Young Mr. Keefe (24 page)

“Look, let's not—”

“Jimmy,” she said, “you've got to come. You really do.”

“Why?”

“For obvious reasons. What would Blazer think?”

“I don't know.”

“He'd want to know why you weren't coming. He's coming home to-morrow, Jimmy. I want to come down Saturday and we'll both behave as though nothing has happened. Because nothing really has.”

“Is that the way you feel? That nothing has happened?”

“Oh, you know I don't mean that. A very exciting thing has happened—but it's all between you and me; it doesn't involve anybody else, don't you see. Jimmy,” she said, a trace of anger creeping into her voice, “you were a man last Saturday, please be a man now. You've got to, darling. Even if you don't think you owe it to me, you owe it to Blazer—not to let him suspect—”

“Look, Claire,” he said, “I'm fond of you—I won't deny that. Last Saturday was—well, maybe it was inevitable, but anyway I'm rather sorry it happened. There's a name for it, you know. Adultery—”

“Oh, Jimmy! Don't be such a prig. Are you sober?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“Well, then for goodness' sake get drunk. You're no fun at all when you're like this. You sound like a minister or something and it's hardly becoming. As far as Saturday night goes, it doesn't have to happen again, does it? If you don't want it to happen, then I don't either. And it won't happen again.”

“But that's just it,” he said. “I'm afraid it will.”

There was a silence. Then, in a changed tone, she said, “Well—I wouldn't mind. You should know that, darling. I've thought about it—ever since. A great deal. It was—well, it was one of the most wonderful things that's ever happened to me, darling. So different from—from anything else. I thought about it all day to-day,” she said softly.

“That must have helped you with your charity cases.”

“What? Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said gaily, “I quit. I quit Monday. I decided I'm not a do-gooder”—she giggled—“I'm a do-badder, I guess. So I quit. It was all a sex substitute, I think. And, for some reason, Monday morning I didn't need a sex substitute …”

“Oh, Claire, Claire,” he said wearily.

“Don't be despondent! Go fix yourself a big fat drink, will you, and make up your mind that you're coming, down here Saturday.”

“I've got another engagement, actually,” he said.

“What do you mean? What kind of engagement?”

“I promised a guy I'd play bridge with him.”

“A guy—what guy?”

“A fellow I met on the beach—”

“On
what
beach?”

“Look, it's too complicated—”

“Do you mean to say you're going to spend Saturday night playing
bridge
—with some guy you met on a
beach?
Don't be absurd!”

“I promised him—”

“Well, dear, I wouldn't be so vehement about it if it weren't so important. Right at this point, I mean. With Blazer.”

He was silent.

“What did you do after you left here?” she asked. “Did you drive back?”

“No,” he said. And then he said, “Oh, my God!”

“What? What is it?”

“God, I almost forgot. Look, Claire, could you do me a favour?”

“That depends. What?”

“I got a parking ticket Saturday. It was there when I came out. I'm supposed to appear on Fridays—”

“Goodness, is
that
all?”

“If I mail you the ticket with a five-dollar bill, could you run over to the traffic court on Friday and pay it? It will only take a minute—as long as you're not working.”

“I'll do it on one condition,” she said.

“What?”

“If you'll come down Saturday.”

“All right,” he sighed, “I'll come.”

“Good. Mail me the ticket, and I'll go storm the halls of justice for you.”

“Without telling Blazer, naturally—”

“Naturally.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks a lot, Claire.”

“Thank
you
,” she said. “And cheer up, darling. It's really not as dreadful as you think it is.”

“I'll try.”

“Have you stopped thinking about Helen? Have you been trying to push her way, way back into the farthest corner of your mind?”

“I guess that's what I've got to do,” he said slowly.

“Well, keep pushing. You know what I think. She had a wonderful thing in you, and she let it go. So let her go.”

“Yes—”

“I'll see you Saturday,” she said. “Bring your friend if you want to. Diane Higbee
is
coming.”

“Who?”

“Diane Higbee.”

“Who's she?”

“Just a girl. Originally I thought of having her for you, but if you bring your friend, he can have her. I'll positively thrust them together! As for you, I just want to be able to catch your eye—one or twice—across the crowded room …”

“I'll see you then, Claire,” he said.

“Good-bye,” she said. “My darling!”

Jimmy hung up the phone and went to the closet. In the jacket of his grey suit, he found the yellow parking ticket and the crumpled paper napkin on which Mike Gorman had written his address and telephone number. He took both of these back into the kitchen with him. It was funny. He felt as though he had known Mike Gorman all his life. He felt pretty sure that Mike wouldn't want to go to Claire and Blazer's party. Somehow, Mike's easy, sunburned face didn't belong with Claire and Blazer and their friends. He was too relaxed and healthy; their friends would look wan and brittle in comparison. But there was no harm in asking him. He'd have to call him anyway, to beg out of the bridge game. At that moment, to Jimmy, the prospect of playing bridge seemed a lot more pleasant than going to a party. It was such a simple, unhectic way to spend an evening. But he'd promised Claire now. He picked up the phone again and gave the operator the San Francisco number.

After a few rings, Mike's voice answered drowsily, “Hello?”

“Hi,” Jimmy said. “This is Jim Keefe.”

“Oh, hi,” Mike said. “How're you doing?” He yawned. “Sorry—I was asleep.”

“Hey, it's only nine o'clock,” Jimmy said.

“Yeah, but I was reading this book and I fell asleep in a chair.”

“I'm sorry I woke you.”

“Don't mention it. What's on your mind?”

“Well, look,” Jimmy said, “about Saturday—I think I'll have to take a rain check on the bridge game—”

“Oh, that's too bad. Something come up?”

“Well, more or less,” Jimmy said. “These friends of mine in San Francisco are having a party. I'd promised them I'd come. I forgot about it when I told you.”

“Sure, I understand. Well, maybe some other time, huh?”

“Yes,” Jimmy said. “Because, you know—I'd really been looking forward to it. I haven't played bridge in a long time.”

“Well, we'll do it some other time,” Mike said.

“These people—the fellow was my room-mate in college, and his wife—they're quite an experience. They really are. I told them I met you and they asked if you'd like to come to the party. There's going to be an extra girl, I guess. Would you like to go?”

“Well,” Mike said slowly, “I don't know. I'm not much for parties. What kind of a party is it going to be?”

“God knows,” Jimmy said. “It could be anything—you never can tell what their parties are going to be like. They have this terrific apartment up on Russian Hill with a view that makes you airsick, and the usual idea is to see how many people they can pack into three and a half rooms …”

“Russian Hill? Sounds a little rich for my blood—”

“Oh, it won't be fancy—nothing like that. Just people—people from the East, mostly. Hell, you might bump into some long-lost friend, you never can tell.”

“I'm the kind of guy that feels choked in a necktie,” Mike said. “It's about all I can do to wear one through the day, at work. But sure, I'll go. Why not? It ought to be fun.”

“I really ought to warn you about these people—Claire and Blazer Gates. I mean, they're apt to throw you at first—they throw most people. They have a way of talking—I don't know, as though everything was a great big act. But underneath it all, they're—well, they're darned nice.”

“Sure, I'd like to go,” Mike said. “Probably do me good to get out of this place. Everywhere I look there's a pile of laundry. Where'll I meet you?”

“Why don't I meet you at the Mark around seven? In the lobby. How's that?”

“Fine. See you there then.”

“Okay, Mike. You might just have a good time, I don't know. So long.”

“So long.”

Jimmy hung up the phone. He went into the living-room, found an envelope in the drawer of the chest, and hurriedly addressed it to Claire. He took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet, placed it in the envelope with the parking ticket, licked the flap and sealed it. He put a stamp on the envelope and looked at his watch. He would have time to make the ten-o'clock mail collection if he took it to the box on the corner. He went out of the apartment and down the steps to the street. Perhaps, he thought, going to the party was the best thing. It would help get his mind off Helen. Push her back, Claire had said, into the farthest corner of your mind. Well, that seemed like the only thing to do. He had not written to his father yet, about the baby. That would be a tough letter to write, he knew. He could picture his father's face when he found out. He would be stern and stony. He would summon the members of the clan—first his mother, then Turner Ames, Miss Maitland. Grimly, methodically, they would begin to fortify themselves against this new disaster. But they would rise above it; they had risen above every other disaster. All things—death, divorce, federal taxes, children that turned out badly, diseases, labour disputes—these were merely bothersome details of living. They could be overcome, settled, filed away. And they rather enjoyed the bother. It gave them something to do; it reaffirmed the Keefe family status. Bother went with being rich.

Jimmy was glad Mike Gorman was going to the party, too. Just talking to Mike on the phone cheered him up. Without knowing exactly what it was, he recognized an ingredient in Mike that he himself lacked, a sort of quiet optimism. Mike would be a good friend to have.

At the corner, he dropped the letter in the letter-box. He turned and walked back along the dark, quiet street, under the trees.

16

When Jimmy and Mike Gorman arrived at the apartment on Lombard Street Saturday night, Claire met them at the door and greeted them gaily. She stood in a slim, metallic, gold sheath dress, with her hair pulled tightly back and wound into a bun at the back of her neck. Silver ear-rings, fashioned to resemble mobiles, danced from her ears. They were a little early, she explained breathlessly, but that was all right, they would have a little time to visit. Most of the people hadn't arrived. She had invited lots of new people. She didn't know how they were going to get along with the old people. But Tweetums DeMay was here already. Tweetums was doing the funniest thing—they must come in quickly and see her do it. She brushed Jimmy's cheek lightly with her lips. Jimmy introduced her to Mike, and Claire said, “How do you do?” and looked at him appraisingly. She led them into the living-room. “Do it again for Jimmy, Tweetums,” she urged.

Tweetums DeMay, a plump, animated little woman, older than the rest of them, sat on the white sofa. “Lookee,” she cried. She held a nylon stocking in her hands and suddenly popped it over her head, pulling it down hard across her face. The stocking forced her face into a grimacing, distorted leer. “Isn't it dreadful?” she said beneath the stocking. “Doesn't it do the most ghastly things? Try it.” She yanked the stocking off and offered it to Jimmy.

Jimmy laughed. “Wait till I've had a drink,” he said.

“Blazer's out there mixing the most ferocious daiquiris,” Tweetums said. “Bla—zer!” she called. “Another guest—two more guests.” She smiled at Mike. “Who're you?” she asked.

For a moment, Claire remembered her Madeira manners. “Mrs. DeMay,” she said, “I'd like to present Michael Gorman. Mr. Gorman, this is Mrs. DeMay.”

“Oh, skip that ‘Mrs.' part,” Tweetums said. “Just call me Tweetums. Everybody does.” She gave Mike another bright smile. “You're cute,” she said.

Mike reddened. He turned to Claire. “You have a great place here,” he said.

“Oh, do you like it?” Claire said absently. “If the view gets too much for you, let me know and I'll close the curtains. What
is
Blazer doing?” She looked towards the kitchen.

Presently Blazer arrived from the kitchen, carrying a trayful of drinks. “Hi, Keefe-o,” he said. He put down the tray and shook Jimmy's hand.

“Hi, Blaze,” Jimmy said casually. “How was L.A.?”

“Oh, just the same. Hot as hell.”

“Mike Gorman—Blazer Gates, our host.”

“How are you?” Blazer said, shaking Mike's hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” Mike said.

“Say,” Tweetums said, “you two didn't see my date lurking around downstairs, did you? He's supposed to meet me here, but he's half an hour late already—the dirty dog.”

“No, I didn't see him,” Jimmy said.

The door-bell rang and Claire rushed to answer it. “
Higbee!
” she shrieked when she opened it. “Sweetie! You came! I knew you would!” Claire and Diane Higbee clutched each other in a quick embrace.

“I had the rudest taxi-driver,” Diane said. “He insisted there was no such address.” She came into the living-room and Blazer took her coat. She was a small, dark girl with a quick, nervous mannerism of brushing at her hair with her fingertips. She was introduced, and flopped into a chair. She opened her purse, removed a flat gold cigarette-case, extracted a cigarette, and screwed it into the end of a long gold holder. When no one immediately lighted it for her, she removed matches, and lighted it herself. She inhaled deeply and blew out a thin, sharp stream of smoke. “What're those?” she asked rudely as Claire held the tray of cocktails in front of her.