21
He was in the same mood of quiet elation when he awoke the next morning. He dressed quickly, and, deciding not to risk seeing Claire in the dining-room, repacked his suitcase and went downstairs to the desk and checked out. It was still quite early, and a sleepy, ski-clad young man who served as a bell-hop carried his suitcase out to his car.
“Aren’tcha going to ski to-day?” the boy asked grumpily, tossing the bag in the back seat of the convertible.
“Not to-day,” Jimmy said. “Got to get back.”
He tipped the boy and climbed into the car. He started the cold, sluggish motor, and then got out of the car again to scrape the thin layer of ice from the windshield. When he had it clear, he got back into the car, raced the motor, and, with a curious thrill of excitement, decided to drive to Rio Linda. He backed the car out of the parking lot. Then he stopped to light a cigarette. He realized that his hands were trembling.
He stopped in Truckee to have breakfast, and sat at the small, grimy counter rehearsing in his mind the things he would say. For a while, he debated telephoning Helen first, but he decided against it; he knew what she would say. He paid his check at the restaurant and started out again.
It was nearly two hundred miles to Rio Linda, but, once he had crossed Donner Summit, the downward road was fairly fast. There was very little traffic, and when, towards noon, he entered the flat, broad valley, the road straightened ahead of him; he held the car at a steady sixty miles an hour. It was not raining, but the day was damp and chilly. From far off, a heavy cloud hung over the Mokelumne River. Even in the grey winter, the fields that stretched limitlessly on either side of the road showed promise of green. Here and there a palm tree rose and flapped incongruously in the cold, sunless day. Here, in this vast Central Valley, he had heard, lay California’s true wealth, the wealth that sprang from the black earth. He wondered if the Western settlers had previsioned this as they looked across the Sierras, imagining somehow the desert irrigated, seeded, harvested. He flipped on the car radio, and for a while listened to the inevitable, twangy hillbilly music that was transmitted daily from valley towns.
It was almost two when he arrived in Rio Linda, and for a while he drove around the town, noticing the changes, trying to place things he remembered, getting up his courage. He drove past Helen’s house three or four times, afraid to stop, and then he stopped driving around it, afraid that someone in the house would notice him. Finally he parked the car on the other side of the park, got out, and walked through the park past the empty tennis courts, then stopped, looking across at the white house that showed through the trees opposite. He thought: No, I can’t do it. I haven’t got the courage. I can’t go there. Then he asked himself the question: What do you want from her? More scenes and recriminations, more bitterness? You’ve satisfied yourself now; you’ve seen the house again. Go back.
He turned back towards the car, but he realized now that he had to do it. He had to see her. He got back into the car, lighted another cigarette, then drove the car around the park and stopped it in front of the house. He got out and walked quickly up the walk to the front door.
Mrs. Warren answered the bell. She looked, he thought, a little frightened. “Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “What do you want?” And then, before he had a chance to reply, she said, “Did you come to see the baby?”
He realized, with a start, that he had really not stopped to think about the baby at all, but he answered, “Yes.”
She stood in the doorway. “Is this what they told you you could do?” she asked. “The lawyers and everything, I mean?”
“No,” he said, “but I’d like very much to see him. If it’s possible and you don’t mind—”
She seemed undecided. “Well—it’s a little—” she began. “I think he’s asleep right now.”
“Shall I come back later?”
“Yes. No. No—come in, Jimmy. Come in and sit down. I’ll—I’ll tell Helen you’re here.” She held open the door and he stepped inside.
“You’ve redecorated,” he said. “Doesn’t it look nice?” He realized he was smiling inanely and talking too rapidly. “The curtains are new, aren’t they? When did you do all this?”
“Well, we had to do something,” she said, looking around distractedly. “And Mr. Warren left me the money to do it with—with those specific instructions—for what he wanted me to do with it—to do something to the house—”
“Very nice—”
“I’ll get Helen,” she said. “Sit down, Jimmy, won’t you? Excuse me—”
She started up the stairs and Jimmy went into the living-room. He sat down on one of the small French chairs. For several minutes, the house was silent. Then he heard Helen’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
He stood up. She came into the room. “Hello, Jimmy,” she said.
“Hello, Helen.”
She stood a few feet away from him, not moving closer. She was wearing a pale yellow dress that was cut loosely, and leather-thonged sandals. Her brown hair was brushed smoothly back, and he noticed, irrationally, that she had on fresh lipstick. As he stared at her, she averted her face from him. “Sit down,” she said.
“I’m sorry, Helen,” he said simply. “I had to come.”
“You had to come?” She looked at him briefly, then away again. She moved to the sofa and sat down, placing her hands in her lap. Jimmy sat down in the chair.
“Yes,” he said.
“You could hardly have picked a more inconvenient time,” she said. “Mother’s having guests in about half an hour.”
“I’m sorry …”
“Couldn’t you have telephoned? Or written? Did your—your attorneys tell you this was what you could do?”
“No. It was my own idea, Helen. I felt I had to see you.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s sort of a shock—”
“If you want me to go now, I will,” he offered.
“No, no,” she said quickly. “No—you’ve driven all the way from Sacramento.”
“From Squaw Valley, actually—”
“Squaw Valley?”
“Yes, I went up there yesterday to ski.”
She didn’t answer him or seem interested any more. She put her arm on the arm of the sofa and looked into the corner of the room. He watched her. Her slim legs were bare below the full yellow skirt, and her feet, in the curious Indian sandals, were small, placed firmly on the floor. He studied her as she sat with her face turned away from him, averted, turned to the shadow. He thought that her sculptured face seemed pale; her features, too, seemed to have attained a sharpness, an angularity. There was an expression, too, that he couldn’t recognize. He wondered whether it was time or pain or suffering.
“How have you been?” he asked her.
“Fine, just fine,” she said.
“You look—” he began. “You’ve lost weight, haven’t you?”
She laughed sharply. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve lost a little. I’ve just had a baby, remember?”
“Oh, yes,” he said quickly, “yes, I’m sorry, of course that’s it.” And he added, “Is he much trouble?”
“All babies are trouble.”
“Midnight feedings—that sort of thing?”
“Yes. That sort of thing.” She looked up at him. “But this one’s worth it,” she said.
“I’m glad.”
There was another long, full silence, and she looked away from him once more. “I’d like to see him,” Jimmy said.
“Well—I don’t want to wake him up just yet. He’s due for a bottle soon. I’ll give him a little while longer.”
“Tell me about him.”
“There’s really not much to tell,” she said. “He’s not much to look at either—only a week old. He doesn’t do any spectacular things like walk or talk or sing. He has a cute little—” She stopped. “But you heard everything from Mr. Gurney.”
“Mr. Gurney supplied me with his birth date and his sex. That was all.”
; She gave him a quick, worried look. “Was that all he told you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. His name is Billy—”
“Forgive me, he did tell me that.”
“And he weighed seven-thirteen—”
“Is that about average?”
“Yes, that’s a good weight. And his eyes are—oh—an indistinguishable colour!” She laughed. “And he has long fingers—I’m sure he’s going to play the piano—and he’s bald—”
“And family resemblances?”
“Oh, yes, he looks just like you!” She smiled at him, and then stopped smiling. “I guess he looks just like a baby,” she added, looking away again.
“And was it—easy for you?”
“Yes—so they tell me. I thought it was ghastly at the time, but everybody tells me I was terribly normal about it.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” There was another silence, and he asked, “Where did the Billy come from?”
“From nowhere. I thought it was a pretty name, that’s all.”
“It is,” he said. “I like it. It’s a nice name.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I’m glad you approve that I approve,” he said.
“How have you been?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“And the job?”
“Just fine. Bob Maguire is—”
“What?”
“He’s a nice guy to work for,” he said. “I’m not getting rich at it, of course, but I’m enjoying it. I got my first raise when I got back from the East.”
“Oh, have you been East?”
“Yes, I was back about a month ago for the funeral.”
“What funeral?”
“Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“My father died.”
“Oh! Oh, no!” she gasped.
“Yes, he had a heart attack. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.”
“No!” She stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Jimmy!” she said. “I’m so sorry!”
“It was very sudden. It was all over very quickly.”
“Oh, Jimmy! Of course I hardly knew him, but—”
“Yes. He was a nice man.” Hearing the words come out, they sounded vacuous. And yet, in a way, they didn’t.
“How is your mother?”
“Well, she took it a little hard at first, but she’ll rally. You know Mother. She’s busy rallying now.”
“Poor Jimmy!” She brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she leaned forward towards the coffee table, opened the glass cigarette box, and extracted a cigarette. She searched for matches.
Jimmy stood up and reached in his pocket for his lighter. He walked over and offered it to her. As she lit the cigarette, her eyes fluttered up to him for a brief moment, then, frowning, she concentrated on the cigarette and the flame. “This isn’t that kitchen lighter,” he said softly. “No sparks.”
She inhaled deeply and blew out a thin stream of smoke. Then she stood up. “I’ll get Billy now,” she said.
While he waited, Mrs. Warren walked through the living-room carrying a tray of hors d’œuvres towards the little sun parlour in the back of the house.
“Isn’t it a dreary day!” she said.
“Yes, it certainly is,” he answered.
“But of course,” she said, looking about her with an odd, distracted look, “we need rain this time of year.” She disappeared into the other room.
Presently Helen came down the stairs again with the small blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. “Well—here he is,” she said in a strained voice. “You don’t have a cold or anything, do you?” she asked.
“No …”
“Would you like to hold him, then?”
“All right.”
He accepted the small bundle gingerly. “My God, he’s little!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, isn’t he?” She laughed, a little wildly. “Don’t—there, that’s the right way to carry him!”
Jimmy carried the baby slowly across the room towards the window, looking down at the small, pinched face. It was a curious sensation, encountering his child for the first time. It was the sensation that, for months, he had wondered how he would cope with, and yet now he couldn’t define his feeling at all. He felt only a kind of wonder. Love, he supposed, would come later. He began talking to the baby in a soft voice, and Helen picked up her cigarette from the ash-tray and stood on the other side of the room, smoking, saying nothing. “Do you like it here?” he asked. “Do you like it here in this pretty house? Do they feed you enough? I don’t think they feed you enough—tell Mommy that you’re nothing but a bag of bones.” He laughed then, to let her know that he wasn’t serious.
“Where did he get the blue bonnet?” he asked her.
“I think it was a present,” she said. “Someone gave it to him.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Well, it’s very handsome,” he said. “Hey—look, he’s smiling.”
Helen laughed a small, tight laugh.
“He looks like an Irishman,” Jimmy said.
“There’s enough Irish around,” Helen said.
“He’s not scared of me, is he? I think he knows who I am. I think he knows—by instinct. Do you believe in instinct?”
Her voice choked. “I don’t know,” she said.
“I do. I think we know our fathers and mothers by instinct. Does he act this friendly with everyone?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, anyway,” he said.
“I think I’d better take him now,” Helen said.
“Oh, let me hold him a few minutes—he doesn’t mind.”
“All right.”
He went back to the chair and sat down, placing the small bundle on his lap.
“Don’t scrunch him up so!” Helen said.
“Like this?”
“Yes, that’s better—”
“I’d like to make these Sunday afternoons a regular thing,” he said slowly, not looking at her. “That is—I’d like to if you have no objection.”
She seemed to think about this. “I have no objection,” she said finally. “Of course he’s—he’s your child, too. But I—I may be busy on some Sundays and—”
“Oh, I don’t mean it would be like clockwork or anything like that,” he said quickly. “No rigid schedule. Just on Sundays when it’s convenient for you.”
“I’d need to have some notice of when you’re coming,” she said seriously. “Some notice in advance.”
“Or perhaps,” he ventured, “perhaps we should wait until—after the divorce.”
“Perhaps.”
There was a pause, and, still looking at the baby, not at Helen, he said, “How is that coming along, anyway?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, “there’s this residence mix-up …”
“Why don’t you go to Reno?”
“We were married in Reno,” she said, and then she added quickly: “Well, that’s hardly practical, is it, with a tiny baby?”
“No, I guess not,” he said. And then he said slowly, “I suppose there’s no chance—of us, you and I—”
“No,” she answered quickly. “No chance at all.”
“I thought not,” he said. “That’s why I thought we could make it more or less a standing date. Sundays, I mean. So there wouldn’t be a lot of bother or fuss ahead of time. You could drop me a line …”
“No,” she said.
“Or I could telephone,” he said quickly.
“Yes, you could telephone me—or Mr. Gurney,” she said. “That is, unless you want to make it a standing date, as you said.”
“Well, yes, yes,” he said. “That’s what I mean. Then I could let you know what Sundays I’m not coming—that would be better. Just one or two hours every Sunday afternoon.”
“Very well,” she said. “I suppose I have no objection to that.”
/> “And if you’re busy,” he said, “I could take Billy out with me in the car—”
“No, not in the car!” she said sharply.
“I mean when he’s older,” he added hastily.
“Well, we’ll see.”
“Or I could take him out in the carriage …”
“He doesn’t have a carriage.”
“I’ll buy him one.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
He decided not to press this any further, to let it drop. He was on tenuous, fragile ground. They were both silent. Then in the distance, he heard the door-bell, and Mrs. Warren’s footsteps going through the hall to answer it.
The voices, outside, in the hall:
“Arlene! What’s happened, dear? Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. Jimmy’s here to see the baby, that’s all.”
“Oh, we’ve come at the wrong time. We’ll come back later—”
“No, no—come in. We’ll sit out here—”
“Are you sure? Positive?”
“Oh, yes, yes. I’ve got everything set up …”
Jimmy felt his face reddening. In the distance, in the little sun parlour, he heard the sound of glasses, the swirl of ice-cubes in a pitcher. “Scotch for you, Edrita?” Mrs. Warren’s voice said. “And Bert—I know you’re a Martini type, like me.” She laughed.
“Are you going to Santa Barbara after Christmas, Arlene?” a man’s voice asked.
“Goodness knows!” said Mrs. Warren.
“You’re getting to be an expert bartender, Arlene,” the woman’s voice said.
“I’m learning,” Mrs. Warren replied.
“I suppose you’d like one,” Helen said suddenly.
“What?” Jimmy asked.
“A drink. You can have one if you’d like—”
“No, thank you,” Jimmy said.
“It wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“No, thanks.” He hesitated, then said, “I don’t drink any more.”
“Is that true—?”
“Yes. I stopped. About four months ago.”
“Oh—” she breathed.
“Yes. That was one of the things that ruined us, wasn’t it? My drinking?”
“I always thought that was the only thing,” she said softly.
“Yes. That’s why I stopped.”
“I’m glad,” she said. She looked at him as though now, for the first time since he’d arrived, she was genuinely interested in what he was saying. “Are you an Alcoholics Anonymous or something?” she asked.
Young Mr. Keefe Page 26