Young Mr. Keefe (33 page)

“Claire—” he began.

“You don't. That was when I realized I loved you,” she said.

“What's going to happen to us?” he asked her.

“Well,” she said, “do you really want to know? Because I've thought it all out. First, you must get your divorce. Then I'll get mine.”

“And then what?”

“Then—” she said, “then the rest is up to you.”

He set his glass down on the window-sill and turned to her. “Listen,” he said gently, “I want to make a speech. I want you to listen to everything I say and remember it. It may be that I'm in love with you, but. I don't know. I don't want you to say you love me, because I'm still not sure I feel the same. I'm very fond of you. I think you're one of the most exciting and delightful girls I know, and I think I could be in love with you very easily. But I can't be yet. I came back here to finish something. I don't know how it's going to end, but it hasn't ended yet. Do you see what I mean? I've got to see Helen first, that's one thing. Maybe it is all over with Helen. Maybe there's nothing left. But right now she's still my wife. I owe her something. Some day maybe I'll wish I'd said I love you right now—to-night. But I can't. That's why I stayed away from you and didn't answer your letter. A minute ago, I almost thought all right, to hell with her. But I'm afraid I can't. I can't give up now.”

She was silent for a moment, standing there, swaying slightly. Finally, she said, “That doesn't give me much to go on, does it?”

“It's all I can give you.”

She turned and walked slowly across the room. “That was—quite a speech,” she said. Then she turned to him and he saw that her eyes were filled with tears. “Do you mind if I say you're being a fool?”

“That may be true.”

“Oh!” she said. “You look so stern!” Her voice broke. She went towards the door. “I guess you'd better go,” she said.

He went towards her. “I'm sorry, Claire.”

She leaned with her back against the door, her hand on the knob. “Well,” she said, “I'll just have to be patient, won't I? If I ever want to be happy!” She moved away from the door. “Kiss me,” she said. “Just once. For courage.” She closed her eyes tightly.

He went to her and kissed her gently on the lips.

“Oh, Jimmy,” she sobbed, “I can't help loving you, even when you hurt me so!” Then she pulled away from him. “Good night,” she said.

“Good night, Claire.”

“Let me know,” she said. “Keep in touch.”

“All right. Good night.”

He let himself out the door.

Alone, in her room, Claire wandered aimlessly about for a moment or two. She kicked off her shoes. Then she saw her drink on the dressing-table, went to it, and picked it up. She drank it rapidly. Jimmy's drink, untouched, was still on the window-sill. She drank that. Then she returned to the dressing-table and began removing the rhinestone clips from her hair. All at once she lowered her hands, leaned forward, towards her blurred image in the mirror, and kissed the glass. She pulled back and there, on the mirror's surface, was the imprint of her mouth in lipstick—a round, perfect Cupid's bow.

On the way back, Jimmy stopped to look at the pool. It was, as Claire had said, an incongruous sight, a warm black rectangle in the snow. He walked slowly around the pool's perimeter, looking at the water. From inside the lodge, he heard the college voices at the bar raised in song—

Each morning at dawning birdies sing—

And everything!

A sun-kissed miss said, “Don't be late!”

That's why I can hardly wait—

Open up, open up, open up that Golden Gate!

California, here I come!

He squatted on his heels beside the pool and trailed his hand in the water. The water was warm, and suddenly there was a moon. For the stillness of a moment, the pool was a moon, glittering and shimmering all around. And whether it was this sudden transition, or whether it was the words of the song, he felt he saw a dawn breaking. Right there. At the tip of his hand.

21

He was in the same mood of quiet elation when he awoke the next morning. He dressed quickly, and, deciding not to risk seeing Claire in the dining-room, repacked his suitcase and went downstairs to the desk and checked out. It was still quite early, and a sleepy, ski-clad young man who served as a bell-hop carried his suitcase out to his car.

“Aren'tcha going to ski to-day?” the boy asked grumpily, tossing the bag in the back seat of the convertible.

“Not to-day,” Jimmy said. “Got to get back.”

He tipped the boy and climbed into the car. He started the cold, sluggish motor, and then got out of the car again to scrape the thin layer of ice from the windshield. When he had it clear, he got back into the car, raced the motor, and, with a curious thrill of excitement, decided to drive to Rio Linda. He backed the car out of the parking lot. Then he stopped to light a cigarette. He realized that his hands were trembling.

He stopped in Truckee to have breakfast, and sat at the small, grimy counter rehearsing in his mind the things he would say. For a while, he debated telephoning Helen first, but he decided against it; he knew what she would say. He paid his check at the restaurant and started out again.

It was nearly two hundred miles to Rio Linda, but, once he had crossed Donner Summit, the downward road was fairly fast. There was very little traffic, and when, towards noon, he entered the flat, broad valley, the road straightened ahead of him; he held the car at a steady sixty miles an hour. It was not raining, but the day was damp and chilly. From far off, a heavy cloud hung over the Mokelumne River. Even in the grey winter, the fields that stretched limitlessly on either side of the road showed promise of green. Here and there a palm tree rose and flapped incongruously in the cold, sunless day. Here, in this vast Central Valley, he had heard, lay California's true wealth, the wealth that sprang from the black earth. He wondered if the Western settlers had previsioned this as they looked across the Sierras, imagining somehow the desert irrigated, seeded, harvested. He flipped on the car radio, and for a while listened to the inevitable, twangy hillbilly music that was transmitted daily from valley towns.

It was almost two when he arrived in Rio Linda, and for a while he drove around the town, noticing the changes, trying to place things he remembered, getting up his courage. He drove past Helen's house three or four times, afraid to stop, and then he stopped driving around it, afraid that someone in the house would notice him. Finally he parked the car on the other side of the park, got out, and walked through the park past the empty tennis courts, then stopped, looking across at the white house that showed through the trees opposite. He thought: No, I can't do it. I haven't got the courage. I can't go there. Then he asked himself the question: What do you want from her? More scenes and recriminations, more bitterness? You've satisfied yourself now; you've seen the house again. Go back.

He turned back towards the car, but he realized now that he had to do it. He had to see her. He got back into the car, lighted another cigarette, then drove the car around the park and stopped it in front of the house. He got out and walked quickly up the walk to the front door.

Mrs. Warren answered the bell. She looked, he thought, a little frightened. “Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “What do you want?” And then, before he had a chance to reply, she said, “Did you come to see the baby?”

He realized, with a start, that he had really not stopped to think about the baby at all, but he answered, “Yes.”

She stood in the doorway. “Is this what they told you you could do?” she asked. “The lawyers and everything, I mean?”

“No,” he said, “but I'd like very much to see him. If it's possible and you don't mind—”

She seemed undecided. “Well—it's a little—” she began. “I think he's asleep right now.”

“Shall I come back later?”

“Yes. No. No—come in, Jimmy. Come in and sit down. I'll—I'll tell Helen you're here.” She held open the door and he stepped inside.

“You've redecorated,” he said. “Doesn't it look nice?” He realized he was smiling inanely and talking too rapidly. “The curtains are new, aren't they? When did you do all this?”

“Well, we had to do
something
,” she said, looking around distractedly. “And Mr. Warren left me the money to do it with—with those specific instructions—for what he wanted me to do with it—to do something to the house—”

“Very nice—”

“I'll get Helen,” she said. “Sit down, Jimmy, won't you? Excuse me—”

She started up the stairs and Jimmy went into the living-room. He sat down on one of the small French chairs. For several minutes, the house was silent. Then he heard Helen's footsteps coming down the stairs.

He stood up. She came into the room. “Hello, Jimmy,” she said.

“Hello, Helen.”

She stood a few feet away from him, not moving closer. She was wearing a pale yellow dress that was cut loosely, and leather-thonged sandals. Her brown hair was brushed smoothly back, and he noticed, irrationally, that she had on fresh lipstick. As he stared at her, she averted her face from him. “Sit down,” she said.

“I'm sorry, Helen,” he said simply. “I had to come.”

“You
had
to come?” She looked at him briefly, then away again. She moved to the sofa and sat down, placing her hands in her lap. Jimmy sat down in the chair.

“Yes,” he said.

“You could hardly have picked a more inconvenient time,” she said. “Mother's having guests in about half an hour.”

“I'm sorry …”

“Couldn't you have telephoned? Or written? Did your—your attorneys tell you this was what you could do?”

“No. It was my own idea, Helen. I felt I had to see you.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, “it's sort of a shock—”

“If you want me to go now, I will,” he offered.

“No, no,” she said quickly. “No—you've driven all the way from Sacramento.”

“From Squaw Valley, actually—”

“Squaw Valley?”

“Yes, I went up there yesterday to ski.”

She didn't answer him or seem interested any more. She put her arm on the arm of the sofa and looked into the corner of the room. He watched her. Her slim legs were bare below the full yellow skirt, and her feet, in the curious Indian sandals, were small, placed firmly on the floor. He studied her as she sat with her face turned away from him, averted, turned to the shadow. He thought that her sculptured face seemed pale; her features, too, seemed to have attained a sharpness, an angularity. There was an expression, too, that he couldn't recognize. He wondered whether it was time or pain or suffering.

“How have you been?” he asked her.

“Fine, just fine,” she said.

“You look—” he began. “You've lost weight, haven't you?”

She laughed sharply. “Yes,” she said. “I've lost a little. I've just had a baby, remember?”

“Oh, yes,” he said quickly, “yes, I'm sorry, of course that's it.” And he added, “Is he much trouble?”

“All babies are trouble.”

“Midnight feedings—that sort of thing?”

“Yes. That sort of thing.” She looked up at him. “But this one's worth it,” she said.

“I'm glad.”

There was another long, full silence, and she looked away from him once more. “I'd like to see him,” Jimmy said.

“Well—I don't want to wake him up just yet. He's due for a bottle soon. I'll give him a little while longer.”

“Tell me about him.”

“There's really not much to tell,” she said. “He's not much to look at either—only a week old. He doesn't do any spectacular things like walk or talk or sing. He has a cute little—” She stopped. “But you heard everything from Mr. Gurney.”

“Mr. Gurney supplied me with his birth date and his sex. That was all.”

She gave him a quick, worried look. “Was that all he told you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. I'm sorry. His name is Billy—”

“Forgive me, he did tell me that.”

“And he weighed seven-thirteen—”

“Is that about average?”

“Yes, that's a good weight. And his eyes are—oh—an indistinguishable colour!” She laughed. “And he has long fingers—I'm sure he's going to play the piano—and he's bald—”

“And family resemblances?”

“Oh, yes, he looks just like you!” She smiled at him, and then stopped smiling. “I guess he looks just like a baby,” she added, looking away again.

“And was it—easy for you?”

“Yes—so they tell me. I thought it was ghastly at the time, but everybody tells me I was terribly normal about it.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” There was another silence, and he asked, “Where did the Billy come from?”

“From nowhere. I thought it was a pretty name, that's all.”

“It is,” he said. “I like it. It's a nice name.”

“I'm glad you approve.”

“I'm glad you approve that I approve,” he said.

“How have you been?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“And the job?”

“Just fine. Bob Maguire is—”

“What?”

“He's a nice guy to work for,” he said. “I'm not getting rich at it, of course, but I'm enjoying it. I got my first raise when I got back from the East.”

“Oh, have you been East?”

“Yes, I was back about a month ago for the funeral.”

“What funeral?”

“Didn't you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“My father died.”

“Oh! Oh, no!” she gasped.

“Yes, he had a heart attack. I'm sorry, I thought you knew.”