Free Young Mr. Keefe by Stephen; Birmingham Page A

California?” Blazer asked.
    â€œI know …”
    â€œCalifornia is damp and dreary.”
    â€œBut this place is nice,” Jimmy said.
    â€œYes, because we’re here,” Blazer said.
    â€œOh, do you think this place is nice only because we’re here?” Claire asked.
    â€œYes.”
    Claire said, “That may be true. I detest towns with Spanish names.”
    â€œAnd missions …”
    â€œAnd abalone …”
    â€œAnd avocados.”
    â€œJimmy’s growing one in a glass of water.”
    â€œMy pet peeve is Mexican food … enchiladas!”
    â€œI hope I’ve seen my last artichoke.”
    Claire said sleepily, “I’m dreadfully homesick. Mother and Daddy are probably at the Cape now …”
    â€œI’m glad we’re not with them, though,” Blazer said.
    â€œWell, so am I, in a way.”
    Jimmy said, “We’re all New Englanders, transplanted. Our roots don’t seem to take to California soil.” He yawned and stretched his feet closer to the fire.
    The three New Englanders, transplanted, were rooted there against the night’s green bank, no one daring to speak now, to say a word, or move. Caressing the fat, cold dew drops with their toes in the deep pine needles, smelling of soap and Seaforth and Chanel Number Five, they were indeed a tragic sight. They were on a merry-go-round in the blackness beyond the limits of their fire, and it was anyone’s guess which star they might be thrown off on. Nursing their desperate, self-pitying dream, they sat, all shoulders touching, back to back. (Jimmy thought: Perhaps we are not really troubled; perhaps we only long to be. Is it that simple?) A star fell. That was Claire’s star. And then another one for Blazer, and then three rapid ones close together, any one of which Jimmy could have had for the asking. These lovers, these hybrid flowers struggling in an unfriendly land, drew close together and tried to remember shows they had seen, night-club banquettes they had sat upon, what the signs said twinkling on the Jersey shore from the West Side Highway, what the mother swan said when she found her ugly duckling missing, and where Moses was when the lights went out.…
    â€œIf ever a day should end, it should end now,” Jimmy said. And the night was still, pierced only with the glow of the fire, and their cigarettes.

4
    Alone in his sleeping-bag, Jimmy thought about what Claire had said. Was it true that they were people who had everything to offer, yet who actually offered nothing? In some ways it was true, disturbingly true. He tried to think about it, but realized that he could only think about his own particular problem—his loneliness, confusion, not being able to sleep without having gaudy, nightmarish dreams. My world is as small as this sleeping-bag, he thought. He thought of himself. James Lyndon Keefe, Jun. He thought of his mother and father. For no reason, he suddenly remembered the night, a year ago, when he tried to tell his mother about Helen. She had been dressed and leaving for a party, her crimson silk coat rustling about her, her fine white hair piled high upon her head. The Chrysler was waiting, parked in the lighted driveway. “I’ve met this girl—” he began. But she was already late. “Can it wait?” she said. “Can you tell me about it later? It sounds terribly exciting, darling, but I must rush.” “Can you wait just a second, Mother?” he had asked. “Dear, I can’t .” She offered her cheek to be kissed. It smelled of powder and perfume, and the high collar of her silk coat tickled his neck. “We won’t be late,” she said. “I’ll stop by your room when I get home.” He kissed her; that night, he heard her come in and snapped on the light, waiting to hear her footsteps come down the hall. But she had forgotten. He turned off the light and angrily swore