Young Mr. Keefe (30 page)

He said nothing.

“Jimmy, I'm sorry. It's just that I should think you'd want to get away from that state—where she is. Where you've had so much trouble. I should think you'd want to come home now—where we can be happy.”

“I'm sorry, Mother, but I've made up my mind. I'm going back. For a while anyway. I've got to.”

“Jimmy, I
implore
you!”

“Mother,” he said quietly, “what would you say if I told you that I still love her? That I want her back?”

“I would say,” she said, her voice breaking, “that you're trying to break your mother's heart!” Melise Keefe turned and walked rapidly out of the room.

That night, in San Francisco, Claire and Blazer also quarrelled. Claire had put down the telephone after trying, without success, to reach Jimmy in Sacramento.

“He's just not answering the phone,” Blazer said angrily. “He knows it's us, and he's not answering. It's all your damned fault!”

“Why is it mine? Why? I wrote him—”

“You told him to get out. You threw him out. He was my best friend. You threw my best friend out!”

“I apologized … I did everything I could think of …”

“You've destroyed a friendship that meant a lot to me,” Blazer said, his voice hard and even. “I'll never forgive you for that as long as I live.”

She didn't answer him.

19

The day was too cold for fishing. Jimmy and Mike sat in heavy sweaters and windbreakers on a rock above the beach and ate the hamburgers they had brought from Al's place, back on the cliff. There was a raw north wind that whipped the grey sea into white caps and sent mists of spray into the air. They ate in silence. They had talked most of the afternoon. Jimmy had told Mike about his father, about the funeral, about. Turner Ames. He also told him what his mother had said. Mike listened quietly.

They finished the hamburgers and wiped their fingers on the waxed-paper wrappings. They wadded the paper and stuffed it back into the paper bag. Suddenly, the late afternoon fog bank came sweeping in from the sea. They watched it racing across the surface of the water, and all at once they were inside it. The sea disappeared. All around the rock where they sat the fog heaved and floated; the sound of the breakers on the beach seemed to come from far away.

“You know, it's really kind of beautiful,” Mike said.

“What is?”

“This—everything. California.”

“Yes,” Jimmy said.

“Everything that happens out here is bigger than life. We have fog in New England—but it's nothing like this. This is the granddaddy of all fogs.”

“Sure,” Jimmy laughed. “It's California. It has to be the most magnificent fog on earth.”

“Everything's that way. The mountains are bigger, the beaches are wider, the trees are taller …”

“The Golden Gate Bridge has the longest single span—”

“Ah, you're not taking me seriously. I mean it. I mean it's beautiful—nature.”

“I know what you mean,” Jimmy said. And then he said, “Mike, how come you're so grown up?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how did you get to be? My God, you and I are the same age—but you're really years older than I am. How did you go about it?”

“Maybe I had to,” he said. “Maybe you always had somebody else to jump in and take your side and help you out.”

“I suppose you're right.”

“Cheer up,” Mike said. “I'm sorry about your father, I really am. But you know, in the long run, it may be the best thing that could happen to you. Because now you're really on your own. Don't take that the wrong way—but think about it.”

“Yes.”

“I forgot to tell you,” Mike said. “She called me up.”

Jimmy looked up. “Who did?”

“That girl—Claire.”

“Really?”

“Yes, last week when you were away. She was trying to get in touch with you.”

“I got a letter from her,” Jimmy said. “I suppose I ought to call them up.”

“She didn't know where you were. She acted like I was trying to keep you a prisoner or something. I told her I didn't know where you'd gone, but she insisted I was hiding something.”

Jimmy laughed. “That sounds like Claire,” he said.

“She's in love with you, old trooper. Did you know that?”

“Oh, no,” Jimmy said quickly. “We're old friends, that's all.”

“No, there's more to it than that where she's concerned. I warn you.”

Jimmy was silent.

“How about you?” Mike asked. “How do you feel about her?”

“She's just an old friend,” Jimmy said slowly.

“I'm not so sure. Have you—have you ever given her any reason to fall for you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don't know. I just wondered.”

“You mean, have I slept with her?”

“Perhaps …”

Jimmy opened his hands. “Well,” he said, “you know everything about me anyway, so I might as well tell you. Yes. It was a damned stupid thing that happened when I was drunk, and I suppose I've got to live with it for the rest of my life. It's just one of a lot of things about myself that I'm ashamed of.”

“I sort of suspected it,” Mike said.

Jimmy laughed softly. “Damn you,” he said, “you're clairvoyant! Do you know everything without being told? How in hell did you know?”

“Oh, at that party, that night we were there. It was just something that occurred to me.”

“It was a noble thing to do, don't you think? Your old college buddy goes out of town for a day or so, and you go and call on his wife …”

Mike laughed. “I guess Frank Merriwell wouldn't do it,” he said, “but the important thing is how you feel about her. Are you in love with her, I mean?”

Jimmy thought about this. “I won't deny there's an attraction,” he said. “Maybe I could fall in love with her. But too many other things keep coming in between—like Blazer, and Helen. It would never work. Not in a million years.”

“You still carry the torch for Helen, don't you?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“Then why don't you go and see her?”

“No, I can't do that. I called her once—”

“I mean, go and see her. If you really want her back—”

“No, there's no use in that. It wouldn't do any good.”

“Then forget about her.”

“What?”

“Forget about her. Let her get her divorce. How come she hasn't got the divorce, anyway?”

“There's some mix-up on her residence,” Jimmy said. “At least that's what they tell me. When we were married, she became a resident of Connecticut—because I was one. Now she's got to re-establish a California residence from the time we took the apartment.”

“Oh, I see.”

“But do you really think I should say the hell with her?”

“Do you really want to know what I think?”

“Sure. Tell me.”

“I don't want to lead your life for you,” Mike said. “But the only thing I think you've got to do is
something
. I mean, do one thing or the other. You've got to decide for yourself, but what you're doing now is—well, it's nothing. You're not getting anywhere. You've got a bad case of inertia, if you ask me.”

“Hey, give me time, give me time,” Jimmy said. “My God! I've been getting along—fairly well—without a wife. I've also been getting along without alcohol. Now I've got to get along without money. I might be able to get along without one of those things—but without all three? Hell, I just don't know.”

Mike looked at Jimmy searchingly. Then he smiled his wide grin and clapped a hand on Jimmy's shoulder. “You'll be all right,” he said. “Now let's get back to town and round up a bridge game.”

They stood up and clambered down the wet, slippery rock. They walked slowly back across the beach through the thick, swirling fog to the path that led up the steep bank to the parked car.

In the little hospital in Rio Linda, the elevators were too small to hold the rolling beds. The maternity patients from the private rooms on the first floor had to be carried up the stairs to the labour rooms on the second. At six thirty-five, Helen was transferred from her bed to a stretcher, carried up the stairs, and placed in another bed, then rolled down the corridor. It was an awkward, uncomfortable operation, but Helen, actually, was not entirely conscious of it. She was aware of bright yellow lights passing over her head, and the changing sounds of voices around her. With her teeth clenched, she was most conscious of the pain inside her. Then, in the corridor, she heard her mother's voice calling, and above her she saw her mother's face. “Helen, dear! why didn't you call me? I raced over from the garden club as soon as Doris called me. Did you take a taxi all by yourself, you poor child?”

“Please, Mother, go away …”

“Helen, dear …”

“Please! Go away!”

“You'd better go, Mrs. Warren—” a man's voice said.

“But it's my own daughter! She's—”

“Will you wait downstairs, Mrs. Warren?”

“Helen! Speak to me!”

The man's voice, commanding: “Mrs. Warren!”

The rolling continued, and then a woman's voice said gently, “This is the labour room, Mrs. Keefe.”

She was conscious of more bright lights, of shining chromium, of white sheets, and the sound of water running from a faucet. “I'm a little frightened,” she said.

“There, there,” the nurse said. “It won't be long, Mrs. Keefe.”

“Will you call my husband?”

There was no answer.

“What is your name?” Helen asked.

“Mrs. Adams.”

“Will you call my husband, Mrs. Adams?”

“No, my dear, the doctor says we mustn't.”

“Please, Mrs. Adams!”

“There, there, dear.”

She felt a cool towel pressed against her forehead.

“Is the doctor here?” she asked.

“Not yet, Mrs. Keefe.”

“I can give you the number, Mrs. Adams.”

“This is an injection, Mrs. Keefe,” the voice said. “It won't hurt.”

She felt a sharp pain in her arm. “Oh, God!” she screamed.

Then, later, she said, “Mrs. Adams! Will you please call my husband?”

“Mrs. Adams is off duty, dear,” a voice said. “You'll be having your baby soon.”

“Oh, please! Please!”

She felt herself being lifted once more, then lowered on to a hard, flat bed. “What's happening?” she asked.

“She's a little groggy still,” a voice said.

Then a masked face bent over her. “Just relax, Helen,” a man's voice said. “Put your hands here. Now just relax.”

“I am relaxing.” The pain came once more.

Then there was a long, shuddering silence. In this void, years passed blackly, and only in the very centre was some vaguely shining thing. Effortlessly, she was back in her mother's garden, walking under hollyhocks and tea roses and thick trumpet vine, and, even before that, she was naked on the sand somewhere, long ago. And then the shining thing—a candle, or a mirror held to the sun—beckoned flickeringly, then went out. In the total dark, she gave up, and curled lovingly in the womb. “I'm very tired now!” she said.

“Push down hard, Mrs. Keefe …”

“I can't, I can't …”

“You're doing fine.”

“Did I make that noise? Oh, God!”

“There, there.”

“Did I do that?”

“Can you push down very hard now, Mrs. Keefe?”

“I don't want to make any noise.” And then, “Oh, it's not working! Help …”

“It's working nicely, Mrs. Keefe … you're doing nicely …”

“Give me that thing again!”

“There you are!”

She felt it against her face and sucked her breath in sharply. The flickering mirror went out again, and she was alone again in the sweet-smelling dark, surrounded by murmuring voices.

It was six o'clock, Wednesday night, the following week. Jimmy stood alone in the kitchen of his apartment, looking out at the street. It was almost dark, but not quite. Through the bare trees he watched the newsboy coming down the street on his bicycle, splashing through rain puddles on the sidewalk. The newsboy tossed a rolled newspaper deftly on to the steps of the big grey-shingled house across the street, then cut back towards the apartment house, bounced over the curb, and disappeared, momentarily, in the courtyard underneath. Jimmy watched the empty street for a while longer. Then, with amusement, he realized that he was waiting for a signal—for the woman at number 3360 to emerge from around the corner, from her back-yard terrace, to collect the paper, carrying iced tea in a fat, cherry-decorated pitcher. But to-night lights glowed palely inside the house from behind drawn shades. California had moved indoors. He turned away from the window and went to the refrigerator, took out eggs, milk, and butter. He had planned to make scrambled eggs for supper, but when he had the ingredients out on the counter top, he realized he wasn't very hungry. He replaced the eggs in the refrigerator, removed a slice of bread from the loaf, and placed it in the electric toaster. When it popped up, he spread the toast with butter and stood there, in the centre of the kitchen, eating it. He looked around the apartment. The place was a mess. He hadn't really cleaned it since he got back from Connecticut. There was dust everywhere. The sink was filled with sticky coffee cups. It would take, he figured, a full evening to clean it. Perhaps he would do it to-night. He had nothing else to do. Halfheartedly, he ran hot water in the sink over the coffee cups. The water came out in steaming, scalding gasps. He turned off the faucet and wandered into the living-room. The appearance of things there was no better. The hell with it, he thought. He would go to a movie instead. He flopped down on the sofa and stretched his legs in front of him, staring despondently at the opposite wall. On nights like this, when he was alone with nothing to do, he became more aware than ever of the oppressive ugliness of the apartment with its motel-like furniture, its garish attempts to be “modern.” Perhaps, he thought, it would do him good to move to another place. Perhaps rent a little house farther out of town. But he reminded himself that he had to keep an eye on his pocket-book.