Young Mr. Keefe

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “Well, look,” Jimmy said, “about Saturday—I think I’ll have to take a rain check on the bridge game—”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Something come up?”

  “Well, more or less,” Jimmy said. “These friends of mine in San Francisco are having a party. I’d promised them I’d come. I forgot about it when I told you.”

  “Sure, I understand. Well, maybe some other time, huh?”

  “Yes,” Jimmy said. “Because, you know—I’d really been looking forward to it. I haven’t played bridge in a long time.”

  “Well, we’ll do it some other time,” Mike said.

  “These people—the fellow was my room-mate in college, and his wife—they’re quite an experience. They really are. I told them I met you and they asked if you’d like to come to the party. There’s going to be an extra girl, I guess. Would you like to go?”

  “Well,” Mike said slowly, “I don’t know. I’m not much for parties. What kind of a party is it going to be?”

  “God knows,” Jimmy said. “It could be anything—you never can tell what their parties are going to be like. They have this terrific apartment up on Russian Hill with a view that makes you airsick, and the usual idea is to see how many people they can pack into three and a half rooms …”

  “Russian Hill? Sounds a little rich for my blood—”

  “Oh, it won’t be fancy—nothing like that. Just people—people from the East, mostly. Hell, you might bump into some long-lost friend, you never can tell.”

  “I’m the kind of guy that feels choked in a necktie,” Mike said. “It’s about all I can do to wear one through the day, at work. But sure, I’ll go. Why not? It ought to be fun.”

  “I really ought to warn you about these people—Claire and Blazer Gates. I mean, they’re apt to throw you at first—they throw most people. They have a way of talking—I don’t know, as though everything was a great big act. But underneath it all, they’re—well, they’re darned nice.”

  “Sure, I’d like to go,” Mike said. “Probably do me good to get out of this place. Everywhere I look there’s a pile of laundry. Where’ll I meet you?”

  “Why don’t I meet you at the Mark around seven? In the lobby. How’s that?”

  “Fine. See you there then.”

  “Okay, Mike. You might just have a good time, I don’t know. So long.”

  “So long.”

  Jimmy hung up the phone. He went into the living-room, found an envelope in the drawer of the chest, and hurriedly addressed it to Claire. He took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet, placed it in the envelope with the parking ticket, licked the flap and sealed it. He put a stamp on the envelope and looked at his watch. He would have time to make the ten-o’clock mail collection if he took it to the box on the corner. He went out of the apartment and down the steps to the street. Perhaps, he thought, going to the party was the best thing. It would help get his mind off Helen. Push her back, Claire had said, into the farthest corner of your mind. Well, that seemed like the only thing to do. He had not written to his father yet, about the baby. That would be a tough letter to write, he knew. He could picture his father’s face when he found out. He would be stern and stony. He would summon the members of the clan—first his mother, then Turner Ames, Miss Maitland. Grimly, methodically, they would begin to fortify themselves against this new disaster. But they would rise above it; they had risen above every other disaster. All things—death, divorce, federal taxes, children that turned out badly, diseases, labour disputes—these were merely bothersome details of living. They could be overcome, settled, filed away. And they rather enjoyed the bother. It gave them something to do; it reaffirmed the Keefe family status. Bother went with being rich.

  Jimmy was glad Mike Gorman was going to the party, too. Just talking to Mike on the phone cheered him up. Without knowing exactly what it was, he recognized an ingredient in Mike that he himself lacked, a sort of quiet optimism. Mike would be a good friend to have.

  At the corner, he dropped the letter in the letter-box. He turned and walked back along the dark, quiet street, under the trees.

  16

  When Jimmy and Mike Gorman arrived at the apartment on Lombard Street Saturday night, Claire met them at the door and greeted them gaily. She stood in a slim, metallic, gold sheath dress, with her hair pulled tightly back and wound into a bun at the back of her neck. Silver ear-rings, fashioned to resemble mobiles, danced from her ears. They were a little early, she explained breathlessly, but that was all right, they would have a little time to visit. Most of the people hadn’t arrived. She had invited lots of new people. She didn’t know how they were going to get along with the old people. But Tweetums DeMay was here already. Tweetums was doing the funniest thing—they must come in quickly and see her do it. She brushed Jimmy’s cheek lightly with her lips. Jimmy introduced her to Mike, and Claire said, “How do you do?” and looked at him appraisingly. She led them into the living-room. “Do it again for Jimmy, Tweetums,” she urged.

  Tweetums DeMay, a plump, animated little woman, older than the rest of them, sat on the white sofa. “Lookee,” she cried. She held a nylon stocking in her hands and suddenly popped it over her head, pulling it down hard across her face. The stocking forced her face into a grimacing, distorted leer. “Isn’t it dreadful?” she said beneath the stocking. “Doesn’t it do the most ghastly things? Try it.” She yanked the stocking off and offered it to Jimmy.

  Jimmy laughed. “Wait till I’ve had a drink,” he said.

  “Blazer’s out there mixing the most ferocious daiquiris,” Tweetums said. “Bla—zer!” she called. “Another guest—two more guests.” She smiled at Mike. “Who’re you?” she asked.

  For a moment, Claire remembered her Madeira manners. “Mrs. DeMay,” she said, “I’d like to present Michael Gorman. Mr. Gorman, this is Mrs. DeMay.”

  “Oh, skip that ‘Mrs.’ part,” Tweetums said. “Just call me Tweetums. Everybody does.” She gave Mike another bright smile. “You’re cute,” she said.

  Mike reddened. He turned to Claire. “You have a great place here,” he said.

  “Oh, do you like it?” Claire said absently. “If the view gets too much for you, let me know and I’ll close the curtains. What is Blazer doing?” She looked towards the kitchen.

  Presently Blazer arrived from the kitchen, carrying a trayful of drinks. “Hi, Keefe-o,” he said. He put down the tray and shook Jimmy’s hand.

  “Hi, Blaze,” Jimmy said casually. “How was L.A.?”

  “Oh, just the same. Hot as hell.”

  “Mike Gorman—Blazer Gates, our host.”

  “How are you?” Blazer said, shaking Mike’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Mike said.

  “Say,” Tweetums said, “you two didn’t see my date lurking around downstairs, did you? He’s supposed to meet me here, but he’s half an hour late already—the dirty dog.”

  “No, I didn’t see him,” Jimmy said.

  The door-bell rang and Claire rushed to answer it. “Higbee!” she shrieked when she opened it. “Sweetie! You came! I knew you would!” Claire and Diane Higbee clutched each other in a quick embrace.

  “I had the rudest taxi-driver,” Diane said. “He insisted there was no such address.” She came into the living-room and Blazer took her coat. She was a small, dark girl with a quick, nervous mannerism of brushing at her hair with her fingertips. She was introduced, and flopped into a chair. She opened her purse, removed a flat gold cigarette-case, extracted a cigarette, and screwed it into the end of a long gold holder. When no one immediately lighted it for her, she removed matches, and lighted it herself. She inhaled deeply and blew out a thin, sharp stream of smoke. “What’re those?” she asked rudely as Claire held the tray of cocktails in front of her.

  “Daiquiris,” Claire said.

  “And they’re ferocious, so watch out, honey,” Tweetums said. “I’m ready for another.” She put her empty glass on the tray and took a full one.

  Blazer was putting
records on the phonograph. “Jazz? Does everybody like jazz?” he asked.

  For the next half-hour or so, the door-bell rang steadily. There were more effusive greetings, introductions, drinks passed. The room began filling with smoke and people and voices. Many of the people Jimmy had never seen before. “Where did they all come from?” he asked Claire as she hurried by.

  “I don’t know. Isn’t it marvellous?” she answered.

  Tweetums DeMay took hold of his sleeve with one hand. “I think I’ve been married to everybody in this room,” she shouted over the noise. “Everybody except you, that is. My first husband just walked in! Isn’t that a scream?”

  “Did your date show up?” Jimmy asked her.

  “Yes, he’s here somewhere. He’s a football player. You can’t miss him.”

  The door-bell rang again, and the jazz record on the phonograph suddenly blared out loudly. “Turn that thing down!” Claire’s voice shrieked.

  “I don’t think your friend likes me,” Tweetums said.

  “Sure he does, Tweetums,” Jimmy said. He had lost sight of Mike Gorman.

  Diane Higbee joined them. Her cigarette, in the gold holder, was bent, and her eyes were brightly glazed. She held a daiquiri in one hand. “It’s fabulous!” she said to Jimmy. “Perfectly fabulous to meet you. I didn’t realize you were the fabulous Jimmy Keefe. I’d have been furious if you hadn’t come.”

  “You’re going to have the pleasure of meeting my first husband to-night,” Tweetums said to Diane. “I don’t know how he got here, but there he is.” She pointed. “Ed!” she called. “Eddie!”

  The man turned and gave her a friendly smile. “Hi, Tweetums,” he said, waving. “Fancy meeting you here!”

  She turned to Diane. “I think I’ve been married to every man in this room,” she said. “Except Jimmy. Aren’t these ferocious daiquiris? I’ve been drinking since two o’clock.”

  Diane Higbee ignored Tweetums. “We’ve been having rather a ridiculous time on the other side of the room,” she said to Jimmy. “Did you know Harriet Webb at Smith? Well, she’s here, and she’s brought a Chinaman! Have you seen him? He doesn’t speak a word of English. Have you seen him?” She looked around. “Oh, there he is. See, over there by the couch.” Jimmy followed the direction of her finger. Through a clearing in the people, he saw the young Chinese. “There! Imagine! I don’t know where she finds her friends. Anyway, we’re all going down to Chinatown later to celebrate Chinese New Year. It isn’t Chinese New Year yet, of course, but we thought we’d go down and celebrate it anyway. I want to find an opium den. Don’t you love opium dens? I do.” She called across several heads. “Ching Chong!” she called. “Sing Foo! C’mere!” The Chinese turned his head, gazed at her blandly, then looked away. “He’s terribly snobbish.” Diane giggled. “You notice he won’t speak to a soul except Harriet.”

  “You’re a scream, honey,” Tweetums DeMay said. “An absolute scream.”

  Diane and Tweetums eyed each other coldly for a moment. Then, with a toss of her head, Diane turned back to Jimmy. “I’m sailing on the Lurline Tuesday,” she said. “Just think—I’ll be gone six solid months. Isn’t it dreadful?” she said sadly.

  Jimmy tried to extract himself from the group, but Diane held his arm.

  “Claire told me you’d had a tragic, tragic marriage,” she said.

  Jimmy took another daiquiri as Claire appeared, holding the tray. She smiled up at him. “Having fun?” she asked.

  “Sure, sure—” He sipped the drink.

  Claire handed the tray to Diane Higbee. “Sweetie,” she said, “would you be a dear and finish passing these?” She turned to Jimmy. “Now follow me, I want you to meet all these other people.”

  The party was out of all proportions. New people kept coming in, and the ones already there were forced farther and farther back into the room against the glass walls. Silhouetted against the lighted backdrop of San Francisco, they resembled a crowd on a precipice; they were jockeying for positions at the edge, to see who would be the first one over. Corks popped. Someone had brought champagne. Endlessly the party seemed to grow, the talk rose, drowning itself in a roar of laughter, screams. Someone fell down, and as Jimmy pushed through the room behind Claire, a tall pale girl came up to him and said, “Will someone take me home? I want to go home in a car!” “My sombrero!” someone shrieked. “Look where you’ve put it! Oh, God!”

  “Let’s escape,” Claire whispered. “Just for a minute.” She led him quickly into the bedroom and closed the door. The bed was piled high with coats. Claire leaned against the door and laughed weakly. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I had no idea I’d asked so many people.”

  “It’s quite a mob,” Jimmy said.

  “Are you happy?” she asked him.

  “Sure,” he said. “What’s happened to Mike? Have you seen him?”

  “Oh, he’s around somewhere,” Claire said. “Don’t worry about him. Everybody’s having fun.”

  “Nice guy, don’t you think?”

  “Who? Oh, what’s-his-name, Mike. Yes. Hardly says a word, though. Come here.”

  “We’d better get back.”

  “I paid your parking ticket,” she said. “I went down to traffic court in my oldest, shabbiest dress, looking like Mrs. Miniver—”

  “Thanks,” he said. “But we’d better get back.”

  “All right,” she sighed.

  He turned towards the door, and noticed a picture on the dresser in a narrow silver frame. It was a picture of a little yellow-haired girl. “That’s me,” Claire breathed, close to him. “Five years old. I haven’t changed, have I? I’m still a little girl—”

  He pushed gently past her and opened the door. “I’d better see how Mike’s getting along,” he said. “I feel kind of responsible.”

  As he opened the door, the sounds of the party flooded around him again. Suddenly there was a crash. Alec Fry had toppled over one of the ceramic lamps by the sofa, and one side of the room was plunged into darkness. “Thank God everything’s insured,” Claire murmured, behind him.

  He found Mike; Diane Higbee was pressed close against him, holding his hand outstretched in hers. Mike looked across at Jimmy and winked. “She’s telling my fortune,” he said.

  “Look at this hand,” Diane said. “It’s so enormous, it could simply crush a person, don’t you think?”

  Tweetums DeMay whispered in his ear. “He’s her uncle,” she said.

  “Whose uncle?”

  Tweetums pointed across the room. “The man with the moustache. Look at him.”

  “Whose uncle, Tweetums?”

  “Aren’t they a howl? Isn’t this a howl?”

  “Yes—”

  “We’re all going to Chinatown. Can I go with you?”

  “Well—”

  “We’ll take the cable car.”

  More drinks came. “Where’s your date?” Jimmy asked.

  “What?” said Tweetums.

  “I said—” Jimmy began, then laughed. “What’s the use? I can’t yell loud enough.”

  “What?”

  “I said I can’t yell!”

  “There’s my date,” Tweetums said, as though she had heard him all along. “Over there.” Jimmy saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man in a bright blue sport jacket. He looked in his twenties, or, Jimmy guessed, roughly twenty years younger than Tweetums. “He’s a football player from Cal,” Tweetums said. “Isn’t he a caveman?” She headed in the young man’s direction.

  Mike Gorman was at his shoulder. “Had enough?” he asked pleasantly.

  Jimmy turned and smiled. “I told you it would be an experience,” he said.

  “It is that, all right.”

  “Want to go?” Jimmy asked.

  “I don’t care, whenever you’re ready.”

  “Well—in a minute, okay? I’m sorry your date turned out to be Diane Higbee.”

  “Yeah, she’s a character, all right.”

  “Have a drink!” Blazer yelled, pushin
g his way towards them. “Hey, Keefe-o, c’mon! You’re not oiled yet!” He grabbed a glass and handed it to Jimmy. He offered another to Mike, who shook his head.

  “What’s the matter?” Blazer asked him. “What’s the matter with these drinks, huh?” Jimmy realized, suddenly, that Blazer was very drunk.

  “I’ve had my limit, thanks,” Mike said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Blazer said, staring at Mike with half-closed eyes.

  “C’mon, Blaze,” Jimmy said quickly.

  Blazer turned to him. “Hey, Keefe-o,” he said, “I know what let’s do. Let’s go find a fairy and beat him up, okay? How ’bout it? I know a place over on Sutter—”

  “Now, c’mon, Blaze,” Jimmy said.

  “I mean it. Find a fairy, beat him up. Fun, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Sure. Go have a cup of coffee, Blaze.”

  All at once the phonograph blared loudly again, drowning out all the other noise. Claire rushed by. “The police!” she said. “I think somebody’s called the police! Oh, my God!” Blazer turned unsteadily and followed her.

  Jimmy heard a woman’s laugh behind him. “We found the most wonderful little place,” the voice said. “In the Caribbean. Just ourselves, nobody else. And native boys! Built like—like little castles, every muscle. So perfectly formed—”

  “Do you have a cigarette?” Claire asked, coming back. “It was a false alarm. No police, thank God!”

  Jimmy offered her one and reached for his lighter. Claire held her face down close to his hand, and clutched it with her own. “Do you believe in me?” she asked, hovering over the flame.

  “What?”

  “I mean, do you?” She released his hand, but her cigarette was not lighted. “You stand here so quietly, and I think perhaps—you—”

  She lowered her face again to try for the light a second time, and the woman behind him said, “… the most wonderful hotel, with the most beautiful terrace, and a pool. In the morning, the beach! What I wouldn’t give—”

  The room, the lights seemed to spin as he tried to close his ears. “Be careful of this lighter—” he began.

  “Hold still,” Claire said. “I can’t get this damn’ thing lit!”