26

The wind was still blowing on Sunday afternoon. Jimmy and Mike stood on the sidewalk outside Mike’s apartment building, feet apart, braced against the gale. It was almost five o’clock; the day was darkening.

“You sure you don’t want me to help you move out?” Jimmy asked.

“No,” Mike said, “I’m just going to throw all my stuff in the back of the station wagon next Saturday morning and head back over the Great Divide. Just the way I came …”

“Well,” Jimmy said, “don’t forget to drop me a line when you get assigned somewhere. Who knows—you might be shipped back to California.”

“That would be just like the Army, wouldn’t it?” Mike said.

“Well, we’ll get together again some time,” Jimmy said.

“Sure, and if you ever get back East—”

“I’ll look you up.”

“You might get back for a vacation or something.”

“Well, drop me a line. And good luck—”

“Good luck to you, too,” Mike said. “Let me know how things work out.”

“Well, so long. It’s been great knowing you. Thanks for everything.”

“So long,” Mike said. “Thanks for bridge games.”

“It’s a good thing we never played for money—”

“Too bad you can’t play bridge by mail.”

“So long, Mike.”

They shook hands. “So long, trooper.” Mike saluted.

“You’re getting better at that,” Jimmy laughed. He opened the door to his car. “Christ, what a wind!” he said. “Give my love to New England.”

“I will … so long.”

Jimmy climbed into the car and started the engine. At the foot of the block, he made a wide U-turn and started back up the hill. From the sidewalk, Mike gave a jaunty wave. Jimmy waved back. He blew the horn three short blasts.

Driving across the Bay Bridge, the wind tugged at the car. The convertible top slapped noisily against the metal frame. It was quite dark now. Thousands of tiny lights pierced the blackness from the Berkeley shore. The wind continued as Jimmy drove along the East Bay, then up into the hills. About an hour later, as he entered the valley, the wind turned to driving rain. In patches, he encountered low-lying tule fog—fog that formed in the tollin rushes along the river-beds and spread out across the valley floor. In each of these sudden swirling mists he had to reduce his speed almost to a crawl. It was after eight o’clock when he reached Sacramento. Crossing the bridge and entering the city, he discovered that over the week-end the streets had been strung with Christmas decorations, gaudy festoons that glowed red, green, and yellow. And all at once he was achingly lonely. It was not the sinking, despairing loneliness of a few months ago, after Helen had left, but a different kind. It was the loneliness of being in a strange city at Christmas time, with no place to go. Oddly enough, he had not thought much about Christmas until now. He thought, wryly, of sitting alone at his kitchen table eating Christmas dinner.

Driving under the bright street decorations, he thought suddenly of Claire Denison’s debut party at Mars Hill, coloured lights strung from trees in the garden, balloons floating in the lighted swimming-pool at the foot of the terraced lawn. Claire, standing in the garden, in a long white dress, white gloves, a bouquet of pink rosebuds in one hand, the other outstretched, being presented to the guests. At her throat, he remembered, hung a diamond lavaliere. Give my love to New England. He thought of home, of the white house in Somerville. It would be empty now. His mother had written, telling him that she was spending Christmas with Aunt Celeste Kimball in the Bahamas. The white house in Connecticut would be dark this year, though it, too, had been strung many times with coloured lights for parties, Christmases …

Was he cherishing some foolish, childish dream, this dream of accepting a challenge, fighting a battle, making his own terms with life? Was there anything, really, to look forward to with Helen? The assurances of a happy ending were certainly slim. Perhaps they had all been right—his father, his mother, Turner Ames, Claire—even Blazer. Perhaps he should simply forget her. They had all thought so, said so—everybody except himself and Mike. He remembered thinking once that the rich were never really troubled. They were only inconvenienced. Inconvenienced by death, federal taxes, disappointing children, divorces, Democrats, impudent servants. For no reason at all, he remembered a conversation with his mother when he was fifteen or sixteen. He was home from school and he and a friend, Scrib Newton, had been planning to go to a dance in New York. Scrib’s father had promised to drive both boys into town, but at the last minute Scrib had telephoned to say that Mr. Newton couldn’t take them, he was having trouble with his car. Jimmy’s mother had been astonished. “Trouble with the car?” she had said. “Why would they have trouble with the car? Heavens, if you turn a car in at ten thousand miles, as we do, you never have trouble with a car!” She had probably not intended the remark to sound as vacuous as it did; to her, it was that simple. Cars might be late. They might be tied up in traffic; they might even, though one hoped they wouldn’t, be smashed to smithereens in a ghastly accident. But they never had trouble.

“If you do as we do …” If one did as they did, life was graceful, polite, untroubled. He wondered now if, because he had been brought up in this tradition, he had set out in pursuit of trouble as a quaint, romantic adventure. He had thought of himself as fighting a lonely battle to save his marriage. But did he actually want to save it—or was it just the experience of battle that he wanted? He was not at all sure now. It would be easy—terribly easy—to end the trouble by going home, going down to the office to talk to Turner Ames, going to work for the Keefe Company. Some day, surely, he would be president. He could build his own house in Somerville. He could marry someone like Jessica Morton. No, not someone like Jessica Morton. Someone like—Claire.

He wished now that there were someone with whom he could talk about it, but that was another trouble. There was no one. His father was gone, Mike was gone, Blazer was gone—all the voices he had once listened to with respect. Of course there was Claire. He could have Claire, he supposed, for the asking. There would be no trouble to that. When he got back to the apartment, he would only have to pick up the phone, call the Clift Hotel …

He turned into Capitol Avenue, drove slowly down it, and turned into the narrow alley behind the apartment house. He parked the car in the open carport, got out, and walked slowly through the courtyard and up the wide redwood steps. He fished in his pocket for the key and let himself in. As usual, he had forgotten and left the living-room lights burning—through the open door, the living-room was flooded with light. He would have to watch out for things like that, he thought. After all, he was not so rich any more. He started to go into the living-room, then changed his mind, stepped into the kitchen, and flipped on the light there. He went to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a bottle of milk. He reached in the cupboard for a glass, and then, all at once, he noticed a strange scent in the air. Not strange, but familiar. He stopped, his hand frozen in mid-air, reaching for the glass, wondering if he was awake or dreaming, his heart pounding, because he knew that Helen was in the living-room.

It was several moments before he could move, go to the door, and look into the lighted room. She was sitting on the sofa, her brown hair brushed back, her small, sculptured face looking at him, smiling.

“Hello,” she said. And then she said, “I hope I didn’t frighten you.”

He stared at her.

“Did you think you were being burglarized?” she asked. “I’m sorry—”

He sat down limply in the chair opposite her. “How did you—” he began.

“How did I get in?” She smiled again. “I still had my key,” she said. “I’ve been here quite a while—hours, in fact. I came up this afternoon and rang the bell and thought: Darn it, he’s not home—now I’ll have to go all the way back. Then I remembered that I still had my key!”

“You’ve been waiting here—all afternoon?”

“Oh, I’ve kept busy,” she said lightly. “Or don’t you notice? Don’t things look a little cleaner? Didn’t you even notice that your dishes had been washed?”

“I’m sorry—I guess—”

“I was going to give you till nine o’clock. Then—well, by then I decided you would be—out with another girl.”

He said nothing, simply stared at her.

“You saved my pearls, didn’t you?” she asked. “I found them in a little dish in the kitchen. Why did you save my pearls?”

“I thought—you might like to have them restrung.”

“They were only ten-cent-store pearls. But they could be restrung,” she said. “I think I will have them restrung …”

“I think I’ve got them all,” he said a little wildly. And then he said, “Where’s Billy?”

“His grandmother’s been dying to baby-sit.”

“Is he—all right?”

“Of course. He’s fine.”

“Well—” he said, taking a deep breath, “I don’t mind saying—well, I’m absolutely—I don’t know what to say!”

“I’m sure I scared you out of your wits.”

“I was in the kitchen, and I smelled—your perfume, I guess.”

She laughed. “That smell isn’t my perfume! It’s Clorox!”

“You didn’t have to do all that.”

“I told you, I had to do something to keep busy!”

“I’m sorry, Helen. If I’d known you were coming—”

“I thought of telephoning,” she said slowly. “But—I was afraid. I was afraid that if I telephoned, I’d lose my nerve. I wouldn’t come …”

He forced a laugh. “Well,” he exclaimed, “how does the old place look?”

“Exactly—exactly as I’d remembered it. I saw your avocado in the kitchen—I gave it a drink. It’s beautiful—”

He laughed again. “The remains of a salad—you know, from my salad days—”

“It’s big enough to be put into a pot. Yes,” she said, “I think you could put it into a pot now and it would get bigger—even bigger, I mean.”

“Yes, yes,” he said seriously. “I suppose you’re right.”

Then suddenly they both laughed. Helen swayed forward, her hand on her bosom, choking with laughter. “Oh!” she gasped. “Oh, I don’t know what’s so funny, but—”

Jimmy rocked in his chair, holding his sides. “I don’t know either, but it is—”

Then they stopped laughing simultaneously. Helen dabbed at her moist eyes. Finally, she said soberly, “I had to come.”

Just as soberly, he said, “Why did you?”

“Because,” she said, her eyes pleading, “I wanted to see you again.”

“Oh,” he breathed.

“I’ve thought—” she said, “I’ve thought a lot about the things you said. When you came down, I mean. About the future, and—”

“Yes?” he asked.

“And when you asked me—do you remember? You asked me if I believed in change, that you could change, that people could change …”

“Yes …”

“And I thought: Well, how can I ever know whether to believe in it or not unless I see? Because things can change, I know. Even I could change.”

They were silent, looking at each other.

“Because,” she went on softly, “perhaps it isn’t necessary for one person to do all the changing. You, I mean. Am I making any sense? What I mean is, if I believe that you have changed, then I can believe that I’ve changed, too—” Her voice trailed off.

“I understand,” he said.

“That’s why I didn’t bring Billy …”

“Why not?”

“Because Billy isn’t important—no, no, I don’t mean that. Of course he’s important, but it’s really you and me, first, who have to believe, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said.

“So—so I came …”

“My God!”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s just—nothing. I can’t seem to—”

Helen stood up and walked to the corner window. “You said,” she said, “that you thought perhaps we could work things out, didn’t you?”

“Yes …” He studied her from the back, slim, almost frail in a simple black wool dress. He had forgotten how short she was.

“Did you mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I thought if you were willing—willing to try it, then I should be willing, too. After all, I’m not faultless …”

“I’m willing,” he said softly.

She turned and faced him again. “Then so am I.”

He stood up and went to her. She looked up at him. “I believe—that if you’re strong enough to fight for me, then I am strong enough to fight for you.”

He kissed her very gently, and she clung to him for a moment, then she buried her face in his shoulder. “It won’t be easy,” she said. “It’s going to be hard. Good things are always hard to come by, aren’t they? It may be the hardest thing we’ve ever done. No, I know it won’t be easy. It will take a long time—a long time before we know whether we’ve done it or not! We may never know whether we’ve done it or not! But I’m willing to try—”

They separated, and Helen moved around the room. “You know,” she said, “sitting here in this apartment—all afternoon, cleaning it—I wondered why we never did anything to it!”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed. “I mean—why didn’t we do things, little things? Like take down the Venetian blinds! I suddenly thought this afternoon: Why, those windows might be rather pretty if it weren’t for the Venetian blinds! And I thought—if we put the sofa there—” She pointed. “Oh, I just mean little things. Like hang some pictures! What was the matter with us, Jimmy? Were we too lazy—or what—not to try to make this place look a little less like a motel?”

“I never thought there was much you could do with it—except take it as it is!”

“Oh, just little things would help. Just little touches—I know the furniture’s pretty dreadful, but—”

“I see what you mean,” he said. “Like take down the Venetian blinds.”

“Yes! Exactly!”

He went to the window and peered up under the cornices. Then he reached up. “Look,” he said, “they lift right off—” He lifted the blind from its brackets and lowered it, placing it in a heap on the floor.

“There! Isn’t that better?” She laughed. “Now do the other one!”

He repeated the operation with the other window.

“Isn’t that better? Oh—I remember that pretty eucalyptus tree!”

He dusted his hands on his trouser-legs. “Of course we’d need a bigger apartment now—with Billy,” he said.

She thought about this. “Yes,” she said finally, “but I think we should wait—wait before we bring Billy into it. I mean, I want this to be you and me first. If the experiment works—I mean, if things seem to be working out, then we can bring Billy into it. But first it must be by ourselves—”

“What are you going to do with him?”

She turned and moved away from him again. “Let’s not be hasty,” she said. “Let’s try—let’s try visits. I could come up, or—yes, I could come up, like this, and Mother could baby-sit—”

He went to her again, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her slowly around. “Darling,” he said.

“I’m scared, a little,” she said, her eyes clear. “Aren’t you? I think it’s so important—that I’m scared.”

“I’m scared, too.”

“Oh,” she said, “we had so many things against us, didn’t we? That was part of the trouble, wasn’t it? We had families fussing over us—making us get married again. We had Daddy dying—we had so much to contend with! Things from the outside—that we couldn’t control. No wonder we couldn’t seem to grow up!”

Slowly, thoughtfully, he kissed her again. Then, once more, they separated.

“Yes,” she said emphatically, “this apartment could be made attractive, it really could. It needs—oh, of course it needs a good cleaning. A better cleaning than I could give it in an afternoon. But wait and see—if we hung some pictures there—and moved the coffee table over there—why didn’t we ever think of that? To move the coffee table over there, so it could cover up that hideous spot on the rug—”

“I can’t remember,” he said, “was that spot there when we moved in?”

“I can’t remember either.”

Together, they walked to the spot and studied it. “I’ve never been able to figure out what that spot was,” Helen said. “Do you suppose it could be—” Together, they kneeled to examine the spot, and, kneeling, their heads cracked together. “Oh!” Helen said.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry, Helen …”

“No, it was my fault.”

They sat, on their knees on the floor, rubbing their heads. Then they began to laugh, and, all at once, they were in each other’s arms. “It won’t be easy, darling,” Helen said urgently.

“It’s going to be hard! The hardest thing! The hardest thing we’ve ever done. But it’s worth it, isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

“Oh, darling! My darling!”

“Jimmy!”

Then a few moments later, she whispered, “Darling …? We’re still married …”

Then, much later, in the total darkness of the room, with only the sound of rain falling on the courtyard below, and the sound of the eucalyptus branches scraping in the wind, Jimmy said softly, “I feel as if I’ve come out of a great noisy room suddenly to a quiet place. There’s been a great party going on—a huge, noisy party with disreputable people letting their hair down and performing all sorts of noisy feats, telling noisy jokes, laughing at the noise, being their worst. And all at once, the door is closed on it all, and I’m in this curiously quiet place. The party is still going on somewhere—way over there—but nobody at the party misses me and I don’t miss it. I’m far away on the other side of the house, on the other side of the world. Whole mountains in between me and the others. Perhaps somewhere in the party, someone will shriek, ‘Where’s Jimmy?’ And there’ll be a frantic, noisy search for me—under the sofa, in the closets—and when they don’t find me there, they’ll pick up and go on. I’ll be back in a minute, they think. But the thing is, I’ll never be back. My whole life has been in that crazy party, that never-ending nonsense. I’ve escaped from it into a very quiet room where the doors are open, leading out, where I can come and go, through the doors … through the doors … in and out … this quiet room. Thank God!” He began to laugh softly.