The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (16 page)

"Isn't that the height of you," he said, bitterly. "You trickster."

"It's no trick, Ginger. I still feel responsible for Paulie. She's not a child any more and frankly, I don't think you'll be able to supervise her properly."

"Who's talking," he said. "You have a bloody nerve talking of supervising a child."

She turned from him, her face flushed, and went to the door. She opened the door. "There's Paulie. I must say good-by to her."

He watched her through the opened doorway of the lounge as, impersonating his wife and Paulie's mother, she went up to Paulie, took her by the arms, and stood back looking the child over, as she had done a thousand times before, sending Paulie off to a party.

"You'll have to let that hem down soon," he heard her say. How could she say things like that, this brazen stranger who was going off with another man? "Good-by, darling," he heard her say. "I'll be over to see you in a day or two. And if there's anything you need or if there's any trouble, you know where to find me."

Her hands reached out, took Paulie's shoulders and she put her lips forward to kiss the child's pale cheek. (Oh, if those stranger lips would only kiss him!) But he, standing in the doorway of the lounge, saw Paulie look at him as she drew back, suffering but not returning her mother's kiss. Poor bloody lamb, he thought. The pair of us wolves

fighting over your body. Ah, Apple, Apple, 111 make all this up to you; from now on you'll be the only one that matters. Let her go; let that stranger go.

"Are you ready, Daddy?" Paulie called.

"Yes, Pet." He went up to them. "Good-by, Vera."

"Wait," she said. "I don't have your new address."

He begged a sheet of paper from the girl at the desk and wrote the address down. Paulie went out to the waiting taxi. He handed the sheet to Veronica, who folded it and slipped it in her purse. "I'm leaving too, Miss Hen-son," she said to the girl at the desk. "You'll forward my mail, won't you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Coffey."

"Ready, Ginger?"

Silently he went ahead and held the door open for her. In silence they descended the steps to the street. There, its rear door open and Paulie inside, the taxi waited. Farther up the street, on the opposite side, Coffey saw Gros-venor's sporty little car. So she was not bluffing.

"Well?" she said. "Sure you won't reconsider?"

He saw that she was afraid. Until now, this had been a threat. But now, she must cross the street and get into Grosvenor's car, cross the boundary into deed. She was afraid: she wanted to unpack and go upstairs, to go back with Paulie to the no man's land of the last week. And Coffey knew this: he, who so rarely knew what her motives were, knew she was begging him to yield. But wasn't she putting him in the wrong again, making it seem as if he were forcing her into infidelity by his stubbornness? He didn't want her to go, he didn't want her in Grosvenor's bed. But dammit, he was sick of this womanly blackmail.

"No," he said. "Go on, if you want to."

"All right. Good-by, Ginger."

And yes, by the holy, she was doing it, walking away

straight as a sword towards that bastard's car. Mad bloody woman, crossing the street in full view of her husband and daughter, to go off with another man. And why? Even now, she's sure that if only she goes through with it, 111 call her back, give her Paulie, admit she's won. Mad bloody woman.

She reached the car. Grosvenor opened the little red door and she settled in with a show of legs. A hot lust ran through Coffey as the little red door shut on that view of rucked-up skirts. There was still time to call her back, time to bring that strange woman to his bed this very night, time to strip those stranger clothes off her and find beneath them a body which miraculously was his by law. Ah dear God! Wasn't it lust that made him want to stop her going off now? Wasn't it jealousy at Grosvenor's getting her? Wasn't it? For it was not pity, it was not love. No, it was not love.

He did not call. He stood watching, an oddly ridiculous figure in his bulky car coat and tiny hat. The engine of Grosvenor's car coughed to life.

"Daddy? Are you coming, Daddy?" Paulie called.

He looked at the taxi: there was one who loved him, one on whom he had no designs. He climbed into the taxi, shutting the door with a slam. He put his hand on Pau-lie's knee and tried to manage a Big Bear smile. It was starting to snow. Soft blobs of snow fell like molting down on the cab windows as the little reel sports car, its engine roaring, shot out and past them. Coffey and his daughter watched it go, their gaze following it as their taxi driver set his windshield wipers in motion. Chig-chik went the windshield wipers, wiping all out.

Nine And so, in his fortieth year, Ginger Coffey began playing house with a fourteen-year-old girl. It reminded him of his first days with Veronica. Getting used to each other took time. Keep her happy, that was it. Promise her little treats. And soon, when things improved, when he would have one good job instead of two poor ones, when he was not exhausted running from pillar to post, when he could sleep at night and not dream about that woman — soon, it would be plain sailing.

But, in the meantime, he was unsure. What did Paulie need in the way of clothes, for instance? If he gave her money to buy things, she was likely to go out and get something grown-up and unsuitable. He noticed she had taken to wearing nail polish. He mentioned it: she said all the other kids used it. What did he know? It was wrong, he felt, but he must not be cross. She was much alone in the flat, so it was only natural she'd want to ask her school friends in. But he was away day and night. What sort of children were these friends of hers? He worried that she was not studying enough. It was hard to scold her; he wanted to be friends.

And so, each day on his route, he tried to think of things that would interest her. He made plans. In a week

or two when he'd be a reporter, they'd have much more time together. And then: "Listen, Apple, how would you like it if we took up skiing? Wouldn't you like to ski, Pet? And maybe this summer we'll take a little cottage on a lake, just the two of us. We might rent a sailboat. I've always wanted to sail a boat, ever since I was a little boy. What about you, Apple? Wouldn't you like to sail a boat?"

Ah, if she only were a boy. Or even younger. Remember when she was a tiny girl the fun we used to have playing games like snakes and ladders —

"I was thinking I might buy a draughts board, Apple. Give you a game on my night off, perhaps?"

But she was going to a skating party. Never mind, he would go to a movie. Ages since he'd seen a film. Or perhaps he would just have an early night. Two jobs could be tiring, you know.

How tiring, he could not tell her. Each night when he shut the door of his bedroom and undressed, he stared at his solitary bed in an act of exorcism, telling himself he was sleepy, dead tired, couldn't wait to hit the hay. Exhausted, he would stretch out; exhausted he would attempt to sleep. But he did not sleep.

An elegant, familiar stranger followed a man into the foyer of an apartment house, followed him up four flights of stairs, waited as he unlocked the door of Number 84, smiling familiarly as she stepped across the threshold into a room with bare white walls, prints of Chinese horses and a long low bench of high-fidelity equipment. The man drew the blinds. Music was switched on and that elegant stranger began to remove her skirt, her blouse; walked in garter belt and black stockings to a bar, bending over the bottles, her new short hairdo no longer hiding the white nape of her neck. Sick, Coffey watched as the man went towards her. Sick, he saw the man begin to undress. . . .

Then, never mind, no, no; count sheep, dead tired, think of Paulie, think of your promotion next week: J. F. Coffey of the Tribune . . . Think of your brother Tom in Africa; where is he at this minute? Think of little Michel and his robot toy, wonder how the little tyke's getting along. No one to play with. Think . . .

But who would ever have thought this long drink of water would be such a Casanova? Look at him now, naked, laughing, bending his long knobbly backbone to press a button, releasing the couch bed which shoots out from the wall, standing up, turning to her with the face of that man in the Y.M.C.A. — Wilson, who talked of women as pigs. Oh God, don't watch now what Wilson is doing as he lays her down. Who is she, anyway? Some woman you don't know, someone you never knew, so go to sleep! Of course she's a stranger: Vera never did the like of that with you. You never saw the real Vera excited like that, a Bacchante kissing his hairy flanks. No, that's not Vera, that's some stranger with a beautiful body, a whore in black stockings, abasing herself with that man, letting him pour wine over her breasts, laughing like a lunatic ...

But she is not laughing. See? She is crying. Do you see that brown mole on her ribcage? Do you see that white nape, her long hair? Familiar, aren't they? Your Dark Rosaleen.

No chance to sleep, for now he must watch it all, must hear it all, must wait through the laughing, the music, the loud animal cries of fear and pleasure until, in the last hours of darkness, her voice starts to tell the man who she is, tell him how, for love, she crossed the street to get into his little red car, how, because of her husband's foolishness, the ticket money was spent, leaving her no choice. Telling on and on until the first winter light grayed the ceiling of his room, a false dawn which those two in that other room

greeted with cries of drunken delight, becoming faceless, rolling and rolling there as he lay still, hearing them cry love, love, love until, exhausted, they fell asleep in each other's arms. Then he too would sleep, a short sleep, murdered by the shrilling of his alarm clock. He would rise, put on the coffee, make the toast and waken his daughter. To sit haggard in the true dawn of his tiny kitchenette, the lights still lit in the winter darkness, a darkness presaging the night to come, the visions still in wait.

"Daddy, have you got a cold? You look pale/*

"No, Pet. Just tired."

"Well, no wonder, working day and ni—"

"Won't be long, Pet. Matter of fact I'm doing very well down at the Tribune. I know they're pleased with my work there. I'm almost certain that old MacGregor's going to promote me to reporter any day now. Then 111 be able to drop the other job and spend more time at home. Tell you what. As soon as I get my promotion I'll take you out and stand you a bang-up dinner. Dress up in your best — "

"Yes, but Daddy, you'd better hurry now. It's after seven."

No faith. Her voice, like Vera's, cutting him off. Well, she'd see. On Friday. On Friday, his ship might come in.

On Friday he hurried to the Tribune office as soon as he had completed his delivery rounds. His pay check contained no notice of changed status. So ... So, as he had learned the Tribune style and had spent two weeks as a galley slave, wasn't it time MacGregor was reminded about that promotion? It was, it was indeed. He went to MacGregor's office. As usual, the door was open. Clarence, the fat man, stood on the right of MacGregor's desk, notebook at the ready. MacGregor himself was holding a telephone conference with the Tribune's publisher.

"Right, Mr. Hound . . . Yes, sir ... Right away, Mr. Hound. Good-by, sir/'

He replaced the receiver. His eye picked out Coffey in the doorway. "Come in. State your business."

"Well, sir, I've been in the proofroom two weeks, as of today."

"Yes?"

"You see, sir, you said that I should learn the Tribune style. I think, sir, that I've got the hang of it now."

"Well," said Mr. MacGregor. "Nice to know somebody's wurrking in this loafers' paradise. Good day to you, Coffey."

"But — but I came to see you, sir, to see if perhaps there'd be an opening as a reporter."

"We're still short-staffed in the proofroom, aren't we, Clarence?"

"Yes, chief."

"Very short-staffed, eh, Clarence?"

"Yes, sir. Very short."

Mr. MacGregor looked at Coffey. "We're short-staffed."

"But, sir ... I've been counting on this promotion."

"Tell him how many men want to become Tribune reporters, Clarence."

"Dozens," Clarence said. "Literally dozens, Mr. Mac."

"So, we're not short of reporters at the moment, Coffey. You'll have to hang on."

"But, I —" Coffey felt his face hot. "But, I have a family, sir. I mean, I can't support my family indefinitely on a proofreader's wages."

"What are you getting now?"

"Fifty dollars a week, sir."

"I'll gi' you fifty-five. Now, go back to your wurrk."

"Thank you, sir. I'd rather have the promotion, sir. I mean, fifty-five dollars a week is still very little."

"Did you ever hear such cheek?" Mr. MacGregor asked

Clarence, turning. "Did you ever, in your mortal life?"

Clarence looked at Coffey with shock, reproach and disgust. But Coffey did not budge. There was a time and a tide. "Well, sir. I . . ."

"Well, what?"

"I'd still like to know definitely when I may hope to be made a reporter, sir/*

"How the hell do I know?" MacGregor shouted. "When I get a replacement for you, that's when. Maybe in a week or two."

"In two weeks, sir? I mean, is that a promise? Because otherwise I don't see much point in my staying on."

"All right, two weeks," MacGregor said. "You have my wurrd."

"Thank you, sir."

"Now, take your arse out of here. I have wurrk to do."

"Yes, sir. And thank you, sir."

Two more weeks. Still, it was better than a kick in the pants, wasn't it? A little victory. He hurried off to the Tribune cafeteria, had a quick sandwich, then phoned Paulie to tell her his good news.

"Listen, Pet. That promotion I was telling you about. WeVe only got a fortnight to go."

"That's good," she said, in an unbelieving voice. "Daddy — Mummy was here today."

"Was she?" He had been wondering when that would start.

"Yes, she took me out shopping," Paulie said. "She put down ten dollars on a new parka for me."

"But I could have bought you one, Pet. Why didn't you tell me you needed it?"