Young Mr. Keefe (25 page)

“Daiquiris,” Claire said.

“And they're ferocious, so watch out, honey,” Tweetums said. “I'm ready for another.” She put her empty glass on the tray and took a full one.

Blazer was putting records on the phonograph. “Jazz? Does everybody like jazz?” he asked.

For the next half-hour or so, the door-bell rang steadily. There were more effusive greetings, introductions, drinks passed. The room began filling with smoke and people and voices. Many of the people Jimmy had never seen before. “Where did they all come from?” he asked Claire as she hurried by.

“I don't know. Isn't it marvellous?” she answered.

Tweetums DeMay took hold of his sleeve with one hand. “I think I've been married to everybody in this room,” she shouted over the noise. “Everybody except you, that is. My first husband just walked in! Isn't that a scream?”

“Did your date show up?” Jimmy asked her.

“Yes, he's here somewhere. He's a football player. You can't miss him.”

The door-bell rang again, and the jazz record on the phonograph suddenly blared out loudly. “Turn that thing down!” Claire's voice shrieked.

“I don't think your friend likes me,” Tweetums said.

“Sure he does, Tweetums,” Jimmy said. He had lost sight of Mike Gorman.

Diane Higbee joined them. Her cigarette, in the gold holder, was bent, and her eyes were brightly glazed. She held a daiquiri in one hand. “It's fabulous!” she said to Jimmy. “Perfectly fabulous to meet you. I didn't realize you were the fabulous Jimmy Keefe. I'd have been furious if you hadn't come.”

“You're going to have the pleasure of meeting my first husband to-night,” Tweetums said to Diane. “I don't know how he got here, but there he is.” She pointed. “Ed!” she called. “Eddie!”

The man turned and gave her a friendly smile. “Hi, Tweetums,” he said, waving. “Fancy meeting you here!”

She turned to Diane. “I think I've been married to every man in this room,” she said. “Except Jimmy. Aren't these ferocious daiquiris? I've been drinking since two o'clock.”

Diane Higbee ignored Tweetums. “We've been having rather a ridiculous time on the other side of the room,” she said to Jimmy. “Did you know Harriet Webb at Smith? Well, she's here, and she's brought a Chinaman! Have you seen him? He doesn't speak a word of English. Have you seen him?” She looked around. “Oh, there he is. See, over there by the couch.” Jimmy followed the direction of her finger. Through a clearing in the people, he saw the young Chinese. “There! Imagine! I don't know where she finds her friends. Anyway, we're all going down to Chinatown later to celebrate Chinese New Year. It isn't Chinese New Year yet, of course, but we thought we'd go down and celebrate it anyway. I want to find an opium den. Don't you
love
opium dens? I do.” She called across several heads. “Ching Chong!” she called. “Sing Foo! C'mere!” The Chinese turned his head, gazed at her blandly, then looked away. “He's terribly snobbish.” Diane giggled. “You notice he won't speak to a soul except Harriet.”

“You're a scream, honey,” Tweetums DeMay said. “An absolute scream.”

Diane and Tweetums eyed each other coldly for a moment. Then, with a toss of her head, Diane turned back to Jimmy. “I'm sailing on the Lurline Tuesday,” she said. “Just think—I'll be gone six solid months. Isn't it
dreadful?
” she said sadly.

Jimmy tried to extract himself from the group, but Diane held his arm.

“Claire told me you'd had a tragic, tragic marriage,” she said.

Jimmy took another daiquiri as Claire appeared, holding the tray. She smiled up at him. “Having fun?” she asked.

“Sure, sure—” He sipped the drink.

Claire handed the tray to Diane Higbee. “Sweetie,” she said, “would you be a dear and finish passing these?” She turned to Jimmy. “Now follow me, I want you to meet all these other people.”

The party was out of all proportions. New people kept coming in, and the ones already there were forced farther and farther back into the room against the glass walls. Silhouetted against the lighted backdrop of San Francisco, they resembled a crowd on a precipice; they were jockeying for positions at the edge, to see who would be the first one over. Corks popped. Someone had brought champagne. Endlessly the party seemed to grow, the talk rose, drowning itself in a roar of laughter, screams. Someone fell down, and as Jimmy pushed through the room behind Claire, a tall pale girl came up to him and said, “Will someone take me home? I want to go home in a
car
!” “My sombrero!” someone shrieked. “Look where you've put it! Oh, God!”

“Let's escape,” Claire whispered. “Just for a minute.” She led him quickly into the bedroom and closed the door. The bed was piled high with coats. Claire leaned against the door and laughed weakly. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I had no idea I'd asked so many people.”

“It's quite a mob,” Jimmy said.

“Are you happy?” she asked him.

“Sure,” he said. “What's happened to Mike? Have you seen him?”

“Oh, he's around somewhere,” Claire said. “Don't worry about him. Everybody's having fun.”

“Nice guy, don't you think?”

“Who? Oh, what's-his-name, Mike. Yes. Hardly says a word, though. Come here.”

“We'd better get back.”

“I paid your parking ticket,” she said. “I went down to traffic court in my oldest, shabbiest dress, looking like Mrs. Miniver—”

“Thanks,” he said. “But we'd better get back.”

“All right,” she sighed.

He turned towards the door, and noticed a picture on the dresser in a narrow silver frame. It was a picture of a little yellow-haired girl. “That's me,” Claire breathed, close to him. “Five years old. I haven't changed, have I? I'm still a little girl—”

He pushed gently past her and opened the door. “I'd better see how Mike's getting along,” he said. “I feel kind of responsible.”

As he opened the door, the sounds of the party flooded around him again. Suddenly there was a crash. Alec Fry had toppled over one of the ceramic lamps by the sofa, and one side of the room was plunged into darkness. “Thank God everything's insured,” Claire murmured, behind him.

He found Mike; Diane Higbee was pressed close against him, holding his hand outstretched in hers. Mike looked across at Jimmy and winked. “She's telling my fortune,” he said.

“Look at this hand,” Diane said. “It's so enormous, it could simply crush a person, don't you think?”

Tweetums DeMay whispered in his ear. “He's her uncle,” she said.

“Whose uncle?”

Tweetums pointed across the room. “The man with the moustache. Look at him.”

“Whose uncle, Tweetums?”

“Aren't they a howl? Isn't this a howl?”

“Yes—”

“We're all going to Chinatown. Can I go with you?”

“Well—”

“We'll take the cable car.”

More drinks came. “Where's your date?” Jimmy asked.

“What?” said Tweetums.

“I said—” Jimmy began, then laughed. “What's the use? I can't yell loud enough.”

“What?”

“I said I can't yell!”

“There's my date,” Tweetums said, as though she had heard him all along. “Over there.” Jimmy saw a tall, broad-shouldered young man in a bright blue sport jacket. He looked in his twenties, or, Jimmy guessed, roughly twenty years younger than Tweetums. “He's a football player from Cal,” Tweetums said. “Isn't he a caveman?” She headed in the young man's direction.

Mike Gorman was at his shoulder. “Had enough?” he asked pleasantly.

Jimmy turned and smiled. “I told you it would be an experience,” he said.

“It is that, all right.”

“Want to go?” Jimmy asked.

“I don't care, whenever you're ready.”

“Well—in a minute, okay? I'm sorry your date turned out to be Diane Higbee.”

“Yeah, she's a character, all right.”

“Have a drink!” Blazer yelled, pushing his way towards them. “Hey, Keefe-o, c'mon! You're not oiled yet!” He grabbed a glass and handed it to Jimmy. He offered another to Mike, who shook his head.

“What's the matter?” Blazer asked him. “What's the matter with these drinks, huh?” Jimmy realized, suddenly, that Blazer was very drunk.

“I've had my limit, thanks,” Mike said.

“Oh, yeah?” Blazer said, staring at Mike with half-closed eyes.

“C'mon, Blaze,” Jimmy said quickly.

Blazer turned to him. “Hey, Keefe-o,” he said, “I know what let's do. Let's go find a fairy and beat him up, okay? How 'bout it? I know a place over on Sutter—”

“Now, c'mon, Blaze,” Jimmy said.

“I mean it. Find a fairy, beat him up. Fun, huh?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Sure. Go have a cup of coffee, Blaze.”

All at once the phonograph blared loudly again, drowning out all the other noise. Claire rushed by. “The police!” she said. “I think somebody's called the police! Oh, my God!” Blazer turned unsteadily and followed her.

Jimmy heard a woman's laugh behind him. “We found the most wonderful little place,” the voice said. “In the Caribbean. Just ourselves, nobody else. And native boys! Built like—like little castles, every muscle. So perfectly formed—”

“Do you have a cigarette?” Claire asked, coming back. “It was a false alarm. No police, thank God!”

Jimmy offered her one and reached for his lighter. Claire held her face down close to his hand, and clutched it with her own. “Do you believe in me?” she asked, hovering over the flame.

“What?”

“I mean, do you?” She released his hand, but her cigarette was not lighted. “You stand here so quietly, and I think perhaps—you—”

She lowered her face again to try for the light a second time, and the woman behind him said, “… the most wonderful hotel, with the most beautiful terrace, and a pool. In the morning, the beach! What I wouldn't give—”

The room, the lights seemed to spin as he tried to close his ears. “Be careful of this lighter—” he began.

“Hold still,” Claire said. “I can't get this damn' thing lit!”

He steadied his hand, and she drew in on the cigarette. “Let's get another drink,” he said.

“All right.”

Later, Mike Gorman came up to him. “What do you say?” he said, smiling. “Had enough yet?”

“I sure have,” Jimmy said. “Let me say good-bye to Claire and Blazer and I'll be right with you.”

“I was just thinking—want to drive out to the beach and go for a swim?”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Jimmy said. “Be right with you.” He started across the room towards Claire.

Half-way across the room, the broad-shouldered man in the blue sport jacket stopped him, grabbed his arm. “Hey,” he said. “You're a lone wolf here, too, aren't you?”

“Well—” Jimmy began.

“Tweetums, the old bag I came with, has passed out in the can. Let's you and me scoot out and grab a piece of tail.”

“I'm sorry, not to-night—”

“C'mon.”

Jimmy looked at him. He was tall, blond-foreheaded. His eyes were lake-blue and Nordic; he was smiling a big, friendly smile.

“I didn't get your name,” Jimmy said.

“Stan Erickson—went to Cal. What's yours?”

“Jim Keefe.” He took his outstretched hand.

“What d'ya say? I know a good place, south of Market. Let's beat it out of this joint.”

“I can't, no kidding—” Jimmy said. From the other side of the room, he could feel Claire watching him.

“C'mon,” he said. “I'm feeling real horny. How about you? And I've got funny tastes—I like to rough 'em up a bit—”

“Oh?” Jimmy said. Something buzzed, far back, inside his head.

The man went on talking. “… girl back at Cal, about a year ago. I got loaded and took her out in my car after a dance. Raped hell out of her—but she was a good sport, never breathed boo—”

What happened then, or whether it was then, or whether the man said some more, and Jimmy hit him after that, he couldn't remember. But all at once, in a terrifying, blinding whir of sounds that drowned out every other sound in the glass room, he went off. He was hitting him, and tears were running down his face. He was not striking another man, he knew that. In that blond, blue-eyed face, he was striking himself, who had now betrayed Helen as thoroughly and as permanently as this man had.

And with the hate, the private, unspoken hate that each man reserves for his own being, he went at him, to kill him.

The man rose from the floor, and, sobbing, Jimmy hit him again. The man rose again and came forward. Jimmy watched him. Then, with a sound like the tinkling of a breaking glass, he stopped thinking.

When he came to, he was on the sofa, and Claire was bending over him. “Oh, Jimmy!” she cried. “Oh, Jimmy! Why did you do that? What's happening to you? Jimmy, we can't have you around here any more! We can't! Now go. Oh, why! Why would you do such a thing at my party!”

He closed his eyes again.

“Come on, old trooper.” It was Mike Gorman's voice.

After Jimmy and Mike had left, Claire felt she should say something, make some sort of explanation to the guests who remained, and try to put together the shattered pieces of the party. Everyone had gone except the Frys, the Browers, and Diane, but she felt she should make the effort anyway.

“If you had only known him
before
,” she said. “If you had only known him before, as we did. He was—oh, I don't know, the most wonderful guy! The most wonderful guy in the world. Full of fun, and I mean real fun, not just silly things like to-night. Why, he—he used to throw these fantastic parties at his family's place, and everyone, but everyone, came to them—from New York, from Philadelphia, from everywhere. ‘Jimmy's having a party—' the word would start, all over town. People would do anything for invitations, and they usually came anyway, without them, and brought all their friends. His family have a beautiful place in Somerville—they're very rich.” Claire's eyes grew misty. “I remember one night someone brought a ladder and we all climbed up on the roof, and someone set off fireworks in the chimney, skyrockets, Roman candles, and things—you should have seen us! And one time there was a terrible drink we made in a huge glass—it had everything in it—gin, whisky, liqueurs, brandy, milk—awful! The Flaming Mame, we called it, after the song, and because it was inflammable, to say the least. We floated a gardenia in the centre of it, and everyone that came through the door had to take a sip of it, before they could come in! He loves people so. He never wanted them to go, never wanted the party to end. He'd do anything to keep the party going. He was never like this. A couple of weeks ago, he and Blazer and I went up to the mountains—behind Squaw Valley. Jimmy brought a huge Thermos of martinis! That's the sort of funny, wonderful things he always used to do …” She turned to Blazer, who sat on the sofa, gazing stonily into space. “Remember at college, Blazer?” she said. “Remember Jimmy's twenty-first birthday party, when everyone rode bicycles down the stairs of the Zeta Psi house, with toilet-paper streamers, and for hors d'œuvres we ate empty ice-cream cones, and there were balloons filled with helium all over the ceiling, and oh—just fabulous! He was always organizing things—wild, crazy, fantastic things. He'd get that look in his eye one day and say, ‘Let's have a party,' and then off we'd go, only every party had to be the party to end all other parties …”