he looked at me and said, 'Okay. I'm all ears. Tell me everything'.

Fool that I am, I did - and worked my way through nearly two bottles of wine in the process. I always told Eric everything. He was the person I was closest to in the world. He knew me better than anybody. Which is why I dreaded telling him about the night with jack. Because I knew Eric had my best interests at heart. Which meant that I also knew how he'd interpret this story. Which, in turn, was one of the reasons I was drinking far too quickly and far too much.

'You really want my opinion?' Eric asked me when I finished.

'Of course I do', I said.

'My completely honest opinion'.

That's when he told me I was an idiot. I drank a little more wine, and toasted Thanksgiving, and made that ludicrous comment about being deliriously happy.

'Yes, delirium is the operative word here', Eric said.

'I know this all sounds mad. And I also know you think I'm acting like an adolescent...'

'This sort of thing makes everyone revert to being fifteen years old. Which makes it both wonderful and dangerous. Wonderful because... well, let's face it, there is nothing more blissfully confusing than really falling for someone'.

I decided to venture into tricky territory. 'Have you known that confusion?'

He reached for his cigarettes and matches. 'Yes. I have'.

'Often?'

'Hardly', he said, lighting up. 'Just once or twice. And though, at first, it's exhilarating, the big danger is the hope that there might be a life beyond this initial intoxication. That's when you can really do yourself some damage'.

'Did you get hurt?'

'If, during the course of your life, you've fallen hard for someone, then you've undoubtedly been hurt'.

'Does it always work that way?'

He began to tap the table with his right index finger - a sure sign that he was feeling nervous.

'In my experience, yes - it does work that way'.

Then he looked up at me with an expression on his face which basically said, don't ask me anymore. So, yet again, that section of his life was ruled off-limits to me.

'I just don't want to see you get injured', he said. 'Especially, as... uh... I presume it was the first time...'

I quickly nodded my head, then added, 'But say you felt so certain about this

'Excuse me for sounding pedantic, but certainty is an empirical concept. And empiricism, as you well know, isn't rooted in theory... but wholly in fact. For example, there is certainty that the sun will rise in the East and set in the West. Just as there is certainty that liquid will freeze below thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and that if you throw yourself out a high window, you will land on the ground. But there's no certainty that you will be killed from that fall. Probability, yes. Certainty? Who's to know? It's the same with love...'

'You're saying, love's like throwing yourself out a window?'

'Come to think of it, that's not a bad analogy. Especially when it's a coup de foudre. You're having a relatively normal day, romance is about the last thing on your mind, you show up somewhere you didn't expect to be, there's this person on the other side of the room, and... splat'.

'Splat? What a charming word'.

'Well, that's always the end result of a freefall. The initial plunge is totally intoxicating. But then, inevitably, you go splat. Otherwise known as: coming back down to earth'.

'But say... just say... that this was truly meant to be?'

'Once again, we're entering the realm of the non-empirical. You want to believe that this man is the love of your life - and that you were fated to meet. But all belief is theoretical. It's not grounded in fact, let alone logic. There's no empirical proof that this Jack Malone guy is the preordained man destined for you. Only the hope that he is. And in purely theoretical terms, hope is an even shakier concept than belief'.

I was about to reach for the wine bottle, but thought better of it.

'You really are a pedant, aren't you?' I said.

'When necessary. I am also your brother who loves you. Which is why I am counseling caution here'.

'You didn't like Jack'.

'That's not really the issue, S...'

'But had you liked him, you might not be so sceptical'.

'I met him for... what?.. five minutes. We had an unfortunate exchange. End of story'.

'When you get to know him...'

'When?

'He'll be back on September first'.

'Oh my God, listen to you...'

'He promised he'd be back. He swore...'

'S, have you lost all reason? Or judgment? From what you've told me, this guy sounds like a total fantasist... and something of an operator to boot. A classic Irish combination'.

'That's not fair...'

'Hear me out. He's on shore leave, right? He crashes my party. He meets you - probably the best educated, most elegant woman he's ever encountered. He turns on the blarney, the mick charm. Before you can say "hokum", he's telling you you're the girl of his dreams: The one I knew was meant for me. But, all the time, he knows that he can say these things without commitment - because, come nine a.m. this morning, he's out of here. And sweetheart, unless I've got this all wrong, you're not going to be hearing from him again'.

I said nothing for a very long time. I just stared down at the table. Eric tried to adopt a more comforting tone.

'At worst, chalk the whole thing up to experience. In some ways, him vanishing out of your life now is probably the best outcome. Because he will always be "that boy" with whom you had one wildly romantic evening. So the shine will never go off him. Whereas if you married the guy, you'd probably discover that he likes to cut his toenails in bed, or gargles too loudly, or clears his throat through his nostrils

'Splat. You've brought me back down to earth'.

'What else is a brother to do? Anyway, I bet you anything that after you get a really good night's sleep, a little perspective will sneak up on you'.

But it didn't. Oh yes, I did sleep wonderfully that night. Nearly ten hours. But when I woke late the next morning, I was instantly consumed by thoughts of Jack. He took up residence in my mind within seconds of my eyes blinking open... and then refused to go away. I sat up in bed, and replayed frame by frame - our entire night together. I had total recall to the point where I could perfectly conjure up his voice, the contours of his face, his touch. Though I tried to heed my brother's advice - telling myself over and over that this was nothing more than a fanciful brief encounter - my arguments didn't sway me.

Or, to put it another way, I could see all the reasons why I should be sceptical and dubious about Jack Malone. The problem was: I didn't want to accept any of them.

That was the most unsettling aspect of all this - the way I refused to accede to logic, reason, good old New England common sense. I was like an attorney trying to contest a case she really didn't believe in. Whenever I thought I might just be on the verge of rational judgment, Jack would come flooding back into my mind again... and I'd be lost.

Was this, verily, love? In its most pure, undistilled form? I couldn't attach any other meaning to what I was feeling - except that it was as all-consuming, debilitating, and dizzying as a serious bout of flu.

The only problem was: unlike the flu, the fever wasn't breaking. If anything, it got worse with every passing day.

Jack Malone would not leave me be. The ache I felt for him was huge.

On the Sunday morning of Thanksgiving weekend, Eric phoned me at home. It was the first time we'd spoken since lunch at Luchows.

'Oh, hi there', I said flatly.

'Oh dear...'

'Oh dear what?' I said, sounding cross.

'Oh dear, you don't sound pleased to hear from me'.

'I am pleased to hear from you'.

'Yes - and your exuberance is noted. I was just calling to see if the Gods of Balance and Proportion had landed on your shoulder?'

'No. They haven't. Anything else?'

'I detect a certain brusqueness to your tone. Want me to come over?'

'No!'

'Fine'.

Then I suddenly heard myself saying, 'Yes. Come over. Now'.

'It's that bad, is it?'

I swallowed hard. 'Yes - it's that bad'.

It got worse. My sleep began to fracture. Every night - somewhere between the hours of two and four - I'd snap awake. I'd stare up at the ceiling, feeling empty and full of the most overpowering sense of longing. There was nothing reasonable or clearheaded about this need I had for Jack Malone. It was just always there. Omnipresent. Irrational. Absurd.

I'd finally surrender to my insomnia, and get out of bed, and go to my desk and write Jack. I wrote him every day. Usually I'd restrict myself to a postcard - but I might spend up to an hour drafting and redrafting a five-line epistle on a legal pad.

I kept carbons of every letter I wrote Jack. Sometimes I would dig out the manila file in which I kept the copies, and read through this ever-expanding volume of lovesick missives. Whenever I closed the file, I'd always find myself thinking: this is preposterous.

After a few weeks, it became even more preposterous. Because I'd yet to receive one letter from Jack.

Initially, I tried to rationalize away the absence of news from my beloved. I would work out schedules in my head, figuring: it must have taken him nearly five days to reach Europe by ship, another couple of days to make his way to wherever he was being stationed in Germany, and then at least two weeks for his first letter to cross back the Atlantic to me (this was, after all, well before the days of Air Mail). Factor in the strain put on the postal system during Christmas - and the fact that there were still hundreds of thousands of GIs stationed around the globe... and it was suddenly clear why I hadn't heard from him by Christmas.

But then the New Year arrived. And there was still no word from Jack... even though I continued to write him every day.

I waited. No response. January ebbed into February. I became obsessed with the daily delivery of mail to my apartment building. It would arrive in a bundle around ten thirty. It took the superintendent around two hours to sort through it all, and place it outside each apartment door. I began to devise my work schedule at Life so I could get home by twelve thirty and collect my mail, then race back to the subway and return to my office by one fifteen (the end of my lunch hour). For two weeks I rigorously stuck to this routine, hoping against hope that, this day, the long-awaited letter from Jack would finally arrive.

But I kept returning to the office empty-handed. And feeling a little more bereft with each passing day. Especially as my sleeplessness was beginning to escalate.

One afternoon Leland McGuire stuck his head into the tiny cubicle where I worked.

'I am about to give you the plum assignment of the week', he said.

'Oh, really', I said, sounding a little distracted.

'What do you think about John Garfield?'

'Wonderful actor. Easy on the eye. Somewhat to the left politically...'

'Yes, well, regarding that last aspect, we'll want to play down the political stuff completely. I don't think Mr Luce would appreciate reading about Garfield's socialist ideologies in the pages of his magazine. Garfield's a hunk. Women like him. So I want you to play up his "brawny, but sensitive" side...'

'Sorry, Leland - I'm not following you here. Am I going to be writing something about John Garfield?'

'Not only are you going to be writing about Garfield - you're going to be interviewing him. He's in town, and he's agreed to give us an hour of his time. So be there at eleven thirty to watch an hour of the filming, then you'll get a chance to talk with him around twelve thirty'.

I suddenly felt a stab of panic. 'I can't do twelve thirty tomorrow'.

'Pardon?'

'I'm sorry, but I just can't do twelve thirty tomorrow'.

'You already have plans?'

I heard myself say, 'I'm expecting a letter...' God, how I instantly regretted uttering that sentence. Leland looked at me incredulously.

'You're expecting a letter? I don't quite understand what that has to do with meeting John Garfield at twelve thirty?'

'Nothing, Mr McGuire. Nothing. I'll be happy to do the interview'.

He regarded me warily.

'Are you sure about that, Sara?'

'Absolutely, sir'.

'Right then', he said. 'I'll ask Garfield's press agent to call you after lunch, and give you a briefing. Unless, of course, you're busy after lunch, expecting a letter...'

I met his stare. 'I'll look forward to his call, sir'.

As soon as Leland left my cubicle, I careened down to the ladies' room, locked myself in a cubicle, and sobbed like a fool. Then I checked my watch. Twelve ten. I bolted out of the Ladies', out of the Time and Life building, then over to the subway. With several changes of train - and a quick dash from Sheridan Square - I made it to my apartment by twelve forty. There was no mail outside my door. Instantly I dashed down the stairs to the basement, and banged on the door of the superintendent's apartment. His name was Mr Kocsis - a tiny Hungarian in his fifties (he couldn't have been more than 4'11"), who always made a point of being surly... except around the holiday season, when he was expecting his annual Christmas tip. But this was mid-February, so he wasn't putting on the charm.

'What you want, Miss Smythe?' he said in brittle English after opening his door.

'My mail, Mr Kocsis'.

'You get no mail today'.

I suddenly felt jittery. 'That can't be true', I said.

'Is true, is true'.

'Are you absolutely certain?'

'You say I lie?'

'There has to be a letter. There has to be...'

'If I tell you "no letter", it's "no letter". Hokay?'

He slammed the door on me. I made it back upstairs to my apartment, collapsed across the bed, and lay there staring at the ceiling... for what only seemed like a couple of minutes. After a while, I glanced at the clock by my bed. Two forty-eight. Oh God, oh God, I thought. I am cracking up.

I leapt off the bed, ran out of the apartment, and into the first available cab. I made it to the Time and Life building just after three fifteen. When I reached my cubicle, there were four pink 'While You Were Out' slips on my typewriter. The first three were all messages from a 'Mr Tommy Glick - press agent for John Garfield'. The times of the messages were one thirty, two, and two thirty. The final message - logged in at two fifty - was from Leland: 'Come to my office as soon as you're back'.

I sat down at my desk. I put my head in my hands. I had missed the press agent's calls. We had lost the interview with Garfield. And now I was about to be fired.

I knew this was going to happen. Now it had happened. I'd let irrationality triumph - and I was about to pay a huge price for it. Yet again, I heard my father's voice in my head: There's no use crying over a mistake, young lady. Simply accept the consequences with dignity and grace - and learn from your infraction.

So I stood up, and smoothed out my hair, and took a deep breath, and walked slowly down the corridor, ready to face my punishment. I knocked twice on the door. Leland McGuire: Features Editor was stenciled on to the frosted glass.

'Come in', he said.

As soon as I was halfway through the door, I was already talking.

'Mr McGuire, I am so terribly sorry...'

'Please shut the door behind you, Sara, and sit down'.

His tone was cool, detached. I did as ordered, sitting in the hard wood chair facing his desk, my hands neatly folded in my lap - like a recalcitrant schoolgirl called into the headmistress's study. Only in this instance, the authority figure sitting in judgment of me could destroy my livelihood, my career.

'Are you all right, Sara?' he asked.

'I'm fine, Mr McGuire. Just fine. If I could simply explain...'

'You are not fine, Sara. In fact, you haven't been fine for weeks, have you?'

'I cannot tell you how sorry I am about missing Mr Glick's calls. But it's only three thirty. I can ring him right back, and get all the info on Garfield...'

Leland cut me off.

'I've reassigned the Garfield interview. Lois Rudkin will be handling it. Do you know Lois?'

I nodded. Lois was a recent graduate of Mount Holyoke, who'd joined our department in September. She was also quite the ambitious young journalist. I knew she looked upon me as her direct inter-office competition... even though I refused to play those games (believing, perhaps foolishly, that good work would always win out). I realized what was coming next: Leland had decided that there was need for only one woman writer in Features, and Lois was that writer.

'Yes', I said quietly, 'I know Lois'.

'Talented writer'.

Had I wanted to be fired on the spot, I could have said, And I've seen the charm offensive she's launched on you. Instead, I just nodded.

'Do you want to tell me what's going on, Sara?' he asked.

'Have you not been happy with my work, Mr McGuire?'

'I have no serious complaints. You write reasonably well. You are prompt. Barring today, you are basically reliable. But you also look exhausted all the time, and completely distracted - to the point where, work-wise, you appear to be just going through the motions. And I'm not the only one in the office who's noticed...'

'I see', I said, sounding non-committal.

'Has something terrible happened?'

'No - nothing terrible'.

'Is it... a matter of the heart?'

'It could be'.

'You obviously don't want to talk about this...'

'I'm sorry...

'Apologies are not necessary. Your private life is your private life. Until it begins to affect your working life. And though the old newspaperman in me rebels against the idea of company boosterism, my superiors at Time and Life believe that everyone who works here should be a "team player", with a real commitment to the magazine. And in your case, I'm afraid that you are widely regarded as somewhat remote - to the point where certain people also consider you haughty and patrician'.

This was news to me - and I was deeply distressed by it.

'I certainly do not try to be haughty, sir'.

'Perception is everything, Sara - especially within a company environment. And the perception among your colleagues at Life is that you'd rather be elsewhere'.

'Are you going to fire me, Mr McGuire?'

'I'm not that brutal, Sara. Nor have you done anything that merits the ax. At the same time, however, I would like you to consider working for us independently... from home, perhaps'.

Later that night - drinking rough red wine with Eric in his apartment - I filled my brother in on the remainder of my conversation with Leland McGuire.

'So after he dropped that bombshell about thinking I should work from home, he offered me his terms. He'd keep me on full salary for six months - for which I'd be required to write a story every two weeks. I would no longer be considered a Time and Life staffer - just a freelance, so I'd have no benefits'.

'Believe me, there are huge benefits in not having to go to an office in the morning'.

'That thought has crossed my mind. But I've also been wondering how I'd adjust to working on my own'.

'You've said you wanted to write fiction for a long time. Surely, this would now give you the chance...'

'I've given up on that idea. I'm not a writer...'

'You're just twenty-four years old. Don't dismiss yourself as a lost literary cause. Especially when you haven't really tried'.

'Well, there's a little problem with my fiction writing career: I can't get started'.

'You could sing that'.

'Very funny... But not only am I a failed writer; I am also - according to Leland McGuire - something of a failure as a team player'.

'Who wants to be a "team player"?'

'It's easier than being considered haughty or detached or patrician. I'm not really that patrician, am I?'

Eric laughed.

'Put it this way: you wouldn't be mistaken as a Brooklynite'.

I gave him a sour smile. 'Thanks for that'.

'I'm sorry. That was thoughtless'.

'Yes. It was'.

'Still no news from him?'

'You know I would have said something...'

'I know. And I haven't wanted to ask you...'

'Because... let me guess... you think I'm a romantic fathead - who's lost her heart to a rogue after just one night of dumb passion'.

'True - but I would actually thank your Brooklyn Irish rogue for forcing you out of Time and Life. Neither of us is a team player, S. Which means we'll always be outside of the mainstream. And, believe me, that's no bad thing... if you can handle that. So, consider this an opportunity to discover if you are your own best company. My hunch is: you'll really take to working by yourself. You have that remote temperament, after all'.

I punched him lightly in the shoulder.

'You are impossible', I said.

'But you give me such wonderful opportunities to be impossible'.

I breathed a sad sigh.

'I'm not going to hear from him again, am I?'

'Reality finally dawns'.

'I keep wondering if... I don't know... maybe he had an accident, or was transferred to somewhere so remote that he can't be contacted'.

'Then again, he could be on a top-secret spying assignment with Mata Hari - even though the French took the liberty of shooting her in nineteen seventeen'.

'All right, all right'.

'Get over him, S. Please. For your own sake'.

'God knows I want to. It's just... he won't go away. Something happened that night. Something so inexplicable, yet fundamental. And though I keep trying to convince myself that it's all folly, I simply know: he was it'.

The next morning, I cleared out my desk at Life. I walked down the corridor and popped my head into Leland's office.

'I just came to say goodbye', I said.

He didn't motion for me to come in or sit down, nor did he stand up. He seemed a bit nervous in my presence.

'Well, it's not really a goodbye, Sara. We'll still be working together'.

'Have you thought about my first freelance assignment?'

He avoided my eyes. 'Not yet - but I will be in touch within a couple of days to discuss a few things with you'.

'So I should expect a call from you?'

'Of course, of course - as soon as we've put this week's issue to bed. Meanwhile, you might as well enjoy a couple of days off'.

He reached for a pile of papers and went back to work. It was my cue to leave. So I collected the cardboard box on my desk which contained the meagre contents of my cubicle, then walked to the elevator. As the door opened, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Lorraine Tewksberry. She worked as a layout designer in the art department, and was the acknowledged office gossip. She was a tall, narrow woman in her thirties, with a beak-like face and bobbed black hair. She got on the elevator with me. As the door closed behind us, she leaned over and whispered into my ear (out of range of the uniformed elevator operator), 'Meet me at the Chock Full O'Nuts on Forty-sixth and Madison in five minutes'.

I looked at her quizzically. She merely winked, put her index finger to her lips, then hurried out of the elevator as soon as we reached the lobby.

I deposited my box with the concierge at the reception desk, and walked around the corner to Chock Full O'Nuts. Lorraine was seated at a booth in the back.

'This will just take a minute, because a minute's all I've got. It's production day'.

'Is something wrong?' I asked.

'Only from where you're sitting. I just want you to know that there are a lot of us on the magazine who are sorry to see you go'.

'That's surprising - considering that Mr McGuire told me everyone thought I was aloof and haughty'.

'Of course he'd tell you that - because from the moment you refused to go out with him, he had it in for you'.

'How did you know he asked me out?'

Lorraine cast her eyes heavenwards. 'It's not that big an office', she said.

'But he only asked me out once... and I was rather polite about turning him down'.

'The fact is, though - you did turn him down. And since then, he's been looking for a way of getting rid of you'.

'All this happened almost two years ago'.

'He's just been waiting for you to slip up. And, sorry to say this, but you have seemed a little off-beam for the last couple of months. If you don't mind me asking, is it guy trouble?'

'I'm afraid so'.

'Get over him, honey. All men are jerks'.

'You may have a point'.

'Believe me, I am a world-class expert on this subject. I also know this: Leland won't be giving you a single assignment from now on. He set up this freelance idea for you as a way of easing you out of the office, and giving all the plum soft assignments to Miss Lois Rudkin... who, as you may have heard, isn't merely Leland's favorite writer of the moment, but also his occasional bedfellow'.

'I had wondered...'

'You wondered right. Because unlike you, the smarmy little Miss Rudkin did take up the very married Mr McGuire's offer of a date. From what I heard, one thing led to another, and now... shazam, you're out of a job'.

I swallowed hard. 'What should I do?'

'If you want my honest opinion... you should say nothing and do nothing. Just take Mr Luce's money for the next six months, and go write the Great American Novel if you feel like it. Or move to Paris. Or take some classes. Or just sleep late until the paychecks stop. But know this: there's no way you're going to be writing anything for Life again. He's made sure of that. And in six months' time, he'll officially fire you'.

Some years later, I heard that, in Chinese, the symbol for the word 'crisis' has two meanings: danger and opportunity. I wish I'd known that at the time - because my initial reaction to Lorraine's news was one of utter panic, utter crisis. I picked up my office box from the concierge, I took a taxi downtown to my apartment, I slammed the door behind me, I sat down on my bed, I put my head in my hands, thinking that my world was completely falling apart. Yet again, I found myself mourning the loss of Jack - as if he had died. Because for all I knew, he was, indeed, dead.

The next morning, I made a trunk call to the Department of the Army in Washington, DC. The switchboard operator finally put me through to Stars and Stripes. I explained to a receptionist that I was trying to locate one of their journalists - a certain Sergeant John Joseph Malone, currently on assignment somewhere in Europe.

'We can't give out such information on the phone', the woman said. 'You'll have to put your request in writing to the Department of Enlisted Personnel'.

'But surely, there aren't that many journalists named Jack Malone writing for you'.

'Army rules are Army rules'.

So I called the Department of Enlisted Personnel. A clerk gave me the address to write for a Search for Personnel form. Once they received the completed form back from me, I should expect a reply back from the Department within six to eight weeks.

'Six to eight weeks! Isn't there anything I can do to speed up the process?'

'Ma'am, there are still something like four hundred thousand men stationed overseas. These things take time'.

I sent off for the form that afternoon. I also had a brainstorm, and paid a visit to my local news stand, right near the Sheridan Square subway station. After explaining my problem, the guy who ran it said, 'Sure, I can get you Stars and Stripes starting tomorrow. But back issues? This I'm gonna have to work on'.

The next morning, I stopped by the news stand at nine in the morning.

'You're in luck', the newsie told me. 'My distributor can get me a month's back copies. That's thirty copies in all'.

'I'll take them all'.

They arrived two days later. I scoured each edition. There wasn't one byline under the name of Jack Malone. I continued to pick up the daily edition of Stars and Stripes. Still no sign of a Jack Malone story. Maybe he didn't write under his own name, I told myself. Maybe he was on a top-secret special assignment, and wasn't having anything published just now. Maybe he'd been lying to me all along - and wasn't a journalist at all.

The search form from the Department of Enlisted Personnel arrived a week later. I mailed it back the next morning. As I returned to my apartment from the postbox, I stared at the small stack of mail on the mat outside my door. Surely, it would be romantic justice if a letter from Jack was in that pile.

It wasn't.

I tried to remain controlled. I tried to invent yet another rationalization for his lack of response. But all I could think was: why can't you answer me?

The next morning - despite another night of splintered sleep - I jumped out of bed, feeling deeply decisive. The moment had come to reclaim my self-respect and put this entire moonstruck episode behind me. What's more, I would take Lorraine and Eric's advice, and use the time to make a serious attempt at writing fiction.

And I would begin this morning.

I had a fast shower. I dressed. I brewed up a pot of coffee. I drank two cups. I sat down in front of my Remington. I rolled a blank sheet of paper into the machine. I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keys. I exhaled. My fingers slipped down to the table. Inadvertently, they began to tap its flat surface. I took another deep breath, and forced my fingers back over the typewriter keys. That's when I suddenly felt myself seize up - as if a nerve had been pinched in my back, throttling all movement in my fingers.

I shuddered. I tried to move my hands - to make them type a simple sentence. I couldn't get them to work. Eventually I managed to force them away from the keys. My fingers gripped the edges of the table-top tightly. I was in need of some sort of ballast, as I felt as if I was about to lose all sense of equilibrium. My head was whirling. I felt vertiginous, muddled, frightened. The next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom, getting ill. When the entire ghastly business was over, I forced myself up off the floor and to the phone. I called my brother.

'Eric', I said in a near-whisper. 'I think I am in a spot of bother'.

In our family, going to the doctor was always considered a sign of weakness. Even admitting that you were unwell - or feeling a little fragile - was frowned upon. Resilience was considered a crucial virtue - a sign of fortitude and self-sufficiency. Never complain was another of my father's stoic principles - and one to which I still tried to adhere. Which is why Eric knew immediately that my spot of bother was an understated, but definite plea for help.

'I'll be right over', he said, sounding worried.

He was right over. He must have dashed across the Village - because less than ten minutes after I called, he was knocking on the door of my apartment.

'It's open', I said, my voice barely audible.

I was seated in front of the typewriter. My fingers continued to grip the side of the table. Because I felt that the table was the only thing keeping me steady right now.

'Good God, S', Eric said, his face registering alarm, 'what's happened?'

'I don't know. I can't move'.

'You're paralyzed?'

'I just cannot move'.

He came over and touched my shoulders. It felt as if someone had goaded me with an electric cattle prod. I jumped, and let out a shrill cry, and gripped the table even tighter.

'Sorry, sorry', Eric said, looking even more stunned by my response.

'Don't apologize. It's me who should be apologizing...'

'At least we know you're not physically paralyzed. Are you sure you can't get up?'

'I'm scared...' I whispered.

'That's pretty understandable. But let's just try to get you out of that chair and on to the bed. Okay?'

I said nothing. Eric came over and placed his hands on mine.

'Try to let go of the table, S'.

'I can't'.

'Yes. You can'.

'Please, Eric...'

He gripped my fingers. I resisted at first, but his grip tightened. With one pull, he lifted my hands off the table. They fell heavily into my lap. I stared down at them, blankly.

'Good', he said. 'That's a start. Now I'm going to lift you out of the chair and on to the bed'.

'Eric, I'm so sorry...'

'Shaddup', he said, suddenly grabbing me around the back with one arm and under my knees with the other. Then, taking a deep breath, he lifted me straight up out of the chair.

'Thank God you haven't put on weight', he said.

'Very unlikely, under the circumstances'.

'You're going to be fine, S. Here we go...'

With that he carried me the six steps from my desk to my bed. Lowering me on to the mattress, he walked over to my closet, found the spare blanket, and draped it over me. I suddenly felt chilled to the bone. I crossed my arms, clutching my shoulders. My teeth began to chatter. Eric picked up the phone, dialed a number, then spoke quietly into the receiver. When he hung up, he turned to me and said, 'I just spoke to Dr Ballensweig's nurse. He's got an hour free at lunchtime, so he's agreed to make a house call...'

'I don't need a doctor', I said. 'I just need sleep'.

'You'll get some sleep. But you really need a doctor first'.

Eric had discovered Dr Ballensweig shortly after he graduated from Columbia. Since he swore by him, he also became my doctor when I moved to the city. We liked him because he was completely no-nonsense (the antithesis of Manhattan medical omnipotence), and because his slight stature, his hunched shoulders, and his quiet deadpan delivery put us both in mind of an old-style country GP.

He arrived at my apartment a few hours later. He was wearing an old worsted suit and half-moon glasses, and carried an ancient black medical bag. Eric let him in. He immediately approached the bed, sizing me up.

'Hello, Sara', he said calmly. 'You look tired'.

'I am', I managed to say in a near-whisper.

'You've also lost some weight. Any idea why?'

I clutched myself tighter.

'Are you cold?' he asked.

I nodded.

'And you find it difficult to move?'

I nodded again.

'That's fine. I just want to speak with your brother for a few minutes. Would you excuse us?'

He motioned for Eric to step outside the apartment with him. When he returned, he was alone.

'I've asked Eric to take a walk while I examine you'.

He opened his case. 'Now let's see what the problem is'.

He got me to sit up. It took some work. He used a pocket light to look into my eyes. He checked my ears, my nose, my throat. He took my pulse and blood pressure. He tested my reflexes. He asked me a long list of questions about my general health, my diet, my inability to sleep, and the seizure that had me clutching the table for an hour. Then he pulled up a chair by the bed and sat down.

'Well, there's nothing physically wrong with you'.

'I see'.

'I could dispatch you to New York Hospital for a battery of neurological tests - but I think they would show nothing. Just as I could have you admitted to Bellevue for psychiatric observation. But, once again, I think it would prove clinically pointless, and deeply distressing for you. Because I sense that you have suffered a minor breakdown...'

I said nothing.

'It's less of a nervous-based breakdown, and more of a physical one - brought on by lack of sleep and serious emotional distress. Your brother did mention that you've been having a rather difficult time of it recently'.

'It's all just a silly business...'

'If it's brought you to this juncture, then it's certainly not silly...'

'I've just allowed things to get out of hand. A complete romantic over-reaction on my part'.

'We all over-react to those sort of things. Even the most level-headed people, like yourself. It's the nature of the condition'.

'What's the cure?'

He gave me a paternal smile. 'If I knew that, I'd probably be the richest doctor in America. But... you know what I'm going to tell you: there is no cure. Except, perhaps, time. Which, of course, is about the last thing someone in the throes of that condition wants to hear. In your case, however, I think rest is crucial. A very long rest. Preferably somewhere out of your normal surroundings. Eric told me you're on a leave-of-absence from work...'

'More like a permanent leave-of-absence, Doctor'.

'Then take the opportunity to go away. Not to another city - but some place where you can walk a great deal. The seashore always works. Believe me, in my book, a walk on a beach is worth five hours on a psychiatrist's couch... though I'm probably the only doctor in this city who would tell you that. Will you give serious consideration to leaving town for a while?'

I nodded.

'Good. Meanwhile - though I understand your wish to avoid sedatives - I am worried about your lack of sleep. And I want to give you an injection now that will knock you out for a while'.

'For how long?'

'Just until tomorrow morning'.

'That's a long time'.

'You need it. The world always looks a little more manageable after a long rest'.

He opened his bag.

'Now roll up your sleeve'.

I smelled the sharp medicinal scent of rubbing alcohol as he poured it on the cotton, then swabbed it on my arm. Then I felt the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle, and another swab of the cotton after the needle was withdrawn. I lay back down on the bed. Within a moment, the world blacked out.

When it came back into focus again, it was morning. First light was seeping through the blinds. My head felt murky - as if a gauze had been placed in front of my eyes. For a moment or two I didn't know where I was. Everything seemed fine with the world. Until thoughts of Jack came flooding back - and a residual sadness enveloped me again.

But, at least, I had slept. For what? I reached over to the wind-up alarm clock on my bedside table. Six fourteen. Good God, I had been out for almost eighteen hours. Just as the good doctor promised. No wonder I was feeling so fogged in. I managed to sit up in bed. The thought struck me: I can actually sit up. Now that's an improvement over yesterday. Then I realized I was under the covers, and in a nightgown. It didn't take too long to work out who had undressed me and tucked me in, as Eric was asleep on my sofa, curled up beneath a blanket, snoring sonorously. I lifted back the bedclothes and gently put my feet to the floor. Then, taking one careful step at a time, I managed to make it into the bathroom.

I ran a very hot bath. I took off my nightgown and slid into the steamy water. Gradually, the fog around my brain lifted. I sat in the tub for the better part of an hour, staring at the ceiling, steaming away the strange interlude that had been the last day. Eighteen hours of drugged dormancy hadn't suddenly calmed my jagged nerves overnight. I still felt an intense sense of loss - not just for Jack, but for the job I had failed to keep. But Dr Ballensweig was right: the world did seem more tangible after an extended period of unconsciousness. And I was simply grateful to be functioning normally again.

Eventually I forced myself out of the bath. I dried myself off. I wrapped my hair in a towel. I put on a bathrobe. I opened the door as quietly as possible. But as I started tiptoeing back towards my bed, I heard the sharp crack of a Zippo lighter being closed. Eric was propped up on the sofa, puffing away on the first cigarette of the morning.

'So... the dead do walk', he said with a sleepy smile.

'Eric, you really didn't have to spend the night...'

'Of course I did. I certainly wasn't going to leave you alone after yesterday'.

'I am so sorry'.

'For what? As breakdowns go, yours was about as genteel as they get. Especially as it all happened out of public view'.

'I still feel so ashamed...'

'Why? Because things overwhelmed you? Because, for one day, you couldn't cope? Give yourself a break, S... and make us some coffee'.

'Of course, of course', I said, going over to the kitchen area and turning on the hotplate.

'You were really down for the count. After Doc Ballensweig gave you the needle, you didn't stir once. Getting you into bed was like undressing a rag doll. But you don't want to hear about that, do you?'

'No. I really don't'.

'I did leave you alone for around an hour, while I popped out to the pharmacy and got a prescription filled for you. The bottle's on your bedside table. Dr Ballensweig wants you to take two of those pills just before bedtime, to make certain you sleep through the night. Once your sleep begins to stabilize again, you can throw them away'.

'They're not sedatives, are they? I don't need sedatives'.

'They are sleeping pills. Which help you sleep. Which you desperately need if you want to avoid a repeat of yesterday. So, stop sounding like a convert to Christian Science...'

'Point taken', I said, filling the percolator with ground coffee.

'There's another thing I did while you were sleeping. I called your boss at Life...'

'You did what?'

'I phoned Leland McGuire, and explained that you were unwell. And under doctor's orders to take a sabbatical from New York...'

'Oh my God, Eric - you shouldn't have done that'.

'Of course I should have. Otherwise you would have sat here for the next ten weeks, waiting for McGuire to phone you with a freelance assignment... even though whatshername, the office gossip, told you that wasn't going to happen. I mean, doctor's orders are doctor's orders. You need an extended rest in somewhere wild and wooly. Which is why you're going to Maine'.

I blinked with shock. 'I'm going to Maine?'

'Remember the cottage Mother and Father used to rent near Popham Beach?'

I certainly did. It was a small two-bedroom shingle cottage, located within a summer colony of houses which fronted one of the most expansive corners of the Maine coast. For ten consecutive summers, our parents rented this cottage for an annual two-week vacation in July. We knew the owners - a now-elderly couple in Hartford called the Daniels. When I was in a drug-induced trance yesterday, Eric had called Mr Daniels and explained that I was taking a leave of absence from Life to do some writing, and wanted to hole up in somewhere nice and quiet.

'Without me saying another word', Eric explained, 'Old Man Daniels offered you the cottage on the spot - telling me how pleased and proud he was of the fact that you were a staff writer at Life'.

'If only he knew the truth'.

'Anyway, I asked him how much he wanted in rent. He almost sounded offended by the question. "I wouldn't dream of charging Biddy Smythe's daughter rent... especially in the off-season"'.

'He actually called Father "Biddy"?' I said with a laugh.

'WASP informality is a wonder to behold, isn't it? Anyway, the cottage is yours free of charge... until the first of May if you like'.

'That's an awfully long time in an awfully isolated spot'.

'Try it for two weeks. If you don't like it - if it gets too lonely - come home. The only cost you'll have is the housekeeper. Her name's Mrs Reynolds. She lives locally. For five dollars, she'll come in twice a week to clean the place for you, and she also has a car, so she'll pick you up at the train station in Brunswick on Monday evening. I've booked you on the train leaving Penn Station at nine a.m. You get to Boston just before three, and change there for the train to Brunswick, which arrives at seven twenty that night. Mrs Reynolds will be waiting for you at the station'.

'You really have me organized, don't you?'

'It's called forcing your hand. You need this time off. Left to your own devices, you wouldn't take it'.

My brother was right. Had he not taken charge, I would have stayed in Manhattan, waiting for word from Jack, word from Leland, word from the Department of Enlisted Personnel. And waiting desperately for something that might not come is never good for one's well-being. So I let myself be talked into this retreat. I packed a trunk with old clothes and lots of books. Against Eric's protest, I insisted on lugging my Remington typewriter with me.

'You shouldn't even be thinking about trying to write', he said.

'I'm just going to bring it along in case inspiration hits... though I'd say that's about as likely as an asteroid hitting Popham Beach'.

'Promise me you won't even think about writing for at least two weeks'.

I promised Eric that. I kept the promise. Because as soon as I reached Maine, I gave in to indolence. The cottage was pleasant, in a shabby genteel sort of way. It was also still suffering from late winter damp - but several days of constant wood-burning in the fireplace (coupled with the judicious use of two smelly, but effective kerosene heaters) dried it out and made it supremely cozy. I spent the days doing very little. After sleeping late, I might lounge all morning in bed with a novel, or collapse into the saggy, comfortable easy-chair by the fireplace, and leaf through ten years of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning back issues - which I discovered stacked inside a wooden chest that also served as a coffee table. At night, I might listen to the radio - especially if Toscanini and the NBC Symphony were playing - while reading into the early hours of the morning. Every time I got the urge to write Jack, I resisted it. My typewriter remained closed, and hidden from view in a closet in the bedroom.

But, of course, the centerpiece of every day was the long walk I took down Popham Beach.

The beach was three miles long. The summer colony was at its most northerly end - a cluster of weatherbeaten clapboard and shingle houses, set back a good half-mile from the water's edge. The colony was the only hint of habitation in the area. Because once you walked out of its beachfront gates and turned right, all you could see was a vast open vista of sea, sky and pure white sand.

It was April - so the beach was totally deserted. It was also that seasonal interregnum between winter and spring, marked by hard blue skies and a bracing chill. I'd bundle up against the cold, step out on to the sand, and would immediately feel something close to exhilaration. The wind was sharp, the air briny, the horizon limitless. I'd walk the three miles to that extreme southerly point where the sand ended. Then I'd turn around and head for home. On average, this round trip would take me two hours. During the course of this hike, my mind would inevitably empty. Maybe it was the epic grandeur of the Maine coast. Maybe it was the sense of isolation, the primal force of wind and water, the total lack of another human voice. Whatever the reason, Dr Ballensweig was right. Walking a beach was a restorative act. The sadness I felt - the sense of loss - didn't suddenly evaporate. But gradually, a certain equilibrium returned. With it came the dissipation of the emotional fever that had vexed me for the past few months. No, I didn't suddenly feel wise, knowing and sage about the febrile foolishness of all-consuming love. Rather, I felt blessedly flat, tired, and pleased to be free of life's ongoing eventfulness. For the first juncture in my life, I was spending an extended period of time by myself - and I liked it.

I had no contact with anyone - except the housekeeper, Ruth Reynolds. She was a large, cheerful woman in her late thirties. Her husband, Roy, was a welder at the nearby Bath Iron Works, they had a gaggle of kids, and in between keeping her large family organized, she picked up a little extra money as caretaker of the half-dozen cottages at Popham Beach. I was the only resident in the colony at this time of year, so Ruth lavished attention on me. The cottage had a bicycle - which I'd occasionally use to get to the nearest shop (a hilly five-mile pedal down a back road). Most of the time, however, Ruth insisted on driving me to the town of Bath to get groceries. And every Thursday night, I had a standing invitation to eat dinner with her family.

Their house was around a mile down the road from the colony - a different world from the battered gentility of this patrician enclave. Ruth and Roy lived with their five children in a cramped, tumbledown three-bedroom Cape Codder. It needed a paint job - both inside and out. Roy - a big bear of a man, with biceps like the steel girders he spent the day welding - was friendly in a shy sort of way. Their kids - ranging in ages from seventeen to five - generated extraordinary amounts of spirited chaos, yet Ruth was a real master at keeping their collective domestic life in order.

Dinner was always at five thirty. The young kids were in bed by seven. The two teenage boys then huddled in front of the radio in the kitchen, listening to Buck Rogers or The Shadow. Roy would excuse himself to start his night shift at the Iron Works. Ruth would dig out a bottle of Christian Brothers Port from the breakfront, pour out two glasses, then sit opposite me in a big squishy armchair.

It became a weekly ritual, this Thursday dinner.

'You know why I like to have you over on Thursday nights?' Ruth said to me as we settled into our chairs and sipped the sweet sticky port. 'Because it's the only day of the week when Roy works the eight-to-four a.m. shift. Which means it's the only time I have the chance to sit down with a girlfriend and natter'.

'I'm glad you consider me a girlfriend'.

'Of course I do. And I tell you, I wish I could see more of you. But five kids and a house to run leaves me just about enough time every day to sleep six hours - and not much more'.

'Well, you'll be seeing a bit more of me, as I've decided to extend my stay at the cottage for a few more weeks'.

Ruth clinked her glass against mine.

'Glad you're sticking around for a while', she said.

'Well, it's not as if anyone's desperate for my presence at Life'.

'You don't know that'.

'Yes, I do' - and I explained that, a few days earlier, I telegrammed my boss, Leland McGuire, explaining that I wanted to remain on in Maine, but would return to New York instantly if a freelance assignment came up. Twenty-four hours later came his reply, via Western Union:

We know where you are if we need you. Stop. Leland.

'That's kind of a terse answer, isn't it?' Ruth said.

'But wholly expected. Around six months from now, I fully expect to be out of a job'.

'If I were you, I wouldn't be worried'.

'Why not?'

'Because you're obviously smart, and you've also got a lot of poise'.

'I'm hardly poised. If you only knew the mistakes I've made recently...'

'I bet they weren't really big mistakes'.

'Believe me, they were big. I let something foolishly overwhelm me'.

'Something?'

'No... someone'.

'I did wonder if that was the case...'

'Is it that obvious?'

'No one comes to Maine at this time of year unless they're really trying to put some distance between themselves and a problem'.

'It wasn't a problem. Just the height of foolishness. Especially as it lasted just one night. And like an idiot, I allowed myself to believe it was true love'.

'But if you thought that, then maybe it was'.

'Or maybe it was just pure fantasy on my part. Falling in love with love'.

'Where is he now?'

'In Europe - with the Army. I've written to him so many damn times... but so far, there's been no reply'.

'You know what you have to do, don't you?'

'Forget him, I suppose'.

'Oh, you'll never do that. He'll always be there - because he made such an impact on you'.

'So what do I do?'

'It's simple: tell yourself it wasn't meant to be'.

'You know what you have to do, don't you?' That sentence stuck with me - because it summed up one of life's ongoing dilemmas: how do you reconcile the head with the heart? My rational brain told me to accept the reality that Jack Malone had come and gone out of my life within twelve hours. My irrational heart said otherwise. What astounded me was how persuasive the heart could be - especially since, before that Thanksgiving night, I considered myself immune to all things illogical. But now...

Now I knew otherwise.

The morning after that talk with Ruth, I was up at dawn. I ate a light breakfast. I walked the beach. I was back in the cottage by nine. I put a pot of coffee on the stove. While it percolated, I went into the bedroom and removed my Remington typewriter from the closet. I hauled it over to the kitchen table. I removed its cover. A thin packet of typing paper was stored on the inside cover. I opened the packet, and fed a sheet of paper into the roller. The coffee pot began to jerk spasmodically back and forth on the stove. I turned down the flame and poured myself a thick black cup of steaming Chock Full O' Nuts. I set the cup next to the typewriter. I sat down. I blew on the coffee, then took a long, steadying sip. I put the cup down. I placed my fingers over the keys. They immediately clenched up into fists. I forced myself to unclench them. Before I could think further about it, I suddenly typed a sentence:

I hadn't planned to be at that party.

My hands left the keys. They ended up on the table, my fingers drumming its stripped pine surface as I read that sentence again and again. After a few minutes, I decided to try a second sentence.

I had planned to be elsewhere.

My fingers jumped away from the typewriter and continued their rat-a-tat hammering on the table-top. I sipped the coffee. I stared at the two sentences emblazoned on the otherwise empty page. I decided to risk a third sentence:

Because that was the night I had promised to treat myself to that rarest of Manhattan pleasures: eight unbroken hours in bed.

Three sentences. Thirty-six words. I read through them again. Punchy. Direct. A hint of wryness creeping into the last line. The language was simple, with no excess verbal baggage. Not a bad start. Not bad at all.

I reached for the coffee cup. I downed the remaining contents in one go. I went over to the stove and refilled the cup. I fought the momentary urge to run out the door. I forced myself back to the kitchen table. I sat down. My fingers recommenced their manic rat-a-tat drumming on the table.

Three sentences. Thirty-six words. A full double-spaced typed page usually contained around two hundred words.

Well, go on, finish the page. It's just another one hundred and sixty-four words. Hell, you wrote those thirty-six words in ten minutes. An additional one hundred and sixty-four words should only take you...

Four hours. That's how long it took. Four long, dreadful hours - during which time I ripped out five sheets of paper from the roller, drank another pot of coffee, paced the floor, chewed on a pencil, made notes in the margins, and eventually, miraculously, made it to the bottom of the damn page.

Later that night, after supper, I nursed a glass of red wine while re-reading what I had written. It flowed reasonably well. The voice seemed approachable (or, at least, not off-putting). Stylistically, it had a bit of bite (without sounding too smarty-pants for its own good). Most importantly, the narrative took off quickly. The story had momentum. It was a plausible start.

But it was only one page.

The next morning, I was up again at sunrise. A fast breakfast, a brisk hike down the beach, a pot of coffee on the stove, and I was sitting in front of the typewriter by eight thirty.

By noon, I had the second page written. Later that night - just before slipping into bed - I re-read my two finished pages. I excised around thirty extraneous words. I tightened up several descriptive passages. I rewrote an awkward sentence, and eliminated one clunker of a metaphor ('His eyes had the seductive glow of a Broadway marquee'... changing it to: 'He had bedroom eyes').

Then, before I could start having a crisis of confidence, I placed the pages face down on the desk.

Up again with the sun. Grapefruit, toast, coffee. The beach. More coffee. The desk.

And I remained at the desk until I finished that day's page.

A work pattern was emerging. My day now had a structure; a purpose. As long as I got a page written, I would feel as if something had been accomplished. Everyone talks about the heady creative pleasures of writing - everyone except those who've actually tried to do it. There's nothing heady about the process. It is a task. Like all tasks, it is only pleasurable in retrospect. You are relieved to have met your daily quota. You hope the work you did today is of a satisfactory nature. Because, come tomorrow, you have to blacken another page at the typewriter. Willfulness is required to get the job done. Willfulness... and a strange sense of confidence. As I was discovering, writing was a confidence trick you played on yourself.

A page a day, six days a week. After the second week of work, I sent a telegram to Eric:

Have decided splendid isolation suits me. Stop. Will be here for another few weeks. Stop. Am doing some writing. Stop. Don't be horrified. Stop. It actually goes well. Stop. Please keep checking my mail for news from Europe or the Department of Enlisted Personnel. Stop. Love, S.

Forty-eight hours later, a Western Union man showed up at the door of the cottage, with Eric's reply:

If you're happy doing something masochistic like writing, then this fellow masochist is happy for you. Stop. I've been checking your mail twice a week. Stop. Nothing from Europe or Washington. Stop. File him away under 'mirage' and move on. Stop. I hate Joe E. Brown. Stop. And I miss you.

For the first time in months, I didn't feel a sharp stab of sadness about Jack. More of a dull discomfort. Tell yourself it wasn't meant to be. And while you're at it, get that next page written.

Another week. Another six pages. As usual, I took Sunday off. I returned to work on Monday. Having spent the first three weeks eking out every page - spending an hour worrying about the construction of a sentence, or scrapping one hundred and fifty words right when I neared the end of a page - I started sprinting at the typewriter. I pounded out three pages on Monday, four on Tuesday. I was no longer obsessively worrying about form, structure, rhythm. I was simply running with the material. It had taken over. It was writing itself.

And then, at 4.02 p.m. (I glanced at my watch) on Wednesday afternoon, April 20th 1946, I came to a halt. For a moment or two, I simply sat bemused in my desk chair, staring at the half-blackened page in the typewriter. The realization dawned.

I had just finished my first short story.

Another few minutes passed. Then I forced myself up, grabbed my coat, and hiked down to the water's edge. I squatted down in the sand, and stared out at the metronomic rhythm of the Atlantic surf. I didn't know if the story was good or bad. My self-deprecating Smythe family instincts told me to accept the fact that it probably wasn't worthy of publication. But, at least, it was completed. And I would revel in that achievement - for a moment or two anyway.

The next morning, I sat down at the kitchen table and read through the twenty-four-page story. It was called 'Shore Leave' - and, yes, it was a fictional reworking of the night I met Jack. Only in this instance, it was set in 1941, and the narrator was a thirty-year-old book publisher named Hannah: a single woman who has always been unlucky with men, and has started to write herself off as someone who will never bump into love. Until she meets Richard Ryan - a Navy lieutenant, on shore leave for one night in Manhattan before shipping out to the Pacific. They meet at a party, the attraction is instantaneous, they spend the night walking the city, they fall into each other's arms, they take a room for a couple of hours at a cheap hotel, there is a stoic goodbye at the Brooklyn Navy Yards, and though he promises his heart to her, Hannah knows that she'll never see him again. Because the timing is all wrong. He's off to war - and she senses that this night in Manhattan will soon be forgotten by him. So she's left with the knowledge that, having bumped into her destiny, she's lost him within twelve hours of finding him.

I spent the next three days editing the story, making certain that the language was spare and devoid of mawkishness. What was it that Puccini said to his librettist when they were working on La Boheme? 'Sentiment... but no sentimentality'. That's what I was striving for - a certain poignancy that didn't edge into schmaltz. On Sunday, using carbon paper, I typed two clean copies of the edited story. Late that night, I read it through for a final time. I really didn't know what to think of it. It seemed to move along, and evoke a certain bittersweet mood... but I was too close to the story to discern whether it was any damn good. So I took the top copy of 'Shore Leave', folded it in half, and placed it in a manila envelope, along with the following note:

Eric:

Here it is - the first out of the bottle. And I want you to be dead honest with me about its lack of literary merit.

Expect me in Manhattan in around ten days. Dinner on me at Luchows the night I'm back.

Love,

S

I cycled to the local post office the next morning, and paid an extra dollar to have this envelope sent Express to Eric's apartment. Then I used the post office phone for a trunk call to Boston. I spoke with a college friend - Marge Kennicott - who was working as a junior book editor at Houghton Mifflin, and living on Commonwealth Avenue. She seemed delighted by the idea of putting me up for a week or so ('... if you don't mind sleeping on the world's lumpiest sofa'). I told her to expect me in forty-eight hours. As soon as I hung up, I called the railway station in Brunswick, and reserved a seat on the train to Boston for Wednesday morning. Then I cycled over to Ruth's house and told her I was leaving in two days' time.

'I'm going to miss you', she said. 'But you look ready to go back'.

'Do I really look cured?' I said with a laugh.

'Like I've told you before, you'll never be cured of him. But I bet you now see it for what it was'.

'Put it this way', I said. 'I'll never let myself fall so hard again'.

'Someone will come along and change your mind about that'.

'I won't let them. Romance is a game for saps'.

I truly meant that. Because what so unnerved me about this entire episode was how it undermined all sense of control - to the point where I could think of little else but the object of my infatuation. In my short story, Hannah comes away from her night of accidental passion feeling bereft - but also with the realization that she can fall in love. I knew that now too... and it bothered me. Because what I now realized was that I hadn't really been in love with Jack Malone. I had been in love with the idea of Jack. I had been in love with love. And I vowed never to make such a misjudgment again.

I packed up my trunk and typewriter, and had them shipped on ahead of me to New York. I took a final walk on Popham Beach. Ruth insisted on driving me to the train station in Brunswick. We embraced on the platform.

'I'm going to expect a copy of whatever you've been writing when it gets published'.

'It'll never get published', I said.

'Sara - one of these days you're going to actually start liking yourself'.

I spent a perfectly pleasant week in Boston. Marge Kennicott lived in a perfectly pleasant apartment in Back Bay. She had perfectly pleasant friends. She had a perfectly pleasant fiance named George Stafford, Jr - who was the heir apparent in his family's stockbroking firm. As always, Boston was a perfectly pleasant city - pretty, snobbish, dull. I resisted all of Marge's attempts to fix me up with perfectly pleasant eligible bachelors. I said nothing about the events that had driven me to Maine for seven weeks. After seven days of austere Brahman gentility, I was longing for the jangled disorder and chaotic exuberance of Manhattan. So I was relieved when I finally boarded the train back to Penn Station.

The day before I left Boston, I'd phoned Eric at home. He said he was going to be at work when my train arrived, but would meet me at Luchows for dinner that night.

'Did you get the envelope I sent you?' I asked nervously.

'Oh yes', he said.

'And?'

'I'll tell you when I see you'.

There was a huge pile of mail on the doormat outside my apartment. I sorted through it, expecting nothing from Jack. My expectations were met. But there was a letter from the Department of the Army/Office of Enlisted Personnel, informing me that Lieutenant John Joseph Malone was now stationed at Allied HQ in England. They also enclosed a postal address at which he could be reached.

I only read through the letter once. Then I dropped it in the trash basket by my desk, thinking: misjudgments are best tossed out of your life.

There was another letter in that pile of mail which caught my immediate attention - because the return address on the envelope said Saturday Night/Sunday Morning: a well-known magazine with which I had never corresponded, nor knew anyone who worked there. I tore back the flap. I pulled out the letter.

April 28th, 1946

Dear Miss Smythe,

I am pleased to inform you that your short story, 'Shore Leave', has been accepted for publication by Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. I have tentatively scheduled it for our first September '46 issue, and will pay you a fee of $125 for first publication rights.

Though I would like to run the story largely uncut, I have one or two editorial suggestions that you might be willing to consider. Please call my secretary at your convenience to set up a meeting.

I look forward to meeting you, and am delighted your fiction will be appearing in our magazine.

Sincerely yours,

Nathaniel Hunter

Fiction Editor

Three hours later - as I sat nursing a glass of champagne with Eric in Luchows - I was still in shock.

'Try to look pleased, for God's sakes', Eric said.

'I am pleased. But I'm also a little stunned that you engineered all this'.

'As I told you before, I engineered nothing. I read the story. I liked the story. I called my old Columbia friend, Nat Hunter, at Saturday Night/Sunday Morning and told him I'd just read a story which struck me as perfect Saturday/Sunday material... and which just happened to have been written by my sister. He asked me to send it over. He liked it. He's publishing it. Had I not liked it, I wouldn't have sent it to Nat. Had Nat not liked it, he wouldn't be publishing it. So your story's acceptance was completely free of nepotism. I engineered nothing'.

'Without you, however, I wouldn't have had direct access to the fiction editor'.

'Welcome to the way the world works'.

I reached over and clasped his hand.

'Thank you', I said.

'Much obliged. But, hey, it's a good story. You can write'.

'Well, dinner's on me tonight'.

'Damn right it is'.

'I missed you, Eric'

'Ditto, S. And you're looking so much better'.

'I am better'.

'As good as new?'

I clinked my glass against his. 'Absolutely', I said.

The next morning, I called Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. Nathaniel Hunter's secretary was exceedingly friendly, and said that Mr Hunter would be delighted to take me out to lunch in two days' time, my schedule permitting.

'My schedule permits', I said, trying to sound blase.

I also checked in with Leland McGuire at Life. His assistant answered the phone, then put me on hold after I asked to speak directly with my erstwhile boss. After a moment she came back on the line.

'Leland asked me to welcome you back to New York, and to say he'll be in touch as soon as he has an assignment for you'.

It was the reply I expected. I now knew for certain that, a few months from now, the dismissal notice from Life would land on my doormat. But with that $125 in my pocket from Saturday Night/ Sunday Morning, I'd be able to survive for a month or so beyond that time. And maybe I could convince this Nat Hunter to give me a journalistic assignment or two.

Naturally, I was nervous on the morning of my lunch with Mr Hunter. By eleven I was tired of pacing my little apartment - so I decided to kill the remaining hour and a half before our meeting by walking all the way uptown to Saturday/Sunday's offices on Madison and 47th Street. As I was locking my apartment door behind me, Mr Kocsis walked up the stair, a stack of letters in his hand.

'Mail early today', he said, handing me a single postcard, then heading down the corridor, depositing letters on my neighbors' mats. I stared down at the card. Though the stamp was American, it was franked 'US Army/American Occupation Zone, Berlin'. My stomach was suddenly in knots. Quickly I turned the card over. Three words were scrawled on the reverse side.

I'm sorry.

Jack

I stared at this message for a very long time. Then I forced myself to head downstairs and out into the bright spring sunshine. I turned left outside my front door, and started heading north. The card was still clutched in my hand. Crossing Greenwich Avenue, I walked by a garbage can. Without a moment's thought, I tossed the card away. I didn't look back to see if it landed in the can. I just kept walking.

Five

THE LUNCH WITH Nathaniel Hunter went well. So well that he offered me a job: assistant fiction editor of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. I couldn't believe my luck. I accepted on the spot. Mr Hunter seemed surprised by my immediate answer.

'You can think about it for a day or two, if you want', he said, lighting up one of the endless chain of Camels he smoked.

'My mind's made up. When do I start?'

'Monday, if you like. But Sara - do realize that, by accepting this job, you're not going to have much time for your own writing'.

'I'll find the time'.

'I've heard that before from many a promising writer. They get a story accepted by a magazine. But instead of trying to write fiction full time, they take on a position in advertising or public relations. Which inevitably means that they are too exhausted by the end of the day to do any writing whatsoever. As you well know, a nine-to-five job takes its toll'.

'I need to pay the rent'.

'You're young, you're single, you have no responsibilities. This is the time you should take a shot at a novel...'

'If you're so certain I should be at home writing, then why are you offering me this job?'

'Because, (a) you strike me as smart - and I need a smart assistant; and (b) as someone who gave up a promising literary career to be a wage-slave and edit other people's work, I consider it my duty to corrupt another promising young writer with a Faustian Bargain they really should refuse...'

I laughed.

'Well, you're certainly direct, Mr Hunter'.

'Make you no promises, tell you no lies - that's my credo. But do yourself a favor, Sara: don't take this job'.

But I wouldn't listen to his advice. Because I didn't have enough faith in my own talent to set up as a full-time writer. Because I was scared of failing. Because everything in my background told me to grab the secure job option. And because I also knew that Nathaniel Hunter was good news.

Like Eric, he was in his thirties: a tall, wiry fellow with thick graying hair, horn-rimmed glasses, a permanent self-deprecating scowl on his face. He was rather handsome in a tweedy academic sort of way - and endlessly amusing. He told me he'd been married for twelve years to a woman named Rose, who taught part-time in the Art History department at Barnard. They had two young boys, and lived on Riverside Drive and 108th Street. From everything he said, it was clear that he was devoted to his wife and children (even though, when discussing his family, he would always cloak his comments in cynicism... which, as I came to realize, was his tentative way of expressing affection). This made me instantly comfortable with him, as I sensed there would be none of the flirtatious pressure I experienced while working with Leland McGuire. I also liked the fact that, during this first meeting, he never once made any enquiries about my private life. He wanted to hear my views on writing, on writers, on working for magazines, on Harry S. Truman, and whether I supported the Dodgers or the Yankees (the Bronx Bombers, of course). He never even asked if 'Shore Leave' was, in any way, autobiographical. He simply told me it was a very good story - and was surprised to hear that it was my first stab at fiction.

'Ten years ago, I was exactly where you are now', he said. 'I'd just had a short story accepted by The New Yorker, and I was halfway through a novel I was certain would make me the John P. Marquand of my generation'.

'Who ended up publishing the novel?' I asked.

'No one - because I never finished the damn thing. And why didn't I finish it? Because I started doing foolish, time-consuming things like having children, and taking an editorial job at Harper and Brothers to meet the cost of having children, and then moving to the higher-paid echelons of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning to pay for private schools, and a bigger apartment, and a summer rental on the Cape, and all those other necessities of family life. So look to this shining example of squandered promise... and turn me down. Don't Take This Job'.

Eric concurred. 'Nat is absolutely right', he said when I called him at The Quiz Bang Show to tell him about the job offer. 'You're commitment-free. This is the time to gamble a bit, and avoid all the usual bourgeois traps...'

'Bourgeois traps?' I said with a giggle. 'You can take the boy out of the Party, but you can't take the Party out of...'

He cut me off. 'That's not funny. Especially since you never know who's listening in'.

I felt awful. 'Eric, I'm sorry. That was dumb'.

'We'll continue this conversation later', he said.

We met up that evening at McSorley's Ale House off the Bowery. Eric was seated at a booth in the rear of the bar, a stein of dark ale in front of him. I handed him a large square package.

'What's this?' he asked.

'A mea culpa for speaking before thinking on the phone'.

He tore off the brown wrapping paper. His face immediately brightened as he looked down at a recording of the Beethoven Missa Solemnis, conducted by Toscanini.

'I must encourage you to feel guilty more often', he said. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. 'Thanks'.

'I was utterly indiscreet'.

'And I was probably being a little too paranoid. But -' he lowered his voice '- some of my former, uh, friends from that era have been having difficulties recently'.

'What kind of difficulties?' I said, whispering back.

'Questions from employers - especially those in the entertainment industries - about past political allegiances. And there are rumors that the Feds are starting to snoop around anyone who was once a member of that funny little party to which I used to belong'.

'But you left in, what, nineteen forty?'

'Forty-one'.

'That's five years ago. Ancient history. Surely, no one's going to care that, once upon a time, you were a fellow traveler. I mean, look at John Dos Passos. Wasn't he a big-deal Party member in the thirties?'

'Yes, but now he's righter than Right'.

'My point exactly - Hoover and his guys wouldn't now accuse Dos Passos of being a...'

'Subversive', Eric said quickly, making certain I didn't use the 'C word.

'Yes, subversive. My point is: it doesn't matter if you were once a member of that club, as long as it's clear you're no longer affiliated to it. I mean, if an atheist becomes a Christian, is he always considered a "former atheist", or someone who has finally seen the light?'

'The latter, I guess'.

'Exactly. So stop worrying. You've seen the light. You're a "good American". You're in the clear'.

'I hope you're right'.

'But I promise not to make jokes like that on your office phone again'.

'Are you really going to take this job with Nat?'

'I'm afraid so. And yes, I know all the logical reasons why I should dodge it. But I'm a coward. I need to know where the next paycheck is coming from. I also believe in the mysteries of timing...'

'How do you mean?'

That's when I told him about the postcard I'd received that morning from Jack.

'All he said was, I'm sorry?' Eric said.

'Yes - it was short and not so sweet'.

'No wonder you're taking the job'.

'I would have accepted Nat's offer, no matter what'.

'But Lover Boy's goodbye note clinched the matter?'

'Please don't call him Lover Boy'.

'Sorry. I'm simply angry on your behalf'.

'Like I told you weeks ago, I'm cured'.

'So you said'.

'Eric, I threw his card away'.

'And accepted Nat's job offer a couple of hours later'.

'One door shuts, one door opens'.

'Is that an original line?'

'Go to hell', I said with a smile.

The beers arrived. Eric raised his stein. 'To the new assistant fiction editor of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. Please keep writing'.

'I promise I will'.

Six months later, I found myself replaying that conversation in my head on a snowy December afternoon, just before Christmas. I was in my cubbyhole office on the twenty-third floor of the Saturday/Sunday offices in Rockefeller Center. My small grimy window gave me a picturesque view of a back alleyway. There were a pile of unsolicited short stories on my desk. As usual, I had sifted through ten manuscripts that day - none of which were remotely publishable. As usual, I had written a report of varying length on each story. As usual, I had attached standard rejection letters to every story. As usual, I bemoaned the fact that I wasn't getting any of my own writing done.

The job had proved far more laborious than expected. It also had virtually nothing to do with editing. Rather, I was employed (along with two of Nat's other assistants) to work my way through the three hundred or so manuscripts that arrived at Saturday/Sunday each month by unknown writers. The editorial board of the magazine prided itself on the fact that every unsolicited manuscript was 'given due consideration' - but it was pretty clear to me after eight weeks there that, by and large, my job was to say no. Occasionally, I would bump into a story that showed promise - or even real talent. But I had no power to get it into print. Rather, all I could do was 'send it upstairs' to Nat Hunter with an enthusiastic recommendation - knowing full well that the chances of him running it were negligible. Because the magazine only reserved four of its fifty-two annual issues for stories by unknown writers. The remaining forty-eight weeks were given over to established names - and Saturday/Sunday prided itself on its weekly offering of fiction by the most prestigious writers of the day: Hemingway, O'Hara, Steinbeck, Somerset Maugham, Waugh, Pearl Buck. The list was formidable, and made me realize just how absurdly lucky I was to be one of the four unknown writers to be plucked out of obscurity during 1946 for publication in the magazine.

As scheduled, 'Shore Leave' did appear in the September 6th edition of Saturday/Sunday. Several of my colleagues in the office complimented me on the writing. An editor at Harper and Brothers dropped me a nice note, saying that if and/or when I had amassed a book-length collection of stories, he'd be interested in considering them for publication. Someone from RKO Pictures made a tentative telephone inquiry about the rights to the story, but then sent a letter, explaining that 'wartime romances are now passe'. As promised, I did despatch a copy of the magazine to Ruth in Maine, and received a cheery card back in return ('You really have it as a writer... and this reader wants to read more!'). Eric squandered a significant portion of his weekly salary on a celebratory dinner at 21. And Nat Hunter also marked the occasion by taking me to lunch at Longchamps.

'So do you regret taking the job?' he asked as our drinks arrived.

'Hardly', I lied. 'Do I seem like I regret it?'

'You're far too well-mannered and polite to ever openly express dissatisfaction. But - as I know you've discovered - yours is not the most fulfilling of jobs. Nor, for that matter, is mine - but at least I have the fringe benefit of an expense account, which allows me to lunch writers... like your good self. On which note: where's the next story?'

'I'm working on it', I said. 'It's taking a little longer than I expected'.

'You are a terrible liar, Miss Smythe'.

He was right, of course. I was utterly transparent. And I was getting nowhere with my next story... even though I knew what I was going to write. It was a tale of an eight-year-old girl on summer vacation in Maine with her parents. She's their only child: over-protected, over-pampered, over-indulged... but also deeply aware of the fact that her parents don't like each other very much, and that she is the glue which is holding them together. One afternoon, her parents get into a horrendous argument, and she wanders off out of their rented beach house. She leaves the beach, takes a wrong turn and finds herself in a deep set of woods. She remains lost there overnight, and is found the next morning by the police. She's in shock, but basically unscathed. She has a tearful reunion with her parents. For a day or so afterwards, harmony reigns within the family. But then the parental fights start again, and she runs off into the woods. Because now she realizes that, as long as she's in jeopardy, her parents will cling to each other and get along.

I had a title for the story: 'Getting Lost'. I had the basic narrative structure worked out in my mind. What I didn't have was the will to sit down and write it. The Saturday/Sunday job was enervating. I'd arrive home at seven each night, sapped. After eight hours of reading other people's stories I felt like doing anything else but tackling my own work. So I began to play the postponement game - as in, I'm just too depleted to open my typewriter, so I'll wake up at six a.m. tomorrow and crank out three hundred words before heading to the office. But then, when the alarm went off the next morning, I'd roll over and sleep on until eight thirty. When I got back home that night, I'd be feeling as devitalized as ever, unable to think about my short story. On the nights when my energy level was high, I'd find other things to do. Like heading off to see a great Howard Hawks double bill at the Academy of Music on 14th Street. Or I'd squander the evening with an enjoyably pulpy William Irish novel. Or I'd decide that this was the moment the bathroom needed cleaning...

The weekends were worse. I'd wake up Saturday morning, determined to put in four hours at the typewriter. I'd sit down. I'd type a sentence. I'd hate the sentence. I'd yank the paper out of the typewriter. I'd roll in another piece of paper. This time I would get two, maybe even three sentences on paper before ripping it from the Remington.

And then I would decide it was time for a walk. Or a coffee at the Cafe Reggio on Bleecker Street. Or a trip uptown to the Metropolitan Museum. Or a late morning foreign movie at the Apollo on 42nd Street. Or a trip to the laundromat. Or any other piece of busy work which would help me dodge writing.

This went on for months. Whenever Eric asked how the new story was going, I'd tell him that I was making slow, steady, progress. He'd say nothing, but the sceptical glint in his eye let it be known that he realized I was lying. Which made me feel around ten times more guilty, as I hated deceiving my brother. But what could I tell him? That I had lost all confidence in my ability to string a sentence together, let alone a story? Or that I now knew I was a one-off writer - someone with only a single story to tell.

Eventually, I confessed this to Eric. It was Thanksgiving Day 1946. Like the previous year, I met my brother for lunch at Luchows. Unlike the previous year, I wasn't in love. Instead, I was enveloped by disappointment: with my work, with the circumstances of my life... but, most tellingly, with myself.

Like the previous year, Eric ordered a bottle of sparkling wine to celebrate. After the waiter poured out two glasses, Eric raised his and said, 'To your next story'.

I lowered my glass and heard myself saying: 'There is no story, Eric. And you know that'.

'Yes. I know that'.

'You've known that for a long time'.

He nodded.

'Then why didn't you say anything?'

'Because all writers know what it's like to have a block. It's something you really don't want to talk about with anybody'.

'I feel like a failure', I said, swallowing hard.

'That's dumb, S'.

'It may be dumb, but it's the truth. I messed up at Life. I should never have taken that job at Saturday/Sunday. Now I'm unable to write. Which means my entire literary output will end up being one forgotten story, published when I was twenty-four'.

Eric sipped his wine and smiled. 'Don't you think you're being just a tad melodramatic?'

'I want to be melodramatic'.

'Good. I prefer you when you're Bette Davis, not Katharine Hepburn'.

'God, you sound like him'.

'Is he still on the brain?'

'Only today'.

'It being your anniversary, I suppose'.

I winced. And said, 'That wasn't nice'.

'You're right. It wasn't. I'm sorry'.

'You're very hard on me sometimes'.

'Only because you're so hard on yourself. Anyway, it's not criticism. Just constructive teasing, an attempt to get you to lighten up. So stop torturing yourself about not being able to work. If you have a story to tell, you'll tell it. If you don't... it's not the end of the world. Or, at least, that's what I've decided recently'.

'You haven't given up on your play, have you?'

He stared down into his glass for a moment, then reached (as always) for his cigarettes and matches. He lit one, but didn't look back up at me.

'There is no play', he said quietly.

'I don't understand... ?'

'It's simple, really. The play I've been writing for the last two years doesn't exist'.

'But why doesn't it exist?'

'Because I never wrote anything'.

I tried to disguise my shock. I failed. 'Nothing at all?' I said quietly.

He bit his lip. 'Not a word', he said.

'What happened?'

He shrugged. 'There's only so much rejection one can take. Seven unproduced plays is enough for me'.

'Things change. Tastes change. You've got to travel hopefully'.

'And while you're at it, physician heal thyself'.

'You know how impossible it is to heed one's own advice'.

'Okay - then listen to mine. End the self-flagellation. Put the typewriter away until you're really ready to use it again'.

'I'll never use it again'.

'Stop sounding like me, for Christ's sakes. Especially as you will use it again'.

'How can you be so sure?'

'Because you'll want to. I'm sure of it. And because you will get over him'.

'I am definitely over him'.

'No, S. He's still around, nagging you. I can tell'.

Was I that transparent? Was it that obvious? Ever since I'd received that card from Jack, I had resolved to expunge him from my head; to file him away, and slam the cabinet door shut. Initially, I was so angry and hurt by his terse reply that it was easy for me to write him off as a delusional mistake. I mean, how dare he only write three lousy words in response to the three dozen or so letters and cards I sent him? He'd made me feel like a chump, a dupe. Over and over I heard myself at the gates of the Brooklyn Navy Yards, telling him he'd better not break my heart. Over and over I heard Jack say that he loved me. How could I have been so naive, so damn green?

Anger is always a sensible antidote to heartache - especially if you have very good reasons for feeling aggrieved. For months I held on to that sense of intense rancor. It helped me deal with his wholesale rejection of me. I had made a massive mistake. As Eric predicted, Jack Malone turned out to be a fly-by-night artist; a Don Giovanni in Army khaki. If only he'd had the decency (or the courage) to write me straight away, telling me that there was no future between us. If only he hadn't kept me dangling for so long. If only I hadn't been such a romantic sap.

After anger comes resentment. After resentment, bitterness. And when that acrid aftertaste finally diminishes, what you are usually left with is wistfulness. A rueful cocktail of acceptance and regret. The sadder but wiser school of needlepoint mottos.

But by the time of my Thanksgiving lunch with Eric, I wasn't merely wistful. Naturally, the day in question (my so-called anniversary with Jack, as Eric so tartly noted) made me reflect on all that had happened to me during the past chaotic year. But it also brought home something which I kept trying to deny (but which Eric, damn him as usual) quickly detected: I still missed the guy.

And I still couldn't work out why one single night with someone had made such a resounding, lasting impact.

Unless...

Unless he was it.

But I tried not to dwell on this thought. Because it meant dwelling on Jack. And I didn't want to dwell on Jack because, in turn, it meant wondering if there was a thing called destiny - a thought which rekindled the residual grief I still felt about losing Jack.

A few days after Thanksgiving, however, a little perspective returned - and, once again, I retired Mr Malone to that drawer of my mental filing cabinet marked 'Romantic Mistakes'.

During that same week, I also took Eric's advice and put my Remington typewriter into hibernation at the back of my closet. Initially I felt a considerable degree of guilt at giving up the idea of writing. But by mid-December, the constant stab of angst had receded. And, rationalizing like crazy, I was able to convince myself that my writing career hadn't crashed and burned. Rather, it had decided to take an extended sabbatical.

'Am I ever going to see that new short story?' Nathaniel Hunter asked me at our Christmas lunch.

'Not for a while, I'm afraid'.

He looked at me quizzically. 'And why is that, Sara?'

I met his gaze directly. 'Because I never wrote it, Mr Hunter'.

He grimaced. 'That's a damn shame'.

'It's just a story'.

'You have a lot of promise, Sara'.

'That's very kind of you, but if I can't get the story written, then promise means nothing, does it?'

'I feel bad. Responsible'.

'Why? You did warn me. But it's not the job that stopped me from writing it. It's me'.

'Don't you want to be a writer?'

'I think so. But... I can't really figure anything out anymore'.

'It's a common complaint, I'm afraid'.

'Tell me about it. Especially since I have learned one basic rule of life over the last year'.

'Enlighten me'.

'Every time you think you know what you want, you bump into someone who alters your perspective completely'.

'Some people would call that "keeping your options open"'.

'I would call it an ongoing recipe for unhappiness', I said.

'But maybe some people do bump into what they want'.

'Without question. The problem is: having found what you want, can you actually hold on to it? And the terrible thing is: the answer to that question all comes down to things like luck, timing, maybe even a pinch or two of serendipity. Stuff over which we have such little control'.

'Take it from a guy who's compromised himself into a corner - we have control over nothing. We think we do, but the truth is: most of the big decisions we make in life are never thought out properly. They're all done quickly, instinctively, and usually out of fear. The next thing you know, you've boxed yourself into a situation you don't want to be in. And you find yourself asking, "how the hell did I get here?" But we all know the answer: we wanted to be here... even though we might spend the rest of our lives denying it'.

'So what you're saying is: we trap ourselves'.

'Absolutely. You know that old line from Rousseau: man is born free, but everywhere in chains. Well, in America today, most of the chains are self-imposed... courtesy of marriage'.

'I'm never getting married'.

'I've heard that one before. But, believe me, you will. And probably without even thinking too much about it'.

I laughed and said, 'How on earth can you know that?'

'Because it's the way it always happens'.

At the time, I dismissed Nathaniel Hunter's comments as those of a metropolitan cynic - and one who was ruing the approach of middle-age and the loss of his literary prospects. But I also knew of his devotion to his family - and how that probably tempered any professional disappointments he might be bearing. He might be 'in chains', but he secretly liked the chains.

Then, two weeks after Christmas, I came to work one morning to discover a notice posted on the door of the literary department, asking all staff members to attend an urgent meeting in the managing editor's office at ten that morning. Everyone from the department was already gathered by Mr Hunter's desk, speaking in low conspiratorial tones. But Mr Hunter wasn't there.

'What's happened?' I asked as I joined my colleagues.

'You mean you haven't heard?' asked Emily Flouton, one of the other assistant fiction editors.

'Heard what?'

'That our happily married boss just ran off with Jane Yates'.

I blanched with shock. Jane Yates was a quiet, angular-faced woman in her late twenties who worked in Saturday/Sunday's art department. With her sharp features, her long braided hair, and her rimless round glasses, she always looked like the sort of New England librarian who was destined to end up a spinster.

'Mr Hunter ran off with her?' I heard myself saying.

'It's something, isn't it?' Emily said. 'Not only that - he's also quit his job. Rumor has it that he and Jane are planning to move to New Hampshire or Vermont, so he can write full time'.

'But I thought he was happily married'.

Emily rolled her eyes and said, 'Honey, what man is ever happily married? Even if you give the guy complete freedom, he'll still end up feeling trapped'.

I never saw Nat Hunter again. Because he never showed his face again in the offices of Saturday/Sunday. With good reason. In 1947, running out on your marriage was considered a major misdemeanor... and one which was punishable by professional demotion, if not ostracization. Had he just continued cheating on his wife, there would have been no problem - as adultery was tolerated (so long as you were never caught). But abandoning your family back then was regarded as immoral and downright unAmerican. In the case of Nat Hunter, it was also mind-boggling. Especially given that the object of his desire was a woman who reminded me of Mrs Danvers in Rebecca.

Most of the big decisions we make in life are never thought out properly. They're all done quickly, instinctively, and usually out of fear. The next thing you know, you've boxed yourself into a situation you don't want to be in.

For months after Mr Hunter's abrupt departure, I kept hearing him make that statement. I myself kept wondering: was the decision to upend his life also made quickly, instinctively, and out of fear? Fear, perhaps, of growing older, and feeling trapped, and never writing the novel he promised himself he'd write?

To the best of my knowledge, even after he vanished to New Hampshire with Jane Yates, he never got his novel published. Word had it he ended up teaching English composition at a small junior college near Franconia - until his death in 1960. 'Liver failure' was the cause given in the short New York Times obituary. He was only fifty-two years old.

But in the immediate aftermath of his departure from Saturday/Sunday, I held in constant remembrance his comments about how we never think through the big things in life. And I vowed to myself: I'll never make that mistake.

Then, in the early spring of 1947, I met a man named George Grey. He was a twenty-eight-year-old investment banker with Lehmann Brothers. Princeton-educated, erudite, courtly, handsome in a square-jawed sort of way, and a good companion. We were introduced at the wedding of one of my Bryn Mawr friends. He asked me out. I accepted. The evening went well. He asked me out again. I accepted again. The evening was even more of a success. George Grey, I decided, was good news. And, much to my surprise, he admitted (after just two dates) that he was besotted with me.

So besotted that - a month after we met - he asked me to marry him.

Did I ponder this decision? Did I ask for time to reflect, contemplate, or muse about the ramifications of this momentous question?

Of course not.

I said yes. Without a moment's thought.

Six

EVERYONE WAS SURPRISED by my news. No one more so than me.

'You're actually marrying a man named Grey?' Eric asked me when I told him about the engagement.

'I knew this is how you'd react', I said.

'I'm not reacting. I'm just asking a question'.

'Yes, Eric. His name is Grey. Happy now?'

'Thrilled. And... let me work this out... the first time you mentioned him to me was around two weeks ago. At that point you'd been seeing him for... how long was it exactly?'

'Around two weeks', I said sheepishly.

'So - just one month from the first date to the engagement announcement. He's obviously a fast worker... though nothing compared to the Brooklyn Boy'.

'I was just waiting for you to bring him up'.

'That's because he's still lurking around...'

'That is not true, damn it'.

'Of course it's true. Why else would you be marrying this other guy?'

'Maybe because I am in love with him'.

'You're talking crap - and you know it. You are not the sort of woman who falls for an investment banker named Grey'.

'I wish you would please stop telling me my own mind. George is a wonderful man. He will make me very happy'.

'He will turn you into somebody you don't want to be'.

'How the hell can you say that, when you've never even met him?'

'Because he's called George Grey, that's how. It's a name that conjures up a pipe and slippers... which he'll be asking you to fetch before you know it'.

'I am not a dog', I said, my voice tightening. 'I fetch things for no one'.

'We all end up doing things we vow never to do... especially when we're chasing the illusion of love'.

'This is not a goddamn illusion, Eric!'

'Illusion, delusion, confusion - you could describe your condition in any number of ways

'I am not suffering from a condition...'

'Yes, you are. And it's called "trapping yourself... in the name of security"'.

'Thank you for crediting me with knowing my own mind'.

'No one knows their own mind, S. No one. It's the main reason why we all make such an ongoing mess of things'.

Well, I certainly knew why I was marrying George Grey. Because he was so decent, so dependable, and so enamored of me. We all adore being flattered. Or - better yet - being told that we are special, unique, the best thing that ever happened to somebody. George did this constantly. And I couldn't resist it. Because it was exactly what I wanted to hear.

He was also supportive - especially when it came to the issue of my stalled writing career. Shortly after our engagement was announced, we went out one night with Emily Flouton - who had become one of my good friends at Saturday/Sunday in the wake of Nathaniel Hunter's departure. Emily had just been dumped by her boyfriend of two years - and when I mentioned to George that she was feeling a little fragile, he insisted that she join us for a concert at Carnegie Hall and a late supper afterwards at the Algonquin. Emily and I spent much of the meal discussing Mr Hunter's replacement - a small, angular woman in her early forties named Ida Spenser. She'd been hired away from Collier's as our new boss, and quickly established a reputation within our department for deporting herself like a perpetually inflexible headmistress (of the old-maidish variety), and for slapping down anyone who dared to contradict her rigid way of doing things. We all hated her. As we waited for our food in the Grill Room of the Algonquin, Emily and I engaged in an extended rant about Miss Spenser. George listened with rapt attention... even though our office politics were of absolutely no interest to him. But he was always solicitous.

'... and then she told me that I had no right to encourage any new authors without her approval', Emily said. 'Only she can decide whether or not a writer gets a personalized letter of encouragement'.

'She must be a very insecure woman', George said.

Emily looked at him admiringly. 'How did you know that?' she asked.

'Because George is very insightful about people', I said.

'Stop flattering me', he said, squeezing my hand. 'You'll give me a swelled head'.

'You with a swelled head?' I said. 'Not a chance. You're far too nice for that'.

'Now you are going to really make me feel stuck-up', he said, lightly kissing me on the lips. 'Anyway, the only reason I said that your boss might be insecure is because I used to work for someone like that at the bank. He had to control everything. Every letter to a client, every inter-departmental memorandum had to be personally vetted by him. He was obsessive. Because he was about the most scared person I'd ever met. He lived in terror of delegating to anyone; he felt he could trust no one. And for a very simple reason: he couldn't trust himself'.

'That's our Miss Spenser to a T', Emily said. 'She's so uncertain about herself that she thinks we're all out to get her. Which, of course, now we all are. What eventually happened to your boss?'

'He was kicked upstairs, and made a director of the company. Which was a blessing - because, quite frankly, I was on the verge of quitting my job'.

'I don't believe that for a moment', I said, nudging him playfully. 'You'd never quit a job. It would contravene every notion you have about duty and accountability'.

'Now you're making me sound all stuffy, darling'.

'Not stuffy. Just responsible. Very responsible'.

'You make it sound like a personal defect', he said with mock melodrama.

'Hardly, my love. I think responsibility is a great virtue - especially in a husband'.

'I'd drink to that', Emily said grimly. 'Every guy I get involved with seems to have been born with the irresponsibility gene'.

'You'll get lucky', I said.

'Not as lucky as you', Emily said.

'Hey, I'm the real lucky one here', George said. 'I mean, I'm marrying one of the most promising writers in America'.

'Oh, please...' I said, turning beet red. 'I've only published one story'.

'But what a story', George said. 'Don't you agree, Emily?'

'Absolutely', she said. 'Everyone in the department thought it was one of the top three or four stories we published last year. And considering that Faulkner, Hemingway and J.T. Farrell were the other three writers

'Stop!' I said. 'Or I'll crawl under the table'.

Emily groaned. And said, 'What this woman needs, George, is a massive dose of self-confidence'.

'Well, I'm the man for the job', he said with a smile.

'And you must convince her to leave Saturday/Sunday before it kills her talent'.

'It was just one damn story', I said. 'I doubt I'll ever write another'.

'Of course you will', George said. 'Because after we're married, you won't have to worry about paying the rent anymore, or even having to put up with the dreadful Miss Spenser at Saturday/Sunday. You'll be free of all that, and able to concentrate full time on your fiction'.

'Sounds great to me', Emily said.

'I'm not at all sure if I'll be leaving Saturday/Sunday right away', I said.

'Of course you will', George said sweetly. 'It's the ideal moment to make the break'.

'But it's my job...'

'Writing's your real job... and I want to give you the opportunity to do it full time'.

He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. Then he stood up and excused himself.

'Nature calls', he said with a chuckle. 'How about getting another couple of drinks. Being in love is thirsty work'.

I smiled. Tightly. And found myself thinking, what a dumb line. Instantly, my mind replayed some of our lovey-dovey conversation ('Hey, I'm the real lucky one here... I mean, I'm marrying one of the most promising writers in America'). I couldn't believe that we were already exchanging 'settled married couple' epithets like darling and my love. I felt myself flinch. It was just a minor contraction of the shoulders. It couldn't have lasted more than a nanosecond. But in the aftermath of that tiny shudder came a question: was that the first twinge of doubt?

Before I had time to consider that query, Emily said, 'Boy, are you one lucky girl'.

'Do you think so?'

'Think so? He's wonderful'.

'Yes. I guess he is'.

'Guess? Guess? Don't you see what you've landed?'

'A very nice man'.

'Nice? What's happened to you tonight? Did you take "understatement" tablets or something?'

'I'm just... I don't know... a little nervous, that's all. And I could really use another martini. Waiter!'

I caught the eye of a passing man with a tray, and motioned for a refill.

'Of course you're nervous', Emily said. 'You're getting married. But, at least, you're marrying someone who clearly adores you'.

'I suppose so...'

'Suppose? He worships the ground you walk on'.

'Wouldn't you find it a bit worrying if you were the object of such adoration?'

Emily rolled her eyes and gave me a dark frown. 'Will you listen to yourself', she said. 'Here you are - a published writer, engaged to a man who actually believes in your talent, who's going to free you from the worry of earning a living so you can dedicate yourself completely to your "art", and who also considers you the most wonderful person on the planet. And all you can talk about is your fear of being adored. I mean, really'.

'Everyone's entitled to a few last-minute doubts, aren't they?'

'Not when they've landed the catch of the year'.

'He's not a fish, Emily'.

'There you go again!'

'All right, all right...'

'Tell you what: if you really don't want to marry George, I'm happy to take your place. In the meantime, try to accept the fact that you've struck it lucky in love. I know it's difficult for you to admit such a terrible thing...'

'Emily: I am in love. I'm just... anxious, that's all'.

'I wish I had your problems'.

'Hey there!'

We both looked up. George was approaching the table, his mouth frozen in an expansive grin. People were always describing him as 'boyish' - and with good reason. With his perfectly parted sandy hair, his heavy horn-rimmed glasses, his slightly chubby freckled face, and his ability to look a little disheveled (even when dressed in one of the made-to-measure Brooks Brothers suits he favored), he always had a certain schoolboyish demeanor: someone who, even at the age of twenty-eight, would still appear at home on a soccer field at Exeter (his prep school alma mater).

But as he came and sat down with us, I found myself looking beyond his current adolescent veneer, and seeing what he would become twelve years from now: a portly middle-aged banker whose youthful countenance had been replaced by a staid stoutness. A man of bulk and leaden gravity, with no lightness of touch, no animating spirit.

'Something the matter, darling?'

His voice registered concern. I snapped out of my anxious trance, and gave him a warm, loving smile.

'Just a little far away, dear'.

'I bet she's plotting her next story', he said to Emily.

'Or dreaming about the wedding', Emily said, with more than a hint of irony which my fiance failed to pick up.

'Oh, so that's what you girls were talking about!'

Ugh.

Yes, I knew that George Grey was a deeply conventional man. And yes, I knew that he was someone who would always have his feet firmly planted on terra firma. There was nothing fanciful or capricious about George. When he tried to be passionately romantic, he often came across as downright silly. But he also had the disarming (and rather attractive) ability to admit that he lacked imagination, and couldn't really engage in flights of fancy. On our third date, he confessed:

'Give me a set of company accounts, and I can be engrossed for hours - like someone turning the pages of a really good novel. But play me a Mozart symphony, and I'm lost. I really don't know what to listen for'.

'You don't have to listen for anything in particular. You just have to like what you hear. It's what Duke Ellington once said, "If it sounds good, it is good."'

He stared at me with wide-eyed admiration. 'You are so damn smart'.

'Hardly', I said.

'You're cultured'.

'You're not exactly from the Bronx, George. I mean, you did go to Princeton'.

'That's certainly no guarantee of ending up cultured', he said - and we both laughed like hell.

I liked his self-deprecatory humor. Just as I also liked the way he showered me with books and records and nights at the theater and Sunday afternoon New York Philharmonic concerts - even though I knew that, for George, listening to Rodzinski conduct an all-Prokofiev program was the musical equivalent of two hours in a dentist's chair. But he would never let on that he was bored. He was so eager to please; to learn.

He was also a voracious reader - largely of hefty factual books. I think he was the only man I ever met who'd actually read all four volumes of Churchill's The World Crisis. Fiction, he admitted, was not one of his great interests. 'But you can teach me what to read'.

So I gave him a present of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms. The morning after, he called me at Saturday/Sunday.

'God, what a book', he said.

'You've finished it already?'

'You bet. He can really tell a story, can't he?'

'Yes, Mr Hemingway does have that ability'.

'And the stuff about the war... it's real sad'.

'Were you moved by the love story between Frederic and Catherine?'

'I had tears running down my face during that final scene in the hospital'.

'I'm glad to hear that'.

'But you know what I was thinking after I put the book down?'

'What, my love?'

'If only she'd had a good American doctor looking after her, she would have probably pulled through'.

'Uh... I'd never thought that. But, yes, I'm sure that's true'.

'I mean, I'm not knocking Swiss doctors'.

'I don't think that was Hemingway's idea either'.

'Well, after reading his book, I certainly wouldn't want you to have a baby in Switzerland'.

'I'm touched', I said.

All right, so he was rather literal. But I decided I could live with such artlessness because of his decency, his obliging nature - and because I was so overwhelmed by his devoted attention. In the weeks running up to the wedding, I would silence any of my nagging doubts about my future with George by reminding myself: he's so nice.

'Yeah, all right, I'll admit it', Eric said after he finally met George. 'He is a perfectly affable guy. Too affable, if you want my honest opinion'.

'How can anybody be too affable?' I asked.

'He's so damn eager to please. He wants to be liked at all costs'.

'That's not the worst thing in the world, is it? Anyway, he was understandably nervous about meeting you'.

'Why on earth would anybody be nervous of meeting me?' Eric asked sweetly.

'Because, to George, meeting you was like meeting Father. He felt that if you didn't approve of him, the marriage might not happen'.

'That's the dumbest thing I've heard in years'.

'He is a little old-fashioned...'

'Old fashioned? Try Paleozoic. But it really doesn't matter what I think - since there's absolutely no way you'd ever listen to my advice'.

'That's not true'.

'Then answer me this: if I told you I thought he was a disaster, a huge mistake, would you have agreed with me?'

'Of course not'.

'The defense rests'.

'But you don't think that, do you?'

'Like I said, he's a perfectly okay guy'.

'Just okay?'

'We had a pleasant chat, didn't we?'

Actually, that was true. We all met for an after-work drink at the bar of the Astor Hotel on Broadway - as it was right around the corner from the radio studios where Eric still turned out gags for The Quiz Bang Show. George was nervous as hell. I was nervous as hell. Eric was calm as hell. I had warned George that my brother could be a little idiosyncratic, and had somewhat left-of-center political views.

'Then I shouldn't tell him I'm on the campaign committee to get Governor Dewey the Republican nomination for President?'

'It's a free country - you can tell Eric whatever you like. But know this - he's a real Henry Wallace Democrat, and he hates the Republican Party and everything it stands for. Still, I'll never, ever dictate what you should say or do. So, it's your call entirely'.

He thought about this for a moment, then said, 'Maybe I'll sidestep politics'.

He managed to do this during our hour with Eric. Just as he also managed to talk in a surprisingly informed manner about the current state of Broadway, about the work of the Federal Theater Project (he got Eric to reminisce about his years with Orson Welles), and to ask a few intelligent questions about whether this new-fangled medium called television was going to undermine radio (to which my brother mordantly replied: 'Not only will it kill radio as we know it... it will also reduce the public's general level of intelligence by at least twenty-five per cent').

I was impressed (and rather touched) by how well George had briefed himself on subjects of interest to my brother... especially as I'd only mentioned to him in passing Eric's years with the Federal Theater Project. But George was like that - always meticulous, always well prepared, always wanting to get on the right side of someone. Listening to him talk intelligently about the forthcoming Broadway season - knowing full well that the theater actually bored George, and that he must have been studying Variety and the other showbiz magazines for the week before this drink - made me feel real love for him. Because I knew he was doing this for me.

Towards the end of our hour together, George excused himself to call his office. As soon as he was out of earshot, Eric said, 'Well, you certainly primed him well'.

'Actually, I told him very little about you'.

'Then I am impressed'.

'Really?'

'For a Republican, he's reasonably cultured'.

'How do you know he's a Republican?'

'Oh come on. He so looks the part. I bet you anything he's backing Dewey for the nomination'.

'I wouldn't know...'

'Yes, you would. And I'd lay money on the fact that Daddy Grey is a big cheese in the Westchester County Republican Party'.

Damn my brother for being so perceptive. Only he was wrong about one thing: Edwin Grey, Sr, was actually the chairman of the entire New York State Republican Party - a man who considered Governor Dewey his closest friend, and who acted as an unofficial adviser to a young, upcoming politican named Nelson Rockefeller.

Yes, my future father-in-law was something of a power broker, not to mention a serious white-shoe lawyer - a senior partner at a major Wall Street firm - and a man with the same stern Victorian countenance as Father. His wife, Julia, was a tall, contained woman with a decidedly aristocratic mien, and an unspoken (but readily discernible) belief that the world was divided into two groups: the ghastly hoi polloi, and a small number of people she would deign to find interesting.

The Greys were Presbyterian - both in faith and temperament. They lived like frugal members of the squirearchy in that corner of Greenwich, Connecticut, which, back in the forties, was still deep country. Their house - a fourteen-room mock-Tudor manse - was situated on a seven-acre parcel of woodlands, bisected by a stream. It was bucolic. Shortly before George popped the question, he brought me up for a weekend.

'I know they are going to love you', he said on the train north from Grand Central Station. 'But I hope you won't be put off by the way they do things. They are formal kind of people'.

'Sounds just like my parents', I said.

As it turned out, the Greys made my late parents look like mad bohemians. Though they treated me with courtesy and a relative degree of interest, they were deeply absorbed in their own rigid domestic protocol. They dressed for dinner. Drinks were served by a liveried manservant in the living room. All meals took place in a formal dining room. Mrs Grey deferred to her husband in all conversational matters. He was the one who voiced the opinions, whereas Mrs Grey either made small talk, or posed questions to me. Hers was a polite, but skillful interrogation, during which she got me talking about my parents, my education, my professional resume, my overall world-view. I knew what she was really doing: probing my suitability for her son. I answered her questions in a pleasant, unadorned manner. I tried not to sound either too nervous or too ingratiating. My answers were always met by a tight smile - which meant that I couldn't read her reaction to me. George stared down at his plate during these Q&A sessions. Daddy Grey also detached himself from the interrogation - though he was still listening intently to everything I said... something I noticed when I glanced away from Mrs Grey for a second and saw him assessing me with care, his fingers interlocked and propped under his chin like a judge on the bench. Only once did he interrupt his wife - to ask me if my father had been a member of the Hartford Club: the very starched, very WASP meeting place for Hartford's captains of commerce.

'He was its president for two years', I said quietly. I glanced quickly across the table at George. He was trying to suppress a grin. When I glanced back at Daddy Grey, he gave me the slightest of approving nods: as if to say, if your father was president of the Hartford Club, you can't be all that bad. Taking a cue from her husband, Mrs Grey afforded me another of her tight smiles - slightly wider than usual, but constrained nonetheless. I smiled back, secretly thinking: formality is always a way of defending a narrow view of the world; a belief that you can categorize people simply by the schools and colleges they attended, their political allegiances, the clubs to which their parents belonged. My parents also operated according to this rigid principle - and I suddenly felt this wave of sympathy for George, as I realized he too was raised in an emotionally arid household.

Unlike me, however, he didn't have an Eric to counterbalance his parents. Of course, I knew all about his older brother, Edwin. He was the family star. The valedictorian of his class at Exeter. Captain of the school's lacrosse team. A brilliant student at Harvard, from which he graduated summa cum laude in 1940. And though he was accepted at Harvard Law, he decided to accept an Army commission as second lieutenant. So he deferred his admission to Harvard Law and went off to war - where he was killed during the invasion of Normandy.

'I don't think my parents have ever really recovered from his death', George told me on our second date. 'He was the repository of all their hopes, their ambitions. They adored him'.

'I'm sure they adore you too', I said.

He just shrugged sadly, then said, 'I've never really been much of a jock or an academic whizkid'.

'You got into Princeton'.

'Yes - but only because my dad went there... as he still often reminds me. My grades at Exeter weren't up to much. And at college, I didn't make any of the Varsity teams, nor did I graduate with honors. I was a B minus student. I did all right - but for my parents, "all right" was a synonym for "failure". They expected excellence. I didn't deliver'.

'There's a lot more to life than good grades or making the lacrosse team. But my parents were the same way. Their social benchmarks were all to do with an extreme form of rectitude. Probity at all costs'.

George later told me that that was the moment he fell in love with me - because I was somebody who, thanks to my own background, so understood the milieu which shaped him... and also because I used words like rectitude and probity.

'You're not just beautiful', he said later that night. 'You also have one hell of a vocabulary'.

Now, seated across the table from his profoundly constrained parents, I felt this immense kinship with George. We were cut from the same austere, uncomfortable cloth. We were both - in our own quiet way - trying to break away from the limitations of WASP-dom. We understood each other. Like me, George had been hurt in love. Though he didn't tell me much about it, he mentioned that there had been a two-year romance with a woman named Virginia: the daughter of some well-known Wall Street lawyer, thereby garnering her 'high approval status' in the eyes of his parents. When she broke off the engagement (because she had fallen for the son of a Pennsylvania senator), George's parents took the news badly - considering it yet another failure on the part of their son when it came to achieving anything. He'd asked me about Jack - but I supplied him with scant details, except to say that it was a bit of 'romantic silliness' that amounted to nothing, especially as he disappeared back off to Europe before it could develop into anything substantial.

'He was a fool to lose you', George said.

'And she you', I replied immediately.

'I doubt she thinks that'.

'Well, I do. And that's what counts'.

He actually blushed, then reached over across the table and took my hand. 'At least I got lucky this time around', he said.

'Timing is everything, I guess'.

Without question, the timing was definitely on our side. We shared similar family backgrounds, educational levels, social perspectives. Most importantly, we were both ready to get married (despite all my private protestations, I knew this to be true). George was sound. He was balanced, responsible. He loved me without reservation. Though I didn't feel any grand passion for him, I convinced myself that the absence of ardor wasn't truly important. After all, I had lost my heart to Jack and ended up feeling like a sap. Passion - as I had come to conclude - was for fools. It fogged the brain. It muddled rational thought. It led you down all the wrong paths. It was a mistake - and one which I would never make again.

And so, catching his eye across his parents' dining room table - seeing him gaze at me with such unconditional fondness - I made a decision. If he proposed marriage, I'd accept.

The rest of the dinner was a reasonable success. We made polite chit-chat. I told a few anodyne anecdotes about my work at Saturday/Sunday. I said nothing when Daddy Grey went into a tirade about how Harry S. Truman was nothing but a socialist haberdasher (if only my father had been alive to meet Daddy Grey - it would have been love at first sight). I feigned interest as Daddy Grey engaged George in a discussion about a pressing issue of the day: a new set of rules for Princeton's eating clubs which compelled them to accept members of all religious persuasions ('It's the Jewish lobby that's forced this issue', Daddy Grey thundered; a comment which George shrugged off with a non-committal nod of the head). I smiled a lot and didn't speak unless spoken to.

After dinner, we retired to the library. Though I really felt in need of a brandy, I didn't ask for one. Then again, I wasn't offered one - as Daddy Grey poured out a measure for George and himself. A fire was blazing in the hearth. I sipped a demi-tasse of coffee. An entire wall of the library was devoted to framed photographs of Edwin at assorted junctures in his life. The end table next to the sofa was also filled with additional portraits of Edwin - all in Army uniform. He did look exceptionally dashing. The room was a shrine - and my eyes scanned all additional walls and table-tops for any photos of George. There were none.

As if reading my mind, Mrs Grey said, 'We have plenty of pictures of George elsewhere in the house. The library is for Edwin'.

'Of course', I said quietly, then added: 'I don't how anyone could cope with such a loss'.

'We're not the only family who lost a son', Daddy Grey said, his voice betraying a slight tremor.

'I didn't mean to imply...'

'Grief is a private matter, don't you think?' he said, turning away from me to refill his brandy glass.

'I apologize if I said something wrong', I said.

Silence. A silence that must have lasted a full minute. It was finally broken by Mrs Grey. Her voice was hushed.

'You are right. The sense of loss will never end. Because Edwin was exceptional. A man of astonishing gifts'.

She glanced briefly at George, then stared down at her hands, threaded tightly together in her lap.

'He was utterly irreplaceable'.

Another long silence. George stared into the fire, saying nothing, his eyes full.

I excused myself shortly thereafter, and went up to the guest room in which I was being billeted. I undressed, put on my nightgown, and got into bed, pulling the blankets over my head. Sleep did not arrive - which was not a surprise, considering that I was still trying to make sense of the dinner, the scene in the library, and the way in which George's parents were subtly making him pay for Edwin's death.

The sense of loss will never end. Because Edwin was exceptional. A man of astonishing gifts...

Had she not turned towards George at that moment, I would have thought that she was simply attempting to express a mother's inexpressible grief. But by narrowing George in her sights, and saying that his brother was irreplaceable, she was letting him (and me) know: if I had to lose one child, it should have been you.

I couldn't believe her cruelty. It made me felt intensely protective towards George. It also gave me a project: to emancipate this man from his family by loving him.

And I was certain that, in time, I would love him.

I stared at the ceiling of the bedroom for nearly an hour. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by the door of George's room (located directly opposite mine) opening and closing. I waited five minutes. Then I got up, left my room, and tiptoed quickly across the corridor. Without knocking, I quietly opened George's door. He was already in bed, reading. He looked up at me, startled. I put my finger to my lips, shut the door behind me, and walked over to the bed, sitting down next to him. I noticed that he was wearing striped pajamas. I stroked his hair. He was wide-eyed with bemusement. I leaned down and kissed him deeply. He returned the kiss - nervously at first, but then with considerable ardor. After a moment, I gently broke away. Standing up, I pulled my nightgown over my head. The chill of the room made me shiver. I crawled under the covers next to him. I took his head in my hands and began to kiss him gently on the face. He was tense.

'This is crazy', he whispered. 'My parents...'

'Shh', I said, putting a finger to my lips. Then I climbed on top of him.

It was the first time we'd made love. Unlike Jack, George played according to the carnal rules of the day - when sex before marriage was still considered foreign, perilous territory, to be traversed only after a sizeable amount of time had been spent with the other person. Though we'd kissed, George's natural tendency towards circumspection meant that he'd yet to make a proper move. By the way he'd asked me about my involvement with Jack (and whether 'Shore Leave' was autobiographical), I sensed that he knew I was no virgin. But now, sharing a bed with him for the first time, I realized that he was.

He was anxious. He was awkward. He was fast. So fast that, afterwards, he lay slumped against me and whispered, 'I'm so sorry'.

'Don't be', I said, my voice as hushed as his. 'There'll be other times'.

'Will there?'

'Yes. There will. If you want'.

'I want'.

'Good. Because I was starting to wonder...'

'Wonder what?'

'Wonder when on earth this was going to finally occur'.

'Seduction has never been one of my great skills'.

'Never?'

He turned away from me. 'Never'.

'Not even with Virginia?'

'She wasn't interested'.

'That happens, I suppose'.

'Yes - but usually not with someone you're engaged to'.

'Then you had a lucky escape. Think of what an arid marriage that might have been'.

'The best bit of luck I've ever had is meeting you'.

'I'm flattered'.

'Don't be. You're wonderful. My parents thought so too'.

'Really?'

'They were impressed with you. I could tell'.

'Well, personally, I found it very hard to guess what they were thinking'.

'It's just their manner. They have two religions: Presbyterianism and diffidence'.

'That still doesn't give them the right to be diffident towards you'.

'It's all to do with Edwin's death'.

'His death should make them value you even more'.

'They do value me. They just have difficulty expressing such things'.

'They undervalue you. They shouldn't'.

He looked at me with amazement. 'Do you really think that, Sara?'

I ran my index finger down along his face. 'Yes', I said. 'I really do think that'.

I sneaked out of his room just before daybreak. I fell into bed for around an hour, but couldn't sleep. So I had a bath. Then I dressed and went downstairs, deciding to head out for a walk. En route to the front door, I passed by the dining room, and heard a voice: 'You must have slept badly, Miss Smythe'.

I stopped and saw Mrs Grey seated at the end of the dining table. She was already dressed and coiffed for the day, a cup of coffee in front of her.

'Not that badly'.

She gave me a look of ironic disdain. 'If you say so. Is George still asleep?'

I tried to fight off a blush. I don't think I succeeded as she arched her eyebrows.

'I wouldn't really know', I said.

'Of course you wouldn't. Coffee?'

'I don't want to disturb you...'

'If you were disturbing me, I wouldn't ask you to join me in a cup of coffee, now would I?'

'Coffee would be lovely', I said, sitting down. She got up and went over to a banquette, on which sat a sterling silver coffee pot and the appropriate china. She poured me a cup, returned to the table and set it in front of me.

'I'm certain the coffee will be most welcome after your restive night', she said.

Oh God... I lifted the coffee cup up to my lips and took a quick sip. Then I set it down again. In the space of that simple movement, I'd decided to ignore her last comment. Instead I asked: 'Did you yourself sleep badly?'

'I always sleep badly. And you're dodging my question'.

I met her gaze. 'Had you asked me a question, Mrs Grey, I would have promptly answered it. Because it would have been impolite otherwise. But you didn't ask me a question. You simply made an observation'.

Another of her tight smiles. 'I can see now why you are a writer. Your powers of observation are formidable'.

'I'm not a writer'.

'You're not?' she said. 'Then what about that story in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning?'

'One published story doesn't make someone a writer'.

'Such modesty... especially given the immodesty of the story. Were you in love with that Navy boy?'

'It was a story, Mrs Grey, not a personal remembrance'.

'Of course it was, dear. Twenty-four-year-old women writers always invent stories about the love of their life'.

'There is something called imagination...'

'Not when it comes to a story like yours. It's a common enough genre: romantic confessional box; the sort of thing one usually finds in the Ladies' Home Companion...'

'If you are trying to insult me, Mrs Grey...'

'Hardly, dear. But do answer me this... and note that I am phrasing this as a question: did you actually spend the night with your sailor in a cheap hotel?'

I narrowed her in my sights. 'No, he actually spent the night at my apartment. And he wasn't a sailor. He was in the Army'.

There was a pause, during which she raised her coffee cup and took a sip. 'Thank you for clarifying matters'.

'You're welcome'.

'And if you think I am going to tell George about this, you are mistaken'.

'I sense George already knows'.

'Don't be so certain of that. When it comes to women, men only hear what they want to hear. It's one of the many failures of their sex'.

'You think your son George is a failure, don't you?'

'George is a well-meaning boy. Not one of life's natural leaders, but modest and humane. For the life of me, I don't know what a smart girl like you sees in him. Your marriage will fail. Because, eventually, he will bore you'.

'Who says we will marry?'

'Trust me: you will. C'est le moment juste. It's how it happens. But it will be a ghastly mistake'.

'May I ask you a question, Mrs Grey?'

'Of course, dear'.

'Did your son's death transform you into a misanthrope, or were you always so bitter and joyless?'

She pursed her lips, and considered her reflection in the black sheen surface of her coffee. After a moment, she looked back up at me. 'I've enjoyed our conversation enormously, dear. It has been most enlightening'.

'For me as well'.

'I'm so glad. And I must say I'll come away from our little talk with a splendid realization... what I think you writers call an epiphany'.

'Which is what, Mrs Grey?'

'We are never going to like each other'.

Later that morning, I boarded a train back to Manhattan with George. We sat in the Club Car. He insisted on buying us a bottle of champagne (which turned out to be New York State sparkling wine). He insisted on holding my hand all the way to Grand Central Station. He could not take his adoring eyes off me. He looked lovesick - that same morning-after glow which I must have radiated on that Thanksgiving morning eighteen months ago.

Somewhere south of Port Chester, he said, 'Marry me'.

I heard myself reply, 'All right'.

He appeared stunned. 'What?'

'All right, I'll marry you'.

'You mean it?'

'Yes. I mean it'.

His stunned expression quickly gave way to elation. 'I don't believe it', he said.

'Believe it', I said.

'I'll have to call my parents as soon as we get to Manhattan. They'll be so thrilled. My mother especially'.

'Of course they will', I said quietly.

I didn't say a word to George about the little chat that his mother and I had had over breakfast that morning. Nor did I relate its contents to Eric. Because I knew that - had I described the conversation with Mrs Grey, or told him about the extraordinary stiffness of the family into which I was marrying - he would have tried to talk me out of the engagement.

So I said nothing - except that I was happy as hell, and knew I was making the right decision. He met George for that drink at the Astor Hotel. He found him benignly pleasant. Afterwards, when George asked me if he'd made a reasonable impression on my brother, I said, 'He thought you were great'.

Just like your mother thought I was wonderful. Oh, the lies we tell each other to dodge everything we don't want to face.

Of course, immediately after accepting George's proposal, a doubting voice began to amplify inside my head. More troubling was the discovery that, the more time I spent with George, the louder that voice became. Eventually - after a few weeks - it was so omnipresent that I started to think: I must bail out. Quickly.

But then, a day or so later, I woke up to discover myself violently ill. For the remainder of the week, my morning would begin with a manic dash to the bathroom. Certain that I had been felled with some amoebic bug, I made an appointment to see Dr Ballensweig. He ran a few tests. When he gave me the results, I felt as if I had been hit by a car.

As soon as I got home, I phoned George at the bank.

'Hello, my darling', he said.

'We need to talk', I said.

'What's happened?' he said, suddenly worried.

I took a deep breath.

'Is it something terrible?'

'That depends on how you look at it'.

'Tell me, darling. Tell me'.

Another deep breath. Then I said, 'I'm pregnant'.

Seven

A FEW TERRIBLE days later, I went over to Eric's apartment and told him my news. He flinched, then fell silent. Finally, he asked me a question. 'Are you happy about this?'

That's when I burst into tears, burying my head in my brother's shoulder. He held me and rocked me. 'You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to', he whispered.

I pulled my head off his shoulder. 'What are you suggesting?'

'I'm just saying: if you want out, I can probably help you'.

'Medically, you mean?'

He nodded. 'An actress friend knows of this doctor...'

I held up my hand. 'I couldn't do that'.

'Fine', he said. 'I was only offering...'

'I know, I know - and I appreciate...'

I broke off and buried my head in his shoulder again. 'I really don't know what the hell to do', I said.

'Let me ask you this: do you really want to marry this guy?'

'No. It's a mistake. His mother even said that to me'.

'When?'

'After that night I spent at their house in Greenwich'.

'Was that the night you and George... ?'

I nodded. And blushed. 'Somehow she knew'.

'She was probably standing outside the door, listening in. Anyway, if she says it's a mistake, then she wouldn't be too shocked if you decided not to go through with the wedding'.

'You cannot be serious. George knows I'm pregnant. His parents know I'm pregnant. There is absolutely no way that I am going to be allowed out of this'.

'This is not a feudal state - despite the best efforts of the Republican Party. You are not chattel. You can do whatever the hell you want'.

'You mean, raise this child on my own?'

'Yes. In fact, we could do it together'.

It took a moment or two for this to register. 'I'm touched. Deeply touched. But it's an insane idea. And you know it. I couldn't raise this child on my own'.

'I would be there'.

'That's not what I'm talking about'.

'You're worried about what other people would think'.

'I'm worried about being completely marginalized. You've said it over and over: at heart, we're a puritan country. We ostracize anyone who commits a sexual transgression. And having a child out of wedlock - then raising it on your own - is considered a very big sin'.

'So being in a terrible marriage is a better alternative?'

'I'm sure I can make it work. George is not a bad man'.

'Not a bad man. That's one hell of an endorsement, S'.

'I know, I know. But... what can I do?'

'Make the tough call. Tell him you'll have the kid, but you won't have him'.

'I'm not that brave, Eric. I'm too damn conventional'.