The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (19 page)

Enough of that. He tried watching the film, but somehow the filmed America no longer seemed true. He could not believe in this America, this land that half the world dreams of in dark front seats in cities and villages half a world away. What had it in common with his true America? For Canada was America; the difference a geographer's line. What had these Hollywood revels to do with the facts of life in a cold New World?

At half past eight, unable to watch the film any longer, he went upstairs and sat in the lobby, waiting to go to the Clarence Hotel, waiting to meet a girl in a green coat and a black fur hat. He thought about her, Miss Melody Ward. How many of her customers really went to bed with her? Did she charge you extra for that? That made him smile. By the holy, it would be great gas to charge Grosvenor for that.

At nine fifteen he left the theater and began to walk towards Windsor Street. He thought of Veronica and wondered if she were thinking of him this minute as he started off to end it. And if she were thinking of him now, didn't she feel as he did, some sorrow that tonight, after all those years, it was ending? She must feel some sorrow, he decided. Anybody would.

The Clarence was a small hotel opposite the Canadian Pacific Railway terminus. The neon sign over its side entrance read MONTMORENCY ROOM and a display case showing photographs of glossy nonentities advertised CONTINUOUS ENTERTAINMENT. He went in. The hotel lobby was on the right and consisted of a single desk-cum-cigar stand with three armchairs in a row facing the street window. At the desk was a night reception clerk and in the armchairs three old men stared out at the snow, watching traffic. On the left, in the Montmorency Room, a pallid French-Canadian sang a cowboy lament to an audience of eight drinkers. Coffey entered, sat down at a

table and ordered a rye. There was no girl in a green coat and a black fur hat. He was glad. Wasn't this whole thing daft? Why should he go through with it? He would not go through with it. Stranger or not, Veronica was his lawful wedded wife: his, not Grosvenor's. Why should Grosvenor have her? Why should he be the one who was left alone?

But the clock over the bar said nine thirty-seven and it was too late to ring Grosvenor and call this off. The girl would be here any minute, the detective was probably on his way already, the lawyer had arranged things —

And — and all his life, he had hated scenes, hated making a fuss. It was too late now, far too late to change things, because — because at that moment a girl walked in. She wore a green overcoat and a black fur hat. She went up to the bar, spoke to the barman, then turned and looked around the room. She looked at him. And, by J, she was not the sort of girl who'd stand any nonsense. She was tall and pretty and tough. And, by J, she was coming right at him!

"You're Mr. Coffey, right?" she said.

"Yes." He stood up.

"The mustache," she said. "I was told to look out for it."

Yes, he said, and would she please sit down. And what would she have to drink? A brandy? He called the waiter. He joined his hands under the table. Here's the church . . . How could he get out of it now? And heres the steeple . . . Because she wasn't the sort who would let him off lightly. Open the gates . . . good-looking too, in other circumstances he wouldn't half-mind . . .

The waiter brought a brandy and Coffey paid. The French-Canadian singer sang a song about Paree, Paree. The girl sipped her brandy, listening to the song. And here's the minister coming upstairs . . . Too late, wasn't

it? Of course it was. Besides, it wasn't his idea, it was Grosvenor's, all Grosvenor's fault . . .

And here's the minister . . . Grosvenor's fault. He remembered sitting in the Ritz, his hands joined as now in the steeple game. And remembered what Veronica said in the Ritz: Gerry's fault? Not your fault, of course. Never your fault, is it, Ginger?

He unclasped his hands and looked nervously at the girl. What sort of man would worry more about offending a strange whore than about losing his wife? Ah, dear God. The sort of man who had been ready to walk away from Grosvenor's apartment door one night for fear of a scene, who had only rung the bell that night because some total stranger gave him a suspicious look. The sort of sad impostor who now, seeing Miss Melody Ward applaud the singer, raised his hands and applauded too.

The singer bowed and went behind a curtain. The lights went on. "Well," said the girl, putting down her glass, "I guess we'd better go up, huh?"

Who was he to talk about in sickness and in health until death? He, who half an hour ago had thought of taking this strange whore to bed, not of fifteen years of marriage. Who was he to condemn Veronica?

Miss Melody Ward stood up. She preceded him across the room and waited for him in the lobby. Through the reflection from the street window, the three armchair ancients watched him join her.

"Okay," she said. "Now sign us in as Mr. and Mrs. Your right name, mind. But give an out-of-town address, like Toronto, huh? And act sort of loaded so's the clerk remembers you."

He began, his large trembling dignity compromised by a sudden mulish stammer. "Nu-no," he said. "No I can't."

"Oh, come on," she said. "Don't worry."

He avoided her eye, looked at the linoleum squares of the lobby floor.

"Oh, listen," she said. "This happens all the time. A lot of guys are nervous, so what? I mean, you don't have to do anything, see? I mean, we just go up and have a drink in the room and then I take a shower. I'm in the shower when the lawyer's man comes."

The three old men sat silent in their chairs, their faces fixedly vacant in the manner of surreptitious listeners.

"So come on," she said. "I won't eat you."

If only she knew: to go up would be so easy. They were all waiting: the girl, the lawyer's man, the desk clerk, Veronica. All trying to shame him into compliance.

"No," he said. "I'm going home."

"Well, for Christsake," Miss Melody Ward began, her voice rising to a terrifying decibel count. "What are you playing at, huh? I mean to say, I came all the way down here, I gave up another appointment —"

"You'll be paid," he said. "Good night."

And turned away, his military manner failed completely in the desk clerk's curious stare, in the peering and whispering of the old men as he fled towards the sanctuary of the hotel door. Outside, he stood for a moment in the slush of the gutter and raised his face to the sky. Snow fell, wetting his cheeks. He felt his body tremble. Yes, it was a victory.

He went home. He had promised Paulie that he would stay out until her party was over, but in his victorious mood, he forgot all that. Somehow or other he must try to get Veronica back; that was all he thought of now. And so, at ten-fifteen, he paused outside the door of his flat, hearing from within that loud rockabilly nonsense that Paulie loved so well. He hesitated, but suffering J,

wasn't this his home as well as hers? Why shouldn't he take the bull by the horns twice in one night? He let himself in.

In the tiny living room, furniture had been cleared against the walls and two boys danced cheek to cheek with two of Paulie's schoolmates. The girls he knew; like Paulie they were children playing at being women, their childish bodies tricked out in low-necked blouses and ballerina skirts; their faces unnaturally aged by lipstick and eye shadow.

The boys were older; they wore leather windbreakers, Western-style shirts, bootlace ties. Peculiar, brilliantined haircuts gave them the appearance of wet sea birds. Where was Paulie?

He turned. In the narrow trough of kitchen, a third sea bird faced him, eyes shut, spread hands distributed, one over Paulie's small rump, one on her back, pressing her breasts tight against him. Paulie's body moved in time to the music but her feet did not. Eyes shut, her pale face flowered upwards to the electric light bulb, she undulated in a fixed position, rubbing against the boy.

Coffey took three steps into the living room and knocked the player arm off its thundering course. Eyes opened. The dancers stopped. The arm scratched in the silence, its needle frustrated: slipping, circling, slipping again.

"Daddy?" Paulie said, coming out of the kitchen. "What time is it?"

But Coffey did not look at her. He pointed to the boy behind her. "What's your name?" he said.

"Bruno," the boy said. He had a slight inward cast to his eyes which gave him an aggrieved look. "Why? You Paulie's Dad?"

"Do you go to school?" Coffey asked.

"Me?" the boy seemed puzzled by the question. He turned to Paulie. "What'd I do?" he said.

"No, Daddy, Bruno doesn't go to school. He works."

"I thought you said these were all school friends, Apple?"

One of the girls giggled. The boys exchanged glances and winks. "Apple?" one of them said to Paulie. "That what they call you at home?"

All laughed, except Paulie.

"Is there something funny about that?" Coffey said to the boy.

The boy, caught in Coffey's stare, was silent. The girls, saving him, said it was late, they really must go. The boys said they would drive them in their car. They ignored Coffey, as did Paulie, who rushed around, helping them find their coats, talking pointedly about how sorry she was; it was early; it was a pity they couldn't stay.

"'Night, kid," said the boy who had been dancing with her.

"Be seeing you — Apple" another boy said.

"Good night Mister — ah — Coffey."

"Good night."

"Good night." Paulie shut the door and went into the kitchen to clear away the litter of Coke bottles and plates, while her father started to restore the furniture to its former scheme.

"Why did you call me Apple in front of them?" an angry voice said from the kitchen.

«T* 99

I m sorry.

"And why did you come home when you said you'd be late? You've ruined my party."

He pulled the sofa back into place and paused, his lips shut tight under his mustache. After all he'd been through tonight! "Come here a minute," he called.

She came from the kitchen and stood in the doorway. Her face was pale. Her eyes were bright. Anger? She was his girl; she looked like him. But he saw Veronica there. Not anger, no. Hate.

"These boys," he said. "They weren't school friends. They're older boys, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Little thugs," he said. "If you ask me."

"Nobody asked you, Daddy."

Was it for this that he was working day and night? Was this all he had left now, this — this cheekiness?

He slapped his daughter's face. It was the first time in his life he had done such a thing.

Tears formed in Paulie's wide eyes. She stared at him as though she had lost her sight, then, with a wail of rage, began to weep. "Leave me alone! You don't touch me. You — You — Everybody'll be making fun of me. I'm not your Apple, do you hear? You and your Apple! I'm nearly fifteen."

"Exactly," he said. "So what are you doing painted and powdered like an old woman? Go and wash that muck off this instant."

"No, I won't!" she screamed.

He took her arm. "Do what you're told, miss, or I'll put you over my knee and teach you some manners."

"Don't you dare." She wrenched free, ran into the kitchen and reappeared, an aluminum saucepan in her hand. "Just you come near me."

"Put that down, Paulie. Paulie, put that down."

She threw it down. It clattered on the linoleum of the hall. She turned, ran into the bathroom and locked the door. Ah, Dear God. Contrite, he went to the door and knocked on it. "Paulie? Now, listen Pet, listen to me —"

"I'm not your Pet. You're not going to bully me the way you bullied Mummy. I'll run off with somebody too. I can run off with Bruno. Just remember that."

Run off with Bruno? He felt dizzy. He backed away from the door and sat down on the first chair his hand touched. In his mind, a child's voice spoke: Do you like

big elephants best of all, or do you like horses best of all? He remembered her asking that. Or: Why do my dolly's eyes stay open when she sleeps? Conversations which ended with him telling her something she did not know. Now, she had told him something he did not know.

Paulie came out of the bathroom. She crossed the living room. 'Tm going to bed/' she said. "Will you put the lights out?"

He heard her shut and bolt her bedroom door. She too could run off with some male. Once, if Daddy liked big elephants best of all, then Paulie liked big elephants too. But now . . .

He covered his eyes, his fingers pressing against his eyeballs until it hurt. Now, she was not his little Apple any more. Big elephants were no longer relevant.

Eleven Bells, calling to the noon mass in the Basilica, tolled out across the city in a clear and freezing tone, waking him from an exhausted sleep into a world without end, amen. Slowly they focused, the facts of his life. Someone lost, someone stolen, someone strayed. But the morning habit of a lifetime, kicking now with its head cut off, must begin to balance the good with the bad. The habits of an habitual ratiocinator must be fixed in hope. And so, let's see. At least he had gained a little victory by running away last night. At least, last night, he had had his eyes opened to Paulie's true intentions. There was still time to stop her running wild. And so . . .

And so, when the bells stopped tolling and the worshipers went up the steps to pray, Ginger Coffey, with no God in whom he could place his trust, placed it as he must, in men. By ratiocination, MacGregor became his hope. If he could last one more week, MacGregor had promised to promote him. And once MacGregor promoted him, as J. F. Coffey, Journalist, he would have time to oversee and correct his daughter's upbringing. As J. F. Coffey, Journalist, he would have a job he was proud of at last. No glorified secretary, no galley slave, no joeboy; but a Gentleman of the Press.

And so, he had been right to come to Canada, after all. He had picked a winner. In the winner's circle, by his habitual processes of ratiocination, he thought it natural that Veronica would salute his silks.

So, one-two-three, lift up your big carcass, you winner you. Up! And up he got, feeling a twinge in his left leg, going heavy and slow to the kitchen where Paulie was. He started right in.