The Self-Enchanted

by David Stacton

  “How did you get in from the lake?”

  “The Carson girl drove me to the farm and I got a car from there. She was down at the lake.” Christopher stopped looking into the mountains and twitched his fingers irritably. He glanced sharply at Curt. In the sunlight Curt blinked like some vegetable kind of man with sprouting eyes

  “She’s very ambitious,” he said.

  “Why do you say that? What ambitions would a girl in a place like this have?” Christopher caught himself up. “You don’t like her.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “As a matter of fact she said you didn’t. She said I didn’t either. She’s a shrewd girl.”

  “That’s what she wants you to think.” Curt was acid.

  Christopher shrugged. “She’s intelligent and ambitious. I don’t think she’d stop at anything to get her way, if she ever really woke up.”

  “I scarcely call that admirable.”

  Christopher stared at him coolly, pulled two ways. “Perhaps you don’t. I do.”

  “I doubt if she’s met a rich man before.” Curt looked at him slowly, too angry to notice the danger signals. But Christopher only walked away, and Curt had the impression that he was thinking less of Sally than of someone else. But he also noticed that Christopher, from then on, seemed to ignore Sam Carson.

  For his part, Sam noticed the same thing, and knew that others would notice it. It was important to him that they should not. He looked at Christopher’s well-tailored back and wondered why the men were afraid of it. He had his own opinion of Christopher, and it was not a flattering one. Besides, there was his daughter.

  Behind him he heard the rasping of a crosscut saw whining monotonously through young wood. He got up, went to the outhouse, and found Bill Sykes there. He nodded curtly. Sykes was the nephew of Mrs. Grimes and no friend of his. They had had a fight over a strip of pasture that ran out into Mr. Carson’s meadow.

  “I see the boss doesn’t chew the fat with you any more,” said Sykes. Carson did not bother to answer. “I wonder why.” Sykes chuckled, and Carson went out and urinated under a tree. When he returned to work he was in a temper. The more he thought about Sykes, the madder he got. He left his tools where they were and strode down the causeway. Sykes was under it, and asked him if he was quitting that soon. Dimly Carson saw Christopher in the work-shed, talking to Mr. Bolton, but he went straight on past the parked trucks and trudged down the road. He heard footsteps behind him, but he did not slow down. Breathing noisily, he clumped down the hill. Even when Christopher called to him he did not answer. Christopher caught up.

  “You could wait,” he panted. “If you want to quit, I’ll drive you home.” Sam strode right on. “I don’t blame you for quitting. It’s a filthy day,” said Christopher, trying to keep up.

  Sam stopped and turned on him. “I don’t want a ride,” he said, “and if I did, I wouldn’t ask for it. I never asked anybody for anything, and I shan’t start now.”

  “What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing’s eating me. I got tired and I’m going home.”

  “I’ll tell Bolton to give you a full day.”

  “I’m not asking any favours and I’m not taking none.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Sam, I thought we were friends,” said Christopher.

  “You can’t play with me, and you can’t play with my daughter either,” said Sam, and strode right on, his hands shoved into his pockets, full of the heavy tantrum of a selfish man.

  “What your daughter does is her own affair.” Christopher walked beside him, enjoying himself.

  “I didn’t ask you to shove your snout into my affairs,” said Sam. “I am asking you to stop.” He sounded hurt. “You wheedle like a woman,” he said. “You think you own the world, but you don’t own me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a bastard like any other bastard, and I’ll thank you not to talk to me.”

  “What the hell do I care about your daughter? If you choose to listen to a pack of swine, that’s your own affair.” Christopher sounded angry.

  “I do my work and I do it right,” said Sam.

  “What the hell has that got to do with it?”

  “You just remember that,” Sam said, nodding his head slowly, and punch-drunk with temper. Barocco looked at him coldly and walked back up the hill. Sam continued on down. He refused to look back. He had never looked back in his life. At the same time he had made a mistake, he knew it, and he knew he was too old to make mistakes. “No bastard can say that to me,” he mumbled, and kicked a stone. What he was really wondering was what he would tell Sally, but when he got home she was out.

  *

  She had half-expected Christopher, and when he did not come, she had gone for a walk alone. She took the path to the obelisk, going across the meadow. The wind was unfriendly. The obelisk looked shabby and pretentious. Sam had had his own birth-date engraved on it, together with the other half to the extent of the century. She wondered, looking at it, if her mother had been loved, or if the monument was just another piece of Sam’s pride. She would never know. All she had of her mother was a faded photograph of a lady in the costume of 1910, with puffed sleeves, a long neck, and big sad eyes.

  She took the path she had taken with Christopher, but went beyond it to where a shelf of rock jutted out at an angle, forming a path invisible from below. It led to a ledge edged with a few stubborn trees and carpeted with needles. It had always been one of her hiding-places, and it was where she always took her troubles. Up there she could do anything she chose. It was one of the few places where she felt strong.

  But she did not feel strong now. She would spend the rest of her life here, rooted and chained to these trees, these fields, these farms, with all around her the noise of the world, far off, like a glittering city seen across a bay at night. Yet it would have taken so little to get her away.

  It was cold, but she could not bring herself to leave for a long time. Far off, for it was late summer now, she heard a trickle of water, like life draining away. She took a last look at the valley below her and got up to go.

  When she got back to the farm she found her father in the kitchen, humming to himself over an old newspaper. He wanted to know where she had been.

  “I went for a walk.”

  “Alone?” His eyes looked jealous.

  “Yes.”

  He glanced back at his paper. She turned to leave, but then she thought of something. “Did you have a fight with Barocco?” she asked.

  “What if I did?” He folded his newspaper with the slow deliberateness that usually got him his own way.

  “What about?” She asked only because she did not want to know.

  “That’s my affair.” He was in his stockinged feet. She could see where his long underwear came down into his socks, bulging them into a bandage at the calf, and there was a hole in one toe.

  “It wasn’t a very practical thing to do,” she said. “He could help you a lot.”

  “I don’t need anybody’s help.”

  “I do.”

  “So,” he said. “Now we come to the truth of it.”

  Sally bit her lip and looked around the kitchen. Her nerves were on edge and it looked mean to her. “I don’t want to live here all my life,” she said.

  “No daughter of mine is going to leave me. Not without my permission she isn’t. Do you think a man like that would be bothered with someone like you? He’s crazy.”

  “I suppose you’re sane?” she asked bitterly.

  “He told me to go to the devil,” said Sam, brooding.

  “You probably deserved it.” She stood staring at him, watching an uncut toenail through the hole in his sock. “Why don’t you go and make it up?” she asked. “It was probably your fault.”

  “And have them laugh at me for having a tart for a daughter? I’m no such fool.”

  Sally stood very still, and just stared at him. “Haven’t you any pride?” she asked at last.

  “I am what I am,” he said
heavily.

  “I wouldn’t be proud of it.”

  Sam looked at her, shaking like an engine, and in silence put on his boots. “I’m going to the village,” he said. “I don’t want to see you.”

  Sally looked at his thick head on his thick neck and his little eyes that only saw what was in front of him. He turned and went banging out of the house, leaving a heavy silence behind him that clogged the air like blue tobacco smoke. She went to her room and lay down on the bed. It was a long time before she got to sleep.

  *

  Christopher had it no easier. First Mrs. Grimes put his back up in the store. He went down there at about eight, and the store seemed deserted. He came to the counter and rapped on it. Nobody came.

  “Is there anyone here?” he called. Mrs. Grimes was watching him from the back, but she did not move. She was waiting for him to call again, but he did not call again. Instead he went quickly behind the counter, took two packets of cigarettes and some matches and laid a dollar bill on the counter. Mrs. Grimes got up. The rocker flapped empty behind her and she stepped forward.

  “Well, mister, what do you think you’re doing?” she asked. Mostly she wanted to get a close look at him.

  “Since you didn’t choose to wait on me, I waited on myself.”

  She lumbered over to the counter and picked up the dollar. “Round here folks usually like their change,” she said. “We ain’t showy.”

  “If you’ve satisfied your curiosity and your tongue,” he said, “I’ll go. Good night.” He walked across the road and stood looking at the village shacks. Then he went into the nearest bar. All the workmen were there. The bartender noticed him right away and wiped a glass more slowly. Christopher ordered a scotch and water. The bartender shoved aside a bottle of vodka and reached for the scotch, eyeing Christopher. The room was crowded and smoky and stank of sweat. A short man in blue overalls was working himself into a rage over a slot machine.

  “Saturday night’s a big night,” said the bartender.

  “It usually is,” said Christopher, still ruffled by Mrs. Grimes. He put his hand around his glass and found it was still warm from washing. He took a gulp of it and put it down.

  “I understand you and Carson had a falling out,” said the bartender. He nodded towards the door, where Carson was just coming in. “Everybody does, sooner or later. He’s quite a character round here. I don’t envy that daughter of his.”

  “What about her?” asked Christopher bluntly.

  The bartender eyed him slyly. “Nothing about her,” he said. With a lubricious smile he busied himself with his dirty glasses.

  Sam Carson stood blinking in the doorway and blowing on his hands. He did not fit into the room. He went to the bar and sat down several stools away from Barocco. Barocco nodded to him and then turned away, facing a calendar of a Petty girl on a bearskin rug. The room seemed to grow quiet. Irritated, Christopher put his drink down on a slot machine and turned to go.

  Carson looked after Christopher, swallowed his own drink, pulled himself up as though he weighed a good deal more than he had expected himself to weigh, and lumbered out after him. He stood on the steps, and seeing Christopher ready to put his key in the car door, went over to the car. He did not like what he was doing, and his body showed his discomfiture. It was clumsier than ever.

  “Good evening,” he said. His pride wouldn’t allow him to call Christopher by his last name, and he could not call him by his first, so he called him nothing.

  Christopher seemed preoccupied. Obviously distracted, he turned and looked at Carson. “Hello, Sam,” he said at last. “Want a lift?”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” said Sam, glad of the dark. In the car he sat bolt upright. “My daughter thinks perhaps I was hard on you,” he said. Christopher did not answer. “She sorta likes you, I guess. She doesn’t lead much of a life here, though she used to like it well enough.”

  Christopher concentrated on the road and Carson was agonized. Turning his heavy head like an ox, he glanced at Barocco, but could see nothing. Christopher drew up before the farm and pulled the car to a stop. Sam got out. “Thanks for the lift,” he said.

  Christopher stirred slightly. “Are you coming back on the job?” he asked.

  “I might. My leg is bothering me some.”

  Christopher smiled and stuck out his hand. Carson was surprised how easy it was for him to take it. “It’s cold,” he grunted. “Why don’t you come in for a nip?”

  Christopher hesitated. “Okay,” he said, pursing his lips. “Thanks.”

  Jubilant, Carson led the way into the kitchen. The lights had been left on. He rummaged around in the kitchen cupboards until he found a plump bottle, which he brought back to the table, getting two glasses to go with it. He poured clumsily, clanking the bottle against the rim of the glasses. He noticed Christopher glance at the door behind him, but said nothing. There was a long silence. The door behind them opened, and Sally stepped out, frowning, tying the belt of a blue robe around her waist. She did not look as though she had been asleep. When she saw Christopher she stopped short.

  “I brought him for a drink to warm him up,” said Carson. “He drove me home.”

  Sally looked rapidly at both of them and then closely at her father. Neither of them had anything to say. Christopher fingered his glass thoughtfully. His fingers, Sally noticed, though stubby, were supple and finely manicured. Christopher finished his drink and stood up.

  “That was good,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “There’s no need for you to go yet,” said Sam. “Stay and have a drink with me. A real drink.” The liquor was strong and he was beginning to feel expansive. He glanced swiftly at his daughter, but her face was expressionless.

  “No,” said Christopher. “Good night.” He looked at Sally. “We’ll expect you back to-morrow,” he told Carson, “if your leg is all right.”

  With that he left. Sally stood where she was until she heard the car start, and then she relaxed. “Why did you bring him here?” she asked.

  “He drove me home. The only decent thing to do was to offer him a drink. It’s a cold night out.” Carson settled himself comfortably in his chair and undid his shirt.

  “You brought him here deliberately.”

  Carson did not look up. He sighed with contentment and wriggled his toes. Sally moved about the kitchen, taking off the stove lid and automatically putting in a chunk of wood.

  “A man like that”, said Carson, “wouldn’t want the likes of you.” Chuckling, he poured himself another drink. “Besides, I’m not so bad, now, am I?” He sat there, not looking at her, until she went out of the kitchen and slammed the door behind her.

  VI

  Things went on like that, but there was a smell of change in the air that worried all of them. Curt felt it as did the others, and it disturbed him. Yet the valley was lovely. The deer, a little apprehensive, still showed themselves as they crept down to the meadows to drink, either at dawn, or late in the evening. They were beautiful and foolish. And all evening long flocks of geese flew quacking south. Nature was stretching out its claws.

  Christopher was agitated and restless. Curt saw little of him. He came and went in that small plane of his, for no apparent reason. They were all waiting, Curt realized, for winter. It made them like frightened animals. His own concern was for the house. It was not yet finished, and even he could feel the change in the air, a hard, sharp change of climate. The winds had teeth. And one day, while he was in his office, he heard a roar, and rushing outside saw across the valley a cliff tumble down into an avalanche. It lasted only a moment or two, it was only a small avalanche, but it made him fear for the house. And Christopher was no help. He was like a dog that sees something we cannot, and so makes us all the more afraid.

  Sally also felt the change, but even though she dreaded winter, she was excited by it for she loved it too. Then the world was different and strange and overwhelmed with snow which swept it clean.

  One afternoon she caugh
t sight of Christopher standing on a boulder. She could not figure out how he had climbed up on it. He was totally unaware of her, and was looking out over the valley.

  She had not seen him for two weeks, and had given up hope of doing so. She had felt futile. But this morning she had felt differently, the cold air had slapped her awake, and a walk in the afternoon had given her courage. So she called out to him. He looked down, and seen from below he towered up like a statue.

  “Hello,” he said. She had seldom seen him in so good a mood. She looked up at him, twisting to see him more clearly, and they both laughed.

  “I haven’t laughed for ages,” she said. “What are you doing up there?”

  “I was thinking.” He jumped down like a boy, dusted off his hands on his trousers, and walked beside her. She had never found him so easy and companionable before. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. But she did. She had not realized before how handsome he could be. “You could be nice if you chose,” she said.

  “Aren’t I always nice?”

  She did not answer that, but began to thread her way through the wood, among the confused trees, and he followed. It was like a game of hide and seek. The woods were aromatic with rotting pine needles and decaying ferns. She led him on and came out behind the obelisk. She climbed breathlessly and came to the V-shaped ledge that was her secret hiding-place. She climbed on to the ledge and stood there waiting.

  The view surprised him. “I didn’t know this was here,” he said.

  “No one does,” she told him. She sat on the grass, silent, while he looked out across the valley. “This is my hideaway,” she said. “I’ve never brought anybody here before.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  She pretended not to hear him. “When I was a girl I thought there was a nest of hawks here. They would come and eat up my enemies and carry me off to the mountains. Have you ever been up there?”