Young Mr. Keefe (20 page)

“Yes?”

Her mother opened the door and stepped inside. “Going to bed now, dear?” Mrs. Warren asked.

“Yes. I'm a little tired.” Helen continued to look straight into the mirror. Mrs. Warren moved towards the bed and began turning it down. She removed the quilted coverlet, folded it carefully, and placed it over the back of the chair. Then she turned down the sheet in a neat triangle.

“You don't have to do that,” Helen said pleasantly.

“Oh, I don't mind,” Mrs. Warren said. She turned and studied her daughter. “Helen,” she asked finally, “is everything all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean do you feel all right? Are you worried about something?”

“No, not at all.”

“You seem so—sort of withdrawn, dear. You've hardly said a word to me all day.”

Helen laughed softly.

Mrs. Warren sat down on a corner of the bed. “Helen,” she said, “I don't want to poke and pry. I thought possibly you might tell me yourself—”

“What, Mother?”

“Well, it may be none of my business—but I naturally
care
, dear. I have a natural interest in you, and seeing to it that you're happy.”

“What in the world are you driving at?” She finished the last pin-curl and turned on the stool to face her. Her expression was amused.

Mrs. Warren fidgeted with a corner of the sheet. “Well, that girl who came to-day,” she said. “I thought you might explain to me—what it was about—”

“Oh, that!” said Helen.

“Yes. Who was she, Helen? Don't you want to tell me?”

“Of course! I meant to tell you. I guess—well, I guess it must have slipped my mind. She's a friend of Jimmy's.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Warren sighed deeply. “Oh! That's exactly what I thought.”

“What? What did you think?”

“She's his—his new flame, I suppose?”

“Oh, goodness no! No, not that at all.” She laughed again. “No wonder you were upset! No, she's the wife of his old room-mate from college.”

“But why in the world—”

“She came to state Jimmy's case. I guess that was the purpose of it. Jimmy may have sent her, I don't know. She insisted he knew nothing about it.”

“What do you mean, state his case?”

“She thinks we should go back together again,” Helen said simply.

“Oh? What did you tell her?”

“That it was out of the question.”

“What an extraordinary thing,” Mrs. Warren said. “What an extraordinary thing for someone to do!”

“Well, I guess he's an old friend of theirs.”

“I know—but imagine interfering with someone's private life like that! It seems extraordinary. She was an extraordinary-
looking
girl, didn't you think? That blonde hair …”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'm glad it wasn't—the other thing. You know—some girl of his coming to talk terms with you! That would have been dreadful.”

“No, I guess there isn't any other girl.”

“Helen, you—you haven't been in contact with him, have you? Since you left, I mean?”

“No, you know that.”

“It is still the only thing, isn't it? A divorce, I mean?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so, Mother.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Warren said, “I don't really know what the trouble was—I don't want to know. You've told me only a little, about all the drinking and his immaturity, but I trust your judgment. I'm sure you know what you're doing, dear, and if this is the only thing—”

“It is.”

“It saddens me to have a divorce in the family, you know. Sometimes—well, sometimes I think we've had more than our share of unhappiness. Losing your father—everything. And of course I remember how dreadfully he behaved when your father died. Oh, I relive that terrible night in nightmares, sometimes!”

Helen turned back to the dressing-table. She arranged her comb, brush, and mirror on the glass-covered top. She reached for her cold-cream jar, opened it, and began slowly to cream her face with her slim brown fingertips. “Mother,” she said after a moment, “do you have plenty of money?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“You haven't really told me. Did Daddy leave you—you know, money enough to get along on?”

Mrs. Warren hesitated. “Yes,” she said, “your father left me in comfortable circumstances. I'm not a wealthy widow, of course, but if I'm careful, I'll have plenty to take care of all my needs.”

“I feel I'm such a burden,” Helen said. “Just coming home like this—to live off you.”

“Now, Helen, don't talk that way. You're not a burden—not in the slightest. You know that, dear. You mustn't think about it.”

“I'm wondering if I should sue for alimony—”

“Nonsense! We don't need their money,” Mrs. Warren said angrily. “Just make a clean break of it. Alimony would be just another way he could have a hold over you. We certainly don't need any of that.”

“I may have to,” Helen said quietly.

“What do you mean? Have to what?”

“Have to ask for alimony.”

“Why, for heaven's sake?”

“Well—there's going to be another of us, Mother.” Helen turned and faced her mother.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I'm going to have a baby.”

Mrs. Warren was silent. Then she said, “No, no, that's not possible.”

“It is, Mother.”

“It isn't! It can't be!”

“I wish it weren't, for your sake, Mother.”

“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Warren whispered. “Oh, my God.” She buried her head in her hands.

Helen rose quickly and crossed the room to where her mother sat. She stood over her and put her hand on her mother's shaking shoulders. “Mother, Mother, please!” she said. “It isn't so terrible, is it? Is it? I'm not the first girl in the world to have a baby, am I?”

“Oh, it is!” Mrs. Warren sobbed. “It's terrible! Dreadful!”

“Why? Why is it?”

Mrs. Warren looked up at her. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Around the first of November.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Warren clutched Helen's arm and pulled her down beside her on the bed. “Oh, my poor little girl! My poor baby! What are we going to do?”

Helen's voice was patient, gentle. “There, there,” she repeated. “It isn't so terrible—it doesn't seem so to me! Oh, I was frightened at first. At first—when I first suspected—I felt the way you do. But when I thought about it, gradually it began to seem—well, different. It began to seem all very smooth and simple, and rather glorious! Do you know what I mean, Mother? I mean, sometimes, before—with Jimmy—I used to feel rather futile, as though my life didn't have any meaning or any purpose or function. But now—now it's as though I've been given this wonderful opportunity—to do something completely by myself.”

“But his child!” Mrs. Warren said angrily. “How can you bear it?”

“It will be my child, too!”

“But
him
! Such a—a wastrel! A good-for-nothing—”

“No, no,” Helen said softly. “That's not fair.”

“What do you mean? He's a bum! You said so yourself!” Mrs. Warren's voice was shrill.

“Jimmy isn't
bad!
” Helen said. “He's—well, he's mixed up, maybe—and there was nothing for us, nothing at all, but he's not
bad
.”

“I don't understand you! I simply don't!”

“I've had a lot of time to think about it,” Helen said. “We were wrong for each other—but that may have been my fault, too.”

“I won't listen to you trying to blame yourself for his shortcomings!”

“Look, Mother,” Helen said softly, “I have to think like this. Don't you see? If I didn't—well, I just don't know what I would do. I have to reconcile everything in my mind now, and try to work things out on my own. I'm going to get my divorce and have my baby—and behave like a big girl!”

“I think you're insane,” Mrs. Warren said. “I've never heard anyone talk like this. How are you going to tell him about it?”

“I don't know. I don't know yet. I'll have to tell him, of course.”

Mrs. Warren stood up abruptly. “I've got to lie down,” she said. “I've got to think. This is like a bad dream. I can't believe it—any of it.”

“Please, Mother,” Helen said. “Please let me handle it. I want to.”

“Let's talk about it in the morning,” Mrs. Warren said. “I have a headache. I can't think—” She walked rapidly to the door.

“I really don't see why you should be angry with me.”

“We've always been able to hold our heads up in this town,” Mrs. Warren said despairingly. “Always! And now this has to happen, on top of everything else! What in the world have I done to deserve it!” Her voice broke. “Good night.” She opened the door quickly and stepped out, closing it sharply behind her.

Helen stood alone in the centre of the room. After several moments, she went back to her dressing-table, sat down, and reached for the jar of cold-cream once more. Slowly, with her fingers, she pressed the pale, cool cream into her skin, along her cheeks, her forehead. Then, with both hands, she blended the cream, smoothed it under her eyes, along her throat. “I want to be a big girl,” she whispered once, softly.

And then, as though the sound of her voice had touched a chord within her, or had reminded her of some inner dread, her hands began to tremble. She moved her face closer to the mirror and looked. Her reflection—hair in flat curls, her skin shining grotesquely—seemed unfamiliar, a weirdly grimacing mask that mocked and rebuked her. “You heartless bitch!” she whispered, and, as her hands continued to tremble uncontrollably, she clutched her throat as if to stifle a scream. Then she put her head flat down on the cool glass surface of the dressing-table. “Oh, dear God in heaven!” she prayed. “Dear God in heaven! Give me the strength, the strength, the strength!” She lay still for some time. Then the trembling seemed to stop. Her face, when she looked at it again, was wet with tears.

All at once, she stood up. She went to her closet and removed her robe from the hook and slipped it on. She went out of her room, across the hall, past her mother's closed door, and down the dark stairway. At the foot, she stopped. There was a telephone there, on a long cord. She picked it up and carried it into the dining-room—as far as the cord would reach. Then she picked up the receiver and placed the call.

When, after she had let the number ring for several minutes, there was no answer, she replaced the phone, almost with a sense of relief. She was not at all sure whether she would have had the courage to tell him, even to speak to him, if he had answered.

12

In the dark bedroom on Russian Hill, Jimmy Keefe sat on the low round ottoman next to the window. In an ash-tray on the table beside him, the end of his cigarette glowed. The curtains were closed; there was no other light in the room. Claire still lay on the bed opposite him. “Don't you want to turn on the light?” she asked him. He could feel her eyes, in the darkness, watching him.

“No, thanks,” he said softly.

“Can you see?”

“Yes.”

“Turn on the light, Jimmy.”

“No, I can see fine. It's better in the dark.”

“Jimmy?”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said. Then she said, “What time is it?”

“I don't know,” he said. “Around three, I guess.”

“Jimmy,” she said, “I'll ask you once more. Don't go.”

“Yes, I've got to.”

“Why? Why do you have to?”

“I just do,” he said. “It's better this way. Going in the night. I don't know why—”

“Jimmy,” she said softly, “please. Please don't feel ashamed.”

“God, I don't know what I feel,” he said.

“Jimmy,” she said urgently, “please listen to me. It was wonderful. That's absolutely all. Wonderful. One of the most wonderful things that's ever happened to me. That's all it was.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Don't feel guilty. Please don't.”

“I said before—I don't know what I feel.”

“I know what you feel,” she said. “You have this loyalty. To Blazer. And Helen. You think you've betrayed them!”

“Haven't I?”

“No.”

“Oh, Claire,” he said, “let's not talk about it. I've got to go.”

“Don't you think I wanted it, darling?” she said. “Do you really think it was all your doing? Don't you think I've wanted it to happen all along? Planned it? Do you remember the night at the lake?”

“Yes.”

“Even then. Even before. I don't remember when, exactly, it was that I knew it first. But it's been a long time. And I'm glad! I'm—”

“No, no—” “he began. He heard the sheets rustle as she pulled herself up in bed and rested on her elbows, against the pillows.

“Yes,” she said, “blame it on me if you must blame it on someone.”

“I've got to go,” he said, standing up.

“Light me a cigarette,” she said. “Have a cigarette with me, at least, before you go.”

He fished for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, found it, and crossed the room. He handed one to her and fumbled with a match. He struck it, and in the sudden light he saw her face, very close, looking up at him. Her blue eyes looked black. She smiled, and laughed softly, taking his hand with the match and holding it to her cigarette. Then she blew out the match, but continued to hold his hand. “Darling,” she said, “I don't feel guilty. Why should you?”

“My God, Claire, what are we going to do?”

“Do? Why do we have to
do
anything, for goodness' sake?”