He forgot Ginger Coffey and Ginger's life. No longer was he a man running uphill against hope, his shins kicked, his luck running out. He was no one: he was eyes staring at the sky. He was the sky.
A passer-by bumped against him; went down the wide steps. The moment detached itself, leaving him weak and wondering. That was happiness. Would it ever come
again? Wishing would not bring it back, nor ambitions, nor sacrifice, nor love. Why was it that true joy, this momentary release, could come even in his hour of loss and failure? It could not be wished for: it came unawares. It came more often in childhood, but it might come again and again, even at the end of a life.
Slowly, he descended the courthouse steps. Yes, a momentary happiness might come to him again. But was that all he could hope for now — a few mystical moments spaced out over a lifetime? Yes, it might be all.
Wish — if I could wish, what would I wish for now?
But he thought of her. He thought of his promise to go away. He must not wish. He must go. Yes, he must go.
Fourteen He let himself in, cautiously. There was always the chance that Veronica might have come back. But when he opened the hall closet, her coat was not there. As Paulie was at school, there was no further need for him to be quiet. He went into the bedroom and began to pack a suitcase. He took shirts from the dresser drawer, avoiding the man in the mirror. He no longer felt any interest in that man. He no longer felt any interest in Ginger Coffey. He felt like someone else.
Suddenly, down the hall, the shower went on. Saturday! Of course. Paulie was at home. He wanted to hide. He did not want questions; did not want to be forced to explain why he must go. Hurriedly, he tried to finish the clumsy job of stuffing his clothes into the suitcase. But the suitcase slid off the bed with a thump. The shower stopped. He heard Paulie's footsteps in the corridor.
"Mummy, is that you? . . . Mummy? . . . Who's that?" Her voice changed from inquiry to doubt, to fear, and of course it was not fair to frighten her by letting her think he was a thief or something. He opened the door and there was Paulie in her bathrobe, her face and neck still dewed with shower steam. "Oh, it's you, Daddy," she said. "Where were you?"
"Inhere."
"No, I mean where were you? We were nearly demented. And then, this morning, when that policeman came in the car for Mummy, I was sure you were in a hospital or even killed. Now what happened?"
"I was in jail," he said.
"Oh, you're joking!" But as she said it, she ran to him and hugged him. "I was worried, Daddy."
"Were you, Pet?" He was surprised. He took her face in his hands and raised it up. Yes, she took after him: there was something of him in her reddish hair, her worried eyes. She was his child and she had worried for him. If he asked her to come away with him now, she might come. . . .
But where? And why? His hand stroked the back of her head. She loved him: it was more than he had a right to expect. Let her be.
"My hair's just set," she said. "Please don't mess it, Daddy."
He released her. He must finish his packing, without her knowing. "What about getting me some coffee?" he said.
"Okay, Daddy. But what is all this about jail?"
"It's a long story, Apple. I'll tell you some other time/'
"Tell me now."
"Some other time," he said.
She went to the kitchen. He shut the bedroom door and picked the bag off the floor, repacking it. She had worried for him: she loved him. That moved him more than he thought he could be moved again. Still, he had made a promise. He must go. He shut the suitcase and, so that she would not see it, he went to the hall closet and hid it. After the coffee, he would slip away . . .
But the hall door opened as he closed the closet. Veronica. Slowly, he turned to face her. It was like those long
ago days when, having failed the examination, you must face the anger, the reproach.
"Is it you?" she said.
"Yes."
"But you're supposed to be in jail?"
"It was a suspended sentence."
"Oh."
He looked at her. She looked at him. Caught, like strangers who eye each other on a train, they pretended the glance was accidental.
"Well . . ." he said. He opened the closet and took out his car coat.
"Are you going out?"
He put on his coat and reached in again for his little green hat. "I'm going away. They're not going to make me a reporter, now or ever. So you can get the divorce. I'll be in touch with you."
He stood for a moment, facing the closet; feeling watched; not wanting to meet the eyes that watched him.
"What about Paulie? Does Paulie know?"
"No," he said.
"Well, don't you think you should tell her?"
"You tell her." He turned, little green hat in one hand, suitcase in the other. "Would you open the door for me, Vera?"
Their eyes met. One person in the whole world who had known him; one person who knew him as more than a joke. A person who, fifteen years ago in Saint Pat's in Dai-key, had knelt beside him at the altar and promised . . .
"Before you go," she said. "There's one thing I want to explain. I didn't run away this morning."
He put down his suitcase. He would have to open the door himself. She wasn't going to help him.
"Listen, Ginger. When I heard the judge say 'Six
months,' I keeled over. Then, when they took me out, I thought the best thing to do would be to go to Gerry's office and try to get a lawyer so that you could appeal."
He opened the door and picked up his suitcase.
"You don't believe me, is that it?"
"It doesn't matter," he said. It did not matter.
"Gerry refused to help you," she said. "That's why I came back here."
"Look, Vera, I have to go now."
"But, just a second, will you?" Her voice was urgent and strained. "I want to tell you what Gerry said to me. He said it was the best thing that could have happened. He said it would make the divorce easier. That's all he cared about."
"Well, it doesn't matter, does it?" he said. "It's former history."
She bent her head, and suddenly rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles, leaving a smudge of mascara on the bridge of her nose. "Dammit," she said. "I'm sorry. Don't you see, I'm sorry?"
Sorry? What was she sorry about? What did "sorry" cure? She'd told him that once. Now, he knew what she meant. He stood, suitcase in hand, at the open doorway. He must go.
"Wait," she said. "There's something else too. Only I can't tell it, with you standing there like some door-to-door salesman. Come into our room a minute. I don't want Paulie to hear."
Unwillingly, he put down his suitcase and followed her back to the bedroom. What use was there in all this? Why must she make it so hard?
She shut the bedroom door. "Now, listen," she said. "I never slept with Gerry. On my word of honor. I wouldn't do it until you and I were legally separated."
He nodded. Get it over with.
"You should have seen Gerry just now/' she said. "He behaved like a total stranger. How could anyone love a person who'd let someone go to jail and be glad of it? He doesn't love me, either, he just wants me. Whereas you — you stood up in the courtroom this morning and gave a false name for my sake and for Paulie's —"
She stopped. She seemed to be waiting for him to tell her something.
"All right then," she said. "If that's the way of it, won't you even kiss me good-by?"
Kiss this stranger? Unwillingly, he put his arms around her. She was shaking. He looked down at the nape of her neck, bared by her new hairdo. It was unfamiliar, yet familiar. Ah GodI Had he been wrong in that, as well? For, now that he held her, she was no stranger at all, but Veronica, the woman he had slept with how many thousand nights. Veronica: older and heavier than the girl he had married, her breasts a little too big, her eyes edged with small white lines, her hand, now touching his cheek, roughened by years over sinks and washtubs. Veronica, No stranger: not desir
able.
"Ginger," she said. "You still love me, don't you? You said you did."
Love her? This body familiar as his own . . . Desire her? This woman growing old . . .
"Even if you don't love me," she said. "There's Paulie. That child wept half the night, worrying about you. You can't walk out on her now."
Didn't you walk out on Paulie? he thought. But what was the use in blaming her? Blame was his. "Look," he said. "You'd be better off, you and Paulie . . ."
He did not go on. Someone else was saying all this. Not Ginger Coffey. Someone who had stopped looking for the good in the bad; who had stopped running uphill in hopes; someone who knew the truth. He did not love her:
he could no longer love. He did not want to watch her cry. She was getting old: she was just another illusion he no longer had.
He began to button his overcoat.
"No, we wouldn't," she was saying. "Because it wasn't only your fault, it was mine. When I saw Gerry just now — I mean, saw the real Gerry — I knew it was my fault. What I mean is, I'd like to start again. Listen, we could start again if you wanted to? You could get that job as Mr. Brott's Personal Assistant, if you went and asked for it."
He looked down at her. Yes, that was true. He might get that job. He could become, now and forevermore, amen, the glorified secretary she had always thought he was. What did it matter? What was so terrible about that? Didn't most men try and fail, weren't most men losers? Didn't damn nearly everyone have to face up someday to the fact that their ship would never come in?
He had tried. He had not won. He would die in humble circs.
"I'm sure he'd give you the job," she said. "Honestly, Ginger, I'm sure of it."
He smiled. Wasn't that familiar, somehow?
"Don't laugh," she said. "You'll see!"
"I'm not laughing," he told her.
"Why, listen," she said. "In a year or two we'll have forgotten this ever happened."
He did not feel like someone else now. She did.
"And if you do stay," she said. "I'd never ask you to go home again. You were right. Home is here, we're far better off here. Why, in a month or two, with my job and your job, we'd be sitting pretty. You were right. This was only a crush, I had. Why, I'll bet you —"
"A brand-new frock, Vera?"
She stopped. She looked at him, her eyes blinding with tears. "Oh, Ginger," she said. "I sound like you."
"I know you do." He went to her, put his arm around her and opened the bedroom door.
"Your coffee's ready," Paulie called from the kitchen. "And do you want an egg, Daddy?"
Beside him, Vera waited his answer.
"HI have two eggs," he said.
"Good. I'll put them on," Paulie said.
"No, Til do it," Vera said. Quickly, she went out of the room and down the hall.
He pushed the bedroom door, let it drift shut. He unbuttoned his overcoat. In the dresser mirror, the man began to cry. Detached, he watched the tears run down that sad impostor's face, gather on the edges of that large mustache. Why was that man boohooing? Because he no longer lusted for his wife? Because he wasn't able to leave her? Ah, you idjit, you. Don't you know that love isn't just going to bed? Love isn't an act, it's a whole life. It's staying with her now because she needs you; it's knowing you and she will still care about each other when sex and daydreams, fights and futures — when all that's on the shelf and done with. Love — why, I'll tell you what love is: it's you at seventy-five and her at seventy-one, each of you listening for the other's step in the next room, each afraid that a sudden silence, a sudden cry, could mean a lifetime's talk is over.
He had tried: he had not won. But oh! what did it matter? He would die in humble circs: it did not matter. There would be no victory for Ginger Coffey, no victory big or little, for there, on the courthouse steps, he had learned the truth. Life was the victory, wasn't it? Going on was the victory. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health . . . till . . .
He heard her step outside. He went to join her.
The Luck Of Ginger Coffey Page 21