The Pursuit of Happiness

No more flowers. No more platitudes. I do not love you.

Stay out of my life. Never see me again.

Sara

I walked over to a hatch in the wall, and handed the form to a clerk. He read the message back to me in a deadpan voice, saying Stop every time I had indicated a period. When he was finished, he asked me if I wanted the regular or fast rate.

'As fast as possible'.

The charge was a dollar-fifteen. The telegram would be delivered to Jack at his office within two hours. As I reached into my purse to pay for the telegram, my hand began to shake. On the way home, I stopped in a luncheonette and stared down into a black cup of coffee, trying to convince myself that I had done the right thing. My life - I told myself - was finally going well. I was enjoying professional success. I was materially comfortable. I had gotten through the marital breakup as cleanly as could be expected. All right, the knowledge that I would never have children continued to haunt me... but it always would be there, no matter who I was with. And it would most certainly be there if I was involved with a married man. Especially one who already had a child of his own.

All right, all right, I still loved him. But love cannot succeed without a pragmatic foundation. And there was nothing pragmatic about Jack's situation. It would only lead us - me - to grief.

So, yes, I had done the right thing in sending that telegram. Hadn't I?

I was out for the rest of the day. When I got home that night, I opened the door and felt an acute stab of disappointment when there wasn't a telegram from Jack waiting for me. I slept until nearly noon the next morning. Waking up with a jolt, I immediately went downstairs to see if the mail yielded anything from Mr Malone. It didn't. The thought struck me: no flowers today. Maybe I was so asleep I didn't hear the intercom...

I made a call to Handleman's Flowers.

'Sorry, Miss Smythe', Mr Handleman said, 'today wasn't your lucky day'.

Nor was the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that.

A week went by without a word from Jack. Stay out of my life. Never see me again. Oh God, he'd taken me at my word.

Again and again, I told myself I had made a wise, sensible decision. Again and again, I longed for him.

And then, nine days after I sent that telegram, a letter finally arrived. It was short. It read:

Sara:

This is the second hardest letter I've ever written in my life. But unlike the first letter, I will mail this one.

I will respect your wishes. You won't hear from me again. But know this: you will always be with me - because I will never get you out of my head. And because you are the love of my life.

I didn't tear this letter up. Perhaps because I was too stunned at the time. Later that morning, I took a taxi to Penn Station and boarded the train to Chicago - where some local ladies' club had invited me to give a lunchtime talk to their members, and were paying me two hundred dollars, plus all my expenses, for an hour's work. I was supposed to have been away for four nights. Instead, I arrived in Chicago in time for the city's worst blizzard in thirty years. As I quickly discovered, a Chicago blizzard made the equivalent Manhattan climatic event look like a mild sprinkling of flurries. Chicago didn't simply come to a standstill - it became petrified. The mercury dipped to ten below zero. The wind off Lake Michigan sliced you like a scalpel. The snow kept falling. My talk was canceled. My train back east was canceled. Venturing outside was impossible. For eight days I was incarcerated within the Hotel Ambassador on North Michigan Avenue, passing the time by punching out a few more 'Real Life' columns on my Remington, and reading cheap mysteries. Thinking: this isn't the American Midwest. This is a bad Russian novel.

Every hour of every day, I kept trying to convince myself that sending that telegram to Jack was the correct decision. He'd fractured my heart once before. I was right not to let him do it again. Or, at least, that's the justification I kept repeating over and over, in an attempt to stop myself from thinking I had made the worst mistake of my life.

Eventually, the trains started running again. Getting a reservation back to New York was a nightmare. After forty-eight hours, the concierge at the Hotel Ambassador finally managed to wangle me a seat, but no berth. So I sat up all night in the bar car, drinking black coffee, trying to read the latest J.P. Marquand novel (and getting rather fed up with the alleged spiritual crisis suffered by his starchy Boston banker hero), nodding off, and waking up with a stiff neck to sunrise over beautiful Newark, New Jersey.

It was cold, but clear in Manhattan. I deposited myself in a taxi, and slept all the way up Broadway. There was a pile of mail on the mat outside my apartment door. I shuffled through it. Nothing with Jack's telltale scrawl. He was really taking me at my word. I went inside. I checked my ice box and cupboards, and noticed that, yet again, I was low on stocks. I picked up the phone, called Gristedes, and gave them a big order. Because it was still early in the morning, they said they would send a delivery boy around with the groceries in under an hour.

So I unpacked, then had a bath. As I was drying myself off, the intercom rang. I threw on a bathrobe, wrapped my hair in a towel, dashed into the kitchen, picked up the receiver, and said, 'Be there in a sec'.

I went out into the hallway. I opened the front door. Jack was standing there. My heart missed about four beats. He smiled one of his anxious smiles.

'Hello', he said.

'Hello', I said, sounding toneless.

'I got you out of the bath'.

'Yes. You did'.

'I'm sorry. I'll come back later'.

'No', I said. 'Come in now'.

I led him into my apartment. As soon as he closed the door behind him, I turned to face him. Less than a second later, we were in each other's arms. The kiss went on for a very long time. When it ended, he said my name. I silenced the possibility of any further talk by putting my hand behind his head, and kissing him again. It was a deep, long kiss. There was no need for words. I just wanted to hold him. And not let go.

Three

LATER THAT MORNING, I turned to Jack and said, 'I want you to grant me one small wish'.

'I'll try'.

'Let me have you to myself all day'.

'Done deal', he said, slipping out of my bed and walking naked into the kitchen. I heard him dial the phone, and make low muted conversation for a few minutes. Finally he returned to the bedroom, clutching two bottles of beer.

'I'm now officially out-of-town on business until Friday at five p.m.', he said. 'That's three days, two nights. Tell me what you want to do, where you want to go...'

'I want to go nowhere. I just want to stay here with you'.

'Fine by me', he said, crawling back into bed and kissing me deeply. 'Three days in bed with you sounds like the best idea imaginable. Especially as it also gives us the license to drink Schlitz at ten in the morning'.

'If I'd known you were coming, I'd have bought champagne'.

You always know when you have true rapport with someone. When you're in each other's presence, you find you can't stop talking to each other. Or, at least that's how it was with us during those three days. We never left the apartment. We barricaded ourselves from the world. I didn't answer the phone. I didn't answer the door - except when I had arranged for a delivery of supplies. Groceries arrived from Gristedes. I called my local liquor store, and had them send over some wine and bourbon and beer. And Gitlitz's Delicatessen were willing to dispatch anything from their menu at short notice.

We locked ourselves away. We talked. We made love. We slept. We woke up. We started talking again. We actually knew so damn little about each other. We were both greedy for information. I wanted to learn everything - to pick up where we left off four years ago, and hear more about his childhood in Brooklyn, his tough-guy father, and his mother - who died when he was thirteen.

'It was the damnedest thing', he told me. 'I was in the seventh grade. It was Easter Sunday nineteen thirty-five. We'd all just come back from Mass - Mom, Dad, Meg and me. I got out of my suit, and went out with a couple of pals in the neighborhood to play stickball in the next street. My mom told me to be back within an hour tops, as we had a bunch of relatives coming over for lunch. Anyway, there I was, playing with my pals, and Meg came charging down the street, tears running down her face... she was all of eleven at the time... screaming, "Mom's real sick." All I remember after that was running like hell back towards our house. When we got there, an ambulance was out in front, along with the cops. And then, suddenly, these two guys came out of our front door, carrying a stretcher, with a body on it covered by a sheet. My dad was behind the stretcher, being supported by his brother Al. My dad never cried, but here he was sobbing like a kid. That's when I knew...

'An embolism is what caused it. Some artery to her heart got blocked, and... She was only thirty-five. No history of heart trouble. Nothing. Hell, Mom never got sick. She was too busy looking after all of us to even think of getting sick. But there she now was on that stretcher. Gone.

'I felt as if the bottom of my world had just been snatched from under me. That's what my mom's death taught me. You go out to play stickball, thinking your life is secure. You come back, and discover it's been permanently maimed'.

I ran my hand through his hair. 'You're right', I said. 'Nothing's ever secure. And I don't think anyone gets through life without being dealt some truly bad cards'.

He touched my face. 'And the occasional four aces'.

I kissed him. Then said, 'You mean, I'm not a royal flush?'

'You're the best hand imaginable'.

Much later that night - after feasting on two of Gitlitz's famous corned beef on rye sandwiches, and a few bottles of Budweiser - he got talking about his work in public relations.

'Naturally, I saw myself leaving Stars and Stripes and landing a big job on the Journal-American or even the New York Times. But when I found out I was about to be a dad, I decided to opt for something a little more lucrative than the usual sixty-dollar-a-week starting salary at one of the big papers... if, that is, they were even willing to take me on. More to the point, the London bureau chief on Stars and Stripes - Hank Dyer - had been working at Steele and Sherwood before the war, so I had a pretty easy entree into a job. And I kind of like it - since most of the time, it's about three-martini lunches with journalists, and schmoozing the client. At first, I was doing all Manhattan-based stuff, but our business has really started to expand and we're now handling a lot of corporate accounts. So, for the moment, I'm the liaison with a string of insurance companies up and down the eastern seaboard. It's not as much fun as the early days, when I was looking after a fight promoter and a couple of mid-level Broadway producers. But they've upped my salary by seventy dollars a week, and the traveling expenses are good...'

'You should be well compensated for having to go to Albany and Harrisburg'.

'Believe me, I'm only going to keep with the insurance boys for another two years max. Then, if I can, I'm leaving PR and getting back into newspapers. My sis Meg tells me she expects me to win a Pulitzer by the time I'm thirty-five. I told her, "Only if you're editor-in-chief of McGraw-Hill by then." Mind you, she might just get there. McGraw-Hill have just made her a fully fledged editor... and she's only twenty-five'.

'Is she married yet?'

'No way. She thinks all men are bums', he said.

'She's dead right'.

Jack looked at me warily. 'Do you really mean that?'

'Absolutely', I said with a smile.

'Was your ex-husband a bum?'

'No - just a banker'.

'Something bad happened during the marriage, didn't it?'

'What makes you think that?'

'The way you've dodged telling me anything about him'.

'Like I said before, marrying George was a major error of judgment. But, at the time, I thought I had no choice. I got pregnant'.

Now I told him everything. The grim shotgun wedding. The appalling honeymoon. My circumscribed life in Old Greenwich. My nightmare of a mother-in-law. Losing the baby. Losing my ability to have children. When I was finished, Jack reached over across my kitchen table and took both my hands.

'Oh, sweetheart', he said. 'How do you deal with it?'

'The way you deal with any loss: you just do. There's no other option, except excessive booze, alcohol, pills, nervous breakdowns, depression, or any of those other self-pitying options. But do you know what I sometimes wonder? Especially late at night, when I can't sleep. Was I to blame? Did I somehow will the miscarriage myself? Because, at the time, I kept thinking: if only I would miscarry, I'd be free of George...'

'That was a perfectly legitimate way to think, given that your wimp of a husband and his goddamn mother were making your life hell. Anyway, we all think dark stuff when we're scared or trapped...'

'The thing is: I got my wish. The miscarriage happened. And I also destroyed my chance to ever have children...'

'Will you listen to yourself. You didn't destroy anything. It was... I don't know... rotten goddamn luck. We think we have command over so much stuff. We don't. Sure, there are the really rare moments when we have to make a ethical call. But, by and large, we're victims to things over which we have little control. You had no control over this. None'.

I swallowed hard. I looked at him with care. His vehemence had surprised - and pleased - me.

'Thank you', I finally said.

'For nothing'.

'I needed to hear that'.

'Then I needed to tell you that'.

'Stand up', I said.

He did as ordered. I pulled him towards me. I kissed him deeply.

'Come back to bed', I said.

Around nine p.m. on our second night together, he got up out of bed, and said he had to make a phone call. Pulling on his trousers and fastening a cigarette between his lips, he excused himself and walked into the kitchen. I heard him dial a number. He spoke in a pleasant, low voice for around ten minutes. I went into the bathroom, and tried to distract myself by having a shower. When I emerged ten minutes later - swathed in a robe - he was back sitting on the edge of my bed, lighting up a fresh cigarette. I smiled tightly, wondering if my sense of guilt and rivalry was apparent.

'Everything okay at home?' I asked mildly.

'Yeah, fine. Charlie's got a touch of flu, which means Dorothy had a bad night last night...'

'Poor Dorothy'.

He looked at me carefully. 'You're really not jealous?'

'Of course I'm goddamn jealous. I want you. I want to be with you day and night. But because you're married to Dorothy, that can't be. So, yes, I am jealous of the fact that Dorothy is your wife. But that doesn't mean I hate Dorothy. I'm just totally envious of her - which shows my bad taste, writ large. And you do love her, don't you?'

'Sara...'

'I'm not asking that in an accusatory manner. I'm just interested. For obvious reasons'.

He stubbed out his half-finished cigarette. He fished a fresh Chesterfield out of the pack and lit it. He took two deep drags before finally speaking. 'Yes', he said. 'I do love her. But it is not love'.

'Meaning?'

'We got thrown together because of Charlie. We adore our little boy. We get on well with each other. Or, at least, we've worked out a way of getting on with each other. There's no... passion. There's a kind of amiability...'

'You never...'

'Once in a while, sure. But it doesn't seem to be that important to her'.

'Or to you?'

'Put it this way. With Dorothy, it's... I don't know... pleasant, I guess, nothing more. With you, it's... everything. If you know what I mean'.

I leaned over and kissed him. 'I know what you mean'.

'Do yourself a favor - throw me out now. Before it gets complicated'.

'The problem is: if I threw you out, you'd be back here in five minutes, begging to be let in'.

'You're right'.

'One day at a time, eh?' I said.

'Yeah: one day at a time. And we've still got all day tomorrow'.

'That's right. Nearly twenty-four hours'.

'Come here', he said.

I walked over to where he stood. He began to kiss my face, my neck. Whispering: 'Don't move'.

'I'm not going anywhere', I said.

We slept late the next morning. It was snowing again. I made coffee and toast. We lounged on the bed, eating breakfast. For the first time in days, we said nothing for a while - the sort of pleasurable silence that usually exists between a long-established couple. We shared that morning's edition of the New York Times. The Pablo Casals recording of Bach's solo cello suites played on my Victrola. The snow kept coming down.

'I could get used to this', he said.

'So could I'.

'Let me see your story', he said.

'What story?' I said, suddenly thrown.

'The story you wrote about us'.

'How did you know about that?'

'Dorothy. As she told you in the park, she's a big fan. She's also been reading Saturday Night/Sunday Morning for years. So as we were walking home from the park, she told me that the first thing she ever read of yours was a short story you wrote for Saturday/Sunday in... when was it?'

'Nineteen forty-seven'.

'Well, when she told me what the story was about, I simply went: "Oh"... and hoped to hell she didn't see how damn shocked I looked'.

'She didn't suspect... ?'

'Hell no. I mean, she has no idea that we spent a night together. So show it to me'.

'I don't think I have a copy in the apartment'.

'Do you expect me to believe that?'

'All right', I said. 'Wait here'.

I went out into the living room, rummaged around one of my file boxes, and found the magazine containing 'Shore Leave'. I went back into the bedroom and handed it to Jack. Then I headed towards the bathroom.

'I'm having a bath', I said. 'Knock on the door when you've finished it'.

Fifteen minutes later, the knock came. Jack walked in, sat down on the edge of the tub, and lit up another cigarette.

'So?' I asked.

'Do you really think I kissed like a teenager?'

'No - but I think the guy in the story did'.

'But it's our story'.

'Yes. But it's also just a story'.

'A brilliantly written story'.

'You don't have to say that'.

'I wouldn't if it wasn't true. So where's the next one?'

'That is my entire literary output to date'.

'I'd like to read more by you'.

'You can - every week in Saturday Night/Sunday Morning!

'You know what I'm saying here'.

I reached up with my wet soapy hand and rested it on his thigh.

'I really don't mind being trivial, minor, lightweight'.

'You're better than that'.

'That's your opinion - and I'm touched by it. But I also know my limitations'.

'You're a great writer'.

'Hardly. Anyway, I'm not remotely interested in being "great". I like what I write. I do it pretty well. Sure, it's inconsequential, left-handed stuff. But it pays the bills and lets me go to movies in the afternoon. What more could a girl ask for?'

'Literary fame, I guess', he said.

'"Fame is a bee. It has a song. It has a sting. Ah too, it has a wing."'

'Emily Dickinson?'

I looked at him and smiled. 'You really know your stuff, Mr Malone'.

The day drifted by. Around five that afternoon, I pulled him back into bed. At six, he turned to me and said,

'I suppose I'd better be going'.

'Yes. I suppose you must'.

'I don't want to'.

'And I don't want you to either. But there we are'.

'Yep. There we are'.

He showered. He dressed.

'Now I'm going to leave', he said. 'Before I start kissing you again'.

'Okay', I said quietly. 'Leave'.

'Tomorrow?'

'Sorry?'

'Could I see you tomorrow?'

'Of course. Absolutely. But... will you have the time?'

'I'll find the time. Around five, if that's okay'.

'I'll be here'.

'Good'.

He leaned towards me. I put my hand against his chest, stopping him from coming closer.

'Tomorrow, Mr Malone'.

'Just one last kiss'.

'No'.

'Why?'

'Because we'll end up back in bed'.

'Point taken'.

I helped him on with his coat.

'I shouldn't be leaving', he said.

'But you are'.

I opened the door.

'Sara, I...'

I put a finger to his lips. 'Say nothing'.

'But...'

'Tomorrow, my love. Tomorrow'.

He gripped my hand. He stared directly into my eyes. He smiled.

'Yes', he said, 'tomorrow'.

Four

BY FIVE TWENTY the next afternoon, I was convinced he wouldn't be coming. I'd been pacing the floor since four fifty - certain that he'd had a change of heart, or had been found out by Dorothy, or had suddenly succumbed to guilt. But then the doorbell rang. I went dashing out of my apartment. And there he was - with a bottle of French fizz in one hand and a bouquet of lilies in the other.

'Sorry, darling', he said. 'Stuck in a meet...'

I cut him off.

'You're here', I said, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling him towards me. 'That's all that counts'.

An hour or so later, he turned to me in bed and asked, 'What happened to the champagne?'

I scoured the floor - covered with our discarded clothes. The champagne was lying on its side, atop Jack's overcoat. The flowers were strewn next to it.

'That's where it landed', I said.

He jumped out of bed, picked up the bottle, ripped off the foil, and popped the cork. A geyser of foam baptised us both.

'Nice one', I said, as champagne streamed down my face.

'Oops', he said.

'You're lucky I love you', I said.

He handed me the bottle. 'Bottoms up', he said.

'I do have glasses in this house'.

'By ze neck, dahling', he said. 'It's ze Muscovite vey'.

'Okay, comrade', I said taking the bottle and tipping it back. 'And by the way, this champagne is from France, and far too expensive to be spraying around my bedroom. What is it, six or seven dollars a bottle?'

'Does it matter?'

'If you've got a family to support... then, yes, six dollars does matter'.

'God, you are deeply responsible'.

'Shut up', I said, running my hand through his hair.

'With pleasure', he said, and lowered me back down on the bed.

Afterwards, he lay against me, his arms curled around my chest. We fell into a silent reverie for a few moments. Then he said, 'Ever since I walked out of here last night, all I could think about was walking back in here again'.

'I was ticking off the hours too'.

'Around three last night, I couldn't sleep'.

'Join the club'.

'If I'd only known... because I was so tempted to call you'.

'You must never call me from your house'.

'I won't'.

'If this is going to work, we must be completely discreet. No phone calls from your house or your office. Use a pay phone when you want to call me. There can never be any correspondence between us. If I give you a gift, you keep it here. And no one can ever know about us. No one',

'Why the great worry about secrecy?'

'Do you really think I want to be cast in the role of the Happy Homewrecker? Or the kept woman? La maitresse? No way, soldier. I'll be your lover. I won't be your femme fatale. I want you... but I don't want the incumbent grief that comes with loving a married man. That's what I decided at three this morning. You'll have your life. I'll have my life. And you and I will have a life together... which no one else will know about'.

'Believe me, Dorothy doesn't suspect anything... though she was intrigued by the new aftershave I was wearing'.

'But I wasn't wearing any perfume yesterday'.

'Yeah - but I stopped in a pharmacy on the way home and bought two bottles of Mennen Skin Bracer, and splashed some on before walking in the door... just in case you were still lingering on my face'.

'Why two bottles?'

He reached down for his overcoat, and pulled out a little bag from a local pharmacy.

'A bottle for home, a bottle for here. I also bought the same soap and deodorant and toothpaste I keep in my apartment'.

I looked at him warily. 'You're a quick worker, aren't you? Or maybe you'd done this sort of thing before'.

'I have never, ever done this sort of thing before'.

'I'm glad to hear that'.

'I just don't want to hurt Dorothy'.

'If you really don't want to hurt Dorothy, get dressed now and leave. Because this is definitely going to hurt Dorothy'.

'Not if she doesn't find out'.

'She will find out'.

'Only if I let her find out. I won't let her find out'.

'Are you that clever?'

'It's not a matter of cleverness... it's a matter of protecting her'.

'As in: what she doesn't know won't hurt her?'

'No... as in: I won't leave her... but I won't give you up either. Of course, you might not like this arrangement'.

'Oh, so that's what this is: an arrangement? Cinq-a-sept, as they say in jolly old Paree? You know your French literature, Jack. Who am I going to be? Emma Bovary?'

'Wasn't she married?'

Touche'.

'Sara...'

'And how silly of me to think of myself as an adulterous woman, when I'm actually... what?.. a courtesan... isn't that the right term? Yes, a courtesan whose aristocratic lover leaves a bottle of Mennen aftershave in her toilette'.

Long silence. Jack tried to put his arms around me. I placed my hand against his chest and gently pushed him away.

'I'm not going to let myself get mangled again', I said.

'I won't hurt you'.

'We'll see about that'. I glanced at my watch. 'You should head home to your wife'.

He left a few minutes later. 'I'm out of town on Monday and Tuesday, due back in New York midday on Wednesday', he said, putting on his coat.

'Fine', I said.

'But if I work it right, I should be able to rearrange my final meetings in Philadelphia, and get back here around eight in the evening on Tuesday... if you'd like a guest for the night'.

'I don't know. I'm really going to have to think this through, Jack'.

'Sara...'

'And don't forget to take your aftershave and toothbrush with you. I don't want them in the house'.

'I'll call you', he said, kissing me on the forehead as he left the apartment.

But he didn't call over the weekend. Nor did he call on Monday. Idiot, idiot, I kept telling myself. You've pushed him away. By eight on Tuesday night, I was bracing myself for the worst. If you really don't want to hurt Dorothy, get dressed now and leave. Because this is definitely going to hurt Dorothy. Why the hell had I said that? It had obviously sunk in. Why had I made such a big deal over the aftershave? Because I had to be Miss Sense and Sensibility, didn't I? You should head home to your wife. He'd taken me at my word. He'd gone home. Permanently.

Then, at eight ten, the doorbell rang. I stormed to the front door, and opened it angrily. Jack was dressed in his dark brown overcoat, and the sort of snap-brimmed brown felt hat favored by newspapermen. He had a suitcase in one hand, a bouquet in the other.

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

'Philadelphia', he said, sounding taken aback by my anger. 'But you knew that'.

'And on Saturday and Sunday?'

'At home with my family, as you instructed me...'

'I know what I told you. That doesn't mean you have to follow my damn advice'.

He tried to suppress a smile. 'Come here, you kook', he said.

Within seconds of falling backwards into my apartment, we had pulled off each other's clothes. We didn't get further than the carpet in my living room. When I felt myself on the verge of disturbing the neighbors, I engulfed his mouth with mine. Afterwards, we said nothing for a very long time.

'Hello', he finally said.

'Hello', I laughed.

'Four days was...'

'Too damn long', I said. 'I can't tell you how much I missed you'.

'I would never have guessed'.

'Don't get cocky, soldier'.

I got up and disappeared into my bedroom. I put on a bathrobe. I reached inside my closet and brought out a shopping bag. When I returned to the living room, Jack was sitting on the sofa, pulling on his underwear.

'No need to get dressed', I said.

'But I might freeze. You keep things on the chilly side here'.

'This might keep you warm', I said, reaching into the bag and tossing him a large rectangular package, gift-wrapped in stern blue Brooks Brothers paper.

'A present?' he said.

'My, my - you are clever'.

He tore off the paper. He smiled - and immediately put on the blue linen bathrobe I'd bought him yesterday.

'You've got style, Miss Smythe', he said.

'You like?'

'I love it. Brooks Brothers. Total class. I feel like I went to Princeton'.

'It suits you'.

He walked into the little entrance foyer off the living room, and sized himself up in the mirror. 'Yes', he said. 'It really does'.

I reached into the shopping bag and handed him another wrapped package.

'Are you nuts?' he said.

'No. Just generous'.

'Too generous', he said, kissing me on the lips.

'See if you like it first', I said.

He opened the paper. He laughed. Inside were two bottles of Caswell and Massey's Bay Rum Aftershave.

'Two bottles?' he said, twisting off the top of one bottle.

'One for here, one for home'.

He gave me an amused smile, then took a long sniff of the scent. 'That's nice stuff', he said. 'Are you trying to tell me something?'

'Yes. Mennen makes you smell like a bad locker room'.

'Oh, you snob. Brooks Brothers robes, now Caswell and Massey aftershave. Next thing it will be elocution lessons'.

'Is there anything wrong with me buying you nice things?'

He stroked my hair. 'Absolutely not. I approve. I'm just wondering how I'll explain the new aftershave to my wife'.

'You could always say you bought it yourself'.

'But I'm someone who never drops more than a buck on a bottle of aftershave'.

'Well, Brooklyn boy - here's a thought. Drop by Caswell and Massey tomorrow - they're on Lexington and Forty-Sixth Street - and buy your wife a bottle of their eau de toilette. Then you can tell her that, while buying her this gift, you sampled their Bay Rum aftershave and decided you needed to graduate from Mennen. She'll approve, believe me'.

He splashed some of the aftershave into his hand, and on to his face.

'What do you think?' he asked.

I put my face close to his, then began to kiss his neck.

'It works'.

'You're wonderful. How portable is your typewriter?'

'Not very portable'.

He went over to my desk and lifted up my Remington. 'I could carry that', he said.

'I'm sure you could. But why would you?'

'I have an idea'.

Two days later, I was on a morning train to Albany with Jack. We checked into the Capital Hotel as Mr and Mrs Jack Malone. While he went off to see his clients, I sat down at the desk in our room and punched out a 'Real Life' column on my Remington. Jack came back from his appointments around five. I had him undressed within a minute. Half an hour later, he lit up a cigarette and said, 'This is, without doubt, the sexiest thing that's ever happened to me in Albany'.

'I should hope so', I said.

It was fifteen below in Albany, so we stayed in that night and ordered room service. The next morning Jack braved the elements to deal with a few more clients. I took a brisk walk around downtown - and decided that I had seen enough of Albany for one morning. So I retreated back to our room, punched out half of my movie column on my Remington, then killed the afternoon at a wonderfully cheesy Victor Mature double-feature (Samson and Delilah and Wabash Avenue) at a nearby RKO fleapit. I was back at the hotel by five thirty. As I was about to open the door of our room, I could hear Jack on the phone.

'All right, all right - I know you're angry, but... what's one more night?.. Yeah, yeah, yeah... you're right... but, hey, it's not like I want to be away... You know I love you... Look, an extra night in Albany probably means another ten bucks this week... Okay, okay... You too, darling... Tell Charlie I love him... and yeah, five o'clock tomorrow without fail... Okay, bye'.

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

'It's nothing'.

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

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

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

'What's wrong?' he asked.

'I hate being lied to'.

'How have I lied to you?'

' "Just a bad business call." I heard who you were talking to on the phone'.

'What do you mean, you heard?'

'I mean, I was standing outside the door...'

'Eavesdropping?'

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

'Either that or you wanted to listen in...'

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

'I don't know. You were the one who was standing outside the door...'

'That's because I didn't want to put you in an uncomfortable position by bursting into the room...'

'I'm sorry', he said suddenly.

'Never lie to me, Jack. Never'.

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

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

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

'What was the argument about?'

'She wanted me back tonight'.

'Then you should have gone home'.

'But I wanted to stay here with you'.

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

'I'm a jerk'.

I managed a smile.

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

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

'Everything would be fine?'

'I wouldn't feel so bad'.

'Poor, poor you: she's not a bitch'.

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

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

'They're not really that divided. I adore you'.

'But you are also committed to her'.

He shrugged. And said, 'I have no choice'.

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

'What do you suggest I do?'

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

'Can you handle that?'

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

'I don't know either'.

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

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

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

'That's probably smart'.

'Can I call you?'

'Do you really have to ask that question?'

He kissed me lightly on the lips.

'Love you', he said.

'You sound tentative'.

'I'm trying not to be'.

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

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

'Are you ready?' he asked.

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

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

'I'm not following you'.

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

'Jack, I'd like an explanation...'

He leaned forward and kissed me.

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

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

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

'I don't know, Jack'.

'Yes, you do', he said, kissing me again. 'Bye'.

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

Then the taxi headed off.

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

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

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

'I'm a fool to be doing this', I said.

'Kiss me', he said.

I gave him a fast buzz on the lips.

'That's not much of a kiss', he said.

'I want some answers first'.

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

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

'What the hell has you so happy this morning?'

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

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

'Yes, I will'.

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

'Well, go on then', I said.

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

This took a moment to register.

'What did you just say?' I asked.

'I told her'.

'You told Dorothy... ?'

'Yes. I told Dorothy'.

My shock was deepening.

'What exactly did you say?'

'I told her everything'.

'Everything?'

'Yes', he said. 'Everything'.

Five

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

'When did you tell her?' I whispered.

'The night I got back from Albany with you'.

'How did you explain...'

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

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

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

'So she threw you out?'

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

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

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

'Yeah - I probably deserve that'.

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

'I thought you'd be pleased with this news'.

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

'I am not being smug'.

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

'Shhh...' he said, nervously looking around the dining car.

'Never tell me to shut up', I said, standing up.

'Where are you going?'

'Leaving'.

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

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

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

'Of course you don't. That's because you never think about other people's feelings...'

'I told Dorothy because I couldn't lie...'

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

'If you'd just let me explain...'

'Goodbye', I said.

'What?'

'I'm getting off at Newark'.

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

'I won't be part of an arrangement'.

'It is not an "arrangement"'.

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

'Darling...' he said, lightly touching my shoulder.

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

'Fine, fine', he whispered. 'Have it your way'.

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

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

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

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

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

'Clearly', I said.

'I'm surprised'.

'So am I'.

'What made you change your mind?'

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

'That's your choice, Sara. Just like it's also your choice whether...'

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

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

'Weren't you disappointed when she foolishly decided to keep you?'

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

I sighed loudly.

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

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

'I don't know...'

'It will. I promise'.

'Never promise anything'.

'Why not?'

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

'I won't let things change between us'.

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

'But that's a good thing'.

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

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

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

'She was happy to see me'.

'No questions asked about out of town... ?'

'None whatsoever'.

'How's Charlie?'

'Wonderful'.

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

'Sara...' he said, trying to sound patient.

'I need to know'.

'We shared the same bed'.

'Cut the crap, Jack'.

'She wanted to, so...'

'You had no choice. Oops! Miss Sarcastic strikes again'.

'You shouldn't ask me about that'.

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

'Now?'

'Yes. Now. Because I need you now'.

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

'Whereabouts?'

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

'I'll see if I can move a few things around'.

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

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

'I suppose you'd like your very own closet'.

'That would be handy'.

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

He now lived here.

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

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

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

Of course, we both fought like hell. But as the arrangement deepened, the arguments shifted away from the emotional complexities of my truncated life with Jack. As I had told him that night in Albany (and as I well knew myself): the moment a romance becomes bogged down in endless discussions about its inherent problems is also the moment that it ends up being labeled terminal.

So, we steered clear of such issues. Naturally, I would always ask after Dorothy and Charlie. Every time his son was mentioned in conversation, I'd get that twinge of loss which accompanied all thoughts about my inability to have children. Jack was sensitive to this - and, on several occasions, deliberately dodged my questions about his son. But I'd force the issue, telling him that I wanted to know about Charlie's progress... especially as he was everything to Jack.

Three months into our arrangement, the thought struck me one day that whenever we argued, it was usually about non-personal matters: like whether we really should be defending a police state like South Korea.

'Look', Jack said, 'that sonofabitch who runs South Korea... what's his name?'

'Sygman Rhee'.

'Right - well, there's no doubt that Rhee is a complete totalitarian. But at least he's our totalitarian'.

'There, you admit it. He's a repressive dictator. And though I have nothing but contempt for Stalin and his North Korean stooge, should we really be propping up totalitarian regimes?'

'Will you listen to yourself. You sound like some Adlai Stevenson liberal...'

'I am an Adlai Stevenson liberal'.

'Which essentially means that you have a nice soft-centered view of the world. You should learn some basic realpolitik. As Chamberlain discovered to his horror, appeasement gets you nowhere'.

'Oh, please don't give me your tough-guy view of foreign policy. "Speak quietly, but carry a big stick" might have worked for Teddy Roosevelt - but these days, the big sticks are atomic bombs... which happen to scare the hell out of me'.

'Listen, force is the only thing that any aggressor understands. General MacArthur's right: if we want to end the Korean conflict tomorrow, we should let North Korea and China sample our atomic bombs, then bring in Chiang Kai-shek to run the whole show'.

'Well, thank God it's Harry Truman in the White House, rather than that lunatic MacArthur... '

'That man was a war hero'.

'True - but he's out of control'.

"Only if you're a Communist'.

'I am no Communist'.

'Maybe not - but given that it runs in your family...'

He cut himself off. 'Sorry', he said instantly. 'That was dumb'.

'Yes it was. Very dumb'.

'Forgive me'.

'On one condition: you never bring that up again. I regret ever telling you about Eric's little past flirtation with that party'.

'I'll never say anything again about it'.

'That's a solemn promise?'

'Absolutely'.

'Good. Because I think it's about time I told my brother about us'.

'How do you think he'll take the news?'

I shrugged. But I knew the answer to that question: not well.

I wasn't seeing much of Eric that year - owing to the fact that he was in such demand. Between writing The Marty Manning Show, developing new program ideas for NBC, spending time with Ronnie, and generally living it up, his time was limited. Still, he never stopped being a loyal brother, calling me at least twice a week.

Then, shortly after Jack started to move some clothes into my apartment, Eric and Ronnie paid me a surprise visit one Sunday afternoon around five p.m. Standing on my doorstep, Eric informed me that they were whisking me out for drinks at the St Regis, dinner at 21, and a jam session at the Blue Note.

'Great', I said. 'I'll just get my coat'.

Eric and Ronnie exchanged glances.

'You mean, you're not going to let us in?' Eric asked.

'Of course you can come in', I said nervously. 'But what's the point, if we're leaving right away?'

Eric looked at me with deep scepticism. 'S, who the hell is in there?'

'No one. Why would there be anyone...'

'Fine then', Eric said, 'we'll come in from the cold while you get ready'.

He pushed past me. Ronnie hovered on the doorstep, not wanting to appear rude.

'You might as well come on in, Ronnie', I said. 'Because the cat is now definitely out of the bag'.

No, Jack hadn't paid me a surprise Sunday visit, and was not lurking inside. But evidence of his presence was everywhere in the apartment - evidence which I would have hidden had I known Eric was coming by.

'So', Eric said, staring at the large pair of black wingtip shoes by my inside door, 'not only is there a mystery man, but he also has large feet'.

He wandered around the apartment, raising his eyebrows when he saw the collection of male toiletries in the bathroom, the slippers by my bed, the collection of paperbacks on the side table in the living room.

'I didn't realize you were a fan of Mickey Spillane', Eric said, picking up a copy of I, The Jury.

'He's an acquired taste', I said.

'I bet', Eric said, 'along with Hiram Walker bourbon and Chesterfields. My, my, S - you are developing some seriously masculine habits. Next thing I know, you'll have installed a spittoon by your bed, and will be playing after-hours pinochle with the boys at the Twentieth Precinct'.

'Well... I was thinking of taking up bowling'.

Eric turned to Ronnie. 'Quite the wit, my little sister'.

'I've always thought that'.

'Thank you, Ronnie', I said.

'Of course, you'd never think a man was living here, would you, Ronnie?' Eric asked.

'I see no sign of that', Ronnie said, maintaining a straight face.

'Thank you again, Ronnie', I said.

'Yes, thank you so much, Ronnie', Eric said, 'for siding with my sister'.

'I'm not siding with her', Ronnie said. 'I'm just respecting her privacy'.

'Touche, Ronnie', Eric said. 'But as her older brother, I don't have to respect her privacy. So I'll just come straight out and ask her: why the hell didn't you tell me you were living with someone?'

'Because', I said, 'I'm not living with someone'.

'Well, Dr Watson', Eric said, 'all the evidence points to a male presence in this household. A permanent male presence'.

'Maybe she doesn't want to tell you', Ronnie said.

'Yes', I added, 'maybe she doesn't'.

'Fine, fine', Eric said. 'I would never, ever dream of interfering in my sister's affairs. Does he have a name?'

'Interestingly enough, he does. But I'm not going to tell it to you yet'.

'Why the hell not?'

'Because I'm not ready to tell it to you'.

For the rest of the night, Eric plagued me with the same question: who's the guy? After his twentieth attempt to pry the information from me, Ronnie finally told him he was going to stand up and leave unless he got off the subject. Eric took the hint. But first thing the next morning, he was on the phone, demanding, yet again, to know the name of the gentleman in question.

'He must be bad news if you're refusing to tell me'.

'Be patient - when I'm ready to inform you, I will'.

'Why aren't you ready now?'

'Because I don't know whether it has a future'.

'Well, if it doesn't, then you might as well tell me now...'

'Can't you accept the fact that you don't need to know everything about me?'

'No'.

'Well, too bad. My lips remain sealed'.

For the next two weeks, Eric kept up the pressure - and enhanced my guilt. Because he was right: we'd always tried to be open with each other. Even Eric finally told me about his sexuality, a horribly difficult admission in those days, so surely I owed him a direct answer to his question... even though I dreaded his reaction. Finally, I suggested that Eric meet me for a drink at the Oak Room of the Plaza. We were working on our second martinis when I finally felt enough gin-fueled courage to say, 'The man's name is Jack Malone'.

Eric blanched. 'You cannot be serious', he said.

'I'm completely serious'.

'Him?' he said.

'Yes. Him'.

'But that's unbelievable. Because he was gone with the wind. He messed up your life. And after you met him and his wife, didn't you tell me you'd given him the brush-off?'

'I know, I know, but...'

'So how long exactly has this been going on?'

'Over four months'.

Eric looked deeply shocked.

'Four months. Why on earth did you keep it a secret for so long?'

'Because I was terrified of your disapproval'.

'Oh for God's sakes, S - I might not have liked the guy when I first met him, and I certainly didn't like the way he ditched you, but...'

'After Jack vanished you told me, over and over again, that I was a fool to be expending so much emotional energy on such a no-hoper. So, naturally, when he came back into my life, I was really worried about your reaction'.

'I don't have fangs and I don't sleep in a coffin, S'.

'I know, I know. And I felt terrible about concealing this for so long. But I knew that, before I told you anything, I had to find out whether or not this had a future'.

'Which it evidently does - otherwise you wouldn't be telling me now'.

'I love him, Eric'.

'So I gather'.

'But I really mean it. This is not some dumb infatuation with a married man, some transient romance. This is it. And it's mutual'.

Eric went quiet. He sipped his martini. He smoked. Eventually, he shrugged and said, 'I suppose I should meet him again, shouldn't I?'

I set up a drink a few days later - late Friday afternoon in the bar of the St Moritz, one block east from where Eric lived on Central Park South. I was nervous as hell. So too was Jack - even though I assured him that my brother had promised me he would be on his best behavior. Things got off to a bad start when we were kept waiting thirty minutes. Then a bar-man came to our table to inform us that Eric had called and said he'd been stuck in a meeting, but would be with us in ten minutes.

Another forty minutes passed, during which time Jack drank another two bourbon and sodas, and smoked three more cigarettes.

'Is this your brother's idea of a joke?' he finally asked, sounding annoyed.

'I'm sure there's a very good reason...' I said, sounding nervous.

'Either that, or he believes that his time is more valuable than my own. Of course, I'm just some PR guy, whereas he's the great gag writer'.

'Jack, please'.

'You're right, you're right. I'm just being a hothead'.

'No - you should be annoyed. But there's nothing I can do...'

'So let's have another drink'.

'A fourth bourbon and soda?'

'Are you telling me I can't hold my liquor?'

'Waiter!' I said, catching him as he passed by our table. 'Another bourbon and soda for the gentleman, please'.

'Thank you', Jack said dryly as the waiter moved off.

'I'd never stand between a man and his booze'.

'Is that your idea of irony?'

'No - that's me dropping a hint, which you won't take'.

'I know my limits'.

'Fine, fine'.

Jack glanced towards the door. 'But I don't think your brother does'.

I looked the same way. My heart instantly sank. Because Eric had just arrived - and he was drunk. He had a dead cigarette clamped between his teeth, his eyes were glazed, his gait unsteady. When he caught sight of us, he pulled off his hat with a flourish and bowed deeply. Then he stumbled over to our table, and planted a big wet kiss on my mouth.

'Blame it all on Mr Manning. He insisted on pouring two bottles of wine down my throat at lunch'.

'You're an hour and a quarter late', I said.

'That's show business', he said, falling into a chair.

'At least you could say you're sorry to Jack'.

Immediately, Eric was on his feet. He snapped to attention, and exercised a crisp military salute. I now wanted to kill him. Thankfully, Jack kept his cool. He threw back his bourbon and soda, and reached for the fresh drink the waiter had just deposited on our table. 'Nice to see you, Eric', he said quietly.

'And top o' the morning to you, Mr Malone', Eric said in a dreadful Pat O'Brien accent.

'Maybe we should do this another day', I said.

'Yeah', Jack said. 'That might be a good idea'.

'Nonsense, nonsense', Eric said. 'One little drink and my equilibrium will be completely restored. Now, what are the lovebirds going to drink with me? But, of course... Waiter! A bottle of champagne'.

'I'll stick to bourbon', Jack said.

'Bourbon?' Eric said. 'Come, come - there's no need to be proletarian...'

'Are you calling me a prole?' Jack said.

Eric switched into the Pat O'Brien accent again.

'Sure, behind every common man lurks a poet'.

'For God's sake, Eric', I said.

'I am just joking', he said in his normal voice. 'No offence intended'.

Jack nodded, but said nothing. Instead, he lifted his fresh drink and downed half of it.

'Ah', Eric said, 'the strong silent type'.

'What is your problem?' Jack asked.

'I have no problems', Eric said. 'None at all. In fact, I am as happy as an Irishman in a bog'.

'That's enough, Eric', I said.

'You're absolutely right. I apologize profusely for my absurd reverie. Now, sir, let us mend fences over a glass of France's best fizz'.

'Like I told you, I'm sticking with bourbon'.

'Fine, fine. I do understand. And approve'.

'You what?' Jack asked.

'I approve. Of bourbon, I mean. Especially since bourbon is such a good solid American drink'.

'Is there anything wrong with an American drink?' Jack asked.

'Hell no, pardner', he said, now doing John Wayne. 'It's just, bourbon ain't my firewater, son'.

'Yeah - I forgot. All Commies drink champagne'.

Eric looked as if he'd been slapped. I wanted to flee the room. After a moment's shock, Eric recovered face and put on a Scarlett O'Hara voice.

'Dear, oh dear, someone's been speaking a little too freely about my colorful past. Wouldn't be y'all, sis, would it?'

'Jack, let's go', I said.

'But what about our champagne?' Eric asked.

'Shove it', Jack said.

'I so love the lyrical patois of the Brooklyn-eze'.

'I talk American - though I'm sure talking American strikes you as far too patriotic'.

'Hardly. After all, wasn't it old Sam Johnson himself who said that patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel?'

'Fuck you', Jack hissed, tossing the remainder of his drink into Eric's face. Then he turned and stormed out of the bar.

Eric sat there, with bourbon and soda cascading down his cheeks. He appeared perplexed by this baptism.

'Thank you', I said, my voice shaky. 'Thank you so much'.

'Did I do something wrong?'

'Go to hell', I said, and left.

I dashed through the lobby, and caught Jack just as he was walking out the door.

'Darling', I said. 'I'm so sorry...'

'Not as sorry as I am. Why the hell did he do that?'

'I don't know. Nerves, I guess'.

'That wasn't nervousness - that was him being an asshole'.

'Please forgive me'.

'You're not at fault here, sweetheart. He's the guy with the problem. And the problem is me'.

He gave me a fast buzz on the cheek.

'Listen, I've got to get home', he said. 'I'll call you over the weekend - when I've stopped wanting to punch a brick wall'.

He headed out into Central Park South. I wanted to chase after him, and reassure him that this whole incident meant nothing... even though I knew that wasn't true. The worst thing you can do when something goes really wrong is to insist that everything's just fine; that, come tomorrow, everyone will wake up as friends. If only life worked that way. If only we didn't complicate things so damn much.

So I didn't run after Jack, figuring it was best to talk to him once his emotional temperature was back to normal. Instead, I walked back to the bar, steeling myself for the confrontation I was about to have with my brother.

But when I entered the cocktail lounge, I now found Eric slumped in his chair, passed out. He was snoring loudly, much to the displeasure of the other patrons in the lounge, not to mention the bartender.

'Is that guy with you?' he asked as I crouched down beside Eric.

'I'm afraid so'.

'Well, get him out of here'.

It took a minute of constant shaking before Eric finally came around. He stared at me quizzically.

'What are you doing here?' he asked.

'Looking at a jerk', I said.

The bartender found a member of the hotel staff to help me escort Eric out of the St Moritz and one block west to his apartment at Hampshire House. Thankfully, Ronnie was at home. He rolled his eyes when he saw Eric's less than sober state. We each took an arm and led him into the bedroom.

'I think I'm just a little tired', Eric mumbled before falling face down on the bed and passing out. Ronnie relieved my brother of his shoes, then covered him with a blanket.

'Let's let him sleep it off', he whispered, motioning for me to follow him back into the living room. 'I'm sure you could use a drink'.

'After what's happened, I think alcohol's about the last thing I'm interested in'. Then I filled him in on Eric's little performance in the bar of the St Moritz.

'Jesus', Ronnie said when I finished. 'He really knows how to mess things up'.

'I just can't believe he acted that way... especially knowing how important it was to me that he got along with Jack'.

'He's jealous'.

'Of what?'

'Of your guy, of course'.

'But that's crazy. I mean, when I was married, he wasn't at all resentful of my husband...'

'But, from what I can gather, that's because he wasn't threatened by him. Whereas with this new guy...'

'But why the hell should he be threatened by Jack?'

'Because he means so damn much to you, that's why. And because he was really hurt by the fact that you kept it all from him for a couple of months'.

'How do you know that?'

'He told me, that's how'.

'I had to keep it from him. Until I was sure that...'

'Hey, I'm not criticizing you here. All I'm saying is that your crazy brother adores you more than anything in the world. You should hear how he talks about you. You're everything to him. And now along comes this guy - whom he met once before, right?'

'Yes - and they hated each other on sight'.

'There you go. So this Jack guy suddenly shows up again in your life - and it's obviously so damn serious that you keep it all a secret from your brother. For months. And now he's feeling anxious about losing you'.

'Losing me? That's the last thing that would ever happen'.

'You know that. I know that. But jealousy isn't exactly the most rational of emotions, is it?'

I sat around with Ronnie until about six, hoping Eric might wake up. But when it became apparent that he was out for the night, I headed back to my apartment. I desperately wanted to hear from Jack - but the phone remained silent. At eight the next morning, however, my doorbell rang. I jumped out of bed, flung on a robe, and raced to the front door. Standing there was Eric. His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen. He was visibly nervous.

'Will you ever speak to me again?' he asked.

'I don't have many other options, do I?'

He came inside. I put a pot of coffee on the stove. He sat at the kitchen table, saying nothing. After a few minutes I spoke.

'So, let's hear the act of contrition'.

'I was wrong'.

'Incredibly wrong'.

'Now Jack hates me'.

'Do you really care whether he does or not?'

'Yes, I do. Because I know he means so much to you'.

'Then it isn't just me to whom you should be apologizing'.

'True', he said. 'It won't happen again'.

'No, it won't. Because I don't want to be put in a position where I am forced to choose between you and Jack. There's no need for that choice to be made'.

'I know, I know. Ronnie told me the same thing last night... after giving me the hardest time imaginable for what I'd done. He told me I'd behaved like a thirteen-year-old'.

'That's giving a thirteen-year-old too much credit'.

'Do you think Jack will forgive me?'

'Try him'.

I didn't hear from Jack that weekend - which worried me, because he usually checked in at least once on Saturday. By late Sunday evening, I was wondering if, in the wake of Eric's little performance, he'd suffered a change of heart. By Monday morning, I was certain what was coming next: a tense phone call, during which he'd inform me that, after much reflection, he'd decided that he simply could no longer sustain such divided loyalties, and had to return permanently to the bosom of his family. Or maybe a Dear John letter would arrive in the morning mail, in which he would state that Eric's outburst on Friday had crystallized matters for him, and he now realized we had no future together. Or, worst yet, he'd resort to a telegram, with the same message that he sent me all those years ago:

I'm sorry.

Jack

It's amazing how silence brings out our most terrible fears - and makes us expect the worst.

But then he called me at nine on Monday morning.

'I thought I'd never hear from you again', I said.

'I'm not that stupid'.

'But you were angry'.

'Yeah - I was angry. But not at you'.

'You still didn't call. And it got me worried'.

'I needed to calm down. Then the weekend at home went all wrong. Charlie came down with a temperature of a hundred and six...'

'Oh my God. Is he all right?'

'Yeah. We had to get a pediatrician to make a house call. It was just a viral thing. But we were up all night Friday. Then on Saturday morning, when we were having breakfast, Dorothy suddenly broke down and started crying. When I asked her what was wrong, she refused to say. Of course, I knew why she was so upset. But when I tried to get her to tell me what was bothering her, she clammed right up. That's when I asked, "Do you want me to leave?" Suddenly she wasn't crying anymore. She was just angry as hell.

'"Oh, that would suit you right down to the ground, wouldn't it?" she said.

' "No," I said, "it really wouldn't."

' "Well, I don't know if I can stand this anymore," she said, and went running into the bedroom. I decided it was best to leave her alone. Around a half-hour later, she came out, dressed, fully made up, looking completely calm. She gave me a kiss, asked me to forgive her for her outburst, and then told me that, since we were housebound today with Charlie, she was now going out to our local deli to buy us a big lunch. She was gone for around thirty minutes. When she came back, it was like nothing had happened. We sat down, we ate, Charlie's fever finally broke, we watched Milton Berle on TV... one big happy family. And for the rest of the weekend, she didn't say a thing about getting upset. This morning, I packed my suitcase, told her I'd be out of town until Thursday night. She kissed me goodbye, and said something cheerful like, "Don't forget to call." And I've got to tell you, Sara, I never felt like a bigger heel in my life'.

'Then end this, Jack'.

'You don't want that, do you?'

'Of course not', I said. 'Do you?'

'I want you more than anything. If you weren't there, I don't know how I'd get through the day. Sorry... I'm starting to sound like a sentimental idiot'.

'That's quite all right by me. Keep sounding like a sentimental idiot'.

'I heard from your brother today'.

'You what?' I said, sounding shocked.

'There was a wrapped gift and a letter waiting for me here at the office when I walked in this morning. Want to hear what he wrote?'

'Of course'.

'It's short and sweet: "Dear Jack: I behaved like a child the other afternoon. A drunken child. I can't excuse my behavior. Sometimes we do dumb things in life. This was dumber than most. I know how much my sister loves you. I would never do anything to intentionally hurt her - but I know my actions on Friday have hurt her terribly, and for that I feel shame. Just as I also feel total shame for treating you with such contempt. If you don't want to forgive me for that outburst, I won't blame you. All I can say, in closing, is this: I was wrong. And I am so sorry."

'He added a PS - "Here's the bottle of champagne I was going to buy you the other night. I hope you and Sara will toast your happiness with it." I have to say, I was kind of touched. And I just wrote him back a note: "Thanks for the bubbly. No hard feelings. Jack." You think that's enough?'

'I think that's just fine', I said. 'Thank you'.

'For what?'

'For being forgiving. It's not an easy thing to do sometimes'.

'I love you, Sara'.

'Ditto, ditto, Jack. Will I see you tonight?'

'Well, I'm not going to drink the champagne on my own'.

From that moment onwards, an entente cordiale was established between my brother and Jack. Though they hardly saw each other, each made a point of politely asking me about how the other was doing. Jack was a big fan of The Marty Manning Show, and frequently dropped Eric a card whenever he particularly liked one of his sketches. When Jack's next birthday came around, Eric made a point of sending him a beautiful Parker pen.

Of course, I was delighted that Eric and Jack had established an armistice between them. Because, at heart, they were such polar opposites with profoundly disparate world views. I knew they really didn't like each other - but, after that incident in the St Moritz, they both went out of their way to avoid saying anything to me that could be construed as a cutting comment. Perhaps both realized that it was foolish to vie for my affections, as such gamesmanship is inevitably alienating and self-destructive. Anyway, I didn't want to have to choose between them - because that would have been a horrible decision which would have left everyone bereft. As I said to Eric in the wake of his apologetic note to Jack:

'This isn't a popularity contest here. You're my much-adored brother. He's my much-adored guy. If it wasn't for me, you would never have known each other'.

'Yes', Eric said, 'you've got a lot to answer for'.

'I know, I know. And I can perfectly understand why you mightn't see eye-to-eye on...'

'Everything'.

'You're right, you're right. He's an Eisenhower Republican and you're a liberal Democrat. You're showbiz, he's a company man. You're an atheist, he's still a serious Catholic'.

'Not to mention a firm upholder of the seventh commandment'.

'You can't stop, can you? When in doubt, spring a one-liner'.

'Sorry, sorry'.

'Please, Eric - don't make Jack a battleground between us. It'll end badly'.

'It will never be mentioned again'.

To his infinite credit, it wasn't. Nor did Jack ever utter a further disparaging word about my brother. Nor did Jack's wife have another outburst about his divided loyalties (or, at least, none that he reported to me). In true nineteen-fifties style, we all simply let the matter drop. Back then, everyone did their best to avoid frank discussions about anything that was potentially painful. The urge to over-analyze was one that we all dodged. Better to say nothing - and to accept the fact that certain things just couldn't be fixed.

So a status quo developed between us all. I saw my brother at the weekends. I saw Jack during the week. His wife never asked about me. I always let Jack bring up the subject of his family. It was all very civilized, very polite, very workable. And I also discovered a useful ally - in the shape of Jack's sister, Meg.

After the scene in the St Moritz, I was deeply hesitant about being finally introduced to Meg, fearing that she might dislike me on sight, or simply disapprove of my role as the other woman in her brother's life. Jack himself also seemed disinclined to confess all to his sister.

'I need to find the appropriate moment', he told me. And though I knew what he was really saying - I'm scared to death of what she might say - I simply assured him that he should wait until the time was right.

So it was something of a surprise to pick up the phone one June morning at my apartment, around a month after I had first told Eric about Jack's re-emergence in my life, and be greeted by a sharp, sassy voice, identifying herself as:

'Meg Malone - the phantom sister'.

'Oh, hi there', I said, sounding a little hesitant.

'You sound nervous', she said.

'Well...'

'No need. Especially with a broad like me. You free for lunch today?'

'Uh, sure'.

'Good. One p.m. at Sardi's. One small thing: you do drink, don't you?'

'Uh, yes'.

'Then we'll get along fine'.

Despite Meg's assurances that I had no need to feel nervous about meeting her, I was still exceptionally tense when I walked into Sardi's that lunchtime. The maitre d' escorted me to 'Miss Malone's usual table' - a banquette, in a prominent position on the restaurant's central side wall. She was already there when I arrived - a cigarette in one hand, a gimlet in the other, a copy of the Atlantic Monthly open on the table in front of her. Unlike Jack, she was diminutive, yet pretty in an ageing-tomboy sort of way. As I approached the table, she looked me up and down with care. Then, as I sat down, she pointed to her copy of the Atlantic and said, 'Has the thought ever struck you that Edmund Wilson is completely full of shit?'

'Full of shit... or just plain fat and pompous?'

That comment garnered a hint of a smile. 'What are you drinking?' she asked.

'If that's a gimlet, I'll take one'.

'Sold', she said, and launched back into a diatribe against Wilson, Cyril Connolly, and all other would-be purveyors of literary criticism. By the time the second gimlet arrived, I was learning all about the internecine goings-on at McGraw-Hill. By the time lunch and the bottle of Soave arrived, she wanted to know everything about working for Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. By the time coffee showed, it was three p.m., we were both tight (in every sense of the word), and I was getting all the dirt on Meg's recent affair with a senior editor at Knopf.

'You know what I most like about married men?' she said, gesturing loosely with her wine glass. 'The fact that they think they are in control of the situation, whereas we're the ones with the real power. We can kick their ass out of the apartment whenever we're fed up with them. Of course, I'm a romantic about these things'.

'I can tell', I said, laughing.

'Jack always said that I inherited the cynical genes in the family. Unlike himself - who, despite the tough Brooklyn mick exterior, is so damn soft about everything. You should hear how he talks about you. As far as he's concerned, you're his salvation, his redemption from everything that has trapped him in life. When he first tried to tell me about you, he was so damn jittery, so apprehensive. Finally I cut him off and said, "For Christ's sake, Jack - I'm not Father Gilhooey. Do you love the girl?" To which he said, "More than anything." And... will you look at that... you're blushing'.

'Yes', I said. 'I am blushing'.

'Blush away. I'm just pleased for you both. As some guy in the Brill Building once wrote, "Love is a wonderful thing."'

'He was terrified of telling you'.

'That's because my brother is the worst kind of Irish Catholic. He really believes in Original Sin, Man's fall from grace, hellfire-and-damnation, and all the rest of that cheerful Old Testament crap. Whereas I told him, morality is bullshit. All that counts is a certain degree of decency between people. From what I gather, he's been pretty decent to Dorothy about the whole thing'.

'Maybe - but I sometimes feel guilty as hell about her'.

'Listen, he could have been a total bad guy and walked right out on her and Charlie. Face it, a lot of men would've done that. But he's loyal. Just as Dorothy's loyal. I mean, I've always thought that Dorothy was basically a decent woman. Not exactly sparky, or a laugh-a-minute, but fundamentally all right. So what if their marriage isn't about grand passionate love - he's got that with you. With Dorothy, there's a basic, working comradeship - and that's no bad thing. Most marriages I know are based on mutual loathing'.

'Does that mean you'll never get married?'

'I'd never say never. But, at heart, I think I'm cut out for the single life. I like a guy around... but I also like when he leaves'.

'I can sympathize with that position'.

'So you can handle being "the other woman"?'

'It is amazing, discovering how much you can actually handle in life'.

After this lunch, Meg and I became firm friends, and made a point of having a Girls' Night Out every six weeks or so. Jack was delighted that we'd hit it off so well... even though he was always a little worried about what we talked about during these boozy dinners. One night at my apartment, curled up against him on the sofa, he started giving me the third degree about my recent conversations with his sister.

'What we talk about is none of your business', I teased him.

'I bet it's all girls' talk', he said.

'Girls' talk! Here we are - a pair of professional women, Bryn Mawr and Barnard educated - and you imagine us trading recipes for brownies'.

'No - but I could see you talking about nail polish or nylons'.

'If I didn't know you were winding me up, I'd let you have it'.

'So come on - what do you talk about?'

'Your performance in bed'.

He turned white. 'Are you serious?'

'Totally. And Meg wants to know every last detail'.

'Jesus God...'

'Well, what else do you expect us to talk about?'

'You are joking, right?'

'Why are men so dumb?'

'Because we make the mistake of falling for smart cookies like you'.

'Would you rather a dumb cookie?'

'Never'.

'That was a smart answer'.

'So you're not going to tell me...'

'No. Our conversations are private ones... as they should be. But I will let you in on a small thing I admitted to her yesterday: I'm happy'.

He looked at me with care. 'Really?'

'Don't sound so damn surprised'.

'I'm not surprised. Just pleased, that's all'.

'Believe me, so am I. Because everything is going so well'.

He leaned down and kissed me. 'Life can be sweet'.

'Yes', I said, kissing him back. 'It can be that'.

And when life is sweet, time seems to pass at an accelerated rate. Perhaps because the days are marked by a certain euphonious rhythm - a sense of events moving at an easy, well-ordered pace; of circumstances working in everyone's favor. My columns were going well. Harper and Brothers paid me a whopping five thousand (big money in those days) to bring out a book of my 'Real Life' pieces in 1952. Jack was promoted. He became a Senior Account Executive - and though he was still handling all those insurance companies, at least his salary had doubled. Meanwhile, Eric had his contract renewed at NBC with a salary increase which inflated his bank balance even more. Meg was promoted to a senior editor's position at McGraw-Hill, and took up with a bassist in the Artie Shaw band (it lasted around six months - something of a romantic epic by normal Meg standards). Most tellingly, my life with Jack settled into a pleasant routine. From what I could glean, Dorothy too had adjusted to her husband's curious domestic arrangements - even though she still refused to refer to his days with me as anything but out of town.

It's a much-uttered truism that we never really recognize happiness until after it has passed us by. But during the last half of 1951,I was aware of the fact that this was, without doubt, a wonderful juncture in time.

Then it ended. I even remember the exact day: the eighth of March, 1952. At six in the morning. When I was woken out of bed by the repeated ringing of my doorbell. Jack was out of town in Pittsburgh on business - so I couldn't imagine who the hell would be bothering me at this pre-dawn hour.

I opened the front door, and found Eric shivering outside. He looked like he'd been up all night. He also appeared spooked. I was instantly scared.

'What's happened?' I asked.

'They want me to name names', he said.

Six

'THEY' WERE THE network: the National Broadcasting Corporation. The afternoon before, a Senior Vice President for Corporate Affairs - a certain Mr Ira Ross - called Eric at his office on the thirty-second floor of Rockefeller Center, and asked if he had a moment or two to meet with him and a colleague. Eric wondered if the meeting could wait for tomorrow - as he was on deadline for next week's edition of The Marty Manning Show.

'Sorry', Ross said, 'but we need to see you now'.

'We', Eric said. 'As soon as that sonofabitch said we, I knew I was a dead man'.

Eric paused for a moment to sip his coffee. He asked if I had any whiskey in the house.

'Eric, it's six in the morning'.

'I know what time it is', he said. 'But the coffee's a little weak, and a shot of rye would perk it up a bit'.

When I hesitated, he said, 'Please, S. This is not the moment to start arguing about the rights or wrongs of pre-dawn drinking'.

I stood up and retrieved a bottle of Hiram Walker from a kitchen cabinet.

'It's not rye, it's bourbon. Jack doesn't drink rye'.

'As long as it's over fifty proof, I don't give a damn what it is'.

He poured a large belt of bourbon into his coffee cup. Then he sipped it again, flinching slightly as the whiskey went down.

'That's better', he said, then continued with the story.

'So up I went to Ross's office on the forty-third floor. Among the NBC writers, Ross has always been known as Himmler - because he's the guy who exterminates anyone the company wants out of the way. His secretary visibly paled when she saw me - a sure-fire sign that I was in deep shit. But instead of escorting me into his office, she brought me to an adjoining conference room. There were five guys sitting around a table. When I came in, all of them stared up at me, as if I was some death-row inmate who's been hauled in front of the appeals board for one final stab at clemency. There was a long tense silence. Idiot that I am, I tried to lighten things up by cracking a joke.

'"All this for me?" I said. But nobody laughed. Instead, Ross stood up. He's a real bloodless guy, Ross. The nondescript accountant type with thick glasses and greasy brown hair. No doubt he was bullied like hell at school - and has been getting his revenge ever since, as he so clearly delights in the small amount of power that his job gives him. Especially at a moment like this - when he was about to conduct his very own UnAmerican Activities investigation on the forty-third floor of Rockefeller Center.

'So up he stood and tonelessly introduced everyone at the table. There was Bert Schmidt, the network's head of Variety and Comedy. There were two guys - Golden and Frankel - from Legal Affairs. And there was this gentleman named Agent Brad Sweet from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You should have seen this Sweet guy. He looked like he just walked out of Central Casting. A real big, square-jawed Midwestern type, with a crew cut and a short, thickening neck, I'm sure he played linebacker when he was at high school in Nebraska, married the girl he brought to the senior prom, and probably spent his entire four years at Wichita State dreaming of the moment he could go to work for Mr Hoover, and defend Mom and the American flag from dangerous gag-writing subversives like me. Got the picture?'

'Yes', I said, pouring a small measure of bourbon into my coffee. 'I've got the picture'.

'What's with the whiskey?'

'I think I need it too'.

'Anyway, Ross motioned to a chair. I sat down. As I did, I noticed that, in front of Agent Sweet, was a big thick file with my name on it. I glanced over to the lawyers. They had my NBC contracts laid out on the table. I tried to make eye contact with Bert Schmidt - he's always been my biggest supporter within NBC - but he looked away. Scared shitless.

'Ross now got the inquisition going with that standard opening question: "I'm sure you know why you're here."

'"Not exactly," I said, "but if there are two lawyers involved, I must have done something pretty damn heinous. Let me guess? I pinched a couple of jokes from Ernie Kovaks, and now you've got me up on a plagiarism charge."

'Once again, the laugh quotient was less than zero. Instead, Ross got tetchy, and asked me to show everyone in the room a little respect. I said, "I'm not trying to be disrespectful. I'm just wondering what I'm doing here... and what the hell I've done wrong."

'That was when Agent Sweet stared at me with his fanatical Audie-Murphy-school-of-patriotism eyes, and uttered the question I knew I'd eventually be called upon to answer.

'"Mr Smythe, are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?"

'Without even thinking about it, I instantly said, "No." Agent Sweet tried to control a smirk as he opened my very substantial file, and said, "You're lying, Mr Smythe. If this was a court of law, you could be indicted for contempt."

'"But this isn't a court of law," I said. "It's a kangaroo court..."

'That really infuriated Ross. "Listen, smartass," he said in a low, threatening hiss, "you'd better cooperate here, or..."

'One of the lawyers - Frankel, I think it was - put a hand on his arm, as if to say: no threats. Then he turned to me and tried to sound all pleasant and reasonable.

'"You're absolutely right, Mr Smythe. This is not a court of law. This is not an investigation, or a congressional committee. This is simply a meeting convened for your benefit..."

'"" My benefit!" I said, a little too loudly. "Now that's a good one.

'"All we're trying to do here," Frankel said, "is to help you avoid a potentially damaging situation."

'"Oh, so we're all friends here?" I said, looking straight at Bert Schmidt. "Well, golly gosh gosh, I never knew I had so many friends in high places..."

'"This is pointless," Ross said to his fellow inquisitors. At which point Schmidt tried to play good cop.

'"Eric, please - try to cooperate here."

'"All right, all right," I said. "Fire away."

'Agent Sweet turned back to the file. "As I said, Mr Smythe, we have evidence here that refutes your last statement. According to our records, you joined the Communist Party in March of nineteen thirty-six, and were a member of its New York cell for five years, resigning only in nineteen forty-one."

'"Okay, I confess. For a short period of my life, just after I left college, I was a member of the Party. But that was ten long years ago..."

'"Why did you just lie to me about this past affiliation?" Agent Sweet asked me.

'"Would you want to admit to such a dumb old allegiance?"

'"Of course not - but if asked by a federal officer of the United States Government, I'd tell the truth. A mistake is a mistake. But a mistake can only be rectified if you own up to it, and try to put the matter right."

'"As I just told you, I quit the Party over a decade ago."

'The other lawyer, Golden, came in here, trying to sound friendly.

'"What made you leave the Party, Eric?"

'"I'd lost faith in the doctrines they were pushing. I thought they were ideologically wrong about a lot of things. And I also began to believe the rumors that were being spread about Stalin's repressive policies in Russia."

'"So," said the ever-helpful Counselor Golden, "you realized Communism was wrong."

'He didn't pose that sentence as a question - rather, as a statement. Bert Schmidt shot me this pleading, don't be stupid here look. I said, "That's right. I decided Communism was wrong. And evil."

'That was certainly the right answer - because immediately everyone at the table relaxed a little bit, though Ross himself looked disappointed that I had suddenly stopped playing the hostile witness. No doubt he would have really enjoyed shining a bright lamp in my face and hitting me over the head with a phone book in an attempt to dredge the truth from me. Instead, everyone became sweetness and light. For a moment or two, anyway.

'"Given your admirable change of heart on the matter of Communism," Agent Sweet said, "would you call yourself a patriotic American?"

'I was also expecting this dumb question. And I knew I'd have to lie. So I assured Agent Sweet - and everyone else at the table - that I loved my country more than life itself, or some such crap. Sweet seemed pleased with my response.

'"Then you'd be willing to cooperate?" he asked me.

'"Cooperate? What do you mean by cooperate?"

'"I mean, helping us infiltrate the Communist network that is threatening the fundamental stability of the United States."

'"I wasn't aware of such a threat," I said.

'"Believe me, Mr Smythe," Agent Sweet said, "it is there and very formidable. But with the cooperation of former Party members like yourself, we can burrow deep into the heart of the Party and root out the real ringleaders."

'I tell you, S - at that precise moment, I almost lost it completely. I wanted to tell Agent Sweet that he sounded like one of the Hardy Boys, on the trail of the Big Bad Commies. Help us infiltrate the Communist network that is threatening the fundamental stability of the United States. Can you believe such garbage? As if there was ever a Communist network in this country to begin with.

'I tried to sound logical. "Listen, Mr Sweet - back in the nineteen thirties, a lot of people joined the Party because it was the thing to do at the time. It was a fad, like the hoola-hoop."

'Ross loved that comment: "You dare to equate an evil doctrine like Communism with something as benign as a hoola-hoop?"

'"My point, Mr Ross, is that I was a naive kid just out of Columbia who bought into the whole Rights-of-Man, equal-distribution-of-wealth clap-trap that the Party peddled. But, when you get right down to it, the real reason I joined was because it was the thing to do. I was working in the Federal Theater Project..."

'"A hotbed of subversive activity," Ross said, cutting me off.

'"Mr Ross, when the hell have a bunch of actors and directors ever threatened the fundamental stability of any regime anywhere?"

'"Oh!" said Ross triumphantly. "You consider the US government to be a regime, do you?"

'"That's not what I was saying..."

'"A truly patriotic American would know that the Founding Fathers gave us the most democratic system of government this planet has ever seen."

'"I've read The Federalist Papers, Mr Ross. I fully understand the separation-of-powers doctrine, as hammered out by Hamilton, Madison and all those other enlightened men... who, quite frankly, would be appalled to see a citizen of this country being interrogated about his allegiance to the flag..."

'"This is not an interrogation," Ross barked, banging his fist on the table. Once again, Frankel put a steadying hand on his arm. Then he said, "Eric, I think all that Agent Sweet - and everyone here - is trying to establish is whether or not you are still tied to the Party."

'"Doesn't that big file of mine show that I quit over ten years ago?'

'"Indeed, it does," Sweet said. "But who's to say that your resignation from the Party wasn't a sham? For all we know, you could still be one of their covert operatives, masquerading as a former Communist..."

'"You're not being serious, are you?" I said.

'"Mr Smythe, the FBI is always serious. Especially when it comes to matters of national security."

'"I've said it once, I'll say it again: I quit the Party in nineteen forty-one. I've had no further associations with the Party. I don't like the goddamn Party, and I now rue the day I joined it. For God's sake, I'm just one of Marty Manning's writers. Since when has a gag man been considered a threat to national security?"

'"Mr Smythe," Agent Sweet said, "our files indicate that, over the past ten years, you have consorted with many Communists." Then he began to list a whole bunch of names - mainly other writers, with whom I had, at best, a passing professional connection. I tried to explain that, like me, most of the guys were of the generation which joined the Party. Do you know what Sweet said?

'"My brother's from your generation, and he didn't join the Party."

'Once again, I stopped myself from saying something like: "That's because your brother was probably a Midwest hick, and not some over-educated East Coast writer who was stupid enough to read Marx and buy into his Workers of the World Unite garbage." Instead, I attempted, yet again, to explain that I had made a youthful mistake, for which I was now deeply sorry. Yet again, Golden tried to lead me out of trouble.

'"Eric, I know that everyone at this table is very pleased to hear your admission of error. Like Agent Sweet said, we all make mistakes - especially when we're young. And though I personally believe you when you say that you've had no contact with the Party since nineteen forty-one, I'm sure that you can appreciate the fact that some further proof of your complete disengagement from the Party is necessary."

'I knew what was coming next - though I was still hoping against hope that I could somehow manage to dodge the question they were about to put to me.

'"Quite simply," Golden said, "all Agent Sweet needs to know are the names of the people who brought you into the Party, and those individuals who are still active Party members today."

'"And," Agent Sweet added, "by naming these names, you will not only be demonstrating your complete lack of affiliation with present Communist activity... you will also be confirming your patriotism."

'"Since when has denouncing innocent people been considered an act of patriotism?" I asked.

'"Communists are not innocents," Ross shouted at me.

'"The one-time Communists I know certainly are."

'"Ah," Agent Sweet said, "then you admit that you do know Communists."

'"Former Communists, like me."

'"Eric," Frankel said, "if you could just provide Agent Sweet with a few of their names..."

'"And destroy their lives in the process?"

'"If they are as innocent as you claim to be, then they have nothing to fear."

'"Unless, of course, they also refuse to name names. That's the game here, isn't it? You scare me into naming names. Then, after I commit an act of moral cowardice and shop a couple of people, you go to them and play the same game. Give us names, and we'll leave you alone. The problem is, after you leave me alone, I have to deal with myself. And I might not like the person with whom I am now left alone."

'"Are you saying you won't name names?" Ross asked.

'"I am saying that, as I do not know any active Communists, giving you a bunch of names would be a pointless exercise."

'"Let us be the judge of that, Mr Smythe," Sweet said.

'"And if I refuse?"

'"You can kiss your job goodbye," Ross said. "Not just at NBC, but at every network, movie studio, advertising agency, or college across the country. You'll be completely unemployable. I'll make certain of that."

'I met his stare. "I'm sure you will," I said.

'Suddenly, Bert Schmidt entered this Socratic dialog. "Eric, hear me out. You're one of the most talented comedy writers in America today. In my book, you're one of NBC's great assets; a major player in our industry, with a great prosperous future ahead of you. Put baldly, we don't want to lose you. I know this is unpleasant stuff - but everyone here is being asked the same questions. So even if you refuse to name names, somebody else will give us those names. And, unlike you, they will still be in a job. What I'm saying here is: don't make things hard for yourself. Tell Agent Sweet what he needs to know, and you can put the whole business behind you. Anyway, no one will ever learn that it is you who gave the names... isn't that right, Agent Sweet?"

'"Absolutely. Your signed affidavit will be marked Confidential and will only be for the eyes of Bureau officers, and certain investigators working for HUAC - the House UnAmerican Activities Committee."

'"So I too will never know who exactly shopped me to the Feds?"

'"No one shopped you, Mr Smythe," Agent Sweet said. "They simply did the proper American thing. Which is all we ask of you now."

'"I have a contract with this network. You can't just fire me on the spot."

'Golden and Frankel both began to leaf through their copies of my contract. Frankel spoke first. "According to clause twenty-one (a) of Terms and Conditions of Employment, you can be dismissed from the National Broadcasting Corporation on the grounds of moral turpitude."

'"Now that is total crap."

'"It would be up to a court of law to decide that," Frankel said. "You'd have to sue us - which, as you well know, would cost you a lot of money. Though I don't want to sound threatening here, the fact is that our pockets are deeper than yours, Eric. And the case would drag on for years - during which time you'd still be out of a job... and, as Mr Ross pointed out, sadly unemployable."

'I couldn't fathom what I was hearing. Kafka comes to Rockefeller Center. I decided I had to stall for time. So I said, "I need to think about this carefully."

'"Of course," Agent Sweet said. "We're happy to give you seventy-two hours to contemplate your decision. Do understand, though - if you refuse to cooperate, not only will NBC have grounds for dismissal, but the Bureau will also be beholden to report you to HUAC. Without question, you will then be subpoenaed to testify in front of the committee. Should you refuse to do so - or should you go to Washington and refuse to answer any of the committee's questions under oath - you will be found in contempt of court, and sentenced to a term of imprisonment'.

'"My, what a pretty picture you paint of my future."

'"This doesn't have to be your future," Agent Sweet said, "as long as you cooperate."

'Then he played his trump card. Opening up his file, Sweet pulled out a picture of Ronnie and held it up. My stomach started doing backflips. I had to hide my hands below the table, because I didn't want anyone to see them shaking.

'"Do you know this man?" Sweet asked me.

'"Yes, I know him." My voice sounded jittery.

'"How do you know him?"

'"He's a friend."

'Sweet leaned forward. "What kind of friend?"

'You should have seen this asshole's judgmental gaze - as if I was Sodom and Gomorrah rolled into one. I looked over at Bert Schmidt for support, but once again, he gave me one of those desperate looks which said, I can't help you here.

'Sweet didn't like my silence. "Please answer the question, Mr Smythe. What kind of friendship do you have with this man:

'All eyes at the table were on me. Ross was smirking. I found it difficult to speak. "We're just friends," I finally said.

'Sweet let out this big sigh. Then he pulled a small file out of my big file, opened it up, and started reading from it:

'"Ronald Garcia. Born, Bronx, New York. Age: thirty-one. Profession: musician. No prior convictions, no criminal record. Current address: Suite 508, Hampshire House, 150 Central Park South, New York, New York. That also happens to be your address, Mr Smythe."

'"Yes, it's my address."

'"So Mr Garcia, in essence, lives with you."

'"As I said before, we are friends. We know each other through the entertainment business. Ronald was between apartments. Money was tight, so I offered him a place to stay for a while."

'"And where does he sleep in your apartment?"

'"On the sofa. It's one of those pull-out-into-a-bed jobs..."

'Sweet studied the file again. "According to two of the Hampshire House maids that we interviewed, your sofa bed has never been used. They both made statements, clearly stating that they had seen Mr Garcia's personal belongings on the table by your bed, his toiletries in your bathroom. What's more, the... uh... condition of the linen on your bed indicated that... uh... two people were definitely sharing the bed, and engaged in..."

'Frankel cut him off. "I think we've all heard enough, Agent Sweet. And I'm certain Mr Smythe gets the point."

'I put my face in my hands. I really felt as if I was about to be sick. They had me in a corner. And the bastards knew it.

A hand touched my shoulder. Then I heard Bert Schmidt's voice.

'"Come on, Eric - let's get a cup of coffee."

'He helped me up from the table. I was in shock. I couldn't bear to look at any of those shits again. But as we walked out, Agent Sweet said, "Seventy-two hours, Mr Smythe. No longer. And I do hope you'll do the right thing."

'Schmidt and I rode down in the elevator to the lobby. He got us a cab outside, and told the driver to take us to the Carnegie Deli on Fifty-Sixth and Seventh.

'"I'm not exactly hungry, Bert," I said.

'"I just want to get away from that fucking building," he said.

'At the Deli, we got ourselves a booth right at the back. After the waitress showed up with our coffee, Schmidt started talking to me in a low, conspiratorial voice.

'"I'm sorry," he said. "You don't know how sorry I am."

'"What did you tell them?"

'"They didn't investigate me."

'"Bullshit. Of course they questioned you. Because I've heard you brag about your days with Odets and Harold Clurman at the old Group Theater... a real hive of political subversion if there ever was one..."

'"Unlike you, I wasn't a member of the goddamn Party..."

'"But you still knew plenty of people who were. And I bet, when pressed, you had to give those fuckers a couple of names, didn't you?"

'"I would never dream of..."

'"Bullshit, Bert. You've got two ex-wives and three kids in private school. All you kvetch about is how you haven't got enough money to pay for those showgirls you like to bang..."

'"Keep your fucking voice down..."

'"They're destroying me, and you want me to fucking whisper?"

'"All right, all right," Bert said quietly. "This is awful. This is shit. I can't agree with you more. But Eric, I have no influence with these assholes. Nobody does. They have their own rules..."

'"Unconstitutional rules."

'"That may be... but everyone's too scared to say that."

'"Bert, you've got to tell me: did you give them my name?"

'"Hand on my heart, on my children's lives, I swear to you: no, I didn't."

'"But you did cooperate with them, didn't you?"

'"Eric, please..."

'"Answer me."

'He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. When he pulled them away, his eyes were wet. "Yeah," he said softly. "I gave them some names."

'"Some?"

'"Two or three... maybe four. But honestly, Eric - the names I gave... they were people who were going to get investigated no matter what. I mean, I was telling them stuff they already knew."

'He looked at me, begging for understanding, for absolution. I didn't know what to say. He saw this. "Don't give me that contemptuous silent shit," he said, suddenly angry. "I had no choice. I have mouths to feed, responsibilities to meet. If I'd refused to cooperate..."

'"I know: you would have lost everything. Now if the guys you named refuse to cooperate, they'll lose everything. I think it's called passing the buck."

'"Go on then," he hissed at me. "Play the goddamn saint. Win a fucking Oscar for virtue and nobility."

'"They're going to fire me anyway - now that they know my dirty little secret."

'"If you cooperate with the Feds, the network won't fire you."

'"You don't know that."

'"Yes, I do. Because Frankel and Golden in Legal Affairs assured me that, as long as you helped Agent Sweet, NBC would turn a blind eye to... uh... your domestic arrangements."

'"You have that in writing?"

'"Are you nuts? They're not going to put that in writing, because they're holding all the cards. But I know for a fact that if you help them out, they won't fire you. As I said upstairs, no one wants to lose you. You're valuable to the network. And, personally speaking, I hope I can still call you my friend."

'That's when I stood up and walked right out of the deli. That was, what? Five yesterday afternoon. I've been walking ever since'.

I reached for the bottle of Hiram Walker and poured another slug into his coffee cup.

'You've not been home since?'

'Nah. I just kept walking around. Finally ended up in one of those all-night movie houses on Forty-Second Street. Trying to blot everything out'.

'Where's Ronnie?'

'Out of town for a couple of nights - as part of a band that's backing Rosemary Clooney down at Atlantic City. I was going to call him at his hotel... but I didn't want to upset him yet. There'll be time enough for that. Anyway, I couldn't bear going back to the apartment... knowing that the fucking Feds had actually gone to the trouble of interviewing a couple of maids about...'

He lifted his coffee cup and tossed back the bourbon.

'Am I that important, S? Am I such a threat to national security that they have to grill a couple of maids about who sleeps in my bed?'

'I can't believe it either'.

'Oh, believe it, S. Because these bastards are dead serious. It's cooperate with them, or commit professional suicide'.

'You need to get a lawyer'.

'Why? What's some overpriced legal eagle going to tell me that I don't already know? Anyway, even if the lawyer was able to work a miracle and somehow get the Feds off my back, the network would then be pressured into axing me on the grounds of "extreme moral turpitude". Once that was made public, my career would be beyond dead. I'd be finished'.

'You must find out who named you'.

'What good would that do?'

'Maybe you could exert some ethical pressure on them to retract their denunciation...'

'Ethical pressure. You're a bright lady, S... but right now, you sound like Pollyanna. There are no ethics to this game, S. None. It's every man for himself - and that's what Joe McCarthy and his asshole cronies are playing upon: that basic adult fear of losing everything you've worked so hard to achieve. Bert Schmidt is right: when faced with the choice of losing your livelihood, or shopping your friends, you're going to screw your friends'.

'So you're going to cooperate?'

'Don't look at me that way', he said, suddenly hostile.

'I'm not looking at you any way, Eric. I was just asking...'

'I don't know. I've got... what?.. two and a half days to make a decision. I've also got no money in the bank'.

'What do you mean, no money? You made over sixty thousand last year...'

'Yeah, and I spent over sixty thousand'.

'How the hell did you do that?'

'It's easy. So damn easy that I now also have something called debt'.

'Debt? On your paycheck? How much?'

'I don't know. Seven, eight thousand, maybe...'

'Oh my God...'

'Yeah: oh my God. So you see my problem here. If I don't cooperate, not only am I branded a Commie and a pervert, but NBC also turns off the money faucet. And I am bankrupt on all fronts'.

'So what are you going to do?'

'I haven't a fucking clue. What would you do?'

'Honestly?'

'Yes, honestly'.

'Honestly...' I said, 'I don't know'.

Seven

THE NEXT TWO days were nightmarish. I insisted that Eric see a lawyer. Naturally enough, he turned out to be Joel Eberts. As soon as nine o'clock arrived, I called Eberts' office. He answered the phone himself, and told us to come downtown immediately. Given his union background, Mr Eberts was completely sympathetic with Eric's dilemma. But after trawling through his contract with NBC - and also hearing about the FBI's information on Ronnie - he said he could do nothing except offer moral support.

'Of course, we could fight this in court. But - as the NBC counsel told you - they can well afford to have this thing drag on for years. In the meantime, you'll be branded a Red. And - although I don't give a damn about who sleeps with whom - I'm afraid they can hang you on the morals clause. Worst yet, if you do take them on, they'll leak stuff to some slimeball like Winchell. Next thing you know, the dirt'll be dished in his column. You'll be through'.

'So what am I supposed to do?' Eric asked.

'My friend - that is completely your call. And I don't envy you your options one bit. Because, either way, you lose. The real question here is: what do you want to lose least?'

Eric shifted anxiously in his chair.

'I simply cannot turn stool pigeon on people who were guilty of nothing more than the same dumb idealism which I once shared. Jesus Christ, even if these people were the Rosenbergs, I still couldn't turn them in. I'm probably not patriotic enough'.

'Patriotism isn't the issue here', Joel Eberts said. 'Joe McCarthy and that clown Nixon are probably two of the biggest patriots imaginable. And they're both swine. No, the question here is a harder one: can you harm yourself to save others... even though you also know that, eventually, they're going to be harmed anyway. Of course, it's easy for me to sit here and tell you how I might react. But I'm not in your situation. I'm sure Hoover and his henchmen have a file on me as well, but they can't get me disbarred for my politics. Or, at least, not yet. They can't ruin my life. But they can ruin yours'.

I watched as Eric kneaded his hands together. Without realizing it, he kept rocking back and forth in his chair. His eyes seemed vacant, haunted. He desperately needed sleep - if only to escape this ordeal for a couple of hours. I so wanted to help. But I didn't know how to help him.

'There's only one piece of advice I can give you', Joel Eberts said. 'And if I were in your position, it's the action I'd follow: leave the country'.

Eric considered this for a moment. 'But where would I go?' he asked.

'There are a lot of other places on this planet besides America'.

'I'm asking: where would I go to make a living?'

'How about London?' I said. 'They have TV in London, don't they?'

'Yeah - but they don't have my sense of humor. They're English, for Chrissakes'.

'I'm sure you'd find some niche for yourself. And if not London, then there's Paris or Rome...'

'Oh yeah, me writing gags for the French. What a swell idea that is...'

Joel Eberts came in here. 'Your sister's right. A talented guy like yourself will find work anywhere. But that's a secondary concern right now. What you should be focusing on is getting out of the country within forty-eight hours'.

'Won't the Feds come after me?'

'Probably not. The pattern so far is that, once they've frightened you overseas, they generally leave you alone... unless, of course, you try to come back home'.

'You mean, I'll never be allowed back to the States again?'

'Mark my words - within a couple of years, this whole meshuga blacklist business will be completely discredited'.

'A couple of years', Eric said, sounding disconsolate. 'Who the fuck ever heard of an American having to go into exile?'

'What can I say? These are bad times'.

Eric reached out and took my hand. He squeezed it hard. 'I don't want to go. I like it here. It's all I know. And have'.

I swallowed hard and said, 'The other options are terrible ones. At least this way, you'll be able to get away as cleanly as possible'.

Silence. Eric continued to shift uneasily in his chair, struggling with the decision. 'Even if I did decide to leave, there's a problem. I don't have a passport'.

'That's not a problem', Joel Eberts said.

He told us what to do. I insisted that we act on his advice immediately - because, as Eberts warned Eric, he could not afford the luxury of a reflective decision.

'Forty-eight hours from now, they're going to expect a list of names from you', Eberts said. 'If you don't give it to them, that's it. The steamroller heads in your direction. You'll be out of a job. You'll get a subpoena from HUAC. From that moment on, the Department of State will block any passport applications until after you've testified. They did that to Paul Robeson. They'll certainly do it to you'.

The way around this, however, was to get Eric a passport within the next twenty-four hours. According to Eberts, it usually took two weeks to process an application... unless you had proof that you were traveling at the last minute. So, as soon as we left Eberts' office, we took a taxi uptown to a big branch of Thomas Cook's on Fifth Avenue and 43rd Street. After some checking around, one of the travel agents there found a single berth on the SS Rotterdam sailing for Hoek van Holland the following night. We bought the ticket, then raced uptown to the Passport Office on 51st and Fifth. The clerk inspected Eric's ticket to Europe, and told him that, in order to get the passport issued by five p.m. tomorrow (a mere two hours before the SS Rotterdam sailed), he'd need the proper photographs, a copy of his birth certificate, and assorted notarized signatures by close of business today.

It was a scramble - but Eric just managed to clear the deadline that afternoon. The clerk assured him that he'd have the passport by the end of tomorrow - which would give Eric an hour to dash across town and make it to the ship by six (he had to be on board at least an hour before it sailed). It would be tight, but he'd make it.

Once we were finished at the passport office, Eric suggested we head back to his apartment at the Hampshire House. Once there, I helped him winnow through his large wardrobe and choose just enough to fit into a single large suitcase. As he put the cover on his Remington typewriter, he suddenly sank into his desk chair.

'Don't make me get on that ship', he said.

I tried to stay controlled. 'Eric, you have no choice'.

'I don't want to leave you. I don't want to leave Ronnie. I've got to see him tonight'.

'Then call him. See if he can get back here'.

He started to sob again. 'No. I couldn't bear the goodbye. The scene at the docks. All that heart-rending crap'.

'Yes', I said quietly. 'I'd avoid that if I were you'.

'I'll write him a letter - which you can give him when he comes back here at the weekend'.

'He will understand. I'll make sure he does'.

'It's absurd, all this'.

'Yes', I said. 'It is absurd'.

'I'm just a jokesmith. Why the hell are they treating me like Trotsky?'

'Because they're bullies. And because they've been given carte blanche to act like bullies'.

'Everything was going so well'.

'It will go well again'.

'I love what I do, S. I've found my niche. Not only does it pay me ridiculous amounts of money, but writing the show also happens to be a lot of fun. Which is something that work isn't supposed to be. That's what really hurts about having to run away - knowing that, for the first time in my life, everything is the way I want it to be. The job. The money. The success. Ronnie...'

He gently released himself from my arms, and walked over to the living room window. Night had fallen on Manhattan. Down below was the black interior of Central Park, flanked by the seductive glow of lit apartments along Fifth Avenue and Central Park West. What always struck me about this view was how perfectly it reflected the city's spirit of arrogant indifference. It was a skyline that issued a challenge: try to conquer me. But even if you did - even if, like Eric, you were feted as a New York success - you still didn't ever really make your mark on the place. All that striving, all that ambition - and the moment after you'd had your moment, you were forgotten. Because there was always someone else in Manhattan coming up right behind you, battling to have their moment. Today, Eric was the hottest writer in television comedy. When the SS Rotterdam set sail tomorrow night, word would spread that he'd fled overseas rather than name names. Some people would applaud his actions, some would deplore them. By this time next week, however, he'd be a tertiary consideration in the minds of any of his professional colleagues. Because that's how things worked. His disappearance would be like a death. Only those who loved him would mourn his absence. For everyone else who knew him, the shock of his vanishing would be a temporary (and welcome) respite from all the incumbent pressures of work. For a few days, people would talk among themselves in hushed voices about the transitory nature of success; and the ethical rights or wrongs of Eric's choice to flee the country. Then the subject would be dropped. Because it was the start of another week and a new show had to be written.

Just as it always did.

Though I didn't ask him, I sensed that Eric was thinking what I was thinking, as we both looked out on the muted glow of that uptown skyline. Because he put his arm around my shoulders and said, 'People spend their entire damn lives chasing what I've had'.

'Stop talking about it in the past tense'.

'But it's over, S. It is over'.

We ordered in dinner from room service. We drank two bottles of champagne.

I slept on his sofa bed that night, wishing all the time that Jack was in town. The next morning, Eric drew up a list of his debts. He was nearly five thousand dollars in the red to places like Dunhill, and Brooks Brothers, and 21, and El Morocco - and assorted other watering holes and purveyors of luxury goods, with whom he maintained an account. He had less than a thousand dollars in the bank.

'How did you land yourself in this mess?' I asked.

'I always picked up the tab. And I also discovered a post-Marxist weakness for luxury items'.

'That's a dangerous failing. Especially when coupled with reckless generosity'.

'What can I say... except that, unlike you, I've never known the pleasures of thrift. Anyway, one good thing about leaving the country is that I'll be out of reach of the IRS'.

'Don't tell me you've got a tax problem too?'

'It's not a problem, actually. It's just that I haven't filed a return for... I don't know... maybe three years'.

'But you have been paying them some tax, haven't you?'

'Well, if I haven't taken the trouble of filing a return, why would I also bother sending them some money?'

'So you owe them...'

'Lots. I think it's something like thirty per cent of everything I've earned ever since I've joined NBC. Which is a sizeable chunk of change'.

'And you put nothing aside'.

'For God's sakes, S - when have I ever done anything sensible?'

I stared down at the list of debts, and resolved to settle them myself once Eric was on the far side of the Atlantic. In addition to my invested portion of the divorce settlement, I'd been saving consistently since writing for Saturday/Sunday, and I'd also just banked that five-thousand-dollar advance from Harper and Brothers. So I'd be able to clear my brother's name at assorted emporia around town. The IRS would be another matter. Maybe I could sell some stock, or get a mortgage on the apartment. For the moment, however, I just wanted to get Eric aboard that ship. Worried that he might suddenly lose his nerve and vanish for a few critical hours, I made him promise to stay in the apartment until four thirty... when we'd grab a cab to the passport office.

'But this could be my last-ever day in Manhattan. At least let me take you to lunch at 21'.

'I want you to lie low, Eric. Just in case...'

'What? That J. Edgar Hoover and his boyfriend have decided to tail me for the day?'

'Let's just get through this as cleanly as possible'.

'There's nothing at all clean about this. Nothing'.

Eric didn't like it - but he eventually did agree to stay put for the day while I did all the busy work. I got him to write me a check for the remaining thousand dollars in his bank account. I went to his branch of Manufacturers' Hanover, cashed it, and bought him the equivalent amount in traveler's checks. I paid a fast visit to Joel Eberts' office and collected a power-of-attorney document. Then I rushed uptown to Tiffany's and bought him a sterling silver fountain pen, and had it engraved: From S to E. Always.

I was back at his apartment by three. He signed the power-of-attorney form, giving me complete charge over all of his financial matters. We agreed that, come tomorrow, I'd find a storage depot, in which all his remaining clothes, papers, and personal effects would be lodged until he returned home. He handed me a thick envelope, addressed to Ronnie. I promised him I'd get it to him as soon as he was back in the city. Eric ducked into the bathroom for a moment, and I managed to slip the wrapped gift from Tiffany's into his suitcase. Then, just before four thirty, I looked at him and said, 'It's time'.

Once again, he went to the window, leaning his head against the glass, staring out at the city.

'I'll never have a view like this again'.

'I'm sure London has its moments'.

'But they're low-storey ones'.

He turned towards me. His face was wet. I bit my lip.

'Not yet', I said. 'Don't get me crying yet'.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He took a deep breath. 'Okay', he said. 'Let's go'.

We left quickly. The doorman hailed us a cab. We got stuck in godawful traffic on Fifth Avenue, and just made it to the passport office with two minutes to spare. Eric was the last customer of the day. When he approached the window, the clerk who had been dealing with his papers yesterday told him to take a seat for a moment.

'Is anything wrong?'

The clerk avoided eye contact with us. Instead, he picked up a phone, dialed a number, and spoke quickly into it. Putting it down, he said, 'Someone will be with you in a moment'.

'Is there a problem?' Eric asked.

'Just take a seat, please'.

He pointed to a bench on the opposite wall. We sat down. I glanced anxiously at the clock on the wall. With rush-hour traffic it would take, at best, forty minutes to get Eric to the 46th Street Pier. Time was of the essence.

'What do you think's going on?' I asked Eric.

'Nothing, I hope, except mindless bureaucracy'.

Suddenly a side door opened. Out walked two gentlemen in dark suits. When Eric saw them, he turned ashen.

'Oh shit', he whispered.

'Good afternoon, Mr Smythe', one of them said. 'I hope this isn't an unpleasant surprise'.

Eric said nothing.

'Aren't you going to introduce me?' the gentleman asked. Then he proffered his hand. 'Agent Brad Sweet of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You must be Sara Smythe'.

'How do you know that?' I asked.

'The doorman at the Hampshire House knows you. And he informed us that you'd been with your brother in his apartment since yesterday evening. After, of course, your visit to the law offices of a certain...' He held out his hand. His associate put a file into it. He opened the file. He read aloud from it. 'The law offices of a certain Joel Eberts on Sullivan Street. He has impeccable subversive credentials, your lawyer not to mention a file on him as thick as the Manhattan phone book. Then, after your little legal pow-wow, you headed to the offices of Thomas Cook at 511 Fifth Avenue and booked passage on the SS Rotterdam, departing this evening. Afterwards, of course, you came here to the passport office, hoping to pull that last-minute travel ruse, so beloved of individuals trying to leave the United States in a hurry'.

He shut the file.

'But, I'm afraid, you won't be leaving the country tonight - as the Department of State have put your passport application on hold, pending the outcome of the Bureau's investigation into your political allegiances'.

'That's outrageous', I heard myself saying.

'No', Agent Sweet said mildly. 'It's all perfectly legal. After all, why should the State Department issue a passport to someone whose presence overseas may be harmful to American interests...'

'Oh for God's sakes', I said, 'what harm has he done to this country?'

Eric said nothing. He just sat on the bench, staring down at the fake marble floor.

'If he cooperates with us tomorrow, his passport will be issued within twenty-four hours. If, of course, he still wants to leave the country. Five p.m. tomorrow at NBC, Mr Smythe. I look forward to seeing you there'.

With a curt nod in my direction, Agent Sweet and his associate left. Eric and I sat motionless on the bench for a few minutes. Neither of us could move.

'I'm dead', he said.

I stayed with him again that night. I tried to get him to talk things through - to work out some sort of strategy before facing Sweet and the NBC people tomorrow.

'There's nothing more to discuss', Eric said.

'But what are you going to do?'

'I am going to get into bed, pull the covers over my head, and hide'.

I couldn't stop him from doing that. Nor did I want to - as, at least, I would know where he was. He was so exhausted, so stressed, that he fell asleep shortly after getting into bed. I tried to follow suit - but I spent much of the night staring at the living room ceiling, feeling both convulsed with rage and utterly helpless in the face of the FBI's onslaught on my brother. My mind was speeding, as I tried to figure some sort of possible way out for Eric. But I came up with nothing. He'd either have to name names, or suffer the consequences.

I wanted to believe that - if I was in his position - I'd play Joan of Arc, and refuse to cooperate. But everyone envisages themselves doing the heroic thing when sitting in an armchair. Brought face-to-face with the reality of the dilemma, however, things often turn out differently. You never really know what you're made of until you find yourself standing astride a precipice, looking down into a very deep void.

Sleep finally hit me around three that morning. When I jolted awake again, the sun was at full wattage. I glanced at my watch. Eleven twelve. Damn. Damn. Damn. I shouted for Eric. No reply. I got up from the sofa and went into his bedroom. He wasn't there. Nor was he in the bathroom, or the kitchen. Panicked, I scoured all surfaces for a note, telling me he'd gone out for a walk. Nothing. I picked up the house phone and spoke to the doorman.

'Yeah - Mr Smythe left around seven this morning. It was funny, though...'

'What was funny?'

'He called me before he came downstairs, and asked me if I'd like to make ten bucks. Sure, says I. "Well, I'm gonna take the elevator down to the basement, and I'll give you ten bucks if you open the service entrance and let me out. Oh, and if anybody comes by looking for me this morning, just tell 'em I haven't left the apartment." No problem, I tell him. I mean, I can easily shaddup for ten bucks'.

'Did anyone come by?'

'Nah - but there's been these two guys in a car, parked across the street since I came on duty at six'.

'So they didn't see him leave?'

'How could they, when he went out the back'.

'He didn't tell you where he was going?'

'Nah - but he had a suitcase with him...'

Now I was alarmed.

'He what... ?'

'He had this big suitcase with him. Like he was goin' away somewhere'.

I thought fast.

'How'd you like to make another ten bucks?' I asked.

I threw on some clothes, I took the elevator down to the basement. I handed the doorman ten bucks. He opened the door to the service entrance.

'If those men come back asking either for Eric or me...' I said.

'You're still asleep upstairs, right?'

The service entrance led to an alleyway on West 56th Street. I hopped a cab, and took it down to Joel Eberts' office. Because, quite frankly, I didn't know where else to go. As always, he was welcoming - and appalled when I told him what had happened at the passport office yesterday afternoon.

'I tell you', he said, 'we're turning into a police state - and all in the name of the Red Menace'.

But he was even more alarmed by the news that Eric was last spotted sneaking out of the side entrance of the Hampshire House with a suitcase in hand.

'You can run, but you can't hide from these bastards. If he's not at NBC today, HUAC will instantly subpoena him. And the Feds will dream up some crime and misdemeanor in order to issue a warrant for his arrest. He should just face the music, no matter what happens'.

'I agree - but as I don't know where he's gone, I can't give him that advice'.

'You know, you don't need a passport for Canada', Eberts said.

He made a fast call to Penn Station, asking to be put through to the reservations office. Yes, they told him, a train had left at ten that morning - but there were no passengers registered under the name of Eric Smythe. When he asked if they could check and see if he was registered on any other departing trains, they said that they didn't have the time or manpower to search through every passenger list of every train.

'You know what the guy in Reservations told me?' Eberts said after hanging up the phone. "If finding this guy is so important, call the Feds."'

That was the only time I'd laughed in two days.

I suddenly had a brainstorm, and asked to use the phone. First I called the Rainbow Room and spoke to the receptionist and found out that the Rainbow Room band were staying at the Hotel Shoreham in Atlantic City. I got the number and got lucky: Ronnie - in true musician style - was still asleep at twelve thirty. But he woke up quickly after I told him about the events of the last two days.

'You have no idea where he is?' he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

'I was hoping that he might have come down to see you. But had he, he would have been there by now'.

'Look, I'll stay in the room all afternoon. If he's not here by four, I'll see if I can get out of tonight's gig and come back to Manhattan. I hope to hell he hasn't done something really stupid. I mean, if he loses his job, he loses his job. I'll make sure he's all right. As I know you will too'.

'I'm sure he just panicked', I said, trying to convince myself this was true. 'I bet anything that he'll surface in a couple of hours. Which is why I'm heading back to his apartment straight away. You can reach me there all day'.

I was back at the Hampshire House by one. I used the service entrance, and took the elevator up to Eric's apartment. There was no sign of his return, and the switchboard operator had logged no calls for him. I used the house phone to call Sean, the doorman.

'Sorry, Miss Smythe. Your brother hasn't shown his face yet - but those two guys in the car are still out front'.

I worked the phones all afternoon, calling every possible bar, restaurant, or haunt that Eric frequented. I called the travel agent at Thomas Cook who'd booked Eric's passage to Europe, on the long shot that he might have asked her to dispatch him somewhere within the States. I checked in every hour with Ronnie. I phoned the superintendent of my building, wondering if he'd seen my brother loitering with intent outside. I knew that all my efforts at locating him were futile ones - but I had to keep busy.

At four, Ronnie phoned me, to say that he'd managed to find someone to cover him for tonight, and he was taking the next train back to Manhattan. He showed up at the apartment around six thirty. I was pacing the floor at that point, wondering why Agent Sweet hadn't phoned the apartment at five to enquire about Eric's whereabouts. After all, he was supposed to have been at NBC then. But now he was a fugitive; a man who had run away. Though I didn't want to articulate my deepest fear to Ronnie, I couldn't help but think: I may never see my brother again.

At eight, we called the Carnegie Deli and had them deliver sandwiches and beer. We settled down in the living room and continued the wait. The evening went by quickly. Ronnie was a great talker - with a huge cache of stories about growing up in Puerto Rico and earning his chops as a musician. He chatted on about all-night drinking sessions with Charlie Parker, and surviving as one of Artie Shaw's side men for seven months, and why Benny Goodman was the cheapest band leader in history. He kept me laughing. He helped numb the fear we were both feeling. Round about midnight, however, he started to admit his worry.

'If your dumb, crazy brother has done anything really self-destructive, I'll never forgive him'.

'That'll make two of us'.

'If I lost him, I'd...'

He shuddered a bit. I reached out and gripped his arm.

'He'll be back, Ronnie. I'm sure of it'.

By two that morning, however, there was still no sign of him. So Ronnie retired to the bedroom and I returned, once again, to the sofa bed. I was so drained that I was asleep within minutes. Then I smelled smoke. My eyes jumped open. It was early morning. Thin dawn light was creeping through the blinds. Groggy, I squinted at my watch. Six nineteen. Then I heard a voice.

'Good morning'.

It was Eric, sitting in an armchair near the sofa, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. His suitcase was on the floor next to him.

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

'Thank God...' I said.

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

'Where the hell have you been?'

'Here and there'.

'You had me frantic. I'd thought you'd left town'.

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

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

'The driver didn't like this one bit. "You crazy or somethin'?" he asked me.

'"Yeah, I'm crazy. Crazy enough to stay here when I shouldn't."

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

I swallowed hard. And said nothing.

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

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

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

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

'Are you crazy?' I asked.

'Absolutely. Well go on, open the damn thing'.

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

'Does your silence indicate ambivalence?' he asked.

'They're beautiful. But you shouldn't have done this'.

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

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

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

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

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

'"So," he said, "you've decided to cooperate."

'"Yes," I said. "I'll give you some names."

'"Agent Sweet told me about your little escapade at the passport office yesterday."

'"I panicked," I said.

'"That's one way of describing your actions."

'"But if the passport had come through, you'd be out of the country by now," Sweet said.

'"And I would have rued that decision for the rest of my life," I said.

'"Liar," Ross said.

'"You mean, you've never heard of a Pauline conversion, Mr Ross?"

'"Didn't that happen on the road to Damascus?" Agent Sweet asked.

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

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

'"We'd like to know," he said, "who brought you into the Party, who ran your cell, and who were the other members of the cell."

'"Fine," I said. "Would you mind if I wrote this down."

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

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

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

'"You wanted names," I said. "I gave you names."

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

'"Sleepy, Grumpy, Dopey, Bashful, Happy, Sneezy, Doc, and... who the fuck is SW?"

'"Snow White, of course," I said.

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

'"Didn't know you spoke Japanese, Ross. Maybe you were one of their spies during the last war."

'"Get out," he yelled at me. "You're dead here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tousled his hair.

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

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

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

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

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

He leaned his head on Ronnie's shoulder.

'I doubt it', he said.

Eight

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

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

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

'You've read it?' he asked.

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

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

'You what?'

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

'On what grounds?'

'What do you think? Winchell's line about the "romantic company" I'm keeping at my "swank Hampshire House pad"'.

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

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

'Don't call yourself that'.

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

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

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

'I'll pay the legal bills. Anyway, Mr Eberts isn't that expensive...'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'It can wait', she said.

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

'Have a drink, sweetheart', she said, radiating uneasiness.

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

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

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

'I think he's a monster', she said.

'So do I'.

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

'Thank you - but it was my brother who was smeared...'

'Listen, I just want you to know that, personally speaking, I am completely behind you both...'

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

'Sara...'

'What the hell is wrong, Imogen?'

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

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

'We know you were never politically involved...'

'What do you mean, we?

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

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

'Because, like your brother, you have a certain public platform...'

'I write movie reviews and a completely frivolous column about completely frivolous things...'

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

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

'That's what the Feds told Linklater'.

'Then what's the problem here?'

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

'But why? I am not his keeper'.

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

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

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

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

I sat back in my chair, stunned.

'Who told him?' I finally said.

'The FBI guy'.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'But that's insane logic...'

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

'What is happening to me, Imogen?'

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

'In other words, you're firing me'.

'No, we are definitely not firing you'.

'What the hell do you call it then?'

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

'Better known as vanishing from view'.

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

'And if my brother's still in trouble then?'

'Let's cross that bridge when we come to it'.

'Say I decide to fight this? To go public about the way you are buckling to pressure from...'

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

'I know - my complete and total silence'.

I stood up. 'I'm going now', I said.

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

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

'I'm sorry', she whispered.

I pulled my hand away.

'Shame on you', I said.

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

I was so enraged that I ended up walking nearly twenty blocks before realizing where I was. I looked up and noticed a street sign saying East 59th Street. I was only five minutes away from Eric's apartment. But I knew I couldn't see him in the state I was in. Just as I knew that I couldn't really tell him about the conversation I'd just had with Imogen Woods... though I also realized that as soon as he saw the notice in Saturday/Sunday next week that I had 'gone on sabbatical', he'd blame himself.

I leaned against a phone booth, wondering what my next move should be. I answered that question immediately by stepping inside the booth, dropping a nickel in the slot, and doing something I vowed never to do: calling Jack at work.

He'd been due back from Boston this morning, and was planning to stop by and see me on his way home tonight. I needed to see him now. But when I rang his office, his secretary told me he was in a meeting.

'Would you let him know that Sara Smythe called'.

'Will he know what this is about?'

'Yeah - I'm an old friend from the neighborhood. Tell him I'm in Manhattan, and was hoping to take him to lunch at Lindy's. I'll be there at one, if he can make it. If not, ask him to phone me there'.

Jack walked into Lindy's exactly at one. He looked very nervous. As we never met during the day, let alone in a public place, he did not kiss me hello. Instead, he sat down opposite me, and took my hands under the table.

'I saw Winchell', he said.

I took him through everything that had happened: Eric refusing to name names, the Winchell column, the eviction notice from Hampshire House, and my conversation with Imogen Woods. When I got to the part about the FBI informing Saturday/Sunday about my relationship with a married man, Jack tensed.

'Don't worry', I said. 'I doubt any of this will ever go public. I won't let it go public'.

'I don't believe this', he said. 'I can't fathom how...'

He broke off. He let go of my hands, and anxiously patted his jacket pockets for his cigarettes.

'Are you all right?'

'No', he said, fishing out a Chesterfield and his lighter.

'I promise you, Jack - your name will never be linked with...'

'To hell with my name. Eric and you have been smeared. And that... those bastards... they...'

He broke off. His distress in the face of our predicament touched me beyond words. At that moment, I loved him unconditionally.

'I'm sorry', he finally said. 'I am so goddamn sorry. How's Eric bearing up?'

'I think he's scrambling to find a new place to live. The eviction notice is six p.m. tomorrow'.

'Tell him if there's anything... anything... I can do...'

I suddenly leaned over and kissed him.

'You're a good man', I said.

He had to run back to the office. But he promised to call me tonight before returning home to Dorothy. Not only did he phone - but he also rang Eric at his apartment that evening, offering support. The next day, he showed up at the Hampshire House at five to help my brother move his stuff to the Ansonia on Broadway and 74th Street. The Ansonia was a residential hotel, favored by people in the mid-to-lower echelons of show business. Eric's new apartment was a dark, one-bedroom suite, overlooking a back alley. It had peeling green floral wallpaper, a threadbare green carpet pockmarked by cigarette burns, and a tiny kitchenette, consisting of a hotplate and a faulty ice box. But the rent was cheap: twenty-five dollars a week. And the management didn't seem terribly concerned about the cohabiting arrangements of its residents. As long as the rent was paid on time - and you didn't disturb the peace - their attitude was: we don't want to know.

Eric hated the new apartment. He hated the grim, last-chance-saloon atmosphere of the Ansonia. But he had few options. Because he was so damn broke. After his little shopping spree, he had less than a hundred bucks in his pocket. With the eviction notice from the Hampshire House came a bill for four hundred dollars - covering assorted room service and hotel charges. When Eric told the hotel management that he wouldn't be able to settle the bill before his departure, they informed him that they would impound all his belongings. So Ronnie and I paid Tiffany's a visit, and collected a seven-hundred-and-twenty-dollar refund on the diamond earrings and the silver cigarette case. After settling his Hampshire House bill, the remaining three hundred and twenty dollars paid for a month's deposit and two months' rent at the Ansonia. Jack insisted on organizing the van which moved Eric's stuff to his new apartment. Just as he also arranged for two painters to strip the new apartment of its cheerless wallpaper, and brighten the place up with several coats of white emulsion.

Eric and I were both overwhelmed by Jack's generosity.

'You know, you really don't have to be doing this', I told Jack as I cooked dinner at my place. It was the Monday after Eric moved apartments, and the painters had started work that day.

'Hiring a couple of painters for two days isn't exactly going to break the bank. Anyway, I had a bit of a bonus windfall. Out of nowhere, I was handed a check for over eight hundred dollars. It's Steele and Sherwood's way of saying thank you for bagging a new insurance client. When things are going well for you, you should help others, right?'

'Sure. But I always thought that, when it came to Eric...'

'Hell, that's all in the past. As far as I'm concerned, he's family. And he's in trouble. I know how I'd feel if I was forced to move from the Hampshire House to the Ansonia. So, if a coat of paint cheers the new place up a little bit for your brother, it's money well spent. I also hate what's happened to you'.

'I'll be okay', I said, not exactly sounding convinced.

'Have you gotten back to Saturday/Sunday since the meeting with your editor?'

'No'.

'You have to accept their offer, Sara. Your editor's right - if you fight Saturday/Sunday, you'll lose. Take the money, darling. Take a break. In a month or two, all this naming names stuff should blow over. It's gotten way out of hand. It's gone crazy'.

I wanted to believe Jack that the nightmarish game called blacklisting would be over soon. Just as I wanted to reject Saturday/Sunday's offer of two hundred dollars a week as a retainer fee. Because, after all, what they were offering me was a Faustian Bargain: money to balm their guilt at suspending me... out of the absurd fear that their so-called 'family magazine' mightn't look so 'family' if it was discovered that one of their columnists shared her bed with a married man, and had an ex-Communist brother who also practiced 'the love that dare not speak its name'.

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

God, Imogen looked so conscience-stricken when she hit me with that suggestion. But, of course, like everyone else, she too felt under threat. Had she not 'followed orders', she might have found her own position at the magazine in jeopardy. Or maybe questions would have been asked about her loyalty to God and Country. That was the worst thing about the blacklist - the way it scared everyone away from acts of common good, and appealed to the most basic of human instincts: personal survival... at all costs.

'Take the money, darling'.

In the end, I did. Because Jack was right: this was a fight I could not win. And because I also knew that Saturday/Sunday could have simply dropped me without cause. At least this way, I would be guaranteed a salary for the next six months - and the money would be very useful in keeping Eric afloat.

The Winchell column about Eric's dismissal didn't just result in his eviction from the Hampshire House. One by one, every restaurant or emporium which once welcomed him as a great customer (and, noting his free-spending ways, granted him credit) slammed the door in his face. A few days after his move to the Ansonia, he arranged to meet Ronnie for an after-midnight drink at the Stork Club. But when he showed up, the maitre d' informed him that his presence wasn't desired. Eric knew the guy by name ('Hell, I used to give him a ten-buck tip every week'). He pleaded to be let in.

'Sorry, Mr Smythe', the maitre d' said. 'I don't make the rules. And I think the management is a little worried about the tab you owe us'.

The next day, the Stork Club tab arrived: seven hundred and forty-four dollars and thirty-eight cents. To be paid within twenty-eight days, or else.

This demand was quickly followed by similar ones from Alfred Dunhill, 21, El Morocco, and Saks Fifth Avenue - all of which asked that he settle up his accounts within four weeks or face legal proceedings.

'I never knew so many people read Walter Winchell', I said, sifting through this small stack of threatening letters.

'Oh, that bastard is enormously popular. Because, of course, he's such a great American'.

'Did you really spend a hundred and seventy-five dollars on a pair of hand-made brogues?' I asked, scanning one of the attached bills.

'A fool and his money are quickly parted'.

'Let me guess: Bud Abbott, or maybe it was Lou Costello? Of course, it wouldn't be Oscar Wilde'.

'I don't think so - though he's a gentleman with whom I am now feeling a growing rapport. Especially as I can write my own "Ballad of Reading Gaol" after HUAC finds me in contempt of court'.

'One drama at a time, please. You haven't been subpoenaed by the committee yet'.

'Oh yes I have', he said, picking up a document off the chipped card table that he was now using as a makeshift desk. 'Good news comes in big bundles. This arrived this morning. A Federal official actually showed up here personally, and shoved it into my hand. I've even got a date for my appearance: July twenty-first. Washington's pretty humid in July, isn't it? So are most federal penitentiaries'.

'You're not going to jail, Eric'.

'Oh yes I am. Because the committee will demand names. Under oath, of course. When I refuse to provide them with this information, I will most definitely be going to jail. That's how it works'.

'We'll call Joel Eberts. You need some legal counsel'.

'No, I don't. Because the equation here is a simple one: cooperate and avoid the slammer. Don't cooperate, and enjoy six months to a year as a guest of the United States government in one of their select prisons'.

'First things first, Eric. Give me all the bills'.

'No way'.

'I've got the cash in the bank. It's not a stretch...'

'I won't let you pay for my stupidity'.

'It's just money, Eric'

'I was profligate'.

'Also known as generous. So let me be generous back. What's the total damage? About five grand?'

'I am ashamed of myself'.

'You'll be even more ashamed when you're hauled into court for non-payment of bills. This way, your debts are cleared. It's one less worry. You've got enough to deal with'.

'All right, all right', he said, tossing me the pile of bills. 'Play Good Samaritan. But on one condition: that five grand is considered a loan. To be paid back as soon as I get some work'.

'If it makes you feel better, fine - call it a loan. But I'm never going to ask you for the money'.

'I can't stand all this generosity'.

I laughed. And said, 'Next thing you know, you might have to renounce misanthropy and start accepting that there are a few decent people out there who actually care about you'.

I paid off Eric's bills the next day. I also called Imogen Woods at Saturday/Sunday and informed her that I would accept the magazine's leave-of-absence offer. She assured me that, six months from now, I'd be back writing for them.

'Please don't hate me', she said. 'I'm just caught in the middle like everyone else'.

'Everyone's caught in the middle, aren't they?'

'What are you going to do with the six months?'

'My first goal is trying to keep my brother out of jail'.

Actually, my first goal was trying to snap Eric out of the depression into which he quickly descended. A depression which deepened when Ronnie was offered an amazing job opportunity: a three-month nationwide tour as part of Count Basie's orchestra. The offer arrived a week after he moved into the Ansonia with Eric. Privately he told me that - though he was over the moon about the prospect of playing in Basie's big band - he was reluctant to take the gig. Because he was worried about Eric's mental stability.

Over coffee at Gitlitz's deli, Ronnie told me, 'He's not sleeping, and he's drinking a fifth of Canadian Club every night'.

'I'll talk to him', I said.

'Good luck. He doesn't want to be talked to'.

'Have you let him know about the Basie offer?'

'Of course. "Go, go," he tells me. "I'll be fine without you."'

'You want to take the job, don't you?'

'It's a chance to play with the Count... of course I want it'.

'Then take it'.

'But... Eric needs me. And he's going to need me even more in the run-up to his Committee appearance'.

'I'll be here'.

'I'm scared for him'.

'Don't be', I lied. 'Once he finds some new work, he'll settle back down again'.

To his credit, Eric did knock on a lot of doors after his dismissal from NBC. Initially, he was optimistic about his employment prospects. After all, he was Eric Smythe - the major-domo writer from The Marty Manning Show; a man who was widely regarded in New York as one of the true comedic innovators in that new-fangled medium called television. What's more, he also had the reputation for being a consummate pro. He was smart, mischievous, and fast. When it came to cranking out material, he always made a deadline - and it was constantly fresh and original. As everyone in the business acknowledged, he was good news.

But no one would now hire him. Nor would they even meet with him. As soon as he was settled at the Ansonia, he started working the phone, trying to line up appointments with assorted producers and agents around town.

'I must have made a dozen calls yesterday', he said when I dropped by the apartment with a bag of groceries for him. 'The people I was calling were guys who'd been after me in the past to write for them. Not one of them was available to speak with me. Three were in meetings, four were at lunch, and the rest were out of town'.

'Well', I said, 'maybe it was just your unlucky day'.

'Thank you, Louisa May Alcott, for looking on the bright side of life'.

'I'm just saying - don't panic yet'.

By five the next afternoon, however, complete panic had set in. Once again, Eric had called the same twelve producers and agents. Once again, none of them was available to speak to him.

'So, do you know what I decided to do?' he said on the phone to me. 'I decided to jump the Broadway local down to Fiftieth Street and pay a little speculative lunchtime visit to Jack Dempsey's - where half of the comedy agents in New York meet to talk shop every day. There must have been, I don't know, maybe six of these guys sitting around a table. All of them knew me. All of them, at one time or another, tried to get me as a client... although I was one of those proud bastards who always maintained that he never needed an agent. Anyway, in I saunter to Jack Dempsey's. As soon as the table sees me approaching, it's like the local leper has made an appearance. Half the guys wouldn't talk to me. The others suddenly had to be elsewhere. Within two minutes of me turning up, the table was cleared. With the exception of this one old guy, Moe Canter. He must be around seventy-two. He's been handling acts since the days of vaudeville. A straight shooter, Moe. As soon as everyone's fled the scene, he tells me to sit down and buys me a cup of coffee. And he gives it to me straight:

' "Eric, what can I tell you? People in our business are scared. Everyone's terrified of ending up on some congressman's shit list - and they will snub their own brother if it means staying alive professionally. So, for the moment, I think you should consider another line of work. Because - after the Winchell item - you're an untouchable in this town. I'm sorry - but that's how it is."

'He then told me how much he admired me for refusing to rat on my friends. Know what I said back? "Everyone loves a hero... as long as he's dead."'

I took a deep breath. I tried to sound reasonable. 'All right', I said, 'this is bad, but...'

'Bad? It's a fucking catastrophe. My career is kaput. Yours too. And it's completely my fault'.

'Don't say that. And don't completely write yourself off as yet. Remember, the Winchell piece appeared only a week ago. So it's still fresh in everyone's memory. A month from now...'

'You're right. Everyone will have forgotten about the Winchell item. Instead, they'll be focusing on my contempt citation from the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities. And after my performance in front of the congressmen, I'm certain the employment opportunities will just keep rolling in'.

I could hear liquid being poured into a glass. 'What is that?'

'Canadian Club'.

'You now start drinking at three in the afternoon?'

'No, today I actually started drinking at two'.

'You have me worried'.

'There's nothing to worry about. Hell, I can always make a living churning out sonnets. Or maybe I'll corner the market in epic Norse verse. Now there's a section of the writing market that's probably blacklist-proof. All I need to do is brush up my Icelandic and...'

'I'm coming over', I said.

'No need, S. I am feeling just hunky-dory'.

'I'll be there in five minutes'.

'I won't be. I have an important appointment this afternoon...'

'With whom?'

'With the Loew's Eighty-Fourth Street movie house. They're showing a helluva double feature: Sudden Fear with Joan Crawford, Gloria Graham and the delectable Jack Palance, followed by The Steel Trap with Joe Cotton. An afternoon of pure monochromatic bliss'.

'At least let Jack and me take you to dinner tonight'.

'Dinner? Hang on, I must consult my social diary... No, I'm afraid I'm otherwise engaged this evening'.

'What are you doing?'

'According to my calendar, I'm getting drunk. Alone'.

'Why are you avoiding me?'

'I vant to be alone, dahling'.

'Just meet me for a fast cup of coffee'.

'Ve'11 talk tomorrow, dahling. And please, don't call back - because the phone will be off the hook'.

He hung up. Naturally I tried to phone right back. The line was busy. So I threw on my coat and dashed down the three blocks of Broadway which separated my apartment from the Ansonia Hotel. When I reached its seedy reception desk, the clerk told me that my brother had just left the building. So I hopped a cab north, and paid seventy-five cents for a ticket to the Loew's Eighty-Fourth Street. I scoured the orchestra, I scoured the loge, I scoured the balcony. No sign of my brother. Sudden Fear was playing as I conducted my search. When I realized that Eric was nowhere to be found, I slumped into a seat. On-screen Joan Crawford was having words with Jack Palance:

'Remember what Nietzsche said - live dangerously'.

'You know what happened to Nietzsche?'

'What?'

'He died'.

I left the movie house. I returned home. I called the Ansonia. There was no answer in Eric's room. Jack came home from work. He sat vigil with me all evening. Every half-hour I phoned the Ansonia. Still no answer from my brother. Around nine, Jack went out and did a search of local bars, while I sat by the phone. Jack was back within an hour, having turned up no sign of Eric. At midnight, Jack called it quits and went to bed. I continued to sit by the phone in the living room. Eventually I nodded off. When I came to again, it was six thirty. Jack was dressed and handing me a cup of coffee.

'You must feel great', he said.

'Try diabolical'.

I took a fast sip of the coffee, then dialed the Ansonia. 'Sorry', the switchboard operator said after a dozen rings. 'No answer at that extension'.

I hung up. 'Maybe I should call the police', I said.

'You last spoke to him yesterday afternoon, right?'

I nodded.

'Well, the cops aren't going to do anything about a guy who's been missing for less than twenty-four hours. Give it until this afternoon. If you haven't heard from him by then, we'll get worried. Okay?'

I let him pull me up and enfold me in a big hug. 'Try to get some proper sleep', he said. 'And call me at the office if you need me'.

'Are you sure about that?'

'Tell them you're a Miss Olson from Standard Life in Hartford - and my nosy secretary won't think a thing about it'.

'Who's Miss Olson?'

'Someone I just made up. Try not to worry about Eric, eh? I'm sure he's fine'.

'You've been amazing through all this'.

He shook his head. 'I wish I could do more'.

I fell into bed. When I stirred again, it was just after twelve noon. I grabbed the bedside phone and called the Ansonia. This time I got lucky. Eric - sounding sleepy as hell - answered.

'Oh thank God', I said.

'What the hell are you so thankful for?'

'Your safe return. Where have you been?'

'My usual all-night haunts - ending up at the New Liberty picture house on Forty-Second Street. Me and the local tramp fraternity - sleeping it off in the balcony'.

'You know, I did go searching for you at the Loew's Eighty-Fourth Street yesterday afternoon'.

'Figured you would do that - which is why I decided to catch a double bill at New Liberty'.

'Why are you avoiding me? You've never shut me out, Eric'.

'Well, there's a first time for everything. Listen, I'm going back to sleep now. And the phone is going off the hook. Don't call us. We'll call you... as everyone in New York now tells me'.

Naturally I did try to call him back. But the line was constantly busy. I fought the urge to march down to the Ansonia and confront him. Instead I used the Miss Olson alias and called Jack. He gave me sound advice: back right off. Give him a few days on his own.

'He has to come to terms with this stuff by himself', Jack said.

'But he's in no fit condition to be left alone'.

'He hasn't gone mental yet, has he?'

'No - he's just drinking all the time, and staying out all night'.

'He's grieving. What's happened to him is like a death. You've got to let it run its course. Right now, nothing you say to him will make sense. Because he can't see sense'.

So I didn't call him for three days. I waited until five in the afternoon on Friday. He sounded reasonably awake and sober.

'I've got a new job', he said.

'Really?' I said, suddenly excited.

'Absolutely. In fact, it's more than a job - it's a newfound vocation'.

'Tell me'.

'I am now a professional drifter'.

'Eric...'

'Hear me out. It's such fantastic work; the most productive way imaginable of squandering time. What I do all day is wander. Drifting from movie house to movie house. Grabbing a twenty-five-cent lunch at the Automat. Loitering in the Metropolitan and Natural History Museums, walking, walking, walking. Do you know that yesterday, I actually strolled right up from West Seventy-Fourth Street to Washington Heights? It only took me around three hours. Part of me wanted to keep on hiking north to the Cloisters, but as it was three in the morning...'

'You walked up to Washington Heights in the middle of the night? Are you nuts?'

'No - just fulfilling my role as a drifter'.

'Have you been drinking much?'

'Certainly not while I'm asleep. But I do have some additional news on the work front'.

'Really?' I said.

'Yes - splendid news. I decided to bypass the agent route and instead opened my telephone book and offered my services to five different comedians I know. Guess what? All of them turned me down. These aren't even top-echelon comics. These are the sort of mid-grade guys who play the mid-grade clubs in the Poconos and the Catskills and West Palm Beach. So my stock has sunk so low that even the second-raters don't want to know me'.

'As I've told you again and again, this initial period is going to be rough. Once you get the HUAC hearing out of the way...'

'And I serve my year behind bars...'

'All right, say it comes to that. Say you do go to jail. It will be terrible, but you'll get through it. When the blacklist ends, not only will you be respected for refusing to name names, but...'

'When the blacklist ends? Will you listen to yourself. The chances of the blacklist ending are currently up there with me becoming Secretary of State. Even if the whole damn thing ends up discredited, the mud will stick. I'll always be regarded as the never-married one-time Communist. No one will ever want to hire me again'.

He refused to be talked out of this bleak perspective. Just as he also refused to let me see him. Once again, I charged down to the Ansonia. Once again, he was gone by the time I got there. It was another twenty-four hours before I made telephone contact with him again. This time, I didn't ask for a lengthy explanation about his whereabouts over the last night and day. I tried to sound practical.

'How are you doing for money at the moment?' I asked.

'Rolling in it. Lighting Cuban cigars with five-dollar bills'.

'Delighted to hear it. I'll be leaving fifty dollars for you in an envelope in reception'.

'No thanks'.

'Eric, I know what your financial position is'.

'Ronnie gave me some cash before he left'.

'How much?'

'Plenty'.

'I don't believe you'.

'That's your problem, S'.

'Why won't you let me help you?'

'Because you've paid a high enough price for my idiocy. Got to go now'.

'Am I going to see you for dinner this weekend?'

'No', he said - and put down the phone.

I placed fifty dollars in an envelope and handed it in to the Ansonia's reception. The next morning, I found it on my front doormat - the name Eric crossed out and Sara penciled over in my brother's distinctive scrawl. That day, I must have left a dozen messages for him. No reply. In despair, I managed to track Ronnie down to a hotel in Cleveland. He was shocked when I told him of Eric's increasingly erratic behavior.

'I phone him about twice a week', Ronnie said, 'and he always sounds okay to me'.

'He said you left him some money...'

'Yeah, around thirty bucks'.

'But you went off on tour ten days ago. He must be broke. He's got to accept my money'.

'He won't - out of guilt for what happened to you at Saturday/Sunday'.

'But he knows they're paying me two hundred dollars a week as a retainer. And I've got no mortgage, no dependents. So why shouldn't he take fifty? It still leaves me plenty...'