The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) by Douglas Kennedy Read Free Book Online

under it, and rinsed it free of vomit. I grabbed the king-sized bottle of Lavoris mouth wash on the vanity table - why is it that only little old ladies buy Lavoris? - unscrewed the big plastic cap, poured around half-a-pint of that astringent cinnamon-flavoured gargle into my mouth, swirled it around, spat the lot into the sink. Then I lurched to the bedroom, pulling my clothes off on the way.

By the time I reached Mom’s bed, I was down to my bra and tights. I rifled through her chest of drawers, looking for a t-shirt … but then remembered that my mom wasn’t exactly a member of the Gap generation. So I settled for an old cream-colored crew-necked sweater: very Going-with-Tad-to-the-Harvard/Yale-Game-Fall-‘42 vintage. Pulling off my underwear, I pulled on the sweater, stretching it down to just above my knees. It reeked of moth balls, and the wool felt itchy against my skin. I didn’t care. I threw off the bedspread and crawled in. Despite the Florida-like heat of the apartment, the sheets felt eerily cold. I grabbed a pillow and clutched it against me, clinging on to it as if it was the only thing on earth right now that could give me ballast.

I suddenly had an overwhelming need to hold my son. I suddenly started to cry. I suddenly felt like Little Girl Lost. I suddenly loathed myself for this burst of self-pity. I suddenly wondered why the room was beginning to tilt and keel like a boat in choppy waters. I suddenly fell asleep.

Then the phone started to ring.

It took me a moment or two to drift back into consciousness. The bedside light was still blazing. I squinted at the elderly digital clock by the bed - so 1970s that it had mechanically flipping numbers. 9.48 p.m. I had been asleep for around three hours. I lifted the phone. I managed to mumble …

‘Hello?’

… but my voice was so thick with groggy sleep that I must have sounded semi-comatose. There was a long pause on the other end. Then I heard a woman’s voice.

‘Sorry, wrong number.’

The line went dead. I put the receiver down. I turned off the light. I pulled the covers over my head. And called an end to this fucking awful day.

    Three

I WOKE AT six. For about ten seconds, I felt curiously elated. Because, for the first time in around five months, I had actually slept for eight unbroken hours. But then everything else flooded in. And I found myself wondering: what deranged, grief-stricken despondency made me want to stay in Mom’s bed overnight?

I got to my feet, careened into the bathroom, took one look at myself in the bathroom mirror, and decided not to make that mistake again. I peed, baptized my face with cold water, and gargled with Lavoris: three basic ablutions that enabled me to leave the apartment without feeling like a total fire sale.

My suit stank of vomit. As I dressed, I tried to ignore the smell and paid no notice to its trashed condition. Then I made the bed, grabbed my coat, turned out all the lights, and slammed the door behind me. Meg was right: I really was a glutton for punishment. I decided: the next time I see this apartment again is the time I pack it up.

The early hour meant that I didn’t run into any of Mom’s neighbors in the elevator or the lobby. This was a relief, as I don’t think I could have handled another heartfelt expression of condolence (I was also worried that people might think I was auditioning for a female remake of The Lost Weekend ). The night doorman - slumped in an armchair by the lobby’s fake electric fireplace - didn’t even seem to notice me walking briskly by. There must have been two dozen empty cabs cruising West End Avenue. I hailed one, gave the driver my address, and collapsed across the back seat.

Even to a jaundiced native like myself, there is still something wondrous about Manhattan at dawn. Maybe it’s the emptiness of the streets. Or the commingling of street-lamp light and the emerging sunrise. Everything’s so tentative, so hushed. The city’s manic rhythms are