Jack Vance

by Take My Face (epub)

  Julie was elected vice-president of the sophomore class; she began going steady with Dale Hemet.

  If anything troubled her easygoing young mind, it was a wisp of recollection from the far past. She asked Darrell Hovard about it. “Daddy —do you remember a long time ago? I was steering the car. We ran into something and you wouldn’t let me look …”

  Darrell Hovard put down his newspaper.

  “Did we run into Robert then?”

  Hovard made a gruff sound in his throat, and nodded.

  “Is that why he has a scarred face?”

  Darrell Hovard uttered a genial laugh. “Well, there was an accident. Robert was as much to blame as we were.”

  “But I was driving?”

  “You had your hand on the wheel.”

  Julie sat trying to remember. Little by little, the moment came back. She felt the tingle of excitement, peering over the dash, her arms up, holding the wheel. She saw the red scooter, the blue shirt—and ahead the stone pillars of Jamaica Arch. Rather than take the chance of scratching her daddy’s car, she had cut close to the boy. Close, close. A clatter and a thump, and suddenly her daddy was taking the wheel, and holding her head down.

  That evening, Julie and Cathy McDermott walked down to the public library, to get reference books for an English theme. Julie, rummaging around the shelves, noticed the bound files of the San Giorgio Herald-Republican. She stopped short. It was the forty-one Cadillac, she thought. That means it must have been before forty-six that’s when we got the new one . . . When I was taking piano lessons from Mrs. McKinley, Daddy used to meet me and I’d steer part of the way home; that was when I was eight. In nineteen forty-four. It must be nineteen forty-four, at the end of summer.

  She took the second volume for 1944 to a desk. In the issue for July 17, on page 2, she found an article and a picture of Robert Struvel, reproduced from a portrait Elsbeth had had taken the year before.

  Julie studied the photograph. Her face was quiet, her forehead clear; it would have been impossible to divine her thoughts.

  The Las Lomas Detention Home for Boys was a new institution, not six months old. There was no overt restraint, no bars. The dormitories were large and bright; the commissary was more like a cafeteria than a mess hall. The slogan was “Rehabilitation, not Recrimination”; great stress was put on vocational training; the staff included two psychiatrists and a number of motherly matrons.

  Robert made no trouble. Mrs. Fador, the matron in charge of his dormitory, considered him a model inmate. But there was something about Robert that made her uneasy.

  One day, while talking to Dr. O’Brien, the head psychologist, she mentioned Robert. “He’s like a great brooding hole into nowhere,” she told O’Brien.

  “Come, come,” Dr. O’Brien said, smiling. “You’re getting intuitive in your old age.”

  “No,” she insisted.

  “Let’s see … He’s the boy with the horrible face. Let’s take a look at his background.” Dr. O’Brien went to the files, pulled out the folder tabbed “Robert Struve,” read in silence. “Hmmph,” he said, pinching his chin, “it seems a shame to let a kid go through life with a face like that.”

  “At San Quentin,” said Mrs. Fador, “they do plastic surgery on the inmates all the time.”

  The psychiatrist sighed. “This isn’t San Quentin… We just don’t have the facilities.”

  “Sacramento’s only thirty miles away.”

  The psychiatrist picked up the phone and called the director.

  The next day Mrs. Fador brought Robert into the psychiatrist’s office. She had her arm around his shoulders. “Robert’s just had some bad news. Some very bad news.”

  “What’s the trouble?” Dr. O’Brien asked. He was young; he had not yet learned to insulate himself from his work.

  “My mother just died,” said Robert.

  “Oh … I’m sorry, Robert.”

  Robert nodded, blinking.

  The psychiatrist cocked a professional eye. “Well, Robert—I’ve got some good news for you. It doesn’t balance your bad news. But it’ll help.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve made arrangements for you to go into plastic surgery.”

  Robert stood utterly still. His voice was colorless, uninterested; as if the psychiatrist had offered him a cigarette. “No, thanks … I got by pretty well before. I guess I can again.”

  The psychiatrist nodded with easy offhanded-ness to match Robert’s. “Well, just as you like. Think it over.”

  “Is that all?” asked Robert. “That’s all.”

  Robert left the office. Mrs. Fador showed concern and bewilderment. “I can’t understand! You’d think he’d jump at the chance.” “Give him time,” said the psychiatrist. And the next day Robert asked to see him. “Hello, Robert. Have a seat.” Robert sat down. “Smoke?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “No … I don’t smoke.” He hesitated, then took the plunge. “Yesterday you said—is that offer still open?” “Sure thing.”

  Robert seemed to be consulting a set of mental memoranda. “How long will it take?”

  “I don’t know. Probably a year or more.” “But it’ll be done before I get out?” “I should think so.”

  “Can I look like anyone I want? I mean, can I choose the kind of face I want?”

  O’Brien smiled. “Within limits. No one can alter the shape of the skull or the angle of your jaw.”

  “But my nose—my face . . .”

  “All I can say for sure, Robert, is that you’ll never recognize yourself in a year’s time.”

  “Yes,” said Robert, “that’s the main thing.”

  The psychiatrist, loading his pipe, looked curiously at Robert. “You’re all alone in the world now, eh, Robert?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you plan to do when you get out?”

  “I’m not sure. When do I start plastic surgery?”

  “Next Thursday.”

  Robert nodded. “Thanks very much.” He held out his hand.

  O’Brien rose to his feet, shook Robert’s hand with sudden humbleness. “Until Thursday, Robert.”

  Robert left his office, and the psychiatrist went to the window, watched him cross the square toward the dormitory. Robert walked with a stride at once taut and strong, with purpose and direction.

  The psychiatrist turned back to his desk.

  “I wonder about that boy,” he mused. “I wonder what he’s got on his mind …”

  CHAPTER V

  San Giorgio boomed in the years of the Korean War: new houses, new stores, new schools. Hegenbels tore down the old Tatley Building, constructed a four-story annex; Safeway built a huge new unit out on the Sonoma Highway; the Bank of America moved into new quarters beside the San Giorgio Building and, Loan Association. But in spite of the new houses, new roads, new schools, there always seemed to be more people, more cars, more children.

  Among the institutions suffering from overcrowding was the San Giorgio Country Club. The bar filled up with strangers; the golf course became impossible.

  A group led by Pelton Pendry, William Cloverbolt, and Darrell Hovard resigned, and formed the Mountainview Country Club Corporation. They made membership contingent upon ownership of stock, which they sold with immense discretion.

  Darrell Hovard served as chairman of the Planning Committee. He negotiated for and bought three hundred acres in the hills west of San Giorgio.

  This was 1952, the year of Julie’s graduation from high school. July twenty-second was Julie’s seventeenth birthday. On the twenty-first, she came home with her father to find Jamaica Terrace heavy with parked cars, the Hovard house tied up with blue and gold bunting like a Christmas package, and a big sign reading “Happy Birthday, Julie” staked intolhe lawn.

  Julie hugged and kissed her father, jumped out of the car and ran for the house. She was wearing tan shorts, a white T-shirt and moccasins. Her face was dirty, her hair was blown, but Julie didn’t care.

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nbsp; She ran into the house; her guests yelled, “Happy Birthday,” and then fell silent. A new dark-red Ford convertible occupied the center of the living room. A streamer read, “Happy Birthday, Julie.”

  Julie went into transports of joy.

  The party moved to the back terrace, while laborers took out two French windows, laid planks and rolled the convertible into the street. On the terrace were tubs of fried chicken and French-fried potatoes, racks of hamburgers, Cokes and orange pop.

  Grant Hovard and Carr Pendry were the oldest guests present. Grant, a tall young man with a long nose and a saturnine expression, was home from Johns Hopkins. Carr had just been graduated in economics from Harvard, and talked about going into politics. He still had a crush on Cathy McDermott, now starting her sophomore year at Cal. Carr was blond and dynamic, blocky. He spoke in a ringing staccato as he analyzed the mistakes of men in office, usually finishing up with the prediction, “Right now, things are going to hell. I’ll get in at the right time. I’ll do my damnedest to lead the reaction, and if I’m lucky, I’ll make political hay. I’m gunning, I tell you. I’m gunning, and I’ll make it. Lord knows I’ve got more under my hat than the chucklehead we just booted out.”

  If Cathy had heard the line once, she had heard it twenty times, and it bored her. But she went out with him, resisting his ardent wooing, making him bring her home early. She kissed him only when she absolutely had to. Cathy had changed very little from her high-school days.

  At Julie’s birthday party, Carr and Grant Hovard drank beer, and later in the evening, highballs. Carr wanted to take Cathy for a ride. Cathy looked meaningfully at Julie, and Julie said that Cathy was staying the night.

  At midnight, the guests were gone, all except

  Cathy and Lucia Small. Julie, Cathy, and Lucia went out to look at the car; then Julie ran back for the keys.

  “Where are you going?” asked Darrell Hovard crossly. The noise of the party had raveled his nerves.

  “I’m taking Lucia home, Daddy. I want to try out my new car.”

  “I want to show you something first.” He lumbered out to the street, with Julie following. Cathy and Lucia were talking to Carr, who had stepped across the lawn from the Pendry house next door.

  “Get in,” said Hovard.

  Julie jumped into the driver’s seat.

  “Put your hand under here.” Julie reached under the dashboard. “What do you feel?”

  Julie said, “It’s something cold and hard.”

  “It’s a gun,” said Hovard. “A .32 automatic. It’s loaded. Don’t ever touch it unless you need it. Don’t show it to anybody.” He turned to Cathy and Lucia and Carr. “And none of you mention it around—please.”

  Julie was properly impressed. “Thanks very much, Daddy.”

  She eased the convertible down the driveway, out onto Jamaica Terrace. Cathy sat in the middle, with Lucia on the outside. As she approached the arch, a light came winking and twisting up the road.

  Julie slammed on the brakes.

  “What’s wrong?” cried Lucia. “What’s the trouble?”

  Julie said nothing. She coasted until the boy on the bicycle passed them, then slowly accelerated.

  “Why did you do that?” asked Cathy.

  “I just wanted to make sure he got through the arch.”

  A quarter mile down the road Julie said, “Remember Robert Struve?”

  Cathy looked sidewise at Julie. “What about him?”

  “I just happened to think that he must be out of reform school by this time.”

  Cathy calculated in her head. “He was two classes ahead of me … That would make him about twenty-one. I guess he’s out.”

  “I wonder what he’s doing?”

  “You talk as if you’re interested,” remarked Lucia.

  “I am—to a certain extent.”

  Lucia shuddered. “I never could stand the sight of Robert …”

  They turned into the side road leading out to the Turrets, the tremendous Victorian mansion

  where Lucia lived with her father, deaf old Judge Small.

  The moon hung big and white over the dark ridge to the west. As they neared the house, the ridge bulked higher and blotted out the moon; they drove in under the trees and the night was dark.

  At the top of the northeast tower a light glowed; here sat Judge Small, slowly scratching out a book on the origins of common law.

  Lucia reluctantly got out of the car. “Why don’t you come in? I’ll fix some hot chocolate . . .”

  Julie and Cathy both thought they’d better get home; Lucia made them both uneasy. A year at Radcliffe had hardly mellowed her; if anything, she was more critical and astringent than she had ever been. Her aristocratic good looks had become merely austere.

  They said good night. Julie backed around, drove away from the Turrets, out from under the trees. The moon rose behind the ridge; Julie and Cathy drove back to San Giorgio in perfect companionship.

  “Tell me about Dean,” said Julie.

  This was the scandal of the moment. Dean Pen-dry had gone to Cal one semester, then had eloped with a musician—a jazz piano player. The Pendrys were putting a good public face on the situation, but turmoil raged in the family circle. Cathy said, “I didn’t see much of Dean last year; she was in a different house: Pi Phi. I met the piano player—in fact, I went out on a double-date with them.” “What’s he like?”

  Cathy shrugged. “He’s pretty young—about Carr’s age. He’s dark, rather good-looking … I think Dean fell in love with his music, as much as anything.”

  Julie grinned. “Carr doesn’t talk much about it.

  Cathy laughed—a secret, delighted laugh. “He’s furious. The family won’t have anything to do with the new son-in-law.” “What’s their name?”

  “Mmm … Let’s see. Bravonette—no, Bavonette. George Bavonette.” “It’s a pretty name.”

  “The marriage won’t last,” said Cathy. She leaned back against the seat and sighed. “Just protect me from Carr … He wants me to marry him now, and make some kind of European tour with him.”

  “Are you going to?” “Heaven forbid!”

  Julie, before going home, went for a lonely drive down the highway … She whistled softly through her teeth, a slow, sad song … Why wasn’t she happier? Julie—whom everyone thought the very definition of lighthearted gaiety! “Oh, fiddle!” said Julie, turning on the radio.

  Only after she had gone to bed, and lay looking up into the darkness, did the source of the mood expose itself.

  It was Time, the passing of seasons.

  Time was making them older, ending their youth. A golden holiday was coming to an end.

  Suddenly, she had grown out of childhood; she was starting college; she was a young woman, with the responsibilities and privileges of maturity. Soon would come the great choices, the decisions shaping the rest of her life.

  Dean Pendry had already made her choice. Silly little fool. Dean had always been boy-crazy; there always had been talk about Dean’s disinclination to say no. Dean was the black sheep of the Pendry family, and Carr made no secret of his disapproval. Carr … Julie smiled a little. Blond eager-beaver. Julie thought of him as a husband and made a wry face in the dark … She tried to picture her own husband, to piece him out of all the individual bits and fragments of requirements. Only the most shadowy figure emerged—a frame of mind rather than a man. He would be someone quiet and sure; a man of integrity and dedication. She would go anywhere with him: explore the Amazon, cross the Gobi Desert in a jeep … Finally she fell asleep.

  Julie was rushed by every sorority on the campus, but pledged Delta Rho Beta, Cathy’s house.

  In October, Julie and Cathy visited Dean in San Francisco. Julie and Cathy arrived about one o’clock, and it was apparent that Dean had only just arisen, for she still wore her bathrobe. Her soft chestnut hair was cut in that shaggy long-short style popularized by Italian cinema stars.

  Dean seemed older: certainly her body was riper.
She always had had a butter-and-honey figure, and now, while she looked no heavier, she seemed somehow—well, lush.

  She was delighted to see Cathy and Julie, but she looked hopelessly around the apartment, thinking to herself, What a mess! Newspapers littered the floor, ash trays were full, the end table beside the couch supported five punctured beer cans. Records and record covers were everywhere. Half of one wall was given to gray-painted orange crates full of records. The prize possession of the house was a Hi-Fi record-player with a big enclosed speaker. It occupied the table directly across from the door.

  They heard the toilet flush, and a moment later George Bavonette came out of the bedroom. He

  was handsome in a world-weary way, with long lashes, dropping lids, a waxy skin, large dark eyes. His mouth was tight and straight; he talked in staccato bursts, and never seemed to stop smoking. He never looked at Julie, Cathy, or Dean while speaking to them. They sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee, the girls making small talk.

  Presently George jumped to his feet, went into the living room, loaded records on the turntable, came back into the kitchen. The music started and George drummed his fingers on the table, leaned his chair back against the wall, smiling faintly to himself. Julie and Cathy exchanged glances.

  “George throws so much of himself into his music he’s got to get it back somehow,” said Dean.

  “Right, right,” said George. “Expressed very well …”

  Encouraged, Dean went on: “It’s really a nerve-racking job—sitting at that piano night after night—creating, creating …”

  “Takes lots of force,” said George.

  “It’s bop—isn’t it?” Julie asked brightly.

  “No, no!” cried George. “All bop is progressive. But all progressive isn’t bop … Listen —now!” He held up his hand. “Get this idea— now!”

  The piano tinkled oddly up the scale, paused, came hesitantly back down. In the center of a progression it stopped short; a tenor sax took over, blowing in a new discordant key.

  George looked at them all. “Ain’t that mad, now?”