Lily Cigar

by Tom Murphy

“But why?”

  “Because you are so very lovely, and I thought that to meet a lovely woman might be fatal to me.”

  “You think, then, that we are all alike?”

  “I know you are not like…her.”

  “I am what I am—and what I have been can never be altered.”

  “You do yourself an injustice, Lily. Without knowing—or wanting to know—the details of it, I am sure you did what you did from necessity. The woman who did me such mischief is a true wanton, a harlot to her bones, incapable of an honest thought or action, degenerate. No one is more of a whore than the former Mrs. Brooks Chaffee!”

  His voice had risen as he spoke, until it was something like a shout. He turned from her and covered his face with his hands.

  Lily could not bear to see him thus. She moved closer and touched his hair, as if comforting a small child.

  “She must be wicked, who can make you feel so unhappy.”

  He turned to her then and put both of his arms around her and kissed her fiercely on the lips. The electricity of it raced through Lily to her toes. For a moment she struggled in his arms, more from surprise than from reticence. Then, with a sigh, he released her.

  “Lily, Lily, Lily! Now you have heard my confession. Now you know what no one outside my parents knows. And now I must ask you a terrible question.”

  “If I can do anything at all to help, you may be sure that I will.”

  “Do you think you could ever love me, Lily? Knowing me as you do, could you consider becoming my wife?”

  Lily stood bolt upright as if someone had warned her of rattlesnakes in the vicinity. She turned from him and looked out over the spectacular view, down the rolling hills to the blue ocean. But the view was blurred by her tears.

  There was silence, and only the restless wind could be heard on the hilltop. She heard him stir, felt him close behind her, felt his strong arms encircling her forcefully, tenderly. For a moment she just stood there, feeling the warmth of him, glorying in his closeness, in his touch, in the heartbreaking suddenness of his proposal. That it was a true and honorable offer, Lily had no doubt whatsoever. But to have her ancient dream come so close, so quickly, threw her into several kinds of confusion. How in heaven could it ever work? She was the only reasonably attractive woman around—that was it, Brooks was a man and he’d probably been without a woman for some time, that was all. But, of course, that wasn’t all.

  Finally she turned in his arms and looked up at him.

  “I admire you, I like you, I trust you absolutely Brooks. And it is even possible that I love you, for all I know of love. But we must be cautious. This is not a thing to be rushed. It is kind of you—but then, you are ever kind—to forgive my past. But you must know all about me. My background is so very different from yours, I’m a simple Irish girl, and if I hadn’t taught myself to read and write, you can be sure no one else would have. I’m an orphan…”

  “Was that ever a crime, my darling, to be an orphan? Or to be ambitious for an education? I daresay half the girls I knew in New York could scarcely read or write either, when it comes to that.”

  “My brother is a born troublemaker.”

  “I’m not proposing to your brother.”

  “Not only was I a whore, Brooks, but a very famous one too: they wrote songs about Lily Cigar, and sold my picture in the public souvenir shops.”

  “You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know, my darling. Why do you fight it so?”

  His arms were still tight around her; Lily didn’t dare to move away for fear she’d faint. Instead, she lowered her head until it was nestled against his chest.

  “Because I’m afraid,” she said in a small, small voice. “I am afraid because I never dared to hope for real happiness, or a decent marriage, and it seems like some magical wish granted in an old fairy story. It seems so magical to me, Brooks, that I tremble to my toes in fear that it will vanish and go away, and perhaps some sad voice inside me says: ‘Don’t take the chance, for if you take the chance, you only risk the failing, and what you have, small happiness as it is, is better than that.’”

  He roared with laughter then, and she looked up, startled, sure in her heart he’d gone mad.

  “Don’t you see, Lily, we’re the same person: afraid to walk for fear we might stumble. Well, I, for one, want to walk again. No! To run! To fly!”

  He kissed her again, softly this time. “Fly with me, Lily. Say you will.”

  Lily looked up at him and felt as though she were falling, and falling through some enormous dark space, a little fragment spilling off the moon. But it wasn’t a dangerous feeling now, but rather a lovely warm floating, for his arms were around her, and nothing in the world or the hereafter could bring her harm.

  “Oh, Brooks. Of course I will.”

  He led her back to the picnic and they sat down and quietly finished the meal, shy, suddenly, after such a tidal wave of love and revelation.

  Finally he said, musing, “We earn it, you know, my darling. It doesn’t seem to work very well when it is simply handed to us upon a silver salver, as so many things have been given to me over the years.”

  “Earn what?”

  “Happiness, you goose! I am happier right now, on this hilltop, Lily, than I ever dared to hope.”

  “Do you believe in dreams coming true?”

  “Of course. One just did.”

  “Ah, but you say that lightly. I mean a real, long-term, heavily mortgaged dream, of the kind we keep locked away in the deepest vault, even from ourselves.”

  “Have I made you daft, Lily? Whatever do you mean?”

  “You asked me had I ever been in love. And I answered truly. That once, long ago, when I was a silly girl, I saw—quite by chance, mind you!—the most beautiful young man in all the world. Just for a moment did I see him, he said not ten words to me, and saw me not at all, for what was I but an underparlormaid in a fine New York mansion?”

  “And…”

  “And that boy was you.”

  Brooks looked at her as though he had seen a ghost. It seemed almost impossible, a miracle, yet this was a day made of miracles. For surely it was a miracle that she could love him, that the winds of fate had driven them together, and here, high upon this hill, with all the world before them, bathed in the golden sun of California. When he spoke, his voice was breathless with astonishment.

  “Lily! Why did you never tell me?”

  “Because…I didn’t know what you’d think—maybe you’d think that I had set my cap for you, that I was more wicked than I am.”

  “And how long ago was that, and in whose house?”

  “It was the world ago, Brooks, and the house was the Wallingfords’.”

  She paused, wondering if she’d gone too far, if she should tell him the full story. A quick dark force inside her urged Lily to leave the history of her relations with Jack Wallingford for another day. Enough was enough.

  “No! But Jack was one of my closest friends, damn him to hell.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because…I have reason to think he was one of my wife’s lovers. One, dear Lily, out of very many. But it seems that for Jack to do that to a friend…Ah, well, let it be. He was always a wild one, and I am perfectly sure he received plenty of encouragement.”

  “I think,” she said quietly, “that my heart will burst if I have one penny’s worth more of happiness this day. Let’s go home and talk to Kate: she loves you already, Brooks, and to have you as a father…well, that will be the wonder of wonders.”

  But even as she spoke Kate’s name, Lily shuddered, and a chill crept through her soul. How could she ever tell Brooks the truth about Kate, without breaking his damaged heart yet again? Surely he had the right to ask. And just as surely she had the right to spare him the knowledge that Jack Wallingford had despoiled the only two women Brooks had ever loved? To tell it plain would be more than Brooks could bear, more than she could bear telling. Her mind raced. She would tell him as much
of the truth as would do no harm—to either of them. And if the angels despised her for that, she would face them in her time. Anything would be preferable to endangering this bright fragile thing that had come to her so unexpectedly: his love.

  Lily took a deep breath. She looked into his eyes and spoke softly. “Kate’s father was a wild lad. He did not marry me. That is why I came out here, to make a new life for the child. She has never known a father.”

  There. It is done, and he’ll never know more while I live. It’s almost the truth, for if Jack Wallingford isn’t a wild lad, then who is? Such a small bending of the truth, to spare a good man so much pain. How could the angels punish her for that?

  He took her hand. “Kate will have a father now, my darling. You’ll see.”

  They rode back slowly, close together, talking softly of many things. The wedding, perforce, would be soon and simple. The two great ranches would be conjoined, the small intervening farms bought up. There were many plans and many dreams, and every one of them would come true. That was exactly what happened in the fairy stories Kate loved so well, and Lily was ready to bet her life that the same glorious magic that had suffused them on her hilltop would shine and glimmer down all the days of their lives.

  Brooks courted her now like a shy young man, and paid formal visits and brought her gifts. The wedding date was set for May 30, a month hence. And when they parted now, kissing warmly, easily, and with building passion, never did he ask of her what she would readily have given him; the joys of her body, the comforts of her bed, would wait until after the great day of their wedding.

  It was as though they had made a secret pact, each with the other, to start the future fresh, newborn upon Lily’s hilltop on the beautiful day he had first opened his heart to her, and she to him.

  The two ranches teemed with activity, for small as the wedding would be, every effort was made to create a fine and festive occasion. Lily entrusted Fergy with the wine-buying, and spent long afternoons closeted with Gloria Sanchez over the menu. A banquet it would be, for a dozen guests, and a Spanish gypsy violinist playing.

  And Lily puzzled about what to wear: it must be new, for the sake of the fresh start she and Brooks were making. It must definitely not be a maiden’s white. Finally, and for the first time in months, Lily went into San Francisco to shop. There, in the Maison de Ville, she found the perfect gown: rich it was, but simple, an afternoon dress of dull cocoa-colored satin, with a high collar like a daffodil’s trumpet, edged at collar and sleeve with the finest ivory Brussels lace. It cost a fortune and she paid it gladly, and for new shoes to match and new underclothing too, made by French nuns of the finest lawn and edged in lace. She would wear no hat, but rather her mother’s dowry scarf cherished in tissue paper all these years, draped as Gloria had shown her in the manner of a Spanish mantilla. And Kate, as a bridesmaid, would wear in her own red-gold hair the lovely little ribbon that Frances O’Farrelley had embroidered with a hundred flowers all those years ago in St. Patrick’s orphanage. Lily wondered where Fran was now, and wished she were here to share in her old friend’s happiness.

  After shopping, Lily met her brother for luncheon. Fergy had suggested the Lick House, it being the newest and finest of the city’s hotels. Lily would have preferred someplace less conspicuous, for fear of being recognized, dreading any kind of publicity. But Fergy was Fergy, and she let him have his way. As usual.

  Fergy was already at a choice table when Lily was escorted in by a fawning headwaiter. She wondered, seeing the headwaiter’s sleek and mercenary smile, how much her brother was spending to ensure such obsequiousness. Fergus Malone Junior was, as ever, overdressed. He shimmered with silk facings on the finest English woolen suit coat. He gleamed with gold watch chains and studs and cufflinks. And among the gold flashed the hot white light of diamonds. I wouldn’t trust him any further than I could throw Russian Hill, she thought, smiling wryly at the sight of him.

  He flashed his little boy’s grin and rose to kiss her. “Ah, Lil, but sure and you’re a sight for these tired old eyes!”

  “You’re looking prosperous, Fergy.”

  Lily wished she could say he was looking well, but in fact Fergy at the age of thirty looked more like a hard-living fifty. The green eyes that once had such sparkle were dulled now, as though some opaque veil had closed over them, and rimmed with the red of late hours and many whiskeys they were, and puffed up underneath so that he seemed to be squinting when no squinting was necessary. His skin was too pale, and Lily thought she could detect just the slightest trembling in his perfectly manicured hands.

  “What’ll you be drinking, Lil?”

  “Tea, please, China tea with lemon.”

  “Tea, is it? Well, tea it’ll be. You’ll excuse me if I refrain from joining you.”

  He ordered tea for Lily and champagne for himself. The champagne arrived with such suspicious speed that Lily felt it must be a standing order for Fergy, which would be perfectly in character.

  “Won’t you be joining me in a toast, Lil? To your connubial happiness, and all that?”

  She laughed and said, “Sure, if I can toast back in tea, Fergy. For I’ll have to be getting back to the ranch soon, maybe we’d better order now.”

  Menus were brought, orders were given. Fergy lifted his glass and smiled. “I wish you joy, Lil, for no one deserves it more.”

  “Thanks, Fergy. I was hoping you’d find time to come over and meet him. It would be fitting, with you being the best man and all. Why not come someday next week, for supper, and stay over with us? We’ve plenty of room, and Kate would love to see her wicked uncle.”

  “Does she call me that?”

  “Of course not. Little does the child know of wickedness, and little may she ever know. But she loves you, Fergy, and you hardly ever see her.”

  “She’ll have a real father now. Tell me about him. Chaffee of the New York Chaffees, isn’t he? That’s quite a catch, Lil, not that you need the money.”

  “He is a very fine man, Fergy, who had an unhappy marriage, and a bad time in the war. Brooks was wounded, and his leg is still a bit stiff from it, and he saw his only brother die at Antietam. So it hasn’t been easy for him, Chaffee or not. He is kind, and good, and I love him dearly, and I want you to love him too.”

  “For you, old girl, I would love a one-eyed Turk with a full harem. I’ll come next Wednesday, in the full flower of brotherhood.”

  He sipped his champagne and swallowed an oyster.

  “I am happy for you, Lil, do you know it?”

  “I think I do, and I thank you.”

  They finished the sumptuous luncheon talking quietly of many things. Fergy, as ever, was filled to overflowing with new schemes and projects; entire celestial continents could be populated with his castles in the air. Lily listened with a fraction of her brain, nodding and making the appropriate murmurs of wonder and encouragement, even though she had long since stopped paying any serious attention to Fergy’s pipe dreams. But when they parted, it was on a happy note, and he renewed his promise of coming to the ranch on Wednesday.

  Lily glanced about the huge, glittering dining room as they left. She recognized no one, and so far as she could tell, no one recognized her. The room itself, and the hotel that housed it, were already famous landmarks, and yet how strange she felt here, on her first visit, a year after the hotel had been erected. She, who had so lately been part of the glitter herself! San Francisco was in a state of permanent change. The first sounds Lily remembered hearing when she came to town were the clang of hammers and the rasp of saws, and these same noises filled the air still as the city flexed its muscles and continued pell-mell on the habitual orgy of building, building, building. Well, and let them build to their heart’s content, she thought as Fergy drove her to the waiting sloop. Brooks and I are building too, and not so much with nails and mortar as with love and dreams.

  And to Lily Malone on this beautiful day in early May of 1865, there was nothing more solid than that Kate looked
at her mother with all the gravity of nine years. “Mama,” she said quietly, “when you marry Mr. Chaffee, shall I call him ‘Father’?”

  Lily looked up from her sewing and smiled. She had told the girl that her father was dead, and prayed that the angels would forgive the white lie.

  “I hope so, my pumpkin, for I know he’d like that. In fact, Katie-Kate, when I become Mrs. Chaffee, we might decide to call you Miss Chaffee. It would be simpler, and it sounds well, don’t you think? Kate Chaffee.”

  “Katie Chaffee.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I think so.”

  Lily put down her sewing and ran to Kate and gave her a big hug. “I like it too, darling, I like it very much.”

  Fergy arrived as promised, rather to Lily’s surprise, on time and sober and, for Fergy, relatively sober in his dress. He was loaded with presents, so many that his carriage was followed up the driveway by a mule cart bulging with mysterious boxes on top of his own luggage.

  There were three splendid French dolls and a real China tea set in miniature for Kate. For Lily, as a wedding gift, he brought a dazzling brooch in the form of one large gracefully curving lily whose stem and leaves were carved from the rarest deep green jade, whose flower was all canary diamonds set pavé, with one perfect dewdrop of a blue-white diamond cunningly mounted upon an invisible spring so that it was forever dancing and sparkling with the slightest movement of its wearer. And for Brooks, Fergy had a magnificent Mexican saddle of the finest black leather subtly mounted in pure silver, with a chased-silver placque on the pommel that contained Brooks’s monogram and the date of the marriage.

  Lily was truly touched by all this, not so much by its splendor as by the mere fact that the usually careless Fergy had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to find suitable presents. And she could see in his eyes that Brooks was impressed.

  All through the long formal supper, Fergy drank little and was at his most charming. Lily had forgotten precisely how charming her brother could be at the top of his form, and now, seeing that through the eyes of her fiancé, she had a sudden happy vision of Fergy as he could be, given the right motivation, under the right circumstances. To Lily, in the flush of her own romantic happiness, this meant nothing more than the love of the proper woman. But she’d attend to that later, after the wedding.