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, but 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.

He poured himself another drink. Probably he was drinking too much, he thought. But there was so little else to do, in the evenings, when he was alone. Bob Maguire was very kind. He and Margie, his wife, invited Jimmy to dinner every few weeks. In their split-level, ranch-type house in Fair Oaks, a newly developed suburb that was burgeoning east of the city—a suburb that was still a treeless, lawnless stretch of redwood and plate-glass houses—they tried to make him feel at home. They knew that he and Helen had separated. Margie Maguire fixed asparagus with Hollandaise sauce, and fresh fat lamb chops, and the inevitable California garden salad. She had given him the avocado stone and told him how to make it grow, on toothpicks in a glass of water. She had a profusion of avocados growing in her picture window. For dessert, for a touch of gaiety, she served vanilla ice-cream topped with green crème de menthe. He had made the mistake of mentioning this dessert to Claire one time. She had made a face. “Why doesn’t she serve it on top of mashed potatoes?” she asked.

After dinner, Bob Maguire liked to bring cold beers—quick-chilled in the freezer—into the living-room. They would lower the lights and watch television. The Maguires were fond of I Love Lucy, and, thanks to the fifty-foot antenna which was almost a requisite in the valley, the reception was good. Jimmy realized that he was really leading three lives. One was the quiet, polite, weekday evening life of the Maguires, thanking Margie kindly for the nice dinner, bringing her, occasionally, the box of Mary See’s chocolates that she liked. The second was the week-end life, shared with Claire and Blazer in their apartment on Russian Hill in San Francisco, seeing, from time to time, old friends from the East who were always passing through, on their way to or from Hawaii or Southern California, and who were always ready for a party. The third was his lonely private life, like now.

He had told the Maguires about Claire and Blazer, his friends in San Francisco, his friends from home. Margie Maguire had asked him to bring them by. She might be able to introduce them to some new people, to some of their Sacramento friends. But Jimmy had been wise enough to see how hopeless this would be—how dull Claire and Blazer would have considered the Maguires to be, how strange and Bohemian Claire and Blazer would have seemed to the Maguires. He could imagine the things Claire would have to say about the Maguires. About their little house, their tiny fruit trees, their backyard barbecue, their picture window.

Yes, he was moving in three worlds, really. No two of them were compatible. And, in a way, all three seemed empty.…

The liquor swirled inside and warmed him. The night was cold and ominous; it was easy to imagine himself the only living, pulsing being in it. Yes, he was drinking too much. For too much of a reason. That was the frightening thing. Perhaps his mother had been right. Perhaps he should have let his father help him. Perhaps he should have gone to New York, found a job with a brokerage house, gone to work carrying an umbrella. And yet he was sure that he was doing the right thing. It was a challenge—this was—the sort of challenge Claire had meant, the challenge none of them seemed to have, but all of them needed. He wanted to meet it, and he would meet it, he told himself. If only he didn’t get lost along the way. Perhaps he could explain to Claire. He thought of her face, white and tear-stained, on the mountainside when she had slipped. “I’ll make this without your help!” she had said.

And for a moment, in her eyes, he had glimpsed a kind of bone-hard courage. This is what I must have, he thought.

All right, he thought. The drink in his hand glowed palely in the moonlight. With a quick, angry gesture, he threw it on the ground. He stood up and walked back to his sleeping-bag. The ground was cold and frosty under his bare feet. He felt good—as though he had argued something out with himself, and settled something for all time. If Helen should appear now, he would have the right answers for her. As he crawled back into the sleeping-bag, he realized that he had not really been thinking about Helen at all. Just as well, he thought. I won’t think about her any more to-night. I will turn my mind off now.