Young Mr. Keefe

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “I don’t know. I don’t know yet. I’ll have to tell him, of course.”

  Mrs. Warren stood up abruptly. “I’ve got to lie down,” she said. “I’ve got to think. This is like a bad dream. I can’t believe it—any of it.”

  “Please, Mother,” Helen said. “Please let me handle it. I want to.”

  “Let’s talk about it in the morning,” Mrs. Warren said. “I have a headache. I can’t think—” She walked rapidly to the door.

  “I really don’t see why you should be angry with me.”

  “We’ve always been able to hold our heads up in this town,” Mrs. Warren said despairingly. “Always! And now this has to happen, on top of everything else! What in the world have I done to deserve it!” Her voice broke. “Good night.” She opened the door quickly and stepped out, closing it sharply behind her.

  Helen stood alone in the centre of the room. After several moments, she went back to her dressing-table, sat down, and reached for the jar of cold-cream once more. Slowly, with her fingers, she pressed the pale, cool cream into her skin, along her cheeks, her forehead. Then, with both hands, she blended the cream, smoothed it under her eyes, along her throat. “I want to be a big girl,” she whispered once, softly.

  And then, as though the sound of her voice had touched a chord within her, or had reminded her of some inner dread, her hands began to tremble. She moved her face closer to the mirror and looked. Her reflection—hair in flat curls, her skin shining grotesquely—seemed unfamiliar, a weirdly grimacing mask that mocked and rebuked her. “You heartless bitch!” she whispered, and, as her hands continued to tremble uncontrollably, she clutched her throat as if to stifle a scream. Then she put her head flat down on the cool glass surface of the dressing-table. “Oh, dear God in heaven!” she prayed. “Dear God in heaven! Give me the strength, the strength, the strength!” She lay still for some time. Then the trembling seemed to stop. Her face, when she looked at it again, was wet with tears.

  All at once, she stood up. She went to her closet and removed her robe from the hook and slipped it on. She went out of her room, across the hall, past her mother’s closed door, and down the dark stairway. At the foot, she stopped. There was a telephone there, on a long cord. She picked it up and carried it into the dining-room—as far as the cord would reach. Then she picked up the receiver and placed the call.

  When, after she had let the number ring for several minutes, there was no answer, she replaced the phone, almost with a sense of relief. She was not at all sure whether she would have had the courage to tell him, even to speak to him, if he had answered.

  12

  In the dark bedroom on Russian Hill, Jimmy Keefe sat on the low round ottoman next to the window. In an ash-tray on the table beside him, the end of his cigarette glowed. The curtains were closed; there was no other light in the room. Claire still lay on the bed opposite him. “Don’t you want to turn on the light?” she asked him. He could feel her eyes, in the darkness, watching him.

  “No, thanks,” he said softly.

  “Can you see?”

  “Yes.”

  “Turn on the light, Jimmy.”

  “No, I can see fine. It’s better in the dark.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” she said. Then she said, “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Around three, I guess.”

  “Jimmy,” she said, “I’ll ask you once more. Don’t go.”

  “Yes, I’ve got to.”

  “Why? Why do you have to?”

  “I just do,” he said. “It’s better this way. Going in the night. I don’t know why—”

  “Jimmy,” she said softly, “please. Please don’t feel ashamed.”

  “God, I don’t know what I feel,” he said.

  “Jimmy,” she said urgently, “please listen to me. It was wonderful. That’s absolutely all. Wonderful. One of the most wonderful things that’s ever happened to me. That’s all it was.”

  “Ah,” he said.

  “Don’t feel guilty. Please don’t.”

  “I said before—I don’t know what I feel.”

  “I know what you feel,” she said. “You have this loyalty. To Blazer. And Helen. You think you’ve betrayed them!”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Claire,” he said, “let’s not talk about it. I’ve got to go.”

  “Don’t you think I wanted it, darling?” she said. “Do you really think it was all your doing? Don’t you think I’ve wanted it to happen all along? Planned it? Do you remember the night at the lake?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even then. Even before. I don’t remember when, exactly, it was that I knew it first. But it’s been a long time. And I’m glad! I’m—”

  “No, no—” “he began. He heard the sheets rustle as she pulled herself up in bed and rested on her elbows, against the pillows.

  “Yes,” she said, “blame it on me if you must blame it on someone.”

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, standing up.

  “Light me a cigarette,” she said. “Have a cigarette with me, at least, before you go.”

  He fished for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, found it, and crossed the room. He handed one to her and fumbled with a match. He struck it, and in the sudden light he saw her face, very close, looking up at him. Her blue eyes looked black. She smiled, and laughed softly, taking his hand with the match and holding it to her cigarette. Then she blew out the match, but continued to hold his hand. “Darling,” she said, “I don’t feel guilty. Why should you?”

  “My God, Claire, what are we going to do?”

  “Do? Why do we have to do anything, for goodness’ sake?”

  “But look,” he said, “there is such a thing as loyalty. And there is such a thing as honesty. My God, isn’t there?”

  “Of course,” she said soothingly. She pulled him gently down to the bed beside her. “Sit here,” she said. “Just sit here beside me for a minute before you go. I want you to.”

  His voice cracked. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just think this is the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. The very worst.”

  “Guilt, guilt, guilt!” Claire said. “That’s not very flattering to me, you know, to say that. When I just finished saying I thought it was all rather grand!”

  “You and I are different, Claire,” he said.

  “No, we’re not. We’re exactly the same.”

  He was silent.

  “Do you love me?” she asked finally. “Or do you love her—in spite of everything?”

  “How can I answer that?”

  “Just answer it!”

  He stood up. “What difference does it make?” he asked. “What difference does it make at this point?”

  Then it was Claire who was silent. “Well,” she said after a moment, “I guess you’d better go.”

  “Yes.” He went back to the ottoman where he had left his jacket, put the jacket on, and snuffed out his cigarette in the ash-tray. “I’ve got to figure this out,” he said.

  Claire’s voice was almost angry. “Why? I don’t see why, or what there is to figure out, Jimmy!”

  “Well—what about Blazer, for instance? We’ve—I’ve—turned this into a real thing now. What are we going to do about him?”

  “Nothing! We’ll go on, just as always! Nothing’s changed! Why should we revise our lives, just because you and I—”

  “Look,” he said. “Let’s skip it! Just skip it!”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to get angry. All I want—is just for you to feel as clean and wonderful as I do.”

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll have to try.”

  “Where are you going? To the Clift now?”

  “No, I’m going home.”

  “Home? Back to Sacramento? It will be dawn before you get there.”

  “Probably, yes—”

  “Why don’t you stay at
the Clift? To-morrow, you can take me to lunch.”

  He turned to her. “Claire,” he said, “I don’t know what’s going to happen, I honestly don’t. But I know one thing—I’m not going to see you again. Ever.”

  “But next Saturday,” she whispered. “I’m having a party—”

  “I won’t be there.”

  “Oh, please! What will Blazer think?”

  “Tell him whatever you want. Make up something.”

  “Oh, Jimmy! Please!”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You’re being a bastard!”

  “I’ve already been, thanks.”

  “Stop it,” she said angrily. “You have the most delightful knack of making me feel like a whore on Mission Street! Do you know that?”

  “Again, I’m sorry.” He went towards the door.

  “Jimmy!” Her voice was commanding.

  “What?”

  “Do you—” Her voice softened. “Did you enjoy it at all?”

  He paused, his hand on the door. “You know I did,” he said. “But that doesn’t make it any better. That makes it all the worse. Good night.”

  “Good night. And thank you.”

  He opened the door, and the light from the living-room flooded in. He didn’t want to, but then did turn, briefly, and look at her. She sat on the bed, her bare shoulders hunched forward, her arms wrapped around her blanketed knees. She looked straight at him, seriously, thoughtfully. Her incredible hair fell long and loose about her arms and shoulders, across her breasts. He closed the door and stood for a moment in the living-room.

  He saw the dark pool on the bare floor where the drink was spilled, and the pieces of green Mexican glass, and went over to it. He stooped and picked up the broken glass with his fingers, then mopped up the spilled liquor with his handkerchief. He carried the pieces of glass into the kitchen and placed them in the waste-basket. He rinsed his handkerchief at the sink, wrung it out, and stuffed the damp wad in the pocket of his suit. He turned out the kitchen light. In the living-room, he turned out lamps, one by one, as he went towards the door. Then he opened the door, pushed the lock, and went out, closing the door behind him. He went down the wide steps slowly, and out into the street.

  When he got to his car, he saw a bright yellow parking ticket tucked behind the windshield wiper. He swore softly, under his breath, removed the ticket, placed it in his pocket, and unlocked the car.

  Inside the car, he let the motor warm up for a while. The night was cool, but not cold. The air was clear, with the peculiar clean, salty pungency of San Francisco air. It made him feel clear-headed and refreshed, a good deal better. He started the car, drove to the corner, then slowly down the steep, winding twists of Lombard Street. He didn’t know exactly where he was going. He turned and headed towards the centre of the city.

  When he got to Market Street, he turned again, and headed south-west. The street was empty. The movie marquees were dark, the honky-tonk bars and amusement palaces were closed. A lonely, empty trolley clattered by.

  He drove down Market, and soon he was climbing the road that crossed Twin Peaks, then down, and out along the wide boulevard past Stonestown, Park Merced, still heading south and towards the ocean.

  When he got to Half Moon Bay, he drove a little way beyond the town and stopped the car. He looked at his watch; it was ten minutes past four. Behind him, a faint flush of dawn had begun to colour the sky. Below him, he could hear the Pacific crashing against the beach. He turned off his headlights and got out of the car. Beyond a short rise, he found a path leading steeply down towards the beach. He followed it down, and soon was on the sand. In front of him, the sea was black, but the crests of the combers glowed and glittered with sparks of phosphorescence before they broke, sped shimmering across the sand, pulled back with a deep sucking sound, and broke again. Suddenly, looking at this great dark sea, he remembered summers at Cape Cod, watching the sun rise. There, the sun rose out of the sea; here, it rose from across the mountains; the sun’s rays touched the ocean last. He felt, all at once, unbelievably tired. He went back across the sand to a sheltered place against the rocks and sat down. Presently, he lay back, lacing his fingers together and resting the back of his head in his hands. Almost immediately, he was asleep.

  When he awoke, the sun was shining brightly down on him from overhead. He stared at it briefly and blinked, trying to remember where he was. Then he remembered, and sat up. His head spun dizzily; his mouth was painfully parched and dry. He rubbed his face with his hands, and his face was sticky with salt and sweat and rough with a stubble of beard. Like an absolute bum, he thought, just a bum sleeping on the beach. He stood up.

  Then he kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, rolled up his trousers and walked down to the water. He waded into the surf, stooped and splashed handfuls of icy water into his face. He stood for a while, ankle-deep in the water. Then he noticed, also wading in the water, a figure moving towards him, along the edge of the surf. The man moved slowly, intent on the fishing line that floated a little way beyond him. Periodically, he stopped, reeled the line in, and, in a neat, clean arc, cast again, and moved on towards him. Jimmy watched him. He was young about Jimmy’s age or possibly younger, with a bright shock of orange-yellow hair and a wide sunburned face. He wore a pair of rolled-up khaki pants and a white T-shirt. He stopped, reeled in once more, made another long cast, and waited. He turned to Jimmy and waved. “No luck here to-day,” he called.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said.

  The boy came closer and smiled a big, friendly grin. “Rough night?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” Jimmy said dryly.

  “I saw you there on the beach.” The boy gestured with his head. “You were dead to the world.”

  “Ha!” Jimmy said, looking away.

  “Is that your car up on the road? Green convertible?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Holding his rod in one hand, he reached deep in the pocket of his trousers. “I took your keys out,” he said. “You know—you never can tell.” He handed the keys to Jimmy. “I saw you down here and figured that was your car.”

  Jimmy looked at him. “Hey, thanks!” he said. “That was darned nice of you. Thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t mention it.” The other boy smiled.

  “As you can probably guess, I didn’t intend to sleep here on the beach,” Jimmy said.

  “Yeah—I guessed that.”

  Jimmy looked out across the water. “You catch much around here?” he asked.

  “No, not a hell of a lot. Bass, sometimes, if you’re lucky. Or yellowtail.” He began reeling in his line once more.

  “Say,” Jimmy said, “you don’t happen to have a container of water, do you? My mouth is like sandpaper—”

  The boy grinned again. “No water,” he said, “but I tell you what I do have—I have a couple of bottles of cream soda up on the beach. How about some cream soda? I know nobody likes cream soda but me.”

  “Cream soda sounds like nectar,” Jimmy said. “Like the greatest thing on earth. May I?”

  “Sure. Look”—he pointed—“there’s my stuff—up there. Wrapped in my windbreaker. You’ll find an opener there, too.”

  “You’re saving my life,” Jimmy said. “I hope you know that.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Jimmy waded out of the water and walked up across the sand. He found the blue windbreaker, unrolled it, and found two bottles of cream soda and the opener. He opened one bottle and rolled up the other again. He went back to where the other boy stood, taking deep, thirsty swigs on the bottle. “You don’t know how good this tastes,” he said.

  “I bet it’s kind of warm,” the boy said, “but maybe it’ll quench.”

  “Say,” Jimmy said, holding out his hand, “I’m Jimmy Keefe. And I’m darned grateful to you.”

  “Mike Gorman,” the boy said, shaking his hand.

  “And I don’t live on the beach, in case you wondered,” Jimmy said. “I live in Sacramento.”<
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  “You’re a long way from home,” Mike Gorman said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I was at a party in town last night,” Jimmy said.

  “Look,” the other boy said, “it’s almost noon. I’m not having any luck and you must be hungry. There’s a place down the road. Want to grab a bite?”

  “You’ve had a series of good ideas,” Jimmy said. “I’d like that very much.”

  “Let’s go,” He began reeling in his line.

  Together, they walked back across the beach. Jimmy stopped to put on his socks and shoes. Then they started up the path. “This place isn’t fancy, is it?” Jimmy asked. “I imagine I look a little disreputable.”

  “Just a hamburger joint.”

  They climbed up to the top of the bank, and Jimmy saw Mike’s car, a battered red station wagon, parked close behind his own. “Hey!” Jimmy said. “What’s this? New Hampshire plates?”

  “Yes, I’m a long way from home, too,” the boy said, grinning. “I’m from Portsmouth. I moved to San Francisco about a month ago.”

  “I’m from Connecticut,” Jimmy said. “Somerville. Another Easterner, anyway.”

  “No kidding? Well, pleased to meet you again!” They shook hands once more, laughing. “You’re looking at the world’s lowest-paid banker,” Mike said. “I came out here to take a job with the Bank of America. Banker, hell—I’m just a step above a messenger boy. What are you doing out here?”

  “Same sort of thing,” Jimmy said casually. “Job—public relations.”

  Mike Gorman tossed his fishing-rod in the back of his station wagon. “Look,” he said, “I’ll lead the way—I know where this place is.”

  “Fine,” Jimmy said.

  He got into his car and waited for the other boy to pull out ahead of him. After a series of coughs and roars, the red station wagon started. Jimmy followed it down the road for about a mile until they came to a small, shabby clapboard structure perched on the edge of a cliff above the sea. A sign in front of it said, simply, EAT. They pulled in beside each other and climbed out.

  “This place doesn’t look like much,” Mike said, “but it has good hamburgers.”