Lilith

by J. R. Salamanca

  I left the report on the nurse’s desk so that she could not fail to see it and went out into the hall, feeling a strange sense of haste, as if I were pursued. While I waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive I glanced down the hall and saw Mrs. Meaghan standing in the corridor, looking into the open door of Lilith’s room. She turned toward me and smiled wryly.

  I spent the rest of the day in a state of nervous apprehension at the necessity of facing Bea at the evening O. T. meeting, a condition which intensified as the hour of that necessity approached until it was very nearly one of hysteria. What would I say to her? I tried for a time, while carrying out my duties with other patients in a most abstracted way, to prepare an account for her—it must be thoroughly ambiguous and must, while omitting all that was compromising, contain no actual untruths, no actual inventions or distortions; it was to be only a delaying action which would give me time to think and which, like my written report, would be consistent either with greater subterfuge or subsequent confession. This was a brief, harassed and fragmentary effort, which I abandoned in a sudden enervating wave of shame. This is not to say that I decided to tell Bea all that had happened, including the revelation of my true feelings for Lilith; for I had in fact decided nothing, leaving my behavior ultimately—not so much through resolution as through the lack of it—entirely to the disposition of the moment. Whether it would be governed by candor or deceit—whether I would break forth with a confession of all that I had said and felt, or whether I would sustain the noncommittal cunning of my report—I could not say until I was actually face to face with Bea, and I had not the stamina to determine.

  As it developed, it was a decision that I was temporarily to be spared, for Bea was once again busy at a staff conference, and our meeting was postponed. My relief at this reprieve was not so great as may be imagined; it left me with a feeling of dismay at having gained what I had so short a while ago been conspiring to secure: time to think. I almost wished that I had forfeited this privilege, and the night of lonely and tormented questioning which it would incur, by the spontaneous confession I had half anticipated making.

  As I walked down the hospital drive toward the street I looked up at Lilith’s window, feeling sure that she would be waiting there to see me pass; and I was not mistaken. Neither of us spoke, and I did not dare to pause, for I heard the chattering of a group of nurses in the drive behind me; but I felt that there was almost more exchanged between us in that brief passing glance than in all that we had said that morning.

  MY journal for the next several days is voluminous and agonized. It is, in its harrowed ruminations, neither literature nor very effective fact, and I can see no need to include it here in its entirety. But as these few days are perhaps the most crucial of my entire story, I think that one or two abbreviated extracts are necessary and sufficient to illustrate the state of mind into which I was plunged by this crisis in my relationship with Lilith.

  TUES., MAY 26:

  . . . That I am in love with her I cannot deny, and would not wish to (I am surely not responsible for that); but I haven’t yet, thank God, betrayed my trust by expressing it to her. Perhaps that report I wrote can be excused on the basis of confusion, astonishment or panic—at any rate an O. T. report is not the place for the full, complex and conscientious statement which I shall have to make. I will explain this to Dr. Lavrier tomorrow when I see him. There is nothing for me to do but resign. No doubt whatever about this. I have tried for hours to think of some other solution, but there is none which is even remotely practical or which I would trust myself to attempt.

  How long have I loved her? From the very morning I met her, I think, when Bob took me to her room for the first time; no, before that: from the moment I first looked into her eyes, four years ago, that summer afternoon when she was standing behind the willows on the lawn. Or even earlier—forever, it seems to me. How have I remained unaware of it for so long? I can’t believe that I am so obtuse by nature; yet to believe the only possible alternative—that I am so consummately cunning as to have deceived myself completely—is hardly more comforting. It is more likely, however, for reading back through these pages I seem to find them riddled with equivocation. But there is no point in accusing myself this way. There is still time, thank heaven, to make an end of it without disgracing my profession.

  It is reassuring to know that Dr. Lavrier is a man of such great understanding. Perhaps he will be able to recommend me to some other hospital. I would like very much to go on with this work; and I am sure he will appreciate my sincerity and be willing to help me. But could I do that? Could I go away from this town, where she is? Well, I will have to, of course. Unless I go to work for Grandpa in the tavern, or find something else to do around Stonemont. What a foolish thought that is! It would be agony to stay here, knowing she is there, inside the Lodge, and not being able to see her. But then, of course, she may soon be well enough to be allowed into town alone—many of the patients are. Perhaps I could meet her there sometimes. What an insidious thought! Why leave the Lodge at all, if that were my intention! And what would I have to offer her, then, anyway? What would she have to do with a garage attendant or a busboy, which is all I could hope to be if I stayed here in Stonemont. If she really loves me, of course, it would make no difference at all. But does she really love me? God, if I only knew the answer to that question, I think I could make any sacrifice, I could wait forever for her—if waiting were any use.

  A heavy wind has come up and the cherry tree is creaking like ship’s rigging. I have just opened my window and found the sill littered with little black twigs. I don’t know what time it is now; around three o’clock, I think. I’ve been lying on my back for hours, trying to sleep, but it’s impossible. It has taken me half the night to work up the honesty and courage to ask the question that Lilith answered with such sure anticipation this morning (she has more of both than I): I think neither of us would recognize the other, then. Why do I love this girl? Is it because she is—the way she is? Mad, inspired, enchanted, whatever she is? What will she be like when she is well? Will I recognize her, then; or will she recognize me?

  I have been trying to visualize this restored, this “normal” Lilith (Lilith does not seem to be her name): pretty (not wildly beautiful); carefully, expensively dressed; modest and agreeable, but rather formal in her manner (I have always felt this, somewhere, buried and despised within her); intellectual, industrious, anxious to resume her studies, to take up a career; interested only in the companionship of young men of her own social class and education; gracious, however—oh, very understanding, very appreciative! I have even managed to conjure up an image of her speaking: she is leaving the hospital, surrounded by expensive luggage, pausing at the open door of a glittering limousine in which her mother, smilingly adjusting a mink stole, waits for her. She turns toward me and offers me her gloved hand—“Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me, Mr. Bruce. I hope you will forgive some of my more outrageous eccentricities. I never meant to embarrass you.” Oh, my Lilith, what has happened to your ragged skirt, your bare white feet, your flying yellow hair, the flashing, tender cruelty of your eyes? And to all the shining villages of your mind, and the tall, fair, sandaled folk who lived in them, and their songs and instruments and gospels? And what will happen to me, alone in this bleak vale of sanity, haunted forever by your face and the sound of your running feet?

  I clench my eyes shut and demand an answer of myself: Do I want her to be well? What is “well” for her? She was never happy in this world—my world (when did it ever claim me as a son?). She does not want to return to it; I am sure of that. I have heard her say so. She does not want to be well.

  I must have fallen asleep a while ago, for I woke up with a shutter banging, sitting at the open window with the rain lashing at me coldly. My head and shoulders were drenched, and there was a pool of water on the floor around me. I have mopped it up with a towel, and am sitting now watching the storm outside the window, which rattles s
oftly in the sill. Sometimes in the flashes of lightning I can see the hard silhouettes of the housetops across the street and the black, plunging trees. Just now a wet leaf blew against the pane and stuck there, a little cherry leaf with delicate shark’s-tooth edges, fragile victim of the storm.

  Are you watching, too, Lilith—your white face suddenly flooded with light, your throat wet with rain and your fingers clutching the crossed bars? Oh, my dear, I love you. I have loved you forever, and I will love you always. God help me to relinquish you!

  WED., MAY 27:

  I am astonished at myself. I have powers of deception I never dreamed of. What a masterpiece of quiet bravura my interview with Dr. Lavrier turned out to be! And I did not even arrange it—which is probably the reason for that wonderfully calm bold confidence that I felt; for if I had not met him by chance like that, walking in the drive, I’m sure I would never have been able to carry it off the way I did. If I had had to wait through the whole morning for an interview with him, for a specified and inevitable hour, I would have been demoralized by the strain. (“Demoralized” seems hardly the appropriate word!) But meeting and walking along together as we did, quite accidentally and casually—it seemed so easy, so perfectly spontaneous, so inspired, even!

  He lives at Doctors’ House, and was just coming to work up the driveway as I started up the shop steps.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Oh, good morning.” (Genuine surprise, a moment of panic, of the desire to flee, a rather startled smile, then, as we began to speak, a gathering feeling of resolution, of confidence in my own powers of dissimulation and of joy in exercising them that was really quite delightful—like an actor’s, I suppose, before a royal audience.)

  “That was some storm we had last night. Did you see any of it?”

  “Yes, a shutter broke loose around three o’clock and woke me up. I never saw it rain so hard.”

  “There’s a tree down in the pond. One of the poplars.”

  “Really? I was going to take a group down for a swim this afternoon, but I guess I’d better call it off.”

  “Yes, the water’s full of rubbish. By the way, did you get Lilith out yesterday?”

  “Yes. It went very well, I think. I’ve never seen her better.”

  “Good. Have you got a minute? Walk down to the Lodge with me.”

  I fell in beside him and we walked slowly under the dripping trees.

  “Behaved herself, did she?” he asked.

  “Very well. I left the report on the floor.”

  “Yes, I haven’t had a chance to look at them yet. How do you feel about yourself? Any more secure?”

  “Oh, I think so. Maybe it was all imagination, I don’t know. Or beginner’s nerves, or something. I felt perfectly comfortable with her yesterday. I think I just needed to talk it over a little; I’m so afraid of making a mistake, you know.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing to feel that way. But it’s perfectly natural. I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about. She still wants to go to the tournament?”

  “She seems to, yes.”

  “Good. I think we’ll let her, then. I’m quite pleased with her, on the whole. She’s been out several times this last week or two, with different O. T.s, and they all give good reports. Are you still getting a lot of fantasy?”

  “No, not so much yesterday. I mentioned that in my report.”

  “No personal talk of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Well, keep in touch with me. Thanks very much. I think you’re doing a good job with her, Vincent.”

  I watched him walk up the veranda steps, a quiet, modest, devoted man, my mentor, my patron! And all the while I was talking to him, in spite of my terrible excitement, my swiftly, corruptly functioning intelligence—a sense of ease, of perfect exterior calm, of effortless improvisation; even a kind of craftsman’s pride in my skillfully constructed imposture. I know that if I stop to think of what I am doing, if I for a moment relinquish the excitement or momentum of my course, I will collapse with shame. But I feel within myself a ferocious energy, a faint incessant furor which is like a fuel; it gives me a vitality I have never had before. I long to do some heroic thing—climb mountains, charge and shatter phalanxes with my sword, produce in an instant epics out of my swarming mind. Indeed if it were not for the quaintness of the phrase, I could call myself possessed.

  I did not see Lilith all day. What a monstrous effort of will it took to prevent myself from stopping, even for a moment, at her door! Perhaps it was a subtle form of self-chastisement for my dishonesty this morning. I must not stay away too long, however, or there is no telling what she will do. And yet I must not seem too eager to escort her; that could create a fatal suspicion. We must await our hour, Lilith. (How quickly I am learning the art of discretion!) But there is a tournament a week away—I saw it advertised this evening on a poster in Wingate’s window! Can I wait so long to have you to myself again? Perhaps we can invent some other way. Truly, I am beginning to understand the uses of intelligence!

  THURS., MAY 28:

  . . . It is sickening, sickening. When I read back through these last few pages I am horrified. Can I have written these words? I can’t recognize my own personality in them.

  What has happened to all that splendid energy? I have been so hopelessly weary all day; weary with shame, I suppose. I feel weak with fatigue, bruised, abased—as if I had been trampled by horses. I have even dreamed about them. When was it I saw them so clearly—last night? No, the night before. Black stallions with swollen necks, great rolling eyes, bared teeth and livid gums, charging over me, their hoofs lifted, falling, lifting again, now stained and splashed with gore from my shattered head; and far off, on a plain behind them, one lone white horse with a mane as pure as snow, galloping off into the distance, his saddle empty.

  It is not too late to put an end to it. Tomorrow I shall tell Dr. Lavrier everything and give him my resignation. Thank God I shall be able to sleep tonight.

  FRI., MAY 29:

  . . . I was prepared for anything, I think, except her tears. But when I came into her room she was weeping, sitting on the floor beside her loom, her forehead pressed against the wall, her face and shoulders shrouded by her yellow hair, which trembled softly while she sobbed. I knelt beside her, helpless, burning with wild tenderness. “Lilith, Lilith, what is it? Why are you sad?”

  “Oh, Vincent,” she said. “I’m afraid they will leave me. They have threatened never to come back again. Oh, my beautiful people! What will I do if they leave me alone?”

  The door was open; there were attendants passing in the hall. I did not dare to lay my hand on her head. I could only say in a soft, demented whisper, “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, Lilith. I’m here. I’m here, if you want me.”

  After several minutes she stifled her sobbing and asked if I would read to her.

  “Yes. What shall I read?”

  “I don’t know. There’s nothing here that you can read. Do you know some poetry?”

  “No.”

  “Then speak to me. Anything. Invent it, if you like.”

  So I began to speak to her. A great long, fantastic speech that it seemed to me I had always yearned to make. Rambling, passionate nonsense. What on earth did I say? I can’t remember all of it: “Once, when I was a boy, I tried to fly. I fell down, stunned, from the porch banisters; and just in front of me in the grass, where I was lying, there were two little green lizards making love. Their bodies were joined together, utterly motionless except for their breathing, which was perfectly in unison. I thought for a moment that I was dead, and that this was my first glimpse of heaven: a place where green monsters lay locked together in eternal, motionless ecstasy. A terrible vision of Paradise; so terrible that I thought immediately, No, it isn’t heaven; it’s hell, of course. But I was dazed, you see, not really thinking well; so that I could not be sure which of them it was, or if there was any difference between them. A moment later, when I had recovered my senses
a bit, I thought, Oh, it’s only earth. I am not dead. But I was neither very convinced nor very reassured; I don’t think I have ever been, because I am still haunted by those spellbound monsters. I have always wanted to tell that to someone.

  “And also about my mother’s grave: I went there one day and planted an azalea, one of those beautiful pale salmon-colored ones. But while I was planting it the gardener came—he had been working in another corner of the cemetery—and made me dig it up. ‘No, you can’t plant it here,’ he said. ‘Nothing must be planted in the cemetery.’ ‘Oh. Why?’ I asked. ‘Because of the mowing. How do you expect me to mow the grass if there are bushes planted everywhere?’ It was something I had never thought about before, but he was right, of course. I suppose they have to mow it. But it gave me a terrible feeling about dead people: that even after they’re dead they’re not really free, they haven’t really escaped. There are still all kinds of rules that they have to abide by; they have to be mowed regularly, and made to look tidy. And there are those awful tidy words that they put on their headstones—I hate them. I should think when you’re dead, at least, you shouldn’t be expected to be neat any more. My mother was never very neat. She always had yellow ribbons hanging down all over her; she could never keep them tied. And when she was alive there were always little gold-colored hairpins lying around, all over the house. It’s awful to think of them making her lie there like that, so neatly, forever . . .”