Young Mr. Keefe

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  By five o’clock, she was in a cheerful mood. She felt almost gay. She placed a stack of records on the phonograph and turned the volume low, to the barest whisper of music. She went to the bar and mixed herself a small, crystal, jewel-like martini. It was really rather fun being alone. It was like her New York days when she had enjoyed cooking for herself, and setting the table for herself, and sitting down to eat by herself with candlelight. She sipped her martini slowly and then went to the telephone and called Jimmy.

  When he answered, she laughed a small, tinkly laugh. “Well!” she said. “What have you been doing?”

  “Hi, Claire,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “In Squaw Valley,” she said.

  “Still up there?”

  “Yes. I’m having too much fun to leave. Parties—a simply wild round every night. Throngs of fascinating people.”

  “How are the ski-ing lessons coming?”

  “Marvellously! I’m schussing and slooshing and whooshing everywhere. My instructor says he’s never seen such progress!”

  “Well, that’s great!” he said. “I’m glad you’re learning to whoosh. Can you do it on one ski yet?”

  “Oh, yes. Tell me, Jimmy, is entering the Olympics terribly time-consuming?”

  “Well, it would take some of your time, I suppose.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. I think I’ll tell them no. My time is simply too valuable.”

  “Before you go much farther,” Jimmy said, “I should tell you that before I heard your voice, the operator said, ‘San Francisco is calling.’”

  “Beast!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well,” she said, “let me tell you why I really called.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” she said, “the darndest business has come up.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Well,” she said, taking a quick sip of her cocktail, “do you remember what I told you about Blazer—about that new job with Monarch Mills? That Harry Masterson character?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, of course Blazer’s in Honolulu, and this is all strictly sub rosa with Norden-Clark, but anyway, this Masterson character telephoned me to see if I could locate some papers of Blazer’s, some sort of vital statistics on him or something, and I’ve discovered they’re on file in Sacramento.”

  “In Sacramento?”

  “Yes. You know, in the capitol or in some sort of state office building or something, so I have an appointment to go up there and pick them up on Friday.”

  “What kind of papers are they, Claire?”

  “Oh—vital statistics things, I guess they’re called. His birth certificate and everything—”

  “Blazer wasn’t born in California—”

  “No, not his birth certificate actually, but things like that.”

  “So you’d like me to drop over there and pick them up? I’d be glad to.”

  “No, no! I have to be there. Myself. It requires my signature and everything. I have the appointment and everything, with the legislature or whatever it is—”

  “The legislature?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a silence on the other end of the wire. “Now, let’s get this straight,” Jimmy said finally. “You have to go up to the state legislature to put your signature on some vital statistics of Blazer’s like his birth certificate so he can get a job with Monarch Mills.”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  There was a muffled sound on the other end of the line that resembled coughing.

  “Oh, damn you!” she said. “Look—Thursday’s Thanks-giving, and I’ve got nobody to spend it with. I thought I’d come up Thursday night and let you take me out to dinner.”

  “Gosh, Claire—”

  “Please!” she said. “I know how you feel, how you want to wait and everything. But is there any harm in our having dinner somewhere? Just a nice, quiet Thanksgiving dinner? You came down here for dinner one time, and now it’s my turn to go up there!”

  “The thing is, Claire, I’ve got a date already. Bob and Margie Maguire—the fellow I work for—have asked me to their house for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m awfully sorry. Really.”

  “Then Friday night,” she said.

  “Friday?”

  “Yes. Please!”

  “Well—”

  “Please!”

  “Sure, Claire,” he said. “I’d love to.”

  “Good,” she said quickly. “And I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m not going to try to coax you to drink, and I’m not going to try to seduce you. You won’t be able to get me inside your apartment if you try. Just to show you my intentions are absolutely pure, I’ll blow my horn outside your building at seven o’clock.”

  “All right.”

  “You’ll hear Scarlet O’Hara blow her horn at seven,” she said. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye, Claire.”

  She hung up the telephone and gulped down the rest of her drink. Then, because she still felt like talking to somebody, she picked up the phone again and called Tweetums DeMay. “Tweetums,” she said, when the other woman answered, “I’m home again. Come on over and have a cocktail with me.”

  When Tweetums DeMay arrived, about half an hour later, Claire had closed the curtains all the way around the room; the whole apartment seemed now to be upholstered with thick white cloth. And Claire, in the middle of it, still in her slim black toreador pants and black sweater, her hair still in pigtails, created a single decorative accent. Tweetums noticed it right away. “You should always wear black in this room,” she exclaimed. “It looks perfect!”

  Claire laughed. “One thing I can’t ever wear is white,” she said. “In white, I simply wash out.”

  Tweetums arranged herself comfortably on the sofa, tucking her short, plump legs underneath her. “How’ve you been?” she asked. “Did you have a wonderful time at Squaw Valley?”

  “Oh, yes,” Claire said, “but I’ve decided I’ll never be a skier.” She went to the bar and mixed another pitcher of pale martinis.

  “Ah, merci!” said Tweetums, when Claire handed her a glass. “Now tell me what you’ve been doing,” Claire said. She put her glass on the coffee table and sat, tailor fashion, on the floor opposite Tweetums.

  “Oh, nothing very exciting,” Tweetums said. “Stan and I have been to a few football games. At Berkeley and San José. You know how crazy Stan is about football.”

  “Oh, I know.”

  “He’s just like a great big kid! I think he wishes he were still back in college …”

  “Is he working yet?”

  “Well, that’s a sore point,” Tweetums said. “He’s not. Not yet. I want him to get a job downtown, in one of the investment houses. I know some people at Schwabacher’s. But Stan says he wants to sow a few wild oats first.”

  “Say, is it getting serious between you and Stan?” Claire asked.

  Tweetums let out a whoop of laughter. “Oh!” she said. “Oh, no! No, no, no! Goodness me, I’m thirty-seven. I’m almost fifteen years older than he is. Give me credit for a little sense. I know I don’t have much, but I have that much. No, he’s just—well, he’s a lot of fun, that’s all.”

  “I just wondered,” Claire said.

  Tweetums put her head back against the sofa cushions and looked up at the ceiling. “You know how it is,” she said. “No, you probably don’t know how it is, but when a girl reaches my age—” Her voice trailed off. “Well,” she said, “I’ve had three marriages, all flops. I’m thirty-seven. I’ve lost my figure and most of my looks—I don’t kid myself. And at this point, the only thing I want out of life is to have fun. Stan thinks—he probably thinks he’s being pretty daring, running around town with an old jade like me!” She laughed gaily. “I mean it. His friends probably kid him about it, and he gets a kick out of that. Oh, a couple of times he’s told me he’s in love with me. I take it with a grain of salt. He likes me because I know the ropes, that’s all. My God,” she said, �
��if there’s one thing I am, it’s aware!”

  Later, after another cocktail, Tweetums said, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  “Nothing,” Claire said glumly, “absolutely nothing! Blazer won’t be back till a week from Wednesday. I’m going to spend Thanksgiving sitting right here in this apartment …”

  “Oh, what a shame!” Tweetums said.

  “What are you going to do?” Claire asked.

  “Oh, it’s all up in the air at this point,” Tweetums said. “Stan is immobilized at the moment. He’s without wheels. His car is on the blink. We were going to drive down to Carmel for dinner, but now I guess we’ll have to stay in town.”

  “I guess we’re both in the same boat,” Claire said.

  “Oh, no. Not you. At least you have a husband, dear. Even if he’s thousands of miles away, at least you have a husband.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I should be grateful.”

  “Oh, you should, you should. Why, you’re the happiest two people I’ve ever seen—you and Blazer. What difference does it make to you if you miss one little old Thanksgiving dinner together?”

  Claire laughed.

  “You’ll have so many more,” Tweetums said. Then, sadly, she said, “I’m quite aware that Stan will get tired of me pretty soon. It’s bound to happen. I’m prepared for it, but it’ll be a blow just the same. Then I’ll have to get myself another beau.” She gazed despondently into her glass.

  “Let’s have another cocktail,” Claire said.

  Much later, when they were both quite tight, Claire stood up unsteadily and went into the bathroom. When she came out, Tweetums had kicked off her shoes and lay on her back on the sofa. She had rested an ash-tray on her bosom into which she periodically tapped her cigarette. Tweetums had finished recounting, in elaborate detail, the story of each of her marriages, and, in this mood of easy confidence, like two college roommates, Claire had been tempted to tell Tweetums about Jimmy. But she had caught herself, and, instead, had talked aimlessly about Blazer, her parents, Mars Hill, and her Bohemian period in New York.

  Claire stood in the centre of the room, her feet planted wide apart. “Look,” she said suddenly, “why don’t you borrow Scarlet O’Hara to go to Carmel?”

  “What?”

  “Borrow my car, the Jaguar. I’m not going to be using it.”

  Tweetums sat up. “Oh, no, honey, I couldn’t do that,” she said.

  “Why not?” Claire asked gaily. “There’s no earthly reason why you couldn’t. It’ll just be sitting here. Why don’t you two take it?”

  “And go to Carmel?”

  “Yes!”

  “Oh, no. You’re sweet to offer it, but—”

  “I mean it,” Claire said.

  “Well—” Tweetums said tentatively, looking at Claire, and then quickly away. “Well, we were planning to spend the night there.”

  “Oh,” Claire said. “Well—”

  “Oh, it’s perfectly all right,” Tweetums said hastily. “I have an aunt in Pebble Beach; we were going to stay at her place. I mean—”

  “Well,” Claire said, “I do need the car on Friday. I have to—I have some things to do Friday night. I’d need it back by five.”

  “Oh, we’d be back by five,” Tweetums said.

  “Well, then—”

  “Oh, no, it’s too much of an imposition, really,” Tweetums said. “I couldn’t think of borrowing Blazer’s car—”

  “It’s my car really,” Claire said.

  “Well, even so—”

  “I must have it back by five o’clock, that’s all,” Claire said.

  “Well, you’re terribly sweet—”

  “Do you want to take it?”

  “Oh, we’d love you for ever—if you’re sure you wouldn’t mind—”

  “Take it then,” Claire said. “Take it overnight. Only have it back by five on Friday.”

  “Oh, you’re a lifesaver, honey!” Tweetums said. “Wait till I tell Stan!” She jumped up and ran across the room to Claire in her stocking feet. “You’re wonderful!” she said, hugging her quickly. “You’re a real friend!”

  Claire squeezed Tweetums affectionately. She felt warm and happy. She felt she was helping the course of true love. And she was fond of Tweetums. In her innocent, cheerful way, Tweetums reminded her of her mother.

  23

  On Wednesday afternoon, Helen had an appointment with her lawyer. Mr. Gurney sat at his roll-top desk in shirt-sleeves and galluses. Outside, from the street below, Helen could hear the midafternoon traffic sounds, but inside the office she was back in the gold-rush days. The office was cluttered with dusty books, papers, and odd mementoes. Fading photographs and yellowing calendars lined the walls. On top of one ancient filing cabinet was the whitened skull of a steer; in another corner was a huge, garishly painted safe. Above it, in a glass case, were a pair of crossed pistols. On Mr. Gurney’s desk, serving as a paperweight, was a chunk of crusty, glinting gold ore from the Mother Lode.

  Mr. Gurney had always terrified her a little. He sat there now, pushed back in his swivel chair with his thumbs in his trouser-tops, squinting at her critically through his spectacles. “Well, Helen,” he said, “I think we’d better get this show on the road.”

  “Yes, I expect we’d better,” she said.

  “In a few more weeks, you’ll have satisfied the residence requirement. Then we can file your complaint.” He went on, talking about the possibility of a cross complaint, or a motion for change of venue. “In view of the fact that you have the child,” he said finally, “I think we will ask the court for permanent alimony. I don’t anticipate any difficulty on that score. Now, you’re more familiar with the young man’s circumstances than I am. What would you say would be a suitable figure?”

  Helen thought about this. “Is it necessary to ask for anything?” she said finally.

  Mr. Gurney rearranged himself in the chair. “Didn’t you say he comes from people of considerable means?” he asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Well, I don’t say it’s necessary. But I think it’s rather foolish of you not to. After all, you have his child. The court won’t expect you to feed, clothe, and educate the child all by yourself. Is there any reason why he shouldn’t share his burden?”

  “I just don’t want any unpleasantness about money,” Helen said. “I think his family always thought I married him for his money, and I don’t want to have them think—”

  “Why should you give a hoot what they think?”

  “Well, I just do, that’s all.”

  Mr. Gurney looked at her crossly. “Sentimental!” he snapped.

  “Perhaps—” she began.

  “Perhaps what?”

  “Mr. Gurney, Jimmy came to see me a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Is that so?” He didn’t sound particularly interested.

  “Yes, he came down to see the baby, and—I guess—to see me, too.”

  “Did he behave himself?”

  “Oh, yes …”

  “Well, what about it then?”

  “Nothing. It was just that—well, it was the first chance we’ve really had to talk together for a long time.”

  “Well?”

  “Well—I’ve been thinking. Do you suppose he could have changed?”

  Mr. Gurney slammed forward on the swivel chair. “My dear young woman,” he said, “I have not met the man. How should I know?”

  “Well, I was wondering,” Helen said, “if we could wait awhile—before filing the complaint, I mean. I mean, do we have to go right ahead with it, or can we postpone it for a while?”

  Mr. Gurney scowled at her, but in his eyes there was a twinkle of amusement. “My dear,” he said, “you are getting the divorce, not I. You may do whatever you wish.”

  “Well, frankly I’d like to talk to him again.”

  “I think you might very well do that. I think if people weren’t so ashamed of talking to each other, there’d be far fewer divorces.” />
  “I don’t mean a reconciliation,” Helen said. “I mean just a talk—a sensible talk.”

  “Of course you’ve been pretty cagey about why you wanted a divorce in the first place. What was it you said? He got drunk and abusive?”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t drink any more—”

  “Well, get in touch with him then. Tell him you’d like to talk to him again.”

  “Yes,” Helen said. “I thought perhaps you might write to him.”

  “Why should I write to him? He’s not my husband!”

  “Yes, Mr. Gurney, but I thought—well, I thought that would be the right way to handle it.”

  “I write to him? Don’t be absurd, woman. I’ve got more important things to do than that.”

  “I keep thinking,” Helen said softly, looking down at her white gloved hands in her lap, “that he might have changed. That I might have changed, too.”

  Mr. Gurney waved his hands. “Then run along,” he said. “Do it. Don’t bother me with all the details.”

  “All right,” she said. She stood up to go. “I’ll do it, and I’ll let you know.”

  “Very well,” he said crisply. “Good afternoon.” He swung around towards his desk. Helen started towards the door. “Just a minute!” Mr. Gurney said. Helen turned. Mr. Gurney looked at her over his shoulder and scowled. “Just remember,” he said, “nothing makes me happier than putting a divorce file in the back of the drawer.”

  “Thank you,” Helen said. “Good-bye.” Then, impulsively, she blew him a kiss with her gloved hand. “You’re a dear,” she said.

  Mr. Gurney’s face turned bright red, and he turned and bent over the papers on his desk as Helen let herself out.

  On Thanksgiving Day, Tweetums DeMay drove the red Jaguar slowly up Telegraph Hill. She parked it in front of the grey frame building where Stan Erickson lived. She climbed out of the car, ran up the flight of steps to the front door, let herself in, and went up another flight of stairs to the second floor where Stan had a one-room apartment. She rang the bell. After a moment, Stan came to the door. He was tousled, unshaven, and still in his pyjamas. “Lookee!” Tweetums cried gaily, taking his arm and leading him across the untidy room to the front window. She pointed down at the car. “For us,” she said.