Young Mr. Keefe (40 page)

Jimmy studied Blazer's face intently, the face he had known through school and college. It seemed unchanged, still smooth, rather handsome, with short-cropped curly hair, the thin, straight nose, the pale, almost impersonal, blue eyes. Blazer's clothes, although he wore them with an air of studied casualness, were still carefully pressed, neat, and selected with care. He remembered at Taft Blazer had been voted Best-Dressed Boy; he had the feeling suddenly, looking at Blazer, that he was looking at a posed, slightly smiling, year-book picture. Still, there was something in Blazer's expression now, or in his manner—he couldn't put his finger on it—that he didn't recognize. The too-pale eyes looked frightened, defensive. “I thought you'd be pleased, Blaze,” he said finally.

Blazer shrugged and looked away. “I think you're a fool,” he said. Then his expression changed. He brightened. “Hey,” he said, “how about a drink? What kind of liquor does this guy have around here?”

“There's some beer in the ice-box. Mike says he's too poor to buy booze. Want a beer?”

“Beer!” Blazer said disgustedly. He seemed to sag again into the sofa. He put his head back and stared dully at the ceiling. “Keefe-o,” he said.

“What?”

“I really came here to ask you a favour.”

“What is it, Blaze?”

“Claire.”

Jimmy paused. “What about her?”

“I want you to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“She and I—well, we had a fight. A real free-for-all the other night. I'd just got back from a sales trip to Hawaii. I was dog-tired, and Claire had—well, she'd been through all the business with Tweetums and Stan. She was a wreck—nervous, looking like death warmed up. We were both played out. We had a fight—a real one this time. Not the make-believe fights we used to have. Yesterday, while I was at work, she walked out on me.”

Jimmy said nothing.

“You know what she said?” Blazer went on. “She doesn't want to stay in California. She wants to go home. How do you like that? Just when things are looking up for me. You see, I'm going to take a new job—with Monarch Mills. As West Coast manager.” He paused. “It's a pretty good deal. I mean, it's a hell of a good deal! Good salary—everything. But she's sore because it means we have to stay on the West Coast.” He paused again. “You're staying on the West Coast, aren't you, Keefe-o? I mean—you don't mind it, do you? You're not planning to go back, are you?”

“No,” Jimmy said. “I've got a job here.”

“Sure, that's what I told her,” he said rapidly. “I said, ‘Jim's staying here.' But she's got the idea she can't stand it any more. She's homesick for that damn' creepy castle back in Connecticut—Mars Hill! My God, you should have heard her! She got all weepy over how wonderful things were at Mars Hill, how wonderful her mother was—Christ! Her old lady's nothing but a lush. She's been a lush for about fifteen years! And her old man is a pompous ass!” He stopped. “I probably shouldn't say that, because he's helped me out. I mean, he's taken an interest in me. He put this guy at Monarch Mills on to me, for instance, and I'm grateful for that. But I've got the job now. Why should I go back to Connecticut and end up working for her old man? I've got a good job now.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said, “sure—”

“I found out where she is. She's gone to the Clift. I've tried to phone her, but she doesn't answer. Maybe she's just not picking up her phone, I don't know. The thing is, I thought maybe you could talk to her.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” Blazer sat forward, his eyes flashing intensely. “Would you do it for me, Keefe-o? She'll listen to you, I know that. She's always—well, she's always worshipped the ground you walked on. Even back in college. She'll listen to you!”

Jimmy stood up and walked to the window. All at once he couldn't look into Blazer's face any more. He looked out the window, at the clean, silver-grey gas towers. Up the street, in the tennis courts, he could see white-suited boys playing; beyond the towers, in one small sliver of view, he could see the Marina. “Do you really think that would help?” he asked finally.

“I know it would! She thinks you're the greatest guy in the world—”

“Perhaps if you went over there, Blaze—”

“She won't speak to me! Honest, Keefe-o, I'm afraid I'm going to lose her. It's that serious. Look, I'm desperate. I really am. You're the only person who can help me out, I mean it. You may have got sore at us—but wouldn't you do it for old times' sake? We were room-mates in college—remember?”

“I remember—” Jimmy said softly.

“Then will you do it?”

Jimmy still looked out the window. “I think—” he began.

“What do you think?”

“I think you should talk to her, not me,” he said weakly.

“Then do this much for me,” Blazer said eagerly. “Come with me. Come on over to the Clift with me. Right now. The two of us will talk to her.”

“What good would that do?”

Blazer stood up and walked over to the window. He stood at Jimmy's shoulder. His face was flushed and his voice, now, was a little hysterical. Jimmy noticed then the faint, sweet odour of whisky on his breath. Jimmy rested his arms on the window sash; he felt ill. “Hey, Keefe-o,” Blazer said, “remember that night in New Haven when you and I were going to go out together—we had it all planned—to grab a little tail? Remember—I chickened out at the last minute? I was the cold-feet guy that night, remember?”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“I just suddenly remembered it, that's all. I remembered—you went out, but I didn't. And, you know you never did tell me what happened. Did you get any?”

Jimmy laughed, a little wildly. “My God, Blazer—you're still the same, aren't you? Always interested in the gory details …”

“Just curious,” Blazer said defensively. “Sometimes I think I need a few lessons along those lines. Maybe you could give me a pointer or two.”

“I doubt it—”

“But remember—in those days, at college, we were always Gates and Keefe Incorporated, remember that? Remember how we used to talk about going into business together, and how we used to argue whether it should be Gates and Keefe Incorporated? Remember all that—?”

“Yes, yes—”

“I chickened out on you that time. You're not going to chicken out on
me
this time, are you? Are you?”

At that moment, the door to the apartment opened and Mike Gorman came into the room. Blazer, hearing the door, spun around as if he had been shot.

Mike stopped, puzzled, seeing Blazer, then stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Nice to see you again,” he said.

Blazer ignored the outstretched hand. “I'm talking to Keefe!” he said angrily.

“Oops, sorry,” Mike said, withdrawing his hand. He looked at Blazer, his face faintly amused.

Blazer turned to Jimmy. “Coming, Keefe-o?” he demanded.

“I can't come, Blaze,” Jimmy said.

“Why the hell not?”

There was silence in the room. Mike moved towards the sofa. “We were going to play bridge—” Mike said easily.

Blazer turned on him. “Honeymoon bridge?” he asked shrilly. “What are you two, anyway—a couple of queers? Is that what's happened to you, Keefe-o?”

For a long moment, the three of them stood motionless. The room was still. They stood in a triangle—Jimmy at the window, Blazer in the centre, Mike half-way between the door, which still hung open, and the sofa. Then Blazer's body seemed to quiver, his head jerked back. “Well?” he said. “Well?”

Finally, in a soft, even voice, Jimmy said, “Get out of here, Blazer.”

Then Blazer's composure seemed to return. His face, which had been flushed and twisted in a sneer, became expressionless. Ignoring Mike's presence, he turned and walked past him to the door. He stopped and looked back. His pale blue eyes gazed at Jimmy for a moment steadily, then flickered slightly and gazed away. Blazer ran his tongue along the edges of his lips and shaped his mouth as if he were going to whistle. “Well,” he said, “
comme ci comme ça
.”

Jimmy thought: Pieces of my youth keep dropping away.

“So long, Keefe-o,” Blazer said casually, from his year-book face. “See you around.”

Then he was gone.

If they had gone to see Claire at the Clift Hotel that afternoon, they would not have found her there. In the new red car, she had driven to Rio Linda. She sat now, in Mrs. Walker Warren's living-room, wearing a beige wool dress, her bright hair tied back in an orange scarf, waiting for Helen to appear.

Upstairs, Mrs. Warren begged Helen not to go down. “Haven't you had enough of this?” she asked. “They're trying to put some sort of pressure on you, can't you see? Let me tell her to go away …”

Helen stood in front of her mirror, applying fresh lipstick. “I can handle it, Mother,” she said.

“It's some sort of scheme!” Mrs. Warren said desperately. “They're going to try to take Billy away from you or something!”

“Fat chance they'll have of that!” Helen said gaily. She turned and brushed her mother's cheek with her lips. “Look,” she said, “this girl and her husband are old friends of Jimmy's. They want to help us get back together again. Is there anything wrong with that?” She went out the door and ran down the stairs. “Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly to Claire.

“Hello, Helen,” Claire said, rising. The two girls shook hands.

“Won't you sit down?” Helen asked. She went to the coffee table, lifted the crystal cigarette box and offered it to Claire, who at first shook her head, then changed her mind and said, “Thank you,” taking a cigarette.

Helen lighted their cigarettes. Then both girls sat—Helen on the sofa, Claire on one of the small French chairs. “How have you been?” Helen asked.

“Fine, thank you,” Claire said. “I hope I didn't disturb you.”

“No, not at all,” Helen said. “I was just giving Billy his bottle.”

“Oh, how
is
the baby?” Claire asked.

“Oh, he's fine. Would you like to see him?”

There was a pause as Claire inhaled deeply on her cigarette, then dispersed the smoke with a wave of her hand. “No, thank you,” she said.

Helen looked at the other girl quickly. Claire's face was composed, her mouth firm. She saw, all at once, that this was not a friendly visit. What kind of a visit it was, she didn't know. She prepared herself for it.

“My business won't take a minute,” Claire said finally. “I've come to find out what your plans are.”

“What plans?” Helen asked quietly.

“About your divorce. Are you going ahead with it?”

“I'm sorry,” Helen said, “I don't quite understand—”

Claire smiled and tapped her cigarette resolutely in the ashtray. “I want Jimmy,” she said.

“What?”

“I want to marry him.”

Helen closed her eyes and pushed herself back into the sofa's depths. “I see,” she said finally.

“I want to marry him, and naturally I want to know what kind of divorce you plan to give him.”

“What
kind
of divorce?” Helen asked.

“Yes,” Claire said. “There are different kinds. There are the nice, pleasant, speedy kind, the best kind, that take place very painlessly. Then there are the kind that drag on with lots of unpleasantness for everyone. Which kind is yours going to be?”

“You say that you want to marry Jimmy,” Helen said. “Do you mean—he's asked you to?”

“I don't think that makes any difference,” Claire said quickly.

“I think it does.”

“Jimmy's too much of a gentleman to ask a girl to marry him while he's still married to someone else,” Claire said. “But over the last few months we've seen a great deal of each other, and we've become very fond of each other. You see,” she said pointedly, “Jimmy and I are just alike. Our—well, our backgrounds are similar, for one thing. And we like to do the same things.”

“I see,” Helen said.

“My own marriage was a mistake,” Claire said. “Blazer and I have separated.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Helen said.

“Don't be! It's really going to work out for the best. I'm going back East. Then I plan to go to Florida to get my divorce. Then—depending on what you do—Jimmy and I will—”

“Depending on what I do?”

“Yes. You're—well, you're the only obstacle in the plan at the moment.”

“You keep talking about the plan,” Helen said. “Whose plan is it?”

“Mine. Ours,” Claire said defiantly. “Jimmy's and mine.”

Helen said nothing. Then she said, “Yes, I suppose I am an obstacle then.” She laughed suddenly. “Forgive me, it's a little funny,” she said.

“What's funny?”

“I thought—” Helen said. “I really thought when Mother said you were down here—that you'd come to try to help us get back together. Like the last time you were here. But now—now I find it's just the opposite!”

“The situation has changed,” Claire said quickly. “That other time was before I—before I realized I was in love with him. I was sincere that first time. I really thought it would make him happy to have you back. Now I know that I am the only one who can make him happy.”

“Oh, you're so self-assured!” Helen said. She laughed again, and there was a trace of hysteria in her voice.

“Why shouldn't I be?”

“Oh, no reason! It's a quality I've always lacked, that's all. Perhaps—perhaps that's what he likes in you!”

“Perhaps.”

“Just tell me one thing and then go,” Helen said. “Tell me—is this what Jimmy wants?”

“Yes.”

“Then why hasn't he told me so himself?”