The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (11 page)

"Get out," Coffey said. "Get out before I flatten you."

"Wait a minute, Ginger, I'm not finished yet. I came here to settle this —"

"Right, then. Put up your dukes!"

"I don't mean fighting, Ginger. Fighting isn't going to settle anything. Now — wait a minute —"

But Coffey hit him, his fist thudding against Gros-venor's cheek. Grosvenor's head cracked back; his knees joined ludicrously like an opened scissors. He stood, holding his face with both hands as Coffey hit him again, first on the side of the head, then, with all his strength, in the body. Grosvenor stumbled. His hands went to protect his stomach. Immediately, Coffey finished him with a blow in the mouth, then stood back, his knuckles skinned on Grosvenor's teeth. Grosvenor fell against a sofa and sat down on the floor, his mouth widening in a trickle of blood like a sad clown's grin.

"Get up," Coffey said, waiting.

"Go on," Grosvenor said, thickly. "Hit me. Hit me if it does you any good."

"Get up."

"No," Grosvenor said.

Coffey stood sucking his knuckles, staring at Grosvenor. He had never met one like this before.

"Hit me if you want," Grosvenor said, still sitting on the floor. "But the fact is, I didn't come to fight, I came to talk. Veronica tells me she doesn't think you'd have any religious objections to getting a divorce. Is that true?"

Coffey ignored him. He opened the living room door and called: "Veronica?"

She came, from the kitchen.

"Is it true you want a divorce, Vera?"

But she had seen Grosvenor sitting on the floor. She went to him, bent over him. "Oh, Gerry," she said. "What happened? What did he do to you?" She turned to Coffey. "How could you?" she said. "He was only trying to help."

How could he? He looked at her, looking at her face which he knew so well and did not know at all; saw the thing he had seen yesterday. Hate. He could not bear that hate. He lowered his gaze to the worn pattern of the carpet, the fleur-de-lis, blue and gold. "Paulie's coming with me," he said.

"You have no money, Ginger. You can't look after her."

"I have some," he said.

"No, Ginger. I went to the bank yesterday. I took all that was left."

He remembered the ten-dollar bill she had paid the tea with. So that was it. "Paulie's coming with me," he repeated.

"Look, Ginger," Grosvenor said. "In case you're worrying about the effect this might have on Paulie, I give you

my word to keep out of things until this is settled between you—"

"Your word of honor?" Coffey said. "You specimen!"

"You're a nice one to talk," Veronica began. "You that—"

But he could not bear to hear her. He left the room, went into the bedroom and shut the door. Confused, he began to open closets and drawers, throwing shirts, socks and underwear in a heap on the bed. No, she wasn't going to get Paulie. She wasn't going to leave him all alone now, with nobody, with nothing. He and Paulie, just the two of them —

But where? And on what?

He sat down on the bed, in large, trembling dignity. His image in the dresser mirror looked at him: large, trembling. Look at him, would you, sitting there with his great big ginger mustache, in the hacking jacket he spent hours picking out in Grafton Street, with the tie to match. When, what matter, ties will not make the man, no, nor throwing her across this bed yesterday morning, pleased with yourself for being the great stud, when all the time she was dreaming of Grosvenor. Look at yourself, would you. Take a good look.

He looked at him. A stupid man, dressed up like a Dublin squire. Looked at the frightened, childish face frozen now in a military man's disguise. He hated that man in the mirror, hated him, Oh, God, there was a useless bloody man, coming up to forty and still full of a boy's dreams of ships coming in; of adventures and escapes and glories still to be. When, what were the true facts of that big idjit's life? FACTS: James Francis Coffey, failed B.A.; former glorified secretary to the Managing Director of a distillery; former joeboy in the advertising department, after he was kicked downstairs; former glorified secretary to the Manager of a knitwear factory;

failed sales representative of three concerns in this new and promised land. FACTS: Husband of a woman who wanted out before it was too late; father of a fourteen-year-old girl who ignored him. . . . FatheadI Great Lump! With nine solitary dollars between him and all harm.

The mirror man looked sad. Yes, he hated that man, that man he had made in the mirror, that mirror man who had unmade him. No one honored that foolish sad impostor, no one loved him. Except him: for only he knew that the big idjit had meant no harm, had suffered many's a hurt. Ah, poor fraud, he thought. You're all I have. Yet, even I don't like you.

Quiet footsteps passed in the corridor. Whispers. The front door shut. That was Grosvenor leaving, he supposed. He looked at his face and his face looked at him. Well now, you, what are you going to do?

Speak to Paulie when she comes in? Ask her —

What good will that do? She's her mother's girl.

No, no, I'll explain. I'll show her how we can manage, just the two of us.

Yes, the mirror man said. You've managed rightly, until now, haven't you? Judging by today.

Now, wait — I'll get a job, I'll get two jobs, I'll work day and night if need be. . . .

But the front door had opened. Paulie's voice called: "Mummy? Are you there, Mummy?"

He stood up, pulled down the peaks of his doeskin waistcoat and went into the hall. "Paulie?" he said. "Would you come into the kitchen for a second?" He waited as she removed her duffel coat and overshoes and followed him down the corridor. As they passed the living room, he saw that the door was shut. They went into the kitchen.

"Sit down, Pet/' he said. "I want to have a word with you."

"What about?"

She was tall for her age, Paulie. Her hair was reddish, like his own. She had his large hands and something of him in her pale, placid face. As he drew out a chair for her, he noticed again the patch of ink on the shoulder strap of her jumper.

"I was wondering," he said. "How would you like to move to a new flat, Pet?"

"Anything would be better than this dump. Are we going to move, Daddy?"

"Well, I mean just you and me," he said.

"What about Mummy?" Paulie asked, her pale blue eyes worrying at him. "What happened? Did you have a row?"

"No — it's just that — Well, Mummy's got a job. It would suit her better if she stayed on here for a while. I mean, alone."

"I can't see any sense in that, Daddy. You did have a row, isn't that it?"

"Look, Pet," he said. "It's just that — well, I need you more than Mummy does."

"I'd have to do the cooking, you mean. And make the beds and stuff?"

"Oh, I'd help you, Apple. It's not for that. It's for company I'm asking you."

Paulie picked at her fingernail. The sink tap dripped on a plate. "I want to stay here," she said. "Let's both stay here, Daddy. All right?"

He nodded, uncomfortably. To get her to come he would have to tell the truth, and how could he? No matter what, as his mother used to say, a child has only one mother. And Paulie, tall and fourteen, was still her mother's child.

"All right," he said. "We'll talk about it later. Listen, Pet. I have some boloney in the fridge. Would you make me three sandwiches for my supper tonight? And I left two pears there for you, as a present."

"Oh thanks," she said, offhand. "Do you want mustard in your sandwiches?"

"Yes, please." Mustard, no I don't want mustard, I want you. He watched her at the refrigerator and, after a moment's hesitation, turned and left the kitchen. He went to the living room and knocked on the door. Veronica was sitting on the sofa.

"Did you tell her?" Veronica asked.

"What do you mean, tell her? It's pretty hard to tell a child that her mother is some class of whore."

"What are you talking about?" she said. "How dare you?"

Hope, sudden and joyful, made him raise his eyes from the carpet, blue fleur-de-lis on gold. "You mean there's been nothing between you and Pal Gerry?"

"Of course not. Who do you think I am?"

"What did you expect me to think, Vera?"

"I wouldn't know. Did you try to get Paulie to go with you?"

He nodded, eyes on the carpet once more.

"Well?"

He shook his head.

"Good for her," Veronica said. "She has some sense."

"Has she? I wonder."

"She knows if she stays with me, I'll look after her," Veronica said.

"So would I. Don't sneer. So would II"

"I'm not sneering, Ginger. I'm sorry for you."

"Sorry?" He looked at her. He'd sorry her. "I'm going to work now," he said. He left the room, calling to Paulie. "Apple? Are those sandwiches ready yet?"

"Hold your horses, Daddy. I'm making them."

He went to the hall, put on his coat and hat. Paulie came out with the sandwiches in a brown-paper bag. She gave them to him and he took her by the shoulders, kissing her pale cheek. "Daddy," she said. "Could I have a dollar? I want to go to a movie with some girls tonight."

He took out his wallet. He had nine dollars left. Nine between him and all harm. He gave one to his Paulie. Now there were eight.

He went out, closing the apartment door behind him, and in the common hallway put on his overshoes. Money, oh those proofreaders were right. Money made this world go round. If he had enough money Veronica wouldn't be leaving him. If he had enough money he could have wooed Paulie to come with him, promised a housekeeper, promised her treats. Money, that was Our Savior. Not love, mind you, not good intentions, not honesty nor truth. Because if you couldn't make money, they would leave you, wife, child, friends, everyone. It looked that way, didn't it? It did. It did indeed.

"M'sieur?"

Jesus, there he was again, sitting on the stairs, the robot on the step beside him.

"M'sieur, you want to play a game?"

"No, Michel. I have to go to work now. Play with your toy. Your little man there. Tell him a story, maybe?"

"What will I tell him, M'sieur?"

"Tell him your name and all about you. All about where he's going to live and who he's going to meet. Tell him some of the stories I told you."

"Bi0n," the child said. He picked up the robot and put it on his knee. Coffey bent over, rumpled the boy's ragged crop of hair. "Good man yourself," he said. "So long, now."

"Wait. Let's play the wish."

"All right" Coffey said. "But hurry up."

As he had done many times before, he leaned over and put his ear close to Michel's mouth. The little boy put his arm around Coffey's neck. "What do you wish for?" he whispered.

The wish game. Wish, if he could wish, what would he wish for? Not for adventures now, not for travels, not for fame. For love? Was it any use to wish for love?

"You wish first," he said to the boy. "You first."

"I wish," the childish voice breathed in his ear, "I wish we had a whole lot of toys and you and me could play with them all the time. Because I love you, M'sieur"

Awkwardly, CofFey disengaged himself and stood up. He looked down at Michel's head, big and vulnerable on the slender, childish neck. Oh, to be a boy. . . .

But children must grow up. "Good-by, Michel," he said.

He went to work. There was no time for the facts of his situation, the disasters of his day. All the world's news waited: it must be read, corrected, initialed, sent back to linotype, rechecked, cleared. The presses waited. The edition was running late. And yet, at eight o'clock, in the midst of it all, a copy boy came through the aisles of linotype machines towards the dirty steel desks where proofreaders helter-skeltered among galleys, late, all late. Linotype gremlins, double line, transpose, insert, delete, new lead, add front, all had to go, no time for talk now, hurry, hurry. Late.

"Phone for Coffey?" the copy boy shouted. "Got a Coffey here?" Coffey looked up, waiting Fox's permission to go; but Fox was too busy, they were all too busy, and so, a man leaving the sinking ship, Coffey stood, ran guiltily to the corridor where the phone was, passing the

service elevator which waited to rush plates down to the presses. Late, late.

"Ginger?" It was Veronica on the line.

Above the phone stand was a printed card:

No PERSONAL CALLS DURING WORKING HOURS

G. E. MACGREGOR

MAN. ED.

"Yes, what is it?" Coffey said.

"Madame Beaulieu's just been in here raising the roof. You were supposed to tell her whether we were keeping the place on or not/*

"Look," he said. "I've no time to talk now, I'm in a hurry—"

"Well, hold on. Because I told her we weren't going to stay and she says in that case we have to move out by tomorrow morning at the latest. She has another tenant —*

"But that's impossible, Vera. Why —"

"No, it's not. I've already made arrangements about Paulie and me. We're moving to a ladies' boardinghouse tonight."

"But that's not fair—"

"Paulie wants to go with me," she interrupted. "And I have to move tonight because I'm starting work tomorrow morning. Gerry's coming to take our stuff in an hour or so. That's why I called you. We won't be here when you get back."

"Ah now, wait a minute — where are you going?"

"I'm not telling you the address," she said. "I'll be in touch with you. And listen, I've left ten dollars for you on the dresser under the mirror —"

"You skunk!" he shouted. "Waiting until I was out of the house —"

"Ten dollars is all I can afford, Ginger. Ill need the rest to get Paulie settled/'

"I'm not talking about money — Vera? Listen, Vera, wait until tomorrow, at least — "

But as he spoke, he saw young Kenny running towards him along the corridor, gesticulating. "Hitler," Kenny whispered. "Hurry."

MacGregor. Involuntarily, and at once, Coffey hung up. In a winding rush, he followed young Kenny back to the proofroom. Late, late, No PERSONAL CALLS. He rushed back to reading and read in a daze, not even thinking of what had happened, mesmerized by Mac-Gregor's imminent arrival, afraid to do anything which would incur that ancient's wrath. It was only later, during supper break, that he realized the enormous consequences of her telephone call and the strangeness of his own behavior. Even then, he could not believe it had happened. She and Paulie would be there when he got home. They must be there.

But that night, when he arrived back at the duplex, they were gone. Even their clothes were gone. He went to the dresser mirror, found the ten dollars and looked for a note. But there was no note.

At eight o'clock the following morning, Madame Athanase Hector Beaulieu knocked on the door. When he opened, she bent down, picked up a pailful of soaps and rags and marched in.

"The rent was only paid until yesterday," she said. "Today, you should not be here. I have to clean this place, my husband's bringing a tenant to see it in his lunch hour."

"Fair enough," Coffey said. "Carry on."

Madame Beaulieu opened the hall closet. Coffey's raincoat and little hat hung forlorn on the long rack. "All this stuff," she said. "I want it out." She shut the closet and marched down the corridor into the kitchen, sniffing and

peering like a social worker in a tenement. "My husband warn me/' she said. "He told me: Bernadette, he said, these people come from the other side, they have no references, you don't know who they are. And I told my husband, don't worry, I said, they're nice people, you don't have to worry. But, look what happened. You never told me you weren't keeping the place on. You should have told me."

"I'm sorry, yes, I know I should," Coffey said. "Very sorry indeed. Look — perhaps I can give you a hand to clear up in here?"

"No."

He went back into the bedroom and dressed himself. He must pack. He was not used to packing for himself. It seemed impossible that at any moment Veronica and Paulie wouldn't come in and help him. It seemed impossible that he did not know where they were. Or what to do now. Or where to go.

An hour later, he carried two clumsily stuffed suitcases into the outer hallway which connected his apartment with the one upstairs. Beside the suitcases he placed the overflow: three paper bags full of socks and handkerchiefs and a lamp which, for some reason, Veronica had not bothered to take. Then, carrying his raincoat, a cloth cap and a package of books tied with string, he went down the railroad corridor of that dismal place for the last time. He put his key on the kitchen table. "I just came to give you this and say all the best, Madame. And to thank you for everything."

Madame Beaulieu was scouring the kitchen floor. She did not answer; did not look up. Ah well . . . there was a lady he never cared to see again.

He went outside and sat islanded by his possessions in the common hallway, waiting for the taxi he had or-

dered. He thought of Michel. Quietly, so that Madame would not hear him, he ascended the flight of stairs to his landlady's place. Quietly, he knocked on the door. "Michel?" he whispered.

The little boy opened, all joy. Coffey squatted on his heels, grinned at Michel and in a sudden sadness pulled the child towards him, planting a bristly mustache kiss on the soft childish cheek. Michel, tickled, snatched off Coffey's hat and placed it on his own head, laughing.

"Looks grand on you," Coffey said. "Now, wait a sec." He took the hat from Michel's head, removed the two Alpine buttons and the little brush dingus and handed them to the boy. "And here," he said, closing Michel's plump little paw around a dollar bill. "That's to buy the car I promised for your birthday. Now, be a good boy, won't you, son? I have to go."

"Please. Stay and play?"

"Must go. Bye-bye." Gently, he pushed Michel back into the apartment, closed the door, and ran downstairs, his chest tight and hurting. What's this world coming to, he wondered, when at my age I've just said good-by forever to the only person in the world who seems to love me? Michel: what will become of him? What will become of me?

"Where to?" the taxi driver asked.

He tried to grin. "By the holy, I have no notion. I'm looking for a cheap room downtown. Some place clean."

"What about the Y?" the driver said.

"Fair enough. The Y it is, then."

Five At the Y.M.C.A,, they rented him a basement locker for his possessions and asked for a week's room rent in advance. That was nine fifty in all, which left him exactly seven dollars and forty-five cents until his first payday. And while he put that worry out of his mind as not his greatest, still it occurred to him that his new life would not be easy.

The room was furnished with a bed, a Bible, a chair and dresser. When he sat in the chair, his knees touched the bed. When he lay on the bed he could reach out and open the door, pull down the window blind, open the dresser drawers and get at the Bible, without ever putting his feet on the ground. So, bed it was then. He removed his shoes and jacket and lay down. Opposite his window a forty-foot neon sign flashed on and off every eight seconds.

BUBBLE BATH CAR WASH DAY & NIGHT

Did it flash on and off all night? He pulled the window blind down and the sign light beat like a hot, red wave against the dun darkness which resulted. He shut his eyes.

He was alone: for the first time in fifteen years no one in the world knew where Ginger Coffey was. For the first

time in fifteen years, he had stopped running. He exhaled, stroking the ends of his large mustache. Yes, it was good to rest.

Of course, there were things he should do. He should find his wife's hidey-hole, for one. He could hang around outside Paulie's school and shadow her home to wherever they were staying. But why should he? Hadn't he been far too soft with the pair of them? Wouldn't it serve them right if he never tried to find them, if he just disappeared altogether and settled in here like a mole gone to ground? Not a bad life either: sleeping late every morning, eating his breakfast in some cafeteria, going for walks, seeing the odd film, having a daily swim in the pool downstairs and then each night, to work at six. No ties, no responsibilities, no ambitions. By the holy, that would be a grand gesture. To retire from the struggle, live like a hermit, unknown and unloved in this faraway land.

Hermit, eh? No sex?

No sex. Wasn't that the height of freedom, to be able to tell any woman to go to hell? Any woman, no matter how beautiful, no matter how much she begs. Sending them all away, spurning all ambitions, content to be a proofreader to the end of his days.

But wouldn't that be ruining his whole life, out of pure revenge?

Well, and supposing it was, wasn't it a grand revenge? Because, God! he knew her; she'd be expecting him to run after her, to plead and beg and argue and shout. Well, to hell with her. Let her try to be the breadwinner, she'd find it wasn't so easy. No, the good doggy wouldn't beg any more. As of this morning, Good Doggy was Lone Wolf.

Yes, but wasn't it a crime to abandon your wife and child?

Who abandoned who, anyway? Didn't they throw me over?

But you'd be lonely, you'd have no friends?

Well — well, he would talk to the fellows at work. And now and then pass the time of day with a waitress or a fellow lodger here. He would be a mystery man, the hermit of the Y.M.C.A. After thirty years or so, he would die in his sleep and people would say, Didn't notice Mr. Coffey around lately. Wonder what happened to him? Never knew much about him, dignified man, lived all alone, kept to himself, probably had some shocking tragedy in his life, A quiet, mysterious man. . . . Wouldn't that be a grand way to go? Nobody with a word against you, nobody judging whether you were good, or bad. Your secrets interred with your bones.

In the day-darkness, he began to daydream of that future life. A hermit in the city, his tongue cracked from unuse, he lay on his narrow pallet in that tiny cell listening to a radio down the hall. A woman's voice sang:

Don't you be mean to Baby — 'Cause Baby needs lovin' tool Embrace me —

From now on, all the world would be like that faraway woman, singing without him, not knowing if he lived or died. He thought of all the rich and beautiful women in the world; of how many thousands of rich and beautiful women must be in this city, this minute. To hell with them. He had turned his back on them. They could be as rich and lovely as they liked. What were they to him, or he to them? Why, if he dropped dead here this instant, that woman would go on singing. Which was shocking, the bloody inhumanity of it. Singing over a dead man.

Of course, to be fair, the only reason that woman would

go on singing was because she did not know him. After all, he could make himself known; could ring her up on the telephone if he wanted to. But if he did, would she even speak to him? Supposing he waited for her as she came out of the radio station and stepped up to her, his tongue cracked with unuse: "Madam, for years now, yours has been the only woman's voice heard in my hermit's cell/' Would she pause, the tears coming to her eyes, would she put out her gloved hand, leading him towards her limousine, saying Take me to your room and tell me all about yourself? What is your name? Why is a handsome, intelligent man like yourself living this hermit's life? Why? Ah, it was criminal of that wife and daughter to abandon you. You gave them up? Why? Because you had your pride, you refused to stay where you were no longer wanted. Ah, you are a saint, James Francis Coffey. A saint to have put up with them so long.