by Tom Murphy
And now, this void, this huge endless empty space inside him where only ghosts and devils played, where nothing grew or flourished, this dry parched husk that once had been the dwelling place of love. Brooks grinned, but the grin left him quickly. Good, at least, that he could still laugh at his own self-pity.
Not that it made the hurt disappear.
He got to the wharf in good time and boarded the little yawl he’d hired to take him to Tiburon. The sun came peeking over Russian Hill as they set sail. It promised to be fair, a good clear California day like so many other California days. Brooks sat on the hard wooden bench and wondered what else this day might promise. He thought of Lily, and of the packet of divorce papers that sat upon his dresser with the implacable weight and finality of a stone. Brooks tried to force his mind backward in time, tried and tried to recall just how he’d felt the moment he first set eyes on Caroline. In a ballroom, it had been: he remembered the music, crowds, a big formal room, probably the Vanderbilts’, music, chatter, people laughing. And a hush, the crowd parting like the sea for the Israelites, and one dark slender girl all in white, the image of chastity. Better to have been bitten by a rattlesnake and get it over with all at once!
He could remember the impact of her but not the feeling. He could remember doors opening in his life, the sun shining bright out of a previously clouded sky, flowers blooming, all the glittering facets of happiness dazzling as a thousand diamonds, and all turned to glass in an instant—cheap glass, and broken at that.
Only a fool could take such a risk again, knowing what love could turn into.
The shore of Tiburon came steadily closer and the far hills of San Rafael loomed behind, glowing pink in the light of dawn. It isn’t too late to turn around. You don’t really want to be a farmer anyway, that was just a pretext to meet the famous—notorious—Lily Cigar, fabulous courtesan, slayer of bandits, temptress of men’s souls.
Never in the country summers of his boyhood had Brooks felt any special fondness for the earth or what grew there. He had liked to swim with Neddy, and play with the animals that roamed the wide flat meadows near his grandparents’ house at East Hampton, but he was a city boy in essence, with a city boy’s tastes and a city boy’s soul.
On the other hand, Brooks had never seen land like this, great epic sweeps of land, land that seemed more fit for gods and legends than mere men, land that went on forever, that held all eternity in the cradle of its soaring, circling hills. The land of California had literally taken his breath away. The raw force of it spoke to him, the vast promise of it overrode his doubts with a gentle violence like the surge of the great waves in the Pacific ocean, relentless, engulfing, and in some mysterious way, fulfilling.
Brooks could look at this land and feel its strength strengthening him in a way that no city, no office-based business ever could. For the land was real, alive, breathing hope. The land must be coaxed and tended like a lover. The land could give great gifts, inflict great loss. It was a challenge that Brooks felt he could handle, once he learned how.
And she would help him learn how.
He could still turn back, he didn’t have to go there, or see her, or run that terrible risk again. No one was holding a gun on him, he was a free agent after all.
Brooks thought of her eyes. He’d never seen eyes like that, clear and deeply green, of a greenness very like jade, a green that seemed to soak up the light rather than to reflect it, the green of bottomless pools in orchid jungles, the green of some fern so rare that no one had discovered it yet. He thought of her hair, and her shy smile, and he did not turn the boat back.
40
Brooks stretched out in the sunlight, legs straight in front of him, his back propped against a rounded rock, and sipped chilled cider from a thick glass mug.
If there had ever been a more perfect morning, it would come as news to Brooks Chaffee.
They had ridden for miles, through Lily’s fields and orchards, past her cattle sheds and chicken coops and the rabbits’ hutches, through an ocean of ripe wheat and corn enough to feed all the Indians that ever were.
Just the scope of the ranch was awesome to Brooks’s Eastern eyes, but there was more than sheer size to impress him here, and what impressed him the most was Lily Malone.
Oh, and not the beauty of her, either, although beyond doubt she was very lovely.
It was the intensity with which Lily obviously cared for the place, her well-tuned intelligence describing, in clear and unstinting detail, what they had done and were planning to do, and how, precisely, they had achieved so very much in such a relatively short time. For Malone Produce was a phenomenon, despite Lily’s modest deprecations. In only a few years they had turned this raw land into a disciplined and highly productive farm. And what might they not do a few years hence! When Lily spoke of the ranch, her voice took on a special color. Brooks felt that she was shy with him on more general ground, on any level that might seem to be personal. This was so apparent that he wondered if for some reason she feared him, or if perchance he had offended her in some way. So reserved was her manner that he found it increasingly hard to credit the stories of her career at the Fleur de Lis, although beyond doubt that had happened.
But when she walked with him out of the great ranch house in that simple, graceful black riding outfit, then—astonishment!—swung herself right up into the saddle nimbly as any boy, and soon showed herself to be the best horsewoman he’d ever seen, the skirt cunningly split to allow her to ride astride, and when she began warming to the subject of her ranch, Brooks saw a new Lily, a woman at ease with herself and her work, in love with the land and loved by those who worked it for her.
She had led him on a grand tour, and finally higher and higher into the hills, to this lovely spot where a picnic had appeared, magically all laid out for them by invisible hands, the delicate cider all chilled, and the Bakers—fine people they—soon to join them. He turned from the incredible view to where Lily was sitting on a blanket, her legs tucked gracefully behind her, hands busy with napkins and silver.
“This is,” said Brooks, “the most beautiful place in California.”
She laughed, at ease now, finally. “Well, ’tis the finest spot on the ranch, sir. I come here so often they call it Lily’s Hill.”
“And who could blame you? If it were mine, I believe I’d build a house here, to have this view by me always.”
She looked at him quickly, and something changed in her face, a small ripple of doubt, possibly. Then she smiled again. “You must be…what is the word? Able to read my mind.”
“Psychic?”
“Exactly. For that is just what I hope to do one day, when we’re more settled. Nothing grand, of course, but just a sort of cottage, for picnics like this, and maybe to sleep over in the hot weather: it’s far cooler up here, you know, on a truly warm day.”
“It is heaven. You know, Mrs. Malone, if anyone had told me a year ago that I’d be thinking of becoming a California rancher, I would have thought them mad. I never cared for the land until I saw land like this.”
“Nor I, although I’m afraid my motives were more practical than just loving the country—not, mind you, that I don’t love it, for truly I do.”
“I can see that. It sings in your voice.”
Again she laughed, a small rippling laugh, a young girl’s laugh. “And in my turnips, you may be sure! Well, I guess there are many kinds of love for the land, and loving the view is surely part of it. My father was a city man—a Dublin man—and we have nothing of farmers in our blood, so far as I know. I am the first.”
“Well, you’re setting a fine example for those to come.”
“It is partly luck and mostly the good help of…But here they are now.”
The Bakers came huffing and puffing up the hill just then, having left their horses tethered below because of Mary’s fear of riding sidesaddle up the rock-strewn hill. They began eating the delicious food, and the conversation became more general.
Lily w
as very glad she had invited the Bakers. The morning had gone well, better, by far, than she had ever dared to hope. Yet the Bakers made a welcome diversion, kept the thing on a fine impersonal level, the talk about farming, weather, seeds and equipment, labor and wages, transportation and a hundred other things Fred Baker knew very well and Brooks Chaffee was afire to learn.
Slowly, with the subtle finality of a lifting fog, Brooks Chaffee the man was emerging as a separate being from the golden lad of Lily’s adolescent dream. The boy in the dream, she knew by some deep and almost primitive instinct, would never entirely leave her mind or her heart. And Brooks as he truly was, here before her, would never entirely measure up to that dream, for surely nothing could, not man or angel. The reality had some few imperfections, and Lily treasured every one of them, for they made Brooks Chaffee in some small degree attainable. The limp might cause him pain that needed soothing. The thin bitter edge that sometimes slid across his smile might be the echo of some deeper hurt that she could try to make him forget. If she ever got the chance. If she wasn’t just spinning out a girl’s wild dream she had no right to, a simpleminded backstairs kind of dream, a dream whose weight was far too much for the frail wings of chance that flapped and fluttered, desperately trying to raise it into a golden light of possibility. A plan: she must have a plan!
Brooks looked at her note for a long moment before he opened it, savoring the possibilities of it, warming to the hope that it might be an invitation, that he might be seeing her again soon. For there was no doubt that he wanted to see her again. On the other hand, it might be nothing more than a thank-you note for the double volume on botany he’d sent her, the latest thing, all leather and gilt and hand-colored plates. He sat by the fire in his drawing room at the Lick House and opened the creamy envelope.
Dear Mr. Chaffee [she had written in a young girl’s rounded hand]:
You were exceedingly kind to send me the handsome books on botany, which I am enjoying already and shall no doubt continue to enjoy through the years. As you know, it is a subject dear to my heart and I thank you for being so thoughtful as to remember me in this generous fashion. Fred Baker came to me today with news that we feel may be of interest to you. A large property quite near my ranch is coming on the market: it is an old royal grant—as was mine—and comprises about three and a half thousand acres of fine rolling hills about an hour’s ride north and west of Tiburon. It is the old Varga y Salamanca grant, and the heirs had offered it to me, a highly tempting offer, I must say, but the truth of the matter is that we are fully committed to developing what we have, and shall be for the foreseeable future. Naturally, it occurred to us that the grant might appeal to you as a means of starting your proposed agricultural enterprise on a handsome scale. The Varga y Salamanca heirs are represented in San Francisco by Mr. Jenkins of Wells Fargo. It is good land, Mr. Chaffee, similar in character to what you saw on our ranch in that it has never been farmed and therefore never been abused. This information is, by the way, rather confidential, although I have Mr. Jenkins’ permission to mention it to you. Surely it is worth considering, since such large properties come onto the market only rarely. With thanks, again, for the delightful books, I remain,
Yours truly,
Lillian Malone
Brooks put down the letter and stared into the fire for a moment, contemplating the rebirth of his good luck. It was a wary contemplation, for the moment he realized how completely Caroline had betrayed him, Brooks had fallen into the habit of doubting and testing any random hint of happiness or good fortune that might come his way. But this! To have such a chance dropped in his lap! A grant of more than three thousand fine acres. The Malone ranch, he knew, was more than twice that size, but still and all, thirty-five hundred would be huge, an empire almost.
But how would it go with Lily? Surely she must hold some good feelings for him, or why would she relay this offer? Was there some small tender emotion stirring in Lily, the tentative beginning of…what? For what could a rich and beautiful and successful woman see in him? Wounded both inside and out, hardly fit company for a happy person, burdened by a vast invisible weight of sadness; why, it was only her generosity that led her to see him at all, that and her friendship for Stanford Dickinson. That was it! He’d ask Dickinson’s advice. And tomorrow.
Fred Baker sighed the sigh of a man who will never understand the nature of women.
“If you say so, Lily. But we’re missing a great chance. The Salamanca grant practically adjoins the north range; if we picked up a few little farms in between, we could have the whole spread—more than ten thousand acres.”
“I know that, Fred. But it just seems we’ve come so far, and so quickly, that this is a time to be cautious. And you admit yourself, we’ve got a handful just farming half of the acres we own right now.”
“Sure, but…Oh, well, I’m a farmer, not a businessman.”
Lily smiled and urged her horse on faster. It was one way to end the unwelcome conversation. Because Fred was perfectly right: by every law of prudent business, she should have bought the old Salamanca place. But there were other laws, and other considerations. Even though there might be no chance at all of anything more than a neighborly relationship with Brooks Chaffee, Lily liked him enough to be willing to settle for that. And always, always, there was the possibility, the barest gleam of hope. If he were on the next ranch…There had been no reply to her letter. For all you know, my fine proud Lily, he is right this minute on some clipper ship heading back to New York and his haughty dark-eyed beauty of a wife. The horse was galloping now, free as the wind itself. And for no reason of logic, Lily could feel the winds of luck in her own life changing, blowing stronger.
Fred Baker looked at Lily’s diminishing figure as she rode furiously down the valley. Women!
Brooks looked at his dinner guest and wondered if he was making any progress. He’d invited Stanford Dickinson to talk about the possibility of buying the Varga y Salamanca grant. What he really wanted to know more about was the life and times of Lily Cigar.
They were in the huge paneled, palm-decked dining saloon of the Lick House Hotel; the air was filled with delicious smells, and laughter, and music. Dickinson was all in favor of Brooks’ buying the Salamanca grant.
“Only Lily understands about land,” he said, sipping his wine, “but then, Lily understands everything.”
And Brooks wondered just what kind of a friend this man had been to the famous Lily Cigar.
“I’ve never met anyone like her.”
“No one else has, either,” said Stanford softly. “Lily’s an original, and I’ve seen them all.”
“Meeting her out there on her ranch, it’s hard to imagine…”
“That she was Lily Cigar? That men fought for the honor of paying the highest price any whore ever got in this town?”
Dickinson laughed, but it was a kindly laugh. “The answer is,” he went on, chuckling still, “that Lily never imagined herself in that role, Chaffee. It never name naturally to her, you see. Lily was broke, had the little girl to take care of, what was she to do? Scrub floors, you say? Not in this town, not when you can get five Chinese to do it practically free. The fact is, there was very little a girl could do in those days except maybe be a servant, and who wants a maid with a baby?”
“You knew her then?”
“I was her first customer, lad, and if it weren’t for the child, I would have sworn I was her first man, that’s how pure she seemed to me. There was—still is, for all that—a kind of glow about her, a radiance. There is a kind of purity to her, even now, an integrity you hardly see anywhere.”
Brooks felt the shuddering start in his game leg then. He hadn’t been prepared for the depth of his reaction when he began fishing for Lily’s history. To know, theoretically, that she had been a whore was a very different thing from sharing a table with one of her best customers. He slid a hand under the table and gripped the quivering leg. It would do that, begin trembling, whenever he was very tired or
deeply upset. He smiled and gathered his strength for a reply. Well, I asked for it, then, and don’t I deserve what I get? Dickinson’s a decent man, he doesn’t know what I’m suffering, or what I feel for her. And exactly what do I feel? It was only willpower that kept Brooks’s voice level when he answered his guest.
“Especially not in a whorehouse.”
“To call Lily a whore is like calling Michelangelo a bricklayer. She transcends the category, my boy. There was a moment when I was in love with her—oh, yes. Love, not lust. All set to leave my wife for Lily Cigar, was I. And she wasn’t having any.”
“Why not?”
“That’s what makes Lily Lily. She’s dead honest, is Lily. There are those,” he said, and dropped his eyes, and spoke gently, thoughtfully, as if debating the question with unseen opponents, “who might consider Stanford Dickinson something of a catch. Not our Lily. ‘Let us be friends, Stanford,’ says she, and kisses me on the cheek like a sister.”
“She speaks most highly of you.”
“Oh, I am sure she does, and I of her. But take care, Chaffee, when you look into those green eyes, for a man could drown there, and never be seen again.”
Brooks smiled at his guest. Stanford Dickinson was not the kind of man he was used to, any more than Lily was like the girls he had known all his life. But he was a stranger in a far country, and all that had been so easy and familiar to him had also betrayed him. Dickinson might be rough-hewn and flashy, there might be clubs in New York where such a man would never be admitted, and yet there was a fine blunt honesty about him, a sense that he was at ease with himself and his ambitions.
