The Luck Of Ginger Coffey (26 page)

"Well, it doesn't matter, does it?" he said. "It's former history."

She bent her head, and suddenly rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles, leaving a smudge of mascara on the bridge of her nose. "Dammit," she said. "I'm sorry. Don't you see, I'm sorry?"

Sorry? What was she sorry about? What did "sorry" cure? She'd told him that once. Now, he knew what she meant. He stood, suitcase in hand, at the open doorway. He must go.

"Wait," she said. "There's something else too. Only I can't tell it, with you standing there like some door-to-door salesman. Come into our room a minute. I don't want Paulie to hear."

Unwillingly, he put down his suitcase and followed her back to the bedroom. What use was there in all this? Why must she make it so hard?

She shut the bedroom door. "Now, listen," she said. "I never slept with Gerry. On my word of honor. I wouldn't do it until you and I were legally separated."

He nodded. Get it over with.

"You should have seen Gerry just now/' she said. "He behaved like a total stranger. How could anyone love a person who'd let someone go to jail and be glad of it? He doesn't love me, either, he just wants me. Whereas you — you stood up in the courtroom this morning and gave a false name for my sake and for Paulie's —"

She stopped. She seemed to be waiting for him to tell her something.

"All right then," she said. "If that's the way of it, won't you even kiss me good-by?"

Kiss this stranger? Unwillingly, he put his arms around her. She was shaking. He looked down at the nape of her neck, bared by her new hairdo. It was unfamiliar, yet familiar. Ah GodI Had he been wrong in that, as well? For, now that he held her, she was no stranger at all, but Veronica, the woman he had slept with how many thousand nights. Veronica: older and heavier than the girl he had married, her breasts a little too big, her eyes edged with small white lines, her hand, now touching his cheek, roughened by years over sinks and washtubs. Veronica, No stranger: not desirable.

"Ginger," she said. "You still love me, don't you? You said you did."

Love her? This body familiar as his own . . . Desire her? This woman growing old . . .

"Even if you don't love me," she said. "There's Paulie. That child wept half the night, worrying about you. You can't walk out on her now."

Didn't you walk out on Paulie? he thought. But what was the use in blaming her? Blame was his. "Look," he said. "You'd be better off, you and Paulie . . ."

He did not go on. Someone else was saying all this. Not Ginger Coffey. Someone who had stopped looking for the good in the bad; who had stopped running uphill in hopes; someone who knew the truth. He did not love her:

he could no longer love. He did not want to watch her cry. She was getting old: she was just another illusion he no longer had.

He began to button his overcoat.

"No, we wouldn't," she was saying. "Because it wasn't only your fault, it was mine. When I saw Gerry just now — I mean, saw the real Gerry — I knew it was my fault. What I mean is, I'd like to start again. Listen, we could start again if you wanted to? You could get that job as Mr. Brott's Personal Assistant, if you went and asked for it."

He looked down at her. Yes, that was true. He might get that job. He could become, now and forevermore, amen, the glorified secretary she had always thought he was. What did it matter? What was so terrible about that? Didn't most men try and fail, weren't most men losers? Didn't damn nearly everyone have to face up someday to the fact that their ship would never come in?

He had tried. He had not won. He would die in humble circs.

"I'm sure he'd give you the job," she said. "Honestly, Ginger, I'm sure of it."

He smiled. Wasn't that familiar, somehow?

"Don't laugh," she said. "You'll see!"

"I'm not laughing," he told her.

"Why, listen," she said. "In a year or two we'll have forgotten this ever happened."

He did not feel like someone else now. She did.

"And if you do stay," she said. "I'd never ask you to go home again. You were right. Home is here, we're far better off here. Why, in a month or two, with my job and your job, we'd be sitting pretty. You were right. This was only a crush, I had. Why, I'll bet you —"

"A brand-new frock, Vera?"

She stopped. She looked at him, her eyes blinding with tears. "Oh, Ginger," she said. "I sound like you."

"I know you do." He went to her, put his arm around her and opened the bedroom door.

"Your coffee's ready," Paulie called from the kitchen. "And do you want an egg, Daddy?"

Beside him, Vera waited his answer.

"HI have two eggs," he said.

"Good. I'll put them on," Paulie said.

"No, Til do it," Vera said. Quickly, she went out of the room and down the hall.

He pushed the bedroom door, let it drift shut. He unbuttoned his overcoat. In the dresser mirror, the man began to cry. Detached, he watched the tears run down that sad impostor's face, gather on the edges of that large mustache. Why was that man boohooing? Because he no longer lusted for his wife? Because he wasn't able to leave her? Ah, you idjit, you. Don't you know that love isn't just going to bed? Love isn't an act, it's a whole life. It's staying with her now because she needs you; it's knowing you and she will still care about each other when sex and daydreams, fights and futures — when all that's on the shelf and done with. Love — why, I'll tell you what love is: it's you at seventy-five and her at seventy-one, each of you listening for the other's step in the next room, each afraid that a sudden silence, a sudden cry, could mean a lifetime's talk is over.

He had tried: he had not won. But oh! what did it matter? He would die in humble circs: it did not matter. There would be no victory for Ginger Coffey, no victory big or little, for there, on the courthouse steps, he had learned the truth. Life was the victory, wasn't it? Going on was the victory. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health . . . till . . .

He heard her step outside. He went to join her.