The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) by Douglas Kennedy
Authors: Douglas Kennedy
Tags: Douglas Kennedy
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loud. She remained calm.
‘We really can’t talk here,’ she said. ‘Please …’
She motioned for me to cross the threshold. After a moment’s nervous hesitation I said, ‘Don’t think I’m going to stay long …’
‘Fine,’ she said.
I followed her inside. We entered a small foyer. On one wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, heaving with hardcover volumes. There was a closet next to the shelf. She opened it, asking, ‘Can I take your coat?’
I handed it to her. As she hung it up, I turned around, and suddenly felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Because there - on the opposite side of the foyer - were a half-dozen framed photos of myself and of my father. There was that picture of my dad in his Army uniform. There was an enlargement of that photo of Dad cradling me when I was a newborn baby. There was a picture of me at college, and holding Ethan when he was just a year old. There were two black-and-white photos showing Dad in a variety of poses with a younger Sara Smythe. The first was an ‘at home’ shot: Dad with his arms around her, standing near a Christmas tree. The remaining shot was of the happy couple in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington. From the age of the photos and the style of clothes they were wearing, I guessed they were taken in the early 1950s. I spun around and stared at Sara Smythe, wide-eyed.
‘I don’t understand …’ I said.
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ I said, suddenly angry.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I do’
She touched my elbow, leading me into the living room.
‘Come sit down. Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’
‘Stronger,’ I said.
‘Red wine? Bourbon? Harvey’s Bristol Cream? That’s about it, I’m afraid.’
‘Bourbon.’
‘On the rocks? With water?’
‘Neat.’
She allowed herself a little smile. ‘Just like your dad,’ she said.
She motioned for me to sit in an oversized armchair. It was upholstered in a dark tan linen fabric. The same fabric covered a large sofa. There was a Swedish modern coffee table, on top of which were neat stacks of art books and high-end periodicals (The New Yorker, Harper’s, Atlantic Monthly, New York Review of Books). The living room was small, but immaculate. Bleached wood floors, white walls, more shelves filled with books, a substantial collection of classical CDs, a large window with southerly exposure, overlooking a small back patio. Directly off this room was an alcove which had been cleverly fitted out as a small home office, with a stripped pine table on which sat a computer, a fax machine and a pile of papers. Opposite this alcove was a bedroom with a queen-sized bed (bleached headboard, a quilted old Americana bedspread), and a Shaker-style dresser. Like everything else in the apartment, the bedroom exuded style and subdued good taste. You could tell immediately that Sara Smythe was refusing to embrace the muted dilapidation of senior citizenship - and live out the final part of her life in an apartment that was, stylistically speaking, two decades out of date, and reeking of shabby gentility. Her home hinted at a quiet, but ferocious sense of pride.
Sara emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray. On it was a bottle of Hiram Walker bourbon, a bottle of Bristol Cream, a sherry glass, a whiskey glass. She set it down on the coffee table, then poured us each a drink.
‘Hiram Walker was your father’s favorite bourbon,’ she said. ‘Personally I could never stand the stuff. Scotch was my drink - until I turned seventy, and my body decided otherwise. Now I have to make do with something dull-and-feminine like sherry. Cheers.’
She raised her sherry glass. I didn’t respond to her toast. I simply threw back my whiskey in one gulp. It burned my throat, but eased some of the serious distress I was feeling. Another small smile crossed Sara Smythe’s lips.
‘Your dad used to drink that way - when he was feeling tense.’
‘Like
‘We really can’t talk here,’ she said. ‘Please …’
She motioned for me to cross the threshold. After a moment’s nervous hesitation I said, ‘Don’t think I’m going to stay long …’
‘Fine,’ she said.
I followed her inside. We entered a small foyer. On one wall was a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, heaving with hardcover volumes. There was a closet next to the shelf. She opened it, asking, ‘Can I take your coat?’
I handed it to her. As she hung it up, I turned around, and suddenly felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. Because there - on the opposite side of the foyer - were a half-dozen framed photos of myself and of my father. There was that picture of my dad in his Army uniform. There was an enlargement of that photo of Dad cradling me when I was a newborn baby. There was a picture of me at college, and holding Ethan when he was just a year old. There were two black-and-white photos showing Dad in a variety of poses with a younger Sara Smythe. The first was an ‘at home’ shot: Dad with his arms around her, standing near a Christmas tree. The remaining shot was of the happy couple in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington. From the age of the photos and the style of clothes they were wearing, I guessed they were taken in the early 1950s. I spun around and stared at Sara Smythe, wide-eyed.
‘I don’t understand …’ I said.
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘You’ve got some explaining to do,’ I said, suddenly angry.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I do’
She touched my elbow, leading me into the living room.
‘Come sit down. Coffee? Tea? Something stronger?’
‘Stronger,’ I said.
‘Red wine? Bourbon? Harvey’s Bristol Cream? That’s about it, I’m afraid.’
‘Bourbon.’
‘On the rocks? With water?’
‘Neat.’
She allowed herself a little smile. ‘Just like your dad,’ she said.
She motioned for me to sit in an oversized armchair. It was upholstered in a dark tan linen fabric. The same fabric covered a large sofa. There was a Swedish modern coffee table, on top of which were neat stacks of art books and high-end periodicals (The New Yorker, Harper’s, Atlantic Monthly, New York Review of Books). The living room was small, but immaculate. Bleached wood floors, white walls, more shelves filled with books, a substantial collection of classical CDs, a large window with southerly exposure, overlooking a small back patio. Directly off this room was an alcove which had been cleverly fitted out as a small home office, with a stripped pine table on which sat a computer, a fax machine and a pile of papers. Opposite this alcove was a bedroom with a queen-sized bed (bleached headboard, a quilted old Americana bedspread), and a Shaker-style dresser. Like everything else in the apartment, the bedroom exuded style and subdued good taste. You could tell immediately that Sara Smythe was refusing to embrace the muted dilapidation of senior citizenship - and live out the final part of her life in an apartment that was, stylistically speaking, two decades out of date, and reeking of shabby gentility. Her home hinted at a quiet, but ferocious sense of pride.
Sara emerged from the kitchen, carrying a tray. On it was a bottle of Hiram Walker bourbon, a bottle of Bristol Cream, a sherry glass, a whiskey glass. She set it down on the coffee table, then poured us each a drink.
‘Hiram Walker was your father’s favorite bourbon,’ she said. ‘Personally I could never stand the stuff. Scotch was my drink - until I turned seventy, and my body decided otherwise. Now I have to make do with something dull-and-feminine like sherry. Cheers.’
She raised her sherry glass. I didn’t respond to her toast. I simply threw back my whiskey in one gulp. It burned my throat, but eased some of the serious distress I was feeling. Another small smile crossed Sara Smythe’s lips.
‘Your dad used to drink that way - when he was feeling tense.’
‘Like
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