Young Mr. Keefe (37 page)

“Well, frankly I'd like to talk to him again.”

“I think you might very well do that. I think if people weren't so ashamed of talking to each other, there'd be far fewer divorces.”

“I don't mean a reconciliation,” Helen said. “I mean just a talk—a sensible talk.”

“Of course you've been pretty cagey about why you wanted a divorce in the first place. What was it you said? He got drunk and abusive?”

“Yes, but he doesn't drink any more—”

“Well, get in touch with him then. Tell him you'd like to talk to him again.”

“Yes,” Helen said. “I thought perhaps you might write to him.”

“Why should I write to him? He's not my husband!”

“Yes, Mr. Gurney, but I thought—well, I thought that would be the right way to handle it.”

“
I
write to him? Don't be absurd, woman. I've got more important things to do than that.”

“I keep thinking,” Helen said softly, looking down at her white gloved hands in her lap, “that he might have changed. That I might have changed, too.”

Mr. Gurney waved his hands. “Then run along,” he said. “Do it. Don't bother me with all the details.”

“All right,” she said. She stood up to go. “I'll do it, and I'll let you know.”

“Very well,” he said crisply. “Good afternoon.” He swung around towards his desk. Helen started towards the door. “Just a minute!” Mr. Gurney said. Helen turned. Mr. Gurney looked at her over his shoulder and scowled. “Just remember,” he said, “nothing makes me happier than putting a divorce file in the back of the drawer.”

“Thank you,” Helen said. “Good-bye.” Then, impulsively, she blew him a kiss with her gloved hand. “You're a dear,” she said.

Mr. Gurney's face turned bright red, and he turned and bent over the papers on his desk as Helen let herself out.

On Thanksgiving Day, Tweetums DeMay drove the red Jaguar slowly up Telegraph Hill. She parked it in front of the grey frame building where Stan Erickson lived. She climbed out of the car, ran up the flight of steps to the front door, let herself in, and went up another flight of stairs to the second floor where Stan had a one-room apartment. She rang the bell. After a moment, Stan came to the door. He was tousled, unshaven, and still in his pyjamas. “Lookee!” Tweetums cried gaily, taking his arm and leading him across the untidy room to the front window. She pointed down at the car. “For us,” she said.

Stan gave a long, low whistle. “Where'd you get it, Tweetums?” he asked. “Did you buy it or something?”

“No, it's Claire and Blazer's. Blazer's away and Claire let me borrow it.”

“Terrific!” Stan said.

“So-o-o—” Tweetums said, extending the vowel, and turning to him and looking him up and down, “you scoot into the bathroom, shave, comb your hair, and get dressed. We're going to Carmel!”

“Great!” He squeezed her arm excitedly and started towards the bathroom; he chucked his pyjama-shirt on the unmade bed. Tweetums stood at the window, looking out. “And it's going to be a nice day, too,” she said.

At the bathroom door, he stopped. “Hey, Tweetums,” he called.

“Yes?” She turned.

“Fresh, young beauty!” He pulled the cord of his pyjama-bottoms and let them fall to his ankles.

“Oh, Stan!” She laughed, weakly.

He ducked into the bathroom and she heard the shower running.

As they drove down the peninsula, the sun kept appearing and disappearing. But the day was warm, and Stan had insisted that they drive with the top down. The Jaguar fascinated him. He studied the dials on the panel, practised double-shifting the gears. “Great little car,” he kept repeating. “God, what a piece of machinery!”

Because he enjoyed driving the car, they took their time. They made several side trips. In Palo Alto, they made a tour of the Stanford campus. Farther down, near Los Gatos, they took a long, winding road that led up into the hills. When they got to Monterey, they stopped, parked the car, and took a stroll along the fishing-pier. It was close to dusk when they arrived in Carmel. They drove the car along the Seventeen Mile Drive, past Cypress Point and Pebble Beach as the sun, giant and orange, began setting into the sea.

They drove then to a restaurant south of Carmel called Nepenthe for dinner. High on a cliff above the ocean, they had cocktails, and, after that, Pacific lobster. “What the hell does Nepenthe mean, anyway?” Stan asked her once, during dinner.

“It means ‘forgetting pain,' I think,” she said. She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.

They left the restaurant, and, in the car again, Stan continued heading south along the high, winding highway that followed the coast line. Tweetums rested her head peacefully on the back of the seat and looked out into the night. Drifts of mist were floating in now from the sea, swirling about the rocks. The surf echoed far below. Finally, she said, “Don't you think we ought to be heading back?”

“Back where?”

“Back to Carmel—?”

He was silent. Then he said, “Hey, Tweetums, how much money have you got with you?”

She hesitated. Then she opened her purse. “I've got about a hundred dollars,” she said.

“Good. I've got about thirty. Let's go to Tijuana.”

“Tijuana!”

“Sure. Why not?”

“But, Stan—it's about six hundred miles!”

“I know.”

“We wouldn't get there till to-morrow!”

“Sure. So what? I've never been there, have you?”

“No, but—”

“Then let's go. O.K.?”

“Oh, we can't! We really can't! I've got to have this car back by five to-morrow, for one thing—”

“She'd understand, wouldn't she? We'll phone her when we get there.”

“But why? Why on earth do you want to go down there? Oh, Stan, it's just crazy, starting off for Tijuana at ten o'clock at night!”

“Hell, I think it would be fun,” he said.

“Oh, it would be fun, but we can't. That's all there is to it. We can't.”

Stan was silent. They continued driving south.

“Turn back now, Stan, please,” Tweetums said.

“Why won't you go?” he asked her a little petulantly.

“Because, honey, it's silly. Why do
you
want to go? That's more to the point!”

He stared at the road ahead. Then he smiled a small, curious smile. “Because,” he said mysteriously.

“Because why?”

“Because we could get married in Tijuana.”

“Oh!” Tweetums gasped. She sat back in the seat, looking straight ahead. “Oh!” she said again.

“Are you game?” he asked her, teasingly.

Tweetums DeMay had a kind heart. Any touch of sentiment struck a great emotional chord within her, and she responded with a great outpouring of feeling. She longed, as she often said, to see people happy. It was seeing people happy that made her happy. In this unselfish longing, a kind of reckless giving, the surge of offering swept through her now, as the car sped on along the Coast Highway. She felt she must give Stan something now, in return for the ultimate flattery he had given her. The gift, which she intended only to be the gentlest, warmest kiss on his smooth blond cheek, she moved now to give. And the car, taking a sharp turn, threw her soft and generous body against his. His shoulder yielded with a jerk; his eyes had been intent on the curving strip of concrete that appeared through the swirling fog, and the wheel, in his hands, spun free. He grabbed for it, and in the tiny front seat of the red car, the two of them were thrown apart. Tweetums cried out once, sharply, as the car leaped, out of control, across the shoulder and the low embankment. At the edge, it seemed for a moment that it would save itself, but it did not. Too late, it fell, rolling now, down the black, jagged rocks towards the sea. Then the night was pierced with flame and the little red car flashed brightly, casting jagged rainbows into the waves below, rainbows that sparkled blue and gold, orange and crimson.

As five o'clock approached, Friday afternoon, Claire became increasingly nervous. She was dressed, ready to go. Where was Tweetums? Why on earth wasn't she back? Why, she wondered, had she been such a fool as to lend the car to someone she knew was irresponsible? She paced the huge glass room, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Outside, the afternoon fog thickened; the windows streamed. Soon there was nothing to be seen beyond the glass but a dense grey blanket of fog. Soon it was five-fifteen. Her nervousness changed to worry. Then her worry became anger. She flopped on to the white sofa, planning terrible, cutting things she would say to Tweetums. She was certain to be late now. Traffic would be slow over the bridge. In even the best driving conditions, it was a two-hour drive to Sacramento. She lighted another cigarette, wondering whether to phone Jimmy now or wait till Tweetums arrived. If she knew Jimmy—if the way he had acted in Squaw Valley was any indication of his present mood—she could not count on him to cool his heels for hours, waiting for her. If she didn't show up on time, it would be just like him to go to a movie.

Then the door-bell rang. Well, it was about time! She jumped up and walked rapidly across the room to the door. She pulled it wide open, angrily, then gasped suddenly to see two totally unfamiliar men. One was a state policeman. The other was a young, hatless man in a damp trenchcoat.

“What is it?” she said.

“Are you Mrs. Stuart Gates?” the trench-coated man asked.

“Yes …”

“We're from the police. May we come in?”

Claire stepped inside. The two men entered the apartment, and the patrolman politely removed his cap. “What's the matter?” she asked in a faint voice.

“Do you own a red Jaguar automobile, licence number—” The young man looked at a slip of paper in his hand and read the number.

“Yes. Yes, what's happened to it?” she asked sharply.

“Do you know a Mrs. Eleanor Spiers DeMay?”

“Yes. Tweetums DeMay. She had my car. Please tell me—”

“And a Mr. Stanley C. Erickson?”

“Yes! What's happened?”

“You say you lent Mrs. DeMay the car?”

“Yes. Oh, please—”

“I'm afraid there's been an accident, Mrs. Gates.”

“An accident!”

“Yes. Perhaps you'd better sit down—”

“No, no! Tell me what happened!”

“The car went off the road on the Coast Highway, about fifty miles south of Carmel. It wasn't spotted until noon to-day when Patrolman Flaherty here”—he nodded to the man in uniform—“noticed marks on the shoulder.” He paused. “It's a drop there of about two hundred feet, Mrs. Gates. The car caught fire. I'm sorry to say both occupants—Mrs. DeMay and Mr. Erickson—were killed.”

Claire pressed her fingertips hard against her temples, shaking her head back and forth. “Oh, no!” she sobbed. “Oh, no!”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Gates.”

“I had a date!” she cried. “
I had a date to-night!
Damn them!” She stopped abruptly, covering her mouth with her hand, looking at the two men in horror. Then she turned and walked stiffly across the room to the low white Chinese sofa and sat down hard on it. She sat there, like a little girl, knees pressed close together, hands clasped in her lap, head bent. “Oh!” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, oh, oh!”

24

Helen's letter was waiting in the mailbox when Jimmy arrived home from work Monday night. He sat at the kitchen table reading it over and over. It was very brief:

D
EAR
J
IMMY
,

I have been thinking about your suggestion that you come down to see Billy and me again some Sunday, and I have decided it would be unfair to say no. Since we will be very busy with the holidays—Christmas, etc.—coming up, perhaps the most convenient day for us would be the Sunday after New Year's, January 5th. Around three in the afternoon would be a good time.

Sincerely,

H
ELEN

Coming as the letter did, so close after the news about Tweetums and Stan Erickson, Jimmy's first reaction was to wonder if there was any connection. If, perhaps, Helen had heard about the accident, and Stan's death had put to rest a ghost. Was it possible that this strange young man was continuing to influence his life, even in death? He remembered the peculiar feeling he had had that night in Claire's apartment that Stan was in some way his
alter ego
, that they were linked, like brothers, in some dark and terrible sharing. His reaction to Claire's hysterical telephone call Friday night had been a sudden feeling of freedom, and, at the same time, a deep twist of grief, a feeling that part of himself had bounced with the red car over the cliffs into the night.

Then he decided that Stan's death had nothing to do with Helen's letter. Helen probably knew nothing about the accident. It received only a small paragraph in the
San Francisco Call-Bulletin
; the other newspapers didn't carry it at all. In California, after all, violent highway deaths occurred so frequently that they were not hot copy.

The two funerals had been held that very day. Claire had telephoned him several times over the week-end, begging him to go to them with her, but he had refused. She dreaded going alone, she said, and yet she felt she must. It was her New England conscience, commanding her to do her duty to the dead. And she would always feel, in a way, responsible. For she had actually urged Tweetums to take the car.

He read Helen's letter once again.

It was certainly impersonal, cool, with its deliberately formal close, “Sincerely, Helen.” And the date she had suggested was five weeks away. She purposely wanted to create the impression that she was not anxious to see him. She would be busy during Christmas, etc. She did not want his visit to coincide in any way with the sentimentality of the holidays. And yet, he thought, she had written. It was the first letter she had written to him in all these months. It was not a cold, legal communication from Eldridge L. Gurney, Counsellor at Law, Rio Linda, California. These were Helen's own words, written in Helen's own hand. She had been thinking about his suggestion. She had been thinking about him.