Young Mr. Keefe (21 page)

“But look,” he said, “there is such a thing as loyalty. And there is such a thing as honesty. My God, isn't there?”

“Of course,” she said soothingly. She pulled him gently down to the bed beside her. “Sit here,” she said. “Just sit here beside me for a minute before you go. I want you to.”

His voice cracked. “I don't know,” he said. “I just think this is the worst thing I've ever done in my life. The very worst.”

“Guilt, guilt, guilt!” Claire said. “That's not very flattering to me, you know, to say that. When I just finished saying I thought it was all rather grand!”

“You and I are different, Claire,” he said.

“No, we're not. We're exactly the same.”

He was silent.

“Do you love me?” she asked finally. “Or do you love her—in spite of everything?”

“How can I answer that?”

“Just answer it!”

He stood up. “What difference does it make?” he asked. “What difference does it make at this point?”

Then it was Claire who was silent. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I guess you'd better go.”

“Yes.” He went back to the ottoman where he had left his jacket, put the jacket on, and snuffed out his cigarette in the ash-tray. “I've got to figure this out,” he said.

Claire's voice was almost angry. “Why? I don't see why, or what there is to figure out, Jimmy!”

“Well—what about Blazer, for instance? We've—I've—turned this into a real thing now. What are we going to do about him?”

“Nothing! We'll go on, just as always! Nothing's changed! Why should we revise our lives, just because you and I—”

“Look,” he said. “Let's skip it! Just skip it!”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I didn't mean to get angry. All I want—is just for you to feel as clean and wonderful as I do.”

“Well,” he said, “I guess I'll have to try.”

“Where are you going? To the Clift now?”

“No, I'm going home.”

“Home? Back to Sacramento? It will be dawn before you get there.”

“Probably, yes—”

“Why don't you stay at the Clift? To-morrow, you can take me to lunch.”

He turned to her. “Claire,” he said, “I don't know what's going to happen, I honestly don't. But I know one thing—I'm not going to see you again. Ever.”

“But next Saturday,” she whispered. “I'm having a party—”

“I won't be there.”

“Oh, please! What will Blazer think?”

“Tell him whatever you want. Make up something.”

“Oh, Jimmy! Please!”

“I'm sorry—”

“You're being a bastard!”

“I've already been, thanks.”

“Stop it,” she said angrily. “You have the most delightful knack of making me feel like a whore on Mission Street! Do you know that?”

“Again, I'm sorry.” He went towards the door.

“Jimmy!” Her voice was commanding.

“What?”

“Do you—” Her voice softened. “Did you enjoy it at all?”

He paused, his hand on the door. “You know I did,” he said. “But that doesn't make it any better. That makes it all the worse. Good night.”

“Good night. And thank you.”

He opened the door, and the light from the living-room flooded in. He didn't want to, but then did turn, briefly, and look at her. She sat on the bed, her bare shoulders hunched forward, her arms wrapped around her blanketed knees. She looked straight at him, seriously, thoughtfully. Her incredible hair fell long and loose about her arms and shoulders, across her breasts. He closed the door and stood for a moment in the living-room.

He saw the dark pool on the bare floor where the drink was spilled, and the pieces of green Mexican glass, and went over to it. He stooped and picked up the broken glass with his fingers, then mopped up the spilled liquor with his handkerchief. He carried the pieces of glass into the kitchen and placed them in the waste-basket. He rinsed his handkerchief at the sink, wrung it out, and stuffed the damp wad in the pocket of his suit. He turned out the kitchen light. In the living-room, he turned out lamps, one by one, as he went towards the door. Then he opened the door, pushed the lock, and went out, closing the door behind him. He went down the wide steps slowly, and out into the street.

When he got to his car, he saw a bright yellow parking ticket tucked behind the windshield wiper. He swore softly, under his breath, removed the ticket, placed it in his pocket, and unlocked the car.

Inside the car, he let the motor warm up for a while. The night was cool, but not cold. The air was clear, with the peculiar clean, salty pungency of San Francisco air. It made him feel clear-headed and refreshed, a good deal better. He started the car, drove to the corner, then slowly down the steep, winding twists of Lombard Street. He didn't know exactly where he was going. He turned and headed towards the centre of the city.

When he got to Market Street, he turned again, and headed south-west. The street was empty. The movie marquees were dark, the honky-tonk bars and amusement palaces were closed. A lonely, empty trolley clattered by.

He drove down Market, and soon he was climbing the road that crossed Twin Peaks, then down, and out along the wide boulevard past Stonestown, Park Merced, still heading south and towards the ocean.

When he got to Half Moon Bay, he drove a little way beyond the town and stopped the car. He looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past four. Behind him, a faint flush of dawn had begun to colour the sky. Below him, he could hear the Pacific crashing against the beach. He turned off his headlights and got out of the car. Beyond a short rise, he found a path leading steeply down towards the beach. He followed it down, and soon was on the sand. In front of him, the sea was black, but the crests of the combers glowed and glittered with sparks of phosphorescence before they broke, sped shimmering across the sand, pulled back with a deep sucking sound, and broke again. Suddenly, looking at this great dark sea, he remembered summers at Cape Cod, watching the sun rise. There, the sun rose out of the sea; here, it rose from across the mountains; the sun's rays touched the ocean last. He felt, all at once, unbelievably tired. He went back across the sand to a sheltered place against the rocks and sat down. Presently, he lay back, lacing his fingers together and resting the back of his head in his hands. Almost immediately, he was asleep.

When he awoke, the sun was shining brightly down on him from overhead. He stared at it briefly and blinked, trying to remember where he was. Then he remembered, and sat up. His head spun dizzily; his mouth was painfully parched and dry. He rubbed his face with his hands, and his face was sticky with salt and sweat and rough with a stubble of beard. Like an absolute bum, he thought, just a bum sleeping on the beach. He stood up.

Then he kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, rolled up his trousers and walked down to the water. He waded into the surf, stooped and splashed handfuls of icy water into his face. He stood for a while, ankle-deep in the water. Then he noticed, also wading in the water, a figure moving towards him, along the edge of the surf. The man moved slowly, intent on the fishing line that floated a little way beyond him. Periodically, he stopped, reeled the line in, and, in a neat, clean arc, cast again, and moved on towards him. Jimmy watched him. He was young about Jimmy's age or possibly younger, with a bright shock of orange-yellow hair and a wide sunburned face. He wore a pair of rolled-up khaki pants and a white T-shirt. He stopped, reeled in once more, made another long cast, and waited. He turned to Jimmy and waved. “No luck here to-day,” he called.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said.

The boy came closer and smiled a big, friendly grin. “Rough night?” he asked.

“That's right,” Jimmy said dryly.

“I saw you there on the beach.” The boy gestured with his head. “You were dead to the world.”

“Ha!” Jimmy said, looking away.

“Is that your car up on the road? Green convertible?”

“Yes, it is.”

Holding his rod in one hand, he reached deep in the pocket of his trousers. “I took your keys out,” he said. “You know—you never can tell.” He handed the keys to Jimmy. “I saw you down here and figured that was your car.”

Jimmy looked at him. “Hey, thanks!” he said. “That was darned nice of you. Thanks a lot.”

“Don't mention it.” The other boy smiled.

“As you can probably guess, I didn't intend to sleep here on the beach,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah—I guessed that.”

Jimmy looked out across the water. “You catch much around here?” he asked.

“No, not a hell of a lot. Bass, sometimes, if you're lucky. Or yellowtail.” He began reeling in his line once more.

“Say,” Jimmy said, “you don't happen to have a container of water, do you? My mouth is like sandpaper—”

The boy grinned again. “No water,” he said, “but I tell you what I do have—I have a couple of bottles of cream soda up on the beach. How about some cream soda? I know nobody likes cream soda but me.”

“Cream soda sounds like nectar,” Jimmy said. “Like the greatest thing on earth. May I?”

“Sure. Look”—he pointed—“there's my stuff—up there. Wrapped in my windbreaker. You'll find an opener there, too.”

“You're saving my life,” Jimmy said. “I hope you know that.”

“Help yourself.”

Jimmy waded out of the water and walked up across the sand. He found the blue windbreaker, unrolled it, and found two bottles of cream soda and the opener. He opened one bottle and rolled up the other again. He went back to where the other boy stood, taking deep, thirsty swigs on the bottle. “You don't know how good this tastes,” he said.

“I bet it's kind of warm,” the boy said, “but maybe it'll quench.”

“Say,” Jimmy said, holding out his hand, “I'm Jimmy Keefe. And I'm darned grateful to you.”

“Mike Gorman,” the boy said, shaking his hand.

“And I don't live on the beach, in case you wondered,” Jimmy said. “I live in Sacramento.”

“You're a long way from home,” Mike Gorman said. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was at a party in town last night,” Jimmy said.

“Look,” the other boy said, “it's almost noon. I'm not having any luck and you must be hungry. There's a place down the road. Want to grab a bite?”

“You've had a series of good ideas,” Jimmy said. “I'd like that very much.”

“Let's go,” He began reeling in his line.

Together, they walked back across the beach. Jimmy stopped to put on his socks and shoes. Then they started up the path. “This place isn't fancy, is it?” Jimmy asked. “I imagine I look a little disreputable.”

“Just a hamburger joint.”

They climbed up to the top of the bank, and Jimmy saw Mike's car, a battered red station wagon, parked close behind his own. “Hey!” Jimmy said. “What's this? New Hampshire plates?”

“Yes, I'm a long way from home, too,” the boy said, grinning. “I'm from Portsmouth. I moved to San Francisco about a month ago.”

“I'm from Connecticut,” Jimmy said. “Somerville. Another Easterner, anyway.”

“No kidding? Well, pleased to meet you again!” They shook hands once more, laughing. “You're looking at the world's lowest-paid banker,” Mike said. “I came out here to take a job with the Bank of America. Banker, hell—I'm just a step above a messenger boy. What are you doing out here?”

“Same sort of thing,” Jimmy said casually. “Job—public relations.”

Mike Gorman tossed his fishing-rod in the back of his station wagon. “Look,” he said, “I'll lead the way—I know where this place is.”

“Fine,” Jimmy said.

He got into his car and waited for the other boy to pull out ahead of him. After a series of coughs and roars, the red station wagon started. Jimmy followed it down the road for about a mile until they came to a small, shabby clapboard structure perched on the edge of a cliff above the sea. A sign in front of it said, simply,
EAT
. They pulled in beside each other and climbed out.

“This place doesn't look like much,” Mike said, “but it has good hamburgers.”

They walked inside and swung themselves up on two high stools. A counterman in shirt-sleeves and a greasy white apron came out from what was evidently the kitchen. “Hi, Mike,” the man said good-naturedly.

“Hi, Al.”

“What'll it be, Mike? The usual?”

“Yeah—two hamburgers, Al. And a bottle of cream soda.” He turned to Jimmy, his wide face in a smile. “I'm sorry,” he said, “but I've got this thing about cream soda. What'll you have?”

“I'll have two hamburgers, too,” Jimmy said. “And coffee.”

“How's business, Al?” Mike asked.

The counterman shrugged. “Tell you after the Fourth,” he said. “Usually get a good crowd down here around the Fourth.” He walked back into the kitchen.

Jimmy smiled. “I guess you come here often,” he said.

“Yeah—quite a bit. Saturdays and Sundays. After fishing.”

“You must like to fish.”

The counterman arrived and placed Jimmy's steaming cup of coffee in front of him, then disappeared. Mike slid the sugar bowl towards him.

“Thanks,” Jimmy said.

“Yes, I like to fish. New Englander in me I guess,” Mike said. “There're three things I like to do: fish, ski—and you'll never guess what the third one is.”

“What?”

“Play bridge. I'm nuts about bridge—a real bug on it.” He turned to Jimmy. “Do you play bridge?”

“I've played some,” Jimmy said. “But not for quite a while.”

“I don't play for money, though,” Mike said. “Just for the fun of it.”

Presently the hamburgers arrived. The two of them sat forward, elbows on the counter, and began to eat. Jimmy realized that he had, indeed, been hungry. For no reason, he remembered Claire's scrambled-egg sandwiches last night; for a moment, his heart sank leadenly. Then he turned his mind back to the present. “Best hamburgers I ever ate,” he said.