The Self-Enchanted

by David Stacton

  It was then that he heard voices approaching. Drawing back, he contrived to keep himself unseen. He recognized Christopher’s voice and then heard a woman’s laughter. It was Carson’s daughter. Stepping from the edge of darkness, by a path he had not noticed, she said: “I hope you weren’t disappointed.”

  “I can’t say I am.” Christopher spoke clearly, as though sitting in a room. He did not, as do most people, drop his voice in deference to the night. He saw the monument.

  “My God,” he said. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, that gives everybody a turn. That’s Dad’s obelisk. When Mother died he buried her here. The government wouldn’t let him, but he did it anyway and bought the obelisk. He said he wanted something big. There wasn’t anybody who could stop him, because he was friendly with the district Congressman. He says he’ll be buried here himself.”

  “Then I guess he will be.”

  “You like Dad, don’t you?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  She sat down on the base of the obelisk, like a boy. She certainly had a boyish figure. “I wonder what brought you here,” she said. “I think it was pride, just to do something because it was fantastic. That’s what I’d like to do.”

  “You’re a determined young woman.”

  She was silent for a while. “I suppose you’ve seen the world,” she said then. “What is it like?”

  The question did not seem to impress her as being comic, and Christopher did not take it so. On the other hand, he didn’t answer it either. It was clear to Curt that they had been talking like that for some time.

  “You see,” she went on. “I’ve never been in a big hotel. I mean a real big one, with loads of waiters and things.” She stopped to consider. “What do you do?” she asked him,

  “This and that. Mostly I gamble.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Dad used to sell bootleg whisky to the Indians. They were just big fat old Indians.”

  Christopher sounded uncomfortable. “It’s pretty here, but it’s cold,” he said. “Shall we go back?”

  She got up and stared at him curiously. “Did you know Mr. Bolton came to see me?” she asked.

  “What the devil for?”

  “I don’t think for anything. I don’t think you understand him very well.”

  “Why the hell should I bother to?”

  “He’s fond of you and he lets you use him,” she said. She sighed and brushed off her skirt. “I guess we’d better get back at that. Dad usually likes someone to help him when he gets drunk, and he went to the village, so I guess he is drunk.”

  Curt drew farther back into the undergrowth. When they had gone ahead he followed them, so that from the edge of the woods he could see them cross the meadow, and could hear Sally Carson’s laughter. Her voice, on that frost-coated air, seemed deep with secret knowledge. Annoyed, Curt turned back and went home. He got into bed, but he did not sleep. In about an hour he heard footsteps on the gravel. They were followed, in short order, by a rap on his door. There was no point in pretending he was asleep, so he asked Christopher to come in.

  And then, involuntarily, and as a surprise to himself, as soon as Christopher was in, he told him that he wanted Sam fired.

  “Getting even?” asked Christopher.

  Curt flushed. “You put me in charge and he’s been inefficient, that’s all.”

  Christopher stared at him blandly. “It isn’t quite all,” he said. “You’ll do as I see fit. Good night.” He went out and slammed the door behind him. Only then did Curt know why he wanted Sam fired. It was jealousy. And jealousy was not a thing he was prepared in himself to face. It had too many implications, and he found it easier, therefore, not to know himself too well.

  III

  Mr. Carson was tying up his boots. He dressed by the stove in the kitchen, which was kept banked all night, and he made his own breakfast. He preferred things that way and besides, in his opinion, Sally was not the sort of girl to be gotten up at six.

  It was now already seven. Yawning and scratching, he went over and warmed his hands at the stove, shut off the damper, added wood, and put a tin of water on to boil. When he had finished washing he began to dress.

  He dressed awkwardly, but with precision. When he was done he gave a grunt and went over to the sink to wash his hands. Then he fried some bacon and eggs, put some bread to sizzle in the bacon fat, and sat down to his breakfast. He did not quite know what to make of things, and he did not understand his daughter. But he did know she was a dreamer, and that filled him with alarm. He sat there, eating and waiting for her to come down. At a quarter past seven the door opened and she came in.

  “Look at the early bird,” he said.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “That’s your new dress, isn’t it?” he asked. She had always been a tomboy, and he didn’t think she was any the worse off for that, but she had filled out a lot in the last couple of years. “Aren’t you cold?”

  “It will warm up. How’s the work going?” It was clear that she did not want to discuss the dress, and that amused him. She was as stubborn as he was, when she chose to be, and he liked his people stubborn.

  “There’s a lot left,” he said. He finished his coffee while he looked at her. “I guess I should ask Mr. Barocco to come and see us again,” he said. “He hasn’t been round lately.”

  “He was here last night.”

  “He must have missed me,” he said. He looked at his daughter and winked, but she did not blush. “He’s a nice guy, if you like them like that,” he went on. “Only he doesn’t know what he’s doing. All the same, you can’t help liking him even if he does know how to make you like him.”

  “He doesn’t know how to make me like him.”

  Mr. Carson ignored this and went on finishing his breakfast. When he had done, he gave a sniff and wiped his nose. “I gotta go,” he said. “Why don’t you come up noon and pay a visit to your dad?”

  “I have to go to the store.”

  “Mr, Barocco will be up at the site, I expect.”

  Sally exploded. “I shan’t go until I’m asked,” she said.

  Mr. Carson glanced at her with amusement. “I asked you, honey,” he said. “But I guess that isn’t what you mean.” He went out and shut the door behind him.

  After he had gone Sally had breakfast, washed the dishes, and went up to her room. She closed the door, drew down the blinds, opened the closet, on the inside of which there was a full-length mirror, and examined herself critically. She closed her eyes, trying to visualize Christopher, but could not do so. He was one of those people, real enough when you are with them, who are hard to remember. She shook her head. The whole thing was impossible.

  Half an hour later she was walking along the road. It was three miles up the valley to the store, but the sun was cheerful, and she was glad she had worn the dress. She passed the first dip in the road, going by the entrance to Christopher’s place, and at the second came in view of the village.

  Mrs. Grimes ran the general store. She was a bulky woman who always wore faded dresses and who smelled of stale milk. When Sally came in Mrs. Grimes, the fat dripping over her immensely tight shoes, lumbered to the counter. “Well,” she said, “I thought you were too grand to see us now.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I saw your father in town last night,” Mrs. Grimes told her. “He was drunk.” She stood with her hands on the counter, the pudgy little fingers turned under to hide dirty nails. She hunched herself up to see if there was a car waiting outside for Sally.

  “We ain’t seen Mr. Barocco down here,” she went on. “Rich men like that don’t pay nobody no mind. Funny how a man like that would strike up with your pa.”

  “He likes Dad,” said Sally shortly.

  “Still, it doesn’t do to stir up talk,” said Mrs. Grimes. “Mrs. Bowditch says he was up at your place last night, by the looks of the car.”

  Sally turned to her. “Have you any lemons?” she asked.

&n
bsp; Mrs. Grimes looked displeased. “Sure, if you want to pay for them. Going to make a pie?”

  “Maybe,” said Sally. When at last she could get away she stepped outside with relief, a basket on her arm, and looked down the road. Mrs. Grimes always made her feel dirty, and she was glad to get the village out of sight. After a while she heard a car behind her and hurried on, hoping that it was not Christopher.

  He passed her, and she had an instant to see him without his knowing that he was being watched. She saw the fineness of his coat, and the hairs that sprouted up out of his open shirt collar like black wires. He was frowning and looked angry, but when he realized it was she he drew up ahead and waited for her. By the time she reached him he was smiling.

  “Hello,” he said. “Get in.” He leaned over, holding the door open.

  “Dad will miss you,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I’m not his best workman. Do you suppose he’s mad at me?”

  “Why should he be?”

  “I don’t know. Mr. Bolton is. So are a lot of people.”

  All too soon they reached the farm, but he would not come in with her.

  “I have to see what Mr. Bolton’s up to,” he said, and his voice had an edge in it. “I’ll take you up there some time, if you like.” Before she had time to answer he had waved his hand and driven off. She wondered why he was so anxious to get away, for she had not seen him look so uncomfortable before.

  She was still puzzling over it when her father came home. He was alone, and limped into the room, looking tired and perplexed.

  “How was your day?” he asked.

  “I shopped at Mrs. Grimes’. She talked my ear off. And I saw Barocco.”

  “So did I.” Mr. Carson paused in the process of pulling off his boots. “He’s mad to get his house finished. But he isn’t exactly nice about it.”

  “I thought you liked him,” she said.

  Mr. Carson pulled off his other boot. “He’s a devil inside him that won’t let him go,” he said shortly.

  “What would a man like that have to worry about?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” Mr. Carson got up, holding his boots in one hand, and looked at his daughter. “I like you the way you are,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you changed.”

  “Why on earth should I change?”

  Sam looked scornful. “Because you want to,” he said, and there wasn’t any answer to that. There were times when she didn’t like her father.

  IV

  Christopher had been away for a week; her father had the sulks; and Sally felt ill at ease. The mountains seemed to hem her in; the people seemed to upset her; and she had never wanted to get away from a place so much. It was not the way she usually felt, and she refused to admit to herself why she felt so.

  She had the rattletrap pick-up her father owned and so went towards the northern exit from the valley. Beyond it she stopped at the lake where Christopher docked his plane. The lake had steep walls, it was deep, and the shore was naked except where, at the end nearest to her, there was a thinly forested spit. Open spaces did not frighten her and it was a place she was fond of. She stopped on the spit, under the trees, which smelled old. The light hit the lake in such a way that it was impossible to see anything but a sparkling mirror.

  She was sitting on a rock, feeling cold and forlorn, when she saw a silver speck indistinct against the blue sky and heard the motors of a plane, far away and lost in the aura of the sun. As she watched it, it circled over the lake, its wings wobbling, like a dead-eyed moth, its silver sides furry with reflections. It landed and was swallowed up on the water, looking no more significant than a minnow.

  Projecting from the promontory was a wharf which creaked with the turn of the water under its boards. She ran down the wharf to the plane. Christopher threw her a rope and she caught it. It was sticky in her hands as she looped it around the capstan.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded. He jumped down on to the dock. “Does anyone else know I’m hack?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t know I was coming?”

  She was perplexed. She couldn’t see how it mattered. “Of course not. I often come here. I like it.”

  “It’s an odd place for a woman to like.”

  “Why?” she asked. Behind him she saw the door of the plane still open and waggling like a broken wing. But he laughed at the tone of her voice. Evidently he was in a good humour. She was encouraged. “I’d like to fly,” she said. “I see the red and green lights going overhead and I think, these are very important people, going somewhere very secret and grand. You’ve no idea what it’s like to be shut up in this valley and to lie in bed and hear the planes go over. I’ve never even been to San Francisco, except when I was a child.”

  “San Francisco is a nice town,” he said softly. He looked almost amused, and that made her indignant. She was too young to be laughed at.

  “You can say that. You’ve been to New York and Baltimore and Montreal and you can say, ‘it’s a nice town’, because you have been there.”

  “I much prefer the valley.”

  “That’s because you don’t have to stay in it. You’ll live up there on your cliff and go away when you want to.” She walked up and down the wharf, rubbing her arms against the cold.

  “And what would you like to do?” he asked.

  She looked at him doubtfully. “I’d like to be free,” she said. “I’d like to be big and hard to touch and do what I pleased.”

  This seemed to startle him. He looked at her closely. “You could always get a job in San Francisco.”

  “What could I do?” she asked bitterly.

  “Nothing, probably, but you’re not exactly ugly. I could get you a job, if you wanted one.”

  “But that wouldn’t be free,” she said.

  He glanced at her curiously. “No,” he agreed. He seemed thoughtful. “No. I guess it wouldn’t be.” He started to walk along the pier as though to get away from her, so she followed as meekly as she could. “Does your father know you feel this way?”

  “Dad wouldn’t care. He can do what he pleases here, and that’s all he wants. Somewhere else he couldn’t.”

  “I think”, said Christopher, “that you are very unusual.”

  “But you don’t like me.”

  “What on earth gave you that idea?”

  She stole a glance at him out of the corners of her eyes, because she could not remember how he looked. “I don’t think you like anybody,” she told him. “I think you hate everybody. I don’t know why.”

  “And do you like everybody?” he asked sarcastically. “Or am I a special case?”

  She blushed. Besides, she was out of breath trying to keep up with him. They halted in the copse, before the car.

  “Since you’re here,” he said, “you can drive me home.” He did not seem annoyed.

  “I’ve been trying to make up my mind,” she said. “I think you like to fascinate people just to get your own way.”

  “Can you think of a better reason to fascinate them?”

  “No,” she agreed slowly. “I suppose not.” She paused, getting into the car, and he got in meekly beside her, unaccustomed to being driven by a woman. She looked at the valley with something close to revulsion.

  “It must be wonderful to do as you please,” she sighed.

  “What on earth makes you think I do as I please?” He sounded angry.

  “You do, though,” she said. He laughed and that upset her. “You make me cross,” she told him. “You make me talk and then you treat me like a child. No wonder they hate you in the valley.”

  “What?” He was genuinely startled.

  “Well, they do. They hate everybody and everything that isn’t like them.”

  “Sometimes it’s useful to be hated,” said Christopher softly. “You just have to know how to make use of hate, that’s all.”

  “But you’re strong. I’m not.”

  Christopher looked at h
er speculatively and then glanced away. Sally did not like the look. “I talk too much,” she said. She felt frightened.

  “There’s no such thing as talking too much. There’s just talking to the wrong people.” Christopher seemed sad. She saw the valley through the windshield and suddenly, as a surprise even to herself, she began to cry.

  “My God,” said Christopher.

  “I can’t help it,” she wailed. “I’m so damn fed up.”

  He sat uncomfortable and far over to his side of the car. At last he gave her his handkerchief. It was large, of coarse linen, with a heavy monogram that scraped her nose, but she was glad of it, and looked at him out of the edges of it, sideways.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she said.

  “There’s no reason why you should be.”

  “But you won’t talk to me any more now. You’ll be afraid,” she sobbed.

  “Stop that!” he snapped, sitting upright. “Drive me home.” His voice was hard and crisp and obediently she stopped.

  When she dropped him at his gate he got out with obvious relief. She watched him go and did not think that she would ever see him again. She started up the car and rather than go to the farm, drove back to the lake. Until evening she sat there, brooding.

  V

  She had no one to talk to, but the men did.

  It was a gusty day. The wind rose through the pylons of the house and fell whistling into space. Across from the house could be seen a cleft in the cliffs, with beyond it the concrete dam belonging to the local power company, and beyond that, the blue mysterious heart of the mountains themselves. It was not the top of the world, but it was a shelf placed just below the top. From the other side of the house one saw the desert, with its volcanic cones, and in the distance, over the dusty waters of Mono Lake, the coast of Nevada, a thin line of desolation backed by indistinct peaks. Nearer to the valley ran the Reno-Los Angeles highway.

  Christopher stood in what were to be his own halls, on a bright green terazzo floor. It was noon, so the house had the haunted desertion of a place from which people have only recently gone. Curt found him sheltering in what would be the fireplace of the library, gazing into those granite heights where even in summer the storms never ceased.