The Incredible Charlie Carewe

by Mary Astor

  “Hey—don’t go away from me!” She started, realizing that she had lost the drift of his words, that she had been dreaming, lost in love.

  “What do you see over there?” he asked gently. “Are you one of those people who speak to elves and gnomes? It wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

  She smiled, showing her even white teeth. “I used to—at least I pretended I saw and spoke to all kinds of things in the woods; but once one night, a very dark night, I thought it was all true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I saw a strange light at the edge of the orchard, just where the oaks commence. It was very soft, but it glowed so, I thought maybe there really was a fairy queen at the center of it and I was very scared.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I—just ran in the house and got in bed and hid under the covers.”

  “Well, weren’t you afraid to be in the woods at night anyway?”

  “Oh no, sir. There’s nothing to be afraid of in the woods. The creatures are much more scared and won’t harm anyone.”

  “Did you ever find out what the strange light was? Did you go out again?”

  “Oh yes, I’ve seen it many times. It’s a mold that grows on the stumps of trees, and when the moon is dark, it glows—it’s real beautiful. It’s something they call fox fire.”

  Suddenly she was overcome with her own talkativeness, gathered the remnants of the lunch into the basket, and with a last swift smile, that exposed her heart, she was gone.

  It was two weeks later that Joe Allen and Mitch Cooper came back through Clarke Falls, bearded and boasting of the game they had missed, of the fish that got away. It was after he had shaved and bathed and stowed away a hearty meal that Mitch first noticed his “pal” Charlie was rather quiet. He supposed it was because he was disappointed at having missed the trip, jealous of their adventures. Good old Charlie, never could tell what he was going to do. Sometimes he was a real buddy, getting drunk with the fellows down at Mack’s place in Brooklyn; and think of him taking a guy like him, Mitch, on such an outing! Hell, he’d never shot at anything except the clay pigeons at Coney, and to be staked to something like this—well, it showed the guy had a big heart, that’s all. He was a great guy, Charlie.

  “Mitch, I want you to do something for me.” Charlie interrupted Mitch in a long-winded account of how he’d almost got a bead on a bear.

  “Sure, sure, anything”—he almost said “boss,” because of his tone—“Charlie, anything at all.”

  “I’ll never make it down the river with this ankle of mine——”

  “Why, sure you will, there’s no other portage between here and Tidemont——”

  “I said, I’ll not be able to go by canoe.” Charlie gave Mitch a cold look and then turned back to the map he had spread out on his bed. “Now then, I want you to go back, pay off Joe and buy me a car with a trailer, and then come back up here.”

  “Why the trailer? Can’t you sleep out in a roll?”

  The severe discipline of his prolonged role of “chivalrous gentleman” had built up tensions that made Charlie explode. “God damn it! Why can’t you stop asking stupid questions and just do as I say! Haven’t you any gratitude for all that I’ve done for you? Who the hell went bail for you the last time you got in a fight?”

  “Okay, okay, Charlie m’boy.” Mitch’s tone was placatory and he touched his forehead in a small salute. “Let’s have a look at the map, see if we can get a car up here.”

  “There’s a road all right, but it isn’t even shown—look, after you get off the highway you turn north——”

  Mavis lay still and stiff in her small bed, listening to the rumble of voices down the hall, her heart throbbing like a tom-tom. She was afraid they might wake Grand-mère, so she got out of bed and, slipping on a corduroy wrapper, tiptoed down the dark hall where a shaft of yellow light lay on the floor. The voices stopped as she tapped the door. It opened a few inches and Charlie’s face was close to hers as she whispered, “You’ll wake the others, be careful,” and put her finger to her lips.

  Charlie was shielded from Mitch’s view by the angle of the door; he slipped his arm through the opening and cupped the girl’s chin in his hand, holding it for a moment. “Don’t worry, we’ll be quiet—go to sleep,” and he made a small sound of a kiss.

  “Just you trust me—just leave everything to me,” he had said. How not trust him! How could she do anything but let him do the planning? In her state of mind it took all her efforts to concentrate on the chores around the Inn, to keep Grand-mère’s piercing eyes from seeing the reason why a kettle was not rinsed properly or why the beds were “made like puddings.” She seemed to be constantly in need of breath; she was afraid to speak for fear her voice would break. She had been overwhelmed when Mr. Charles—Charles, she corrected herself—had told her that he loved her—and wanted to marry her and take her away to be with him forever. Only two nights ago—it seemed a lifetime—she had been in despair at the prospect of the men returning and of him going away. He had seen her reddened eyes when she served him at dinnertime and, grasping her hand beneath the table, held her still for a moment, looking deep into her eyes. “Nine o’clock. I’ll be at the creek.”

  She had been able to keep her love to herself, she thought, after that first talk by the stream when she had brought him his luncheon. Carefully she walked through the days that followed, carefully she had talked with him on the steps of the Inn, a few words in the morning when she came to tidy his room, quietly happy when she prepared the trout he had caught and had brought into the big kitchen. She had been so successful at concealing her feelings, afraid he might take her for a fool; and not by word or look had he shown her more attention than he gave to the others. And then, in a cheerful tone one morning when she was dusting in his room, he announced, “Well, I guess Mitch and Joe should be back in a day or two. I’ll miss this place—it’s been a wonderful rest for me. Back to the salt mines for Charlie.”

  “Mines, sir?” she asked.

  “Oh, that’s just a manner of speaking about the everyday grind. The making of stuff called money.” And then he had said, quietly, “Will you miss me, Mavis? Just a little?”

  “Oh, sir!” she had whispered and then, with a stricken look on her face, had fled from the room.

  Charlie turned back to the window, continuing the lighting of his pipe, and watched a breeze lift a shower of petals from the bloom of the tree, scattering it about like confetti. It was a cheerful sight, and it made him smile.

  It was a bit after nine when Charlie stood by the creek. There was no wind, no soughing of branches, but the voice of the stream had risen, garrulous and chuckling. Beyond the rise of pines in the distance, the moon rolled over and sank, leaving its horns for the last. And suddenly she was there in the velvety blackness, her body part of the blackness, her face candescent. Headlong, rapturous, defenseless, she went into his arms. Gently he kissed her and held her close as she sobbed without voice on his shoulder. Charlie felt a great surge of chivalry, superior to the clods who would have taken advantage of such a moment. She was like a little brown bird in his hands, to be treated with great care—lest she fly away.

  They talked for hours, the stream burbling and laughing; in the distance a thrush thought it was day and gave out a burst of song and then subsided.

  “I just want to be with you——” She had said it over and over completely without any objections to his explanations that he couldn’t stay here, that he must take her away—and that no one must know, because someone might try to stop them. And nobody would if his plan worked out. He told her about getting a trailer, how he would leave it standing outside the fence overnight, and she could put a few things in it, so that at the last minute she could slip into it herself without having to change her clothes or call any attention to herself. She would leave a handkerchief on the driver’s seat of the car, and that would tell him that she was inside and safe. “What about the man? Mitch, who brings the ca
r?” He pulled her closer to him in the dark, and kissed her hair. “You see, my baby thing, you are incapable of thinking. Mitch will be left behind, much to his surprise and annoyance, I should say. However he will have enough money in his wallet to take a canoe down the river.” Meanwhile, it might be at least ten days before they could leave; she would have to be a very smart girl, and not give them away; and when he told the others his ankle was worse, to try and keep from laughing!

  She laughed then and hid her face on his shoulder, and then suddenly stiffened, looking beyond him to the bank by the orchard. “Look!” she whispered, pointing. He felt the hair rise on his neck at a dull glow of light beyond a silhouetted pattern of the blossoms and their branches. It wasn’t a lantern, it didn’t move, and Charlie felt a wave of panic, a rising anger at the damned mysteries of the woods.

  “It’s the fox fire!” the girl explained. Locked together, bewitched, they stood, watching the spectral glow, and all around them in a sweet conspiracy was the warmth of the velvet night, the baby talk of the brook, and the dim, living whiteness of the blossom-laden branches. Charlie felt the girl’s breath on his cheek, her arms tightened around him. “I will never forget—it burned just for us—the fox fire!”

  Charlie was feeling smothered, restless. The odor of the spring blossoms, of candle wax and Zoë’s perfume, was cloying. The minister waved a fly off his nose. He was certainly taking his time, Charlie thought. Every word, every phrase was drawn out to its fullest. Carefully he shifted his weight and a painful tingle shot up his right calf. In contrast, he remembered the unceremonious brevity of the ill-tempered, sleep-bereft justice of the peace who had married him and Mavis. It was all over in three unsolemn minutes without any of the tribal claptrap he was having to endure at this moment. Women seemed to like ceremony, drama. He had to admit he had enjoyed the melodramatic, suspenseful departure from Clarke Falls. Right in broad morning light he had captured their little brown bird. He regretted he had had to tell Mitch the whole story, with an extra hundred to keep him quiet till they had gone. Mavis had been just perfect. She had shaken hands with him solemnly on the stone steps of the Inn and gone with a basket as though to gather the eggs. Mitch was still asleep, still quite drunk, unfortunately, he told Mme. Durand. She had accompanied him to the car to bid him a proper good-by. Somewhat impatiently, he said he had to get back to the city in a hurry and couldn’t waste time with the fellow. The trailer, with its single, curtained porthole for a window, seemed burdened with its secret, and Charlie cut the farewells to the sharp-eyed woman short.

  His heart was beating rather rapidly in his excitement as the car jounced over the rutted road and the trailer slewed around behind him. There had been no handkerchief on the seat, which was lucky in one way—the Durand woman might have spotted it; but did it mean perhaps Mavis had lost her nerve? It was an hour before he dared stop. As he walked to the rear he thought, if she weren’t in the trailer, well, then the hell with her; if she couldn’t appreciate what he was doing for her, taking her away into a new, fine life—but then the little door of the trailer burst open and Mavis, laughing and apple-cheeked, had jumped down into his arms. He took her single bag with its few possessions and put it into the back seat of the small sedan with his own pack. She protested when he uncoupled the trailer and left it slanting in the ditch beside the narrow road. “You waste the money, Charles—we could sell it when we come to a town.” He laughed and kissed her and said, “My darling, with Charlie you’ve got to travel fast—nothing to tie us down, no encumbrances, nothing——” She sat beside him, savoring his presence, thrilling to the sight of the highway when they came to it, unable to talk, content to listen to him as he expounded on the merits of city life.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon that they came to a town. They drove up and parked outside a small department store and Charlie said, “I’ll be back in two shakes—don’t go ’way, sweetheart.”

  The store was poor, but Charlie spotted a good pleated wool skirt, a white blouse, and a dark red sweater jacket that at least wouldn’t be as conspicuous as her long, now even shabbier-looking house dress and dingy gray coat. He guessed accurately at her size, and overwhelmed the saleslady with his speed of selection. Then he remembered her shoes, ancient, run down at the heel, split. Frowning, he said to the clerk, “I seem to have forgotten my wife’s shoe size, just a minute——” “Cain’t she come in herself?” asked the woman. Smiling charmingly, Charlie confided, “She’s feeling rotten, I thought a new outfit might perk her up a bit.”

  In the car, Mavis stared wide-eyed, soberly, at the activity of the beginning of the Saturday night traffic in the small town. The street lights were winking on, and electric and neon signs were beginning to bloom. To her ears it was bedlam, the cars honking, the voices of people, the shouting of children. The clothes looked odd, the women teetering on high heels, the men dandified in their town suits. Her head ached a little and the long drive had made her unaccustomed nerves quivery. She jumped as Charlie leaned in over the door, saying, “What’s the matter, honey?” and in his impatience went on without waiting for an answer and asked her for her shoe size. “I think these will fit you,” shoving a big box in beside her. “We’ll stop at a gas station and you can put them on in the ladies’ room. Not very fancy for a wedding dress—do you mind terribly, honey?” She felt safe again, with his eyes upon her. Mind? How could she mind—anything! Even when he returned, triumphantly bearing a box with a pair of sport pumps, white with a stitched brown trim, all that mattered was that she could be with him, that she loved him and always would.

  It rained steadily for two days after they were married. It tried Charlie’s patience to the breaking point to crawl along in the steady downpour at a snail’s pace. The windshield wipers were almost totally ineffectual, and the wind battered the sedan and made it weave from side to side. They pulled into an auto camp, Charlie irritable and fuming, Mavis subdued and anxious at Charlie’s mood.

  “We’re just going to stay here until the damned weather clears up, that’s all. I’m not going to drive another mile.”

  Mavis was not turning into a charming companion overnight; her wonder at things was beginning to bore Charlie. For a while her awe at the most ordinary conveniences of life had been amusing. A coffee urn at a drive-in had been a magic lamp. A completely carpeted floor in a hotel room was something to touch, and she wondered, “How do they keep the floor clean underneath?”

  Perhaps New York all at once was not a good idea. Charlie thought that a halfway stop at Nelson with his parents might help a little. In thinking it over it became a brilliant idea. His mother could teach Mavis all sorts of things, and she would be safe and happy in the pleasant surroundings. A sort of training school for her! Then, later, when she had the rough edges rubbed off, he could take her to New York and there she could be the gracious hostess of his penthouse apartment. That they might make some small fuss at his having married a girl so out of his class—well, he could manage that all right. They were really wonderful people, Mum and Dad; especially Mum. For a moment she stood clearly in his mind, gracious and sweet, with the little white crisp collar at the base of her throat. He threw the magazine that he had been leafing through to the floor, and looked over to where his wife stood watching the rain from the window. Her shoulders drooped, her hands hung straight at her sides. Her lips were open a little, giving her something of a stupid look.

  “What’s the matter, my pet? Rain get you down?”

  She turned and looked at him and her eyes seemed dark and anxious. “Oh no!”

  “Well, what then? You looked worried.”

  “I’m not worried, Charles. It’s just—I can’t find anything to do. If I had some wax I could do the woodwork maybe.”

  Her voice trailed off as Charlie burst into laughter. “Look, darling—you’re not a slavey any longer! Can’t you get that through your head? You’re never going to have to cook or wash dishes or make beds or scrub floors again.”

  “Then wh
at am I to do, Charles? How can I care for you if I don’t do such things for you?”

  “Whew!” Charlie shook his head. “You are a character—why, most girls would give anything in the world to be told they never had to bother with housework again.”

  “Well,” she smiled a little; “perhaps after the children come, it will be nice to have all that time, just to be with them.”

  “Now—wait a minute!” Charlie swung himself off the bed, tightening the belt of his robe around him. “There’re not going to be any children—not for a long, long while. You and I have places to go, things to see, and I’m not going to be trapped by any kids.”

  “We’re married, Charles. And I hope God wills that we have children. It’s not for us to say.”

  He ran angry fingers through his hair and began to pace the floor. With great control he went up to her and took her by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Mavis honey. I love you so much, I don’t want to share you with children. It just wouldn’t be any fun. Later maybe, in a few years—all right?” Dismayed, he saw her eyes fill with tears, but he pulled her down with him into the one overstuffed chair in the room.

  “Don’t rush me, sweetheart. I’m just not cut out to be a domestic animal. You just do all the things I told you, and everything will be all right.” She seemed rigid and unyielding in his arms. “What’s the matter with you!” He pulled her shoulders around so that she faced him. Her eyes were closed tightly and the tips of her fingers were pressed against her mouth. Suddenly he flung her from him and strode into the bathroom. In a moment he returned, with a plain wrapped package in his hands.