Young Mr. Keefe

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Late that afternoon, Turner Ames arrived at the house. He was dark and sombre in his black coat, black hat and shoes. His starched collar shone immaculately white, secured with a thin gold pin behind the black necktie. He and Jimmy sat in the library. The day was darkening outside, and as Turner Ames sat, he flexed his wrists, exposing a starched white cuff and small gold cuff link on each arm. Then he pulled the black sleeves of his jacket down, then back again, a mannerism Jimmy had noticed long ago. Turner Ames’s tone was awed and reverent as he said, once again, all the appropriate things. “Your father died at a very inopportune moment, Jimmy,” he said at last. “A very inopportune moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been going over his things, of course, as is my duty. Naturally, I haven’t had time to go over everything thoroughly, that will take time, but what I feared seems to be true. It was a most inopportune time.”

  “I still don’t see what you’re driving at,” Jimmy said.

  “You see,” Turner Ames said slowly, looking away, out the window, “your father expected to have many more good years ahead of him. He had every right to expect that, Jimmy. He was a young man. He was only fifty-three, still in his prime. He had every reason to expect many long fruitful years ahead of him.” Turner Ames paused, then went on. “He had begun, as you know, to set things up for his estate. The stock-purchase plan, for example, that we discussed with you a few months ago. It was your father’s intention to make certain gifts, in substantial sums—of property, securities, and other items—over the years, in your name, in your mother’s name, and, in the event of your remarriage, in your children’s names. This was all a part of his long-range plan.” He extended the white cuffs again, and drew them back. “This would have the effect of lessening the tax burden on his estate, do you see? He planned to distribute the bulk of his estate before his death. Unfortunately—this plan has barely had a chance to begin. In fact, almost none of his intentions were accomplished.”

  “In other words,” Jimmy said, “there is no money.”

  “Now, let me explain,” Mr. Ames said hurriedly. “Perhaps I myself should take some of the blame for this situation. Perhaps I should have recommended that your father begin this plan years ago. Frankly, I thought there would be plenty of time to work it all out. He was such a robust man! Never the suggestion of ill health! I never imagined anything like this.”

  “Please,” Jimmy said. “Get to the point.”

  “Well, the point is simply this. Your father’s estate is now valued at a very high figure. And it is all in the estate. He had no life insurance; he didn’t believe in it. There will be heavy taxes, Jimmy. Extremely heavy taxes which must be paid.”

  “Is there enough to pay them?”

  “Jimmy, you misunderstand me. You and your mother will not be in the poorhouse—far from it. As the will now reads, the bulk of the estate goes to your mother, and, in turn, to you. But, because of this, the estate will now be doubly taxed—first, as it passes to your mother, next, as it passes to you. A very unfortunate thing. Your mother will have plenty to get along on. I shouldn’t be surprised if she could continue to live in much the same manner as she has always lived. There are some properties already in your name, which you own, and these, of course, you will continue to own, and earn a small income from. The thing that I’m sorry to say is—that instead of your being, as your father hoped, a wealthy man—you will have to wait until your mother—ah, passes on, before you really will have any of this estate. And by that time—”

  “By that time, there won’t be much left. Is that it?”

  “There will be some, of course. But the tax bite will be terrific. Do you have any idea of what the tax bite will be on your father’s estate at present?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t give you the exact figures, of course. But it will be well over a million dollars.”

  Jimmy was silent. “Well,” he said finally, “I guess there’s nothing more to say.”

  “It’s a terrible thing. If your father’s plan had been worked out fully, why, within ten or fifteen years you would have had an income of forty or fifty thousand dollars a year, and a controlling interest in the Keefe Company.”

  “And now,” Jimmy said softly. “Does it seem too crass to ask what I can count on now?”

  Turner Ames hesitated. “Three—maybe four thousand dollars a year. You see, a lot of the income property will have to be sold to pay the taxes. Fortunately, there are things to sell—without selling the company. But whatever we have to sell will permanently deplete the estate.”

  “It’s funny,” Jimmy said slowly. “I never really believed I’d be rich. I used to hear about all those millions and millions of dollars. It was like millions and millions of balloons. It’s as though I knew all along they’d never be mine. Perhaps—I don’t know—perhaps it’s because I never really wanted them.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nothing.” Jimmy stood up. “Well,” he said, “thank you for being so frank with me. I appreciate it.”

  “I will have to tell your mother, I suppose,” Mr. Ames said. “I don’t know how she’ll take it. I have a feeling she thought there would be unlimited money for her. She will have enough to live on, I’m sure, without undue economies—just as she has always lived …”

  “What more should she expect?” Jimmy asked.

  “I’ve known your mother for a long time. She likes—well, she is used to having large sums of money on hand all the time. I’m sure she imagined that—one day—she would be an extremely rich woman.”

  “And she won’t now?”

  “Comfortably fixed. Not rich. There’s quite a difference,” Turner Ames said. “Ah—if only your father had been given his full quota of years! Well, I expect I’d better speak to her.”

  “She’s in her study upstairs.”

  Later, his mother came running down the stairs. “Jimmy!” she screamed. “Jimmy! What’s Turner been saying? I don’t understand! Jimmy! Where’s all the money? Where’s all the money?”

  Turner Ames followed her down. “Melise, Melise …” he said.

  She stood at the foot of the stairs in her long, pale gown. “Where is it?” she cried.

  The Sunday after the funeral, there was a telephone call for Jimmy. He picked up the phone and heard a woman’s husky voice at the other end of the wire. “Jimmy? This is Georgette Denison. How are you, dear?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Denison. How are you?”

  “I want to tell you—I want to express to you—my deep sympathy,” Mrs. Denison said in her throaty, cultured voice. “I knew your father well, and loved him. It is a great loss to us all. I saw you at the services Thursday, but I didn’t get a chance to speak …”

  “You’re very nice to call,” Jimmy said politely.

  “I was wondering,” she said, “are you busy this evening? Could you possibly drive up to Mars Hill?”

  “Why—yes, I think I could,” he said.

  “Could you? I’d ask you for dinner, but I’m cookies on Sundays these days. But I’d love—I’d really love to get a report on my children. Claire-y and Blazer. I know you’ve seen quite a bit of them out there. I just want to hear all their news …”

  “Sure, I’d be glad to.”

  “Could you drive up after dinner … around eight-thirty?”

  The road to Mars Hill wound along the edge of the river under huge trees, up steep rises, and around sharp curves. Jimmy drove slowly, at the unfamiliar wheel of his father’s Chrysler. At one turn of the road, Mars Hill appeared silhouetted against the night sky, towers and peaked roofs, chimneys and high, buttressed walls. A few windows glowed with orange light. The house disappeared, and at the next turn he came to the high, arched gate. He entered the drive, past the empty gatehouse and the no-trespassing signs, and drove up the hill to the house.

  Mrs. Denison came to the door herself; the front door of Mars Hill was huge, made of oak, and banded with large, iron spears, and
as she pulled it open and stood there, in the lighted arch, she looked curiously small. She kissed Jimmy lightly on the cheek, and whispered, “Dear boy.” Her breath, behind the heavy perfume, smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and Scotch whisky. “Come in,” she said. “I’m just sitting down to have a little after-dinner drink.”

  She led him across the huge black and white marble foyer, through another archway, into an enormous living-room that had been copied from the Great Hall of Warwick Castle. The walls were hung with tapestries from the high vaulted ceilings, and, resting on an expanse of crimson carpet, the furniture that filled the room seemed miniature, dwarfed. A few lamps were lighted, but the corners of the room were dark and shadowy. In front of a white sofa, on a marble coffee table, was a silver tray that held two crystal decanters, a bowl of ice-cubes, tongs, and heavy crystal glasses. One glass glowed brownly with Mrs. Denison’s drink.

  Mrs. Denison was a short, rather plump woman, and she wore a dress that was much too ornate for her figure. It was made of dark green silk, and, at the sides and back, it was gathered in huge folds and swags. She sat on the sofa and arranged the dress about her. Her small plump hands flashed with chunky emeralds, and two more emeralds glittered at her ears. Jimmy sat down opposite her. “Now you must tell me everything,” she breathed in her throaty voice. She crossed her ankles, and Jimmy noticed that she wore elastic stockings. “Will you have Scotch or bourbon?” she asked. She reached out and fingered the heavy silver medallions that hung about the necks of the decanters; the huge emeralds—there were three, on three fingers of her left hand—caught the light.

  “Nothing, thanks,” Jimmy said.

  “Nothing!” she gasped. “Nothing at all?”

  “No, I’m on the wagon these days.” Jimmy smiled.

  “What on earth for?” she said, giving him a long, horrified look. “Won’t you have one little drink?”

  “Well—I’ll have a Coke if you have one,” Jimmy said.

  Mrs. Denison looked annoyed. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I don’t think—well, there may be some in the kitchen.”

  “Please don’t bother—”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble.” She stood up again. “I’ll see what I can find. I’m absolutely servantless Sundays,” she sighed. “Aren’t servants dreadful these days? Does your mother have the same problem?” She started across the room.

  Jimmy stood up. “Can I help you?”

  “No, no.”

  She was gone for what seemed like fifteen minutes. Finally she returned, carrying a bottle of Coca-Cola. She handed it to him. “Will you fix it with ice-cubes and things?” she said. “I’m sorry to be so informal, but you understand.”

  Jimmy put an ice-cube in a glass and poured the bottle into it. “Where’s Mr. Denison?” he asked.

  “In Washington,” she said, sitting down again. “He’s always in Washington these days, it seems. Poor Junius. He works too hard.”

  “Then you’re all alone?”

  “Yes. Well, America is upstairs. America is my cook; isn’t that a wonderful name? But she refuses to do a thing for me on Sundays. If I rang for her now, she wouldn’t come down.” She laughed. “America is one of Father Divine’s angels. I don’t know what she does in that room of hers. Polishes her wings, I suppose!” She picked up her drink and looked through it. Then she drank. “Now tell me all about my children,” she said.

  “Well—what would you like to hear first?”

  “Tell me about the apartment. Is it pleasant? Claire-y’s no housekeeper, I know. Does she have anyone?”

  “I think she has a cleaning woman that comes in once a week,” Jimmy said. “It’s a wonderful apartment—all glass. A marvellous view of San Francisco—both bridges.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad it’s nice. It belongs to a friend of Junius’s. He assured us it was nice. The address sounded all right. Russian Hill is pleasant. I haven’t been to San Francisco in a long time. We always stayed at the Fairmont, which is a pleasant hotel. Tell me, have Claire-y and Blazer made any pleasant friends?”

  “Oh, they have quite a few friends. A lot of people from the East seem to pass through from time to time, of course. Claire gave a—a very nice party this summer.”

  “I’ve been trying to get them to join the Burlingame Country Club,” Mrs. Denison said, “but they don’t seem interested in it. I should think they’d enjoy getting out into the country once in a while, after being cooped up in the city. But they have minds of their own, don’t they?” She smiled and sipped her drink. “There’s no arguing with them. I wonder—when do you think they plan to start working on a family?”

  Jimmy flushed. “I—I really don’t know,” he said. “I guess they’re too busy having fun right now.”

  “Oh. Well, I hope they don’t postpone it too long. You see, I’m quite sure that once they start on a family, they’ll have to come back East. They couldn’t continue living there with children, could they?”

  “It’s not a large apartment,” Jimmy said.

  “Yes. We’re trying—Junius and I—to persuade Blazer to come back and work for Junius. We’re trying to persuade without letting Blazer know we’re persuading. We’d really like it. We’d prefer to have our little Claire-y a tiny bit closer. After all, San Francisco is not a place where one lives.”

  Jimmy laughed softly.

  “I mean, why should they want to?” Mrs. Denison looked at him searchingly. She reached for the medallions on the decanters again, studied them, and lifted the bottle designated “Scotch.” She splashed some of the liquid into her glass. Mrs. Denison’s hands moved slowly, carefully, replacing the decanter on the silver tray gingerly, as though she feared it might fly out of her hands. Jimmy realized suddenly that the drink she had when he arrived had not been her first. Even her speech was slow and cautious, each word pronounced with care. “Now tell me,” she said, “have they made any pleasant friends?”

  It was the same question she had asked him a moment before and Jimmy fumbled a moment for a different answer. “There was a girl at the party,” he said. “Diane Higbee—”

  “Oh, I know Diane,” Mrs. Denison said. “She’s from New York. I mean, San Francisco people.”

  “Well, there’s Tweetums DeMay …”

  “Tweetums DeMay! Goodness, it sounds like a chorus girl or something! Who is she?”

  He moved uncomfortably in his chair. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I just met her that evening.”

  “And Blazer? How is he doing?”

  “Fine. Working hard …”

  “Yes. Blazer is a hard worker. But he does have a mind of his own, doesn’t he? He’s a very determined boy, don’t you think?”

  “Of course, I’ve known Blazer most of my life,” Jimmy said.

  “Oh, of course. I’d forgotten that. You were both at Taft, weren’t you?” The glass in Mrs. Denison’s hand trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. “Junius and I have great hopes for Blazer. But of course Junius could do so much more for him if only he’d come back East. He needs things to be done for him, we both agree.”

  “Why do you say that?” Jimmy asked.

  “Well, for obvious reasons,” she said, looking at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “He has no money. You know all about that.”

  “Not exactly … I thought …”

  “Goodness, didn’t you know that? Of course you knew about his parents.”

  “That they’re both dead, yes.”

  “Yes, they were both killed in a terrible auto accident in Florida, when Blazer was just a baby. Blazer’s father, Billy Gates, was—well, sort of a ne’er-do-well, really. He was what we called a playboy in those days. He played polo, and liked to drive foreign cars. Blazer’s mother was a giddy little thing—they used to race around. Billy Gates came out of the crash in ’29 with a little money, but he squandered it all, poor dear. By the time he died, he was monstrously in debt. Poor little Blazer was left all alone in the world.”

  “But his uncle—”

&
nbsp; Mrs. Denison put down her glass emphatically. “Oh, his uncle is quite a different story. Stu Gates managed his money and bounced right back. Oh, Stu Gates is one of my favourite people. He’s done everything for Blazer—educated him, brought him up—but Stu Gates has children of his own. None of Stu’s money will go to Blazer. Not more than a token, anyway.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “That’s what I mean by helping Blazer.” Mrs. Denison lifted the decanter carefully once more, and poured. “Would you like another whatsis? Coca-Cola?” she asked.

  “Thanks, I still have some.”

  Later, Mrs. Denison’s eyes grew bright and sparkly; she was talking more rapidly, and, as she talked, she gestured with her glass. The drink sloshed inside it. “Oh, I’m glad they’re happy!” she said. “And that they’re having fun. Let them sow a few wild oats, I say. Let them have their fun. There’s time enough for the other thing, the other business. Keep telling me things,” she said.

  Jimmy told her about the week-end on the mountain, riding up the ski lift from Squaw Valley, climbing across the rocks and nearly falling, climbing down the other side, and sleeping, under the stars, in sleeping-bags. He told her about swimming in the lake, Claire cooking breakfast over a fire. As he talked, Mrs. Denison’s eyes wandered, over his shoulder, about the room. He had the feeling that she was not really listening. She interrupted him from time to time. “What did Claire have on?” she asked. And then, “I hope she’s watching her weight.”

  And when he said that Claire was wearing blue jeans, Mrs. Denison said, “When we picked her trousseau, we didn’t know about San Francisco. Does she ever wear the blue lace?”

  Jimmy returned to the party, but Mrs. Denison interrupted him again, this time talking about Blazer. “He’s a wonderful boy, isn’t he? And kind to Claire-y, isn’t he? He never does anything unkind to Claire-y, does he?”

  “Oh, I’m sure not,” Jimmy said.

  “Some men are not kind,” Mrs. Denison said, and reached for the decanter once more. She started to lift it, then put it down. She put her drink down, and then reached for the decanter with both hands. “Oh, I think Blazer is more like his father than Stu. No. I mean he’s more like Stu. Not like his father, Billy. Blazer is named for Stu. And he’s more like him. Billy was wild. I knew him in the old days. But Stu is my favourite people. Oh, yes. Stu is the Rock of Gibraltar. When they made Stu Gates, they broke the mould.” She laughed gaily, swinging the drink in her hand.