Young Mr. Keefe (29 page)

“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—”

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.

“I've got to be getting back soon,” Jimmy said.

“Oh, don't go yet!” she exclaimed. “Tell me more. Is Blazer kind to Claire-y? I hope so. We watched Blazer through the growing-up process, Junius and I. We had him sort of picked out—for Claire. He was a beautiful child. We didn't care that he had no money. Goodness, Claire-y will have plenty of her own. He was such a nice, well-mannered boy. He used to come over here to play tennis. He played beautifully! Don't you think that boys when they reach their puberty are at the most beautiful state? Something happens to them around the hips and around the eyes and shoulders, and their faces become a little bit grave and enchanted!” She smiled and her eyes glistened with tears. Then she put her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes.

“I really must get back, Mrs. Denison,” Jimmy said.

“No, no.” She straightened up once more. “It's so wonderful to talk to you, dear,” she said. “It's wonderful to know you're out there—with them. Part of home.”

“They've been very nice to me,” Jimmy said.

“Have they? Oh, yes, I heard. I'm sorry. About your wife. Well,” she sighed, “we all make mistakes. But they are happy, aren't they? Blazer and Claire?”

“Very happy.”

“Happy!” She laughed suddenly. “Happy! Thank God somebody's happy! What do you think of a man who strikes a woman?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Her eyes closed once more. “Junius! He's a brute. He struck me, knocked me down. Oh, I suppose there are some who think he's God. Down at the plant, they all think he's God! I've heard that. Junius is God. Well—”

Jimmy put down his glass. “I'm sorry, but I've got to—”

“Little Claire,” Mrs. Denison said. Her voice was deep and rattling. “Little Claire-y. ‘
Clair de Lune
'!” Once more she opened her eyes, her head back, looking upwards at the dark rafters above. “Did I ever tell you why I named her Claire? When I was a girl, Claude Debussy played it for me on the piano! It must have been 1910 or 1911. I was just a child. Mother and I were in Paris and we were having dinner with the President of France. What was his name? I don't remember now … such a nice, funny Frenchman. It's on the tip of my tongue—his name. But Mother knew him. She knew Debussy. She called him Achille—I remember that. He was Claude Debussy, but Mother called him Achille—he went to the piano after dinner. I was sitting on the knee of the President of France—I had long, long blond curls! But Achille Debussy went to the piano and played and played! Then he said, ‘This is for you,' only he said it in French, and looked at me. And it was the most beautiful song I'd ever heard! ‘
Clair de Lune
'! Just for me!” Her eyes widened and brimmed with tears; she reached for a lace-fringed handkerchief and dabbled her nose. “Oh, dear! To think that I've come to this … my little girl … and Junius! Everybody's gone!” Tears ran down her face.

“You know,” she went on. “You know my misery. You know death. You've just come from death …”

“Please, Mrs. Denison,” Jimmy began.

“No. Quiet. Don't talk. Listen to me about Junius, what he's done to me. He's God, they say. He's the most hateful, the most horrible—”

“Please—”

“Quiet. Leave me alone. Can't you see I'm unhappy?”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Denison—”

She took a long, endless swallow from the dark brown drink and hunched forward on the sofa, rocking slowly back and forth, sobbing, a small, round, fat figure in green folds and festoons of silk, her grey hair rumpled, the pins falling out. She raised her small veined hands, heavy with the three emerald rings, and pressed them against her face. “Go away!” she moaned. “Go away! Leave me alone! Leave me to my misery!”

He hesitated, then stood up, turned, and left her sitting there.

He walked across the enormous living-room—the room so huge that the furniture in it seemed doll size, overpowered by the high walls, the dark tapestries, the curiously beamed and vaulted ceilings. It seemed to take an eternity to get across the sea of crimson carpet to the other side, through the archway, and across the black and white marble foyer to the door. Somewhere, in the empty house, a clock began to strike. It struck only four times, echoing hollowly in the night, although the time was ten o'clock. Jimmy lifted the iron latch on the great oak door that looked as though it had been built for a church, and let himself out.

On Monday, Jimmy and his mother had a quarrel.

“I never dreamed you were going back!” Melise Keefe said. “How can you leave me here all alone?”

“But you won't be alone,” he said. “You've got your friends, you've got Aunt Marian, Aunt Celeste …”

“And I'll be penniless!”

“But that's not true, Mother!”

“You're supposed to be the head of the house now! How can you desert me?”

“I'm not deserting you! If you want me for anything, I can fly back in seven hours. Don't you understand? I've got a job. I can't just walk out on that—”

“You could get another job.”

“I like this one, Mother. And I'm—I'm committed to it.”

“You're committed to me! To your father's memory!”

“That's not fair, Mother—”

“What about the company? Are you going to let that go?”

“I never wanted to work for the Keefe Company. Father understood that—”

“But what will happen to it? There's always been one of the family at the head of it!”

“The Keefe Company will go on,” he said. “They'll probably make Turner Ames president. We've got our stock in it. We don't have to work for it, too!”

“Oh, if your father could hear what you're saying!”

“Please, Mother. If he could hear—he'd understand—”

“
I
don't understand,” she said.

“Look, Mother,” he said gently, “I've tried to do something on my own. It isn't finished yet. Let me finish it first—if I can.”

“Finish what?” she said angrily. “Finish making a mess of your life? You talk as though you were actually accomplishing something out there. What have you accomplished? All you've done is get some silly girl pregnant, and have her sue you for divorce! Are you proud of that?” She stood up. “You talk so
noble
! Doing something on your own! What have you done except fail at everything and bring shame on us all? Why don't you admit you've made a fool of yourself and leave that place—while you
have
an excuse!”

He was silent, staring at his open hands. Then he said, “I'm sorry, Mother.”

She came to him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Forgive me, darling,” she said. “I didn't mean that!”