She spent a good deal of time finding a pair of slacks that would not reveal a panty line. Finally, she found a pair—soft blue denim—and put them on. To these, she added a short-sleeved pink cotton blouse and a large, wide-brimmed gardening hat. Looking at herself in the long mirror, she was pleased with the result. If it were not for the fluff of blue-white hair beneath the hat, she decided, she might pass for a woman of, say, forty. She turned sideways, sucked in her tummy, wishing she had not had quite so much lunch, and smiled wanly at her image. Thank goodness she had kept her figure. Thank goodness she dyed her eyebrows. She started down the stairs and noticed that Helen’s door was closed.
She reminded herself of the two other things she had to do. One was to call her insurance agent about her fur-jewellery policy that seemed to have lapsed. The other was to find time, somehow, for a good, long, heart-to-heart talk with Helen.
Mrs. Warren’s garden had been photographed many times by magazines—notably Sunset, which had called it “compact and care-free, making the most of every precious inch of a small city back yard.” She had been pleased with the Sunset article, but her pleasure had not been undiluted. The article had reminded her that the garden was small. That it was not carefree. That it was, after all, only a garden on a city lot. It reminded her of so many of the unpleasant things about her life—the fact that the neighbourhood around her was disintegrating. Magnolia had once been the nicest street in town. But already, on her corner, was the Lucky Penguin Ice Cream Parlour. Though the Warren house still stood, trim, white, and dignified, at the end of a neatly tailored front walk, the house next door, just beyond her fence, bore a sign that said ROOMS TO LET. Mrs. Warren had often said that she couldn’t understand why anybody would want to live anywhere but in California. And yet, as more and more people came to her way of thinking, and moved there from other parts of the country, she was dismayed. She deplored the rapid, haphazard growth of California towns; she yearned, nostalgically, for the days of the missions, the Spanish dons, private irrigation, and low taxes. She wheeled the garden hose to the centre of the terrace, turned on the water at the spigot, and began soaking the beds.
It was nearly two o’clock when she finished. She replaced the hose and sat down, exhausted, in one of the rattan chairs. It was getting hot. She felt that she would like a glass of iced tea, but it seemed like so much trouble—to go into the kitchen, make tea, crack open ice-trays, squeeze lemons. Doris, her housekeeper, had Saturdays off, and this was another thing that annoyed her. In the old days, even on the regular maid’s day off, there had been another maid; there had been someone to fill in. A woman hadn’t had to do everything herself. Mrs. Warren felt a familiar, slow ache rising from the small of her back. Arthritis. Old age. Loneliness. Fifty-seven years old. As old as the century. What good did it do to dye one’s eyebrows, to have a garden, to diet and exercise to keep one’s figure from thickening? She lay back in her chair, miserable, and fanned her face with her fingertips. Then, from the front of the house, she heard the door-bell.
She got up and walked across the terrace to the french windows. She could see through the living-room to the front porch. There was a girl there—a girl she had never seen before. And what an astonishing-looking girl.… What an incredible shock of yellow hair. She opened the windows and walked through the house to the door, and opened it. “Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly.
“How do you do?” Claire said. “I’m Mrs. Gates—Mrs. Stuart Gates—from San Francisco. I’m looking for Mrs. Keefe. Is this the right house?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Warren said. “Are you a friend of Helen’s? Won’t you come in? I’m Helen’s mother.”
Claire stepped inside.
“I’m afraid Helen’s resting,” Mrs. Warren said. “But I’ll call her.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I don’t want to disturb her. I should have telephoned.”
“Oh, I know Helen will be glad to see you. Were you at Berkeley with Helen?”
“No,” Claire said, “I’m a friend from the East.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mrs. Warren. “Won’t you come out and sit in the garden? I’ll call Helen …” She led Claire through the living-room and opened the french doors. “I think it’s a little cooler out here,” she said.
“My, what a lovely garden!”
“Oh, it’s in sort of a state right now,” Mrs. Warren said. “I have to apologize for it. It’s just too much work for one person. Why don’t you sit right over there and I’ll send Helen down, Mrs.—”
“Gates,” Claire said, “Mrs. Stuart Gates.”
“Oh, yes …”
“I do hope I won’t be disturbing her.”
“Oh, I’m sure not.… I’ll send her down.”
Claire sat down in a rattan chair and placed her gloved hands in her lap. She felt hot and overdressed. Her light blue wool had been the wrong choice. She had forgotten, idiotically, the temperature change that occurred when you left the bay area, drove over the mountains, into the valley. The heat descended on her in a smothering blanket; her wool dress was warm and prickly. She felt a thin tricklet of perspiration form along her spine. She felt the trip was doomed already. What had she been thinking of, anyway, coming all the way up here? Well, it was too late now. Helen appeared at the doorway.
Claire’s first thought was: My God, she’s tiny! Such a small, small face. But pretty.… Helen wore shorts and a light cotton blouse; below her shorts, her slim legs were darkly tanned. She was barefoot. Her short brown hair was tied back with a yellow ribbon. Claire stood up. Helen approached her with a puzzled look, and held out her hand. “Hello,” Helen said.
“Hello,” Claire said, “I’m Claire Gates.” She decided she had better come straight to the point. “My husband and I are friends of Jimmy’s,” she said. “Very old friends, from Connecticut.”
Helen looked startled for a moment, then she smiled a little nervous smile. “Oh,” she said, “I wondered—”
“Yes …”
“Well—won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you.” Claire sat down and Helen pulled a chair close to her and sat opposite her.
Claire laughed nervously. “Well,” she said, “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here. Well, it’s sort of a labour of love.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” Claire said. “You see, we’re terribly fond of Jimmy. We’ve been seeing quite a bit of him in San Francisco, Blazer and I—”
“Blazer?”
“Yes, Blazer. My husband—” She laughed again. “His name is actually Stuart, but everybody calls him Blazer—”
“Oh, yes,” Helen said. “I remember now. I remember hearing Jimmy speak of Blazer. He roomed with Blazer, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Claire said, “that’s right—all through college. We’re all—Jimmy, Blazer, and I—from more or less the same town. Jimmy and Blazer lived in Somerville, and my family lives near there.”
“Oh, I see,” Helen said.
“Well,” Claire said, “of course this whole trip up here—to see you—may be just a terrible waste of time. It was my own silly idea to come. Jimmy has absolutely no idea I’m here. Neither does Blazer—he’s away. But this morning I got to thinking—” She began talking rapidly, and as she talked, she brushed back her hair with her hand. “I thought, well, you know when two people—a couple—has, have—difficulties—it’s customary for their friends to adopt a sort of hands-off attitude. You know—people say, ‘Stay out of it!’ Well, it struck me that this was wrong. I mean, why shouldn’t someone, a friend, pitch in, intercede, and do what she can to help? So that’s why I came—and if it’s all a waste of time, please tell me, and I’ll leave.”
“Why, I think that’s very nice of you,” Helen said.
“Thank you. I don’t want to be Miss Buttinsky, but it’s been so sad for me—for both Blazer and me.”
“Sad?”
“Yes—sad to see Jimmy. He—he loves you, Helen. May I call you Helen? He really do
es. He can hardly bear to talk about it, but I know he does. Last week-end the three of us went on a hiking trip—up in the mountains. We drove up Friday night and stayed in Jimmy’s apartment …”
“Goodness,” Helen smiled, “how did you all fit into that apartment?”
“Oh, we had our sleeping-bags—for the trip. But Jimmy did the saddest thing when we were there!”
“What? What did he do?”
“He didn’t want to tell us—about the two of you. Which is so like Jimmy—wanting to keep his problems to himself. So when we were there, the whole evening, he pretended—he talked—as if you were just away for a few days, and were coming back. He sort of set the stage—trying to keep us thinking that nothing was wrong. Of course I noticed, the way a woman would. I knew, or anyway I suspected. And honestly it broke my heart to watch him, to listen to him, talking as if you were still there, or were coming back.”
“Poor Jimmy—” Helen said. But her face, as Claire studied it, showed no emotion.
“Yes, it broke my heart. I knew that he wouldn’t pretend that way—so elaborately—unless really, deeply, he wanted it to be that way. Wanted you there. Do you see what I mean? Am I making any sense? Please stop me if I’m talking too much—”
“Oh, no, please. Please go on.”
“He loves you, I know he does. This—this separation is hurting him tremendously, more than he could possibly say. Sometimes, he drinks too much—”
“Yes,” Helen said. “I imagine so.”
Claire wished she had not said that. “But he never used to,” she said defensively. “I’ve known him—I don’t mean to sound smug, but I have known Jimmy for a long time, most of my life. Longer than you have—and I just know, I just feel so certain that—”
“That what?”
“That the two of you should go back together again. Try again.”
Helen smiled a tight-lipped smile. Oh, dear, Claire thought, oh, God, why did I get into this, why! Why hadn’t she guessed it would be like this—this girl was impenetrable, stone! The palms of her hands, in her gloves, were damp. She stroked furiously at her hair. She longed for a cigarette, but she had left her pack in the car.
“Well,” she said defiantly, “that’s what I think!”
“Well,” Helen said, “it was very nice of you to come. I appreciate the thought.”
“Oh, I wish you would!” Claire said. “I wish you would get together for lunch, or for dinner or a drink—just the two of you, and talk it over! Jimmy has so much to offer! He does! Why, at home, Jimmy Keefe was always our hero—so popular!”
“I’ve gathered that,” Helen said. “Jimmy is—”
“What? What is he, do you think?”
“He’s—well, it’s nothing, really. I can’t remember what I was going to say.”
“Isn’t there any chance?” Claire asked. “Isn’t there any chance at all?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh, I’m sorry …”
“And there’s another thing—” Helen looked towards the house.
“What?”
“I haven’t told Mother yet,” she said. “I wasn’t sure when I left Jimmy, but I am now, quite sure. I’m going to have a baby.”
Claire sat back. “Oh, my dear!” she said.
“Yes, I’m quite pleased, really. In November.”
“And even that—even with that, don’t you think that’s all the more reason why you should try?”
“Oh, no,” Helen said quickly. “No, especially not with that.”
Claire stood up. “Well,” she said, “well, I’m sorry—”
“Not at all. As I say, I think it was a very nice gesture to come. Most people—as you said—wouldn’t do it.” She followed Claire to the french doors.
“Thank you.” Claire walked through the living-room with Helen behind her. She was conscious of Mrs. Warren watching, from the head of the stairs, but she did not turn. At the door, she said, “Well, good-bye. And good luck—” She held out her hand.
Helen took it. “Good-bye,” she said. She opened the door. “Oh, what a pretty car!”
Claire laughed. “Yes! Its name is Scarlet O’Hara! Well … good-bye!” She turned and ran down the steps.
In the car, she struggled to light a cigarette. The lighter kept popping out, unlit. She tried to push it in, couldn’t, and threw it angrily on the floor. She clawed through her purse for matches. When she found some, finally, and had her cigarette going, she clenched it in her lips and started the car, backing it jerkily out of the drive. At the corner, she speeded through the yellow light. She had a sudden, wild impulse to go the other way—to Sacramento, to tell Jimmy. But no, she thought, she couldn’t tell Jimmy. What would that do to him? No, no. Home! She had to get home!
On the freeway, a car pulled out of the opposite lane, swerved towards her, and narrowly missed her. “Oh, God damn you! Damn you!” Hot tears streamed down her face. “Damn you!” she sobbed. She couldn’t see, her eyes fogged. She pulled the car over to the side of the road, stopped it, pulled on the hand brake, and lay down across the leather seat and cried.
Jimmy Keefe had been out of the apartment most of the day. He had had a series of small, bothersome chores to do. There had been an appointment with Harrington, the Sacramento lawyer, at ten that morning. (“There has been no complaint filed yet,” Harrington said. “We’ll keep our fingers crossed on the alimony question till then.”) After that, he had had to retrieve his shirts from the Chinese laundry, and his sheets, socks, and underwear from the laundromat. He had also had to do some marketing. After that, he had taken his car to have it washed.
He got back to the apartment around five o’clock, and, for a while, he lay on the sofa, reading the evening paper. At about six-thirty, he got up and went into the kitchen to fix himself something to eat. From the window, Capitol Avenue was quiet. It looked cool and peaceful in the slanting sunlight. The telephone rang.
He picked it up. There was a click as the long-distance connection was made, and presently Claire’s voice came on the other end of the wire.
“Jimmy?” she said. “What are you doing? Right now?”
“Right now?” he said. “Well, right now I’m standing here talking on the telephone.”
“No—be serious. What are you doing this evening?”
“Nothing. I thought I might go to a movie.”
“Come down here,” she said. “Will you? Come on down and take me out to dinner.”
“Where’s Blazer?”
“In Los Angeles.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No—but can you come? Get in your car right now.”
He looked at his watch. “My God, Claire,” he said, “it’ll be almost nine when I get there—”
“That’s all right. Please? We’ll go to India House or somewhere.”
“Well—”
“Please?”
“But look—I’ll have to drive all the way back—”
“I’ll make a reservation for you,” she said. “You can stay in the city, can’t you? I’ll make a reservation at the Clift or some place.”
“You mean, pack a bag?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! If you need a bag, you can borrow one of Blazer’s when you get here! Put a toothbrush in your pocket—and come!”
“All right—”
“Come right now.”
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong? You sound a little—”
“It’s important. Come!”
“All right.”
“You’re a dear. Good-bye.”
9
It was after nine o’clock when Jimmy arrived in San Francisco. He drove to the top of Russian Hill and circled the building several times in his green convertible, looking for a parking place. Finally, he found one, on the steep, uphill side of Hyde Street, and parked, cutting his wheel sharply until his right front tyre dug hard into the curb—the rule for hillside parking in the city. He turned off the motor, climbed out, and locked t
he car. The night was clear and chilly. A slight wind chattered the leaves of the magnolia trees along the street.
Claire’s apartment was on Lombard Street, a slim, handsome building of white stucco and glass with jutting terraces above the street. He entered the building and started up the long series of steps to the top floor. At the top he stopped and rang the bell. Above it, a small enamelled calling card read, Mr. and Mrs. Stuart Beckwith Gates, II. Claire opened the door almost immediately.
She greeted him in a swirl of pale blue taffeta, rhinestones, and perfume. “My hero!” she exclaimed gaily. “I knew you’d come!” She brushed his cheek lightly with her dark red lips, and his nostrils were suffused with a variety of scents—soap, powder, toothpaste, lipstick, cologne. The apartment, as he followed her inside, smelled of nail lacquer and new luggage.
“My God,” he said, looking at her. “Is all this just for me?” He gestured at his own clothes. “I’m ashamed to be seen with you. This suit is three years old.”
Claire laughed. “Oh, I just thought it would be fun to dress up. I’ve been so darn bored all day—”
The apartment looked immaculate and spacious. On the low tables, lamps sent out wide round pools of light. In one of these, Jimmy saw a stack of brown cowhide suitcases in graduated sizes, from a vast wardrobe case down to a small overnight case. “Taking a trip?” he asked.
“Of course not—those are for you. Take your pick. I have a reservation for you at the Clift.”
He looked at the luggage, amused. “You went out to Malm’s and bought it, didn’t you? Just for me!”
“It looks that way, doesn’t it? It’s my wedding present to Blazer. His own luggage was a disgrace. But he won’t use any of this. When he travels, he still takes that disreputable Val-Pak!”
“I think I’ll check in with all of it,” Jimmy said. He picked up the largest suitcase. It rattled with empty wooden hangers.
“Can I fix you a drink?” Claire said. “Scotch?” She moved behind the small bar.
“Let me,” Jimmy said.
Young Mr. Keefe Page 13
