Stan gave a long, low whistle. “Where’d you get it, Tweetums?” he asked. “Did you buy it or something?”
“No, it’s Claire and Blazer’s. Blazer’s away and Claire let me borrow it.”
“Terrific!” Stan said.
“So-o-o—” Tweetums said, extending the vowel, and turning to him and looking him up and down, “you scoot into the bathroom, shave, comb your hair, and get dressed. We’re going to Carmel!”
“Great!” He squeezed her arm excitedly and started towards the bathroom; he chucked his pyjama-shirt on the unmade bed. Tweetums stood at the window, looking out. “And it’s going to be a nice day, too,” she said.
At the bathroom door, he stopped. “Hey, Tweetums,” he called.
“Yes?” She turned.
“Fresh, young beauty!” He pulled the cord of his pyjama-bottoms and let them fall to his ankles.
“Oh, Stan!” She laughed, weakly.
He ducked into the bathroom and she heard the shower running.
As they drove down the peninsula, the sun kept appearing and disappearing. But the day was warm, and Stan had insisted that they drive with the top down. The Jaguar fascinated him. He studied the dials on the panel, practised double-shifting the gears. “Great little car,” he kept repeating. “God, what a piece of machinery!”
Because he enjoyed driving the car, they took their time. They made several side trips. In Palo Alto, they made a tour of the Stanford campus. Farther down, near Los Gatos, they took a long, winding road that led up into the hills. When they got to Monterey, they stopped, parked the car, and took a stroll along the fishing-pier. It was close to dusk when they arrived in Carmel. They drove the car along the Seventeen Mile Drive, past Cypress Point and Pebble Beach as the sun, giant and orange, began setting into the sea.
They drove then to a restaurant south of Carmel called Nepenthe for dinner. High on a cliff above the ocean, they had cocktails, and, after that, Pacific lobster. “What the hell does Nepenthe mean, anyway?” Stan asked her once, during dinner.
“It means ‘forgetting pain,’ I think,” she said. She reached across the table and covered his hand with hers.
They left the restaurant, and, in the car again, Stan continued heading south along the high, winding highway that followed the coast line. Tweetums rested her head peacefully on the back of the seat and looked out into the night. Drifts of mist were floating in now from the sea, swirling about the rocks. The surf echoed far below. Finally, she said, “Don’t you think we ought to be heading back?”
“Back where?”
“Back to Carmel—?”
He was silent. Then he said, “Hey, Tweetums, how much money have you got with you?”
She hesitated. Then she opened her purse. “I’ve got about a hundred dollars,” she said.
“Good. I’ve got about thirty. Let’s go to Tijuana.”
“Tijuana!”
“Sure. Why not?”
“But, Stan—it’s about six hundred miles!”
“I know.”
“We wouldn’t get there till to-morrow!”
“Sure. So what? I’ve never been there, have you?”
“No, but—”
“Then let’s go. O.K.?”
“Oh, we can’t! We really can’t! I’ve got to have this car back by five to-morrow, for one thing—”
“She’d understand, wouldn’t she? We’ll phone her when we get there.”
“But why? Why on earth do you want to go down there? Oh, Stan, it’s just crazy, starting off for Tijuana at ten o’clock at night!”
“Hell, I think it would be fun,” he said.
“Oh, it would be fun, but we can’t. That’s all there is to it. We can’t.”
Stan was silent. They continued driving south.
“Turn back now, Stan, please,” Tweetums said.
“Why won’t you go?” he asked her a little petulantly.
“Because, honey, it’s silly. Why do you want to go? That’s more to the point!”
He stared at the road ahead. Then he smiled a small, curious smile. “Because,” he said mysteriously.
“Because why?”
“Because we could get married in Tijuana.”
“Oh!” Tweetums gasped. She sat back in the seat, looking straight ahead. “Oh!” she said again.
“Are you game?” he asked her, teasingly.
Tweetums DeMay had a kind heart. Any touch of sentiment struck a great emotional chord within her, and she responded with a great outpouring of feeling. She longed, as she often said, to see people happy. It was seeing people happy that made her happy. In this unselfish longing, a kind of reckless giving, the surge of offering swept through her now, as the car sped on along the Coast Highway. She felt she must give Stan something now, in return for the ultimate flattery he had given her. The gift, which she intended only to be the gentlest, warmest kiss on his smooth blond cheek, she moved now to give. And the car, taking a sharp turn, threw her soft and generous body against his. His shoulder yielded with a jerk; his eyes had been intent on the curving strip of concrete that appeared through the swirling fog, and the wheel, in his hands, spun free. He grabbed for it, and in the tiny front seat of the red car, the two of them were thrown apart. Tweetums cried out once, sharply, as the car leaped, out of control, across the shoulder and the low embankment. At the edge, it seemed for a moment that it would save itself, but it did not. Too late, it fell, rolling now, down the black, jagged rocks towards the sea. Then the night was pierced with flame and the little red car flashed brightly, casting jagged rainbows into the waves below, rainbows that sparkled blue and gold, orange and crimson.
As five o’clock approached, Friday afternoon, Claire became increasingly nervous. She was dressed, ready to go. Where was Tweetums? Why on earth wasn’t she back? Why, she wondered, had she been such a fool as to lend the car to someone she knew was irresponsible? She paced the huge glass room, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Outside, the afternoon fog thickened; the windows streamed. Soon there was nothing to be seen beyond the glass but a dense grey blanket of fog. Soon it was five-fifteen. Her nervousness changed to worry. Then her worry became anger. She flopped on to the white sofa, planning terrible, cutting things she would say to Tweetums. She was certain to be late now. Traffic would be slow over the bridge. In even the best driving conditions, it was a two-hour drive to Sacramento. She lighted another cigarette, wondering whether to phone Jimmy now or wait till Tweetums arrived. If she knew Jimmy—if the way he had acted in Squaw Valley was any indication of his present mood—she could not count on him to cool his heels for hours, waiting for her. If she didn’t show up on time, it would be just like him to go to a movie.
Then the door-bell rang. Well, it was about time! She jumped up and walked rapidly across the room to the door. She pulled it wide open, angrily, then gasped suddenly to see two totally unfamiliar men. One was a state policeman. The other was a young, hatless man in a damp trenchcoat.
“What is it?” she said.
“Are you Mrs. Stuart Gates?” the trench-coated man asked.
“Yes …”
“We’re from the police. May we come in?”
Claire stepped inside. The two men entered the apartment, and the patrolman politely removed his cap. “What’s the matter?” she asked in a faint voice.
“Do you own a red Jaguar automobile, licence number—” The young man looked at a slip of paper in his hand and read the number.
“Yes. Yes, what’s happened to it?” she asked sharply.
“Do you know a Mrs. Eleanor Spiers DeMay?”
“Yes. Tweetums DeMay. She had my car. Please tell me—”
“And a Mr. Stanley C. Erickson?”
“Yes! What’s happened?”
“You say you lent Mrs. DeMay the car?”
“Yes. Oh, please—”
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident, Mrs. Gates.”
“An accident!”
“Yes. Perhaps you’d better sit dow
n—”
“No, no! Tell me what happened!”
“The car went off the road on the Coast Highway, about fifty miles south of Carmel. It wasn’t spotted until noon to-day when Patrolman Flaherty here”—he nodded to the man in uniform—“noticed marks on the shoulder.” He paused. “It’s a drop there of about two hundred feet, Mrs. Gates. The car caught fire. I’m sorry to say both occupants—Mrs. DeMay and Mr. Erickson—were killed.”
Claire pressed her fingertips hard against her temples, shaking her head back and forth. “Oh, no!” she sobbed. “Oh, no!”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gates.”
“I had a date!” she cried. “I had a date to-night! Damn them!” She stopped abruptly, covering her mouth with her hand, looking at the two men in horror. Then she turned and walked stiffly across the room to the low white Chinese sofa and sat down hard on it. She sat there, like a little girl, knees pressed close together, hands clasped in her lap, head bent. “Oh!” she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, oh, oh!”
24
Helen’s letter was waiting in the mailbox when Jimmy arrived home from work Monday night. He sat at the kitchen table reading it over and over. It was very brief:
DEAR JIMMY,
I have been thinking about your suggestion that you come down to see Billy and me again some Sunday, and I have decided it would be unfair to say no. Since we will be very busy with the holidays—Christmas, etc.—coming up, perhaps the most convenient day for us would be the Sunday after New Year’s, January 5th. Around three in the afternoon would be a good time.
Sincerely,
HELEN
Coming as the letter did, so close after the news about Tweetums and Stan Erickson, Jimmy’s first reaction was to wonder if there was any connection. If, perhaps, Helen had heard about the accident, and Stan’s death had put to rest a ghost. Was it possible that this strange young man was continuing to influence his life, even in death? He remembered the peculiar feeling he had had that night in Claire’s apartment that Stan was in some way his alter ego, that they were linked, like brothers, in some dark and terrible sharing. His reaction to Claire’s hysterical telephone call Friday night had been a sudden feeling of freedom, and, at the same time, a deep twist of grief, a feeling that part of himself had bounced with the red car over the cliffs into the night.
Then he decided that Stan’s death had nothing to do with Helen’s letter. Helen probably knew nothing about the accident. It received only a small paragraph in the San Francisco Call-Bulletin; the other newspapers didn’t carry it at all. In California, after all, violent highway deaths occurred so frequently that they were not hot copy.
The two funerals had been held that very day. Claire had telephoned him several times over the week-end, begging him to go to them with her, but he had refused. She dreaded going alone, she said, and yet she felt she must. It was her New England conscience, commanding her to do her duty to the dead. And she would always feel, in a way, responsible. For she had actually urged Tweetums to take the car.
He read Helen’s letter once again.
It was certainly impersonal, cool, with its deliberately formal close, “Sincerely, Helen.” And the date she had suggested was five weeks away. She purposely wanted to create the impression that she was not anxious to see him. She would be busy during Christmas, etc. She did not want his visit to coincide in any way with the sentimentality of the holidays. And yet, he thought, she had written. It was the first letter she had written to him in all these months. It was not a cold, legal communication from Eldridge L. Gurney, Counsellor at Law, Rio Linda, California. These were Helen’s own words, written in Helen’s own hand. She had been thinking about his suggestion. She had been thinking about him.
He stood up and went into the living-room for stationery and a pen. Then he returned to the kitchen table and sat down to compose a reply.
He worked on his answer for a long time. Unfinished pages fluttered, crumpled up, to the floor. He wrote letters that included words of endearment. He wrote others that seemed so cold as to be actually cruel. He wrote letters that mentioned Billy, their son, their future. He wrote letters that called back the past, the week at Yosemite. He told her that he could never live without her, and, at one point, told her he had fallen in love with someone else.
Finally, he had the only letter that seemed right. It said, simply, “January 5th at three o’clock is fine with me.” And he signed it, “Love, Jimmy.”
He stood up and rubbed his eyes. He felt exultant.
It was after midnight.
On Wednesday afternoon, Claire drove to the San Francisco airport to meet Blazer in the new car. She was feeling miserable—tired and ill. That morning, in the mirror, her eyes had been sunken, and her face grey. She had done her best with cosmetics, but hadn’t successfully been able to hide the ugly shadows under her eyes. Now she felt feverish; driving down Bayshore Boulevard, she gripped the steering-wheel tightly in her gloved hands.
It was a combination of things: the accident, the police, the funerals, and then—Monday, Tuesday, and even to-day—long, stormy sessions with the insurance company. She had insisted on another red Jaguar, identical with Scarlet O’Hara. And she had insisted, of course, that it be delivered before Blazer got back from Honolulu. They had told her that it was impossible; that it would take at least three weeks to locate an identical car: Finally, Tuesday morning, in desperation she had called her father. Junius Denison had taken up the cudgel for her. The new car had been delivered, with a vice-president of the insurance company at the wheel, at one o’clock this afternoon.
She drove into the airport and parked the car. She was a few minutes early, which was a good thing since Blazer hated to be kept waiting. She spent her time in the ladies’ room, working on her face. She was determined not to let Blazer know what she had been through. When his plane was announced, she went to the gate and waited for him. She watched as the great silver plane came down, sped along the runway, turned, and taxied slowly back towards the gate. The ramp was rolled into place, the door was opened, and the passengers began streaming out. When she saw Blazer—at first she didn’t recognize him; he was darkly tanned and, like the other passengers, wore a white pikaki lei about his neck—she called to him and waved gaily.
He made his way towards her and, when he reached her, gave her a quick, affectionate hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, sweetie,” he said. “Did you miss me?”
“Oh, did I!” she said. “Darling, you look wonderful! Is that the way you sold sheets—lying on the beach at Waikiki?”
“I did some of that,” Blazer said.
“And what’s that crazy thing?” she asked, pointing to the lei.
“Compliments of the airline,” Blazer said. He reached up, removed it, and placed it over Claire’s head.
“Thank you, kind sir!” She took his hand and they walked to the baggage counter.
Driving back to the city, Claire chattered about her trip to Squaw Valley, about the unsuccessful ski-ing lessons, about the dreary winter weather. “Boy, you’re really wound up to-day, aren’t you?” he said, laughing, and then, all at once, he rubbed his hand over the dashboard of the car.
“Hey—” he said. “What the hell?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Is this—is this a new car?”
“Why—what makes you think—”
“I don’t know. There’s something different about it. It smells different—”
“Oh, Blazer!”
“What’s happened?”
“This is Scarlet O’Hara the Second!” she said wildly.
“What do you mean?”
Then she blurted it all out.
They drove the rest of the way home in silence.
They entered the apartment and Claire moved about the living-room turning on lamps; it was beginning to get dark. She started to close the white curtains.
“Don’t close them,” Blazer said.
“Why not?”
“I want to look at the view.”
Claire shivered. “I’m so sick of this view!” she said.
Blazer went to the window and looked out. “Poor Tweetums,” he said. “I think I feel sorrier for Tweetums than for Stan. It must have been his fault. I bet he was driving like a bat out of hell.”
“Please, let’s not talk about it any more,” Claire said.
“I only said, ‘Poor Tweetums.’”
Claire sat down on the white sofa. After a moment, she said, “What about poor Claire? What about me? I’m the one who’s had to live through it!”
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I know. It must have been rough.”
“Rough! Yes, it was!”
“Look, Claire—” he began.
“I’m sorry,” she said, resting her head on the back of the sofa. “My nerves are absolutely at the snapping point. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
“Let me fix you a drink.”
“Yes, please.”
He went into the kitchen and returned, with a bowl of ice, to the bar. He stood, in silence, mixing proportions of gin and vermouth, swirling them in a pitcher with a long silver spoon. “No word from Jim, I suppose,” he said.
“From who? From whom?”
“Jimmy.”
“Oh. No. No word.”
“No answer to your letter?”
“No.”
“You did write to him, didn’t you, like I asked?”
“As I asked. Yes. I wrote to him.”
“Your grammar’s as good as ever, that’s for sure,” he said. He filled two glasses with the pale liquid and carried them to the coffee table.
“What do you mean by that crack?” Claire asked him.
“Look, Claire,” he said, “I know you’re tired, but stop barking at me, will you?”
“Sorry,” she said emptily. “I think I’m coming down with something. Virus X.”
He sat down beside her on the sofa and picked up his glass. “Well,” he said, “welcome home, Blazer. Nice to have you back, old boy, it sure is!”
Claire smiled faintly. Blazer sipped his drink.
“Funny about Jimmy,” he said after a moment.
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