The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (13 page)

Five o'clock. In the financial district the street lights flared. Down came the office workers, spilling out into the streets, released, facing the freezing bus terminal waits, the long, slow-stopping journey home. Uptown they turned in their hundreds while down he went, down, still hurrying, no sandwiches in his pocket for the night's break, his night's work not yet begun.

Five-thirty. It grew colder. A policeman in fur hat and black greatcoat shuffled like a dancing bear under the harsh arena light of a traffic intersection. White mitt paw invited Coffey to cross. Crossing, Coffey scurried along

the outer rim of light, raising his right hand to the policeman, giving the old salute.

Five-forty. On a corner, three blocks from the Tribune building, the red traffic light called: halt. Winded, Cof-fey waited, knowing he would be in time. In a newspaper kiosk an old woman, squatting on her kerosene heater, rose to serve a commuter, red-raw fingers fumbling in woolen mitts as she made change. The newspaper passing to the commuter's hurried clutch headlined a vaguely familiar word, which made Coffey — crossing on amber — half-stop in the darkness, then walk close to the commuter, trying to read what it said. On the opposite pavement the commuter, unfurling the newspaper, shook it out. CoflFey read, and moved away; last lap, going through the Tribunes revolving doors . . .

Cripple Mate Case:

WIFE TELLS COURT "I DID IT FOR LOVE"

The elevator came and he rode up, thinking it should be Cripple Mate who told court he did it for love: Cripple Mate who tomorrow would climb into a fancy dress uniform and go out to collect dirty nappies in proof of his love. Cripple Mate who, in one day on his onlie-oh, had more than doubled his earning power and who, no matter what she might have done with long drinks of water called Grosvenor, still loved her enough to want her back. Oh, he'd make her eat her words, so he would. She would never call him selfish again.

"Fourth floor. Editorial."

Seven minutes to six. CoflFey hurried into the Tribune cafeteria, rejecting supper in favor of a phone call. He called Grosvenor's flat, for Grosvenor would know where to find her. The number was busy. He waited, then dialed again. Still busy. At one minute to six it was still busy;

still busy when the composing room bell rang, forcing him once again to abandon the facts of his life for the facts of the world.

When the ten o 'clock supper break came, he hurried to the cafeteria booth, still unfed, still trying. He spent the fifteen-minute break trying to reach Grosvenor in his flat, at the Press Club, and at three other places he remembered as Grosvenor's haunts. No luck. The bell rang. Back to work. And still, oh God! he had not reached her, had not told her his news, had not been able to show what Cripple Mate could do.

At one A.M., the work over, he took the elevator down to the lobby, waited until Fox and the others had gone, then entered a pay phone booth under the Tribune clock. The lobby was quiet. Outside the phone booth an old night cleaner swabbed the terrazzo floors with a wet mop as Coffey, for the umpteenth time that evening, inserted his dime and dialed the number of Grosvenor's apartment. The number was busy. Hooray! Grosvenor was on the phone to someone — maybe to her? Giving her a lover s good-night chat; sleep well, my lovely. Meantime, until the lovey-dovey chat was over, Cripple Mate must cool his heels.

Steady as she goes, Coffey warned himself. Wait a full five minutes so you won't be disappointed. And wait he did, smoking the last of his fags, watching the old cleaner slop the slimy, sudsy mop over the terrazzo flooring, wetting the inlaid letters: THE MONTREAL TRIBUNE.

At one-ten he watched the jerky minute hand complete its last revolution and again inserted his dime. Brrp-brrp-brr-brrp — Oh, rot your blabbering liver-lipped gob! By the holy, it was time someone put a stop to this. He replaced the receiver, dialed the operator and asked if FEnrose 2921 was out of order.

"Just one moment, sir, Til check."

Another wait. Tm afraid the receiver has been left off the stand, sir."

And why would the phone be off the hook? So that a certain Gerry Grosvenor would not be disturbed. Well, any man — any man — was justified in disturbing that, no matter how late it was. Out he ran into the icy streets, down one block, down another and there — little interior lights lit, drivers slumped over newspapers — a black snake of taxis lay in wait for nightbirds near the entrance to a hotel. No time for economy now. In went Cripple Mate and gave the address, sitting forward, silently willing the driver to hurry as the cab moved off, its tire chains rattling on the hard-packed snow, going up the mountain to Grosvenor's place.

Gerald Grosvenor lived in an apartment development opposite a large cemetery. Ten times as many people were located in the apartment development as in the graveyard, which was very much larger in area. Therefore, slithering and twisting in the snowy drives among a huddle of enormous neo-Georgian buildings, Coffey's driver twice lost his way. It was five minutes to two when, his cab finally dismissed, Coffey found himself in the foyer of Grosvenor's building. To enter he must ring a bell beside Grosvenor's name plate. Grosvenor, alerted, must press a buzzer which electrically opened the foyer door. But if Coffey rang the bell, he would give Grosvenor a chance to slip Veronica out by the back way. And if Veronica were not there he would waken Grosvenor and would seem to Grosvenor a blithering fool. So he stood, irresolute. Maybe he should go away. Flute! He didn't want to find Vera there. And besides, she wasn't that sort of woman; she'd never leave Paulie alone in some board-inghouse while she ... or would she? What did he know about her, after all?

Just then a late-returning tenant came up behind him

and unlocked the foyer door. Coffey grabbed the door, met the tenant's suspicious stare with an apologetic smile and slipped in behind him, beginning the long climb to the fourth floor, remembering that curiosity killed the cat. And that if he were wrong he would look like an id-

jit.

But on he went in a curious mixture of wrath and shame. Went on, forcing himself into doing something his whole nature cried out against. Making a fuss, acting the loony, exposing himself to a stranger's scorn. On the fourth floor he paused, looking at the numbers: 81, 83, 85. He turned to the other side: 84. There were no overshoes or rubbers outside the door, though it was the custom for visitors to leave them in the corridor. Ah, she wasn't there at all: he was imagining things. Turn around now and go home. Ring Grosvenor in the morning. You'll find her tomorrow.

But just then a small man in a dressing gown came out of Number 80 carrying an empty gin bottle and the wreckage* of a box of potato chips. The man went to the incinerator slot at the end of the hall, passing Coffey with a suspicious stare, a stare which implied that Coffey might be up to no good; that Coffey had no business in the corridor; that he was loitering with some thievish intent.

And that stare, from a total stranger, made Coffey turn around and ring the bell of Number 84. Reassured, the small man turned and went back into his own apartment. Someone stirred inside Number 84. Someone was coming. Someone fiddled with a chain. Veronica's voice whispered: "Who's that?"

Coffey had rung the bell out of funk, out of fear of a stranger. Now, he drew back as though he had been slapped, his lips tight under the curve of his mustache. Again her voice whispered: "Who's that?"

But Grosvenor — for it was Grosvenor who stood there with her, it must be! — Grosvenor waited behind that door, probably holding his finger to his lips, cautioning her to silence.

A loud buzzer noise sounded behind the door. Down four floors in the night silence of the hall the buzzer rang again, repeating the sound. They thought he was downstairs; that was it. Now they would open the door and Grosvenor would peep out, trying to see who was coming up.

The door did not open. Again, they pressed the buzzer, shaking in their shoes, the pair of them. Oh, he would bloody well kill them!

But in that moment, waiting there, he remembered why he had rung the bell. He remembered that he would have gone away. Oh, God, was it any wonder his wife was behind that door with another man? What was the matter with him that he wanted to avoid a scene? What was the matter?

But what's the matter with her, he thought. -Why is it always me that's in the wrong? Oh, for God's sake, woman, what are you doing in there? Come home, for God's sake, you fool; how could you do this to me and Paulie? You were mine, you swore it, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, until death. Until death, do you hear?

And as though she heard, she opened the door.

"Ginger!" she said. "Do you realize what time of night it is?"

Did he what? Well now, didn't that beat the band? In her dressing gown and nightie, her feet bare, the brazen bloody nerve of her!

He pushed past her. "Where's Grosvenor?" he asked. "Hiding in the kitchen?"

"Gerry's not here. And shhl You'll wake Paulie."

"Paulie?"

"Shh" she said again. She followed him into Grosve-nor's living room, a bare, bachelor place with white walls, prints of Chinese horses and a long low bench of high fidelity equipment. She motioned to a wicker and iron chair. "Sit down. Shh. Gerry lent us his place. He's staying with a friend. The room I booked for us wasn't ready. Now, for goodness* sake, take that look off your face/*

"Where's Paulie?" he said. "Where is she?"

"In there. Don't wake her."

But he walked out of the living room and opened the door she had indicated. He switched on the light. In a strange bed, clutching Bunkie, her nightdress-case doll, his daughter slept. He bent over her, saw her twitch, wake, and sit up.

"Daddy? What are you doing here?"

"I told you not to wake her," Veronica said.

He stared at his daughter's face, still drowsy with sleep, at her fair reddish hair in tiny steel clips, at her breasts pulling tight against the buttoned pajama top. Soon she too would be a woman. She too would leave for a stranger's bed.

"Are you satisfied?" Veronica said. "Go back to sleep, Paulie."

She switched out the light and shut Paulie's door. "Do you realize it's three in the morning, and that I have to go to work at nine?"

He followed her back into the living room. So she had to work, had she? Wait till she heard how he was working.

"Vera, there's something I want to tell you."

"It's the middle of the night, Ginger. I want to go back to bed."

"Vera, I have two jobs now. I'm earning a total of a

hundred and ten dollars a week. And Vera — are you listening to me?"

"What?" she said crossly.

"I said I have two jobs. I can well afford to support us now."

She sighed, in swift exasperation.

"And I've left the apartment and I'm bunked in at the Y"

"That's nice for you. Now, I really want to go to sleep, Ginger."

"But wait — wait till I tell you. I'll give you both pay checks next Friday. Every penny, mind you. You could make any conditions you like. I won't even ask you to sleep in the same room."

She began to cry. He got up, went over, put out his hand to touch her shoulder. She moved away, leaving his hand hovering.

"Listen to me," he said. "I may have been selfish in the past and I may not have made the best fist of things. But listen — even though I'm not the best husband in the world, I know this much. Nobody loves you more than I do, Kitten. Nobody. No matter what you may think, or no matter what Grosvenor tells you, he couldn't love you the way I do."

"You say you love me," she said. "Just because you miss me. Well, you'd miss a servant if she'd been looking after you for fifteen years. That's not love."

"Isn't it? Ah, for God's sake, woman, what do you know about it? Love isn't going to bed with the likes of Gerry Grosvenor, either."

"Then what is it, Ginger? Tell me. You're the expert, it seems."

"Well . . . Well — dammit, Veronica, we're a family, you and me and Paulie. That's why we have to stick together, no matter what."

He saw her bow her head. Her hand went up to her face; long fingers shielded her eyes, as though she prayed. Oh, Vera, he thought. How and under what mortal sky could you ever believe that you and Grosvenor will be as you and I have been? How could you have forgotten that life agreement we made fifteen years ago in Saint Pat's in Dalkey, me in a rented morning suit, a stiff collar choking me, praying to God Tom Clarke hadn't mislaid the ring, and you in white, your head bowed as now, kneeling before the altar — Love — oh, come on home now, and let's stop all this nonsense!

She removed the shield of her hand and he saw her eyes: bright; fixed in hate. "So love is staying together for Paulie's sake?" she said. "No thanks, Ginger."

"Ah now, wait. I've changed, honest to God I have. Listen — do you know what this new job is? It's putting on a uniform and going about delivering babies' nappies and bringing back the messy ones. Now, if I was as selfish as you say, would I do the like of that? Would I, Vera?"

"I'm not going to listen to you. Oh, I knew you'd come back with some story. I knew it. It's not fair."

"But it's no story. It's the truth."

"All right," she said. "So it's true. Well, I'm sorry. And that's the trouble."

"Vera, would you for the love of God give over talking in riddles?"

"I mean I'm sorry for you, Ginger. But that's all. You're not going to catch me again. You're too late with this, just as you've been too late with everything else."

"Too late am I?" Coffey said. "Maybe you're too late. Grosvenor's five years younger than you. We'll see how long this lasts."

"Yes, he is five years younger. You've used up the best years of my life, that's why."

"What about my best years, Vera? Suffering J! What about my best years?"

"All right. Then why don't we try to save the years we have left? Why don't we get a divorce?"

"Divorce?" He felt his heart pull and thump in his chest. "You're a Catholic," he said. "What's your mother going to say about the sin of divorce?"