by Thomas Tryon
She kept wondering how Emiliano was in bed.
She was having dreams, and the dreams were about the snake. She wasn’t stupid, she knew perfectly well what that was supposed to mean, and she imagined the doctor’s dry amusement if she told him the dream. It was purely phallic. The dream snake was long and large and thick, dark, without designs, without scales. They said snakes were cold-blooded, but this was warm and she circled it with her hand, measuring its circumference, staring at the eyes that stared at her. She did not know what she was to do with the snake, or what she wanted to do, but it was not a part of the dream that the snake should bite her. She could not tell if it was supposed to be an abstract representation of something or a person, but it seemed that she knew the snake and it knew her. A mutual recognition; but who was he, this snake? In the dream she wasn’t frightened; it was only afterward, when she woke up before daylight, that she was frightened.
She smoked and thought and thought and smoked. Faces swam before her unconscious vision, close and then far away. She reached out to none of them; they were familiar but uninteresting, the faces of men she had known, who had not been able to give her what she sought. She tried to see past the faces into something else, some part of herself that remained hidden, both to her and to the doctors. She tried to see past herself into the vague, unaccountable void that lay all around her. It was not unfamiliar territory; she had viewed it many times before. She had struggled for more years than she could count, trying to see somewhere beyond herself, past anything to do with family, children, career, friendship, dreams of success, even love, and she thought of some nice man with a kind face, a silver-haired uncorrupt gentle placating intelligent generous man whose hand she loved the touch of, not in any overt sexual way, for this was no profane fantasy, but rather a grandfatherly person, not unlike, perhaps, Bernard Baruch, with his rimless glasses and hearing aid and briefcase on a Washington park bench, and the touch of his hand doming the top of her head would be like a benediction. He would know what was right and proper, what was wrong and ignoble. He would tell her. Or sometimes she thought he might even be a priest, a good Catholic priest (she had discussed this with Bee Marsh after her and Willie’s conversion), and she had avidly watched Bishop Sheen, that hypnotic Irish prelate with the fascinating eyes, on television, and the way his long ascetic hand made the sign of the cross or, fingertips touching, formed devout peaked church roofs, or, holiest of all, toyed with his pectoral cross as he spoke, and she thought how a man like that could make her feel cleansed and purified. For there was a God. She knew it, believed it. But where she came from, in those Protestant churches she had been forced to attend, He had not shown His face nor had His countenance ever shone upon her. There was a time, long ago, when she had thought the world was good; it was something like Columbus believing the world was round when everybody said it was flat. She had this feeling in her, and this need. Everyone had needs, of course, but to her, hers seemed special—and unfulfilled. There had to be a way that all things could be made comprehensible to her. She had gone from one possibility to another, looking, sampling, testing, examining. She had read Dale Carnegie and Norman Vincent Peale and watched Billy Graham’s revivals for Christ on TV. She did not feel like a better person. She had investigated something called Biofeedback. She had listened to people talking about Transcendental Meditation. She had attended lectures. Nothing much had happened. She had heard about Scientology and had gone to the meetings and had read some material; it seemed easy at first, then became difficult. She hadn’t gone to another meeting. She had heard of something called Mind Control lectures. Nothing. Intermittently she had taken courses in self-hypnosis, in speed reading, and had participated in ladies’ yoga breakfasts.
She had attended classes at the Actors Studio’s West Coast branch, but she was terrified of getting up and doing a scene in front of the others and would make up any excuse to postpone the moment. While Alexis Smith and Betty Bacall and Angela Lansbury all were Broadway stars, she was playing Uta Hagen’s part in a scene from The Country Girl with a boy who didn’t shave and wore a tank top; she could smell the sweat from his armpits, and wanted to tell him about Ban roll-on. Her instructor said she was making progress in Moment-to-Moment Realization, but she didn’t believe him. She quit the class after five sessions.
Her trouble was that she had no faith. She saw nothing to believe in. Her dead father, yes; but he was dead. Her mother was a vegetable. Son, daughter—aliens in her house. Behind her a string of males who had used her, and who one by one had shown themselves as weak and lost or weaker and more lost than she. She told herself that what she needed was some tremendously moving religious experience such as Willie Marsh had had. She wanted to be struck as Saul of Tarsus had been struck on the road to Damascus. She wanted to know God-by-miracle, to have water turned to wine, fishes and loaves to feed the multitudes. But she did not think of religions, or of nations, or of any of the complex manifestations that rule groups of men. Government, civil compacts, a unionized America, Black Power—these were only abstracts and as distant from her historically as the industrial revolution. She scanned the headlines, then turned to the movie page. Politics never interested her. She was aware of welfare problems, of orphaned children, of charitable agencies, CARE, WAIF, UNESCO; she sent checks when she remembered to, but thought there was little she could do about such problems. She believed in women’s liberation, but she didn’t see what she could do except read Nora Ephron. Love. Love was her universal panacea. If she was in love, everything was hunky-dory. If she wasn’t, depressions of the worst imaginable sort beset her, preyed on her, held her in thrall. It was not in her nature to be manless, one of those bachelor girls, successful but alone. She didn’t enjoy lunching with the girls, even as she lunched with them. Given a choice between men and her career, she would always take the man. She had some knowledge of loneliness, and she did not like it. She could not cope without a man, some man. Sometimes she would invite the milkman in for her need; the postman was too old.
One morning she awoke earlier than usual. She had a funny feeling, a kind of premonition. She washed her face, combed her hair, dressed, and went out on the beach. Emiliano was spear-fishing off the rocks, and Benito was raking the sand. She walked down to the water’s edge, staring out at the horizon. The sun was just coming around the left-hand side of the bay. Opposite, from the direction of Mirabella, she saw a dark speck. It grew larger, became a speedboat, ripping over the waves. It came closer and closer and somehow she had a feeling that it was her the boat had come for. It spun into the bay with a roar, shot toward shore, the motor stopped, the Mexican in the boat pulled up the outboard and called to Benito. She heard her name. Benito pointed silently. The boatman pulled nearer with an oar. He called in Spanish: she didn’t understand. Benito, come, please? He came and translated. The man was from the hotel in Mirabella and someone had telephoned; she was to call back. She hurried to her cabaña, changed her clothes, shoved things out of sight as quickly as she could, put on a full make-up, and left with the boatman before breakfast.
Arriving in Mirabella, she went immediately to the hotel. The operator said the call had come late last night, not from Cabo San Lucas, as Lorna hoped, but from Los Angeles. A Mrs. Pringle. Lorna felt a stab of worry as she went into the booth and waited for the call to be put through.
Nan’s voice was bright and noncommittal, they exchanged remarks about how was the weather down there and how was it up there? and yes, she was having a marvelous rest, but why the call? Nan’s tone became serious and she said that Lorna’s lawyer had called regarding the fire: the insurance company was instituting proceedings against her. The lawyer wanted her to give a deposition about her side of the story. It could be messy, Nan said. How messy? Very. There was even the threat of prison. Lorna said she would think it over and call her back. Tell the lawyer to wire money. She might go to Fun City, ha ha. Thanks and love.
She walked along the streets of Mirabella and visited some of the shops.
Unnoticed, she took from one half a dozen colored Bic Banana pens and a spiral notebook, from another some plastic earrings. In a third she tried on a belt, and walked out with it before the man noticed. She never took anything expensive, so it wasn’t really stealing, but she felt an excitement she thought she’d lost. She had lunch in a patio restaurant and bumped into Bob Somers, who was there on business overnight. She let him pick up the check, then they had several drinks in the bar of his hotel, and when he suggested dinner she accepted. They went to La Madreña, which was lovely, and there was outdoor dancing. Bob held her close and talked in her ear. She laughed and asked, What would Joan say? She called to cancel her return boat and stayed with him that night in his room. He was drunk and not a very good lover. She wondered again what Joan saw in him. Coming out of the hotel next morning, who should they stumble across but the doctor, Pat O’Connor. He was all sly smiles and innuendo, and when they met again on the noon boat she said, I know what you’re thinking. You’re right, Pat said. She asked him not to say anything to Joan or anyone and he said he wouldn’t. She didn’t believe him, though.
She didn’t call Nan back.
Rosalia had become impossible. She didn’t like Lorna and it showed in her work. Corners were unswept; the bed was carelessly made; often she neglected to hang up the clothes that Lorna had not hung up herself; the glass in the kerosene lantern was sooty; fresh soap was lacking in the bathroom. For some time Lorna had suspected her, though of what she wasn’t quite sure. It could be that she thought she might be stealing. She had grown distrustful, and to catch the girl prying where she had no business Lorna had gone to elaborate lengths, sticking matches in just so, to indicate if drawers had been opened in her absence, or putting out an enticing number of pesos, but counting them carefully and arranging them in seemingly casual piles, so she would know if any had been taken. Certain that the girl was trying on her dresses, she would lay a thread across the hangers in her closet.
It was when she came back from Mirabella that she discovered she’d been robbed. Her pearl earrings were missing. She knew exactly where they were always kept, in the bottom tray of her cosmetic case. Though it was locked and stowed under the bed, she sometimes forgot and left the key lying around. Rosalia had found it. Lorna did not immediately raise the matter with Steve Alvarez or Cupie, but bided her time. That very night, while Rosalia was serving dinner, Lorna saw the pearls on the brazen girl’s ears. When she passed with a tray Lorna stood and blocked her way, tapping her foot and holding her hand out, but Rosalia pretended not to understand. She tried to pass and Lorna demanded the return of the earrings. Diners stopped eating and watched, but she didn’t care; thieves deserved exposure. Emiliano looked over from the bar and Steve Alvarez came out of the kitchen to see what the trouble was. Lorna trembled with indignation, but spoke in a carefully modulated voice. She said she didn’t want to make trouble, but Rosalia must return the pearls; they were expensive, in addition to their sentimental value. An exchange in Spanish followed between Steve Alvarez and the girl. Understanding what she was being accused of, she reddened and dropped the tray. Talk died in the room, heads turned, all eyes were on them. Without thinking, Lorna reached and tugged at one of the earrings. Rosalia cried out. Lorna was horrified, realizing her mistake; none of her earrings fitted pierced ears. Translating, Steve identified Rosalia’s pearls as a present from Emiliano. They weren’t worth ten dollars. Emiliano had come from the bar and was standing beside Rosalia, his face dark with anger, while Lorna stammered that she was terribly sorry. She was shaken with hot waves of shame, she was unable to look at anyone; she would have liked to run from the room and hide. She followed Rosalia into the kitchen and apologized, but the girl impassively refused to acknowledge her. Lorna went back to the bar, to Emiliano; he wouldn’t listen either.
The mystery of the missing pearls was solved next morning. Another maid—Rosalia refused to go into Lorna’s cabaña—cleaned and dusted the room, and in rearranging the shoes she discovered certain items in the toe of one, things Lorna had hurriedly put away before leaving for Mirabella. Among them, wrapped in Kleenex, were the earrings. Steve Alvarez had them in his pudgy hand as he approached Lorna at lunchtime, and she tried to look anywhere but at his face, and saw only other faces watching. She accepted the pearls in confusion and later again tried to apologize. Crying, she flung her arms around Rosalia, saying over and over Mi dispiace, which was Italian, but the languages were very similar, weren’t they? Rosalia still wouldn’t look at her and when Lorna released her she walked away. Incredible how proud those natives could be over a little thing like that.
She had taken the spiral notebook and pens for a purpose. She had thought for a long time that she had a flair for words and she wanted to begin her autobiography. She chose the violet-colored pen and took the notebook under the umbrella and started writing. She saw that people were watching her. She wrote with a very serious expression, and when she had filled six pages she read them over. They told of a doll she remembered—it was called Lola—and then she had described a visit they had had from a relative, and how she helped her mother bake a cake one Saturday. She intended these opening passages as a revelation of the child that had been, but it seemed that cakemaking was much easier than bookmaking. She scribbled some notes, then made some doodles, then used the other colored pens to fill in the violet outlines. They were very pretty. Then she began a letter. It read: “Dearest Carrie, you can’t imagine …” She stopped there and closed the notebook. She wanted to describe the scenery, but it was too much trouble. She had been to Tahiti with Brownie on the South Seas cruise and had seen the colors there, which Gauguin saw and painted—the vital, primary, uninhibited blues, greens, yellows, the ochers and umbers of the earth tones, with purple in the shadows and gold in the lights. Boca was a little like that, with a wild, primitive, unspoiled beauty. She had seen it, noted it in its many details, and though it was a “nice place to visit,” she “wouldn’t want to live there.” But for the past three or four days the sun had not felt good to her. It was sun, but it wasn’t healthy sun, if the distinction could be made. It was not just hot, but half obscured by a fine haze that made the rays seem greasy, melting over her in a film. The haze was like a pestilence, the breeze had stopped, the heat became oppressively humid. It made her logy and irritable, and she found much to complain about. Carla, the new maid, was even sloppier and more careless than Rosalia, and when Lorna confronted Steve Alvarez with several instances of her laxity he listened, but did nothing. She sought out Cupie, who said she would take care of matters, which meant that Cupie went and cleaned the cabaña herself, until Steve put a stop to it.
A few days later, she tried to finish the letter to Carrie, adding to the sentence she had begun: “can’t imagine how beautiful it is here. It’s so quiet and peaceful. I’m having a ball, and a good rest, you wouldn’t know me, the way I’ve calmed down. Went to a place called Mirobello close by, they have a wonderful little flee market, all sorts of things to buy. You would love the snorkiling its like a tropical garden. Tomorrow”
She didn’t know how to continue the sentence, so she stopped again. She would wait until she had done something interesting tomorrow and put it in then. Regarding the autobiography, she thought that kind of writing was beyond her; what she ought to do was get a tape recorder, and someone could listen to the tapes, then write it up. People were always doing that sort of thing: “By Lorna Doone as told to.”
For a time following the departure of the tennis players, Lorna had effected a campaign of fence-mending with the other guests. She went about putting herself out for them, going over to talk with “Ceel” Atwater, who for once did not seem talkative, or coming early for dinner so she could have a good place at the communal table, where she told them long, involved stories which somehow ended without a point, the joke lost. She would hide her embarrassment at the flat ending and ask for the butter, putting an “and” at the end so she could continue on, but not knowing how to. She sensed that s
he was rattling and she had to eat her soup with her bread because her hand shook. She gave the honeymooners a present. It was the pineapple candle from Joan’s shop, and it had a very nice scent, and she hoped they liked it. They said they did. When cards were being played after dinner she would take a barstool and sit at the corner of the table, kibitzing, but no one paid attention to her. She had never enjoyed cards, so she wasn’t familiar with the game, but she could play gin; when she suggested it, nobody else seemed to know how to play.
It hurt her that no one seemed to like her. They tolerated her, but no one liked her. They sat in groups and whispered. They laughed. Bitterly she thought to herself how nice that she could provide them a measure of amusement. It was ridiculous. She was likable; they ought to like her. How often do you spend a vacation with a movie star?
Emiliano remained angry with her. She wanted to make it up, but didn’t know how to go about it. If she called him he would send Benito or one of the other boys. If she sat at the bar when he was on duty, he was busy making drinks or slicing limes or measuring simple syrup. Once when he looked up she gazed at him with a bewildered expression and said again a heartfelt “I’m sorry.” “No importa, señorita,” he replied, with a shrug that was eloquent. When he went back to work she watched not his face but his feet and the way the leather thongs of his sandals separated his big toe from the others. The nails were plum dark like his fingernails and had white edges where they needed cutting.
Then several unpleasantnesses occurred, one after another, sufficient to make her wonder why she had ever come to Boca in the first place.
Cupie was taking Heidi, the baby, to the doctor in Mirabella. She would be gone overnight. Having decided to revert to her original blond color, Lorna asked her to be a darling and bring her back a suitable hair product, and described the shade she wanted. Cupie said she ought to come to Mirabella and have it done there, but Lorna didn’t want to go back again, the boat made her seasick. Cupie said she would try. Lorna spent the afternoon finishing the Mickey Spillane, and when it came time for her shower, again the water was cold. She called in vain for the boy; no one answered. She took her wastebasket and went out to find some kindling to start the fire. There was plenty of it along the back walks, but she was furious that she had to do it herself. It was as she passed one of the outbuildings that she heard Emiliano singing. There was a small window to his cubicle propped open with a stick, and by turning the wastebasket upside down she found that she could stand on it and look in. What she saw, she suddenly realized, was what she had wanted to see for a long time. The window looked onto a small ell of the room, across which was the bathroom; the door was open, and in the metal stall Emiliano was showering. Surely Lorna Doone could not be doing what she was doing, standing on the turned-over wastebasket and watching, but she was; she could not be experiencing the rush of emotions she felt, but she was; she could not be thinking the things she thought, but she was. Somehow all of it was happening—not to her, of course, but watching, she thought of how she would describe the scene to Nan, who would certainly get a kick out of it, soapsuds and that brown flesh, the most sensual thing imaginable, that blue-black hair flat and straight over his eyes, water running from it in a sheet, down his body, and she thought you could really tell a lot about a person’s type from the way they bathed, it was such a personal thing, and the way he touched himself, so intimate, so …
