He unlocked the door to his room, went in, flipped on the light, and hung his coat over the back of a chair. He turned, loosening his necktie, towards the closet, and noticed that there was a message envelope under his door. He stooped, picked it up, and tore it open. It said, “Please call Operator 60 in Somerville, Conn.”
Blazer looked at his watch. It was now nine o’clock; it would be three hours later in Connecticut. But, well, it might be important. And who could it be? Who, at home, knew he was in Los Angeles? As far as he knew, Claire was the only one who knew where he was. But possibly whoever it was had called Claire first and got the information. He sat down on the bed, picked up the phone, and placed the call. He lighted a cigarette with his free hand.
Finally, at the other end of the connection, he heard a woman’s husky, cultured voice say, “Hello? Hello? Hello?”
“Hello,” Blazer said. “Who’s this?”
“Hello?”
“Hello!” he shouted. “Who’s this?”
“Blazer! It’s Mrs. Denison! How are you, dear?”
“Fine, fine,” he said. “How’re you?”
“What, dear? I can’t hear you! This is a terrible connection.”
“Fine,” he yelled. “I’m fine! How are you?”
“How’s Claire-y?”
“Fine. How did you know where I was?”
“What?”
“How did you know where I was?”
“How’s Claire-y, I asked.”
“Fine,” he roared. “Hey, let me see if I can get us a better—”
“Ju wants to talk to you. Hold on,” Mrs. Denison said.
Junius Denison’s voice boomed across the continent. “Can you hear me, Blaze?” it roared.
“Yes,” Blazer said. “How’re you, Pop?”
“Fine. Fine. What’s new, Blaze?”
“Not much,” Blazer said, and he added inanely: “What’s new with you?”
“Oh, the same old treadmill, the same old treadmill,” Mr. Denison said.
“Say, how’d you know I was down here?” Blazer asked.
“Had a letter from Claire. She said you’d be in the City of the Angels this week-end, and I figured you’d be at the ’Bass. First place I tried, anyway. Say,” he said, “speaking of angels, you don’t have any little angels in your room right now, do you? Eh?” He chuckled loudly. “Do you?”
Blazer laughed. “No, Pop,” he said. “No little angels.”
“Say, Blazer,” Mr. Denison said, “the real reason I called—you ever bump into Harry Masterson out there?”
“No,” Blazer said. “Can’t say as I have.”
“Ever hear of him?”
“No—”
“Well, Harry’s an old friend of mine. Harry and I were in the Navy together, back in the dim, dark days beyond recall. He’s with Monarch Mills now—president.”
“Masterson, eh?”
“Yes. Well, Blaze, the reason I wanted to get you to-night was that Harry’s in Los Angeles right now. Could be he’s there for the same shindig you’re at. I dunno—but what I thought I’d do, Blaze, was give Harry Masterson a buzz and see if he wouldn’t like to get together with you. Maybe you two could have a little talk. Harry’s been in that business of yours for a long time. You never can tell, Blaze, he might be able to give you a couple of good steers.”
“Say, that would be swell,” Blazer said. “I’d appreciate that.”
“Well, then, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll call Harry Masterson right now. Or, no, let’s see—is it earlier or later out there, I never can remember?”
“It’s earlier here—about nine-fifteen.”
“Well, I’ll give him a call—ask him to get in touch with you in the morning. He’s at the Bel Air—they told me that yesterday at his office.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Blazer said. “Monarch Mills is a pretty big outfit.”
“Yeah—well, I thought I’d just see how you felt about it, Blaze, before I did anything. Wouldn’t want to do anything behind your back, you know—or make you think I was butting in or anything like that.”
“Heck, no,” Blazer said. “I appreciate your consideration—it was darned thoughtful of you, Pop.”
“Well, I keep my ears open for you, Blaze. You know that. How’s Claire-y?”
“Oh, she’s just fine,” Blazer said. “She’s got a job.”
“Yeah—so she wrote her mother. Well, she’ll get over that. You know how these women are, Blaze—always feel that they’ve got to be doing something.” He laughed. “Well, take care, boy. And, oh, before I forget, Claire mentioned that you two have been seeing quite a bit of Jim Keefe’s boy, Jimmy.”
“That’s right,” Blazer said, “he’s been down a few times.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Fine, I think,” Blazer said. “He’s doing some kind of publicity work up in Sacramento.”
“Oh? Well, I ran into his dad the other day at the club. He was a little worried. That girl he married, you know—I guess they’ve split up.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Blazer said. “But I think he’s taking it pretty well.”
“Oh, that’s good. He’s a good boy. I’ll tell Jim Keefe when I see him. He’ll be pleased to hear. Well, good night, Blaze.”
“Good night, Pop—take it easy.”
“Good night.”
Blazer replaced the telephone. Unbuttoning his shirt, he stood up and wandered across the room to the writing-desk. He pulled open the desk drawer, pulled out a sheet of hotel stationery and a pencil. He wrote “Harry Masterson” in big block letters on the paper, and placed the paper under the telephone by his bed. It was damned decent of Claire’s old man to be on the lookout for him like that, he thought. Claire thought he was a pompous old fool, and, hell, maybe he was a little on the pompous side, but he had sure been nice to them. This Masterson thing, for instance—that was typical of the kind of thing Claire’s old man would do. Monarch Mills was an important outfit. Masterson was president. That was the kind of contact you couldn’t make every day of the week.
Blazer took off his shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it into the corner of his Val-Pak. He yawned. He was dog-tired. It would do him good to get to bed early. He would read himself to sleep.
He finished undressing, turned on the lamp by the bed, crossed the room, and turned out the overhead light. He returned to the bed, pulled down the covers, and crawled in. From above and below, in the hotel, he could hear muffled party sounds; the delegates to the convention were beginning the week-end in typical style. Blazer picked up his book and started to read.
Blazer was reading Death in the Afternoon, and enjoying it immensely. Blazer was fascinated by bullfights, the history of bullfighting, and the biographies of the matadors. In the clash of el torero against el toro, Blazer saw symbolized man’s eternal conflict against the bestiality in his own soul. In the orgiastic “moment of truth” with the sword, he saw a deeper, more poignant meaning. He had seen bullfights in Mexico; they had excited and disturbed him.
But to-night Blazer’s thoughts strayed from the book. He began thinking about Claire, and then about Jimmy. He thought of the week-end on the mountain. He had lied to Claire’s father, telling him that he thought Jimmy was bearing up well in the business with Helen. Jimmy had acted like an ass up there on the mountain, getting silly-drunk. He didn’t enjoy seeing people act that way, especially Jimmy. He thought of the three of them, up there.
There was this about Blazer. He was not a homosexual, certainly. In fact, the thought—anything connected with the thought—disgusted him, sickened him almost physically, revolted him to a degree that another person might have thought was unwarranted. And yet Blazer had a recurring fantasy, a fantasy of violence and aggression. He had experienced it in college, and even before; it was inevitably a fantasy of three. Three people—himself, a girl, and another man. It lurked so far back in his mind that he was seldom consciously aware of it, but sometimes it emerged, like now, and became
hauntingly real. In college, it had sometimes involved Jimmy, since Jimmy was his room-mate—but it was not always Jimmy. Sometimes his co-assailant was a faceless man, a private creation of his own. Lately, however, with Jimmy around a good deal of the time—and Blazer wanted him around, there was no question about that—it was always Jimmy. Jimmy, himself, and Claire. In actual detail, the dream could become as elaborate as he cared to make it. It came now, and he stood back from it and watched it; it stopped, then came closer. It came and fluttered all around the edges of his eyes. He turned off the light and retreated into it.
He began a curious tap-tapping with his foot, his right foot moving in a rapid, steady rhythm. It was a habit, a carry-over from the cradle when he had jogged himself to sleep that way. It was a conscious habit; it was a childish one, he knew. He knew it was probably not common in people of his age. But then he knew that he was not precisely like other men his age.
It annoyed Claire. Sometimes, in the night, she would struggle awake and kick him sharply to make him stop the tapping. But to-night he was all alone.
11
In her bedroom in Rio Linda, Helen Keefe was getting ready for bed. She sat at her dressing-table in a pair of light blue pyjamas, putting her short brown hair into a series of small, fat pin-curls. She stopped from time to time, lowered her hands and studied her reflection in the mirror. Then she continued, slowly twisting a strand of hair around her finger, holding it tight, and securing it with a pin, pressing the ends flat. Her room was on the south side of the house, and now—it was nearly ten o’clock—the day had cooled, and a breeze came in through her open window, stirring the curtains, bringing with it the sounds of the town celebrating Saturday night. She could hear radios from open convertibles as they passed by slowly on the street below, and down the street, in the park, she could hear music from the open-air band concert. The band was playing a medley of Sousa marches. Presently there was a soft knock at her door.
“Yes?”
Her mother opened the door and stepped inside. “Going to bed now, dear?” Mrs. Warren asked.
“Yes. I’m a little tired.” Helen continued to look straight into the mirror. Mrs. Warren moved towards the bed and began turning it down. She removed the quilted coverlet, folded it carefully, and placed it over the back of the chair. Then she turned down the sheet in a neat triangle.
“You don’t have to do that,” Helen said pleasantly.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” Mrs. Warren said. She turned and studied her daughter. “Helen,” she asked finally, “is everything all right?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean do you feel all right? Are you worried about something?”
“No, not at all.”
“You seem so—sort of withdrawn, dear. You’ve hardly said a word to me all day.”
Helen laughed softly.
Mrs. Warren sat down on a corner of the bed. “Helen,” she said, “I don’t want to poke and pry. I thought possibly you might tell me yourself—”
“What, Mother?”
“Well, it may be none of my business—but I naturally care, dear. I have a natural interest in you, and seeing to it that you’re happy.”
“What in the world are you driving at?” She finished the last pin-curl and turned on the stool to face her. Her expression was amused.
Mrs. Warren fidgeted with a corner of the sheet. “Well, that girl who came to-day,” she said. “I thought you might explain to me—what it was about—”
“Oh, that!” said Helen.
“Yes. Who was she, Helen? Don’t you want to tell me?”
“Of course! I meant to tell you. I guess—well, I guess it must have slipped my mind. She’s a friend of Jimmy’s.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Warren sighed deeply. “Oh! That’s exactly what I thought.”
“What? What did you think?”
“She’s his—his new flame, I suppose?”
“Oh, goodness no! No, not that at all.” She laughed again. “No wonder you were upset! No, she’s the wife of his old room-mate from college.”
“But why in the world—”
“She came to state Jimmy’s case. I guess that was the purpose of it. Jimmy may have sent her, I don’t know. She insisted he knew nothing about it.”
“What do you mean, state his case?”
“She thinks we should go back together again,” Helen said simply.
“Oh? What did you tell her?”
“That it was out of the question.”
“What an extraordinary thing,” Mrs. Warren said. “What an extraordinary thing for someone to do!”
“Well, I guess he’s an old friend of theirs.”
“I know—but imagine interfering with someone’s private life like that! It seems extraordinary. She was an extraordinary-looking girl, didn’t you think? That blonde hair …”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t—the other thing. You know—some girl of his coming to talk terms with you! That would have been dreadful.”
“No, I guess there isn’t any other girl.”
“Helen, you—you haven’t been in contact with him, have you? Since you left, I mean?”
“No, you know that.”
“It is still the only thing, isn’t it? A divorce, I mean?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so, Mother.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Warren said, “I don’t really know what the trouble was—I don’t want to know. You’ve told me only a little, about all the drinking and his immaturity, but I trust your judgment. I’m sure you know what you’re doing, dear, and if this is the only thing—”
“It is.”
“It saddens me to have a divorce in the family, you know. Sometimes—well, sometimes I think we’ve had more than our share of unhappiness. Losing your father—everything. And of course I remember how dreadfully he behaved when your father died. Oh, I relive that terrible night in nightmares, sometimes!”
Helen turned back to the dressing-table. She arranged her comb, brush, and mirror on the glass-covered top. She reached for her cold-cream jar, opened it, and began slowly to cream her face with her slim brown fingertips. “Mother,” she said after a moment, “do you have plenty of money?”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“You haven’t really told me. Did Daddy leave you—you know, money enough to get along on?”
Mrs. Warren hesitated. “Yes,” she said, “your father left me in comfortable circumstances. I’m not a wealthy widow, of course, but if I’m careful, I’ll have plenty to take care of all my needs.”
“I feel I’m such a burden,” Helen said. “Just coming home like this—to live off you.”
“Now, Helen, don’t talk that way. You’re not a burden—not in the slightest. You know that, dear. You mustn’t think about it.”
“I’m wondering if I should sue for alimony—”
“Nonsense! We don’t need their money,” Mrs. Warren said angrily. “Just make a clean break of it. Alimony would be just another way he could have a hold over you. We certainly don’t need any of that.”
“I may have to,” Helen said quietly.
“What do you mean? Have to what?”
“Have to ask for alimony.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Well—there’s going to be another of us, Mother.” Helen turned and faced her mother.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I’m going to have a baby.”
Mrs. Warren was silent. Then she said, “No, no, that’s not possible.”
“It is, Mother.”
“It isn’t! It can’t be!”
“I wish it weren’t, for your sake, Mother.”
“Oh, my God!” Mrs. Warren whispered. “Oh, my God.” She buried her head in her hands.
Helen rose quickly and crossed the room to where her mother sat. She stood over her and put her hand on her mother’s shaking shoulders. “Mother, Mother, please!” she said. “It isn’t so terrible, is it? Is
it? I’m not the first girl in the world to have a baby, am I?”
“Oh, it is!” Mrs. Warren sobbed. “It’s terrible! Dreadful!”
“Why? Why is it?”
Mrs. Warren looked up at her. “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Around the first of November.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Warren clutched Helen’s arm and pulled her down beside her on the bed. “Oh, my poor little girl! My poor baby! What are we going to do?”
Helen’s voice was patient, gentle. “There, there,” she repeated. “It isn’t so terrible—it doesn’t seem so to me! Oh, I was frightened at first. At first—when I first suspected—I felt the way you do. But when I thought about it, gradually it began to seem—well, different. It began to seem all very smooth and simple, and rather glorious! Do you know what I mean, Mother? I mean, sometimes, before—with Jimmy—I used to feel rather futile, as though my life didn’t have any meaning or any purpose or function. But now—now it’s as though I’ve been given this wonderful opportunity—to do something completely by myself.”
“But his child!” Mrs. Warren said angrily. “How can you bear it?”
“It will be my child, too!”
“But him! Such a—a wastrel! A good-for-nothing—”
“No, no,” Helen said softly. “That’s not fair.”
“What do you mean? He’s a bum! You said so yourself!” Mrs. Warren’s voice was shrill.
“Jimmy isn’t bad!” Helen said. “He’s—well, he’s mixed up, maybe—and there was nothing for us, nothing at all, but he’s not bad.”
“I don’t understand you! I simply don’t!”
“I’ve had a lot of time to think about it,” Helen said. “We were wrong for each other—but that may have been my fault, too.”
“I won’t listen to you trying to blame yourself for his shortcomings!”
“Look, Mother,” Helen said softly, “I have to think like this. Don’t you see? If I didn’t—well, I just don’t know what I would do. I have to reconcile everything in my mind now, and try to work things out on my own. I’m going to get my divorce and have my baby—and behave like a big girl!”
“I think you’re insane,” Mrs. Warren said. “I’ve never heard anyone talk like this. How are you going to tell him about it?”
Young Mr. Keefe Page 15
