The Luck Of Ginger Coffey

by Moore, Brian;

  "Are you sick?" Fox said. "You look funny."

  "No," he said. He joined Fox at the counter, knitting his hands in the steeple game. Here is the church ... He had been sick, that was it. Sick because he somehow believed he would get her back; sick because he had wanted her back. The cure was plain: divorce her.

  "Come and have a beer," Fox said. "Pay night. It'll make you feel better."

  "No," he said. "I'll be better soon. Very soon/'

  That night he went to bed in peace: he would sleep, he was sure. But the elegant stranger smiled. She sat in a restaurant, cigarette smoke stippling upwards in a thin spiral past her smiling face. Coffey, watching, saw her hold out a glass. That was not his ring on her finger. The ring with which he had wed her was a gold ring: it had belonged to his mother. This was a thin platinum circle, third finger, left hand, with these presents, kiss a new bride. Friends surrounded the newlyweds. An older woman leaned forward across the wedding feast and said: "Didn't he soldier with my husband once? And was something in a distillery?*' And the stranger who was once Veronica replied: "No, he was just a Good Doggy." Someone said: "Uniform, would you believe it, with TINY ONES on the cap? Diapers, it was. He delivers them to us every week. Of course, after that first week, I always made sure it was the maid who received him. Not to embarrass him, the creature." The wedding guests shook their heads in sympathy and congratulated the bride on her fortunate escape. They thought her a nice woman: they had not seen her as he had, naked and frenzied with all those men in all those rooms. They had not seen her walk across the street in full view of her child and husband, showing her legs as she stepped into her lover's little red car. In their eyes she was a woman who had wasted her best years as wife to a glorified secretary; a woman who had saved herself before it was too late. She and her new husband would take tea with Madame Pandit. They would be invited to dinner by Louie, the Prime Minister of Canada. The Prime Minister would ask for the signed original of a G.G. cartoon. There would be a good little doggy in the border of that cartoon.

  He lay in the darkness waiting for that first false light which would banish her and bring him sleep. He would

  divorce her and then he would rest in peace. Do you hear me, Vera? Don't laugh! I'm going to divorce you.

  Yet, on Saturday, when the doorbell rang and Paulie went to answer it, Coffey waited in the living room of their little flat, his lips dry, his mouth betraying him in a hopeful smile. And when she came in, wearing a new and unfamiliar hat, he was gripped once more with a painful sense of loss. Look how strange we are to each other, all of us. Even Paulie, Paulie who takes her mother's coat to hang in the closet and now, formal hostess, asks if we would like some tea.

  "Yes, that would be lovely/' Veronica said. And Paulie withdrew, the mistress of the house, while Veronica, a guest, waited to be entertained.

  "Small, isn't it?" she said, looking around.

  He did not answer.

  "And how are you getting along, Ginger? I mean at your work?"

  He said stiffly that he had received a raise; that in two weeks he would be a reporter. Everything was grand, thank you.

  "But in the meantime these jobs must leave you very little time to spend with Paulie?"

  "We manage," he said. "And it won't be for long. How are you getting on, Veronica?"

  "Oh, I like my job very much. The woman who owns the shop speaks French but her English is poor. So we complement each other. As a matter of fact I made over sixty dollars with commissions last week. That's why I'm buying Paulie a new coat."

  "I could have bought it."

  "Ah, but you didn't, did you? And besides, I like doing

  things with my own money, Ginger. After all these years it's such a marvelous feeling to be solvent."

  He did not reply because, at that moment, Paulie came in with the tea tray. He noticed a box of assorted biscuits beside the teapot. Vera's favorites. In the time he and Paulie had been together, had she ever bought one of Daddy's favorite treats? No, she had not; and, watching the pair of them, listening to their womany voices, he felt alone, shut out, the heavy-fingered male. Listen to them, would you, chatting away like two old pals at a charity bazaar; Veronica going on about this bloody hatshop she worked in and Paulie regaling her with tales about the teachers at school, not seeming to know or care that her mother was a stranger who now had no mortal interest in Paulie and her school. Whereas he — all week he had hoped that Paulie would tell him about her little doings. He would have loved to hear her chat.

  "More tea, Mummy? Daddy, would you get us some more hot water?"

  He went into the kitchen and put the kettle back on the boil. The watched pot boiled all too fast for him. When he took the hot water back into the living room, they were still at it, heads close, hens clucking. He sat across the room from them unnoticed, wishing she would go.

  But no. After two more cups of tea, Veronica settled back comfortably on the sofa, showing her long, slim legs. He had always hated her carelessness in showing herself. Careless? It had been deliberate, probably. She blew a reed of smoke and said to Paulie: "Look, darling, I wonder if you'd let your father and me have a little chat? Just for a few minutes?"

  "All right," Paulie said. "I have to run down to the store for a moment. I'll see you when I come back."

  Paulie got her coat and went out, no secret look at him,

  nothing. And as soon as she had gone, the stranger sat up straight on the sofa, took her knee in her laced hands, letting her skirt fall away distractingly, and said: "IVe been thinking about Paulie. You and I must come to some arrangement about her."

  "What arrangement?" he said.

  "Well, first of all, the expense; her school things and clothes and so on. And then there's this question of her being left alone so much. I could come in the evenings?"

  "Could you?" he said sourly, watching that slim leg swing.

  "Yes. I could be here at a quarter to six most evenings and I'd make supper and stay awhile and —"

  She talked. He watched her lips move; those lips which at night kissed a stranger's hairy flanks. Talking, making noises of motherhood, that mouth which each night he heard cry out in desire. He felt his own mouth open. To kiss those lips, to bite into that white neck, to take her now, tumble her back, tear the clothes from that stranger body which all week he had not been able to touch.

  "So, what do you say, Ginger? Are you listening?"

  "Ginger? What's the matter?"

  The tea tray clattered, a cup fell sideways on its saucer. He lumbered across the room, his hands gripping her shoulders, his heavy body tumbling her backwards on the sofa. He tried to kiss her, his hands pulling up her skirt, quieting her hands as they tried to push him away. He felt her breasts come free within her dress as a shoulder strap snapped and heard his own breathing as he tried to control her kicking, struggling body.

  A sudden pain made his eyes water. He let her go. She had caught both ends of his mustache and was pulling upwards by the short hairs. She wrenched up cruelly,

  then pulled down, bringing him stumbling off the sofa onto his knees beside her. His hands caught her wrists, stopping the pain.

  "Let go, Vera. Let go!"

  She let go. He stared at her, tears of hurt in his eyes, his lust lost at last in foolish pain.

  "Are you out of your mind?" she said. "You've torn my dress and my bra. My God, Ginger, what's the matter with you? How dare you?"

  How dare he? Slowly, he got up off his knees. She had unbuttoned the front of her dress and now, one white shoulder out of it, was searching inside for the strap of her bra. Her hair had fallen over her eyes and there was a red mark on her neck as though she had been scratched. With an effort he looked at the carpet as, her dress fully open, she lifted one breast up, fitting on the ripped brassiere. And all the time, scolding him. "Getting me up here and leaping on me like a lunatic. What if Paulie had seen you? For goodness' sake control yourself."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "You should be
. Look at that. YouVe torn the dress too. And I haven't even paid for it yet."

  "Grosvenor will pay for it," he shouted. "Let him pay for it."

  "That's enough, Ginger. I came here to see what I could do for Paulie. That doesn't give you any right to attack me."

  "No right? I'm your husband."

  "You were. You dirty rotten pig, trying to — just trying to — just your own dirty desires!"

  She was crying: wouldn't you know? "Ah, stop your whinging," he said. "I'll bet that's nothing to what your fancy man does to you every night in the week."

  She stood up, buttoning her dress, distractedly trying to tidy her hair. "I'm not going to stay here and listen to you.

  I want to help Paulie. I'm her mother, just remember that. IVe got a right to help her."

  "YouVe got no right," he said. "Go on back to Mister Canadian Viewpoint. You deserted Paulie and you deserted me. I'm going to divorce you, do you hear? And when I do, I'm getting custody of Paulie."

  She sat still. Only her eyes moved in her face as she looked him up and down. Eyes bright with what he had once thought to be her bad temper, but which now he knew as her hate. "Divorce?" she said. "That's fine. I want one as much as you do. More."

  "Do you, Vera? Then you can help me pay for it."

  "Gerry will pay for it/' she said. "I'll tell him to get in touch with you."

  "Why should Gerry pay for it?"

  "Because he wants to marry me."

  He looked at his hands, joined them in the steeple game. Was that true? Would Grosvenor marry her? As they sat there in silence a key turned in the front door and Paulie came in with a bag of groceries and the afternoon paper.

  He stood up, protecting Paulie, afraid of losing her. "You're just in time, Pet," he said. "Your mother's leaving/'

  "So soon?" Paulie turned towards him and, suddenly, winked.

  Veronica saw the wink. She stood up, walked to the hall closet and put on her overcoat. Then turned, trying to save her dignity, trying to smile and say the things a guest might say. "Paulie, dear, you're turning into a very good housekeeper. Everything's so neat and tidy. Well, good-by, Ginger. Good-by, Paulie. And thanks for the tea."

  This time, she did not try to kiss Paulie. She opened the front door herself and looked at him, meaningfully. "I'll

  have Gerry get in touch with you about that other thing on Monday. All right?"

  "All right/' he said. The door shut. He looked around the living room, smelling once again that unfamiliar scent, seeing the crumbs of biscuit on her plate, her lipsticked butts in an ash tray. He picked them up and carried them into the kitchen to dump them in the garbage can. He went back into the living room and opened the door to dissipate the scented smell. He saw his face in the win-dowpane. That sad impostor considered him: he considered the lack of dignity in the actions of that graceless fool. Look at you. Had you no pride, no self-respect, jumping on her, letting her humiliate you?

  He stood, staring at his image. Was that man really he?

  "Daddy? What was that she said about Gerry Gros-venor getting in touch with you?"

  The mirror man watched from the windowpane as he went to the sofa, sat down and absently bit into one of his wife's favorite sandwich creams. Tiny crumbs powdered his red mustache. "Come here a minute, Pet/' he said. He waited until Paulie sat on the sofa beside him. "Your mother and I are going to get a divorce."

  "But Catholics aren't allowed to get a divorce, Daddy."

  He sighed. "Your mother and I aren't real Catholics any more. You know that."

  "Oh."

  "You see," he said. "Grosvenor wants to marry your mother. And she wants to marry him."

  In a gesture so rare that he had no courage to tell her he did not deserve it, Paulie slid off the sofa and sat at his feet, hugging his ankles. "Never mind, Daddy," she said. Til look after you."

  Awkwardly, his hand stroked her head. "You won't mind?"

  "Of course I won't mind, Daddy."

  He touched her pale cheek. She loved him, yes, she loved him. She was his, not Vera's; his own and only child. Wasn't that enough for any man, wasn't that a victory? He must prove worthy of that love. But as he decided this, he became afraid. How could he keep her love without a promise or two? Afraid, that foolish sad impostor spoke up. "Oh, Pet," the impostor said. "We'll have a grand time, I promise you. You'll see, Pet, you'll see."

  "Yes, Daddy." But why did she move her head away from his touch? Ah, dear God. She, too, was tired of promises.

  Ten On Monday Veronica would have Grosvenor get in touch with him. He took that to mean that Grosvenor would telephone. But at four that afternoon as he returned his TINY ONES truck to the depot, Grosvenor's little red midget car was parked outside Mr. Mountain's office. His first thought was that Grosvenor must not see him in uniform. Skirting the little car, he drove his truck to the far end of the depot yard. He got out on the side away from the little car and began to double back towards the locker room, under cover of the line of parked vehicles.

  About twenty yards from the locker room, he ran out of cover. He was crouched behind a truck, trying to plan his next move, when a footstep from behind made him turn.

  "Hello, Ginger. Thought I saw you."

  His face hot with rage and humiliation, Coffey went through the useless pretense of fixing his boot buckle. Then, unable to look Grosvenor in the face, he straightened up and turned towards the locker room. "I'm in a hurry," he said. "I have to change."

  "I'll come with you, if I may?" Without waiting for permission, Grosvenor followed Coffey across the yard and into the locker room where several other drivers were changing into street clothes. "I came here because I wasn't

  sure how I could catch you," Grosvenor said. "You're a hard man to sec, these days."

  Coffey, unable to think of a reply, stripped off his uniform and stood in his shirt, his legs oddly conspicuous in the heavy red underdrawers issued to drivers. "I came to talk about the divorce," Grosvenor said. "Veronica says you're willing to go through with it. I think that's wise of you."

  The other drivers were listening. "Would you mind shutting your face about my private affairs until we get out of here?" Coffey said in an angry whisper.

  «/-vl 99

  On — sorry.

  In awkward fury Coffey unbuttoned the underwear and stood naked before his enemy; remembered that naked was how he imagined Grosvenor each night. Hurriedly, he began to dress in his own clothes.

  "Maybe when you're through, Ginger, we can go and have a drink someplace?"

  "You can drive me down to the Tribune" Coffey said. "But I'll not drink with you."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way, Ginger."

  Coffey did not answer. He finished dressing and set off across the yard to check out his day's receipts. When he had finished, Grosvenor was waiting in the little red car, its door open to receive him as passenger. He got in, his knees rising uncomfortably to meet his chest, thinking of her show of legs as she got into this car that awful day. It had not been deliberate. In this car, she could not help showing her legs. He had been wrong.

  Wrong. Grosvenor started the car with a loud throttling roar. They shot through the TINY ONES gate and into the street.

  "The thing to settle is who's going to act as guilty party," Grosvenor said. "Now, of course, you'll think it should be her. But, if Veronica's the guilty party, the di-

  voice will be far from a rubber-stamp affair. You see, our Canadian divorce laws —"

  "For crying out loud, will you stop lecturing?" Coffey said. "Just tell me the quickest way."

  "The easiest way is to set up a false adultery scene/' Grosvenor said. "I know a lawyer who can arrange it. They provide everything. A girl, a detective, the works. You check in to a hotel with the girl, and half an hour later the detective shows up. Case is heard by the Senate divorce committee in Ottawa. It's a cinch."

  "And Vera gets custody of Paulie," Coffey said. "No thanks."

  "No, no/' Grosvenor said. "Vera and I inte
nd to get married and have children of our own, if possible. I know I don't want a fourteen-year-old daughter."

  Involuntarily, Coffey fingered the part in his mustache. Was that why she was marrying Grosvenor? To get the kids they'd never had?

  "Another thing we talked about," Grosvenor said, "was the expense of a divorce. Veronica thinks that because you're going to have the burden of supporting Paulie, it's only fair that we pay for the divorce thing. I agree. After all, you're pretty hard up at the moment. It wouldn't be fair to saddle you with an additional financial burden at this time."

  Coffey, his face hot, stared at the dashboard of the car. The ampere needle flicked, wig wag, one side to the other. She went wig wag from him to Grosvenor, Grosvenor to him, telling each what she knew. Poor Ginger's too hard up to pay, you see. Now, Gerry, if you pop down and talk to him. Then tell me.

  Last night he had not slept until dawn. Last night he had watched her in bed with Grosvenor as she laughed and made a story of Poor Ginger's attempt to rape her. And Grosvenor had laughed too. Grosvenor, sitting here

  beside him, probably knew every secret thought or action he'd confided to Veronica in fifteen years of marriage. Bitch!

  "All right/' Coffey said, in a hoarse voice. "I want rid of her. You pay the divorce and 111 be the target. When can we get it over with?"

  "What about next Saturday night?" Grosvenor said. "You don't work on Saturday nights, Vera says."

  Coffey nodded. "Where?" he said. "And how?"

  "There's a hotel called the Clarence which isn't too particular. I'll try to set it up with the lawyer for Saturday night. You go there at ten. I'll have a girl waiting for you in the lobby. The detective will be along later."

  "Not much later," Coffey said. "I want to be home at midnight. I have my daughter to think of."

  "Of course. Shouldn't take more than an hour. I'll phone you and let you know the details, okay?"

  Again, Coffey nodded. They drove the rest of the way in silence. When they arrived at the Tribune, Grosvenor reached over and put his hand on Coffey's knee. Coffey stared at that hand. It was very white, backed with very black hairs. He saw the hairy flanks she kissed in those nightly scenarios. Quickly, he moved his knee away.