Young Mr. Keefe (34 page)

“No!” She stared at him, tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Jimmy!” she said. “I'm so sorry!”

“It was very sudden. It was all over very quickly.”

“Oh, Jimmy! Of course I hardly knew him, but—”

“Yes. He was a nice man.” Hearing the words come out, they sounded vacuous. And yet, in a way, they didn't.

“How is your mother?”

“Well, she took it a little hard at first, but she'll rally. You know Mother. She's busy rallying now.”

“Poor Jimmy!” She brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she leaned forward towards the coffee table, opened the glass cigarette box, and extracted a cigarette. She searched for matches.

Jimmy stood up and reached in his pocket for his lighter. He walked over and offered it to her. As she lit the cigarette, her eyes fluttered up to him for a brief moment, then, frowning, she concentrated on the cigarette and the flame. “This isn't that kitchen lighter,” he said softly. “No sparks.”

She inhaled deeply and blew out a thin stream of smoke. Then she stood up. “I'll get Billy now,” she said.

While he waited, Mrs. Warren walked through the living-room carrying a tray of hors d'œuvres towards the little sun parlour in the back of the house.

“Isn't it a dreary day!” she said.

“Yes, it certainly is,” he answered.

“But of course,” she said, looking about her with an odd, distracted look, “we need rain this time of year.” She disappeared into the other room.

Presently Helen came down the stairs again with the small blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. “Well—here he is,” she said in a strained voice. “You don't have a cold or anything, do you?” she asked.

“No …”

“Would you like to hold him, then?”

“All right.”

He accepted the small bundle gingerly. “My God, he's little!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, isn't he?” She laughed, a little wildly. “Don't—there, that's the right way to carry him!”

Jimmy carried the baby slowly across the room towards the window, looking down at the small, pinched face. It was a curious sensation, encountering his child for the first time. It was the sensation that, for months, he had wondered how he would cope with, and yet now he couldn't define his feeling at all. He felt only a kind of wonder. Love, he supposed, would come later. He began talking to the baby in a soft voice, and Helen picked up her cigarette from the ash-tray and stood on the other side of the room, smoking, saying nothing. “Do you like it here?” he asked. “Do you like it here in this pretty house? Do they feed you enough? I don't think they feed you enough—tell Mommy that you're nothing but a bag of bones.” He laughed then, to let her know that he wasn't serious.

“Where did he get the blue bonnet?” he asked her.

“I think it was a present,” she said. “Someone gave it to him.”

“Who?”

“I don't remember.”

“Well, it's very handsome,” he said. “Hey—look, he's smiling.”

Helen laughed a small, tight laugh.

“He looks like an Irishman,” Jimmy said.

“There's enough Irish around,” Helen said.

“He's not scared of me, is he? I think he knows who I am. I think he knows—by instinct. Do you believe in instinct?”

Her voice choked. “I don't know,” she said.

“I do. I think we know our fathers and mothers by instinct. Does he act this friendly with everyone?”

“I'm afraid so,” she said.

“Well, I'm glad to hear that, anyway,” he said.

“I think I'd better take him now,” Helen said.

“Oh, let me hold him a few minutes—he doesn't mind.”

“All right.”

He went back to the chair and sat down, placing the small bundle on his lap.

“Don't scrunch him up so!” Helen said.

“Like this?”

“Yes, that's better—”

“I'd like to make these Sunday afternoons a regular thing,” he said slowly, not looking at her. “That is—I'd like to if you have no objection.”

She seemed to think about this. “I have no objection,” she said finally. “Of course he's—he's your child, too. But I—I may be busy on some Sundays and—”

“Oh, I don't mean it would be like clockwork or anything like that,” he said quickly. “No rigid schedule. Just on Sundays when it's convenient for you.”

“I'd need to have some notice of when you're coming,” she said seriously. “Some notice in advance.”

“Or perhaps,” he ventured, “perhaps we should wait until—after the divorce.”

“Perhaps.”

There was a pause, and, still looking at the baby, not at Helen, he said, “How is that coming along, anyway?”

“Oh, you know,” she said, “there's this residence mix-up …”

“Why don't you go to Reno?”

“We were married in Reno,” she said, and then she added quickly: “Well, that's hardly practical, is it, with a tiny baby?”

“No, I guess not,” he said. And then he said slowly, “I suppose there's no chance—of us, you and I—”

“No,” she answered quickly. “No chance at all.”

“I thought not,” he said. “That's why I thought we could make it more or less a standing date. Sundays, I mean. So there wouldn't be a lot of bother or fuss ahead of time. You could drop me a line …”

“No,” she said.

“Or I could telephone,” he said quickly.

“Yes, you could telephone me—or Mr. Gurney,” she said. “That is, unless you want to make it a standing date, as you said.”

“Well, yes, yes,” he said. “That's what I mean. Then I could let you know what Sundays I'm
not
coming—that would be better. Just one or two hours every Sunday afternoon.”

“Very well,” she said. “I suppose I have no objection to that.”

“And if you're busy,” he said, “I could take Billy out with me in the car—”

“No, not in the car!” she said sharply.

“I mean when he's older,” he added hastily.

“Well, we'll see.”

“Or I could take him out in the carriage …”

“He doesn't have a carriage.”

“I'll buy him one.”

“Well, we'll see.”

He decided not to press this any further, to let it drop. He was on tenuous, fragile ground. They were both silent. Then in the distance, he heard the door-bell, and Mrs. Warren's footsteps going through the hall to answer it.

The voices, outside, in the hall:

“Arlene! What's happened, dear? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. Jimmy's here to see the baby, that's all.”

“Oh, we've come at the wrong time. We'll come back later—”

“No, no—come in. We'll sit out here—”

“Are you
sure? Positive?
”

“Oh, yes, yes. I've got everything set up …”

Jimmy felt his face reddening. In the distance, in the little sun parlour, he heard the sound of glasses, the swirl of ice-cubes in a pitcher. “Scotch for you, Edrita?” Mrs. Warren's voice said. “And Bert—I know you're a Martini type, like me.” She laughed.

“Are you going to Santa Barbara after Christmas, Arlene?” a man's voice asked.

“Goodness knows!” said Mrs. Warren.

“You're getting to be an expert bartender, Arlene,” the woman's voice said.

“I'm learning,” Mrs. Warren replied.

“I suppose you'd like one,” Helen said suddenly.

“What?” Jimmy asked.

“A drink. You can have one if you'd like—”

“No, thank you,” Jimmy said.

“It wouldn't be any trouble.”

“No, thanks.” He hesitated, then said, “I don't drink any more.”

“Is that true—?”

“Yes. I stopped. About four months ago.”

“Oh—” she breathed.

“Yes. That was one of the things that ruined us, wasn't it? My drinking?”

“I always thought that was the only thing,” she said softly.

“Yes. That's why I stopped.”

“I'm glad,” she said. She looked at him as though now, for the first time since he'd arrived, she was genuinely interested in what he was saying. “Are you an Alcoholics Anonymous or something?” she asked.

“No, it was something I did by myself.”

“Oh, I think that's wonderful, Jimmy!”

“That's why,” he said, “that's why—I thought possibly we might try again.”

She looked away again. “Look,” she said, “we're not children any more. There's no point in fooling ourselves, is there? You can't just ask me to forget—just like that. There were other things—like the night Daddy died—and you were nowhere to be found—and—”

“I know, I know,” he said. “I'm sorry I mentioned it.” He turned again to the baby. “Diddle-diddle dumpling, my son John,” he said cheerfully, “went to bed with his breeches on—how does the rest of it go?”

“I don't remember,” she said absently.

“And what was the story about the princess who woke up and found that the frog had turned into a prince?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm just trying to remember some of the stories I used to be told when I was little.”

“I'm afraid he won't take much of it in at this stage,” she said.

“Well, I'm really just trying to make conversation,” he said, “just trying to prolong the visit.” He held the baby's head between his two hands. “I'm glad I met you,” he said. “I'm glad I came. Do you realize it took a lot of courage to come down here? Did you know that?”

“A lot of what?” she asked.

“Courage.”

“It's almost time for his supper,” Helen said. “You'd better give him back to me now.” He rose and handed her the baby.

“Helen—” he began.

“Yes?”

“If you're going to feed him, could I watch?”

“It's not very interesting to watch him have his dinner, actually,” she said. “He spits the formula up sometimes, and—”

“I don't want to interfere.”

“Perhaps some other time. I think he's had enough excitement for one day.”

“Yes, yes. I agree. Perhaps the next time I come.”

“What? When will that be?”

“Next Sunday?”

“Well—I think—no. I don't think so. Not next Sunday, I really don't think so. I think you'd better work through Mr. Gurney, Jimmy.”

“There once was a fellow named Gurney, who decided to be an attorney,” he said.

Her eyes flashed at him. “I don't think it's very funny,” she said. “He's getting a divorce for me.”

“Do you want a divorce?”

“That's a silly question!”

“I don't want one either,” he said.

“Please, Jimmy. It's time for you to go.”

As they talked, she was slowly and surely walking him towards the door. In the hall, he stopped.

“Do you mean I can't come down again?”

“No, I don't mean that. But not next Sunday. Jimmy, this was a bit of a surprise—your coming to-day. Give me a chance to think about it. We'll work something out, some arrangement. But don't rush me.”

“Let me hold him again,” he said. She handed him the small, almost weightless bundle again. “Hey,” he said, looking down at the small face, “you and I will spend a lot of time together when we're older, you know that? We'll take trips and go fishing together. You'll spend at least half your life with me—because you're half mine, anyway.”

“Don't hold him so close,” she said. “Here, let me have him—”

Suddenly, as she lifted the baby from his arms to hers, the baby began to cry a thin, despairing wail. And Jimmy held on to him almost roughly. For a brief moment, they swayed together, the baby between them. She held the baby then, and he put his hands on her elbows and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Do you believe in change?” he asked her. “Do you believe that people have the ability to change? That's what it all hangs on, doesn't it—whether you believe or not that in the last few months I might have changed?”

She didn't resist him or try to pull away, but lowered her eyes and shook her head sadly. “I don't believe in fairy tales,” she said. “Frogs turning into princes—”

“I'm talking about the future, too,” he said urgently. “I don't give a damn about the past. But this is the future, right here—”

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “I want to believe,” she whispered.

“Then say it. Say, ‘I believe!'”

“Oh, I can't, I can't. I know I can't.” She drew away from him and he let his hands fall to his sides.

“You know it wasn't really Billy I came to see,” he said. “You know why I came. You know it was you—”

At the door at the end of the hall, Mrs. Warren appeared. “Helen,” she said pleasantly, “the Kerrs are here, dear. Won't you bring the baby in to show them?”

“Yes, Mother.” She held out her hand. “Well, good-bye, Jimmy,” she said.

“Will you let me know when I can come again?”

“Yes—or rather Mr. Gurney will, I think. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” He took her hand briefly. Then he turned quickly, opened the front door, and let himself out.

After he had left, Helen stood for a moment in the hall.

“Coming, dear?” her mother asked. And when she said nothing, Mrs. Warren said, “Helen? Helen?”

Helen turned sharply to her. “Why do there have to be so many
others
!” she said. “Why are there always people who have to
intrude
, who have their own ideas and keep telling me what to do! Did you ever think that this was a problem for the two of us—the three of us! Did you?” Her voice broke. “I mean, we
do
have things to say to each other, and we do have to be alone, don't we? Don't we?” Holding the baby in her arms, she ran sobbing up the stairs.