The Pursuit of Happiness

'I don't have to tell you how your brother works, do I? The guy's got a huge conscience and a lousy streak of pigheadedness. It's a bad combination'.

'Would he accept the money from you?'

'Yeah - he might. But there's no way I could come up with fifty bucks a week'.

'I've got an idea'.

That afternoon, I walked down to Western Union and wired fifty dollars to Ronnie at his hotel in Cleveland. The next day, he wired it back to Eric at the Ansonia. I called Ronnie that night in his next port of call: Cincinnati.

'I had to feed Eric some crap about Basie giving everyone in the band a raise', he said, 'but he didn't seem particularly suspicious. I think he really needs the cash. Because he told me he'd go straight down to Western Union with the wire and pick up the cash'.

'Well, at least we know that he'll now have enough money each week to keep himself fed. Now if I could just get him to see me'.

'He'll want to see you when he's ready to see you. I know he's missing you'.

'How do you know that?'

'Because he told me, that's how'.

As instructed, I kept my distance. I made my daily phone call to check up on his well-being. If I was lucky, I reached Eric when he was sober and reasonably lucid. Usually, however, he sounded either drunk or hung over, and basically dispirited. I stopped enquiring about whether he'd been exploring other possible work options. Instead, I listened to his monologues about the five movies he'd seen the previous day. Or the books he'd been reading at the Forty-Second Street Library (he'd become one of the habitues of its Reading Room). Or the Broadway show he'd 'second-acted' last night:

'Second-acting is such an easy thing to do', he told me. 'You stand near the theater until the first intermission. When everyone comes pouring out for a cigarette, you mingle with the crowd, step inside and find yourself an empty seat at the back of the orchestra. And you get to see the next two acts free of charge. What a ruse, eh?'

'Absolutely', I said, trying to sound cheerful, trying to pretend that sneaking into Broadway shows was a perfectly acceptable activity for a man crowding forty.

What I really wanted to do was to intervene - to run down to the Ansonia, bundle Eric into a car, and take him up to Maine for a few weeks. I'd actually broached this idea with him on the phone - arguing that some time out of New York would be beneficial, and would give him some perspective.

'Oh I get it', he said. 'After a week of walking along an empty beach, my equilibrium will be repaired, my faith in humanity restored, and I will be in tip-top shape to parry with all the delightful folk on the UnAmerican Affairs Committee'.

'I just think a change of scene might prove beneficial'.

'Sorry-no sale'.

I stopped begging to see him. Instead, I found a desk clerk at the Ansonia - Joey - who was happy to keep me informed about Eric's comings-and-goings for five bucks a week. I knew this was a form of surveillance - but I had to somehow keep tabs on his general mental and physical condition. Joey had my home number, in case of an emergency. A week before his HUAC appearance, the phone rang at three in the morning. Jack - asleep next to me - bolted upright. So did I. I reached for the receiver, expecting the worst.

'Miss Smythe, Joey here at the Ansonia. Sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but you did say I should phone anytime if there was a problem...'

'What's happened?' I said, genuinely frightened.

'Don't worry - your brother's not hurt. But he showed up here around fifteen minutes ago, bombed out of his head. I tell you, he was so gone that myself and the night detective had to carry him in from the cab. As soon as we got him upstairs, he was sick everywhere. He was bringing up a lot of blood...'

'Call an ambulance'.

'It's already been done. They should be here in a couple of minutes'.

'I'm on my way'.

Jack and I were dressed and out the door in an instant. We grabbed a cab down to the Ansonia. An ambulance was parked out front. As we raced into the lobby, Eric was being brought downstairs on a stretcher. In the last three weeks since we met, he'd aged around ten years. His face seemed emaciated, skeletal. He had a scraggy beard, currently dappled in blood. His hair had become flimsy, his hands bony, his fingernails ravaged and dirty. He looked undernourished, cadaverous. But it was his eyes that scared me the most. Red, bloodshot, glassy - as if he had been permanently shellshocked by life. I took his hand. It felt so thin, so devoid of weight. I called his name. He just stared blankly at me. I started to cry. Jack - white with shock - held me as the ambulance men rolled him outside and loaded him into the back of their van.

We were allowed to ride with him. The ambulance took off down Broadway at speed. I held Eric's hand during the five-minute ride to Roosevelt Hospital. My eyes were brimming. I kept shaking my head.

'I should never have left him on his own', I said.

'You did everything you could'.

'Everything? Look at him, Jack. I failed him'.

'Stop that', he said. 'You've failed nobody'.

At the hospital, Eric was rushed straight into the emergency room. An hour went by. Jack disappeared to an all-night coffee shop around the corner and came back with doughnuts and coffee. He smoked cigarette after cigarette. I kept pacing the floor of the waiting room, wondering why the hell we hadn't heard anything. Eventually, a tired-looking doctor in a white coat emerged through the swing doors of the ER. He was around thirty, and had a lit cigarette in a corner of his mouth.

'Someone here waiting for a Mr -' he glanced down at the chart in this hand ' - Eric Smythe?'

Jack and I immediately approached the doctor. He asked me my relationship to Mr Smythe. I told him.

'Well, Miss Smythe - your brother is suffering from a combination of malnutrition, alcoholic poisoning, and a ruptured duodenal ulcer that would have probably killed him in another two hours if he hadn't been rushed here. How the hell did he get so undernourished?'

I heard myself say, 'It's my fault'. Immediately, Jack jumped in:

'Don't listen to her, Doctor. Mr Smythe has been having some serious professional career problems, and has essentially allowed himself to go to hell. His sister has done all she could...'

The doctor cut him off. 'I'm not trying to apportion blame here. I just want to know what brought him to the state he's in now. Because we've had to rush him up to operating theater...'

'Oh my God', I said.

'When the duodenal gland ruptures, it's either surgery or death. But I think we got to him just in time. The next couple of hours will be crucial. Please feel free to make yourself at home. Or if you give us a number, we'll call...'

'I'm staying', I said. Jack nodded in agreement.

The doctor left us. I sank into a waiting room seat, trying to keep my emotions in check. Jack sat down next to me. He put his arm around my shoulders.

'He's going to make it', he said.

'This should never have happened...'

'It's not your fault'.

'Yes, it is. I shouldn't have left him to his own devices'.

'I'm not going to listen to you beat yourself up...'

'He's everything to me, Jack. Everything'.

I put my face into his shoulder. After a moment I said, 'That didn't come out the way I meant it to...'

'Sure. I understand'.

'Now I've hurt you'.

'Stop', he said softly. 'You don't need to explain'.

By seven that morning, there was no further word on Eric's condition - except that he was out of the operating theater, and had been transferred to the intensive care unit. Jack offered to call in sick to work, but I insisted that he go to his office. He made me promise that I'd call him every hour with an update - even if there was no news.

As soon as he left, I stretched out on a sofa in the waiting room and passed right out. The next thing I knew, a nurse was shaking me. 'Miss Smythe, you can go see your brother now'.

I was instantly awake. 'Is he all right?'

'He lost a lot of blood, but he pulled through. Just'.

I was escorted through the emergency room to a dark, crowded public ward at the extreme rear of the hospital. Eric was in a bed at the end of a row of twenty beds. The noise was deafening - an endless discord of distressed patients, brusque orderlies, and people shouting to be heard over the ward's cavernous acoustic. Eric was groggy, but lucid. He was lying flat, a sheet pulled up to his neck, two large intravenous tubes of plasma and a clear viscous liquid disappearing under the covers. He said nothing for a moment or two. I kissed his forehead. I stroked his face. I tried not to cry. I failed.

'Now that's stupid', he said in a thick, post-anaesthetic voice.

'What?'

'Crying - as if I was dead'.

'A couple of hours ago, you looked dead'.

'I feel it right now. Get me out of here, S'.

'In your dreams'.

'I mean... get me a room. NBC will pay...'

I didn't answer him - as it was pretty damn obvious that he was delirious.

'Get me a room', he said again. 'NBC...'

'Let's not bring that up now', I said, continuing to stroke his forehead.

'They never canceled my insurance...'

'What?'

'In my wallet...'

I nabbed a porter who found Eric's wallet (it had been locked away in the hospital safe after he was admitted - along with his watch and the seven dollars in cash that was his current net worth). In the wallet there was a Mutual Life card, on the back of which was a phone number. I called it - and discovered that Eric was still on the NBC corporate health and life plan.

'Yes, I have been able to dig out his file', said the Mutual Life clerk with whom I spoke. 'And we are aware of the fact that Mr Smythe is no longer an NBC employee. But under the terms of this policy, his medical and life benefits remain in force until December thirty-first, nineteen fifty-two'.

'So I can have him moved to a private room in Roosevelt Hospital'.

'I'm afraid you can'.

Within an hour, Eric was relocated to a small, but reasonably pleasant room on an upper floor of the hospital. He was still deeply groggy.

'What? No view?' was his only comment about his new surroundings before he passed out again.

At four that afternoon, I called Jack and assured him that Eric was out of danger. Then I went home, and slept until morning. When I woke, I found Jack asleep beside me. I curled my arms around him. Tragedy had been averted. Eric had pulled through. And I had this extraordinary man in bed beside me.

'You are everything to me too', I whispered. But he just snored on.

I got up, showered, dressed, and brought Jack breakfast in bed.

As always, he lit a cigarette after taking his first sip of coffee.

'How are you bearing up?' he asked.

'You know, the world always looks better after twelve hours of sleep'.

'Damn right. What time are you heading to the hospital?'

'In about a half-hour. Can you come with me?'

'I've got this early meeting in Newark...'

'No problem'.

'But give him my best. And tell him I'm here if he needs me for anything...'

On my way down to the hospital, the thought struck me that Jack had worked out his own way of dealing with my brother. Ever since the blacklisting, he'd been scrupulously correct (and generous) towards Eric - but from a careful distance. He avoided having to deal with him face to face. I couldn't blame him... especially as he well knew that the FBI had his name as the man in my life. And I hugely admired the fact that he had, in his own quiet way, stuck by Eric throughout this crisis... whereas many people would have been terrified to even be vaguely associated with him.

Eric was awake when I reached the hospital. Though still gaunt and haggard, a minor hint of color had returned to his cheeks. And he was a bit more lucid than yesterday.

'Do I look as bad as I feel?'

'Yes. You do'.

'That's direct'.

'You deserve direct. What the hell were you trying to do?'

'Drink a lot'.

'And not eat at the same time?'

'Food takes up valuable boozing time'.

'You're lucky that Joey at the Ansonia was with you...'

'I really wanted to go, S'.

'Don't say that'.

'It's the truth. I couldn't see a way out...'

'I've told you over and over, you will get through this. But only if you let me help you through it'.

'I'm not worth the price you've paid...'

I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together.

'Know what this is? The world's smallest violin'.

He managed a smile. I took his hand. And said, 'What else do we have except life?'

'Booze'.

'Maybe - but I've got some bad news on that front. According to the doctor I spoke to on the way in here, your drinking days are over. Your duodenal is now hanging on by a thread. Given time, it should repair itself. But even after it heals, your stomach won't be able to handle booze anymore. Sorry to tell you this...'

'Not as sorry as me'.

'The doctor also said you're going to be in here for at least two weeks'.

'At least NBC has to pick up the tab'.

'Yes - that is rather gratifying'

'What about my little appearance in front of HUAC next week?'

'I'll get Joel Eberts to postpone it'.

'Permanently, if possible'.

As it turned out, Mr Eberts was only able to get a month-long postponement of the HUAC subpoena. During that time, Eric managed to dry out and recuperate. After his two-week stay at Roosevelt Hospital, I convinced him to let me rent us a cottage in Sagaponack. Back then, that corner of Long Island was still completely undeveloped. Sagaponack was a tiny fishing village - a real briny, ungentrified community of lobster boats and spit-on-the-floor bars and leathery-looking fishermen. Even though it was only three hours by train from Manhattan, it felt completely remote. The place we rented was a simple weatherbeaten two-bedroom structure which fronted a vast empty beach. At first, Eric could only manage to sit in the sand, and stare out at the breaking waters of Long Island Sound. By the end of our two weeks there, he was walking a mile or so on the beach every day. Though he was on a strict bland diet (I became an expert at making macaroni-and-cheese), he still managed to put on a little weight. More tellingly, he started to sleep eight to ten hours a night. We did as little as possible during the day. There was a shelf of cheap detective novels in the cottage - which we devoured. There was no radio, no television. We didn't buy a newspaper during the entire two weeks of our stay. Eric let it be known that he wanted to cut himself off from the world beyond this beach. I had no objections to this plan. After the past few weeks, I too wanted to slam the door on that jumbled disorder called life. Of course, I missed Jack terribly. I'd invited him to come out for a few days - but he said he was currently overwhelmed at work... and the weekends were out because those days were sacrosanct for Dorothy and Charlie. There was no phone at the cottage. Instead, I would walk in to the village twice a week and wait in the post office for a call from Jack. The agreed time was three in the afternoon on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was always prompt. The local postmistress also ran the switchboard, and struck me as a deeply nosy type - so I was careful not to mention anything about the blacklist or Jack's family on the phone. If she was listening in (and I'm pretty sure she was), all she heard was two people missing each other terribly. But every time I suggested he try to pop out for just a day and a night, Jack was adamant that he was under far too much work pressure right now.

As it turned out, the two weeks passed in a delicious blur. On the night before we left, Eric and I planted ourselves on the beach to watch the sun dissolve into the Sound. As the beach was bathed in a malt whiskey haze of fading light, Eric said,

'At moments like this, I think to myself: it's cocktail time'.

'At least you're still here to see moments like this'.

'But moments like these are much better with a gin martini. In the coming weeks, I know I'm really going to miss alcohol'.

'Everything will be fine'.

'No. It won't. Four days from now, I face that fucking committee'.

'You'll survive it'.

'We'll see'.

The next morning we returned to the city. We reached Penn Station by noon and shared a cab uptown. I dropped Eric off at the Ansonia.

We agreed to meet for breakfast tomorrow at nine - after which I was going to accompany him downtown for a meeting with Joel Eberts.

'Do we really have to do this Eberts thing?' he asked me as the Ansonia's doorman took his bag out of the trunk.

'He's your lawyer. He's going to be with you when you face the committee on Friday. So it's best if he runs through with you some sort of strategy beforehand'.

'There's no strategy involved in taking the Fifth'.

'Let's worry about this tomorrow', I said. 'Now go upstairs and call Ronnie. Where's he playing tonight?'

'I don't know. I've got his tour schedule buried somewhere'.

'Go find it - and make that call. I'm sure he's dying to hear from you'.

'Thank you for the last two weeks. We should do this more often'.

'We will'.

'You mean, after I get out of jail'.

I kissed him goodbye. I climbed back into the cab and rode the four blocks north to West 77th Street. I spent the afternoon sorting through my accumulated mail. There was a substantial package from Saturday Night/Sunday Morning - containing twenty letters from assorted readers, all of whom saw the notice in the magazine of my so-called sabbatical, and wished me a speedy return into print.

'I'm going to miss you', a Miss M. Medford of South Falmouth, Maine, wrote me. I felt a sharp stab of loss when I read that. Because - though I'd never say so in front of Eric or Jack - I desperately missed being in print.

Around four, I left the apartment and ran out for groceries. I was back just before five. Then minutes later, I heard a key turn in the front lock. I pulled open the door, I pulled Jack into the apartment. Within a minute, I had him in bed. Half an hour later, we finally spoke.

'I think I missed you', I said.

'I think I missed you too'.

Eventually we got up. I made us dinner. We ate, we drank a bottle of Chianti, we went back to bed. I don't remember what time we fell asleep. I do remember waking with a jolt. Someone was ringing my doorbell. It took me a moment or two to realize that it was the middle of the night. Four eighteen, according to the bedside clock. The doorbell rang again. Jack stirred.

'What the hell... ' he said groggily.

'I'll deal with it', I said, putting on my robe and heading into the kitchen. I picked up the earpiece of the intercom. I pressed the talk button and muttered a sleepy 'Hello'.

'Is this Sara Smythe?' asked a gruff voice.

'Yes. Who are you?'

'Police. Could you please let us in'.

Oh no. Oh God, no.

For a moment or two, I was rooted to the spot, unable to move. Then I heard the gruff voice again in my ear.

'Miss Smythe... are you still there?'

I hit the button that opened the street door. A moment or two later, I heard a knock on my own door. But I couldn't bring myself to answer it. The knocking became louder. I heard Jack getting out of bed. He came into the kitchen, tying his robe around him He found me standing near the intercom, leaning my head against the wall.

'Jesus Christ, what's happened?' he said.

'Please answer the door', I said.

The knocking was now insistent.

'Who the hell is there?'

'The police'.

He turned white. He walked out into the foyer. I heard him unlock the door.

'Is Sara Smythe here?' asked the same gruff voice I heard on the intercom.

'What's going on, officer?' asked Jack.

'We need to speak with Miss Smythe'.

A moment later, two uniformed policemen entered the kitchen. Jack was behind them. One of them approached me. He was around fifty, with a large soft face, and the vexed look of someone with bad news to impart.

'Are you Sara Smythe?' he asked.

I nodded.

'Do you have a brother named Eric?'

I didn't answer him. I just sank to the floor, crying.

Nine

THE POLICE DROVE us downtown. I sat in the back of the car with Jack. My head was buried in his shoulder. He had both his arms around me. He held me so tightly it felt as if he was almost restraining me. I needed to be restrained - because I was on the verge of coming apart.

First light was creeping into the night sky as we headed east on 34th Street. No one in the car said anything. The two cops stared ahead at the rain-streaked windscreen, ignoring the crackling static of their two-way radio. Jack was doing his best to be silently supportive - but his sense of shock was palpable. I could hear the hammer-blow pounding of his heart against his chest. Maybe he was frightened I might start howling again - which is what I did with uncontrollable anguish after they told me the news. For around half an hour afterwards, I lay on my bed, the sheets gripped tightly against my chest. I was inconsolable. Whenever Jack tried to comfort me, I screamed at him to go away. I was so out of control - so desolate - that I could not bear the idea of anyone offering me comfort at a moment when I was beyond comfort, beyond solace. Eventually one of the cops asked me if I needed medical assistance. That's when I somehow managed to pull myself together, and got dressed. Jack and one of the cops each took an arm to help me out of the car - but I politely shrugged them off. As Eric himself would have said (wickedly imitating Father): a Smythe never falls apart in public. Even when she has just been given the worst possible news.

Now, I was too incapacitated to cry. The grief I felt was so infinite, so incalculable that it went beyond mere tears, or howls of anguish. I was devoid of speech, devoid of reason. All the way downtown, all I could do was lay my head against Jack, and try to force myself to remain contained.

We turned south on Second Avenue for two blocks, then headed east again on 32nd Street until we pulled up at the side entrance of a squat brick building. Chiseled above its front door were the words: 'Office of the Medical Examiner of the City of New York'.

The police escorted us through a side entrance, marked: 'Deliveries'. Inside, there was an elderly black gentleman sitting behind a desk. He was the morgue's St Peter. When one of the officers leaned forward and said, 'Smythe', the gentleman opened a large ledger, and ran his finger down a page until he stopped at my brother's name. Then he picked up a phone and dialed a number.

'Smythe', he said quietly into the receiver. 'Cabinet fifty-eight'.

I felt myself getting precarious again. Sensing this, Jack put his arm around my waist. After a moment, a white-coated attendant came into this waiting area. 'You here to identify Smythe?' he asked tonelessly.

One of the cops nodded. The attendant motioned with his thumb to follow him. We trooped down a narrow corridor, painted an institutional green and lit by fluorescent tubes. We stopped in front of a metal door. He opened it. We were now in a small room, as refrigerated as a meat locker. There was a wall of numbered stainless-steel cabinets. The attendant walked over to Cabinet 58. One of the officers gently nudged me forward. Jack stood by my side. He tightened his grip on my arm. There was a long silent moment. The officers glanced awkwardly at me. The attendant began to absently drum his fingers against the steel door. Finally I took a long deep breath and nodded at the attendant.

The cabinet slid open with a long whoosh. My eyes snapped shut. After a moment I forced them open. Eric was lying before me - covered from the neck down by a rough white sheet. His eyes were closed. His skin seemed bleached. His lips had turned blue. He didn't look at peace. He simply looked lifeless. An empty shell that once was my brother.

I stifled a sob. I snapped my eyes shut again - because I couldn't bear to see him. Because I didn't want this final glimpse to be the one that haunted my thoughts forever.

'Is this Eric Smythe?' asked the attendant.

I nodded.

He pulled the sheet up over Eric's face, then shoved the gurney back into the cabinet. It closed with a thud. The attendant reached for a clipboard, hanging from a wall by a nail. He flipped through a few forms, found what he was looking for, and handed the clipboard to me.

'Sign at the bottom of the page, please', he said, pulling a chewed-up pencil out of the breast pocket of his grubby white coat.

I signed. I returned the clipboard to him.

'What undertaker are you using?' he asked.

'I've no idea', I said.

He pulled off a perforated edge of the form. It had the name Smythe on it, followed by a serial number. He held it out towards me.

'When you know who you're using, tell 'em to call us and quote this number. They know the drill'.

Jack pulled the slip of paper out of the attendant's hand.

'Understood', he said, shoving the slip into his jacket pocket. 'Are we done here?'

'Yeah, we're done'.

The cops escorted us out. 'Can we drop you home?' one of them asked.

'I want to go to the Ansonia', I said.

'We can do that later', Jack said. 'What you need now is rest'.

'I'm going to the Ansonia', I said. 'I want to see his apartment'.

'Sara, I don't think...'

'I am going to his apartment', I said, barely containing my anger.

'Fine, fine', Jack said, nodding to the officers. We got back into the police car. I managed to keep myself contained on the drive uptown. Jack looked exhausted and deeply preoccupied. Though he held my hand, he seemed absent. Or maybe that was because I felt as if I was in some sort of horrible reverie; a walking nightmare from which there was no escape.

At the Ansonia, Joey the night porter was still on duty. He was immediately solicitous. He found someone to cover for him at the front desk - and brought us into the bar.

'I know it's kind of early, but could you use a drink?'

'That would be good', I said.

'Whiskey?'

Jack nodded. Joey brought over a bottle of cheap Scotch and two shot glasses. He filled them to the brim. Jack downed his in one go. I took a sip and nearly gagged. I took a second sip. The whiskey burned the back of my throat - like harsh, essential medicine. By the fourth sip the glass was empty. Joey refilled it, then topped up Jack's drink.

'Was it you who found him?' I asked.

'Yeah', Joey said quietly. 'I found him. And... if I'd known, I'd never have allowed the delivery guy to...'

'What delivery guy?' I asked.

'A guy from the local liquor store. From what I can work out, your brother called the store late yesterday afternoon and asked them to deliver a couple of bottles of Canadian Club to his room. At least this is what Phil, the day man, told me. He was on duty when the guy from the liquor store showed up, asking for the number of your brother's apartment. If it'd been me at the desk, I would've called you right away - 'cause, after what happened a couple weeks ago, I knew he had problems with booze. Anyway, I came on around seven. Didn't see or hear from your brother until just after midnight, when he called me, sounding completely out of it. Like he was so gone, he was slurring his words. Couldn't understand a thing he said. So I got someone to cover for me and went upstairs. Must've knocked for around five minutes. No answer. So I went downstairs, got the pass key. When I opened the door...'

He broke off, sucked in his chest, exhaled. 'I tell ya, Miss Smythe. It wasn't pretty. He'd collapsed on the floor. Blood pumping out of his mouth. There was blood all over the phone too, which means he was hemorrhaging pretty bad when he called me. I was gonna phone you - but the situation was so bad I really felt like I had to wait for the ambulance. It didn't take 'em long to get here - ten minutes max. But by the time they arrived, he was gone. Then the cops showed up - and they took over. Telling me I couldn't call you - 'cause they had to break the news to you themselves'.

He reached for a glass, filled it with Scotch. 'Think I need a drink too', he said, throwing it back. 'I can't tell you how bad I feel about all this'.

'It's not your fault', Jack said.

'The two bottles of Canadian Club... were they empty?' I asked.

'Yeah - completely', Joey said.

My mind clicked back to that morning in Roosevelt Hospital, when I told Eric that the doctor said he'd never be able to drink again. He took the news philosophically. Though he didn't articulate it, he seemed quietly pleased to be back in the land of the living. During our two weeks in Sagaponack, he really started putting himself back together. Hell, when I dropped him off here less than twenty-four hours ago, he was...

I stifled a sob. I put my head in my hands. Jack stroked my hair.

'It's okay', he said softly.

'No, it's not', I shouted. 'He killed himself'.

'You don't know that', Jack said.

'He drank two bottles of Canadian Club, knowing full well his ulcer couldn't handle it. I warned him. The doctors warned him. He seemed so good yesterday on the train in from the Island. He really didn't worry me at all. But I obviously misread...'

I broke off and started to sob again. Jack put his arms around me and rocked me. 'Sorry, sorry', I said.

'Don't blame yourself', Jack said.

Joey coughed nervously. 'There's something else I've gotta tell you, Miss Smythe. Something Phil told me. Around three yesterday afternoon, your brother had a visitor. A guy in a suit, carrying a briefcase. He flashed some ID at Phil and said he was a federal process server. He asked Phil to phone your brother and summon him to the lobby - but not say who was here. So Phil did as ordered. Your brother came into the lobby, and the process server stuck a document into his hand and said something official like, "You are hereby served notice that blah, blah, blah." Phil couldn't hear it all. But he did say that your brother looked pretty stunned by what the guy was saying'.

'What happened after Eric was served the papers?' I asked.

'The suit left, and your brother headed back to his room. Around ninety minutes later, the delivery guy from the liquor store showed up'.

'Eric definitely didn't go out at any time?'

'Not according to Phil'.

'Then the papers must still be upstairs. Let's go'.

Joey looked hesitant. 'It's still a real mess, Miss Smythe. Maybe you should wait

'I can handle it', I said, standing up.

'This is not a good idea', Jack said.

'I'll be the judge of that', I said, and walked out of the bar. Joey and Jack followed behind me. Joey stopped by the front desk and got a key for Apartment 512 from the wall of letter boxes behind the counter. We took the elevator up to the fifth floor. We walked to a scuffed door marked 512. Joey paused before inserting the key. 'Are you sure you want to go in there, Miss Smythe?' he asked.

'I'll be fine'.

'Let me go in', Jack said.

'No. I want to see it'.

Joey shrugged and sprung the lock. The door drifted open. I stepped inside. I sucked in my breath. I had expected a stained bloody carpet. I wasn't prepared for the protracted dimensions of that stain. The blood was still wet and glistening. It covered the phone and dappled the furniture. There was the bloody outline of a hand on two of the walls, and on a table near to where Eric fell. The whole horrible sequence of my brother's final minutes suddenly came together in my head. He'd been sitting on the broken-down sofa, drinking. An empty bottle of Canadian Club was on the floor by the cheap little television. The second bottle - drained, except for a finger or two of liquid - stood on the low wood-laminated coffee table. There was a blood-splattered glass on the sofa. Eric must have started hemorrhaging while finishing the final bottle. Frightened, he covered his mouth with his hand (the reason for all the bloody hand prints). Then he staggered to the phone, and called Joey. But he was too incoherent from the Canadian Club (and from the shock of bleeding) to say anything. He dropped the phone. He fell towards the folding card table that served as his desk. He leaned against it for support. He collapsed to the floor. And died immediately. Or, at least, that's what I desperately hoped. Because I couldn't bear the thought of Eric in extended pain.

I couldn't stare at the stain for long. My eyes moved towards the card table. An official-looking document was wedged under an ashtray. It too was speckled with blood. I pulled it out. I stared at it. It was a notice from the Internal Revenue Service, informing Eric that he was to be subjected to an audit - and that, based on the income information they had received from the National Broadcasting Company, they were now demanding an immediate payment of $43,545 to cover three years of back tax. The letter also stated that, if he wanted to contest this demand, he would have thirty days to present the proper certified accounts to his local IRS office, in order to appeal the specified sum. However, were he to ignore this deadline for appeal, and/or fail to pay the specified sum, he would be subject to criminal prosecution, imprisonment and confiscation of his property.

Forty-three thousand five hundred and forty-five dollars. No wonder he ordered in those two bottles of Canadian Club. If only he'd phoned me. I would have rented a car and driven him to Canada. Or I could have given him enough money to fly to Mexico and survive for a couple of months. But he panicked and succumbed to fear. Or maybe he just couldn't face the thought of another trial after the HUAC trial - followed by imprisonment, bankruptcy, and years thereafter of trying to chip away at that debt.

The letter shook in my hand. Jack was immediately at my side, steadying me. 'The bastards', I said. 'The bastards'.

He took the paper from me and scanned it. 'God', he said. 'How could they have done that?'

'How? How?' I said, sounding unhinged. 'It's easy. Had Eric cooperated and named names, this demand never would have been served on him. But if you don't play ball with those shits, they'll do everything possible to destroy you. Everything'.

I started to cry again. I buried my head in Jack's shoulder.

'I'm sorry', he said. 'I'm so damn sorry...'

I felt another hand on my shoulder. It was Joey. 'Let's get you guys out of here', he said softly. 'You don't want to look at this no more'.

We somehow made it to the elevator and back to the bar. Joey left us the whiskey and a couple of glasses. Jack poured us two shots. I was descending into deeper shock - to the point where my hands were starting to shake. The whiskey helped. For the eighth time that night, I pulled myself together. Jack was slumped in an armchair, staring ahead. I reached for his hand.

'Are you okay?' I asked.

'Just overwhelmed. And guilty that...'

He hesitated.

'Yes?'

'Guilty that I never really got on with Eric'.

'It happens'.

'I should've tried harder. I should've...'

He broke off, on the verge of sobbing. People always surprise you at the strangest moments. Here was Jack - who never really liked my brother - in tears over his death. That's the thing about a genuine tragedy. It reminds everyone that all the arguments we have with each other are ultimately pointless. Death silences the quarrel - and we're suddenly left with the realization that our dispute with the other person had a built-in obsolescence; that, like everything we do, it was of the moment. And that moment - that sliver of time we call life - counts for nothing. Yet we still have the arguments, the quarrels, the rancor, the anguish, the jealousy, the resentment... the splenetic underside which shadows everyone's existence. We live this way - even though we know it will all end; that, somehow, everything is doomed. Maybe that's the real point of anger - it's the way we rage against our complete insignificance. Anger gives consequence to that which is fundamentally inconsequential. Anger makes us believe we're not going to die.

We drank some more whiskey. It had its beneficial effects. We said nothing for a while. We just sat in that empty bar as it gradually became flooded with morning light. Eventually I spoke.

'I have to tell Ronnie'.

'Yeah', Jack said. 'I was thinking that. Do you want me to handle it?'

'No. He has to hear it from me'.

I asked Joey to go upstairs and root around Eric's papers, to find Ronnie's touring schedule. He discovered it on the same table where I found the IRS demand. Ronnie was playing in Houston that night. I waited until noon to call him - by which time I was back in my apartment, and had already begun to make arrangements for the funeral in a few days' time. Ronnie was groggy when he answered the phone. He seemed surprised to hear from me, and instantly worried.

'You sound bad', he said.

'I am bad, Ronnie'.

'It's Eric, isn't it?' he asked in a hushed voice.

And that's when I told him. I tried to keep it as simple as possible - because I knew I'd start falling apart again if I got into too much detail. There was a long silence when I finished.

'Ronnie... you okay?' I finally asked.

Another silence.

'Why didn't he call me?' he asked, his voice barely audible. 'Or you?'

'I don't know. Or maybe I do know, and I don't want to say...'

'He loved you more than...'

'Please, Ronnie. Stop. I can't deal with...'

'Okay, okay'.

Another silence.

'You still there?' I asked.

'Oh Jesus, Sara...'

He started crying. Suddenly, the phone went dead. Half-an-hour later, he called back. He sounded shaky, but under control.

'Sorry I hung up', he said. 'I just couldn't...'

'No need to explain', I said. 'You better now?'

'No', he said, sounding flat. 'I'll never get over this'.

'I know', I said. 'I know'.

'I really did love him'.

'And he you, Ronnie'.

I could hear him swallowing hard, trying not to cry. Why is it that we always try to be brave at moments when bravery is futile?

'I don't know what to say', Ronnie said. 'I can't make sense of this'.

'Then don't. The funeral's the day after tomorrow. Can you make it?'

'No way. Basie's a strict operator. He'd let you off work if it was your mother who died. But flying back to New York for a friend's funeral? No way. And people might start asking questions about the type of friend Eric was'.

'Don't worry about it'.

'I will worry about it. I want to be there. I should be there'.

'Call me when you're back in the city. Call me anytime'.

'Thanks'.

'You take care'.

'You too. Sara?'

'Yes?'

'What am I going to do?'

I knew what I was going to do. After I put down the phone, I careened into the bedroom, collapsed across the bed, and let go. I must have cried for a solid hour. Jack tried to comfort me, but I screamed at him to go away. I needed to do this - to weep my heart out; to surrender to the sheer terribleness of what had happened.

There are moments when you think you will cry forever. You never do. Eventually, sheer physical exhaustion forces you to stop, to settle, to becalm yourself amidst all the mad turbulence of bereavement. And so, after an hour (maybe even ninety minutes - I had lost all track of time), I forced myself up from the bed. I took off all my clothes, letting them drop to the floor. I ran a bath. I made it as hot as I could tolerate. Wincing as I slid into it, my body quickly adjusted to its warmth. I took a face cloth. I dunked it in the water. I wrung it out. I draped it across my face. I kept it there for the next hour, as I floated in the hot water and tried to empty my mind of everything. Jack wisely didn't come in to see how I was. He kept his distance. When I eventually emerged from the bath - covered in a robe, with a towel around my hair - he didn't try to hug me, nor did he say anything inane like, 'Feeling better, dear?' He was smart enough to realize that I shouldn't be crowded right now.

Instead, he asked, 'Hungry?'

I shook my head. I sat down on the sofa. 'Come here', I said.

He joined me. I took his face in my hands. I said nothing. I simply looked at him for a very long time. He didn't say anything. He didn't ask what I was thinking. Maybe he knew. You are everything I have now. Everything.

Eric's funeral took place two days later. It was held at the Riverside Funeral Home on Amsterdam and 75th Street. Only a dozen people showed up: Jack and Meg, Joel Eberts, a handful of friends from Eric's theater days, a classmate or two from Columbia. Nobody from NBC made an appearance. Marty Manning did send a wreath, and a note to me, in which he said that Eric wasn't just a brilliant writer of comedy, but a true mensch... and someone who didn't deserve the fate that had befallen him:

'We live in strange times', Manning wrote, 'when a man as funny and gentle as your brother is bullied into despair. Everyone on the show loved him. We all wish we could be there Monday to say a proper goodbye - but Monday is our big rehearsal day. And as Eric himself would have said, "The show must go on." Please know you're in our thoughts...'

I knew full well (from Eric) that Monday was just the first readthrough of that week's script - and that it never really started until around eleven in the morning. Had Manning and Company wanted to, they could have easily made the ten a.m. service at the Riverside. But I understood their reluctance to make an appearance at the funeral. Just as I understood the subtext of the line about Eric being bullied into despair. Like everyone else, Manning and his team were terrified of the same fate befalling them. And I was pretty damn certain that a directive came from Ira Ross and the brass on the forty-third floor that no NBC personnel should attend the funeral, just in case the FBI had decided to post a man at the door to take down the names of anyone who dared to show solidarity with Eric.

As it turned out, Mr Hoover and his associates reckoned that my dead brother was no longer a threat to national security - so unless they had the Riverside Chapel covertly staked out, I could detect no sign of FBI presence. Instead, the dozen mourners who dared to show their faces sat together in the first two rows as a Unitarian minister made a series of telling comments about Eric's integrity, his sense of conscience, his courage. The minister's name was Roger Webb. The funeral home had recommended him when I said that Eric was, in essence, a non-believer ('Then this Unitarian reverend is the guy for you', the funeral director told me). I had expected some bored man-of-the-cloth who would say a few prayers, mutter a couple of platitudes, and be glancing at his watch during the entire service. But Roger Webb was young, earnest and actually nice. He made a point of calling me a day before the funeral and asking a lot of questions about Eric. I suggested that he come over to my apartment to talk things through. He showed up a few hours later - a baby-faced thirty-year-old from Columbus, Ohio. From a few passing comments he made as we sipped a cup of coffee, I sensed that he was good news - and, like most Unitarians, liberal in temperament. So I opened up, telling him exactly what had befallen Eric - and the admirable, but self-destructive choice he made when he refused to name names. I also risked mentioning his involvement with Ronnie.

He listened in silence. Then he finally said, 'Your brother sounds like he was a remarkable man. And a total original'.

I felt my throat tightening. 'Yes', I said. 'He was definitely that'.

'We're actually scared of originality in this country. Of course, we spout on about rugged individualism, and all that John Wayne nonsense. But, at heart, we're a nation of Babbitts. "Don't rock the boat, don't step outside the social norm, don't question the system, be a team player, a company man." If you don't conform, God help you'.

'You sound like Eric'.

'I'm certain your brother would have put it in a smarter, wittier fashion that I just did. I'm a huge fan of The Marty Manning Show'.

'I want you to speak your mind at the service, if that's all right with you'.

'No one can really speak their mind these days - because it may be taken down and used against you. But there are ways of getting the message across'.

The next morning, Roger Webb stood to the left of my brother's coffin and addressed the sparse assembly of twelve mourners. He talked about choice.

'Choice defines us. Choice forces us to confront our true nature - our aspirations, our fears, our ethical fibre. Often in life, we make the wrong choice. Or, in the case of Eric, we do something quietly heroic - we make the right choice, even though we know it is that choice which will undermine all that we have created in life. Eric was faced with an appalling decision. Should he harm others to save himself? It is the sort of choice that illuminates an individual's conscience. Had Eric opted to save himself, his would have been an understandable decision - because, after all, the instinct towards self-preservation is a huge one. And personally speaking, I don't know what I would have done if I had been presented with the choice Eric had to make. For that reason, I hope we can all find understanding in our hearts for those who have recently had to face such a choice - and, for whatever reason, could not sum up the same level of selflessness which Eric did. Forgiveness is one of the hardest things in life - and possibly the most crucial. Eric did something supremely courageous. But those who did otherwise should not be condemned outright. This is a curious moment in American life - and one which, I sense, will come to be viewed in retrospect as a foul, demagogic juncture in our collective history. I hope we can all find the courage to understand the moral pressures which have engulfed so many of us - to salute Eric Smythe's bravery and mettle, yet to also show empathy for those who felt it necessary to make equally difficult, but more self-preserving choices.

'Being a minister, I should probably underpin such a sermon with a line from the Bible. But being a Unitarian, I can also get away with invoking poetry - specifically, a few lines from Swinburne. "Sleep; and if life was bitter to thee, pardon, If sweet, give thanks; thou hast no more to live; And to give thanks is good, and to forgive."'

Next to me, Jack buried his face in his hands. Meg started to sob. So too did most of the other mourners. But I simply stared ahead at the coffin, appalled that this was actually happening. Maybe it was the stark sight of that simple pine box - and the realization that my brother was inside it. Or maybe it was the knowledge that everything you do in life is reduced to this - that this is your ultimate destiny. Whatever the reason, I was too numb to cry; too deadened by the shock of the past few days.

We said the Lord's Prayer. We asked that our trespasses be forgiven, as we (allegedly) forgave those who trespassed against us. We sang a single hymn, 'A Mighty Fortress Is Our God' - chosen not because of its uplifting Lutheran message, but because Eric once told me it was the one hymn he could never get out of his atheistic head from all those Sundays that our parents dragged us to church. Roger Webb gave a final benediction, asking us to go in peace. The undertakers wheeled the coffin down the aisle. We followed, streaming out into a perfect spring day. There was much hugging and dabbing of eyes among the mourners as the coffin was loaded into the back of the hearse. People began to say their goodbyes. Only four of us - Jack, Joel Eberts, Roger Webb and myself - were going to accompany Eric to the crematorium in Queens. I wanted it this way - because I knew that all eyes would be on me as the coffin disappeared into the furnace, and I needed these final moments to be private ones.

We traveled out in a long black limousine. It trailed the hearse. We got stuck in a massive traffic jam on the Queensboro Bridge. There had been an accident up ahead. Everyone began to lean on their horns. None of us had spoken since leaving the funeral home. Roger Webb broke the silence.

'Looks like we're going to be a little late', he said absently.

'I think they'll wait for us', Joel Eberts said, and I found myself giggling for the first time in days.

'Eric would have loved this', I said over the din of car horns. 'The perfect New York send-off. Even though he never really liked Queens'.

'No one from Manhattan likes Queens, the Bronx or Brooklyn', Joel Eberts said. 'The problem is, when you're dead - Manhattan doesn't want you anymore. So you inevitably end up being shipped to Queens, the Bronx or Brooklyn. I think that's called "irony"'.

'Did your brother specify cremation in his will?' Roger Webb asked.

'There was no will', Joel Eberts said.

'Predictably', I said. 'Eric was anti-efficient. Not that there was any estate to speak of. Even if there was, those bastards in the IRS would swallow it whole. No doubt, they'll now try to put some sort of lien on the few odds-and-ends he left behind'.

'That's another day's work, Sara', Joel Eberts said.

'Yeah, I guess it is', I said wearily.

'Joel's right', Jack said, squeezing my hand. 'One thing at a time. You've been through enough'.

'And it's not over yet', I said bleakly.

'That was a hell of a good sermon, Reverend', Joel Eberts said. 'But I've got to tell you something - though I think turning the other cheek is a noble, high-minded idea, putting it into practice is goddamn impossible... 'scuse my French'.

'I'm a Unitarian - so you can use "goddamn" all you like', Roger Webb said with a smile. 'But you're right. "Turning the other cheek" is a Christian idea. And like most ideals - especially Christian ones - it's exceptionally difficult to live up to. But we must try'.

'Even in the face of out-and-out betrayal?' Joel Eberts asked. 'Sorry - but I believe there's a cause-and-effect to our actions. If you risk doing a, then b will inevitably happen. The problem is - most people think that they can dodge the consequences of b. They can't. Things always catch up with you'.

'Isn't that a rather Old Testament view of morality?' Roger Webb asked.

'Hey - I'm Jewish', Joel Eberts said. 'Of course I take an Old Testament line on such things. You make a choice, you make a decision. You live with the ramifications'.

'So, in your book, there's no such thing as absolution?' Jack asked.

'Spoken like a good Catholic', Joel Eberts said. 'That's the big difference between the Irish and the Jews. Though we both wallow in guilt, you guys are always chasing absolution. You're always working the forgiveness angle. Whereas we Jews go to our graves blaming ourselves for everything'.

The traffic eventually started moving. Within ten minutes, we were at the gates of the cemetery. We all fell silent again. We followed the paved road, past row after row of graves. Finally, after acres of headstones, we reached a squat stone building, topped by a long narrow chimney. The hearse bypassed the front entrance, and headed toward the rear of the crematorium. We stopped by the entrance. The limousine driver turned back to us and said, 'We'll wait here until somebody comes out and tells us they're ready'.

Ten minutes later, a greying gentleman in a dark suit emerged from the doors of the crematorium and nodded towards us. We went inside. The chapel was a small, simple room - with five rows of pews. Eric's coffin was on a bier, to the right of the altar. We filed down to the front row. As previously agreed between us, Roger Webb did not offer a final prayer. Or a final benediction. He simply read a single passage from the Book of Revelations:

And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

I didn't believe a word of that Biblical passage. Nor did my late brother. Nor, I sensed, did Roger Webb. But I'd always loved the sentiment behind those lines: the idea of an eternity without anguish or adversity; a celestial pay-off for the vicissitudes of life. Roger Webb spoke the lines beautifully. So beautifully that I felt a small sob catch in my throat. A moment later, I heard the clank of machinery. A curtain behind the bier opened, and a belt beneath the coffin rolled it towards the furnace. Immediately, I stiffened. Immediately, Jack took my hand. And held it tightly.

The curtains closed. The funeral director opened the chapel doors. We left - and rode back to the city in silence.

When we reached my apartment, Jack offered to stay with me for another night. But that would have made five nights in a row - and though he didn't say anything, I was certain that Dorothy was getting rather anxious about his extended absence from home. I didn't want to do anything that upset the equilibrium which had been established between his two households, so I insisted he return to his family.

'I'll tell you what', he said. 'I'll take the rest of the week off work, and be with you all day tomorrow'.

'You can't do that', I said. 'And you know it. You've already taken half of last week off'.

'You are more important'.

'No', I said, taking him in my arms. 'I'm not. You've got a job to be getting on with. Don't risk it for me. I'll be all right'.

He promised to call me twice a day, every day. The first call of the next morning, however, came from the Riverside Funeral Home. Eric's ashes had arrived back from the crematorium. Would I be home this morning to receive them?

An hour later, the doorbell rang. It was a gentleman in a dark suit and a Homburg. With a slight bow, he asked me my name, then handed me a small box, wrapped in brown paper. I brought it inside, placed it on my kitchen table, and stared at it for a very long time, not wanting to open it. Eventually, I got up enough nerve to tear off the paper. I hadn't requested an urn - so the remains of my brother were returned to me in a square cardboard box. The box was painted grey, with a marbleized finish. A simple white card adorned its cover. On it was written: Eric Smythe. I admired the calligraphy. It was most impressive.

I stopped myself from raising the cover and peeking inside. Instead, I stood up, grabbed my raincoat, and placed the box in one of its pockets. Then I left my apartment and walked down Broadway to the 72nd Street subway station.

I knew where I was going. I had chosen the venue days earlier - when pondering (in the few lucid moments I'd had since Eric's death) where he might like his ashes sprinkled. Though the Hudson River was convenient to us, I knew he'd object to the idea of ending up anywhere in the vicinity of New Jersey - as he made ceaseless jokes about the Garden State (once when I suggested an outing to Princeton and environs, he tartly said, 'Sorry - I don't do Jersey').

The East River was also struck off my list of possibilities - as it had no associations for him whatsoever. Nor did Central Park - because, at heart, my ultra-urban and urbane brother didn't really think much of greenery or wide open spaces. He loved the jangled chaos of city streets, the snarled traffic, the edgy ambulation of crowds, the sheer manic brio of Manhattan. Part of me wanted to scatter him on 42nd Street - but that seemed just a little too bleak. Then the idea hit me. Though Eric had no affinity with verdancy or lush terrain, he did spend a considerable amount of time in that most citified and gritty of public spaces: Washington Square Park. During all those years he lived in the Village, it was his outer office: a place in which he'd loiter for hours on a park bench with a novel, or take on the chess hustlers who occupied the northeastern corner of the park. He often spoke about how much he loved the park's egalitarian rough-and-tumble, not to mention the ragtag collection of New York characters who gathered within its confines every day.

'I sit in this park', he once told me, 'and I know why the hell I walked out of Hartford and never looked back'.

So now he would permanently commingle with the habitues of his favorite open-air bolthole.

Of course, I couldn't take a cab downtown. Though Eric might have gotten very free and easy with money in his final years, he would have loved the idea of heading to his final resting place for a nickel on the subway. Nor was I going to bring anyone along to help me scatter the ashes. This was my last moment with my brother. I wanted it to be a private one.

So I slipped a token in the turnstile on 72nd Street, and caught the No. I train south. It was ten o'clock. Rush hour was over - but it was still crowded. There were no seats, so I stood, holding on to a strap. Someone bumped into me. Instantly, my hand went down to my pocket. A wicked thought crossed my mind: imagine if it had been a pickpocket, and he had stolen the box. The poor thief would have suffered a coronary when he saw what he'd lifted.

I stood all the way downtown. I got off at Sheridan Square, and started heading east. I made a detour down Bedford Street - the location of my first apartment in Manhattan. I strolled on to Sullivan Street, and walked past the door of the brownstone in which Eric had lived for over a decade. I thought back to those years in the Village. I wondered if Eric would still be alive if he hadn't achieved such esteem. If he hadn't been such a high-profile writer in such a high-profile new medium, would the Feds have ignored him? No amount of success was worth the price my brother had paid. None at all.

When I reached Washington Square Park, the sun was at full wattage. There were a couple of drunks asleep on the benches. There were two young sharpies hustling chess. There were a couple of NYU students breaking the 'Don't Sit on the Grass' rules. There was an organ grinder, with a pet monkey on his shoulder. As he cranked his machine, it churned out a honky-tonk version of 'La donna e mobile' from Rigoletto. Eric would have approved - both of the Verdi and the eccentric instrumentalist churning out this final musical send-off. I looked up into the cloudless sky, and was pleased that the wind had decided to absent itself today. I took the box out of my pocket. I removed the cover. I stared down into the chalky white powder. I started to walk around the little path that circumnavigated the entire park - a ten-minute journey at the absolute maximum. Every few yards, I took a handful of ashes and scattered them on the path. I didn't look up to see if anyone was noticing what I was doing. I paced myself, making certain that I did the complete circuit of the park. When I reached the Fifth Avenue gate again, the box was empty. Eric was gone. Then I turned north and started walking uptown.

I walked all the way home. The next day I walked down Broadway straight to Battery Park. A day or so later (my calendrical sense had vanished), I headed north, ending up at the Cloisters in Fort George Park. As promised, Jack called twice a day, deeply concerned about my emotional state. I told him I was fine. He had been called out of town to Wilmington and Baltimore - and felt guilty about not being there with me.

'You don't have to worry about me at all', I said. 'I'm coping'.

'Are you sure?'

'There's nothing to worry about', I lied.

'I miss you. Desperately'.

'You're the best, Jack. I couldn't have gotten through this without you'.

But I wasn't getting through this, I'd stopped sleeping. My diet consisted of saltines, tins of Campbell's Tomato Soup, and non-stop coffee. And I was spending eight hours a day walking, killing the rest of the time at double-features in the big picture palaces that lined Broadway. Like my brother in the weeks after he was fired, I too had become a professional drifter.

A week after the funeral, I received a phone call from Joel Eberts. He sounded preoccupied.

'You free this morning?' he asked.

'Since being suspended with pay, I'm a woman of leisure'.

'Then drop by the office. There are one or two things I need to go over with you'.

I was there an hour later. Joel seemed unusually edgy. He gave me a fast paternal hug, and told me I looked tired. Then he motioned for me to sit in the chair opposite his desk. He picked up a file marked 'Eric Smythe' and started rifling through it.

'There are a couple of things we need to discuss. The first is - the matter of his insurance policy'.

'His what?'

'Eric, as it turns out, had his life insured by NBC. It was part of the medical cover which paid for his bills after his hospitalization last month. As we know, the network hadn't canceled his medical policy after sacking him. What I've since discovered is that the bastards also never canceled his life cover. What's more, last year, when everyone at NBC thought he was the best thing since sliced bread - and, more to the point, commercially valuable - they upped his life insurance to seventy-five thousand dollars'.

'Good God'.

'Yeah - it's a hell of a chunk of change. And it all goes to you'.

'You can't be serious'.

'Well, let's say around half of it will end up in your bank. The other half, I'm afraid, will fall into the hands of the IRS. I know their actual demand is around forty-three thousand... but I've got a good tax guy I use - a tough s.o.b. I've talked through this case with him, and he's pretty sure he can get their demand shaved down by around seven to ten grand. Still, that's around thirty-five thousand to you... which ain't bad'.

'I don't believe it'.

'Eric would've been pleased, knowing it was going to you'.

'But without a will, who's to say it will go to me?'

'You're his only extant family member. There are no other siblings, right? We'll have to jump a few standard legal hurdles. But, trust me, it'll be a cinch. The money is yours'.

I sat there, saying nothing. Because I didn't know what to say. Joel Eberts sat opposite me, studying me with care.

'So that's the good news', he said.

'By which you mean...'

He hesitated, then said, 'There is something else I want to talk with you about'.

I was worried by his tone. 'Something serious?' I asked.

'I'm afraid so, yes'.

Another apprehensive pause. Joel Eberts was never apprehensive.

'Sara', he said, leaning forward. 'I need to ask you a question'.

'All right', I said, my anxiety rising. 'Ask'.

'Say I told you...'

He broke off. He looked supremely uncomfortable.

'What's wrong, Joel?'

'Part of me doesn't really want to go into this'.

'Go into what!'

'The question I have to ask you'.

'Ask it'.

He paused.

'All right. Here it is. Say I told you that I knew the name of the individual who named your brother to the FBI...'

'You do?'I said loudly.

He held his hand up.

'One thing at a time. Say I did know. The question is... and I really think you should consider this carefully: would you want to know that individual's name?'

'Are you kidding me? Absolutely. So tell me. Who was the shit... ?'

'Sara... are you sure? Really sure?'

I suddenly felt very cold. But I still nodded. And said, 'I want to know'.

He stared directly at me, fixing me in his gaze.

'It was Jack Malone'.

Ten

I COULDN'T MOVE. I sat rigid in the chair, staring down at my hands. I felt as if I had just been kicked in the face.

Though I wasn't looking at him directly, I could feel Joel Eberts' gaze on me.

'Are you all right?' he asked.

I shook my head.

'I'm so damn sorry', he said.

'You've known about this since... ?'

'The day after the funeral'.

'You waited this long to tell me?'

'I needed to check a lot of things out first. I really didn't want to hit you with this, until I was absolutely certain that it was true. Even then, I debated for days about whether to tell you...'

'You were right to tell me. I had to know this'.

He sighed a tired sigh.

'Yeah - I guess you did', he said.

'How did you find out?'

'Lawyers talk to other lawyers who talk to other lawyers who talk to...'

'I don't follow you'.

'Ever heard of Marty Morrison?'

I shook my head.

'One of the biggest corporate lawyers in the city. Ever since this blacklist crap started, Marty's firm has handled a lot of people who've been called to testify by HUAC. 'Cause it's not just the entertainment business that's been investigated. The Feds have also been poking their noses into schools, colleges, even some of the biggest companies in America. As far as they're concerned, there's a Red under every bed.

'Anyway, Marty and I have known each other since Adam. He grew up two blocks from me in Flatbush. We were at Brooklyn Law together. Though he went the Wall Street way, we've always maintained the friendship. Of course, we're constantly giving each other crap about our political differences. I always say he's the only Republican I will ever break bread with. He still calls me Eugene Debs. But he's a straight shooter. Very well connected. Someone who knows where all the bodies are buried.

'He also happens to be a big Marty Manning fan. Around a year ago, we're having lunch one day, he gets talking about some sketch he saw the previous night on Manning's show. That's when I do a little bragging and tell him that Manning's head writer - Eric Smythe - happens to be my client. Marty was actually impressed... though, of course, he had to make a joke about it: "Since when the hell has a stevedore lawyer like you been representing writers?"

'That was the only mention of your brother. A year goes by. The stuff hits the fan with NBC. Eric refuses to do the dirty on his friends. He ends getting slimed in Winchell's column. The next day, Marty rings me here. "Saw the item about your client in Winchell," he tells me. "Tough call." Then he asks if there's anything he can do to help, because he knows all those assholes on the HUAC committee. He also thinks they're opportunistic trash - not that he'd ever admit that publicly.

'Anyway, I thanked Marty for the offer of help - but told him that your brother wasn't looking for a deal... and certainly wouldn't suddenly become a stoolie after all the damage that the Winchell piece had done. So, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do.

'Then, of course, four weeks later, Eric was dead. And...'

He stopped. He twitched his lips. He avoided my stare. 'What I'm about to say to you might really anger you. Because it was none of my business. But...'

He stopped again.

'Go on', I said.

'I was so goddamn upset... enraged... after Eric died that I made a call to Marty. "You can do me a favor," I said. "Get me the name of the bastard who shopped my client." And he did'.

'Jack Malone?'

'Yeah: Jack Malone'.

'How did your friend find out?'

'It wasn't hard. According to Federal law, anything revealed under testimony at a HUAC hearing - or during an interview with an agent of the FBI - cannot be printed or publicly disseminated. But there are three former G-men - backed by this right-wing supermarket magnate named Alfred Kohlberg and some super-patriotic priest called Father John F. Cronin - who have set up a company called American Business Consultants. Their principal job - if you can believe this - is to scrutinize employees in major corporations, making sure they're not Reds. But they also publish two newsletters - Counterattack and Red Channels. These rags exist for one purpose only - to list the names of everyone who's been accused of being a Communist in a closed executive session of HUAC. Those two newsletters are the Blacklister's Bible: they're the place corporate America and the entertainment industry look to see who's been named. Naturally enough, Marty Morrison has a subscription to both of these shit sheets. He discovered that your brother had been listed in Red Channels - which is also how Eric's employers at NBC learned that he'd been named during testimony in front of HUAC.

'From there it was easy for Marty to call a couple of lawyers he knows around town - guys who've cornered the blacklisting market, making very big bucks representing people who've been dragged in front of HUAC. Of course, lawyers being lawyers, they're always exchanging notes with each other. Marty hit pay dirt on the third call. A big white-shoe attorney named Bradford Ames - who, among other things, looks after the legal side of Steele and Sherwood. Ames owed Marty a favor. Marty cashed it in now.

'"Between ourselves, do you have any idea who might have named Eric Smythe?" Marty asked him. Of course, Ames had heard of your brother - because his blacklisting and his death had been all over the papers. "Between ourselves," he told Marty, "I know exactly the guy who shopped Smythe. Because I represented him when he testified in executive session at HUAC. The funny thing about this guy was that he wasn't in showbiz. He was a public relations guy with Steele and Sherwood. Jack Malone."'

My mind was reeling. 'Jack testified in front of HUAC?' I asked Joel.

'That's what appears to have happened'.

'I don't believe it, Jack's about the most loyal American imaginable'.

'According to Marty, he had a skeleton in his closet. A really small one - but even tiny skeletons get used against you nowadays. It turns out that, right before the war, Mr Malone put his name down for some Joint Anti-Fascist Refugee Committee... which was one of those organizations that was helping people fleeing from Nazi Germany and Italy and the Balkans. Anyway, as it turns out, the committee that Malone was associated with had direct links with the American Communist Party. Brad Ames said that Malone swore up on a stack of Bibles that he was never a member of the Party... that a couple of Brooklyn friends of his had finagled him on to the committee... that he'd only gone to a couple of meetings, nothing more. The problem was - one of the guys who allegedly finagled him on to the committee had been subpoenaed by HUAC. And he'd named Malone during his testimony. Which is how Jack Malone also ended up in the pages of Red Channels - and how his bosses at Steele and Sherwood found out about his accidental flirtation with subversion.

'Naturally enough, Malone sang "Yankee Doodle Dandy" in front of his employers - and said he'd do anything required to clear his name. They called their corporate attorney, Bradford Ames. He met Malone - and they talked things through. Ames then went to some guy on the committee - and did a bit of bartering. Which is how things work at HUAC. If the witness isn't hostile, the number of names - and the actual names themselves - are agreed beforehand between the committee and the witness's attorney. Malone offered to name the same guy who named him. That wasn't enough for the committee. So he also offered to name three other people he knew on the committee. But the committee said, 'No sale' - as the guy who named Malone had also named those names as well.

"You've got to give them one new name', Ames told him. 'Just one. Afterwards you tell them it was all a youthful mistake, and how you love America more than Kate Smith, blah, blah, blah. Then they'll exonerate you'.

'So that's when Malone said, "Eric Smythe." Naturally, Ames knew the name immediately - 'cause he too watched Marty Manning. He told Malone that he thought the committee would be satisfied with that name. Because Eric Smythe was a relatively big fish.

'A week later, Malone went down to Washington and testified in front of HUAC. It was an executive session - which meant that it was all behind closed doors, and not for the public record. So I suppose Malone thought that no one would ever know.

'But lawyers always talk'.

'I'm sorry', Jack said when I first told him about Eric being named. 'I am so goddamn sorry... Tell him if there's anything... anything... I can do...'

I remember leaning over to kiss him, and saying: 'You're a good man'.

I saw him after Eric's death standing in that godawful room at the Ansonia, looking down at the bloodstain, then sobbing into my shoulder. Once again, he said, 'I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry...' Once again, I was so touched by his sense of emotional solidarity, of shared grief. He was crying for Eric, for me - for the tragedy of it all, I remember thinking later.

But now, it turns out it was guilt that was making him cry. Guilt and shame and remorse and...

I swallowed hard. My hands tightened into fists. Not only did he betray us... he cried about it.

'Did the committee exonerate Malone?' I asked.

Malone. Not Jack. He would never be Jack again. He'd now be Malone. The man who destroyed my brother.

'Of course', Joel Eberts said. 'He was cleared completely. According to Marty, Steele and Sherwood was so pleased with the way he handled everything with HUAC, they slipped him a bonus'.

'You know, you really don't have to be doing this', I'd said after he'd insisted on paying to have Eric's belongings moved, and for the paint job at the Ansonia.

'Hiring a couple of painters for two days isn't exactly going to break the bank', he'd said. 'Anyway, I had a bit of a bonus windfall. Out of nowhere I was handed a commission check for over eight hundred dollars. It's Steele and Sherwood's way of saying thank you

For naming names. For saving your own skin. For decimating Eric's life. For killing any love or trust between us. For ruining everything. All that for eight hundred dollars. At today's exchange rates, would that be the equivalent of thirty pieces of silver?

'So Malone doesn't have a clue that anyone knows he fingered Eric?' I asked.

'I doubt it. Sara, I said it once, I'll say it again: you don't know how bad I feel about this...'

'Why should you feel guilty?' I said, standing up. 'I thank you'.

'For what?'

'For telling me the truth. It couldn't have been an easy decision. But it was the right one'.

'What are you going to do about this, Sara?'

'There is nothing to do', I said. 'It's done'.

I left his office. I stepped out into the street. I took two steps, then reached out for a nearby lamp post and held it tightly. No, I didn't break down. Or let out a scream of anguish. Instead, a second wave of shock ran through me. I gulped for air. My stomach heaved. I bent over and was sick in the street.

I retched until there was nothing left to retch. My body was drenched in sweat. I managed to right myself up. I found a tissue in my jacket pocket, and used it to dab my mouth. Then I worked up the strength to raise my right hand and hail a cab home.

When I reached my apartment, I walked into the living room, and sat down in an armchair. I stayed seated for what only seemed like minutes. When I glanced at my watch, however, I realized that more than an hour had gone by. The shock was still so penetrating that I wasn't conscious of time. Instead, I felt glazed, hollow - to the point where standard emotional responses seemed futile. I just sat there, blankly. Not knowing what to do.

Another hour went by. Then I heard a key in the lock. Jack walked in. He was fresh from a road trip, with a suitcase in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

'Hey there!' he said, putting down his suitcase and approaching me. I stared down at the floor. I suddenly couldn't stand the idea of looking at him. Instantly, he sensed that something was very wrong.

'Sara, darling...' he said.

I said nothing. He leaned over and tried to touch me. I shrugged him off. He now looked alarmed.

'What's happened?' he whispered, crouching down beside me.

'I want you to leave, Jack. Leave and never come back'.

He dropped the flowers. 'I don't understand', he said, his voice now barely a whisper.

'Yes you do', I said, standing up. 'Now go'.

'Sara, please', he said. As I turned towards the bedroom, he put his hand on my shoulder. I turned on him.

'Never, never touch me again'.

'Why are you...'

' Why? Why? You know why, Jack. You just thought I would never find out'.

His face crumpled. He sat down on the sofa. He put his face in his hands. He didn't say anything for a very long time.

'Can I explain?' he finally asked.

'No. Because nothing you say matters anymore'.

'Sara, my love...'

'No terms of endearment. No explanations. No rationalizations. We have nothing to say to each other anymore'.

'You've got to hear me out'.

'No. I don't. There's the door. Use it'.

'Who told you?'

'Joel Eberts. He knew someone who knew the guy who represented you when you went in front of the committee. Joel said that - according to his lawyer friend - you put up no resistance. You sang on the spot'.

'I had no choice. None'.

'Everyone has a choice. You made yours. Now you have to live with it'.

'They had me in a corner, Sara. I was going to lose...'

'What? Your job? Your income? Your professional standing?'

'I have a kid. I have to pay the rent. I have to put food on the table'.

'Everyone has to do that. Eric had to do that'.

'Look, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt your brother'.

'But you still gave his name to the FBI and the House UnAmerican Activities Committee'.

'I thought...'

'What? That the Feds would let him off with a warning?'

'Someone gave them my name. They insisted I give them names'.

'You could have said no'.

'Don't you think I wanted to?'

'But you didn't'.

'There was no way out. If I refused to give names, I'd lose my job. But then someone else would come along and name the people I named'.

'But that would have been someone else, not you'.

'I had to put my responsibilities first...'

'Responsibilities to whom, Jack?'

'To Dorothy and Charlie'.

'But not to me? Or to my completely innocent brother? Or were we simply expendable?'

'You know I don't think that'.

'I don't know you anymore'.

'Don't say that, Sara'.

'Why not? It's the truth. You've destroyed everything'.

My voice remained somehow controlled. Jack buried his head deeper in his hands. He fell silent again. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded diminished, small.

'Please try to understand: they insisted, demanded, that I give them a name. Believe me, I tried to explain that I had never been a Communist; that I had joined that anti-Fascist committee when I was a kid of eighteen, and only because I believed it was making a principled stand against Hitler, Mussolini and Franco. The FBI guys said they understood that. Just as they also knew that I had served my country in the war - and hadn't dabbled in politics since then. As far as they were concerned, I was a "good American" who'd made a small youthful mistake. Other people who were on that committee had also made mistakes - and in a demonstration of their patriotism, they had given the names of those who were associated with this group at the time, or had once had Communist sympathies.

'"They're probably as innocent as you are," one of the Fed guys told me. "But you must understand: we are investigating a vast conspiracy which poses a threat to national security. We simply need to discover who is at the heart of the conspiracy. Which is why we need names. By giving us information not only are you doing a service to your country; you are also eliminating yourself from our investigations. But by refusing to assist us, the cloud of suspicion still hovers over you. Face fact, anyone who's been a Communist in the past is going to get found out. So you might as well make a clean breast of everything... while you still can'."

Jack paused again. He lifted his head up, attempting to look me in the eye. But I turned away.

'Their argument had a ruthless logic to it. Someone had named me. I would prove my innocence by naming someone else. They, in turn, would prove their innocence by naming someone else. Everyone was betraying each other. But the thing about this betrayal was - no one had a choice'.

'Yes, they did', I said, suddenly angry. 'The Hollywood Ten had a choice - they all went to jail. Arthur Miller had a choice: he refused to name names. My brother had a choice... and he lost his life'.

Jack's head went back into his hands.

'I tried to give them just the names of the other people on the committee. "That's not good enough," they told me. "We already know everyone who was with you back then. What we need is someone else." I told them I didn't know any other Communists. They wouldn't buy that. "Everyone knows a one-time Commie." I said I hated the idea of hurting someone else. "You're hurting nobody," they told me. "As long as he owns up to his past and agrees to cooperate with us, no harm will come to him." Again, I tried to convince them that the only Communists I knew were on that committee, and that was over a decade ago. But they were adamant. I had to give them one new name. Otherwise...

'So, I had a problem. I had to give them an ex-Communist. But I didn't know any ex-Communists'.

'Except my brother'.

'I was desperate. But the way I put it to the Feds, I told them: "Look, the only guy I know who may have a connection with the Party quit so long ago, it's irrelevant." They said, "Then he can exonerate himself, just like you're about to do."'

'So, that's when you gave them Eric's name'.

'Sara, darling... given his high-profile status in the television business, he was bound to get rumbled for his political past sooner or later. Surely you can see that'.

'Oh yes - I do see that. And, quite frankly, ever since all this godawful blacklisting business started, I knew that, eventually, Eric's very brief flirtation with the Party would catch up with him. What I did not expect was that the man I once loved would turn out to be the snitch, the Judas'.

Long pause.

'Once loved?' he asked.

'Yes. Once. No more'.

He looked up at me, devastated.

'Never for a moment did I want to harm him', he said. 'And I figured that, like everybody else, he'd also play the game'.

'Fortunately, Eric had something called a conscience'.

'You don't think I don't have a conscience?' he said, now on his feet, his voice loud with edgy despair. 'You don't think I haven't been haunted by what happened to Eric?'

'You played along so brilliantly after he was fired, didn't you? You should have been an actor. You were so utterly sympathetic and supportive. You couldn't do enough for the guy'.

'That wasn't playing along. That was...'

'I know. Guilt and anguish and penitential shame. You're the perfect Catholic. I bet you even went to confession after you shopped him'.

'I never, never expected him to fall apart...'

'So that made it all right to name him?'

'Please try to understand...'

'There is nothing to understand...'

'I didn't mean harm'.

'But you did harm'.

'I just didn't know...'

I stared at him.

'What did you just say?' I asked quietly.

He took a short intake of breath.

'I said, "I didn't know"'.

'Ich babe nichts davon gewusst', I said.

'What?'

'Ich habe nichts davon gewusst. I didn't know'.

'I don't understand...'

'Yes, you do. Dachau, nineteen forty-five. You were with the Army battalion that liberated the camp. Ike ordered that all the townspeople be marched through the barracks and crematoria, so they could see the horror that had been perpetrated in their names. And there was this one fat, well-dressed banker who broke down and kept telling you... Ich habe nichts davon gewusst... Ich habe nichts davon gewusst. Remember?'

He nodded.

'That did happen, didn't it?' I asked. 'Or is it just another of your lies?'

'No', he said, 'it did happen'.

'Ich habe nichts davon gewusst. You told me that story on my first evening with you. I was already in love with you before you told it to me. Afterwards -' I gulped hard '- afterwards, I thought you were the most remarkable man I had ever met. Wasn't I a fool? Especially given your little disappearing act. I should have known better. But you had my heart, you shit...'

'You still have my heart, Sara...'

'Liar'.

'It's the truth'.

'If that was the truth, you would have never named Eric. But you thought you could get away with it. You thought I'd never find out'.

He started to weep. 'I'm sorry', he said.

'Apology not accepted. You and Eric were my entire world. Now that's gone'.

'Darling, I'm still here'.

'No, you're not'.

'Sara, please, I beg you...'

'Get out'.

'Don't do this'.

'Get out'.

He staggered towards me, his arms open. 'I love you', he said.

'Don't you dare say that word'.

'I love you'.

'Out now!'

'I...'

He tried to hold me. I screamed at him to go away. Then I began to hit him. I slapped him around the face and the head. He put up no resistance, no defence. Suddenly, I too was crying. Weeping uncontrollably. My blows were ineffectual. I collapsed to the floor, bawling my eyes out. Once again, he tried to reach for me. This time, I used my right fist and caught him in the mouth. He reeled backwards, colliding with an end-table. It fell over, smashing a lamp to the ground. He followed it, landing on his knees. My crying jerked to a halt. We stared at each other, wide-eyed. He touched his lips. They were bleeding. He stood up and staggered into the bathroom. I couldn't move. A minute went by. He came out, holding a handkerchief against his mouth. It was reddened with blood. He said nothing. I started getting to my feet. He proffered his free hand to help me. I declined it. I went into the kitchen. I found a dish towel. I took out a block of ice from the ice-box. I put it into the sink and used an ice pick to chip away at it. I wrapped a baseball-sized chunk of ice in the dish towel, and returned to the living room.

'Here', I said, handing it to him. 'This will keep the swelling down'.

He took it and put it to his mouth.

'I want you to leave now, Jack'.

'All right', he mumbled.

'I'll pack up your things tomorrow. I'll leave a message at your office, telling you when I'm not here, so you can collect them'.

'Let's talk tomorrow...'

'No'.

'Sara...'

'Never call me again'.

'Sara...'

'Give me your keys for here'.

'Let's wait until tomorrow before...'

'The keys!' I said, my voice loud again. With reluctance, he fished out his key ring, unfastened the top clasp, and took off two keys. Then he dumped them into my outstretched hand.

'Now let yourself out', I said, and walked into the bedroom, locking the door behind me.

I fell on to the bed. Jack rapped on the door several times, begging to be let in. I pulled a pillow over my head to block out his voice. Eventually, after a few minutes, the banging stopped.

'I'll call you later', he said through the door. 'Please try to forgive me'.

I didn't reply. I simply pulled the pillow tighter around my head.

I remained on the bed after I heard the front door close. My anguish was soon replaced by a numb clarity. There would be no forgiveness, no absolution. What Jack had done was so grievous - such a complete breach of trust - that I could never excuse it. He had betrayed Eric. He had betrayed me. Yes, I understood the reasons why he named my brother. Yes, I understood the pressures he was under. But I still couldn't pardon him. Though you might be able to forgive stupidity or lack of thought, it's impossible to condone a cynical, calculated action. All right, it might have only been a matter of time before Eric was accused by somebody of having former Communist sympathies. But how could I ever sleep again next to the man who made the accusation? That's what so astonished me about Jack's decision - his inability to fathom the fact that the moment he pointed the finger at my brother, he killed our life together. He knew just how inseparable Eric and I were. He knew that he was the only family I had left. He was, I always sensed, silently jealous of our devotion to each other. Is that why he undermined everything? Or was there a deeper, even more disturbing truth lurking behind his action: Jack Malone was a moral coward. A man who refused to face the music - and who, when presented with a critical choice, would always grab the expedient, self-serving option. He couldn't face writing me after discovering that Dorothy was pregnant. Years later, when he accidentally barged back into my life, he pleaded with me to understand the shame that made him vanish for so long. Fool that I was, I eventually bought his excuse, his passionate apologies. By letting him back into my life, I began the process that eventually led to my brother's death.

Now, sprawled across my bed, I heard the voice of my brother echoing in my head: 'Forget him', he told me repeatedly during that year when I so openly pined for Jack. 'He's a bum'.

Just as I also remembered that disastrous meeting I organized in the bar of the St Moritz - when Eric showed up drunk and became so insulting that Jack threw his drink in his face.

They always hated each other... even though they both denied it. When that Fed turned to Jack and asked him for the name of a Communist, did he perhaps think: now I can finally nail that bastard?

But such speculation was now pointless. Because one simple fact stared me in the face: I would never again have anything to do with Jack Malone.

The phone began to ring. I ignored it. An hour later, flowers arrived. I refused to accept them - telling the delivery man to throw them in the nearest trash can. Later that afternoon, a telegram arrived. I tore it up without opening it. At six that night, the doorbell began to ring. It kept ringing for fifteen minutes. When it finally stopped, I waited another fifteen minutes before opening my front door and peering out into the lobby. There was a letter waiting by the main door. I went out and retrieved it. I recognized the handwriting on the envelope. I went back into my apartment and tossed the letter into the trash. Then I put on my coat. I picked up my typewriter and the suitcase I had packed earlier that afternoon. I locked my apartment door behind me, and struggled with the bags to the front door.

As soon as I stepped out into the street, Jack was there - huddled in my doorway, looking ashen, manic, and sodden from the rain.

'Go away', I shouted.

He eyed the luggage with alarm. 'What are you doing?'

'Leaving'.

'For where?'

'None of your business', I said, heading down the steps.

'Please don't go...'

I said nothing. I turned right towards West End Avenue. He followed behind.

'You can't leave. You are everything to me'.

I kept walking.

'I will be lost if you go'.

I kept walking. He suddenly dashed in front of me and fell to his knees.

'You are the love of my life'.

I looked down at him. Not with anger or pity. Rather, with total dispassion.

'No', I said quietly. ' You are the love of your life'.

He reached for the hem of my raincoat. 'Sara, darling...' he said, tears rolling down his cheeks.

'Please get out of my way, Jack'.

He grabbed the hem and held on. 'No', he said. 'Not until you hear me out'.

'I'm going, Jack'.

I tried to move. He held on tightly.

'Jack - it's over'.

'Don't say that'.

'It's over'.

'You have to hear me out'.

'It is over. Now let go...'

I was interrupted by a voice.

'You got a problem here, lady?'

I turned around. A cop approached us.

'Ask him', I said, nodding toward Jack, still on his knees. The cop looked down at him with disdained amusement.

'So what's the problem, fella?' the cop asked him.

Jack let go of my hem. 'No problem', he said. 'I was just...'

'Beggin' forgiveness is what it looks like to me', the cop said.

Jack stared down at the pavement. The cop turned to me. 'Was he botherin' you?'

'I just wanted to get into a cab. He thought otherwise'.

'You gonna let her get into a cab, fella?'

Jack hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly.

'Good call. Now what I want you to do is stand up and sit on the stoop there while I help your lady friend into a taxi. You gonna do that like a smart guy?'

Jack got to his feet, walked over to a nearby stoop, and sat down - looking totally defeated. The cop picked up my bags and walked me to the corner of 77th Street and West End Avenue. He put out his hand. A cab stopped within seconds. The driver came out and put my bags in the trunk.

'Thank you', I said to the cop.

'No problem. That guy didn't do anything stupid to you, did he?'

'Nothing criminal, if that's what you mean'.

'Okay then. Have a good trip - wherever you're going. I'll keep an eye on lover boy for a couple of minutes, so he doesn't go chasing after you'.

I got into the cab. I said 'Penn Station' to the driver. We pulled out into the traffic. I looked back and saw Jack still sitting on the stoop, crying uncontrollably.

At Penn Station, I collected a ticket I had reserved that afternoon, and had a porter bring my bags to the sleeping compartment I had booked on the night train to Boston. I'd paid a supplement to ensure that I had a single compartment. I needed to be alone tonight. After I settled in, a steward knocked on my door. I told him I wouldn't be eating, but a double whiskey and soda would be most welcome. I changed into a nightgown and a robe. I lowered the bed. The steward returned with my whiskey. I drank it slowly. Once or twice the glass began to shake in my hand. I finished the whiskey. I climbed in between the stiff sheets. I turned off the light. The train shunted out of the station. I fell asleep.

I awoke again to a knock on the door. The steward entered, bearing toast and coffee. We were half-an-hour outside Boston. First light was bleaching the night sky. I sat up in bed, sipping the coffee, watching the emergence of a New England dawn. I had slept deeply, without dreams. My stomach felt taut with sadness. But no tears stung my eyes. My decision had been made; my heart hardened. It was morning. I was on the move. And the steward's coffee was actually drinkable.

At South Station in Boston, I switched trains. By noon that day, I had arrived in Brunswick, Maine. As arranged, Ruth Reynolds was at the station to collect me. It had been over five years since I'd fled to Maine in the spring of 1946 after everything went wrong in the wake of Jack's disappearance. Yesterday afternoon, when I felt myself hitting bottom again, I decided that the only thing to do was to leave town; to disappear without trace for a while. Had I stayed in Manhattan, Jack would have constantly bombarded me with phone calls, flowers, telegrams, and late-night appearances on my doorstep. More tellingly, I needed to go somewhere away from everything to do with the blacklist, NBC, Saturday Night/Sunday Morning, Walter Winchell, and all the painful resonances which I now associated with Manhattan. So that's when I reached for my address book and found the phone number of Ruth Reynolds in Bath, Maine. She remembered me immediately ('Hell, I am one of the biggest fans of your column. Why aren't you writing it anymore?'). And yes, she had a couple of summer cottages for rent right now. There would be no problem accommodating me as of tomorrow, if need be.

So I reserved a seat on the first train out of town, packed a suitcase, and fled... leaving Jack crying on a doorstep. Now, here I was, back in Maine. Being enveloped in one of Ruth Reynolds' bear hugs.

'Well, don't you look great', she lied.

'You too', I said, even though I blanched when I first saw her on the station platform - and noted that she had put on at least thirty pounds in the intervening years.

'No need to fib, honey', she said. 'I'm fat'.

'No, you're not'.

'You're a nice girl, Sara - but a terrible liar'.

We drove north out of Brunswick towards Bath. 'So... how's it feel being a journalistic star?' she asked me.

'I'm hardly a star. Anyway, I'm on leave of absence from Saturday/Sunday!

'Is that why you decided to come back to Maine?'

'Yeah', I lied. 'There's some stuff I want to get down on paper'.

'Well, you picked the perfect place for peace and quiet. I'm afraid I couldn't get you your old cottage, because Mr and Mrs Daniels sold their place years ago. You still in touch with them?'

I shook my head.

'Anyway, I found you something very cute. And it's got an extra bedroom if you want a guest... or if your brother pays you a visit'.

I stiffened. Ruth noticed this. 'Something wrong?' she asked.

'No', I said - as I vowed to myself I would remain tight-lipped about events of the past few months.

'How is that brother of yours?'

'Fine, fine'.

'Nice to hear it'.

We made small talk for the rest of the drive. When we reached Bath, we turned right down Rt. 209, stopping in the general store at a village called Winnegance to pick up supplies. Then we continued along the lonely two-lane blacktop that snaked its way down the spindly peninsula which ended at Popham Beach. The beach was as empty as ever.

'Nothing ever changes around here, does it?' I said.

'That's Maine'.

Ruth told me I was welcome at her house that night for dinner. But I begged off, saying I was tired.

'How about tomorrow then?' she asked.

'Let's talk in a couple of days', I said, 'after I've settled in'.

'You sure everything's all right?'

'Of course. The house suits me just fine'.

'I was talking about you, Sara. Is everything okay with you?'

'You said how good I looked, didn't you?'

She was taken aback by the sharp tone. 'And I was telling the truth. But...'

Before she could pose another question, I cut her off.

'It's been a difficult few months, all right?'

'Sara, I do apologize. I didn't mean to pry'.

'You're not prying. And excuse my tone. It's just... I need time by myself'.

'Well, up here in Maine, we never crowd anyone. So when you want company, you know where to find it'.

I didn't want company. Or conversation. Or any form of human contact. I wanted to shut down; to close myself off from everyone. I did just that. I wrote a letter to the accounts department of Saturday/Sunday, informing them that I wanted all pay checks to be dispatched directly to my bank. I wrote Joel Eberts, authorizing him (when Eric's insurance check came through) to pay off the IRS and then deposit the remainder of the payment in my stock market fund. I also sent him a set of keys to my apartment and asked if (for a fee) he would hire someone to collect my mail; to hold all correspondence and pay all bills... on the condition that he kept my whereabouts private from anyone who was trying to contact me. A few days later, he wrote back, agreeing to get his part-time secretary to drop by once a week and gather up all correspondence. He also enclosed power-of-attorney forms, allowing him to write checks from my account to cover all bills.

'But are you sure', he said in his covering letter to me, 'that you don't want me to forward on any personal letters?'

'Absolutely sure', I wrote back. 'And you must keep my forwarding address a secret - especially from Jack Malone, should he contact you. More specifically, I do not want to know if he does contact you. So you must also keep this information from me'.

I was determined to kill all potential contact between myself and Jack. Not just because I refused to budge from my irreconcilable position, but also because I was terrified that, were I to read one of his pleading letters (or, worse yet, allow myself to encounter him face to face), I would crumble on the spot... as I had done all those years ago when he had accidentally barged back into my life. We were finished together. Nothing he said or did would change that. He was gone from my life. I was alone now. I wanted it that way.

I didn't make contact with Ruth for the first three weeks I was at the cottage. Of course, she did come down twice a week to clean the place and change the sheets. But I made certain I was out walking on the beach when she arrived. She accepted my aloofness - and left me notes asking if she could run any errands for me. I drew up lists for her - for groceries and for books I asked her to borrow from the local library. Besides leaving her cash for these essentials, I always ended my list with an apology for my aloofness: 'Sorry for being so distant. One day, when I am back on Planet Earth, I will come over with a bottle of something strong and Scottish, and explain all. But for the moment, let me wallow in my solipsism... a big dumb word meaning "self-pity"'.

A few days later, I came back from my morning stroll to find all the groceries I requested, and three thick novels I'd always dodged reading (Mann's The Magic Mountain, James's The Wings of a Dove, and - as my popcorn antidote to all that serious literature - Thomas Heggen's wonderful Second World War yarn, Mister Roberts). There was also a bottle of J&B. A note was enclosed:

Sara:

No need for apologies. Just know we're here when you need us. As it's still kind of nippy at night, I thought the bottle of Scotch might be effective heating... especially if you get bored lighting fires every evening.

A week slipped by. Then another. Then another. I read. I walked. I slept. I received one letter - from Joel Eberts, informing me that the seventy-five-thousand-dollar insurance check had cleared. Through his 'tax guy', he had also cut a deal with the IRS on the matter of Eric's back payments.

They settled for $32,500. I wanted to push them lower, but as my tax guy pointed out, we still managed to haul them down quite a bit. So we have to be grateful for that. I had a chat with Lawrence Braun - your stockbroker. He plans to invest the balance in solid blue-chip companies - unless (as he put it) 'Miss Smythe has suddenly become adventurous'. I told him that, unless I heard otherwise from you, blue chips were the way to go.

That's all my news from this end, except to say that you do have a stack of private correspondence here. I'm happy to keep it in storage. When you want it, just say the word.

In closing, Sara - let me add this one personal hope: that you are somehow coming to terms with all that has happened. No one deserves what you had to face in the past couple of months. By its very nature, life is unfair. But it has been, of late, mercilessly unfair to you. This will change. You may never get over the loss of your brother. Just as you may never get over Mr Malone's act of betrayal. But I know you will eventually come to terms with both events. Because to move forward, we all must somehow come to terms with every damn thing that life throws in our path.

For now, however, take your time. Put the world on hold. Find your way through this difficult juncture. And do know that I am here, whenever you need me.

But I needed no one. Until the beginning of my fourth week at the cottage. It was a Tuesday morning. I woke up feeling odd. Two minutes later, I was violently ill. I spent a ghastly quarter-of-an-hour in the toilet. The next morning I was sick again. On Thursday, the dawn chorus of nausea passed me by. But it returned again on Friday, and hit me throughout the weekend.

I needed to see a doctor. Especially as my period was also two weeks late. So I made contact with Ruth again. I didn't go into the nature of my complaint. I simply told her it was a medical problem. She dispatched me to her family doctor - a severe-looking man in his fifties named Grayson. He wore a crisp white shirt, a crisp white medical jacket, rimless glasses, and a permanent scowl. He looked like a mean-minded druggist. His offices were on Center Street in Bath. His patients were the men employed at Bath Iron Works and their families. He had no bedside manner whatsoever. I told him the nature of my problem, and the fact that my period was so late.

'Sounds like you could be pregnant', he said tonelessly.

'That's impossible', I said.

'You mean, you and your husband haven't been having...'

He paused, then uttered the word 'relations' with considerable distaste.

'I'm not married', I said.

His eyes flickered down to my left hand. He noticed the absence of a wedding ring. He hesitated, then said, 'But you have been having relations with...'

'With someone, yes. But there is no medical way I could be pregnant'.

Then I explained about my earlier failed pregnancy and how the obstetrician at Greenwich Hospital told me I could never have children.

'Maybe he was wrong', Dr Grayson said, then asked me to roll up my sleeve. He drew some blood. He handed me a glass vial and directed me towards the toilet. When I returned with the urine sample, he told me to come back two days later for the results.

'But I already know the outcome', I said. 'I can't be pregnant. It's an impossibility'.

But I kept getting sick every morning. When I returned to Dr Grayson's office two days later, he looked up briefly from my file and said, 'The test was positive'.

I was dazed beyond belief. I didn't know what to say. Except, 'That can't be'.

'These tests are rarely wrong'.

'In this instance, I'm certain it's mistaken'.

The doctor shrugged with disinterest.

'If you want to be delusional, that's your choice'.

'What a horrible thing to say'.

'You are pregnant, Miss Smythe', he said, putting particular emphasis on my single status. 'That is what the test said - so that is my clinical diagnosis. Choose to believe it or not'.

'May I have a second test?'

'You can have as many tests as you want - as long as you are willing to pay for them. But I would also advise you to see an obstetrician as soon as possible. You're staying locally, yes?'

I nodded.

'The nearest obstetrician is Dr Bolduck in Brunswick. He's located off Maine Street, right near the college. I'll give you his number'.

He scratched a few numbers on to a prescription pad, then tore it off and handed it to me. 'You can settle with my receptionist on the way out'. I stood up. 'One last thing, Miss Smythe', he said.

'Yes?'

' Congratulations'.

Ruth was waiting for me in the lobby. I paid my bill, then nodded that I was ready to leave. Prior to this, I hadn't told her about the pregnancy test. I certainly wasn't going to tell her now. But my face betrayed my worries. Because, as soon as we were outside, she touched my arm and said, 'It isn't anything fatal, is it?'

I nearly managed a laugh. 'I wish it was'.

'Oh dear', she said. And I instantly realized that I had given the game away. Suddenly I put my head against her shoulder. I felt stunned, stupefied.

'How about a nice breakfast somewhere?' she asked.

'I might throw it all up'.

'Then again, you might not'.

She brought me to a little diner near the Iron Works. She insisted that I eat scrambled eggs and home fries and two thick buttery slices of toast. I was reluctant at first - but quickly dug in. After three days of nausea, the food tasted wonderful. It also helped dull the shock of my news.

'I know you're a private kind of person', Ruth said, 'so I'm not gonna pry. But if you want to talk about it...'

I suddenly found myself telling her everything that had happened to me since my last stay at the cottage. It all came pouring out. She blanched when I told her about losing the baby and being told I would never conceive again. She took my arm when I informed her about Eric - and Jack's role in my brother's collapse.

'Oh, Sara', she whispered. 'I wish to God I'd known about your brother'.

'I doubt his death made the Maine papers'.

'I never read 'em anyway. No time'.

'Believe me, you're better off'.

'What a terrible year for you'.

'I have known better ones', I said. 'And now, just to unhinge things completely, it turns out I'm pregnant'.

'I can only begin to imagine the sort of shock you're feeling'.

'About a ten on the Richter scale'.

'Are you pleased?'

'I've never been in a train wreck - but I think I now understand what it feels like'.

'I don't blame you'.

'But once the after-shock wears off... yeah, I'm going to feel pretty damn pleased'.

'That's good'.

'This is like news from outer space. I had accepted the fact that I would never have kids'.

'That must have been hard'.

'Very'.

'Doctors often get things wrong'.

'Thankfully'.

'May I ask you something?'

'Of course'.

'Are you going to tell him?'

'No way'.

'Don't you think he deserves to know?'

'No'.

'I'm sorry - it's none of my business'.

'I can't... won't... tell him. Because I can't forgive him'.

'I could see how that would be hard'.

I heard the ambivalence in her voice.

'But... ?' I asked.

'Like I said, Sara - it's not for me to be sticking my nose into some tough stuff'.

'Go on - say what you want to say'.

'It's his kid too'.

'And Eric was my brother'.

Silence.

'You've got a point there. Matter dropped'.

'Thank you'.

I raised my coffee cup. And said, 'But it's good news'.

She raised her cup and clinked it against mine. 'It's great news', she said. 'The best news'.

'And totally unbelievable'.

Ruth laughed.

'Honey', she said, 'all good news is unbelievable. For a lot of very obvious reasons'.

Eleven

I WENT TO see Dr Bolduck a few days later. I braced myself for another flinty, stern medic - who would glare at my ringless finger and play the New England Puritan. But Bolduck was a pleasant, genial man in his late thirties - a Bowdoin graduate who'd returned to his college town after medical school to set up practice. He put me at my ease immediately.

'So, Dr Grayson referred you to me?' he asked. I nodded. 'Has he been your doctor for long?'

'I'm new to the area. And I'm already on the lookout for a new GP'.

'Really?'

'I don't think we hit it off too well'.

'But Dr Grayson is such a delightful man', he said, arching his eyebrows in Groucho Marx style. 'With the most wonderful bedside manner'.

I laughed, then said, 'I don't think he liked the fact that I wasn't married. Does that bother you, Doctor?'

He shrugged. 'Your private life is your private life, Miss Smythe. All I care about is getting you and your baby through the pregnancy safely'.

'I still don't believe I'm pregnant'.

He smiled. 'That's a common complaint'.

'What I mean is: medically speaking, I cannot be pregnant'.

Then I took him through everything that had happened five years ago at Greenwich Hospital. Unlike Dr Grayson, he expressed immediate interest, and asked for the name of the obstetrician who'd dealt with me then.

'I'll write to him and request your medical records. In the meantime, I agree with you: a second pregnancy test would be prudent'.

He took a blood sample. I filled a vial with urine. I arranged to see Dr Bolduck in a week's time. I returned to the cottage at Popham Beach. I tried to come to terms with my news. I had craved a child. I had quietly mourned my inability to have one. When Jack came back into my life, this grief intensified - though I refused to articulate it in front of him. Now I was pregnant (unless, of course, that test was very wrong). Had I been a Christian I would have called it a miracle. Had I still been with Jack, I would have been thrilled beyond belief. Instead, I felt a curious mixture of elation and despondency. Elation because I would finally have a child. Despondency because I would never speak with the child's father again. As bad ironies go, this one was particularly grim.

My mind was constantly haunted by thoughts of Eric and Jack. My grief overtook me without warning. One moment I would be reasonably collected; the next, I would be transported to the edge of the abyss. I remembered the distress I felt in the months after I'd miscarried - how grief became a shadowy companion, stalking me unawares. This time, its presence was more acute, more constant. Because Jack had decimated everything. That knowledge strengthened my resolve to make no contact with him about my pregnancy. He could not be trusted. He was beneath contempt. He would have nothing to do with this child.

Yes, I was being hard, steely. But the hardness was necessary - a means by which to cope with the all-permeating sense of loss. Initially it gave me a modus vivendi to get me through days which often seemed bottomless. But now there was the astonishing prospect of a baby. And though that prospect wouldn't soften my stance towards Jack, I knew it would give me a sense of possibility; a destination at the end of all this anguish.

I kept my appointment with Dr Bolduck seven days later. He was as genial as ever.

'I'm afraid the delightful Dr Grayson was right: pregnancy tests rarely lie. You are definitely going to have a baby'.

I smiled.

'Well, at least you seem pleased with the news', he said.

'Believe me, I am. And flabbergasted'.

'That's understandable. Especially as I've just been reading your file from Greenwich Hospital... which only arrived yesterday. The doctor attending you was, in my opinion, wrong to inform you that your damaged womb ruled out all possibilities of carrying a child to term. Yes, one of your fallopian tubes was badly damaged, which does significantly lessen the potential for conception. And yes, the internal injury that the wall of your womb suffered also decreases the possibility of a pregnancy. But it doesn't rule it out altogether. I personally know of several cases where conception happened after this sort of medical event, and the pregnancy was carried to full term. Which, in plain language, means that your doctor at Greenwich Hospital may have just been a tad pessimistic about your chances of having a baby. Personally, I think what he did was shameful, because it caused you years of unnecessary distress. But don't quote me on that. Part of the Hippocratic oath has a clause saying you can never censure another doctor... especially in front of one of his patients'.

'Don't worry - I'll censure him myself. He was an awful man. So awful he made Dr Grayson look like Albert Schweitzer'.

Now it was Dr Bolduck's turn to laugh. 'I might use that', he said.

'Be my guest'.

His smile changed into a look of professional seriousness. 'Though this is wonderful news, I really am going to want you to take it easy. Very easy. Because of the previous internal damage, this will be a delicate, finely balanced pregnancy'.

'Is there a chance that I might lose it?'

'There is always a one-in-six chance of miscarrying in the first three months of term'.

'But with my previous history... ?'

'The odds might be as low as one-in-three... but they're still in your favor. You will simply have to be as careful as possible. As long as you don't go climbing Mount Kathadin or decide to play ice hockey for Bowdoin, you should have a good shot at holding on to it. I'm afraid luck also has a lot to do with these things too. Are you planning to stay around here?'

I had nowhere else to go. And since rest and lack of anxiety were going to be crucial over the next eight months, there was no way I would be returning to Manhattan.

'Yes, I'm staying in Maine'.

'Again, this is none of my business... but do you really think it's a good idea being alone in an isolated place like Popham Beach?'

I had to admit that it wasn't. So - as much as I rued the loss of that extraordinary sweep of sand, sky and ocean - I moved a week later into Brunswick. After scanning the Classifieds in the Maine Gazette for a few days, I managed to find a pleasant, if somewhat rustic apartment on Federal Street. It was a one-bedroom unit in an unprepossessing white clapboard house. The decor could have been politely described as 'tired': yellowing walls, cast-off furniture, a basic kitchen, a brass bed in urgent need of a polish. But the morning light flooded the living room. There was a large mahogany roll-top desk and a wonderful old-style editor's chair (the desk and chair were actually what sold me on the place). And it was close to the college, the town, and the offices of Dr Bolduck - so I could walk everywhere.

Ruth helped me move. I set up an account with the Casco National Bank on Maine Street, and (via Joel Eberts) arranged to have my weekly Saturday Night/Sunday Morning checks dispatched there. I had another four months to go on my alleged 'leave of absence'. The weekly retainer easily covered my eighteen-dollar weekly rent and all basic necessities. It even left me enough over to buy a radio, a Victrola, and a steady supply of books and records. I also started reading newspapers again: the local Maine Gazette and the Boston Globe (as it took three days for the New York Times to reach Brunswick). Joe McCarthy and his band of cronies were in full demagogic flight. The Rosenbergs were entering the final appeal process against their death sentence for allegedly smuggling atomic bomb secrets to the Soviets. Eisenhower was looking a dead cert to beat Adlai Stevenson for the presidency in the coming November election. And the blacklist seemed to get longer with every new Associated Press wire report from Washington. On a minor personal level, I knew that this ever-deepening Red scare meant that there was no way I'd be welcomed back to Saturday/Sunday after my residency in purdah was over. Eric's death had been all over the papers - and his Godship the Editor would be far too nervous about upsetting the board by reinstating me. After all, I was the sister of a deceased man who had the unpatriotic nerve not to rat on others. Surely that made me damaged, unAmerican goods... and unworthy of access to the precious column inches of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning.

So I figured that, halfway through my pregnancy, the guilt money from Saturday/Sunday would run out, after which I would have to start tapping into the insurance cash from NBC or my stock portfolio... though a certain corner of my frugal puritan brain fretted about the idea of raiding my capital at such a young age. Especially as I would definitely need that money to help bring this child up on my own. I also worried about the fact that - thanks to the Winchell piece and my reluctant furlough from Saturday/Sunday - the word around town was that I was politically suspect and best left unemployed.

But every time I started to have one of these nervy reveries about my future employment prospects (or lack thereof), I managed to calm myself down with the thought that, one way or another, I'd find a way of making a living. More tellingly, I was luckier than most. I had money in the bank and an apartment in Manhattan which I owned outright. They might take my career away from me... but they couldn't snatch the roof over my head.

Anyway, there was no chance I'd be back in Manhattan for some time. Just as there was also no chance that I'd be telling anyone about my pregnancy. Ruth was the only person who knew - and she promised to keep quiet on the subject.

'Trust me', she said, 'I know how small towns work. The moment word gets out is the moment you'll start getting interested stares on the street'.

'But won't I begin to get those stares once I start to show?'

'It really depends how high a profile you choose to adopt; how many people you get to know, and what you tell them. I promise you - if you let it be known that you're the Sara Smythe who writes for Saturday Night/Sunday Morning, your social diary is going to get very full. Half the English department at Bowdoin will probably want to meet you - because new people in town are few and far between. And new people who are nationally prominent columnists

'I'm hardly Walter Lippmann, Ruth. I'm a very minor figure who writes very minor stuff'.

'Listen to Miss Modesty'.

'It's the truth. And, believe me, I'm telling no one about what I did in Manhattan. I've had enough intrusiveness - courtesy of the FBI - to last me for the rest of the decade'.

So I maintained a very low profile. Following Dr Bolduck's advice, I did nothing strenuous - limiting my exercise to walks in the Bowdoin Pines behind the campus, or to the college's library (where I managed to wangle a Brunswick resident's reader's ticket), and to the shops that lined Maine Street. I found a grocer who delivered, and a newspaper shop which agreed to order the Sunday edition of the New York Times for me. I became a good customer of the town's main book and record shop. I was soon on first-name basis with the librarians at Bowdoin, Mr Cole at the grocer's, Thelma the chief cashier at Casco National Bank, and Mr Mullin, the druggist. Though everyone initially asked me my name - and whether I was new in town - the line of enquiry stopped there. There were never sly questions about what I was doing in Brunswick, or whether I had a husband, or how I was supporting myself. As I came to discover, this lack of obtrusive curiosity was the Maine way. People respected your privacy... because they wanted you to respect theirs. More tellingly, in true Maine style, the state's unspoken social code was a fiercely independent one: your business is your own damn business, not mine. Even if they were interested in your back story, they forced themselves to appear disinterested... out of fear of being labeled meddlesome, or the village gossip. Maine was probably one of the few places in America where taciturnity and reserve were considered civic virtues.

Brunswick, therefore, was an easy place to live. After five years of turning out journalistic copy week after week, it was pleasant to take a sabbatical from my typewriter. I caught up with reading. I audited a conversational French course at the college, and spent at least three hours a day studying verb conjugations and vocabulary. Once a week, Ruth insisted on picking me up in her Studebaker and bringing me to her house for dinner. Once a week, I would walk the three blocks to Dr Bolduck's office, and submit myself to an examination. Six weeks into the pregnancy, he pronounced himself pleased with my progress to date.

'So far so good', he said after I got dressed and sat down in the chair opposite his desk. 'As long as we get you to the second trimester without complications, you really should have a good chance of seeing this all the way through. You are taking it easy, right?'

'Brunswick isn't exactly a strenuous town'.

Dr Bolduck winced. 'Do I take that as a back-handed compliment?'

'I'm sorry. That came out all the wrong way'.

'No - you're right. This is a pretty quiet place'.

'Which makes it the right place for me at this moment in time'.

'I've been meaning to ask you: are you doing any writing while you're here?'

I went white. He immediately looked apologetic.

'I'm sorry', he said. 'That was intrusive of me'.

'How did you know I was a writer?'

'I do subscribe to Saturday Night/Sunday Morning, Sara. Just as I also read the Maine Gazette every afternoon. Your brother's death made the paper up here, you know'.

'I don't believe it'.

'It was a wire service report: a short piece about his sudden death, and his earlier dismissal from NBC after Winchell exposed his past. And how Sara Smythe of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning was his sister'.

'Why didn't you mention this before?'

'Because that would have been nosy. In fact, now I feel like a right fool for that slip of the tongue. I really would never have mentioned anything'.

'Do you think other people in Brunswick know who I am?' He shifted uneasily in his chair. 'They do, don't they?'

'Well...' he said hesitantly. 'It is a small place. And though no one would directly ask questions to your face, they do talk among themselves. The other night, for example, I was at a dinner with a couple of college people and Duncan Howell - the editor of the Maine Gazette. I don't know how your name came up in conversation, but Duncan turned to me and said, "Do you know who I hear is living in Brunswick? Sara Smythe - who wrote that really smart column in Saturday/Sunday. I'd love to approach her about maybe writing something for us... but I don't want to intrude. Especially as I gather she's up here to get away from New York and that whole business with her brother...'

I suddenly felt ill.

'Dr Bolduck, you didn't say anything about me being a patient of yours?'

'God, no. That would have been completely unethical. I'd never, never dream of...'

'Fine, fine', I said weakly.

'I now feel terrible. But I promise you this: Maine being Maine, people will never let on they know who you are'.

'Who I am is completely inconsequential. What worries me is the stares in the street I'll begin to get once my pregnancy is apparent'.

'Once again, no one will ever shun you because of your marital status'.

'They'll just gossip behind my back'.

'As small towns go, this is a pretty tolerant place. I think you'll find more sympathy than anything else. And I tell you this: everyone at that dinner the other night said what happened to your brother was an awful thing... and wasn't he a brave man to stand up for what he believed'.

'So you don't think he was a Communist stooge? A flunky of Stalin, disguised as Marty Manning's top banana? You're smiling. Why?'

'Because encountering Manhattan wit, face to face, in Brunswick is a rare thing. But can I say something? Like a lot of people I know around here, I have great doubts about what McCarthy and his ilk are up to. Especially as they are supposedly running this witch hunt in our name... which makes me very uncomfortable. And I just want to say: I am truly sorry for your loss. Do you have other siblings?'

'He was my only family'.

Dr Bolduck said nothing... and I was grateful for that. I quickly changed the subject back to medical matters, asking whether my need to urinate every half-hour was particularly worrisome.

'I'm afraid it's a common complaint during pregnancy', he said. 'And one which medical science has no answer for'.

'Until next week then?' I asked, standing up.

Bolduck got up from his chair. 'Once again, I am sorry for that faux pas'.

'No... it's better to know these things'.

'Would you mind if I told you something else then?'

'Go ahead'.

'I know that Duncan Howell, being the decent guy that he is, would never dream of calling you to see if you want to write for the Maine Gazette. But from the way he sounded, I'm sure he'd be thrilled to bits if you were interested'.

'I'm taking a break from the word business', I said. 'But thanks for the tip'.

Naturally, two days later, I picked up the phone and called Duncan Howell at the Maine Gazette. I was put through to him immediately.

'Well, this is an honor', he said.

'You are about the first editor in history who's ever said that'.

'Glad to hear that. It's nice to have you in Brunswick'.

'It's nice to be here'.

'How about letting me buy you lunch, Miss Smythe?'

'That would be fine'.

'Now we have two choices of venue. I could take you to the Brunswick version of posh - which means the dining room of our best inn, the Stowe House. Or I could introduce you to some proper local color, in the form of our best diner: the Miss Brunswick'.

'Oh, the diner without question', I said.

Duncan Howell was a pleasant, portly man in his early thirties. He dressed like a college professor: tweed jacket, v-neck sweater, knit tie. He wore horn-rimmed glasses. He smoked a pipe. He was a son of Brunswick. He'd grown up knowing he'd go to Bowdoin and eventually work for the paper his family had owned for the past seventy-five years. He spoke with the slow, no-rush, back-country cadences that defined the Maine inflection. But like everyone else I'd met in the state, he was anything but a hick.

He was already seated at a booth in the Miss Brunswick when I entered. It was a proper diner: a prefabricated corrugated aluminum structure with a laminated vinyl lunch counter, and six booths, and a clientele of truckers and soldiers from the local naval air station, and a short order cook with a lit cigarette in his mouth, and waitresses who used pencils as bobby pins. I liked it immediately. Just as I also liked Duncan Howell.

He stood up as I entered. He waited until I sat down opposite him before taking his seat again. The waitress called him 'Duncan'. He insisted on referring to me as Miss Smythe. He suggested I try The Trucker's Special: a steak, a stack of pancakes, three eggs, home fries, six pieces of toast, bottomless coffee. When I said that I might stick to a modest hamburger and a cup of Joe, he said that I'd never have a future driving a rig.

We ordered. We made small talk. He talked a bit about local politics, about the expansion of the local paper mill, and regional worries that the Boston train might soon be canceled, due to lack of economic viability. He told me a bit about the Maine Gazette: how his great-grandfather founded it in 1875, how it maintained an independent political stance, and (like most of Maine) refused to slavishly back a specific political party.

'By inclination, this is a Republican state', he explained. 'But that doesn't mean that we've always supported Republican candidates for national or state office. We always came out in favor of Roosevelt. Twice, we supported Democrats in our senate races...'

'And what do you think of Joe McCarthy?' I asked.

He didn't seemed disconcerted by my challenging tone... though, frankly, I was surprised that I popped that question so directly.

'I'll be entirely straight with you, Miss Smythe. I do take the idea of a Communist menace seriously. I do think, for example, that all the evidence points to the guilt of the Rosenbergs, and that treason is a capital offence. But on the subject of Mr McCarthy... well, he genuinely worries me. Because (a) I consider him a complete opportunist who is using this Communist issue as a way of wielding power, and (b) because he has destroyed a lot of innocent people in the process'.

He looked at me directly. 'And, in my book, destroying innocent people is unforgivable'.

I met his gaze. 'I'm glad you think that way'.

He shifted the conversation towards my 'work' at the moment.

'I'm not working at the moment. No doubt, you know why'.

'We did run a piece about your brother. I'm very sorry. Is that why you came to Maine?'

'I needed to get away for a while, yes'.

'I presume Saturday/Sunday were very understanding about giving you leave'.

'Oh, they certainly wanted me on leave. Because, as far as they were concerned, my brother's refusal to play ball with HUAC meant that I was now a liability to them'.

Duncan Howell actually looked shocked. 'Tell me they didn't do that'.

'I was as stunned as you were. Especially as they knew I was about the most apolitical person imaginable. Even my poor brother had completely renounced his brief fling with Communism during the thirties'.

'But he still refused to name names'.

'Quite rightly, in my opinion'.

'It's a tough call, any way you look at it. And I can see why certain people probably thought naming names was a patriotic gesture... and why others saw it as a self-serving one. But I certainly respect your brother's high principles'.

'Look where it got him. I'll be honest with you, Mr Howell. There are times when I wish to God he'd just named names like everybody else. Because he'd still be here. And because, quite honestly, if history teaches us anything it's that today's life-or-death argument becomes a lot less consequential as years go by. What I'm saying is: sooner or later, the country will wise up and the blacklisting will end. In time, historians will probably write about this period as a political aberration; a shameful blight in our national life. And they'll be right. But my brother will still be dead and gone'.

'I'm sure he'd still want you to be writing'.

'But - haven't you heard? - I've been blacklisted too'.

'Only by Saturday/Sunday. And they haven't officially terminated you'.

As soon as this paid leave-of-absence is over, they will. And word travels fast in Manhattan. Once Saturday/Sunday fires me, I'm definitely going to be declared a journalistic untouchable'.

'Not in Brunswick, Maine, you won't'.

'Well, that's nice to know', I said with a laugh.

And I bet one of the hardest things about your enforced sabbatical is being "out of print", so to speak'.

'How did you guess that?'

'Because I've been around journalists all my life. If there's one thing they can't live without, it's an audience. I'm offering you an audience, Sara. A small audience. But an audience nonetheless'.

'Aren't you worried about employing a political hot potato like me?'

'No', he said directly.

'And what sort of thing would you want me to be writing?'

'Probably something similar to your "Real Life" column. We'd talk that through'.

'Saturday/Sunday might get a little upset, were they to discover that I was working for someone else while collecting their paycheck'.

'Did you sign a contract with them, granting them complete exclusivity to your work?'

I shook my head.

'Did they insist that you didn't write for anyone else while on leave?'

'No'.

'Then there's no problem'.

'I guess there isn't'.

'But there is, of course, the matter of money. Now, if you wouldn't mind a private question, what did they pay you weekly for your column?'

'One hundred and eighty dollars'.

Duncan Howell gulped. 'I don't even make that much', he said. 'And there's no way I could ever come near matching that. We are a small town, after all'.

'I'm not saying you have to match that. How's fifty bucks a column sound to you? That's about what I spend a week on rent and basic items'.

'It's still far more than I pay any other columnist on the paper'.

I arched my eyebrows. Duncan Howell took the hint. 'Fine, fine', he said, proffering his hand. 'Fifty a week it is'.

I took his hand. 'Nice to be back on the job', I said.

Of course, Duncan Howell was right. Though I wasn't admitting it (and kept telling myself that I really wanted a break from my typewriter), I was desperately missing my weekly fix in print. And yes, he was so damn shrewd to glean that off me. Just as he probably sensed that what I needed more than anything was work. I wasn't good at being slothful, unproductive. I needed direction, focus; a shape and a purpose to the day. Like anyone who was used to having an audience, I really craved one again. Even if my audience was no longer a national one, but the eight thousand daily readers of the Maine Gazette.

The column premiered a week after the Miss Brunswick Diner meeting. We agreed to call it 'Day-to-Day Stuff. Like the old column, it was a gently satirical commentary on prosaic matters. Only now I lost some of my usual metropolitan slant, and focused in on somewhat more homey, parochial matters: like 'Twenty-Three Dumb Uses for Kraft Velveeta Cheese'... or 'Why Leg Waxing Makes Me Always Feel Inadequate'... or (my personal favorite) 'Why Women Just Can't Relate to Beer'.

Duncan Howell insisted that I keep the flip tone which so characterized my Saturday/Sunday columns. 'Don't feel you have to write down for your audience. Mainers always know when someone's condescending to them... and they don't like it. They might take some time getting used to your style... but, eventually, you'll win them over'.

Certainly, the first few weeks of 'Day-to-Day Stuff didn't win anybody over.

'What are you doing, employing such a wiseguy gal to write such a wiseguy column in a decent, respectable paper like yours?' ran one of the first Letters to the Editor.

A week later, another torpedo landed in the Letters column. 'Maybe this sort of thing plays well in Manhattan, but Miss Smythe's world view certainly doesn't seem to have the slightest bearing on life as we live it up here. Maybe she should think about heading back south'.

Ouch.

'Don't take those letters personally', Duncan Howell said when we met again at the Miss Brunswick for a little tete-a-tete a month after the column started.

'How can I not take it personally, Mr Howell? After all, if I'm not connecting with your readers...'

'But you are connecting', he said. 'Most of the newsroom really like you. And every time I go to a dinner around town, at least one or two of the Bowdoin or local business people tell me how much they enjoy your take on things, and what a coup it was to get you for the paper. We always expect a couple of nay-sayers to complain about anything new and a little different. That's par for the course. So, please, don't fret: you're doing just fine. So fine that I was wondering... might you be willing to start writing two columns a week for us?'

'That's a joke, right?'

'No - I'm absolutely serious. I really want to get "Day-to-Day Stuff" established - and I think the best way to do this is to up the ante, so to speak... and make them read you every Monday and Friday. You game?'

'Sure, I guess. Can you afford it?'

'I'll work it out somehow'.

He held out his hand again. 'Do we have a deal?'

'And I came to Maine thinking about a life of leisure'.

'Once a journalist...'

I took his hand and shook it. 'Right - it's a deal'.

'Glad to hear it. One final thing... there are a lot of people around town who would love to meet you. I don't know what your social calendar is like these days...'

'It's completely empty, by choice. I'm still not in a particularly sociable frame of mind'.

'Understood completely. These things do take time. But if you're ever feeling in the need of company, do know that there are plenty of opportunities. You have fans'.

Like Dr Bolduck. Not only was he chuffed that, by calling Duncan Howell, I took the bait he dangled in front of me... but also that I had just passed the first trimester mark without problems.

'No worrying discharges, no constant cramps, no ominous discomfort?'

'Nothing ominous whatsoever. In fact, this has all been far simpler than my last pregnancy'.

'Well, what can I say except: good stuff. Fingers crossed. And keep taking it as easy as possible'.

'Not with Duncan Howell now insisting on two columns a week'.

'Oh yes, I heard about that. Congratulations. You're becoming a local name'.

'And I'll be even more of a name three months from now, when everyone on Maine Street sees the bump in the belly'.

'Like I said before, it will not be as big a deal as you imagine. Anyway, why should you care what people think around here?'

'Because I live here now, that's why'.

Dr Bolduck didn't have an answer to that. Except: 'Fair enough'.

The following week, I began to be published every Monday and Friday. There was another spate of letters in the paper, bemoaning my smarty-pants style. But Duncan Howell called me weekly for an impromptu editorial conference on the next week's copy - and he constantly sounded enthusiastic about the way the column was progressing. He also said that he was getting terrific feedback about its twice-weekly appearance. So much so that he had some good news: the two largest papers in Maine - the Portland Press Herald and the Bangor Daily News - had both enquired about perhaps picking up serialization rights for the column.

'The money they're offering isn't great: about sixty dollars each per week for the two columns', Mr Howell said.

'Of which I'd receive how much?'

'Well, this is new territory for me. Because the Maine Gazette has never really been in a situation where one of our columnists has ended up being syndicated. But I spoke with someone at our lawyers, and they said that a sixty/forty split between the writer and the originating newspaper was commonplace'.

'Try eighty/twenty', I said.

'That's awfully steep, Miss Smythe'.

'I'm worth it', I said.

'Of course, you are... but how about seventy/thirty?'

'I'll settle for seventy-five/twenty-five, nothing less'.

'You drive a tough bargain'.

'Yes. I do. Seventy-five/twenty-five, Mr Howell. And that covers this, and all future serializations. Fair enough?'

A pause.

'Fair enough', he said. 'I'll have our lawyers draft an agreement for you to sign'.

'I'll look forward to receiving it. And thanks for getting me into Portland and Bangor'.

'Am I ever going to get you over to dinner? My wife is really dying to meet you'.

'In time, Mr Howell. In time'.

I knew I was probably coming across as some affected solipsist... but the combination of my pregnancy and my ongoing grief made me shy away from any social gatherings. I could handle my weekly dinner with Ruth, but the idea of making polite conversation over a dinner table - and answering well-meaning questions like, "So, what brought you to Brunswick?" - made me want to steer clear of all social possibilities. I was still succumbing to outbursts of despair. I preferred to keep them private ones. So I kept refusing all invitations.

But when Jim Carpenter suddenly asked me out one afternoon, I surprised myself by saying yes. Jim was an instructor in French at Bowdoin. He taught the class I was auditing. He was in his late twenties - a tall, gangly fellow with sandy hair, rimless glasses, and a retiring, somewhat shy demeanour that masked a mischievous streak. Like everyone else at Bowdoin (the students included), he dressed in the standard New England academic garb: tweed jacket, grey flannels, button-down shirts, a college tie. But, in the course of our conversational lessons, he dropped the fact that Bowdoin was his first teaching job - and that he'd landed in Maine after two years of work on his doctorate at the Sorbonne. I was the only auditor in the class. Though I was also the only woman student (Bowdoin was resolutely all-male back then), Jim remained quite formal and distant with me for the first two months of the course. He asked a few basic questions - en francais - about my work ('Je suis journaliste, mais maintenant je prends une periode sabbatique de mon travail' was all I'd say about it). He made discreet enquiries about my marital status, and whether I was enjoying my time in Maine. Otherwise, he maintained a professional stance of complete disinterest. Until one afternoon - a few weeks after the column started - he caught me on the way out of class. And said, 'I'm enjoying your column enormously, Miss Smythe'.

'Oh, thanks', I said, feeling slightly embarrassed.

'One of my colleagues in the department said you used to write for Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. Is that true?'

'I'm afraid so'.

'I never knew I had a celebrity in my class'.

'You don't'.

'Modesty is an overrated virtue', he said with a slight smile.

'But immodesty is always boring, don't you think?'

'Perhaps... but after a couple of months in Maine, I really wouldn't mind a dose of good old-fashioned Parisian arrogance. Everyone is so polite and self-effacing here'.

'Maybe that's why I like it. Especially after Manhattan, where everyone's always selling themselves. There's something rather pleasant about a place where, five seconds after being introduced, you don't know what the person does, how much they earn, and how many times they've been divorced'.

'But I want to know that stuff. Maybe that's because I'm still trying to shake off my Hoosier roots'.

'You're actually from Indiana?'

'It happens'.

'Paris really must have been an eye-opener then'.

'Well... the wine is better there than in Indianapolis'.

I laughed. 'I think I'll use that line', I said.

'Be my guest. But on one condition: you let me take you out for dinner one evening'.

I must have looked surprised, because Jim instantly blushed, then said, 'Of course, you're under no obligation...'

'No', I said, interrupting him. 'Dinner one night would be fine'.

We arranged the date for three days' time. Twice before then, I thought about calling up and canceling. Because going out with anybody was the last thing I was interested in at this moment. Because I didn't want to have to do a lot of explaining about everything that had happened to me over the last six months. And because I was pregnant, damn it.

But another voice within my head told me to stop being such a cautious stiff. It was only a dinner, after all. He didn't seem like the sort of guy who had fangs and slept in a coffin. Though I was eschewing social gatherings, I was suddenly beginning to rue the absence of company. So I put on a decent dress and a spot of make-up, and let him take me to the dining room of the Stowe House for dinner. He was somewhat nervous and hesitant at first - which was both endearing and annoying, as I had to work hard initially at making conversation. But after the second cocktail, he started loosening up a bit. By the time he had most of a bottle of wine in him (I restricted myself to two glasses), he began to show flashes of a genuinely amusing mind... albeit one forced to hide behind a button-down countenance.

'You know what I loved most about Paris?' he said. 'Besides, of course, the sheer absurd beauty of the place? The ability to walk until dawn. I must have squandered half my time there, staying up all night, wandering from cafe to cafe, or just meandering for miles. I had this tiny room in the Fifth, right off the rue des Ecoles. I could pay my rent and stuff my face for fifty dollars a month. I could spend all day reading at this great brasserie - Le Balzar - just around the corner from my garret. And I had a librarian girlfriend named Stephanie who moved in with me for the last four months of my stay... and couldn't understand why the hell I wanted to exchange Paris for a teaching post in Brunswick, Maine'.

He paused for a moment, suddenly looking embarrassed. 'And that's the last glass of wine I'm drinking tonight - otherwise I'll start sounding like a walking edition of True Confessions'.

'Go on, encore un verre', I said, tipping the rest of the bottle into his glass.

'Only if you join me'.

'I'm a cheap date. Two glasses is my limit'.

'Have you always been that way?'

I was about to say something foolish and revealing like, 'I'm under doctor's orders to drink no more than a glass or two a day'. Instead, I kept it simple: 'It always goes to my head'.

'Nothing wrong with that', he said, raising his glass. 'Sante'.

'So why did you throw away Stephanie and la vie parisienne for Bowdoin College?'

'Don't get me started. I might commit an act of self-revulsion'.

'Sounds like a grisly prospect. But you still haven't answered my question'.

'What can I say... except that I'm the son of an ultra-conservative, ultra-safe insurance executive from Indianapolis. And if you're brought up in the insurance world, you always think cautiously. So, though Paris was a great dream, when the job offer from Bowdoin came through... well, it's a salary, right? And the potential for tenure, security, professional prestige. All that boring, cautionary stuff... about which I'm sure you happily know nothing'.

'On the contrary, my father was a big cog in the Hartford insurance machine. And my guy did public relations for...'

I suddenly cut myself off.

'Oh, there's a guy in your life?' he asked, attempting to sound as nonchalant as possible.

'There was a guy. It's over'.

He tried to stop himself from beaming. He failed. 'I'm sorry', he said.

'It all happened around the same time as my brother... You know about my brother?'

He put on a serious face again. 'Yes. When I mentioned you were auditing my course to a colleague at the college, he said that he read a news story about him...'

'Dying'.

'Yes. Dying. I really am sorry. It must have been...'

'It was'.

'And that's why you moved to Maine?'

'One of the reasons'.

'Was your former guy another reason?'

'He added to the mess, yes'.

'God, what a tough year you've...'

'Stop right there...'

'Sorry, have I... ?'

'No, you've been very sweet. It's just... I really can't take much in the way of sympathy...'

'Okay', he said. 'Then I'll play tough and cynical'.

'You can't - you're from Indiana'.

'Is everyone from Manhattan as smart as you are?'

'Is everyone from Indianapolis as fulsome as you are?'

'Ouch'.

'That wasn't meant in a derogatory way'.

'But it wasn't exactly fulsome either'.

'Touche. You are quick'.

'For a guy from Indianapolis'.

'It could be worse'.

'How's that?'

'You could be from Omaha'.

He shot me one of his mischievous smiles. And said, 'I like your style'.

Truth be told, I liked his too. When he walked me back to my front door that night, he asked if I might be willing to risk life and limb by taking a day-trip in his car this coming Saturday.

'What's so dangerous about your car?' I asked.

'The driver', he said.

His car was a two-seater, soft-top Alfa-Romeo, in bright tomato red. I did a double-take when he pulled up in it outside my house that Saturday morning.

'Aren't you a bit young for a mid-life crisis?' I asked, sliding into one of the low bucket seats.

'Believe it or not, it was a gift from my father'.

'Your dad, Mr Indianapolis Insurance King? I don't believe it'.

'I think it was his way of applauding my decision to return home and take the job here'.

'Oh, I get it. It's a variation on How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down On the Farm After They've Seen Paree? With a sports car, naturally'.

'A heavily insured sport scar'.

'Surprise, surprise'.

We spent the day zooming north on Route 1. Past Bath. Past splendidly atmospheric small towns like Wiscasset and Damriscotta and Rockland, eventually reaching Camden around lunchtime. We killed an hour or so in a wonderful used bookshop on Bayview Street. Then we walked down to a little waterfront joint, and ate steamers, washed down with beer. Afterwards, Jim lit up a Gauloise. I declined his offer of a cigarette.

'Good God', he said. 'A low alcohol tolerance, and an aversion to cigarettes. You must be a secret Mormon in disguise'.

'I tried to be a smoker in college. I failed. I don't think I ever got the knack of inhaling'.

'It's an easy knack to master'.

'One of my many lapses in talent. But answer me this: how the hell can you smoke those Frenchie butts? They smell like an exhaust pipe'.

'Ah, but they taste like...'

'... a French exhaust pipe. I bet you're the only guy in Maine who smokes them'.

'Should I take that as a compliment?' he asked.

Jim was great fun. We kept up an entertaining banter all day. He had wit. He was ferociously literate. He could also mock himself. I liked him enormously... as a pal, a chum, un bon copain. Nothing more. Even if I'd been in the market for romance, he wouldn't have fit the bill. Too gawky. Too doting. Too needy. I wanted his company, but I didn't want to fuel his hopes that this might lead to anything more than camaraderie. So - when he suggested a date a few days later - I pleaded work.

'Oh, come on', he said lightly. 'Surely you could manage a movie and a cheeseburger one night this week'.

'I'm really trying to focus on my column', I said, and instantly hated myself for sounding like a precious prig. To his credit, Jim laughed. And said,

'You know, as kiss-off lines go, that stinks'.

'You're right. It does stink. What's the movie?'

'Ace in the Hole, directed by the very great Billy Wilder'.

'I saw it last year in Manhattan'.

'Any good?'

'The nastiest movie about journalism ever made'.

'Then you'll see it again'.

'Yeah. I guess I will'.

So much for trying to put Jim off. But, to his infinite credit, he never hinted at a romantic subtext to our nights out. Like me, he was new in Brunswick. He craved company. And - though I didn't like admitting it - so did I. Which made it very hard to refuse his offer of a movie, or a chamber music concert in Portland, or an evening with a few of his faculty friends (yes, I was finally becoming sociable). Even after a month of seeing each other, the goodnight kiss was always planted on my cheek. There was (dare I say it) a part of me that wondered: why the hell isn't he making a move? Even though I sensed that his reticence in that department came from the fact that he knew I wasn't interested.

I also knew that, eventually, I would have to own up about my pregnancy. Because - now nearly five months on - I was beginning to develop a telltale bulge in my belly. But I kept putting off this revelation. Because, coward that I am, I feared the effect it might have on our friendship. I so liked him. So wanted him to continue being my pal... and sensed that it would all fall apart when he discovered my news.

I resolved to tell him, however, after one of my weekly appointments with Dr Bolduck.

'Once again, everything seems to be going according to the usual pregnancy plan', he said.

'I am following your orders to the letter, Doc'.

'But I hear you're at least getting out and about a bit... which is a good thing'.

'How did you hear that?'

'It's a small town, remember?'

'And what else did you hear?'

'Just that you'd been seen around at a couple of Bowdoin faculty dinners'.

'In the company of Jim Carpenter, right?'

'Yes, I did hear that. But...'

'He's just a friend'.

'Fine'.

'I mean that. I am not stringing him along'.

'Hold on here. No one's saying you're stringing him along. Or that you're an item. Or anything like that'.

'But people have noted we've been seeing each other. Well, haven't they?'

'Welcome to Brunswick, Maine. Where everyone knows everyone else's business. In a non-malicious way, of course. Don't let it bother you'.

But it did - because I knew that Jim would publicly look like a fool as soon as my pregnancy became around-town news. So I resolved to tell him the next day.

It was a Saturday. We had arranged to drive out to Reid State Park for the afternoon. But that morning I woke up feeling a little nauseous: a condition I blamed on some tinned salmon I had eaten the night before. So I called up Jim and begged off the afternoon. When he heard I was feeling poorly, he instantly offered to call a doctor, rush to my bedside, and play Florence Nightingale...

'It's just an upset stomach', I said.

'That could mean a variety of things'.

'It means I ate a can of bad Canadian fish last night, and now I am paying for it'.

'At least let me drop by later on and check in on you'.

'Fine, fine', I said, suddenly too weary to argue.

Moments after I put down the phone, the nausea actually hit. I raced to the bathroom. I became very sick. When the worst was over, I rinsed out my mouth and staggered back to bed. My nightgown was soaked with sweat. I felt chilled. But, at least, the vomiting had stopped.

It started again five minutes later. This time there was nothing to come up. I hung over the toilet, retching wildly, suddenly feeling ill beyond belief. After this bout of the dry heaves, I made it back to bed... and was up a few moments later, hugging the toilet bowl for ballast.

On and on this went for an hour. Finally, my stomach could heave no more. I collapsed into bed. My body finally surrendered to exhaustion. I passed out.

In Brunswick during the 1950s, nobody ever locked their doors. Initially when I moved into my apartment, I always threw the latch. Until the woman who cleaned the place left me a note saying that I didn't need to maintain this security-conscious habit - as the last house robbery in town was around four years ago... and the guy was drunk at the time.

I hadn't locked my front door since then. Without question the fact that my door was left open that Saturday afternoon saved my life. Because, around three p.m., Jim showed up at my apartment and knocked on the door for five minutes. I didn't hear his persistent knocking, as I was unconscious at the time. Knowing I was unwell, he decided to enter the apartment. He kept calling out my name. He got no response. Then he entered my bedroom. As he later told me:

'I thought you were dead'.

Because he found me in a pool of blood.

The sheets were crimson, sodden. I was insensible. Jim couldn't get a word out of me. He dashed to the phone. He called an ambulance.

I briefly came round in the hospital. I was on a gurney, surrounded by doctors and nurses. I heard one of the doctors speaking to Jim.

'How long has your wife been pregnant?' he asked.

'She's pregnant?'

'Yes. Didn't you know... ?'

'She's not my wife'.

'What's her first name?'

'Sara'.

The doctor began to snap his fingers in front of my face. 'Sara, Sara... are you there? Can you hear me?' I managed to mutter three words: 'The baby is...' Then the world went dark again.

When it came back into focus, it was the middle of the night. I was alone in a small empty ward. I had drips and tubes in my arms. My vision was blurred. My head had been cleaved by an ax. But it was nothing compared to the pain in my abdomen. I felt splayed, eviscerated. My flesh was raw, on fire. I wanted to scream. I couldn't scream. My vocal cords appeared frozen. I fumbled for the call button dangling by my side. I held it down for a very long time. I heard brisk footsteps down the corridor. A nurse approached my bedside. She looked down at me. Again I tried to speak. Again I failed. But my face told her everything.

'The pain... ?' she asked.

I nodded my head wildly. She put a small plunger in my hand.

'You're on a morphine drip', she said.

Morphine? Oh God...

'So every time the pain gets too much, just press down on this plunger. And...'

She demonstrated it for me. Immediately a surge of narcotic warmth spread across my body. And I vanished from consciousness.

Then it was light again. Another nurse was standing over me. The bedclothes had been pulled down. My hospital nightgown was over my belly. A bloody bandage was being yanked off my skin. I shuddered in pain.

'I wouldn't look at that, if I was you', the nurse said to me.

But I did look - and shuddered again when I saw the horrendous railroad track of stitches across my abdomen. I managed a word:

'What... ?'

The pain kicked in again. I fumbled for the plunger. The nurse put it in my hand. I pressed down on it. Darkness.

Light again. Now I saw a familiar face above me: Dr Bolduck. He had a stethoscope on my chest. His finger was on my left wrist, checking my pulse.

'Hi there', he said. His voice was quiet, subdued. I knew immediately what had happened. 'How's the pain?'

'Bad'.

'I bet. But this is the worst you should experience'.

'I lost it, didn't I?'

'Yes. You did. I am so sorry'.

'What happened?'

'You were suffering from a clinical condition known as an "incompetent cervix"; a condition which is virtually impossible to diagnose until it's too late. Essentially, your cervix couldn't handle the weight of the baby once it passed the five-month mark. So, when the cervix failed, you hemorrhaged. You're lucky your friend Jim found you. You would have died'.

'You operated?'

'We had no choice. Your womb was ruptured. Irreparably. If we hadn't operated...'

'I've had a hysterectomy?'

Silence. Then, 'Yes, Sara. A hysterectomy'.

I fumbled for the plunger. I pushed it down. I went under.

Then it was night. The overhead lights were off. It was raining outside. A major thunderstorm. Howling winds. Rattling glass. Celestial tympani. The occasional flash of lightning. It took a few minutes for the morphine fog to lift. The pain was still there, but it was no longer acute. It had become a dull, persistent ache. I stared out the window. I thought back to five years ago in Greenwich. How I buried my head in Eric's arms and fell apart. How - at the time - it seemed like the world had ended. Six months ago in New York - staring at the bloodstains in my brother's apartment - I too thought that life could not go on.

And then Jack. And now this.

I swallowed hard. I resisted the temptations of the morphine plunger. The rain was now splattering across the window, like liquid buckshot. I wanted to cry. I could not. All I could do was look out into the dark, blank night. And think: so this is what happened. Maybe it was the residue of the narcotics. Maybe it was post-operative shock. Or maybe there comes a point when you simply can no longer grieve for everything that life throws at you. It's not that you suddenly accept your fate. Rather, that you now understand a central truth: there is a thing called tragedy, and it shadows us all. We live in fear of it. We try to keep it at bay. But, like death, it is omnipresent. It permeates everything we do. We spend a lifetime building a fortress against its onslaught. But it still triumphs. Because tragedy is so casual, aimless, indiscriminate. When it does hit us, we look for reasons, justifications, messages from on high. I get pregnant. I lose the baby. I am told I will never have another. I get pregnant again. I lose the baby again. What does this mean? Is somebody trying to tell me something? Or is this just how things are?

Later that day, Jim showed up. He was looking uneasy. He carried a small bouquet of flowers. They were already half-wilted.

'I brought you these', he said, putting them on the little table by my bed. As soon as he set them down, he immediately backed away to the other side of the room. Either he didn't want to crowd me, or he was uneasy about being within my close proximity.

'Thank you', I said.

He positioned himself against the wall near the door. 'How are you feeling now?' he asked.

'I really recommend morphine'.

'You must have been in agony'.

'Nothing a hysterectomy can't cure'.

The color was bleached from his face.

'I didn't know. I'm so...'

'I am the one who should apologize. I should have told you about this from the start. But I was a coward...'

He held his hand up. 'No need to explain', he said.

'The doctor said that if you hadn't found me...'

There was an awkward pause.

'I'd better go', he said.

'Thank you for the visit. Thank you for...'

'May I ask you something?' he said, cutting me off.

I nodded.

'The guy who got you pregnant... are you in love with him?'

'Was. Very deeply'.

'It's over?'

'Completely'.

'No', he said, 'it's not'.

I had no answer to that. Except something lame like: 'Let's talk when I finally get out of here'.

'Uh, sure', he said.

'I am sorry, Jim. Very sorry'.

'That's okay'.

But I knew that it wasn't okay. Just as I also realized that news of my hospitalization would disseminate quickly through Brunswick. Certainly, Duncan Howell knew that I had been rushed to the Brunswick Hospital - as a big floral arrangement arrived that same afternoon. It was accompanied by a card:

Get well soon... From the staff of the Maine Gazette.

I didn't expect an effusive note. But the generic quality of the message made me wonder whether Mr Howell had discovered the real reason behind my medical emergency.

Dr Bolduck informed me that - due to my surgical wounds and the amount of blood I had lost - I could expect to spend ten more days in the care of Brunswick Hospital. I was anxious about missing my forthcoming deadlines for the column - and put a call through to the editor's office. For the first time since I started writing for the Maine Gazette, Mr Howell didn't take my call. Instead his secretary got on the line - and informed me that the editor was 'in a meeting', but that he wanted me to have the next two weeks off, 'at full pay'.

'That's very generous of Mr Howell', I said. 'Please thank him for me'.

I spent much of the next ten days in a post-operative blur. Even though the worst of the pain had dissipated, I let it be known that I was in serious physical discomfort. I must have sounded convincing to Dr Bolduck and the nursing staff, as they kept my morphine bag topped up. There are moments in life when certain things shouldn't be confronted; when you don't want clarity, forthrightness, the truth. This was one of them. Every time I felt myself veering towards terrible lucidity, I reached for the morphine plunger. I knew that, at the end of ten days, I would have to get out of this bed, and continue my life. Until then, however, I craved chemical denial.

Ruth dropped in every other day. She brought home-made oatmeal cookies, and magazines, and a bottle of Christian Brothers brandy.

'Who needs brandy when you've got this?' I said, brandishing the morphine plunger.

'Whatever works', she said with a worried smile.

She offered to collect my mail for me. 'No mail, no newspapers, nothing tangible. I'm on a vacation from everything'.

I could see her eyeing the plunger in my hand. 'Is that stuff helping things?' she asked.

'You bet', I said. 'In fact, I might get it installed on tap in my apartment'.

'What a wonderful idea', she said. Her tone was so pleasant that I knew she was humoring me. 'You sure you don't need anything?'

'I do need something'.

'Tell me'.

'A complete memory loss'.

Two days before I was discharged, one of the nurses rolled away the morphine drip.

'Hey! I need that', I said.

'Not anymore', she said.

'Says who?'

'Dr Bolduck'.

'But what about the pain?'

'We'll be giving you some pills...'

'Pills aren't the same'.

'They do the job'.

'Not as well as the morphine'.

'You don't need the morphine'.

'Oh yes I do'.

'Then take it up with the doctor'.

The pills diminished the pain, but they certainly didn't dispatch me to Never-Never Land like the morphine. I couldn't sleep. I spent the night watching the hospital ward ceiling. Somewhere near dawn, I decided that I hated this life. It was too agonizing, too appallingly fragile. Everything hurt too much. It was best to make an exit now. Because I knew full well that once the morphine had drained out of my system, I would enter a realm beyond endurance. All reserves of strength, stoicism, resilience had been depleted. I didn't want to grapple anymore with such ruthless sorrow. I couldn't face the idea of living in a state of permanent anguish. So the alternative was a simple one: permanent escape.

The nurse had left two painkillers by my bedside if I needed them during the night. I would ask Dr Bolduck for an extra-large prescription to take with me when I checked out of here. I would go home. I would open a bottle of decent whiskey. I would chase all the pills with copious amounts of J&B. Then I would tie a bag round my head, sealing all potential air leaks with tape. I'd get into bed. The pill-and-Scotch cocktail would knock me out. I'd quietly smother to death in my sleep.

I reached for the two pills. I swallowed them. I continued to stare at the ceiling. I suddenly felt rather wonderful, knowing that I would only have to cope with forty-eight hours more of life. I began to organize to-do lists in my mind. I would have to make certain my will was up-to-date. No doubt, there would be a local lawyer in town who could offer me express service... as long as I didn't let on that the new will would be in probate only a day after I signed it. I would have to decide on funeral arrangements. No religious send-off. No memorials. Maybe a listing in the New York Times obituary, so a few people back in Manhattan would be informed of my demise. But definitely no organized memorial service. Just a local cremation here in Maine, and the local undertakers could do what the hell they wanted with my ashes. And my money? My so-called estate? Leave it all to...

Who?

There was no one. No husband. No family. No child. No loved ones.

Loved ones. What a facile expression to describe the most central need in life. But who were my loved ones? To whom would I bequeath my estate? I was flying solo. My death would mean nothing. It would hurt no one... so my suicide would not be a selfish or vengeful act. It would simply be a drastic, but necessary form of pain relief.

The painkillers kicked in. I fell into a deep sleep. I woke sometime during mid-morning. I felt curiously calm, almost elated. I had a plan, a future, a destination.

Dr Bolduck came around that afternoon. He checked my war wounds. He seemed pleased with the healing process. He asked me about the pain. I complained of a constant nasty ache.

'How are those pills working?' he asked.

'I miss the morphine'.

'I bet you do. Which is why there's no way I'm letting you near it again. I don't want you leaving here thinking you're Thomas de Quincey'.

'I think opium was his substance of choice'.

'Hey, I'm a doctor, not a literary critic. But I do know morphine is addictive'.

'You will give me something for the pain'.

'Sure. I'll give you a week's supply of those pills. Within three or four days, the pain should finally vanish, so I doubt you'll need them all'.

'That's good to know'.

'How are you faring otherwise?'

'Surprisingly all right'.

'Really?'

'It's a difficult time, but I'm coping'.

'Don't be surprised if you feel depressed. It's a common reaction'.

'I'll be vigilant', I said.

He then said that I could go home tomorrow. I called Ruth and asked if she could pick me up in the morning. She was there at nine. She helped me into her car. She brought me back to my apartment. It had been cleaned the day before. There were fresh sheets on the bed. Ruth had gone shopping, and the larder was stocked with basic provisions. A small pile of mail was on my kitchen table. I decided it could all remain unopened.

Ruth asked me if there was anything else she could do for me.

'There's a prescription from Dr Bolduck...'

'No problem', she said, taking the scrawled form from my hand. 'I'll just pop down to the druggist on Maine Street and get it filled right away. Don't want you in pain, after all'.

While she was out, I made a phone call to the first attorney-at-law in the Brunswick phone book. His name was Alan Bourgeois. He answered the phone himself. I explained that I had a will on file with my lawyer in New York, but it had left my entire estate to my brother, who was now deceased. How could I change it? He said he'd be happy to draw up a new will - which would supersede the old one. Might I stop down tomorrow? Or if I was free this afternoon, he could make time for me. It was a slow day.

I arranged to see him at two p.m. Ruth returned an hour later with the filled prescription. 'The druggist said you're to take no more than two every three hours. There's a week's supply'.

Forty-two pills. That should be enough to do the job.

'I can't thank you enough for everything', I said to Ruth. 'You've been a great friend'.

'I'll check in tomorrow, if that's okay'.

'No need', I said. 'I'll be fine'.

She looked at me with care. 'I'll still stick my head in', she said.

That afternoon, I called a cab to take me down Maine Street to the office of Alan Bourgeois. His office was a room over a haberdasher's. He was a small man in his mid-fifties, dressed in a nondescript grey suit, beneath which was a v-neck sweater. A pen holder adorned his breast pocket. He looked like the perfect country lawyer: quiet, direct, businesslike. He took down all my personal details. He asked for the name of my New York lawyer. He then asked how I wanted to divide up my estate.

'Fifty per cent should go to Ruth Reynolds of Bath, Maine', I said.

'And the remaining half?'

I drew a breath. 'The remaining half should be left in trust for Charles Malone until his twenty-first birthday'.

'Is Charles Malone a nephew?'

'The son of a friend'.

Mr Bourgeois said that the will would be a straightforward document, and he would have it ready tomorrow.

'Is there no chance we could finalize it all today?' I asked.

'Well, I suppose I could take care of it before close-of-business. But it would mean you having to come back in a few hours'.

'That's not a problem', I said. 'I have some errands I have to run'.

'Fine by me', he said, and we arranged to meet again just before five.

I wasn't able to walk very far - so I called a cab again. I asked the driver to wait while I made a trip to a hardware store, where I bought some bags and a wide roll of packing tape. I moved on to the bank, where I withdrew fifty dollars to cover the cost of Mr Bourgeois's legal fees. Then the cabbie drove me up to the Maine State Liquor Store near the college. I was about to buy a fifth of J&B when I saw a bottle of Glenfiddich next to it. The difference in price was six dollars. I decided to splurge.

I was dropped off home. I arranged for the cabbie to collect me again just before five. I had ninety minutes. I used them productively. I gathered up all check books and deposit books, and assembled them on the table. I found my few pieces of jewelry, and placed them alongside the bank stuff. I rolled a piece of paper in my typewriter and punched out a fast letter to Joel Eberts, explaining about the new will. I gave him the name of Alan Bourgeois, and told him I'd arrange for a copy of the document to be mailed to him.

By the time the will reaches you, I will have left this life. I am not going to offer a great defense for my decision to put an end to things. Except this: I simply know I can't go on.

In the new will, you have been listed as my executor, so I'll trust you to sell the apartment, liquidate the stock, and set up a trust for Charles Malone - to whom half of my estate is being left. I'm certain you find it strange that I am making him such a major beneficiary. My rationale is a simple one: Jack Malone was the man I loved most in my life. Yes, he destroyed that love by betraying Eric, but that betrayal doesn't negate his central role in the final part of my life. I always wanted children, but I didn't get that wish. Malone has a son. Let him benefit from the love I once had for his father... but please make certain that under no circumstances can Malone himself have any access to the trust.

In closing, let me say that you have always been a great friend to me. Do understand: I know this is the right choice. I look upon it as something akin to the breakdown of a protracted negotiation. I've fought my corner to the best of my ability - yet I find myself constantly overwhelmed, constantly defeated. It's time to surrender to the inevitable - and admit that the negotiation should come to an end.

I wish you well. I thank you for everything.

I signed the letter. I folded it and placed it in an envelope. I addressed the envelope, and attached a stamp to it. Then I rolled another sheet of paper into my Remington and typed a short note that I planned to leave in an envelope on my front doormat:

Dear Ruth:

Don't go inside. Do call the police. Do accept my apologies for landing you with this unpleasant chore. Do contact Alan Bourgeois at his office on Maine Street in Brunswick. Do know that I think you were about the best ally imaginable.

Love,

I scrawled my signature. I placed the note in the envelope. I wrote Ruth on its front. I left it on the dining table, to be placed outside later this evening.

A knock came at the door. It was the taxi. I picked up my coat and the letter to Joel Eberts. I posted it in the mail box near my front door. Then I climbed into the cab and returned to the office of Alan Bourgeois. He greeted me with a stern nod, and motioned for me to sit in the steel chair which faced his desk. Then he picked up a legal document on his desk, and handed it to me.

'Here it is', he said. 'Read through it carefully - because if there are any amendments or codicils, now's the time to get them done'.

I studied the document. Everything seemed to be in order. I said so.

'You left the funeral arrangements section somewhat vague', Mr Bourgeois said.

'I want a vague funeral', I said lightly. Immediately, Mr Bourgeois looked at me with concern, so I added: 'Fifty years from now, of course'.

He pursed his lips and said nothing. I returned the document to his desk.

'It all seems just fine. Shall I sign it now?'

He reached into his pocket and produced a fountain pen. Unscrewing the cap he handed it to me.

'I've made three copies of the will. One for your records, one for your lawyer in New York, and one for my files. You'll need to sign them all, then I'll put on my notary public hat and notarize the lot. By the way, I meant to tell you: the notary charge is two dollars per document. I hope that isn't too exorbitant'.

'No problem', I said, scribbling my signature in the appropriate place on all three documents. As I handed them back, Mr Bourgeois used an old-fashioned engraver to stamp his seal on each of the signed pages. Then he added his own signature below the seal.

'You now have a new will', he said. Then he reached over to his in-tray and handed me a bill for forty-one dollars. I took out my purse, counted out the money and put it on his desk. He put my copy of the will into a thick manila envelope and, with a hint of ceremony, placed it in my hands.

'Thank you for the speedy service', I said, standing up to leave.

'Anytime, Miss Smythe. I hope I can be of service to you again'.

I said nothing. I headed towards the door. Mr Bourgeois said, 'Mind if I ask you a nosy question?'

'Go ahead'.

'Why did you need this will so quickly?'

I had already anticipated this question, and had prepared a reasonable answer. 'I'm going away on a trip tomorrow'.

'But I thought you just got out of the hospital today?'

'How on earth did you know that?' I asked, my tone sharp.

'I know your column from the paper, and I also heard you'd been unwell'.

'From whom?'

He looked taken aback by my stridency. 'From... uh... just around Brunswick. It's a small town, you know. I was just curious, that's all'.

'I'm taking a trip. I wanted to have my will in order, especially as my brother

'I do understand. No offence meant, Miss Smythe'.

'None taken, Mr Bourgeois. Nice doing business with you'.

'And you, ma'am. Going anywhere nice?'

'Sorry?'

'I was just wondering if the place you were going is nice'.

'I don't know. I've never been there before'.

I took the taxi back to my house, determined to get this over with as soon as possible... just in case Mr Bourgeois had sensed that I was up to something self-destructive and dispatched the police over to my apartment. I stared out at the now-dark streets of Brunswick, thinking: this will be my last glimpse of the outside world. When the cab pulled up in front of my house, I tipped the driver ten dollars. He was stunned, and thanked me profusely. Well, it's my last cab ride, I felt like saying. Anyway, come tomorrow, I won't have any use for money.

I went inside. I retrieved the letter to Ruth and placed it on my outside mat. Then I bolted the door behind me. I took off my coat. The cleaner had laid a fire in the grate. I touched the kindling with a match. It ignited instantly. I went into the bathroom. I retrieved the bottle of painkillers. I walked into the kitchen. I pulled out a bag, a roll of tape and a pair of scissors. I went to the bedroom. I placed the bag on my pillow, then I cut off four long strips of tape and attached them to the bedside table. I picked up the bottle of Glenfiddich and a glass. I went into the living room. I sat down on the sofa. My hands began to shake. I poured a slug of Glenfiddich into the glass. I downed it. My hands were still trembling. I poured myself another finger of whiskey. Down it went in one go. I took a deep breath and felt the glow of the whiskey spread across my body. My plan was straightforward. I would down all the pills in clusters of five, chasing each handful with a large glass of Glenfiddich. When the bottle was empty, I'd move quickly into the bedroom, get the bag taped around my head, and lie down on the bed. The combination of Scotch and painkillers would ensure unconsciousness within minutes. I'd never wake up again.

I pulled the bottle of pills out of my skirt pocket. I popped off the cap. I counted out five pills into my hand. The phone began to ring. I ignored it. The phone continued to ring. I poured a very large glass of whiskey. The phone wouldn't stop ringing. I began to fear that Alan Bourgeois might have been checking up on me - and that if I didn't answer it, he'd think the worst. It was best to answer it, and assure him I was just fine. I put the pills back into the bottle. I reached for the phone.

'Sara, Duncan Howell here'.

Damn. Damn. Damn. I tried to sound agreeable.

'Hi, Duncan'.

'Am I calling you at a bad moment?'

'No', I said, taking another swig of Scotch. 'Go ahead'.

'I heard you were discharged from Brunswick Regional today. How are you faring?'

'I'm just fine'.

'You've had us all worried. And I must have had at least a dozen letters from readers, wondering when your column would be returning'.

'That's very nice', I said, the bottle of pills rattling in my hand. 'But... might I call you later? Or tomorrow perhaps? It's just... I am still rather drained, and...'

'Believe me, Sara - knowing how sick you've been, I really didn't want to call tonight. But I felt I should talk to you before you found out...'

'Found out what?'

'You mean, no one from New York has been on to you this afternoon?'

'I was out. But why would anyone from New York get on to me?'

'Because you were prominently featured in Walter Winchell's column today'.

'What?'

'Would you like me to read it to you?'

'Absolutely'.

'It's not exactly flattering...'

'Read it, please'.

'All right, here we go. It was the fourth item from the top: "She used to be a hot-shot columnist with Saturday Night/ Sunday Morning, but now she's doing time in Hicksville. Sara Smythe - the yuck-yuck dame behind the popular 'Real Life' column - vanished from print a couple of months ago... right after her Redder-than-Red brother, Eric, was booted from his job as Marty Manning's head scribe. Seems that Eric wouldn't sing about his Commie past... a major unpatriotic no-no which also made Saturday/Sunday nervous about keeping Sister Sara in print. A month later, the ole demon rum sent Eric to an early grave, and Sara disappeared into thin air. Until one of my spies - on vacation in the great state of Maine - picked up a little local rag called the Maine Gazette... and guess who was churning out words in its big-deal pages? You got it: the once-famous Sara Smythe. Oh, how the mighty do fall when they forget a little tune called 'The Star Spangled Banner'."'

Duncan Howell paused for a moment, nervously clearing his throat.

'Like I said, it's hardly nice. And I certainly took umbrage at our paper being called "a little local rag"'.

'That son of a bitch'.

'My conclusion entirely. And we're standing right behind you in all of this'.

I rattled the pills in my hand again, saying nothing.

'There's something else you need to know', Duncan Howell said. 'Two things, actually. Neither pleasant. The first is that I received a call this afternoon from a man named Platt. He said he was in the legal affairs department of Saturday Night/Sunday Morning. He'd been trying to track you down... but as he didn't have any idea of your whereabouts, he'd decided to call me - having discovered, from Winchell's column, that you were writing for us. Anyway, he asked me to inform you that, by writing for us, you were in breach of contract...'

'That's total garbage', I said, my voice surprisingly loud.

'I'm just passing on what he told me. He also wanted you to know that he was stopping your leave-of-absence payments from this moment on'.

'That's all right. There were only a few more weeks to go. Any other good news?'

'I'm afraid there have been some repercussions from the Winchell column'.

'What kind of repercussions?'

'I received two phone calls late this afternoon from the editors of the Portland Press Herald and the Bangor Daily News. They both expressed grave concern about the anti-American allegations in the Winchell item...'

'I am not anti-American. Nor was my late brother'.

'Sara, I assured them of that. But like so many people these days, they're scared of being associated with anything or anyone who has even the slightest Communist taint'.

'I am not a goddamn Communist', I shouted, then suddenly hurled the bottle of painkillers across the room. The bottle smashed into the fireplace, fragmenting into pieces.

'No one from the Maine Gazette is saying that. And I want to be very clear about something: we are completely behind you. I've spoken with half the members of our board this afternoon, and everyone agrees with me: you are an asset to the paper, and we will certainly not be intimidated by a yellow journalist like Mr Winchell. So you have our complete support, Sara'.

I said nothing. I was still watching the painkillers melt against the wooden logs in the fireplace. My suicide had gone up in smoke. But so too had the desire to take my life. Had I killed myself, it would have been interpreted as a capitulation to Winchell, McCarthy, and every other bully who used patriotism as a weapon; a means to wield power. Now I wouldn't give those bastards the satisfaction of my death. Now...

'Are you still there, Sara?'

'Yes. I'm here'.

Twelve

I PUT A call in to Joel Eberts the next morning.

'Now before you tell me anything', he said, 'know this: I'm sure we could sue that shit Winchell for libel, defamation of character...'

'I don't want to sue him'.

'I heard about Saturday/Sunday too. We could definitely squeeze them for the remaining few weeks of your leave... and probably more'.

'I couldn't be bothered'.

'You've got to be bothered. If people like you don't fight back...'

'I'm in no mood for a fight. Because you know, and I know, that it's a fight I won't win. Anyway, I'm leaving the country'.

'When did you decide that?'

'Late last night. Actually, around five this morning'.

'Personally, I think it's a good idea. Can I help in any way?'

'I need a passport. Do you think they'll grant me one?'

'I don't see why not. You haven't been subpoenaed by HUAC. You aren't under investigation by the Feds. There'll be no problem - though I'd probably move quickly, just in case someone in DC read that Winchell piece and decides you're worth scrutinizing. When are you coming back to New York?'

'I should be there tomorrow evening'.

'I still have power-of-attorney on your bank accounts. Want me to book you passage on a boat this weekend?'

'Absolutely'.

'I'll get to work on it now'.

'One final thing. I sent you a letter yesterday afternoon. It was written under considerable duress... and at a moment when I really wasn't thinking clearly at all. You must promise me that you won't read it... that you'll tear it up and throw it away as soon as it arrives'.

'It must be some letter'.

'Do I have your word?'

'Scout's Honor. Call me as soon as you arrive. Are you going to be staying at the apartment?'

'Where else?'

'Well, if you do, you might have a visitor...'

'Oh no...'

'Oh yes...'

'Has he been bothering you much about me?'

'You told me not to tell you anything...'

'I'm asking now'.

'I have a stack of letters from him. According to the super in your building, he's been dropping around every other day, on the off-chance you might have come back'.

I felt a stab of guilt and remorse. It passed quickly. 'I'll find a hotel', I said.

'That might be wise... if you really don't want to see him'.

'I really don't want to see him'.

'It's your call, Sara. Phone me when you get into town'.

After I finished talking with Joel Eberts, I put a call in to Dr Bolduck. When I explained that I was planning to leave town tomorrow, he expressed concern.

'It's only two weeks since the operation. The stitches have just come out. I would be much happier if you were resting for at least another week'.

'A transatlantic crossing isn't exactly strenuous physical activity'.

'Yes - but you'll be in the middle of the ocean for five days. Say you need medical attention?'

'I'm sure most ships travel with a doctor or two'.

'I really wish you'd stay'.

'I can't. I won't'.

He heard the adamancy in my voice. 'I do understand your need to get away', he said. 'It's not unusual after...'

'So, in your clinical opinion, I'm not putting my health in jeopardy by traveling'.

'Physically, it's a little risky... but not impossibly so. Mentally, it's a smart idea. You know what my advice is to people who've been through a bereavement? Keep moving'.

I did just that. Ruth came over that afternoon and helped me pack up the apartment. I wrote a letter to Duncan Howell, resigning my column.

Please understand: I haven't been cowed by Walter Winchell. I just need a complete break from all things journalistic. After the last year, anonymity seems like a very good thing. I thank you for your ethical stance after the Winchell column. Many an editor would have taken the easy way out and defenestrated me. You didn't - and I will always remember that.

I also wrote a quick note to Jim:

If I was you, I wouldn't forgive me. I played fast-and-loose with the truth - which was both unfair and unscrupulous. All I can offer in my defence is the fact that - for all the obvious reasons - I was apprehensive of talking about my pregnancy. That doesn't excuse my behavior. The worst thing you can do in life is hurt another person... and I sense that I have hurt you.

The two letters were mailed the next morning from the Brunswick railway station. I was traveling light - a suitcase and my typewriter. I hadn't bought much in the way of clothes since coming to Maine, and any books and records I'd acquired were being donated to the local library. The station porter checked my bags straight through to Penn Station. Ruth - who'd driven me to the station - hugged me goodbye.