Young Mr. Keefe Page 6

  Claire returned with a dipperful of water from the lake. “Are you. talking about business?” she said. “How can you—out here in the wilderness?” She put the pan of water on the fire. “I hope this water is pure,” she said. “It has a funny smell. It might be safer to cook with martinis.” She filled her paper cup from the Thermos.

  “Of course it’s pure,” Blazer said.

  “It tastes like pine needles.”

  “That’s a good taste.”

  “The martinis are beginning to taste like pine needles,” Jimmy said.

  When it was dark, they sat in a circle around the fire and ate corned beef hash. When they finished, they tossed their paper plates into the fire and watched them burn. The moon was coming up, filtering through the trees, shining on the lake. “Let the still moon sleep on the lake,” Jimmy said. “Does anyone know who said that?”

  “I do,” Claire said. “William Blake.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s find a tree and lean against it,” Claire said. “I’m deliciously, marvellously drunk.” She looked up at the sky. “I three see moons,” she said, and laughed. “Let’s tell ghost stories.” They found a tree and sat around it, but it was soon uncomfortable. They went back to the edge of the fire and sat on the ground, back to back, and leaned against each other.

  “No ghost stories? Then I’ll begin the story of my life,” Claire said.

  The fish jumped still, and there were a few night birds here and there, but all sounds were either very close or far away. “I like college week-ends,” Claire began. “And I like week-ends like this, deliriously. I like doing nothing at all. I like boys who wear dirty old scuffed-up white buck shoes in college towns, and polo coats. I used to like fraternity parties hopelessly, but now I’m jaded. They bore me. I like people—nice, silly people, who do silly things in silly places. You have to know all this before you understand the story of my life,” she said parenthetically. Her voice trailed off. “But I realize,” she said sadly, “that I am one of the silliest people who does the silliest things in some of the most ridiculous places, like the Biltmore.”

  “Well, you’re also one of the nicest,” Jimmy said.

  “Ah—do you think so?”

  “Sentimental,” Blazer said. “You and Claire are just alike. You think everybody should be nice and warm and wonderful and funny and amusing. And when you find out they’re not, you can’t take it. You act all hurt and bewildered.”

  “I have my serious side,” Claire said. “Do you know something that worries me? Look at us! We’re not people who have fought the wars. When the First World War was fought, we weren’t even born. When the Second World War was fought, we were children. When the Korean War was fought, we were going to football week-ends at Yale and both of you were marching around campus in the R.O.T.C. It’s all kind of an illusion with us, isn’t it? Anzio Beachhead, Heartbreak Ridge … they’re just quaint romantic names. They have no real, personal meaning to us. We weren’t there—we weren’t even aware! We’ve contributed nothing. We’re a generation that feels the world owes us a living, just because we’re attractive.”

  “Now, that is a serious thought!” Blazer said.

  “Of course. We’ve never been tested. If we were given a challenge, how do we know we’d stand up! The biggest challenge we’ve ever had is—well, it’s climbing a mountain.”

  “But don’t worry.” Blazer said, “we’ll have wars to fight before we’re through.”

  “I think we hope so, don’t we? We really hope so, so that we’ll have a chance to prove ourselves.”

  They were silent, thinking about this.

  “And then,” Claire said, “of course we’re idlers. We work, but only because we feel we should. It’s expected of us. We like to think of ourselves as staunch New Englanders, with lots of Puritan spirit. But we’re just living on money that our grandfathers and great-grandfathers made. Blazer and I—we don’t live on Blazer’s salary. The little dividend cheques come in every three months … we’re just spending money somebody else had to work to make. We won’t make any fortunes of our own. Our children, or our grandchildren, will have to start all over again. There won’t be any left for them.”

  “Claire feels guilty because her old man’s got millions,” Blazer said.

  “I do. Why should I feel proud? I didn’t do anything to make them.”

  “Well, neither did he. All he did was vote the Republican ticket.”

  “Still, we’re living, on the fruits of somebody else’s work, someone we don’t even understand. Jimmy, am I making any sense?”

  “I know what Claire means,” he said.

  “In California, the fortunes are being made now. Here. To-day.”

  “But who wants California?” Blazer asked.

  “I know …”

  “California is damp and dreary.”

  “But this place is nice,” Jimmy said.

  “Yes, because we’re here,” Blazer said.

  “Oh, do you think this place is nice only because we’re here?” Claire asked.

  “Yes.”

  Claire said, “That may be true. I detest towns with Spanish names.”

  “And missions …”

  “And abalone …”

  “And avocados.”

  “Jimmy’s growing one in a glass of water.”

  “My pet peeve is Mexican food … enchiladas!”

  “I hope I’ve seen my last artichoke.”

  Claire said sleepily, “I’m dreadfully homesick. Mother and Daddy are probably at the Cape now …”

  “I’m glad we’re not with them, though,” Blazer said.

  “Well, so am I, in a way.”

  Jimmy said, “We’re all New Englanders, transplanted. Our roots don’t seem to take to California soil.” He yawned and stretched his feet closer to the fire.

  The three New Englanders, transplanted, were rooted there against the night’s green bank, no one daring to speak now, to say a word, or move. Caressing the fat, cold dew drops with their toes in the deep pine needles, smelling of soap and Seaforth and Chanel Number Five, they were indeed a tragic sight. They were on a merry-go-round in the blackness beyond the limits of their fire, and it was anyone’s guess which star they might be thrown off on. Nursing their desperate, self-pitying dream, they sat, all shoulders touching, back to back. (Jimmy thought: Perhaps we are not really troubled; perhaps we only long to be. Is it that simple?) A star fell. That was Claire’s star. And then another one for Blazer, and then three rapid ones close together, any one of which Jimmy could have had for the asking. These lovers, these hybrid flowers struggling in an unfriendly land, drew close together and tried to remember shows they had seen, night-club banquettes they had sat upon, what the signs said twinkling on the Jersey shore from the West Side Highway, what the mother swan said when she found her ugly duckling missing, and where Moses was when the lights went out.…

  “If ever a day should end, it should end now,” Jimmy said. And the night was still, pierced only with the glow of the fire, and their cigarettes.

  4

  Alone in his sleeping-bag, Jimmy thought about what Claire had said. Was it true that they were people who had everything to offer, yet who actually offered nothing? In some ways it was true, disturbingly true. He tried to think about it, but realized that he could only think about his own particular problem—his loneliness, confusion, not being able to sleep without having gaudy, nightmarish dreams. My world is as small as this sleeping-bag, he thought. He thought of himself. James Lyndon Keefe, Jun. He thought of his mother and father. For no reason, he suddenly remembered the night, a year ago, when he tried to tell his mother about Helen. She had been dressed and leaving for a party, her crimson silk coat rustling about her, her fine white hair piled high upon her head. The Chrysler was waiting, parked in the lighted driveway. “I’ve met this girl—” he began. But she was already late. “Can it wait?” she said. “Can you tell me about it later? It sounds terribly exciting, darling, b
ut I must rush.” “Can you wait just a second, Mother?” he had asked. “Dear, I can’t.” She offered her cheek to be kissed. It smelled of powder and perfume, and the high collar of her silk coat tickled his neck. “We won’t be late,” she said. “I’ll stop by your room when I get home.” He kissed her; that night, he heard her come in and snapped on the light, waiting to hear her footsteps come down the hall. But she had forgotten. He turned off the light and angrily swore that he would never try to tell her anything again. And yet, he thought now, it would be unfair to blame his parents for everything. He rolled over on his back and looked up; the mountains all around reached out in silence. He wondered if another drink would help him sleep. He crawled out of his sleeping-bag and felt his way across the ground to where the Thermos lay.

  In May, after Helen had left, he had flown back to New York to tell his parents about the separation and the divorce. What had he expected from them? His mother was sympathetic, warm. But it was just one of those things, she said. She had thought Helen a terribly possessive girl, didn’t Jimmy think? Possessive—it was certainly the last adjective he would have thought to apply to Helen; it was just an adjective his mother had found floating in her head, and felt it was an appropriate one to use. Of course, his mother said, she had hardly known Helen. She had hardly been given the chance, she said reproachfully. The whole business had been so terribly rash and hasty. Didn’t Jimmy agree, she asked, that so often those rash, hasty marriages ended this way? The thing to do now was simply to forget about her. Forgetting Helen would be as easy as rolling off a log—wait and see. Just to prove it, just to get his mind off her, to-morrow they would all drive to the beach with a picnic lunch, and there would be plenty of salad and French bread, and the spiced chilis that he liked so much. And they would take—let’s see—they would ask the Mortons if they were free, and Jessica. Jessica was home from Foxcroft for the weekend, and was looking lovely. Jessica would get his mind off Helen. Now, there was a nice girl. Had Jimmy ever considered doing anything about Jessica? Why, she asked him, did he insist on going back to California to that silly advertising job? (It’s not advertising, Mother, he had reminded her, it’s public relations.) If he really wanted to forget Helen, he would stay right here. If he didn’t want to work for Daddy, he could go down to New York again and let Daddy help him find a job with some nice company. He could live at the Yale Club, where Buzzie Washburn was living. Let Helen get her divorce or whatever. There was no point in his sticking around Sacramento while she got it.

  The next day, his father had called him to come down to the office. Sitting with his father, when he arrived, were two other people—Miss Maitland, his father’s secretary, and Turner Ames, his father’s lawyer. James Lyndon Keefe, Sen., was cheerful and to the point. He took his son’s hand and shook it, and motioned him to one of the heavy leather chairs. Miss Maitland smiled effusively, remarked how well Jimmy looked; Turner Ames ruffled through papers in a brief-case which he held on his lap. “I think we might as well turn this little meeting over to Turner,” his father said. “Turner has worked out all the details.”

  Turner Ames cleared his throat. “Your father tells me,” he began, “that you’ve—ah—had a bit of bad luck, and that the—ah—younger Mrs. Keefe is initiating a divorce action. Well,” he said, and smiled, “these things can be unpleasant, Jim, but I’d like to tell you here and now they could be a lot worse. Fortunately”—he turned and smiled at Jimmy’s father—“your father is a foresighted man. A very foresighted man.”

  “Tut, tut, Turner,” his father said, “all that was your doing, not mine.”

  “Well,” Mr. Ames went on, “whether you realized it or not,’ we worked out a very satisfactory arrangement prior to the marriage. For example, you both signed a community property agreement. This is very important under California law. It will be impossible for her to claim any of your present property as jointly owned. Bank accounts were maintained separately …”

  “I don’t think Helen has any idea of doing anything like that,” Jimmy said.

  “Well, we never can tell,” Mr. Ames said. “Now, there is also the matter of alimony. Since the marriage was of such short duration, it seems incredible to us that alimony will be asked. However, since we may assume that Mrs. Keefe, Jun., has been apprised of some of the Keefe family—ah—holdings, she may get the idea that she can hold us up for a fancy figure—”

  “Look,” Jimmy said, “Helen’s not like that. She’s not a gold digger. She’s—”

  Mr. Ames held up his hand. “Ah,” he said, “we musn’t go into this with our eyes closed. You’d be surprised at some of the things a woman will do when she smells money.” He smiled at Miss Maitland, and Miss Maitland smiled back. “However,” he said, “we are prepared to make a reasonable offer—not large, but reasonable under the circumstances. It will, of course, be discontinued in the event of her remarriage. I would say it was likely that she will remarry, wouldn’t you?”

  Jimmy sat back in the leather chair. He felt his stomach tighten, and wondered if he was going to be sick.

  “Tell him about the other business, Turner,” his father said.

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Ames. “This is definitely on the pleasant side of the ledger, Jim. You have, from your grandfather’s estate, some shares of Keefe Company stock. That amounts to—let’s see”—he shuffled through his papers—“three hundred and fifty-one shares. Where that odd share came from, I can’t imagine. Ha ha,” he said. “Well, your father has worked out a very astute plan for you—”

  “Nonsense, Turner, you worked it out,” his father said.

  “In the interests of reducing some of his holdings, and reducing the size of his estate, your father is making available considerable amounts of this stock for purchase. Certain amounts are being offered to officers and executives of the company. I am flattered to say that your father has offered a portion of this stock to me. He will also arrange for you to purchase, on a regular, continuing, annual basis, additional stock from him. This purchase will be facilitated for you by means of an annual cash gift from your father. Unfortunately, Uncle Sam won’t let gifts of this sort be over a certain amount. But let me add that, through an accounting gimmick that we’ve worked out, your father will be able to sell his stock at a loss. This works to both your advantages. Now, I have here a cheque to your order signed by your father which, if you will endorse and make payable to the Keefe Company …”

  He had gone on, explaining about estates and trusts and taxes. He read a list of properties (“Lots 347, 348, and 350, Crescent Avenue … Lot 14B, Hall Street … Lot 69, Hall Street, known as the Loew’s Theatre Building …”) which were being set aside in a separate trust, the income from which would be utilized to defray …

  Jimmy had stopped listening. Turner Ames passed papers to Miss Maitland, who glanced at them, passed them to Jimmy’s father for inspection, who passed them to Jimmy for his signature, who returned them to Mr. Ames. The documents circled around the room for nearly an hour. Then, when they were finished, they all stood up. Mr. Ames clapped a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Well, my boy,” he said, “you may never be rich, but you’ll never be in the poorhouse, either. Ha ha.” He laughed, to imply that the path to the poorhouse would indeed be long and roadblocked by generations of corporate wizardry. “Going to stay in Somerville awhile?” he asked.

  “No, I’m afraid this is just a two-week vacation,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got a job in California to get back to.”

  His father frowned. “Do you really mean that?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Jimmy said. “I’ve just started this job. I can’t run off and quit just like that.”

  “Want to make good on your own, eh?” Mr. Ames asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, that’s fine, fine,” Mr. Ames said. “But we’ll get him back, won’t we, J. L.?” He winked. “He’ll have his fill of those movie stars before long.”

  Remembering all this, alone in the mountain night, he
shivered and took another drink from the Thermos. How little they understood, and how hopeless it was to try to make them understand. Yes, he thought, perhaps Claire was right. None of them had been tested. But this was a test that he was giving himself. Maybe it wasn’t war, but it required bravery of a sort. He had failed in his marriage, but he must not allow himself to fail in his job. He must not take the easy way out, which was home, to Somerville, to the Keefe Company, to the calculated heartiness of Turner Ames, and Miss Maitland’s simper.

  His mother had hoped that Jessica would make him stay. That day at the beach, Jessica had talked about the sailboat races on the lake that summer which he shouldn’t miss. She talked, gaily, about how long her tan would last, the party she was going to give, the people she was going to invite. She talked of the familiarity of Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island and Vermont. Jessica had learned an interesting trick at Foxcroft. Taking the matches from her pack, she placed them side by side along the sea wall. Then she showed him how she could make five out of three, ten out of two, three pairs of four by only moving one, six out of twelve. Her lacquered fingertips moved deftly, carefully through the magic, and the order she desired resulted. “I didn’t say they couldn’t be Roman numerals!” she laughed, as, halfheartedly, he accused her of cheating. That night, once again, he had told his mother, “I am going back to California. I’m sorry, but I am.” She shook her head and said that never in this world would she be able to fathom the reason why.

  He had kept his promise. He had actually cut his vacation short and flown back ahead of time, telling his parents that he had remembered an important piece of work that he had overlooked. Back at his desk, he had tried to keep himself exceptionally busy. One of the firm’s clients was the California Tomato Growers’ Association. He looked at a picture of a pretty girl holding a bushel basketful of tomatoes in her arms. She was wearing a farmerette’s hat. “How many tomatoes can you count in this picture?” he led off the caption, and he wrote a few more words about the special lushness of California-grown tomatoes, tomatoes from the land of eternal sunshine. The picture, caption and all, was then mailed out to a long list of newspapers. A few weeks later, Burrell’s clipping service would respond with the tally. “You’re doing great, Jim,” Bob Maguire, his boss, had said. “There’s a great future for you here, boy.” Jimmy was almost absurdly pleased with the compliment, but, with Helen gone, there was no one to tell it to. He was seeing Claire and Blazer that week-end in San Francisco. But they were a special case; if he told them, they would think he was trying to be funny.