Young Mr. Keefe (23 page)

And yet it was curious. Claire managed to break the Seventh Commandment and observe the breakage as casually as she might observe a broken fingernail. It was an attitude that, to Jimmy, was hard to understand. Was he being too Puritanical? No, because it was he who had finally brought the episode to a finish. Not that Claire hadn't wanted it to finish that way. She had wanted it, he had recognized that, all along. And how about himself? Had he wanted it, too? Ah, he thought, there was a question, there was indeed a question. Yes, he had wanted it, too. He thought about Claire.

It was hard to imagine what went on in that mind of hers. He thought he understood her. A girl—young, beautiful, foolish—a girl who was easily bored with things. She was vain, wanted to be the centre of attention—she was all those things. But underneath, was there something else? Was there some deep unfathomable reservoir that waited, empty, waiting to be filled? Was he falling in love with her, falling in love with Blazer's wife?

It was curious, too, to think about Helen. Helen, in Rio Linda, with his child growing inside her, a child that she evidently never planned to let him see. A totally unfounded thought floated to the surface of his mind. He had had it before, even last night, afterwards. He rejected it, but it persisted. Could it be, he wondered, that this had all been a part of Claire's plan? If it had been, it had certainly worked marvellously for her. For that had been what had set him off. Surely, he knew, he would not have gone to bed with her if she had not told him about Helen and the baby. He had been fairly drunk, yes. But even so—even so, if it hadn't been for that, the final barrier wouldn't have fallen. Was it possible that Claire had made the whole thing up? That she had not gone to see Helen at all, that she had no information and no knowledge, but simply told a quick, effective lie? It was part of the whole question mark that was Claire's character that it
was
possible, quite possible. It would be the sort of thing she would do. Or rather it was the sort of thing she could easily be suspected of doing. Why, for example, would she go to Rio Linda? Why should she care whether he and Helen got back together or not? Yes, it was not only possible, it was quite probable. She had deceived him because in some uncanny way she knew ahead of time what his reaction would be. So that was that. So there was no baby coming.

He felt relieved at this. And, at the same time, angry and lonely.

To hell with it. He would have a drink. He leaped off the sofa, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out ice-cubes. He clattered the ice-cubes roughly in a glass, reached for the whisky bottle, and splashed whisky into the glass until the ice-cubes rose and swirled. Standing there, he drank. He thought suddenly, sorrowfully, of the night on the mountain when he had poured out the drink, promising himself to stop, stop for ever. But it was too late now to stop. He had gone by the stopping point, it seemed. From now on it was downhill. The thought frightened him, and yet, as the first rush of whisky flowed through him, there was a certain heady fascination in the downward path, wondering what odd, degraded torments lay at the very bottom.

A tremulous picture of the inevitable slime came to him. It was like the time, as a little boy, he had stood at the head of the cellar stairs. The cellar below was dark and alive; there was a light switch within reach—he could turn it on and the cellar would appear, whitewashed, clean, and familiar. But he would not turn on the light. He crept down the stairs, one by one, into the forbidding darkness, the rustlings, the shadows of strange shapes. He must go down. He must not turn back. He must not reach for the light switch. He must meet the phantoms of the cellar on their own terms.

He shook his head free of these thoughts and carried his glass back into the living-room. Well, he thought, perhaps he should go home, back to Connecticut. What was there to keep him here, in a city that he didn't love, at a job that satisfied him only because it was the merest sort of a challenge? To hell with it all. What was he trying to prove? There was no chance that Helen would come back, no chance at all. He was living in a dream of foolish hopes and self-deception, fondly presuming that he was fighting some sort of inner battle. The battle seemed suddenly insignificant. And, for that matter, he had already lost it. He remembered with a shudder how he had gone through the elaborate business of pretending Helen was still around when Claire and Blazer came. Christ, he thought, he'd been a fool! A damned fool! He flung himself down on the sofa. The drink in his hand splashed on his trouser-leg, but he ignored it. He took another deep swallow and lay back, resting the drink on his chest.

As he saw it now, he could choose one of three courses. He numbered them and ticked them off in his mind. One. One was to stay right here, where he was, and let the affair with Claire take whatever turn it might. If she wanted it to go on, okay, it would go on. (Oh, you're a nice boy, Jimmy old boy, he thought, a real nice boy, a high type!) And two, he could go home, back to Somerville. Three—three was impossible. Three was get Helen back, but that was hopeless, that was idiotic. So there were really only two choices. It was simple. It was the simplest God-damned thing in the whole world, and to hell with everybody!

All at once, he couldn't stand it. He stood up. The drink spilled again in his hand, ran down his wrist and arm. Frantically, he looked around the room, wanting somewhere to go, somewhere to drive into the night—the way he had driven to the beach. He had driven to the beach because he wanted to drown himself, because he was through with himself, hated himself. He wanted that again. Just death! Just silence! He wanted that now, and with a wild clarity, Helen came back, stood in the room, and he knew that he would never be happy without her. He had to have her back, that was all, if he was to go on living. He saw her sharply, at Yosemite, in the snow, that brief wonderful week, the week in which they had shared some great improbable secret thing that filled their lives and thoughts every single moment. And the time at the pool, when she had found him and he had run to her.

Had the trouble been all Helen's fault, as he had imagined? Did she really need psychiatric help, or had he simply reached for that as an excuse? Hadn't he, in fact, consistently betrayed her? Why had some times been happy and others not?” Something happens to you when you drink,” she had said to him. “Something happens to your eyes that frightens me, and reminds me of that other boy. He was drunk and raped me. He told me that he wanted to kill me. When you are drunk, you rape me. You want to kill me. I see it in your eyes. It makes me fight you, don't you see? I feel my scarf tighten at my throat …”

It was true. Last night, with Claire, it had been the same. But with this one difference: the quick fury and the violence, the brutality were what Claire enjoyed. The sudden, dark, drunken attack was what was wanted.

Then perhaps there was still a third course. He put the drink down on the coffee table and stared at it. In the evening light from the window, filtering through the eucalyptus branches, the glass seemed to swell and glow voluptuously. “Pick me,” it seemed to say. “I am like a flower. I am the end of all desire; I hold hope and warmth, and the comfort of death; I am everything that you want to be, but cannot be …”

He gazed at it for a long time, unblinking.

Then he knew he had to move. He needed help. He moved about the room and thought of calling Mike Gorman, the boy who had helped him on the beach.

Then he thought of calling Helen.

He had thought of calling Helen before, but he had not done it. He had written letters, but letters were cowardly forms of communication. He needed her voice.

He had wanted to call her. He had been afraid to call her. The inner jeering was beginning again.

He went to the kitchen and reached for the telephone.

Then a surprising thing happened: the telephone rang in his hand.

He lifted the receiver and heard Helen's voice. “Jimmy?”

“
You knew
—” he breathed. “
You knew where I was!
”

“What?”

He collected himself. “It's just that—well, I was just about to pick up the phone and call you.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. Then she said, “How are you, Jimmy?”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “How're you, Helen?”

“I'm fine, too,” she said.

“It's so funny,” he repeated. “I had the phone almost in my hand—”

“What were you going to call me about?”

“I don't know. I'd been sitting here, and I started thinking—”

“Well,” she interrupted him, “how's everything going? How's the job?”

“Oh, fine, fine …”

“Jimmy—” she began, and he thought he detected a catch in her voice. “Jimmy, this is sort of a business call—no, I don't mean that. It's not that—but I do have something to tell you.”

“Yes?” he said softly.

“Jimmy, I want you to take this like a man. It's very serious news—”

“What is it?”

“I'm—I'm going to have a baby.”

He was silent.

“Jimmy? Jimmy? Are you there?”

“Yes …”

“Jimmy, now please—before you say anything—let me say—I'm very happy about it!”

“I'm glad.”

“I am!” She had begun to cry. “I had to tell you, Jimmy, because I'm sure now, and I made a mistake yesterday. A friend of yours came to see me—Claire Gates, your friend Blazer's wife—she was here, and I made the mistake of telling her. I didn't want you to hear it from her first. I wanted you to hear it from me. I tried to call you last night! I did, Jimmy—”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I was out—”

“Jimmy,” she said, “now it's nothing to worry about. It'll be a wonderful baby, I know—and I want you to share it, of course, as much as is possible—if you want to, I mean—” Her voice trailed off.

“Helen,” he said, “can I come down to see you?”

“No, no! No, please—not now. It wouldn't do any good. It would just upset me, I know. After the baby—of course. But not now.”

“Look,” he said, “Helen, listen to me. I love you. I'm willing to try it again. Are you? Will you?”

“Oh, no! No, there's no use—there's no use talking like that—”

“But now—for the baby's sake.”

“No, that's wrong. That's very wrong, Jimmy. That's the worst thing in the world. They all tell you that—”

“Who does?”

“The books. It isn't fair for the child—if the parents are, well, if they don't get along, it's wrong for them to—to go back together—for the baby's sake.”

“All right—for our own sakes then.”

“Jimmy, please—please don't talk that way. There isn't anything for us! Really, there isn't, Jimmy—I wish it weren't true, but it is!” Her voice broke.

“Helen,” he said deeply and urgently, “oh, Helen …”

There was no sound.

“Helen!”

“I had to tell you. That's all. That's why I called—”

“Helen. Do you remember Yosemite—?”

“No. Yes! That's all I have to say, Jimmy, truly—”

“Listen. Listen to me, darling, don't hang up. Please listen to me—”

“I've got to go now!”

“Let me come down.”

“No. I don't want to see you—”

“Can I write to you?”

“Yes. No … I don't care. Work through Mr. Gurney—my lawyer.”

“Don't hang up, Helen. Don't—”

“I must—”

“No!”

There was a click, and then silence.

He stood there, holding the phone. Then he put it down. He felt hot, painful tears in his eyes, but he blinked them back. He went quickly to the refrigerator for ice-cubes and fixed himself another drink. He drank it half down before he remembered that he had left the first drink in the living-room. It was beginning to get dark. From the kitchen window, he could see Capitol Avenue filling with long shadows. Across the street, at number 3360, the woman appeared from around the corner of the house to collect her evening paper. She stooped, picked it up from the front steps, unfolded it, glanced at the headlines, put it under her arm, and disappeared again around the house. It was a ritual. Did she realize that he watched her, night after night, picking up her paper? In her back yard, as in all California back yards, there would be a barbecue and the smell of charcoal smoke, and people would be sitting around the brick terrace in canvas chairs, drinking cocktails, ushering in the evening. He had a crazy desire to wander over, drink in hand, and join them. But he stood there.

Later, he took out a piece of stationery and a pen and wrote a letter, sitting at the kitchen table. He wrote:

D
EAR
H
ELEN
,

You said just now that you were happy, and I want to tell you that I hope the baby will make you as happy as I have made you unhappy. I hope that you will have people to take care of you, to give you books to read, and a comfortable chair.…
Sic transit
. Amen. The curtain is drawn. The book is closed, put down …

I have a certain brilliance, he thought, reading it over, before he stood up and ripped it once down the middle, once down the side, into four strips, and eight strips, and sixteen. He went into the living-room, where his other drink was.

15

On Wednesday night, Claire called Jimmy from San Francisco. “Darling,” she said, “how are you?”

“Hi,” he said casually, “how are you?”

“I'm wonderful,” she said, “but worried.”

“What about?”

“You—are you coming Saturday?”

“No,” he said.

“Darling—why not?”

“Look,” he said, “I thought I explained that before—”

“Guilt feelings!” she said teasingly. “I want you to stop having them, just stop.”