Beauty and the Brain

by Duncan, Alice

  “It’s wonderful that she’s the actress playing opposite those Indians, because everyone likes her, and she likes everyone.”

  “Indiscriminate of her,” Colin murmured nastily.

  Martin didn’t seem to have heard him, which was probably a good thing. “I don’t think I’ve ever met an actress who was so little spoiled by her success,” Martin went on. “Probably has something to do with her circumstances. She’s had to shoulder more responsibilities than most of us.”

  “Hmmm.” Colin didn’t like the turn this conversation had taken. He definitely felt no need to find admirable qualities in Brenda, who had become a painful thorn in his side.

  Which made no sense. She hadn’t done a single thing to him except ask reasonable questions. Colin generally approved of intellectual curiosity He couldn’t understand why it should annoy him in Brenda. Bosh.

  He was only suffering from apprehension about the misconceptions regarding Indian culture that this picture was going to depict. He abominated such shoddiness in so potentially powerful a medium. The dime novels and yellow press were bad enough If people began flocking to see pictures that portrayed Indians as one, single, huge, savage culture, true history was doomed to be lost in a mire of inaccuracy, melodrama, fear, and speculation.

  Martin, apparently perceiving that his friendly comments were being wasted on an unreceptive audience, sighed and sat, in one of the Cedar Crest’s large, comfortably padded Stickley chairs. “Okay, Colin. Out with it. What’s eating you?”

  Brenda, as bright and brash as a new penny, arrived at that moment, lifted the skirt of her ankle-length beige skirt, and sat with a flounce and a big smile. “Yes, Colin, please tell us. What’s eating you?” She looked as sporty as her clothing, and she seemed to fit into the Cedar Lodge’s casual elegance as if she’d been crafted specifically for it. Or it for her.

  Colin felt a prickle of vexation that she, who was uneducated and a female to boot, should have such a marvelous grasp of the social aspects of life, while he, who’d been gifted with a big brain and a huge education, should be a dunce in such matters.

  He frowned at her and then endeavored to ignore her. “It won’t do, Martin. Those Indians, I mean. They’re Navajos, for heaven’s sake.”

  Martin blinked at him. “Yes, I believe they are. We were able to hire several of them, and Lord knows they need the work. The reservation isn’t a hotbed of industry, I understand.”

  “Of course it isn’t.” Both Colin’s irritation lid his sense of the injustice of it all made him snappish. “But those men aren’t of the tribe called for in the script.” He tapped his rolled script lightly on the arm of his chair.

  Brenda caught Martin’s eye and winked at him. Colin saw the gesture and resented it.

  “Well,” said Martin, judiciously rubbing his lower lip with a fingertip, “I suppose you’re right. I mean, the script calls for Apaches—”

  “Which is only one more idiocy,” Colin interrupted brusquely.

  Martin looked at him blankly. “Is it?”

  Colin threw up his arms. “Of course it is! I thought this thing was supposed to take place in the Dakotas.”

  “It is.”

  The fact that Martin appeared totally bewildered grated on Colin’s nerves like a metal file, although he knew he was being unreasonable. Why should Martin. Tafft know anything about these things? He was a picture-maker, not a researcher. He was irked anyway.

  “Well, then, the whole thing is crazy,” he said “If the thing takes place in the Dakotas, the Indians should be one of the Sioux tribes. Probably the Hunkpapa or Santee. The Apaches were in Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. Anyhow, even if this picture was supposed to be set in one of those territories, the Indians who just arrived on the set are Navajos.”

  Martin sat still, and Colin got the impression he was trying to think of something to say. He felt a trifle ignoble, since he knew Martin to be a man of honor and integrity who wouldn’t knowingly perpetuate false information—if he thought it was important. The problem as Colin saw it was that neither Martin nor anyone else except himself would probably consider this matter important.

  “Um,” Martin said after a couple of seconds, “I understand your concern, Colin—”

  “I don’t,” Brenda cut in abruptly. “Who’s going to know?” She shrugged, holding her arms out and looking adorable, and Colin wanted to stamp his foot and holler.

  “I don’t believe you need join us in this discussion, Brenda,” he said in a cold voice.

  “I do.” She eyed him arctically. “I don’t know who you think you are, Colin Peters, but I can tell you that I have as much or more at stake in this picture than you have now or ever will have. I want to know why this Indian thing is so all-fired important.”

  “Because the truth is the truth, and people oughtn’t try to alter it.”

  “Do you think Martin’s trying to alter the truth?” She was beginning to sound belligerent.

  “I don’t know if he wants to, but he’s going to do it if this picture continues with those men in it.”

  “That’s silly, Colin. Nobody’s going to know what kind of Indians those are.” Martin, Colin noticed with a stab of guilt, had commenced tugging on a lock of his hair.

  “I’ll know,” he said. “And anyone who’s ever bothered to take an interest in such things will know, too.”

  “How will they know?”

  The question, although valid, irked Colin. “For one thing, these men don’t look at all like the Sioux.”

  “Nobody in the whole world but you will know that,” she pointed out tartly.

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “Fiddlesticks. Anyway, they aren’t supposed to be Sioux. They’re supposed to be Apaches.”

  “But that’s crazy, too!” His voice had risen, and he softened it when he added, “Besides, the language is different.”

  “The language? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “What does it have to do with anything?” He’d lost his temper entirely and shouted the question at her.

  She leaned forward pugnaciously. “Yes, that’s what I asked.”

  “Well—well—well—Well, you can’t have a bunch of people who are supposed to be Spaniards speaking German, can you? It works the same way with Indians.”

  “I’m sure it does,” Brenda said, and Colin noted a certain smugness in her voice that he didn’t trust. “And it matters just as much, too. Which is not at all.”

  He eyed her doubtfully. “What do you mean?”

  Martin, who had let go of his lock of hair, smiled gently. “It’s a silent picture, Colin. Nobody will ever know.”

  Brenda smirked.

  Blast. They were right.

  Chapter Five

  Brenda knew she should feel some kind of triumph after Colin stalked away from her and Martin that morning, but she didn’t. Something was going terribly wrong, and she couldn’t figure out what it was.

  For heaven’s sake, she didn’t want to antagonize the man. She wanted to lure him into her circle. She wanted to pick his brain and make him teach her everything he’d ever known about anything.

  Obviously, she was about as far away from her goal as she was from the moon. With a shrug, she turned back to Martin. “I get the feeling he’s not happy with us.”

  “No,” Martin said with clear distress. “He’s not. I don’t know what to do about it, though. I admire his academic integrity, but he doesn’t seem to grasp that this is only a story. It’s entertainment. If it can be made educational, too, more power to it, but this one can’t be. It’s a story.”

  Brenda pondered Colin’s back. It was a nice back, broad and straight, and it was attached to a pair of lean hips and long legs that looked to her as if they might sport a muscle or two. Funny. She’d never considered academics as a particularly strenuous pursuit, but it was plain that Colin had traveled into many remote and rugged areas to acquire his education. She appreciated the result. “I have a fee
ling our Colin hasn’t had much to do with fiction in his life.”

  “No,” Martin said sadly. “I’m afraid you’re right.” He heaved a huge sigh. “He’s been a great help so far, but be can’t seem to get his mind adjusted to the difference between the university and the motion-picture venue.”

  Brenda thought for a moment, then brightened. Her nature was optimistic, and very few things got her down for long. “I’ll bet I can help him out.”

  Martin chuckled. “If anyone can do it, you can.”

  “You betcha.” She left him with a jaunty wave and a big grin, and went off to chat with some of her admirers. She was going to set up a baseball game, by gum.

  On Sunday morning, the day after the arrival of the Navajos, Colin had been trying to read in his room when a commotion in the lodge yard nudged him out of his chair. He felt crabby this morning, a result of his conversation with Martin yesterday. And Brenda, blast her. Why had she interrupted their discussion, anyway? It wasn’t her place to interfere.

  He knew he was being unreasonable. He was also being cowardly. Because he was so upset about how the conversation had concluded yesterday afternoon, he’d taken his evening meal in his room in order to avoid having to speak to Brenda again that day. He was afraid he’d either blow up again or apologize, and he didn’t want to do either of those things.

  He wanted her to go away.

  So he’d taken dinner in his room. The whole time he ate, a book propped m front of him, he envisioned Brenda being lively and charming downstairs in the dining room. Surrounded by her many friends and glittering like a diamond in the lights of the chandeliers, she was unquestionably the center of attention. How she kept her good humor in the face of all the inanity encircling the making of a motion picture eluded him. The process was driving him loony.

  That must be the reason for his foul mood, although Colin still wasn’t satisfied it was the only one. As a rule he didn’t allow himself to become ruffled by stupidity since he’d been beleaguered by it all his life. But Brenda . . . Well, Brenda Fitzpatrick was more than stupid. She was—she was—

  “She’s not stupid,” he muttered at his book, and realized he’d allowed his mind to wander again. With a sigh, he rose from his comfortable easy chair and wandered to the window to see what all the noise down there was coming from. Maybe more Indians had arrived. Perhaps the studio had imported some Apaches, and they were staging a real fight in the yard.

  His cynicism was getting out of hand. Cynicism wasn’t an attractive personality trait, and Colin tried to avoid it. A woman’s voice caught his attention.

  “Steee-rike!” rang out loud and clear in the pine-scented morning air.

  Brenda’s voice. He felt it in the marrow of his bones, even though he’d only heard it for the first time two days earlier. He drew the curtains aside and threw up the window sash. Leaning out, he perceived the source of the racket.

  Some sort of ball game was in hot progress right below his window. He squinted through his glasses, frowning at the scene unfolding beneath him Brenda glanced up and saw him, and Colin got the uncanny sensation she’d been waiting for him to appear. She shot him one of her brilliant smiles and gave him a friendly wave.

  He couldn’t account for the effect her smiles had on him. It was as if one of Brenda’s smiles shone brighter than the sun and blotted out any other light source in existence during its brief life on earth. He couldn’t see anything but her when she smiled at him that way. His entire being centered on her.

  “Get a hold of yourself, man,” he growled under his breath with unnecessary savagery.

  “Colin!” she called out gaily. “Come down and play ball with us!”

  She was as lovely as ever even though she stood in full sunlight and was receiving no help from subdued candle glow, he noted with annoyance. Not that he’d have expected anything else of her by this time. Beauty was her stock in trade, and she used her own as if it were as important as—as—honesty Integrity. Brains. Honor. He grunted and told himself there was no need to dig for reasons to dislike her. There were plenty extant already, even if he couldn’t name one offhand.

  Today she was clad for sport, in a light green outfit that would have looked right at home on the golf course. Not that Colin knew any more about golf courses than he did about baseball rinks. Stadia. Whatever they were called.

  Her hair gleamed in the sunshine, and the shade dappling her as sunlight filtered through the tall trees cast intriguing shadows on her face. It irked him that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever beheld because it would be much easier to ignore her if she were ugly.

  He was about to decline her invitation politely—he had about as much interest in ball games as he had in joining the circus—when Martin joined Brenda’s chorus. “Yes. Come on down here, Colin. We’re having fun!”

  Martin, too, was dressed sportily. In a moment of snappishness, Colin wondered if all motion-picture people were as vain about their wardrobes as these two seemed to be. Sinking even farther into malice, he decided they only dressed as they did because they could afford to. They could, if they chose, do something useful with their money. But did they? No. They spent all of it on fripperies.

  Martin waved again. “We’re having a great time! Come and join us!”

  Good Lord. Colin detested games. They were childish pastimes and unsuited to a man of his education, self-respect, and position in life. Unlike an actor, who made his—or her—living pretending and could, therefore, behave in any sort of way he felt like even if it was demeaning or stupid, Colin believed he owed a certain consideration to his accomplishments. He wasn’t about to toss away his self-respect for the sake of a game. He scoffed. Since he didn’t want to hurt Martin’s feelings, he did so internally. Again he opened his mouth to decline the invitation to join the game, politely of course.

  Again he was thwarted, this time by a deep bass voice that held an element of gruff timelessness. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose and squinted through them.

  Good God, was that Jerry Begay?

  It was.

  “Come on, Colin. You used to play ball with us when you lived with my family.” He smiled up at Colin.

  Colin couldn’t hide his astonishment. While he knew better than to believe the common myth among America’s white citizens that red men were inscrutable and unemotional—or even red, for that matter—he wasn’t accustomed to seeing Begay playing baseball with a bunch of actors. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing him smile, come to think of it. He knew good and well that the Navajos considered white men beneath them to as great a degree as white men considered Navajos beneath them.

  “Come on!” Brenda urged again, trapping him in the beams of her sunny smile. “Baseball’s a lot of fun! You can probably learn how to have fun, too, if you try real hard!”

  And if that wasn’t a completely snide and unwarranted comment, Colin didn’t know what was. She was trying to be funny at his expense, and he didn’t like it. Unfortunately, the people around her laughed. They would. They were probably blinded by her beauty, the fools.

  He glared at her for no more than a second, but it was fully long enough to understand that she had intended to needle him and would undoubtedly continue to do so, especially if he refused to join in her silly game. Blast. And he’d fallen for it. Furious with her and with himself, he snapped out, “Very well. I’ll be there in a minute.” Then he slammed his window shut with a little too much force, wheeled around, and began muttering.

  “This is ridiculous,” he growled as he yanked off his jacket. “I have no more interest in baseball than I have in flying to the sun, like Icarus.” He untied his shoes, shoved them from his feet, and then stopped moving. Shoes. What other shoes had he brought with him?

  Thinking back for a moment, he thought he recalled that Brenda and Martin were wearing canvas shoes. Tennis shoes, Colin had heard them called.

  Colin didn’t have any tennis shoes. The only shoes he possessed were serviceable and highly polished n
umbers suited to his position as a city-dwelling academician. Unless . . . Hmmm. He went to the closet, thrust aside his dressing robe, and smiled. Ah, yes, there they were. Bending over, he grabbed the grubbiest pair of shoes he’d ever seen except on the reservation.

  So be it. If those silly people were going to insist upon him playing games with them, they were going to have to take his research shoes along with the rest of him. The shoes were big and clunky, but they’d seen him through more expeditions into more wilderness areas in more states, territories, and foreign lands than Brenda Fitzpatrick could ever even dream of.

  He shoved his feet into them, wiggled his toes, and tied the laces, pleased with himself. Then he stood up, looked down at his shoes, and uttered a short curse. He’d forgotten to change his trousers and shirt.

  Mumbling under his breath some more, he went back to the closet and grabbed his research clothes from their hangers. As he buttoned up the old plaid flannel shirt, ripped here and there during various interesting encounters with unusual flora and repaired inexpertly by his own hands around campfires in all sorts of out-of-the-way places, he grinned. He could hardly wait to see the look on Brenda Fitzpatrick’s face when she beheld him now. Ha!

  She thought she was so smart in her fancy sporting clothes. She expected him to show up in a suit and tie and shiny shoes, didn’t she? By God, she’d learn there was more to Colin Peters than a brain.

  The little fool. She had no idea that there were places in the world where fancy clothes counted for nothing. Less than nothing. What mattered in the wild were quick wits, a cunning intelligence, and rugged determination. Colin possessed all three qualities in abundance, and he was just going to show them all today, and that was that.

  He knew he was being childish and couldn’t seem to stop it to save himself. After he’d yanked on his faded denim trousers and retied his “explorer” shoes, he slapped a soft cap onto his head—might as well go whole hog—and left his room, trying to remember if baseball was the game in which one struck at the ball with a stick or tried to throw it through a hoop.