Beauty and the Brain

by Duncan, Alice

  Brenda knew that the surge of glee she experienced when Colin capitulated to their exhortations was probably unworthy of her finer emotions. She didn’t care. Let the man make a fool of himself. He needed it, the pompous ass.

  She wished she believed herself. “Batter up!” she shouted, aiming a mock frown at the Indians’ bullpen.

  A young man, probably not more than fifteen or sixteen and looking as if he’d rather be elsewhere, got up from a bench under a spreading oak tree and walked over to home plate. Brenda thought this boy was some kind of relative of Jerry Begay, but she hadn’t figured out all of the relationships yet. The only one of the Navajos who spoke at all was Jerry. She’d been trying to humor them into loosening up but hadn’t succeeded so far. There was lots of time in which to do so, and she was an expert, so she didn’t despair.

  She smiled at the boy, whose dusky skin darkened slightly. Hmmm. Interesting. She didn’t know Indians could blush. “Ready?” she asked him kindly.

  He nodded, cleared his throat, took his position at the plate, and nodded to the pitcher. It looked as if he’d had lots of practice playing baseball because his pose was comfortable and easy.

  The pitcher for the Peerless crew was Gilbert Drew, an actor who played a supporting role to Leroy Carruthers. Gil was supposed to be an army captain in Indian Love Song. He thought he was hot stuff, but Brenda liked him anyway, mainly because she recognized the frightened boy beneath Gil’s swagger. She was peculiarly adept at filtering through people’s surface poses and lighting on the essentials they tried to keep concealed. Which was one of the reasons her failure to penetrate Colin Peters’s defenses galled her.

  “Let ‘er rip!” Gil called, and gave a comical windup. His aim was good in spite of his bravado, and the ball sailed right over the plate.

  The boy at bat swung hard, Brenda heard a tremendous crack, and she saw the ball fly off the bat and through the branches of a gigantic fir tree growing next to the Cedar Crest’s west wall. She took off her baseball cap—given to her by a smitten New York Giants baseball player last autumn—and squinted into the tree. “My goodness, I think that’s a home run.”

  The boy, who hadn’t stuck around to listen to her judgment on the play, had already started flying around the bases. The outfield of the Peerless team raced into the trees, hoping to recover the ball. Brenda wished them luck. She’d bet that ball was history. Which reminded her of Colin, and she turned around to see if he’d shown up yet.

  Her breath hitched in her chest. Great God Almighty, could that man walking down the steps of the Cedar Crest’s back porch and looking like a cross between a Greek god and Sir Richard Burton, actually be Colin Peters? It was all she could do not to gawk at him as men had been gawking at her for lo, these many years. She stood up and slapped her cap back onto her head.

  This would never do. She grabbed for her customary insouciance with determination and managed to sling a grin in Colin’s direction. “You made it!” she crowed, feigning delight. In truth, she’d as soon he’d not haw, come at all, if his altered appearance was going to affect her like this.

  This wasn’t fair. She’d had him all figured out and then he’d gone and changed the rules on her. She’d never have expected to encounter Colin looking like a romantic character out of an African safari. Or one of Mr. Roosevelt’s dashing Rough Riders. Bother. This was so like him. Thank heavens he still wore his glasses. If those went, Brenda was doomed.

  He pushed the glasses up his nose as she thought about them, and she felt minutely better. “Yes,” he said, sounding put out about it. “I made it.”

  “Good.”

  The boy who’d hit the ball rounded third base and raced for home, and his team cheered his performance. Thank heaven that he’d provided a distraction, Brenda turned away from Colin. “Good work! That was a super hit.”

  He smiled at her and nodded once. It was a small nod and an even smaller smile, but Brenda accounted it a victory. She’d loosen these guys up yet.

  “Good work, Notah.” Colin held out his hand to the boy.

  Brenda’s head swam. Good heavens, he seemed to know every Indian here personally.

  “Thanks, Colin.” The boy shook. Colin’s hand shyly and trotted back to his bench, where he was greeted with smiles and slaps on his back.

  Brenda turned a narrow gaze upon Colin “My, you know everybody, don’t you?”

  “I know some of these men,” he said stiffly. “I lived with them for two summers.”

  “Hmmm. Yes, I remember.”

  “Which team should I play for?” he asked, and looked around, as if he were missing something. “Where’s Martin?”

  “He’s out looking for the ball. As for which team, I think the Indians need you more than the Cowboys—”

  “Indians and Cowboys?”

  The look he gave her was so near a sneer as made no matter, and it infuriated Brenda. “Yes. The teams chose their own names, and if you object, then you just should have been here sooner, I guess.”

  “I see.” He looked about as charming as sour milk tasted.

  “Anyway, you can be on the Indians’ team, because there are only fifteen of them, and there are about thirty ready to play for Peerless.”

  He gazed at her as if she were an annoying bug he couldn’t shoo away. “Thank you for your opinion. I’ll find Martin and ask him.” He turned and started walking away from her.

  Brenda’s nature was basically calm. She possessed an even disposition, a good sense of humor, and an enormous tolerance for the foibles and failings of her fellow creatures on God’s earth. When Colin dismissed her as if she were of no more worth than a spent rifle cartridge and set out to ask somebody else his question, her temper blew up like a firecracker. She took a furious leap at his back and grabbed his arm, succeeding in swinging him around to face her because he was so startled he had no time to brace himself.

  “You will not ask Martin!” she hollered, sticking her face right up next to his, a feat that compelled her to stand on her tiptoes. “I’m the organizer of this match and I’ll tell you where to go!” She’d like to tell him where to go.

  He scowled down at her; then his gaze slid sideways until his eyes were staring at her hand gripping his arm. “There’s no call for violence, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  “Like hell!”

  Never, in all of the years she’d been working as a model, in vaudeville, and on the Broadway stage, had Brenda succumbed to the urge to use the foul language she heard every day and speak the word hell aloud. She thought it all the time, just as she silently swore like a sailor when annoyed, but she never, ever, allowed her knowledge of profanity to taint the air around her.

  She didn’t care that she’d done so now. In fact, she was only vaguely aware of having uttered the word. She was too angry

  “I’m not getting violent, damn you. I’m telling you how things are. Now, if you’re going to play this game, I’ll tell you which team to join because it’s my call.”

  His lips thinned. His black eyebrows drew down into fierce V over his nose, and those two deep creases appeared between his eyes. Brenda experienced a sudden and violent urge to kiss him silly. Good Lord, she was losing her mind

  “Very well,” he said, although his lips didn’t move a millimeter. He must really be furious. She told herself she was glad. “I’ll go over and sit with Jerry’s team.”

  “Good.” She gave a sharp nod, turned on her heel, and flounced back to home plate.

  Her own position in this game was nebulous. She’d organized the teams and kidded everyone into, joining one or the other of them. Then she’d joked around some more until she’d succeeded, in making them accept each other as fellow human beings instead of white men and red men. By this time, she’d succeeded so well that they were actually being friendly with each other, but she’d decided not to play today.

  She enjoyed baseball but figured her talents as mediator would be more appropriate for this first game on the set of Indian Love Song. She ho
ped there would be many more games, because sports always seemed to ease the tensions that abounded during the production of a motion picture.

  At the moment, she was acting as manager for both teams, as well as umpire, so she took up her position behind the plate and squinted off into the trees, slamming her fist into her mitt and wishing she were shinning it against Colin’s head, and hoping the guys would find the ball soon so they could get back to playing. Her heart was thumping like an itchy dog’s hind leg, her skin felt flushed and prickly with rage, and she wanted to rush back to Colin Peters, hit him several times, and then throw herself into his arms. Damn him.

  “We found it!” The victorious cry came from Martin, who crashed out of the trees and into the lodge yard, the baseball held aloft as he spoke. “Got there just in time to save it from being grabbed by a bear cub.”

  “A bear cub? Are you serious?” Thank God for Martin and his bear cubs. Brenda was pretty sure nothing less could have distracted her from the villainous and entirely too appealing Colin.

  Behind her, Colin said, “It’s unwise to get between a cub and its mother, because female bears can be ferocious in the protection of their young.”

  Martin laughed. “We didn’t really meet a bear cub, but it makes for a good story. We actually found the ball under a pile of pine needles and being scolded by a squirrel. There’s a lot to this nature stuff, isn’t there?”

  Brenda laughed, glad no one had commented on Colin’s pedantic little lecture. She was afraid the man was going to be taken in severe dislike if he kept it up. “Indeed, there is.” She brushed her hands together in a businesslike manner. “Okay, so it’s now one to nothing, Indians.” She glanced over to the bench. “You guys ready?”

  Jerry Begay stood up, grabbed a baseball bat, tugged his hat down, and walked to the plate. He looked mighty serious about the game. She gave him a smile; he nodded and took his stance. She gave a mental shrug. Some people took sports too seriously.

  Gilbert Drew squinted at the plate and the man beside it, tugged the brim of his own cap like a real baseball player, gave another comical windup, and let fly. Jerry swung and missed.

  “Strike one!” Brenda called. She glanced at the bench to find Colin glowering at her. She glowered back, stuck out her tongue, and then felt foolish.

  Jerry didn’t flinch. He only repositioned himself and awaited the next pitch. Gil lobbed it into the dirt a foot in front of him this time. Both Jerry and Brenda had to jump back to avoid getting hit on the bounce.

  Brenda threw the ball back to Gil. She had a good, strong arm and her aim was good, and she was proud of it. No fainting lily, she. No, siree. She could bat and field with the best of them. Again she glanced at. Colin Again he glared back, the rat.

  The third pitch went right smack over the plate, and Jerry banged a hard line drive to center field. The center fielder, a set designer named Wilbert Penny, couldn’t handle it and hurt his hand trying. Then the right and left fielders collided behind him, since neither was looking out for the other, and the Indians had another home run.

  After wincing in sympathy, Brenda couldn’t help but laugh. What a bunch of clods. She applauded Jerry around the bases and cheered him home. This was fun, in spite of some sourpuss men she could mention.

  They called the game complete after five innings. Brenda figured it was a mercy since by that time the Indians led eight to nothing. Colin had struck out once and homered once. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or irked by his relative ease with a bat and ball. She’d been kind of hoping he’d be clumsy and awkward at the plate. Well, you couldn’t have everything.

  She was pleasantly tired, unpleasantly sweaty, and very cheerful when she, Martin, Jerry, and Colin walked back into the lodge to wash up for lunch. “Will you join us for evening church services, Jerry?” she asked as they walked.

  He gazed at her blankly, and she realized he probably wanted nothing whatever to do with the white man’s church but couldn’t figure out how to say so without being rude. Colin huffed irritably, a habit he had when in her company, and which she disliked intensely.

  “You might find it interesting,” she said in an attempt to cover her gaffe.

  “No, thank you,” he said in that grumbly, echoey voice of his.

  “You know,” she said, seizing the opportunity to extricate herself from a socially awkward situation, “it’s too bad the pictures aren’t able to accommodate sound. You’ve got a great voice.”

  The look he gave her was almost as blank as the one she’d received when she’d asked about church. She sighed, wishing somebody else would step in here and save her from more fumbling. She wasn’t generally this inept in social situations. She wasn’t generally talking to Indians, either.

  “It’s an interesting thing about voices,” Colin said suddenly, surprising Brenda, who hadn’t even considered the possibility of rescue from that source. “So many things go into the tonal quality of a person’s voice.”

  “Do they?” She hated that she was interested, but she was interested in everything and couldn’t help it. “Like what?”

  “Oh, many things. Forgetting the physical for a moment—after all, anything from a cleft palate to a bronchial condition to a sore throat can affect the sounds that issue from a mouth—I’ve found that people who live in atmospheres polluted by smoke and chemical waste often have husky voices.”

  “Ah,” Brenda said. “Like people who smoke tobacco a lot. Their voices are often deep and raspy.”

  “Exactly. I don’t know enough about it to explain the phenomenon, but I suspect smoke and other pollutants aren’t healthy and most likely affect one’s lungs adversely.”

  “I’m sure they are and do.”

  “Jerry, on the other hand, lives in an atmosphere almost one hundred percent pure.” He nodded to Jerry, who nodded back. “And, while Navajos smoke pipes during certain of their rituals, they aren’t as apt to be heavy smokers as city white people.”

  Jerry nodded again and made a gesture with his right hand, which Brenda, who had studied gestures as part of her job, had never seen before. It was a kind of chopping movement.

  “The air in Arizona Territory is dry and hot and so clean it can make one’s lungs hurt for the first few days one is breathing it,” Colin continued. The gestures used by these two men in communication intrigued Brenda. Now if it had been Martin making the movement, he’d probably have clapped Jerry on the back.

  But Martin was a whole, integrated human being, complete with heart, soul, and mind. His emotions were open, his gestures generous and spontaneous. He wasn’t merely an ambulatory brain, like some people. She sniffed.

  Then she took herself to task for being a snob. Colin, although he’d had to be dragged reluctantly into it, had actually played a game today. What’s more, he’d comported himself pretty well. She had no idea if he’d enjoyed himself, although she allowed that, while he hadn’t complained, he hadn’t jumped up and down or laughed a lot, either. Or at all, actually.

  The old poop.

  By this time they’d entered the lodge, and the small party broke up. Brenda skipped up the stairs, trying for all she was worth to maintain her perkiness in spite of her bedraggled condition. She had an image to uphold. Halfway up, she turned and waved to the gentlemen. “See you guys at lunch.”

  “See you then,” Martin said, smiling at her with what she knew was genuine friendship. She really liked Martin.

  Jerry said, “Good afternoon, Miss Fitzpatrick,” and sounded like a royal duke bidding a peasant good day. His formality tickled her.

  She looked at Colin. He looked back and made a sound she couldn’t identify She shook her head, turned, and headed to her room. There she bathed and changed her clothes and headed to the dining room, ravenous.

  Chapter Six

  Brenda had mixed feelings about religion. On the one hand, she believed in God. On the other hand, she’d grown up in New York City and had seen what she considered terrible injustices being perpetrated und
er the very noses of the high clergy of several different denominations, and none of them seemed to give a rap. She believed that if a guy overtly proclaimed his Christianity, he darned well ought to live as if he meant it.

  She’d seen with her own eyes the magnificence of many of the churches in her native city, magnificence that must have cost millions of dollars. And, in the same church family, hundreds of parishioners starved to death or died of diseases fostered by poverty and filth. One of the richest churches in New York City owned the vilest slum properties she’d ever seen and could scarcely make herself think about.

  She did think about it, though, and she gave. Although she’d never considered herself as belonging to one particular church or denomination, she gave as much money as she could to charities supporting the needy If it weren’t for astounding good luck, she might have been needy herself, and she knew it.

  Therefore, when she got dressed to attend evening services at the small chapel about two hundred yards down the road from the Cedar Crest Lodge, she did so for the sake of her image and not because she felt any particular desire to participate in the service. She also wanted to see if Colin would join them.

  He did. She thought she was more pleased than not, although she decided to withhold judgment until the service had concluded. She hoped the congregation would be asked to sing hymns, because she wanted to hear his voice. In truth, she wanted to know everything there was to know about him, even though she knew her desire to be foolish.

  She told herself that another reason she should be glad he was going to church with her and Martin was that it would give her one more opportunity to conquer his aversion to her. Darn him anyway. He had no right to hold her in aversion.

  This evening she’d taken special care with her toilette. She was going to make Colin Peters pay attention to her, whether he wanted to or not. She had dressed appropriately for church, in a lavender pinstriped tailored suit. Its long, fitted jacket complemented her figure quite well, and the narrow pleated skirt and straw hat with dyed ostrich feathers set off her fair complexion—a little sunburned now and dotted with a sprinkle of freckles—to perfection.