Young Mr. Keefe (44 page)

What was it that pulled her back? he wondered. Was it really because she had loved him, and now saw the hopelessness of that? Or because Blazer had decided to stay in California? Suddenly, he felt that he had known all along that this would happen, that her departure had been predestined, and predestined to take place this way. That some subtle difference between the East and West had shaped the courses that their lives had taken. And that, somehow, to Claire, the circling view of Manhattan from the Eastbound plane, or the view from the George Washington Bridge, with the towers of New York rising like the spires of fairyland, signified a world that she had never wholly left. She had never left the cotillions, the Colony, the shops on Madison Avenue, the thing she called the warm womb of love. She was not running away with a broken heart; she was returning to a life she had always loved more than any person.

He stopped. “We're almost back to the apartment,” he said.

“Oh. Well, I'll leave you here.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Don't worry about me,” she said. “I'll survive. I'll get over you. I'm beginning to already! I've got my whole life ahead of me.”

“You're such a funny girl …”

“We're both funny. But different. We'll be happy, I know it. Remember that song we played on the phonograph that night? ‘Scarlet Ribbons—' That's what you gave to me, my dear. Scarlet ribbons … for my hair.” She paused. “God bless you,” she said.

It was a curious moment, haunting and pendulous. They stood there, holding hands on the sidewalk. They were saying farewell to nothing. The rain had streaked her mascara; he could not tell whether there were tears. Her make-up—she always wore too much—looked raffish and haphazard.

“Good-bye, Claire,” he said.

“Merry Christmas, Jimmy.”

“And a Happy New Year,” he said softly. “Drive carefully.”

“Of course,” she said.

She released his hand quickly. Then she reached up and touched the camellia blossom on her coat. “Oh, I must get back,” she said. “My flower is dying!”

She turned away and started back along the sidewalk. He stood there and watched her. The white Angora mittens disappeared in the pockets of the fur jacket. He thought that she might turn and wave good-bye, but she did not turn. She walked, without turning, to the corner. She waited, without turning, for the light to turn to green. Without turning, she crossed the street, and continued on, along the sidewalk out of the lamplight. Just before she vanished into the shade of the trees and the darkness, he thought that she must turn. But though he waited until she disappeared, she did not turn.

The rain was letting up. In the sky, a searchlight arced from Mather Field. Then there was a distant roar of an engine. The planes were flying again. To-morrow would be clear. Soon it would be April and summer again.

Slowly, he turned and walked towards the house. At the foot of the rough-hewn redwood steps, he began to run.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1958 by Stephen Birmingham

Cover design by Amanda Shaffer

ISBN: 978-1-5040-4051-8

Distributed in 2016 by Open Road Distribution

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