25

Jimmy had promised to play bridge with Mike and the two Williams girls, Cathy and Margaret, on Saturday. He got an early start from Sacramento and arrived at Mike’s apartment on Laguna Street a little before noon. He felt lighthearted. The day was cool, but balmy, rather like a New England spring. He whistled happily as he ran up the steps to Mike’s door and rang the bell.

Mike met him with rolled-up shirt-sleeves and a kitchen towel tied around his waist, apron fashion, over his tan trousers. “Hi,” Mike said. “I’m just fixing myself some lunch. Come on in and join me.”

“Ah, I can smell it,” Jimmy said. “Broiled fillet of beef with mushroom gravy, French fries, and fresh peas!”

“That’s right.” Jimmy followed Mike into the little kitchen, where two hamburgers spat and sizzled in a frying-pan. Deftly, Mike shaped two more patties from the mound of ground beef, dropped them in the pan, and jumped back as the hot fat sputtered angrily. He went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of cream soda from the clutter of bottles on the bottom shelf.

“Hamburgers and cream soda,” Jimmy laughed. “Your menu never changes, does it?”

Mike grinned. “Yeah, I guess I’m in a rut.”

When the hamburgers were done, Mike produced buns and a catsup bottle, and they carried their lunch back into the living-room.

“You know,” Jimmy said, “I think you should marry Cathy Williams. At least she’d make you eat balanced meals.”

“Maybe,” Mike said between mouthfuls, “but that’ll have to wait.” And he added, “She’d feed me soufflés with truffle sauce. That girl needs a millionaire.”

“What time are they coming?”

“Around two o’clock.”

After a minute or two, Jimmy said, “I got a letter from Helen.”

Mike smiled broadly. “Say, that’s great,” he said, “that really is!”

Jimmy’s face flushed. “Yes,” he said, “I think so.”

“It had to happen, didn’t it? Didn’t I predict it? Didn’t I see it in my crystal ball?”

“You and your damned crystal ball!” Jimmy laughed.

“I knew it would. But remember—don’t rush things. Don’t get hot under the collar and try to rush things too much. Take it in easy stages. Play it like—like a seven-no-trump bid.”

“All right, teacher—”

“I mean it. You’ve got to make a slam this time.”

“I’ll hold on to my high cards—”

They both laughed. Mike sat back and wiped his sticky fingers on the towel that still hung around his middle. “Well,” he said, “now that you’ve told me your good news, I’ll tell you my bad.”

“What’s happened?”

“Oh, it’s not really bad, I guess. I was expecting it. Uncle Sam.”

“You mean—‘Greetings—’?”

“Yep.” Mike pushed his empty plate forward on the coffee table and stood up, clicking his heels together. “Ten-shun! Recruit Gorman reporting, sir!” He raised his arm and delivered an exaggerated salute.

“When do you have to go?”

“Three weeks. I’ll be home for Christmas. My folks will like that, I guess. Then I’ll see the New Year in at Fort Devens …” He walked to the window and stood there, looking out, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. “Just as I was beginning to like this city, too,” he said. “Even the gasworks.”

“Gee, that’s tough, Mike,” Jimmy said.

Mike turned and grinned. “Well, I’m philosophical,” he said. “That’s my philosophy of life, you know—be philosophical.”

“They’ll be calling me one of these days, too, I guess,” Jimmy said thoughtfully.

“That’s why Cathy—and all that—will have to wait.”

“Have you told her yet?”

“No—I will, though.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Jimmy said.

“No, it’s not, not really. I’ll put in my two years, then I’ll come back, get married, settle down, have a baby—like you.”

“You mean, come back here?”

“It’s funny,” Mike said, “but I’ve really got to like this town. I never thought I would—but I have.”

He walked across the room and clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “Hey, cheer up!” he said. “It’s not that bad.” He picked up the plates and carried them into the kitchen. He returned and stood in the doorway. He ran his hand through his stiff orange-yellow hair. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got to get a haircut before Cathy comes. I promised her. Will you guard the place from prowlers?” He unwound the dish-towel from around his waist, wadded it up, and tossed it to Jimmy. “And you can even do the dishes. O.K.?”

Jimmy caught the towel. He smiled. “Sure, Mike,” he said.

In the apartment on Russian Hill, Blazer was trying to locate Claire. He had come home Friday night and found her gone. She had taken the car, and, as far as he could figure out, only her blue overnight case. Most of her dresses still hung in the closet, along with her mink jacket and most of her shoes. So he knew she must be planning to come back. He sat with the telephone cradled in his lap, calling one hotel after another, first asking for her under her married name, and then—in case she was in one of her melodrama-heroine moods—under her maiden name. He tried the Fairmont, the Mark Hopkins, the St. Francis, and the Palace with no luck. In between he tried to reach Jimmy at his apartment in Sacramento, where there was no answer.

It was possible, of course, that they had gone somewhere together. And yet he was fairly sure they hadn’t. He couldn’t believe they would be quite so obvious. Jimmy, he was sure, would be smarter than that. At eleven o’clock, he gave up and fixed himself a short, stiff drink. At eleven-thirty, he went back to the telephone, this time going through the list of hotels in the classified directory. He started alphabetically, skipping only the ones south of Market Street where Claire, even in her social-working days, had refused to venture. When he got to the Clift Hotel, he found her. Mrs. Stuart B. Gates had registered yesterday afternoon, but her room did not answer. No, he said, there was no message.

He had another drink and tried the Sacramento number again. There was still no answer. For a while he sat in the empty room, sipping his drink, staring into space.

Then he remembered Jimmy’s friend—the fellow with red hair—whom Jimmy had brought to the party. Mike somebody. Mike Gorman. It occurred to Blazer then that Mike Gorman, perhaps, was the only person who could give him the complete story. He found a Michael Gorman listed in the book, on Laguna Street. He started to dial the number, then stopped. This was a situation that called for a face-to-face talk—he was a good enough salesman to recognize that. So he made a note of the address, stood up, and went to the bar and made another drink. He stood there, drinking it. On the exterior, Blazer seemed calm, but he was far from being so within.

After a while, he went downstairs and flagged a taxi. As the taxi entered the thirty-five-hundred block on Laguna, Blazer saw Jimmy’s green convertible parked, and knew that he was on the right track.

When the door-bell rang, Jimmy was just finishing up the dishes. He wiped his hands hastily on the towel and went to the door.

“Hi, Keefe-o,” Blazer said, smiling.

“Blazer!” Jimmy said. “My God, what are you doing here?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure—come on in, Blaze.” Jimmy stepped aside.

“It was an off-chance,” Blazer said. “I thought I might find you here. How’ve you been?”

“Fine. Fine, Blaze. And you?”

“Just fine.” Blazer strolled about the room, looking at photographs on the walls, at the random collection of athletic equipment that lay about. “Where’s your friend Mike?” he asked.

“He went out to get a haircut. Sit down, Blaze.”

Blazer kicked a lacrosse stick lightly with the toe of his shoe. “What is this guy? Jack Armstrong or somebody?” He plunked himself down on the sofa, stretching his legs in front of him. “Well,” he said lightly, “it’s been a long time, Keefe-o.”

“Yes,” Jimmy said, “it has.”

Blazer looked around the room. “Christ, what a dump!” he said suddenly.

“Look, Blaze—” Jimmy began.

“I’m sorry,” Blazer said quickly. “I didn’t mean that.” He sat up. His eyes searched Jimmy’s for a moment earnestly. “Look, Keefe-o,” he said, “we’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“Sure,” Jimmy said. He fished for a cigarette in his pocket, found one and lighted it. Then he sat down opposite Blazer. “Sure,” he repeated.

“Do you mean that?”

“Of course I do.”

“We’ve been trying to get in touch with you, you know—Claire and I.”

“Yes,” Jimmy said slowly. “Yes, I got a letter from Claire.”

“I asked her to write.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you cut us off like that?” Blazer asked.

“I didn’t mean to—to cut you off, really,” Jimmy said. “But—well, a lot of things came up. My father died, for one thing—”

“Yes,” Blazer said. “Claire’s mother wrote us. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, Blazer.”

“We really felt pretty bad about it. Especially since you’d cut us off your list, so to speak.”

“Hell, it wasn’t that, Blaze—”

“I know why it was, and that’s one reason I wanted to see you. I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For what Claire said—you know, that night you clobbered Erickson. She didn’t mean it. She was tight, like the rest of us.”

“I know she didn’t mean it.”

Blazer was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t want to make you feel badly or anything, but did you hear what happened to old Stan—and Tweetums?”

“Yes,” Jimmy said quietly, “it was in the paper.”

“It happened in our car. Did you know that? Tweetums borrowed it.” Blazer shook his head slowly back and forth. “You know,” he said, “it’s kind of queer …”

“What is?”

“Stan and Tweetums. In our car. That was how my folks died, you know. In an accident in a sports car.”

“Yes, I know,” Jimmy said gently.

“History repeats itself!” Blazer laughed bitterly. Then he shrugged. “Well, that’s life, I guess.”

“Yes …”

“So—are we forgiven, Keefe-o?”

“Really, Blaze, there’s nothing to forgive.”

“Will you come back and see us, then? You know—like you used to? Hell, we used to have great times, didn’t we? Like that time on the mountain, remember? That was a great time, wasn’t it? The three of us—camping out? We can have more great times like that, can’t we?”

“Well,” Jimmy said slowly, “sure. But right now—well, to tell you the truth, Blaze, I’m in the process of—what do they call it?—‘effecting a reconciliation’—with Helen.”

Blazer stared at him. “You’re kidding!” he said.

“No.”

“You mean—you’re going back to her?”

“It’s more like getting her to come back to me.”

“What the hell do you want her back for?”

“Well,” Jimmy said quietly, “she’s the girl I married.”

“You’re a damn’ fool! I mean, after the lousy way she treated you!”

“We both made mistakes …”

“Aw, you’re a damn’ fool, Keefe-o!”

Jimmy studied Blazer’s face intently, the face he had known through school and college. It seemed unchanged, still smooth, rather handsome, with short-cropped curly hair, the thin, straight nose, the pale, almost impersonal, blue eyes. Blazer’s clothes, although he wore them with an air of studied casualness, were still carefully pressed, neat, and selected with care. He remembered at Taft Blazer had been voted Best-Dressed Boy; he had the feeling suddenly, looking at Blazer, that he was looking at a posed, slightly smiling, year-book picture. Still, there was something in Blazer’s expression now, or in his manner—he couldn’t put his finger on it—that he didn’t recognize. The too-pale eyes looked frightened, defensive. “I thought you’d be pleased, Blaze,” he said finally.

Blazer shrugged and looked away. “I think you’re a fool,” he said. Then his expression changed. He brightened. “Hey,” he said, “how about a drink? What kind of liquor does this guy have around here?”

“There’s some beer in the ice-box. Mike says he’s too poor to buy booze. Want a beer?”

“Beer!” Blazer said disgustedly. He seemed to sag again into the sofa. He put his head back and stared dully at the ceiling. “Keefe-o,” he said.

“What?”

“I really came here to ask you a favour.”

“What is it, Blaze?”

“Claire.”

Jimmy paused. “What about her?”

“I want you to talk to her.”

“What about?”

“She and I—well, we had a fight. A real free-for-all the other night. I’d just got back from a sales trip to Hawaii. I was dog-tired, and Claire had—well, she’d been through all the business with Tweetums and Stan. She was a wreck—nervous, looking like death warmed up. We were both played out. We had a fight—a real one this time. Not the make-believe fights we used to have. Yesterday, while I was at work, she walked out on me.”

Jimmy said nothing.

“You know what she said?” Blazer went on. “She doesn’t want to stay in California. She wants to go home. How do you like that? Just when things are looking up for me. You see, I’m going to take a new job—with Monarch Mills. As West Coast manager.” He paused. “It’s a pretty good deal. I mean, it’s a hell of a good deal! Good salary—everything. But she’s sore because it means we have to stay on the West Coast.” He paused again. “You’re staying on the West Coast, aren’t you, Keefe-o? I mean—you don’t mind it, do you? You’re not planning to go back, are you?”

“No,” Jimmy said. “I’ve got a job here.”

“Sure, that’s what I told her,” he said rapidly. “I said, ‘Jim’s staying here.’ But she’s got the idea she can’t stand it any more. She’s homesick for that damn’ creepy castle back in Connecticut—Mars Hill! My God, you should have heard her! She got all weepy over how wonderful things were at Mars Hill, how wonderful her mother was—Christ! Her old lady’s nothing but a lush. She’s been a lush for about fifteen years! And her old man is a pompous ass!” He stopped. “I probably shouldn’t say that, because he’s helped me out. I mean, he’s taken an interest in me. He put this guy at Monarch Mills on to me, for instance, and I’m grateful for that. But I’ve got the job now. Why should I go back to Connecticut and end up working for her old man? I’ve got a good job now.”

“Sure,” Jimmy said, “sure—”

“I found out where she is. She’s gone to the Clift. I’ve tried to phone her, but she doesn’t answer. Maybe she’s just not picking up her phone, I don’t know. The thing is, I thought maybe you could talk to her.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” Blazer sat forward, his eyes flashing intensely. “Would you do it for me, Keefe-o? She’ll listen to you, I know that. She’s always—well, she’s always worshipped the ground you walked on. Even back in college. She’ll listen to you!”

Jimmy stood up and walked to the window. All at once he couldn’t look into Blazer’s face any more. He looked out the window, at the clean, silver-grey gas towers. Up the street, in the tennis courts, he could see white-suited boys playing; beyond the towers, in one small sliver of view, he could see the Marina. “Do you really think that would help?” he asked finally.

“I know it would! She thinks you’re the greatest guy in the world—”

“Perhaps if you went over there, Blaze—”

“She won’t speak to me! Honest, Keefe-o, I’m afraid I’m going to lose her. It’s that serious. Look, I’m desperate. I really am. You’re the only person who can help me out, I mean it. You may have got sore at us—but wouldn’t you do it for old times’ sake? We were room-mates in college—remember?”

“I remember—” Jimmy said softly.

“Then will you do it?”

Jimmy still looked out the window. “I think—” he began.

“What do you think?”

“I think you should talk to her, not me,” he said weakly.

“Then do this much for me,” Blazer said eagerly. “Come with me. Come on over to the Clift with me. Right now. The two of us will talk to her.”

“What good would that do?”

Blazer stood up and walked over to the window. He stood at Jimmy’s shoulder. His face was flushed and his voice, now, was a little hysterical. Jimmy noticed then the faint, sweet odour of whisky on his breath. Jimmy rested his arms on the window sash; he felt ill. “Hey, Keefe-o,” Blazer said, “remember that night in New Haven when you and I were going to go out together—we had it all planned—to grab a little tail? Remember—I chickened out at the last minute? I was the cold-feet guy that night, remember?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I just suddenly remembered it, that’s all. I remembered—you went out, but I didn’t. And, you know you never did tell me what happened. Did you get any?”

Jimmy laughed, a little wildly. “My God, Blazer—you’re still the same, aren’t you? Always interested in the gory details …”

“Just curious,” Blazer said defensively. “Sometimes I think I need a few lessons along those lines. Maybe you could give me a pointer or two.”

“I doubt it—”

“But remember—in those days, at college, we were always Gates and Keefe Incorporated, remember that? Remember how we used to talk about going into business together, and how we used to argue whether it should be Gates and Keefe Incorporated? Remember all that—?”

“Yes, yes—”

“I chickened out on you that time. You’re not going to chicken out on me this time, are you? Are you?”

At that moment, the door to the apartment opened and Mike Gorman came into the room. Blazer, hearing the door, spun around as if he had been shot.

Mike stopped, puzzled, seeing Blazer, then stepped forward, holding out his hand. “Nice to see you again,” he said.

Blazer ignored the outstretched hand. “I’m talking to Keefe!” he said angrily.

“Oops, sorry,” Mike said, withdrawing his hand. He looked at Blazer, his face faintly amused.

Blazer turned to Jimmy. “Coming, Keefe-o?” he demanded.

“I can’t come, Blaze,” Jimmy said.

“Why the hell not?”

There was silence in the room. Mike moved towards the sofa. “We were going to play bridge—” Mike said easily.

Blazer turned on him. “Honeymoon bridge?” he asked shrilly. “What are you two, anyway—a couple of queers? Is that what’s happened to you, Keefe-o?”

For a long moment, the three of them stood motionless. The room was still. They stood in a triangle—Jimmy at the window, Blazer in the centre, Mike half-way between the door, which still hung open, and the sofa. Then Blazer’s body seemed to quiver, his head jerked back. “Well?” he said. “Well?”

Finally, in a soft, even voice, Jimmy said, “Get out of here, Blazer.”

Then Blazer’s composure seemed to return. His face, which had been flushed and twisted in a sneer, became expressionless. Ignoring Mike’s presence, he turned and walked past him to the door. He stopped and looked back. His pale blue eyes gazed at Jimmy for a moment steadily, then flickered slightly and gazed away. Blazer ran his tongue along the edges of his lips and shaped his mouth as if he were going to whistle. “Well,” he said, “comme ci comme ça.”

Jimmy thought: Pieces of my youth keep dropping away.

“So long, Keefe-o,” Blazer said casually, from his year-book face. “See you around.”

Then he was gone.

If they had gone to see Claire at the Clift Hotel that afternoon, they would not have found her there. In the new red car, she had driven to Rio Linda. She sat now, in Mrs. Walker Warren’s living-room, wearing a beige wool dress, her bright hair tied back in an orange scarf, waiting for Helen to appear.

Upstairs, Mrs. Warren begged Helen not to go down. “Haven’t you had enough of this?” she asked. “They’re trying to put some sort of pressure on you, can’t you see? Let me tell her to go away …”

Helen stood in front of her mirror, applying fresh lipstick. “I can handle it, Mother,” she said.

“It’s some sort of scheme!” Mrs. Warren said desperately. “They’re going to try to take Billy away from you or something!”

“Fat chance they’ll have of that!” Helen said gaily. She turned and brushed her mother’s cheek with her lips. “Look,” she said, “this girl and her husband are old friends of Jimmy’s. They want to help us get back together again. Is there anything wrong with that?” She went out the door and ran down the stairs. “Good afternoon,” she said pleasantly to Claire.

“Hello, Helen,” Claire said, rising. The two girls shook hands.

“Won’t you sit down?” Helen asked. She went to the coffee table, lifted the crystal cigarette box and offered it to Claire, who at first shook her head, then changed her mind and said, “Thank you,” taking a cigarette.

Helen lighted their cigarettes. Then both girls sat—Helen on the sofa, Claire on one of the small French chairs. “How have you been?” Helen asked.

“Fine, thank you,” Claire said. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“No, not at all,” Helen said. “I was just giving Billy his bottle.”

“Oh, how is the baby?” Claire asked.

“Oh, he’s fine. Would you like to see him?”

There was a pause as Claire inhaled deeply on her cigarette, then dispersed the smoke with a wave of her hand. “No, thank you,” she said.

Helen looked at the other girl quickly. Claire’s face was composed, her mouth firm. She saw, all at once, that this was not a friendly visit. What kind of a visit it was, she didn’t know. She prepared herself for it.

“My business won’t take a minute,” Claire said finally. “I’ve come to find out what your plans are.”

“What plans?” Helen asked quietly.

“About your divorce. Are you going ahead with it?”

“I’m sorry,” Helen said, “I don’t quite understand—”

Claire smiled and tapped her cigarette resolutely in the ashtray. “I want Jimmy,” she said.

“What?”

“I want to marry him.”

Helen closed her eyes and pushed herself back into the sofa’s depths. “I see,” she said finally.

“I want to marry him, and naturally I want to know what kind of divorce you plan to give him.”

“What kind of divorce?” Helen asked.

“Yes,” Claire said. “There are different kinds. There are the nice, pleasant, speedy kind, the best kind, that take place very painlessly. Then there are the kind that drag on with lots of unpleasantness for everyone. Which kind is yours going to be?”

“You say that you want to marry Jimmy,” Helen said. “Do you mean—he’s asked you to?”

“I don’t think that makes any difference,” Claire said quickly.

“I think it does.”

“Jimmy’s too much of a gentleman to ask a girl to marry him while he’s still married to someone else,” Claire said. “But over the last few months we’ve seen a great deal of each other, and we’ve become very fond of each other. You see,” she said pointedly, “Jimmy and I are just alike. Our—well, our backgrounds are similar, for one thing. And we like to do the same things.”

“I see,” Helen said.

“My own marriage was a mistake,” Claire said. “Blazer and I have separated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Helen said.

“Don’t be! It’s really going to work out for the best. I’m going back East. Then I plan to go to Florida to get my divorce. Then—depending on what you do—Jimmy and I will—”

“Depending on what I do?”

“Yes. You’re—well, you’re the only obstacle in the plan at the moment.”

“You keep talking about the plan,” Helen said. “Whose plan is it?”

“Mine. Ours,” Claire said defiantly. “Jimmy’s and mine.”

Helen said nothing. Then she said, “Yes, I suppose I am an obstacle then.” She laughed suddenly. “Forgive me, it’s a little funny,” she said.

“What’s funny?”

“I thought—” Helen said. “I really thought when Mother said you were down here—that you’d come to try to help us get back together. Like the last time you were here. But now—now I find it’s just the opposite!”

“The situation has changed,” Claire said quickly. “That other time was before I—before I realized I was in love with him. I was sincere that first time. I really thought it would make him happy to have you back. Now I know that I am the only one who can make him happy.”

“Oh, you’re so self-assured!” Helen said. She laughed again, and there was a trace of hysteria in her voice.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, no reason! It’s a quality I’ve always lacked, that’s all. Perhaps—perhaps that’s what he likes in you!”

“Perhaps.”

“Just tell me one thing and then go,” Helen said. “Tell me—is this what Jimmy wants?”

“Yes.”

“Then why hasn’t he told me so himself?”

Claire blew out a sharp stream of cigarette smoke. “Because,” she said, “he doesn’t want to see you again. He doesn’t want to get involved with you any more!”

“He asked you to come here?”

“Yes,” said Claire, her eyes never wavering.

Helen was silent. Was it true? she wondered. Desperately, she tried to remember the things he had said when he had been down. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember now, but they had seemed—he had seemed—so different. He had talked about the future. Had he meant something else entirely? Had something like this been in the back of his mind the whole time? All at once, nothing made sense any more. “Well, what do you want me to do?” she asked.

Claire leaned forward. “Go to Reno. Go to Reno, where you can get it done quickly. Don’t go through this California process—waiting a year for the decree to become final. California is the worst place in the world to get a divorce, you must know that. And if it’s a question of money—”

“How much are you offering me?” Helen asked, her face amused.

“I don’t mean that,” Claire said hastily. “But I’m sure Jimmy would be willing to take care of all your expenses. It would be worth it to him. I’m sure you know his circumstances. His people are—well, quite wealthy.”

“Yes, I know,” Helen said softly. “But it’s not money. It’s—”

“What is it, then?”

“Nothing, I guess.” She stood up.

“Then will you do it?”

“I wish I could talk to him—”

“There’s no need for that. Jimmy and I have talked about everything. Everything.” And she added, evenly, “Everything that two people in love can talk about.”

Helen put out her cigarette. She raised her empty hand, her wrist trembling, and touched her hair. “All right,” she said finally. “If that’s what Jimmy wants, I’ll do it.”

Claire jumped up. “Will you?”

“Yes, yes …”

“Oh, he’ll be so happy when I tell him!”

“Yes. Please tell him it’s all right. I’ll do it.”

“I knew you’d be a sport about it!” Claire said. “Thank you! This means so much to us!”

“Don’t mention it,” Helen said wearily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Of course,” Claire said. “And I hope you don’t think I’m a dreadful bitch. I like you, really. I think you’re a very sympathetic person. I can’t help liking you. If I sounded hard-boiled in some of the things I said, it’s because—well, I guess back East we’re a little more sophisticated about things like this. And I don’t mean that unkindly. But we are. Heavens, marriages break up all the time—nobody thinks a thing about them!” She laughed.

“Good-bye,” Helen said.

Claire started towards the door. “I knew you’d be understanding,” she said. “I knew you were that kind of person. I knew you’d see that this was the only right thing—for all of us.”

At the door, she turned. “I don’t know whether we shall ever see each other again,” she said. “I know Jimmy wants to keep completely out of the picture where the baby is concerned—”

“Does he?”

“Yes,” Claire said confidently. “He told me he never plans to see it. Not that he doesn’t care about it, but he just doesn’t want to get involved with it. He—”

For the second time that afternoon, Helen looked at the other girl with surprise, at the incredibly polished, animated face. “He never plans to see it?” Helen asked.

“Never.” Claire chatted on. “Oh, Jimmy will be so pleased when I tell him this news. He’s been so miserable through all of this. Poor guy—poor sweet guy! If you’d seen him during these last few months as I have, you’d have seen a completely different person. Gloomy, refusing to take a drink or have a good time, flying off the handle, taking punches at people! Oh, he’ll be so happy to have this over with!”

“Taking punches at people?” Helen said.

“Yes, but it was nothing—it didn’t mean a thing. Just an indication of the state he’s been in—”

“It doesn’t sound like Jimmy.”

“Well,” Claire said, “when a guy’s going through a crisis, you can’t blame him for flying off the handle, can you? Poor guy. For no reason at all—they were talking together, Jimmy and this friend of ours, and all of a sudden Jimmy went at him. Tooth and nail! Goodness, we thought he was going to kill poor Stan—”

“Stan?”

“Stan Erickson. But it was just an emotional thing, I’m sure—”

“Did he—?” Helen stopped. She moved across the room, away from Claire. “What a curious thing!” she said finally.

“Of course I think I know why he did it,” Claire said.

“Why?”

“I think Stan must have said something—about me—that Jimmy didn’t like. And Jimmy has such a crazy sense of honour! He probably thought he was defending me. At least,” she said, “I like to think that’s what it was!”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Claire said, “I must be going. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Helen said softly.

“And thank you!” Claire lifted her hand and blew a kiss. “You’re an angel!” She opened the door and let herself out.

Helen stood in the centre of the room for a moment. Then she went to the front window and watched as the blonde girl ran down the front steps to the sidewalk, then down the sidewalk to the red car. The girl opened the car door and slid gracefully into the front seat, behind the wheel. The motor started with a roar and the car pulled away from the curb. Helen watched as the car went down Magnolia Street, then turned at Lime and disappeared, beyond the park. She smiled; then she too raised her hand and blew a kiss to Claire. Then, all at once, she had so many things to do it was difficult to decide where to begin. Where had she put Jimmy’s letter? she wondered. It had been so brief, so terribly brief! First, she wanted to read it again.

In San Francisco, the wind blew.

On the street, it scattered the dry leaves of magnolias and lemon trees. In the apartment on Russian Hill, it buffeted the huge, heavy panes of glass; the windows creaked in their frames. A portion of the glass room jutted out over the story below, and from this corner of the living-room, standing, looking out and down, one had the feeling of being surrounded by nothing at all; it was like being imprisoned within a huge glass paperweight far above the bright fairy-tale city. The effect was peculiarly insular; only the frail cobwebby strands of the two bridges, stretching to the east and north, created any feeling of escape. From here, the drop was easily seventy feet to the ground, which fell away below. Standing there, Blazer Gates contemplated it.

Then he went into the bedroom, placed his drink on the dresser top, and opened the drawer. He looked at the object inside; he had gone, like this, to the drawer and looked inside several times that afternoon. This time he picked the object up, curling his fingers around the hard steel butt, and, with his other hand, stroked the slim, cold barrel. Tentatively, he aimed through the doorway at the glass wall opposite. In his mind, he heard the great, thundering fall of shattered glass. He envisioned it all around him, stabbing him. He was a matador; in the arena, the bull came towards him, head lowered. He felt the dark upward thrust …

Trembling, he replaced the gun in the drawer among the handkerchiefs and closed the drawer.

It was a foolish wish. He would never do it. It was an untrue wish. He would never have the courage. The kind of destruction that he dreamed of for himself was always impossible in fact. Helplessly, he saw this now. He saw, stretching bleakly before him, all the rest of the years of his life. He went to the bed and threw himself across it. He lay there. Then he began to sob, lifting himself on his elbows and beating the bedclothes with his fists.