Young Mr. Keefe (28 page)

After the funeral, the chauffeur drove James Keefe's black Chrysler slowly back from the cemetery. Jimmy's mother held his hand. “He was so worried about you,” she said softly, rubbing his knuckles slowly between the soft fingers of her glove. “He didn't say much, of course, but he was worried just the same—about you and Helen. There's never been a divorce in our family, you know. He was so upset when he heard about the baby; it bothered him to think of her child bearing the Keefe name. When is she to have the baby?”

“I don't know, Mother, I try not to think about it …”

“He was proud of you,” she said. “So
very
proud of you! For being so brave, and so grown-up, through all the trouble she's caused. Oh, sometimes we used to think about it—about you, all alone out there, having to go through so much. It's a shame! I wish—I wish he had lived to see you married again, happily, to some nice girl. Not a—”

“Now, Mother,” he said.

“I can't help it,” she said. “I wish her dead! I've never wished that of anyone but her, but I do. I wish her dead!”

“Please, Mother,” he said. “A lot of it was my fault.”

“Nonsense!”

“Let's not talk about it …”

“I just hope he knew—before he went—that it was going to work out happily for you. Do you know what the last thing he said was?”

“No.”

“He was in the hall. We were about to go upstairs, but I'd forgotten my sweater. I'd left it in the library. I went back to get it. He started up alone. I keep thinking—if I hadn't gone back for that sweater, if I'd gone up with him, beside him, perhaps I could have—but never mind. I went into the library—and he called, ‘Do you think we should phone Jimmy to-night? See how he's getting along?' And I didn't answer right away, and then I heard him call out, ‘
Mellie!
' like that, and then I heard—oh!” She released his hand and held her handkerchief to her eyes. “But anyway,” she said, “you were last in his thoughts, you were last in his thoughts!”

Jimmy put his arm around her. The car turned into the driveway. The day was clear and cool. The house, when they entered it, was strangely quiet; the rooms stretched out emptily on either side of the wide hall. “People may come,” she said. “But I can't see them. I've got to lie down. Will you take care of any callers, dear?” She started up the stairs, holding the railing in her gloved hand.

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.