The Pursuit of Happiness: A Novel

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The Pursuit of Happiness

A Novel

Thomas Rogers

This novel is dedicated to

Elizabeth Vinsonhaler Rogers

and Thomas Hunton Rogers

with the author’s filial love

Contents

Epigraph

Part One: Life

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Part Two: Liberty

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

About the Author

There is a general assumption that

the manner of a man’s life is a clue

to what he on reflection regards as

the good—in other words happiness.

ARISTOTLE, Nichomachean Ethics I. v

PART ONE

LIFE

ONE

SPRING BEGAN WITH AN unseasonal blizzard. Michigan City, Indiana, received a record snowfall and the South Side of Chicago was blanketed under seven inches. It was wet snow. Along 55th Street it turned to black slush and by the next day the gutters were running in streams. On that day of galoshes and rubbers and wet feet, Mrs. Thwett visited her nephew, William Popper.

When William opened the door Mrs. Thwett walked in, looking big but still elegant in boots and a Persian-lamb coat. I’ve been visiting Mother, she said. Mrs. Thwett was a busy woman, and it is a long way from Lake Forest to the South Side. Old Mrs. Popper also lived on the South Side, though not in the University neighborhood, and so Mrs. Thwett usually managed to kill two birds with one stone.

It’s simply awful out, she said. She sat down in William’s armchair to unfasten her boots. She glanced around the room. Once, when she visited William, there had been a girl taking a shower in his apartment. It had made a lasting impression on Mrs. Thwett.

That girl isn’t here, is she?

She has a class, said William.

She doesn’t live here, does she?

She has to be back in her dormitory at twelve, said William. Do you want tea?

What kind of tea?

Lipton-tea-bag tea, said William.

Mrs. Thwett clicked her tongue. Then don’t let it steep long.

She took off her coat and laid it on the bed. Then she looked at the room more closely. You might at least get your girl friend to clean up for you. I don’t approve of the way you’re living, but you could take advantage of having her.

She’s more an intellectual type, William explained. You know how women who read Faulkner never make good housekeepers.

I’ve read Faulkner and I’m an excellent housekeeper.

You have? What novels of Faulkner have you read?

I didn’t come to discuss Faulkner, said Mrs. Thwett. She picked an ashtray off the floor and put it on the arm of her chair. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. How Mr. Holmes stands it, not being able to smoke at Mother’s, I don’t know.

How is Granny? William asked.

I didn’t come to discuss her, either. Mrs. Thwett sucked at her cigarette. She narrowed her eyes. Mother was talking about cutting you out of her will, as a matter of fact.

William sat down opposite his aunt. He smiled at her.

It’s nothing to smile about. So far as I can see, if you don’t inherit from her you’ll be poor. Your father won’t leave much.

Yes he will.

And your poor mother doesn’t save a thing out of all the money he gives her. How is your mother, by the way?

I haven’t heard recently, said William. She’s still taking art lessons.

Mrs. Thwett fell silent. She adjusted her scarf. The water’s boiling, she said. When she was served, she looked with distaste at the tea, at the Havilland cup, and at the thick white saucer. I recognize this cup, she said. You got it from Mother’s house.

Yes.

Mrs. Thwett sighed. That awful house. The agony of growing up there!

Is that what you came to talk about?

No. Mrs. Thwett sipped her tea and wrinkled up her nose with disgust. Mother likes you, in spite of everything. You ought to visit her.

Last time I was there she told me she never wanted to see me again.

Mrs. Thwett sighed. She shrugged her shoulders. She says that to me all the time, and it’s such a trip from Lake Forest to see her. If only she would sell that house and move into an apartment. She stubbed out her cigarette. Well, what I came to talk about is this. I met your father the other day at the police station. (Isn’t that a coincidence? We were both paying traffic fines.) And he told me he’s planning to move into his own housing development…. What does he call it? Concord? She paused, but William said nothing. Mother and I are both very worried about him. Are you listening to me?

Yes, said William.

Then stop fiddling with that. What is it, anyway?

It’s called a Billikin, said William. The Eskimos make them.

Oh? Well, he ought to divorce your poor mother and get married again, or he ought to live at the University Club or Executive House or someplace like that. He should never have stayed on in Flossmoor. He must not move into his own housing development.

The houses can’t be that bad, said William.

That isn’t my point.

Mrs. Thwett held out her cup and William poured more tea. He’s still a rich man, even though he’s lost money. In fact, have you seen the houses he’s building? They’re far too well built for what he charges. They’re good houses.

Then why shouldn’t he live in one?

Oh, you Poppers! said Mrs. Thwett Except for myself there hasn’t been a normal person in the family since Grandfather. What’s the point of being rich if you live in your own housing development? Or if you live like this…. She gestured around William’s room. And look at how your father and I were raised. We knew no one. By the time we were old enough to play, everyone of our sort had moved out of the neighborhood. If I hadn’t gone off to school, I’d never have married or made any friends.

I’m not rich, said William.

You could certainly afford something better than this. Those were Negroes in the grocery store below. I expect they live in this building.

Look at Granny, said William.

Old Mrs. Popper lived on Prairie Avenue. It had been a fashionable neighborhood when she moved there as a bride in 1896. Now she and her four servants were the only white people for miles around.

Well, I’d give anything if she’d move, said Mrs. Thwett. She lit another cigarette. It’s practically a siege. Mr. Holmes has to come out of the house and unlock the gate before you can even drive in. Mother told me she was thinking of putting a fire hose on top of the tower to spray boys who climb into the yard at night.

It sounds lively, said William.

Oh, of course, you think it’s funny, said Mrs. Thwett. When your grandmother provokes a race riot, you’ll laugh. This tea’s lukewarm. Mrs. Thwett got to her feet and looked out the window. I’m not even sure my car is safe down there, she said. I just don’t understand why Mother and you and your father all make yourselves miserable by living the way you do.

All right, said William, what am I supposed to do about my father?

Yes, said Mrs. Thwett. Let’s get that straightened out. Now when did you see him last?

At Christmas.

So you don’t even know what he’s doing?

We talk over the phone.

Why don’t you go out and see him? I’m sure he’s lonely in Flossmoor. Who does he know there? Your poor mother never entertained. I’m sure this idea of moving into Concord is just because he’s lonely.

Why shouldn’t he live in Concord? He could watch over his investment.

It isn’t the money, said Mrs. Thwett. God knows, he’s a bad businessman, but at least he could live like a gentleman.

Flossmoor’s gentlemanly.

Oh, you’re hopeless. I’ll have to talk to him myself, and I’m terribly busy. She picked up her cup and drained the tea in it. Don’t you have any biscuits? she asked.

William got up and looked into his cupboard. There are graham crackers, he said.

Never mind, then, I meant tea biscuits. Petits beurres. Mrs. Thwett looked out the dirty window at the tenement across the street. She shut her eyes momentarily and then focused on William once more.

Well, what are you doing? Are you a Communist?

No, said William.

Are you going to study law?

I don’t think so.

Maybe you should go to medical school.

That’s ridiculous.

You’ve got to do something, said Mrs. Thwett. You’re not going to marry that girl?

I’m not sure.

You should have gone to Princeton.

Well, I didn’t.

It isn’t worth my time to come visit you. You’ll end up in jail. Then, by an obvious train of association Mrs. Thwett again advised William to visit his grandmother, and by an equally obvious train she suddenly mused, I wonder if Jimmy will behave like you when he grows up?

How is Jimmy? William asked.

Well, anyway, we got him into Choate, said Mrs. Thwett. That’s something. I think if you had had a better education you wouldn’t be the way you are.

Don’t be so personal, said William. I’ve given you tea and offered you graham crackers, and all you do is insult me.

Mrs. Thwett smiled. When William talked back she was sure he liked her. At other times she was less certain. You were a sweet little boy. Maybe I should have brought you up when your poor mother left. You might have turned out better. It was living alone with your father that did it.

There’s nothing wrong with Father, said William.

You know I love your father, said Mrs. Thwett. He was the one person who was nice to me in my whole childhood. But you can’t say he’s a proper person to bring up a child.

We have a fine relationship, said William.

And look where it’s gotten you, said Mrs. Thwett, gesturing around. Tell me, seriously, are you seriously interested in that girl? What’s her name?

Jane Kauffman.

Jane? I’m sure she’s an interesting girl, but frankly I don’t think she’s very attractive, and certainly you don’t want to marry someone who does nothing but read Faulkner.

I only used Faulkner as an example.

So do I.

William didn’t answer.

I won’t criticize her morals, because you’re just as bad as she is. I don’t believe in a double standard—I’m not such a fool as you think I am—but I do think a nice girl would at least straighten up this place. There are dirty clothes under that bed, and there’s a smell in here.

That’s not fair. The whole building smells.

You know what kind of smell I mean. It smells of dirty clothes, to be perfectly frank. I’m positive you don’t wash enough, and your hair needs cutting.

Anything else? said William.

Mrs. Thwett gazed at her nephew in a judging way. She narrowed her eyes as if to visualize the picture. You know, she said, you’d be quite handsome if you’d clean up and wear decent clothes.

These are very conventional criteria.

Well, I’m a very conventional person. Mrs. Thwett got up and retrieved her boots. Perched on the side of the chair as she drew them on, she looked over at William again. Tell me, do you enjoy living like this?

Well, do you enjoy living like you do? I mean, ask fair questions.

I think I lead a useful and happy life, said Mrs. Thwett. She had her boots on. Your uncle and I are devoted to each other—and, by the way, stop writing him. You know perfectly well he’s a Republican, and you’re just wasting your time giving him ideas. Now, good-bye.

Good-bye, said William.

And you do promise to visit your father? It’s living alone in Flossmoor since your poor mother left that’s made him so peculiar.

I promise, said William.

Then, good-bye, said Mrs. Thwett.

Moments after Mrs. Thwett departed, Jane Kauffman came in.

Was that woman in the coat your aunt? she asked.

Yes. Did you say hello?

No. I thought she sniffed.

She, feels strongly about girls in blue jeans, William explained. She’s quite emotional, in fact. When I had my beard she burst into tears the first time she saw me.

Mrs. Thwett had allowed prejudice to cloud her usual objectivity when she said that Jane wasn’t attractive. Jane was very attractive. She was beautiful, in fact, and it was this which continually surprised William, for at eighteen, the age when he first met Jane, he had expected to love unattractive women all his life, that having been his experience up till then. In his high school the intellectual girls were obviously marked out for a life of sexual woe. They had bad skin or teeth. If their hair was thick, it was greasy; if it was clean, it was thin. They dressed in jumpers and flat shoes. Most of them were too tall, the others were fat. His special sweetheart had been Amy Philbright. Deep, musical, well read, was how the class book described her, accurately enough. She and William shared an interest in Wagner and Shaw.

So, when William arrived at the University of Chicago (Amy went to Radcliffe) he expected to find another soulmate like her. It was simply that, in his experience, girls interested in the things that interested him were bound to share a generic resemblance to Amy. Thus, when he met Jane at a meeting of the Students for a New Politics, his eyes were actually blinded to what she looked like, so strong was his preconception that in those surroundings she was bound to be unattractive.

They were the only freshmen who had turned out for the first autumn meeting of the SFNP, and afterward they walked together down 57th Street to have a cup of coffee at Stineways. They were talking excitedly about politics when William became aware that people looked at Jane as they passed the booth. Especially boys. Then he looked, and that was the beginning of his surprise.

Her thick, very black hair shone because it was brushed, not because it was greasy. Her skin was white and smooth not because she had, inexpertly, smeared powder and cream over her acne, but because that was naturally the way her skin looked. He had been used to averting his eyes from Amy’s face, now suddenly he saw there was no reason not to look very closely at Jane. At her eyes, for instance. As she talked to him her eyes had grown larger. Her face seemed to open and relax as her animation increased. William completely lost track of what she was saying in the astonishment of watching her.

And after almost four years he was still astonished and delighted. Mrs. Thwett had protected herself from the elements with boots and Persian lamb; Jane wore only a gray hooded jacket and sneakers. Her cheeks were flushed by the weather. She sat down on their bed, took off her shoes, and began to peel off her wet socks.

Why did your aunt come? she asked.

She wants my father to move into Executive House.

Jane looked at him.

She wants me to move into a better apartment.

Jane nodded reflectively.

She also wants my grandmother to move.

Jane shook her head. I’m glad I’m not in your family, she said.

You are, said William.

Not legally, said Jane. She began to pull off her blue jeans. I’m wet clear through. Class wasn’t worth it, either. Get me my bathrobe, please, for William was standing right beside the bed between her and their closet. He didn’t move. She smiled up at him. Won’t you please get me my bathrobe?

No, said William.

I’m cold and wet, and I want to wrap up in my bathrobe and get in bed and have you bring me some of that brandy we bought the other day.

No, nothing doing, said William. You’ve got it all wrong. He sat down on the bed beside her. He put one hand on her leg. You’re not as cold and wet as you pretend to be. This is all make-believe. What we call regression in the service of the ego. You want to wrap up in a blanket and pretend to be a baby.

Feel my feet, said Jane. See how cold and wet they are?

William felt one of her feet.

Very cold and wet.

So, don’t you think you ought to be solicitous?

No, said William, leaning down and kissing her.

The light was fading when Jane got up and looked out the window. Now it’s raining outside, she said. Isn’t the weather awful? William didn’t answer. Don’t pretend to be asleep, she said. I saw you looking at me. She opened the closet and got her bathrobe. And I suppose you know that the A&P has closed and we didn’t do our shopping?

We can get what we need downstairs.

I’m not going to buy anything from those Muslims, Jane said. It’s outrageous what they charge us, and anyway, if you believe in integration you ought to boycott them.

That’s illogical, said William. He turned over on his back and folded his arms under his head. If you believe in integration, you ought to buy from Negroes even if they are Muslims.

Well, I’m not going to, said Jane. They hate me, and I’m not going to buy their damn peanut butter for twice what it costs at the A&P. They raise their prices when they see me coming.

What do we have? William asked. He watched as Jane bent down to inspect the tiny refrigerator.

There’s frozen shrimp, said Jane, pleased. I forgot about them.

Shrimp and rice, said William.

After supper they got back into bed with their clothes on and settled down to read. Jane had Letting Go, William had Croce’s Aesthetics. Soon William put his book aside and began to nuzzle Jane.

Maybe we ought to get married, he said. I mean, there’s no point in not being married.

We’d live the same way, whether we’re married or not, said Jane.

If we were married you wouldn’t have to go back to the dorm at midnight. Like Cinderella.

Jane laughed. Maybe that’s good for us. If we had the whole night together, who knows what would happen?

I do, said William.

She pushed him back.

After all, he said, one of the reasons we decided not to get married was because we were so young. Now we’re both twenty-one. I’m going to be twenty-two.

That isn’t so old, said Jane.

Well, what are we waiting for?

We’re not waiting for anything. Who said we were waiting?

Then, why don’t we get married?

Why should we?

We’re not discussing this very intelligently, William said.

I know it. Look, get us some brandy.

William got out of bed and brought the brandy bottle and two glasses back with him.

Jane swirled the brandy around in her glass. She propped herself up higher on the bed. The reason I don’t feel right about getting married is that I don’t know what we’re going to do after we’re married.

Neither do I.

You see, Bill? She called him Bill when they were making love and when they were arguing. I don’t want to marry you just because it’s a convenience. I want to know what we’re going to do together.

Why shouldn’t we just live together and be happy? ‘Come live with me and be my love.’ We might even travel around. See Paris and Rome.

Jane wrinkled up her nose. You sound like Cary Grant propositioning a shop girl.

I do not! said William.

Well, don’t be mad.

I’m not. He looked at her. She was staring into her brandy. When she thought she had hurt his feelings she never looked at him.

Look, he said, is it my fault that the Russian Revolution failed to liberate mankind?

No, said Jane, but you could do something about it.

What? What could I do? These are reactionary times. There aren’t any good political forces to join.

It’s the New Frontier, Jane said. We could join the Peace Corps.

Very funny, William said.

Or we could join the Freedom Movement, or the disarmament business. Actually there are a lot of things we could do.

They’re not political, said William. They’re just do-good outfits.

How can you say that? Jane sat forward. Anyway, they do do-good. What have we been doing?

Nothing. Maybe we should start working for TWO. TWO was The Woodlawn Organization, an attempt by Saul Alinsky and others to rescue the neighborhood south of the University.

I’d like that, Jane said. We could tutor.

But do you see yourself as a tutor? William said. I don’t.

"What do you see yourself as?" Jane asked.

Well, I mean if we’re going to be interested in politics, let’s do something political.

Organizing a neighborhood is political, Jane said. Anyway, what do you mean by politics? The way you and Arendt talk about politics, the only political thing to do is to give speeches in Athens.

Well, maybe, William said, but what about getting married?

Jane looked at him in surprise. Aren’t you even trying to think things through?

No, said William.

Before Jane could say anything to that, the door of their apartment banged open and Melvin Lasher walked in carrying a bottle of whiskey in a paper bag. Hello, you two, he said; how’s free love these days?

Splendid, said William, how’s onanism?

Colossal.

Lasher