by Tom Murphy
“I’m glad you like her,” Brooks said, “for I do too, and it may be that I was afraid of her, of her past.”
“You needn’t be. Good as gold, Lily is, and better. You’ll look a long, long time before you find her match for plain natural refinement of character. Oh, well I know she’s not an educated girl, poor and Irish her folks were, but decent I am sure. And the Lord knows Fergy’s a scamp pure and simple. But Lily, ah, Lily!”
“I haven’t met her brother.”
“It could happen in any family. He isn’t a bad fellow, to be sure, but weak as water. When they were handing out the determination in that family, I’m afraid Lily got it all. And good for her, for what she has is more than enough for two.”
“She has been very generous advising me.”
“Yes,” said Dickinson, snipping the end off a cigar with a small golden cigar cutter, “yes, she would be.”
The waiter came with their brandy then, and they began talking about Frémont’s withdrawal as the presidential candidate for the splinter-group radicals in the Republican party for the coming election.
Lily looked at him and smiled for his happiness. She thought of the strain on his face that first day, three months ago now, when Brooks had come calling, and how he had practically fled at the sight of her, and all that had happened since.
They had cantered briskly over the dusty lanes for nearly an hour now, her first official visit to his ranch.
For Brooks Chaffee was now the owner of the Varga y Salamanca grant. The house and its outbuildings were smaller than those on Lily’s place, but they had been kept in far better condition, so all that remained was for Brooks to move in and find reliable help and turn the old ranch into a working farm.
In this Lily and Fred Baker had been generous with both advice and real physical assistance. Scarcely able to believe that any small part of her wild dream was coming true, Lily had persuaded a reluctant Fred Baker that another thriving farm in the vicinity would be good for all of them, and that it was their duty as pioneers in residence to do all they reasonably could to assist the newcomer.
Lily had made arrangements, lent Brooks horses and workmen and even some furniture until he could settle himself properly.
But then she withdrew, left it all up to Fred, kept herself scarce, and waited for the invitation that surely must come.
And it came!
Brooks delivered it in person one fine November afternoon: would she come the next Sunday and spend the afternoon, and see what wonders were being worked? Would she, indeed!
Although the trip was not long and nor was it dangerous, he insisted on calling for her in person.
And what a fine sight he made, in his riding clothes, on the great black stallion. He had been so much out-of-doors, getting the ranch in shape, that the sun had painted his fair skin with a blush of copper, and made the pale hair even paler. Brooks Chaffee looked younger than the day Lily had first seen him. But more than that, he was looking happier, more relaxed. The hard edges seemed softened a little, but maybe this was her imagination, wishful thinking. God knew she did enough of that, and especially on the subject of the young man riding so gracefully beside her.
Lily had thought of the propriety of visiting him alone, had considered bringing the Bakers as chaperons, the way she had done on the day of their picnic. Lily Cigar, well-known whore, requires chaperoning. Lily Cigar, slayer of bandits, is frightened to venture out alone. She could laugh at the irony of it, but the fact was, Lily did feel fear, and the fear she felt was of the simplest and most fundamental kind. She was afraid he would scorn her, mock her, call her what she surely had been. Nothing in Brooks’s gentle manner had ever so much as hinted that he would be capable of behaving that way, but the place where Lily’s fears lived was deep and secret, and the fears fed upon themselves and grew to monstrous size, greedy and all-consuming and never quite at rest.
They rode for half an hour on her land, through air crisp as cider on a bright day that would warm toward noon and be deliciously chilly at night. They passed the marker at the end of the Malone ranch, cantered briskly over two small farms, and sooner than Lily remembered reached another old stone marker carved with an elaborate crest. Fred Baker had been right: the two properties were very close indeed. And the little farms they’d crossed were in poor repair; almost certainly they could be bought for the right price.
Lily’s mind took a leap into a beautiful if very improbable future. Then she came quickly back to reality, turned to Brooks and said, “Congratulations.”
He beamed. “I would have none of it, were it not for you, Mrs. Malone.”
“I’m eager to hear all your plans for it.”
“You may find yourself bored, for I have a head teeming with such plans.”
“Nothing to do with land improvement bores me, Mr. Chaffee, you can bet on it.”
He smiled, and they rode on.
In fifteen minutes they crested a ridge and the heart and core of the ranch lay before them. The buildings were neatly laid out and sparkling with fresh whitewash. The corrals had new fence rails, and there was a new and generous watering trough for the animals. From their vantage point on the ridge, it looked like a toy farm, a rich child’s plaything. Instinctively they reined their horses to a halt.
“Oh,” said Lily, “truly it’s a fair sight, and how neat you’ve made it.”
“Well, it is a beginning, nothing very grand as yet, and it may be years before it earns a penny. Yet, the important thing, for me, at least, is that I am liking it. This business of being a farmer keeps on having all the appeal I hoped it would.”
“I am happy for you, then. How seldom does it come to anyone, to find a thing that makes him happy.”
“You are philosophical today, Mrs. Malone.”
“I’m philosophical every day—just ask my horse, or my chickens, or my strawberry patch.”
“The philosophy of strawberries. That could become a major religion with me, for I’m mad about them.”
“And I, not to mention the fact that they’ll fetch five dollars a basket in San Francisco.”
“That,” he said gently, “is another thing I must learn, what things cost, what things fetch.”
She looked at him quickly and as quickly looked away, and thought that there are some things in life so costly that nothing they might fetch in a market would be enough.
“We can help you do that, and gladly, Mr. Chaffee.”
“Now that we are neighbors, can I ask you to call me Brooks?”
“Indeed you can, but only if you call me Lily.”
“Lily it is, then, and a lovely name too.”
“Thank you…Brooks.” She said his name quickly, as though it might escape her, or do her harm.
He looked in her eyes for just a moment, said nothing, and flicked the reins.
They galloped down to the Chaffee ranch house, each afraid to speak for fear of saying a thing that would smash this small fragile bit of magic that seemed to be growing between them, and in them.
41
The seasons changed, fall into winter into another spring.
Lily saw him often, for there was much coming and going between the two ranches. Lily saw him drenched with sweat, helping the hands she had lent him to build and rebuild, and plant and clear land. She saw him in all his New York finery, at the Christmas party she gave for the Bakers and Brooks and two other neighboring farm families.
It was a quiet party, with candles and a big tree and presents for the children, who were all invited too. And then, a great candlelit dinner in the dining hall of the old ranch house. And they had carol-singing to the accompaniment of Fred’s son, Bill, on a Spanish guitar. Brooks had given Kate a wonderful music box that played “Silent Night,” and the child played it so often that Lily was sure she’d wear the delicate workings right out.
Lily loved her little Christmas party, for in truth it was the first party she had ever given, and the people she had invited seemed to like it too.
It was at the party that Lily first sensed the enormous sadness in Brooks Chaffee. He smiled, and laughed with the children, and sang the carols in a fine clear baritone. But Lily sensed his heart was elsewhere, that only good manners carried him through the evening. Well, and for sure! And hasn’t he all his fine family and that beautiful dark-haired wife? Not to mention the possibility of children. Maybe he saw Katie and thought of some other little child, his own child, thousands of miles away, on a night like this!
But Brooks had never mentioned his family in any particular, and when he took his leave of Lily after the Christmas party, he took her hand and smiled, and paused a moment before he spoke. “How can I thank you for the nicest evening I’ve had in California?”
Lily stood in the doorway of her ranch house, a white woolen shawl around her shoulders against the chill December night. She wanted to prolong this moment, as she had wanted to make many another moment in his company last longer—forever! But no, he must be the most casual of friends until…what? If nothing more came of it, the friendship alone would be more than she had ever dared dream. So all Lily did was to give his hand the smallest of squeezes and say, “But you made us happy by being here, and Kate especially, with the music box. Really, Brooks, you will spoil her!”
“And who better?” He laughed and said a quick good-bye and galloped off into a night edged with silver from a crescent moon that looked like some enormous celestial Christmas ornament. The moon turned the dusty drive to silver too, and Lily’s last sight of him was the golden-haired man in his fine black city clothes galloping on his black stallion down her driveway, head bared to the chill, horse spurred to his utmost. Why is he always running away? For truly it seemed so; however glad he might seem to see her, and however kind his words and actions, the hard fact remained that Brooks Chaffee seemed always in a hurry to leave her after a certain time, riding away as if fleeing for his very life. Well, maybe he is, painted temptress that I am!
But Lily’s heart barely dared to speculate on any part of her dream coming true. Brooks was what he was, and that would have to be enough.
As the weeks of their friendship turned into months, Lily got to know the many moods of the man, the sudden unexplained silences, the warmth of his laughter, more dear to Lily because it came so seldom. There was bitterness in him too, and a temper.
Brooks never raised his voice when he was angry, and his anger carried more force for the quiet way he expressed it. Once Lily came on him in earnest conversation with Fred Baker. From a distance they might have been talking about the weather. She waved, unseen, and crossed the courtyard to them. But as she drew closer, Lily could see that Fred’s face was red with indignation, and that Brooks was quietly berating him about something. She only heard the end of their talk.
“…I should have known better than to count on you, Fred,” said Brooks in a voice that was iced with contempt, “and I shall know better in future.”
“As you say, Mr. Chaffee.” Fred turned in his tracks then and stalked off toward the barns.
“What,” asked Lily, smiling, “was that all about?”
Brooks turned suddenly, the anger still burning in his eyes, saw her, paused, and managed a smile. “I’m afraid,” he said quietly, “that I lost my silly temper, and about a thing that wasn’t really Fred’s fault. He’s ordered me that new plow and harrow rig, and there’s been a six-week delay, and he never told me, so I’d been counting on it. Now the planting will be delayed, or we’ll have to use the old gear, which means a delay just from slowness.”
“He should have told you, then, Brooks. Can we lend you one of our plows?”
“Let me think on it, and calm myself down. It’s childish to get so upset, especially with poor Fred, who’s been so kind to me. I’ll find him before I leave, and apologize.”
“Can I cool your temper with some hot tea first?”
“I’d be delighted.”
He smiled for real then, but it made Lily sad to see his beauty flawed by the tight-strung cords of tension that could so quickly alter his small boy’s grin, turning it into a cynic’s sneer.
Sometimes Lily felt it would have been better if she had never met Brooks Chaffee, if he had lived his life back East, if her old dream had continued to haunt her all glittering and impossible and untouched by even the barest hint that it might come true. For painful as the dream had been, it was at least a dream, and Lily was beset by fear that her fragile heart might not be able to cope with that dream if ever it should take on flesh and blood and come knocking upon her bedroom door. And would you give yourself to him, or any man, ever again, knowing the pain that comes when they leave you, as they always have and always shall?
Lily thought more about her neighbor than she would admit even to herself. She weighed and measured each little fragment of time they had together like a miser counting his hoard. He had said this, she had said that, he’d smiled—or frowned, or looked away—and then, suddenly it was over and there he was galloping away as though all the bandits in Mexico were hot upon his trail. For all she knew, it would go on like this forever.
And then, one spring day, it all changed.
She had sent Brooks some divisions of her beloved strawberry plants, two dozen fat little clumps, enough to sire hundreds, maybe thousands, if they thrived. He rode over the next day to thank her in person. She asked him to lunch. He suggested a picnic, for it was the prettiest day of the year thus far. Lily readily agreed, and sped to the kitchen to ask Gloria to pack whatever was at hand, knowing full well that the resourceful Gloria would do her proud on any occasion, but especially for the hombre muy hermoso. They rode to Lily’s hilltop, and this time they were alone.
They dismounted and he tethered their horses to the old gnarled tree while she set out the lunch. There was cold ham, and bread still fragrant from Gloria’s oven, and three cheeses, two salads, apple and raisin turnovers, and some new red wine.
“She must think,” said Lily, laughing, “that you brought a dozen friends.”
He sat down next to her, looked into her eyes, and for a moment said nothing. Then, very softly: “I have.”
“Have what?”
“I have brought many friends, Lily. For you have been more of a friend to me, and in more different ways, than any stranger has a right to expect.”
Seriously flustered, Lily dropped her eyes to the array of food and began filling plates. Never, never, had he said anything so personal to her. She could feel the flush rising to her face like a floodtide, sudden, unstoppable. Finally she found words, inadequate as she felt them to be.
“Ah, but in such a strange wild place, we must all help each other, don’t you think? More, perhaps, than in a fine civilized town like…New York, for instance.”
She looked at him then and saw something change in his eyes. New York. Why did I mention New York? Maybe his memories of it are no better than my own.
And while she pondered this, and tried to make the blushing go away, his next words startled her even more profoundly.
“Have you ever been in love, Lily?”
“Once, long, long ago, I thought…I had a silly girl’s idea of what it might be like to be in love. But it was only a dream, for I never met the boy—he was a boy, truly—and since then, and in spite of all I’ve been through, no. No, I’ve not ever been in love.”
“Do you think it shocking that I ask?”
She met his eyes, and saw a fleeting twinkle in them.
“You know who I am—what I have been. There are many who would say that Lily Cigar is far beyond the reach of anyone who tries to shock her.”
“Lily, I know more than what you were. I know what you are, what you have made of yourself. And if there is a woman alive with more fine qualities than yours, why…”
“You’d like to meet her?”
“You mock me.”
“No, Brooks, never that. I guess that my wicked life had one effect on me: I sometimes find it hard to take myself very seriously.”
&nbs
p; “There are others, Lily, who might take you very seriously indeed.”
“Will you have some more ham?”
He gave a short, harsh laugh. “Now you mock me. If you’ve never been in love, Lily, it may have been for the good. I fell in love, and the word ‘fall’ hardly describes it. And in one mad instant I gave all that I valued in the world to secure that love: my heart, my name, my future. She smashed it, Lily. She treated my love like some gaudy plaything, to be worn one time to a ball and then trampled thoughtlessly underfoot, like yesterday’s flowers. She disgraced herself, and me, and so tarnished my name that I could no longer live in New York.”
Lily caught her breath and blinked back tears. Then she reached out and touched his arm. It was stiff with tension.
“Oh, my dear Brooks, I am terribly sorry. Of all the men in the world who deserve a woman’s trust, you must be first.”
He said nothing, but only sipped the dark red wine. When he spoke again, it was in a tone so low she had to bend near to catch it: he might have been talking to himself alone.
“I came to California a runaway, Lily, an exile, wounded in body and spirit, with no hope, no dream, no expectation of ever finding happiness again. I had lost—the war and my wife had conspired to take away from me everything I held most dear. When I sailed, it didn’t seem to matter whether the ship floated or sank. There were times, indeed, when I felt it might be better simply to end it.”
Brooks paused, and turned to her, and took her hand in his. “And then,” he said, “I met you.”
If the sky had fallen or the earth opened up to swallow her, Lily could hardly have been more thoroughly startled.
“Oh,” she said, “you poor man.”
“No man is poor, Lily, who can lay even the smallest claim to your affection.”
“I had no idea, truly.”
This is not happening. This is a dream. Soon I shall wake up, weeping, in my solitary bed at the ranch.
“When first I saw you, Lily, I was frightened as I have seldom been frightened in all my life.”
