Young Mr. Keefe (38 page)

He stood up and went into the living-room for stationery and a pen. Then he returned to the kitchen table and sat down to compose a reply.

He worked on his answer for a long time. Unfinished pages fluttered, crumpled up, to the floor. He wrote letters that included words of endearment. He wrote others that seemed so cold as to be actually cruel. He wrote letters that mentioned Billy, their son, their future. He wrote letters that called back the past, the week at Yosemite. He told her that he could never live without her, and, at one point, told her he had fallen in love with someone else.

Finally, he had the only letter that seemed right. It said, simply, “January 5th at three o'clock is fine with me.” And he signed it, “Love, Jimmy.”

He stood up and rubbed his eyes. He felt exultant.

It was after midnight.

On Wednesday afternoon, Claire drove to the San Francisco airport to meet Blazer in the new car. She was feeling miserable—tired and ill. That morning, in the mirror, her eyes had been sunken, and her face grey. She had done her best with cosmetics, but hadn't successfully been able to hide the ugly shadows under her eyes. Now she felt feverish; driving down Bayshore Boulevard, she gripped the steering-wheel tightly in her gloved hands.

It was a combination of things: the accident, the police, the funerals, and then—Monday, Tuesday, and even to-day—long, stormy sessions with the insurance company. She had insisted on another red Jaguar, identical with Scarlet O'Hara. And she had insisted, of course, that it be delivered before Blazer got back from Honolulu. They had told her that it was impossible; that it would take at least three weeks to locate an identical car: Finally, Tuesday morning, in desperation she had called her father. Junius Denison had taken up the cudgel for her. The new car had been delivered, with a vice-president of the insurance company at the wheel, at one o'clock this afternoon.

She drove into the airport and parked the car. She was a few minutes early, which was a good thing since Blazer hated to be kept waiting. She spent her time in the ladies' room, working on her face. She was determined not to let Blazer know what she had been through. When his plane was announced, she went to the gate and waited for him. She watched as the great silver plane came down, sped along the runway, turned, and taxied slowly back towards the gate. The ramp was rolled into place, the door was opened, and the passengers began streaming out. When she saw Blazer—at first she didn't recognize him; he was darkly tanned and, like the other passengers, wore a white
pikaki lei
about his neck—she called to him and waved gaily.

He made his way towards her and, when he reached her, gave her a quick, affectionate hug and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, sweetie,” he said. “Did you miss me?”

“Oh, did I!” she said. “Darling, you look wonderful! Is that the way you sold sheets—lying on the beach at Waikiki?”

“I did some of that,” Blazer said.

“And what's that crazy thing?” she asked, pointing to the
lei
.

“Compliments of the airline,” Blazer said. He reached up, removed it, and placed it over Claire's head.

“Thank you, kind sir!” She took his hand and they walked to the baggage counter.

Driving back to the city, Claire chattered about her trip to Squaw Valley, about the unsuccessful ski-ing lessons, about the dreary winter weather. “Boy, you're really wound up to-day, aren't you?” he said, laughing, and then, all at once, he rubbed his hand over the dashboard of the car.

“Hey—” he said. “What the hell?”

“What's the matter?”

“Is this—is this a new car?”

“Why—what makes you think—”

“I don't know. There's something different about it. It smells different—”

“Oh, Blazer!”

“What's happened?”

“This is Scarlet O'Hara the Second!” she said wildly.

“What do you mean?”

Then she blurted it all out.

They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

They entered the apartment and Claire moved about the living-room turning on lamps; it was beginning to get dark. She started to close the white curtains.

“Don't close them,” Blazer said.

“Why not?”

“I want to look at the view.”

Claire shivered. “I'm so sick of this view!” she said.

Blazer went to the window and looked out. “Poor Tweetums,” he said. “I think I feel sorrier for Tweetums than for Stan. It must have been his fault. I bet he was driving like a bat out of hell.”

“Please, let's not talk about it any more,” Claire said.

“I only said, ‘Poor Tweetums.'”

Claire sat down on the white sofa. After a moment, she said, “What about poor Claire? What about me? I'm the one who's had to live through it!”

“I'm sorry,” he said gently. “I know. It must have been rough.”

“Rough! Yes, it was!”

“Look, Claire—” he began.

“I'm sorry,” she said, resting her head on the back of the sofa. “My nerves are absolutely at the snapping point. Don't pay any attention to me.”

“Let me fix you a drink.”

“Yes, please.”

He went into the kitchen and returned, with a bowl of ice, to the bar. He stood, in silence, mixing proportions of gin and vermouth, swirling them in a pitcher with a long silver spoon. “No word from Jim, I suppose,” he said.

“From who? From whom?”

“Jimmy.”

“Oh. No. No word.”

“No answer to your letter?”

“No.”

“You did write to him, didn't you, like I asked?”

“
As
I asked. Yes. I wrote to him.”

“Your grammar's as good as ever, that's for sure,” he said. He filled two glasses with the pale liquid and carried them to the coffee table.

“What do you mean by that crack?” Claire asked him.

“Look, Claire,” he said, “I know you're tired, but stop barking at me, will you?”

“Sorry,” she said emptily. “I think I'm coming down with something. Virus X.”

He sat down beside her on the sofa and picked up his glass. “Well,” he said, “welcome home, Blazer. Nice to have you back, old boy, it sure is!”

Claire smiled faintly. Blazer sipped his drink.

“Funny about Jimmy,” he said after a moment.

“His father died,” Claire said.

“What?”

“His father died. Mother wrote me. He went back to Somerville for the funeral. He stopped by to see Mother.”

Blazer stared at the drink in his hand. “Everybody's dying,” he said.

Claire laughed bitterly. “Yes!”

They were silent again, and finally Claire leaned forward and picked up her glass.

“I'll have to write him a letter,” Blazer said.

“That would be nice.”

“He came back to Sacramento, didn't he?”

“Yes.” And she added, “So Mother said—”

“Poor kid,” Blazer said softly.

“Poor who?”

“Poor
whom
,” he said crossly. “Poor Jimmy, naturally.”

“You seem to feel terribly sorry for everybody else except me, don't you?”

“All right,” he said, “give me one reason—just one reason—why anybody should feel so damn' sorry for you? You came out with a new car—”

Claire pressed her fingers to her temples. “Stop,” she said. “Stop, stop, stop! I can't stand you screaming at me!”

“Nobody's screaming at you!”

“Stop! Can't you see I'm simply at a point of nervous exhaustion? Just stop.”

Blazer hunched forward, resting his elbows on his knees frowning at his glass. “Sorry,” he said finally. Claire sipped her drink, saying nothing.

Finally, Blazer said, “Well, tell me what you did while I was away.”

“I've told you everything. Went to Squaw Valley. Took ski-ing lessons …”

“Nothing exciting?”

“Nothing exciting.”

“Masterson didn't call, did he?”

“No. There's a letter from him, though. On your dresser.”

Blazer slammed down his glass. “Well, for Christ's sake!” he said.

“What now?”

He stood up. “You might have told me, that's all. This could be my job coming through, that's all. Hell of a lot you care!” He walked into the bedroom. He was gone for several minutes while Claire sipped her drink. When he came out, his expression had changed. He waved the letter at her. “This is it!” he said breathlessly. “I'm hired! Ten thousand dollars a year!”

Claire said nothing.

He sat down beside her again. “Hey, sweetie,” he said. “Come on! Be yourself! Don't you understand—this is it! He wants me to be West Coast manager! This is what I've been waiting for!” He put his hand on her shoulder. “Claire?” he said. “You might say
something
!”

She stared bleakly in front of her. “Oh, Blazer!” she said at last.

“What?”

“I can't bear it!”

“What? What can't you bear?”

“This means—this means we'll have to stay in California!”

“What's wrong with that?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, we promised! We promised each other—a long time ago—that we'd go back East!”

“But that was before—”

She stood up and moved away from him. “Before what? Before all this misery and unhappiness, is that what you mean? Oh, I hate this place! I hate this apartment! I hate the Goddamned view and the God-damned city and the winter—and I hate—” She walked to the glass and put her hands against it, sobbing. “I hate it! I won't stay here! I'm going home!”

He stood up and followed her. At the window, he tried to put his hands on her shoulders, but she moved away. “No, no, no!” she said. “I'm sorry, but I'm going home—”

“Claire—”

“No, no. What do you think it's been like for me—sitting here all day long with nothing to do, going crazy? Yes,” she screamed. “Yes! I think I am going crazy! What about Thanksgiving?” She turned, went to the sofa, and threw herself across it. “Thanksgiving! What do you think it was like for me—here—during Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving at Mars Hill was always so—so wonderful! I almost went home! I almost did, but I knew you—I knew you'd—you'd punish me somehow if I did! If I had gone home, none of this would have happened!”

He knelt beside her on the sofa. “Claire,” he said gently, “that's not true. That had nothing to do with—”

“It did, it did …”

“We've been happy here, haven't we, Claire? Haven't we?”

“No, no, no. Maybe you have—I haven't!”

“Don't you see?” he pleaded. “This is the chance I've been waiting for. This is a big step! West Coast manager! Claire, this is the biggest moment of my life!”

She turned, on the sofa, her eyes flaming. “Sheet salesman!” she said cruelly. “And don't act as though this was some great accomplishment! Do you think you'd have got this if it hadn't been for Daddy? Do you? Where would you be if it hadn't been for me—and Daddy?”

Blazer stood up. He walked slowly over to the bar and stood there, gently sloshing the pitcher of martinis. Then he poured himself another. “All right,” he said softly, “all right.”

They were both silent for a long time as he drank his drink. Finally he said, “I'm going to take this job.”

“All right.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go home.”

“I see,” he said steadily. And then he said, “I'm surprised. I should think you'd want to stay in California.”

“Why?”

“Where your boy friend is …”

Her eyelids fluttered up, then she looked away. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Don't you?”

“No.”

“Jimmy …”

“Jimmy!” She laughed sharply.

“He's staying here, isn't he? He's not going back East yet—”

“I haven't the vaguest idea—”

“I mean, he'd come back to see us, wouldn't he—if he knew I didn't mind?”

“Blazer, I don't know what you're talking about!”

“Look,” he said, “I know why you're not happy here. You want Jimmy. Isn't that it?”

“Don't be absurd!”

“You know,” Blazer said slowly, “it's a funny thing. It really is a funny thing—”

“What is?”

“I wouldn't mind.”

“Wouldn't mind
what
?”

“Letting him—well, letting him share you—”

She was silent. “What do you mean?” she asked softly.

“I mean—what the hell?” He poured another drink in the glass and lifted it to his lips. “Why not? We have anyway—he and I. Why shouldn't we go on that way? Only open and above-board?”

“Blazer—I really don't know what you're saying.”

“I mean, why couldn't both of us—Jimmy and I—sort of share you? Then everybody would be happy.”

“
Share
?”

“Yes, all three of us.” Blazer's eyes brightened. “I wouldn't mind. You wouldn't mind. In fact, you'd like it, wouldn't you? If we worked out a mutual arrangement like that, if we all agreed, what would be wrong? Would you let me take this job then—would you stay here?”

“Sometimes—” Claire began, her voice the barest whisper.

“Sometimes what?”

“Nothing. Sometimes I wonder if I know you at all. Blazer, you're scaring me. You're just saying these things to scare me, aren't you?”

“You may not know me,” he said, “but I know you, inside and out.”

“You don't!”

“Sure I do. And what the hell—it's as good as done already, isn't it?”

“What are you trying to make me say?”

“Look, Claire,” he said casually, “I know Jimmy screwed you. Why not? I would have if I'd been in his shoes.”