A would-be writer must be very devoted to his goal of publication and be prepared for a lot of emotional punishment along the way.
If he perseveres he will learn to rewrite, which is the art of it.
As anyone will tell you who has never written a story, it is a simple thing to do. You just put a sheet of paper in a typewriter and let the words flow. The result is a story that reads as though it wrote itself.
As anyone will tell you who has written a story, it is not quite that simple. There are usually many revisions, editings, and re-writings necessary in order to make a story appear as though there were little effort involved in its creation.
"Fair Lady" gives evidence of such close rewriting and, oddly for a story with so few events or characters, is very strongly plotted in that the reader quickly senses that the writer knows his destination exactly although it may be an unexpected one, and, although he may take a deceptive path to get there, and further, that one will learn something important if he reads to the end.
Rereading this story in order to write an introduction to it I was struck by how much of the story I remembered from my first reading of it almost 30 years ago--how much detail, how many dazzling lines and flashes of insight were etched into my mind--to me the sign of a first-rate work.
The ingredients are simple:
Elouise Baker, an elderly schoolteacher ('. . . unbeautiful and old. And what is a thing after all, when it is no longer young, if it is not old?'), and Oliver O'Shaugnessy, a genial bus driver ('. . - a broad burly man behind the wheel who smiled at her with his eyes.), and an early morning bus ride, but from these familiar elements Beaumont has fashioned a deeply felt excursion into the human heart, reaching out to touch your emotions at will ('. . . and who could speak with her about love and be on safe ground?).
And, as sweetly sad and starkly tragic as it is, who can deny that it is a love story with a happy ending?
This introduction to Charles Beaumont's story "Fair Lady" is intended as a tribute to young, unpublished, unknown Charles LeRoy Nutt who became Charles Beaumont.
* * *
FAIR LADY
* * *
"Go to Mexico, Elouise," they had told her. "You'll find him there." So she had gone to Mexico and searched the little dry villages and the big dry cities, searched carefully; but she did not find him. So she left Mexico and came home.
Then they said, "Paris! That's the place he'll be. Only, hurry, Elouise! It's getting late." But Paris was across an ocean: it didn't exist, except in young girls' hearts and old women's minds, and if she were to see him there, a boulevardier, a gay charmer with a wine bottle--no, they were wrong. He wasn't in Paris.
In fact--it came to her one day in class, when the sun was not bright and autumn was a dead cold thing outside--Duane wasn't anywhere. She knew this to be true because a young man with golden hair and smooth cheeks was standing up reading Agamemnon, and she listened and did not dream.
She did not even think of Duane--or, as it may have been, Michael or William or Gregory.
She went home after grading the papers and thought and tried to recall his features. Then she looked about her room, almost, it seemed, for the first time: at the faded orange wallpaper, the darkwood chiffonier, the thin rows of books turned gray and worn by gentle handling over the years. The years.
She discovered her wrists and the trailing spongy blue veins, the tiny wrinkled skin that was no longer taut about the hands; and her face, she studied it, too, in the mirror, and saw the face the mirror gave back to her. Not ugly, not hard, but . unbeautiful, and old. And what is a thing, after all, when it is no longer young, if it is not old?
She searched, pulled out memories from the cedar chest, and listened in the quiet room to her heart. But he was not there, the tall stranger who waited to love her, only her, Miss Elouise Baker, and she knew now that he never would be. Because he never was.
It was on that night that Miss Elouise wept softly for death to come and take her away.
And it was on the next morning that she met, and fell in love with, Mr. Oliver O'Shaugnessy.
It happened this way. Miss Elouise was seated at the bus stop waiting for the 7:2 5, seated there as on years of other mornings; only now she thought of death whereas before she'd thought of life, full and abundant. She was an elderly schoolteacher now, dried-up and desiccated, like Mrs. Ritter or Miss Ackwright; cold in the morning air, unwarmed by dreams, cold and heavy-lidded from a night of staring, frightened, into darkness. She sat alone, waiting for the 7:25.
It came out of the mist with ponderous grace, its old motor loud with the cold. It rumbled down the street, then swerved and groaned to a stop before the triangular yellow sign. The doors hissed open and it paused, breathing heavily.
But Miss Elouise stared right into the red paint, sat and stared in the noise and the smoke and didn't move at all or even blink.
The voice came to her soft and unalarmed, almost soothing: "You wouldn't be sitting there thinking up ways to keep the kiddies after school, would you?"
She looked up and saw the driver.
"I'm sorry. I ... must have dozed off."
She got inside and began to walk to her seat, the one she'd occupied every morning for a million years.
Then it happened. A rushing into existence, a running, a being. Later she tried to remember her impressions of the surrounding few seconds. She recalled that the bus was empty of passengers. That the advertising signs up above had been changed. That the floor had not been properly swept out. Willed or unwilled, it happened then, at the moment she reached her seat and the doors hissed closed. With these words it happened:
Fair Lady.
"What did you say?"
"Unless you're under twelve years of age, which you'd have a hard time persuading me of, miss, I'll have to ask the company's rightful fare." Then gently, softly, like the laughter of elves: "It's a wicked, money-minded world, and me probably the worst of all, but that's what makes it spin."
Miss Elouise looked at the large red-faced man in the early-morning fresh uniform creased from the iron and crisp. The cap, tilted back over the gray locks of hair; the chunks of flesh straining the clothes tight and rolling out over the belt; at the big, broad, burly man behind the wheel who smiled at her with his eyes. She looked at Oliver O'Shaugnessy, whom she'd seen before and before and never seen before this moment.
Then she dropped a dime into the old-fashioned black coin box and sat down.
But not in her usual seat. She sat down in the seat first back from the man who'd said Fair Lady when it took just those words out of a fat dictionary of words to bring her to life.
That's how it happened. As mysteriously, as unreasonably as any great love has ever happened. And Miss Elouise, from that time on, didn't question or doubt or, for that matter, even think about it much. She just accepted.
And it made the old dream an embarrassed little thing. A pale, dated matinee illusion--she couldn't even bear to think of it, now, with its randy smell of shieks on horseback and dark strangers from a cardboard nowhere. Duane . . . what an effete ass he turned out to be, and to think: she might actually have met him and been crushed and forsaken and forever lost . . .
Now, she could once again take up her interest in books and art and music, and, in a little while, it all came--she was loving her job--loving it. And before, she hated it with her soul. Since falling in love with Oliver O'Shaugnessy, these things were hers. She grew young and healthy and wore a secret smile wherever she went.
Every morning, then, Miss Elouise would hurry to the bus stop and wait while her heart rattled fast. And, sure enough, the bus would come and it would be empty--most of the time, anyway: when it was not empty, she felt that intruders or in-laws had moved in for a visit. But, mostly it was empty.
For thirty minutes every morning, she would live years of life. And slowly, deliciously, she came to know Oliver as well as to love him. He grew dearer to her as she found, each day, new sides to him, new facets of h
is great personality. For example, his moods became more readily apparent, though hidden behind the smile he always wore for her: she came to know his moods. On some days he felt perfectly wretched; on others, tired and vaguely disturbed; still other days found him bursting with spring cheer, happy as a fed child. Once, even, Oliver was deeply introspective and his smile was weary and forced as he revolved the large wedding ring on this third finger left hand. Through all, he changed and broadened and grew tall, and she loved him with all her heart.
Of course she never spoke of these things. Ever. In fact, they conversed practically not at all. He had no way of guessing the truth, though at times Miss Elouise thought perhaps he did.
Together, it was perfect. And what more can be said?
For three years Miss Elouise rode with Oliver O'Shaugnessy, her lover, every morning, every morning without fail. Except for that awful day each week when he did not work--and these were dark, empty days, full of longing. But they passed. And it gave such wings to her spirit that she felt truly no one in the world could be quite so happy. Fulfillment there was, and quiet contentment. No wife in bed with her husband had even known one tenth this intimacy; no youngsters in the country under August stars had ever come near to the romance that was hers; nor had ever a woman known such felicity, unspoken, undemanded, but so richly there.
For three magic years. And who could speak with her about love and be on fair ground?
Then, there came a morning. A morning cold as the one of years before, when she had thought of death, and Miss Elouise felt a chill enter her heart and lodge there. She glanced at her watch and looked at the street, misted and empty and wet gray. It was not late, it was not Oliver's day off, nothing had happened--therefore, why should she be afraid? Nevertheless, she was afraid.
The bus came. It swung around the corner far ahead and rolled toward her and came to its stop and, without thinking or looking, she got on.
And saw.
Oliver O'Shaugnessy was not there.
A strange young man with blond hair and thick glasses sat at the wheel. Miss Elouise felt everything loosen and break apart and start to drift off. She was terrified, suddenly, frozen like a china figurine, and she did not even try to move or understand.
It was not merely that something had been taken--as her father had been taken, her father whom she loved so very much. Not merely that. It was knowing, all at once, that she herself was being taken, pushed out of a world she'd believed in and told to stay away.
Once she'd known a woman who was insane. They would say to this woman, "You were walking through the house last night, and laughing," and the woman, who never laughed, she wouldn't remember and her eyes would widen in fear and she would say, later, in a lost voice: "I wonder what I could have been laughing at . . ."
There was a throaty noise, a loud cough.
"Who are you?" Miss Elouise said.
"Beg pardon?" the young man said.
"Where is Oliver?"
"O'Shaugnessy? Got transferred. Takes the Randolphe route now."
Transferred . . .
Miss Elouise felt that a cageful of little black ugly birds had suddenly been released and that they beat their wings against her heart. She remembered the loneliness and how the loneliness had died and been replaced with something good and clean and fine and built of every lovely dream in all the world.
She got off the bus at the next stop and went home and thought all that day and into the night. Very late into the night . . .
Then, the birds went away.
She smiled, as she had been smiling for these years, and, when the morning came again, she made a telephone call. Retirement--for Miss Elouise? Why certainly she was due it, but--.
She worked busily as a housewife, packing, moving, setting straight the vacant room, telling her goodbyes.
It took time. But not much, really, and she worked so fast and so hard she had little time to think. The days flew.
And then it was done.
And, smiling, she sat one morning in new air, on a new corner two blocks from her new home, and she waited for the bus.
And presently, as lovers will, her lover came to her.
* * *
A POINT OF HONOR
* * *
Today Mrs. Martinez did not practice on the organ, so St. Christopher's was full of the quiet that made Julio feel strange and afraid. He hated this feeling, and, when he touched the sponge in the fountain of Holy Water--brittle and gray-caked, like an old woman's wrist--he thought of sitting alone in the big church and decided that tomorrow would be time enough to pray. Making the Sign of the Cross, he put a dime and two pennies into the poor box and went back down the stone stairs.
The rain was not much. It drifted in fine mist from the high iron-colored clouds, freckling the dry streets briefly, then disappearing.
Julio wished that it would rain or that it would not rain.
He hurried over to the young man who was still leaning against the fender of a car, still cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife. The young man looked up, surprised.
"So let's go," Julio said, and they started to walk.
"That was a quickie," the young man said.
Julio didn't answer. He should have gone in and prayed and then he wouldn't be so scared now. He thought of the next few hours, of Paco and what would be said if it were known how scared he really was.
"I could say your mom got sick, or something. That's what Shark pulled and he got out of it, remember."
"So?"
"So nothing, for Chrissakes. You want me to mind my own business--all right."
Danny Arriaga was Julio's best friend. You can't hide things from your best friend. Besides, Danny was older, old enough to start a mustache, and he'd been around: he had even been in trouble with a woman once and there was a child, which had shocked Julio when he first heard about it, though later he was filled with great envy. Danny was smart and he wasn't soft. He'd take over, some day. So Julio would have to pretend.
"Look, I'm sorry--okay by you?"
"Jimdandy."
"I'm nervous is all. Can't a guy get nervous without he's chicken?"
They walked silently for a while. The heat of the sun and the half-rain had left the evening airless and sticky, and both boys were perspiring. They wore faded blue jeans which hung tight to their legs, and leather flying jackets with THE ACES crudely lettered in, whitewash on the backs. Their hair was deep black, straight and profuse, climbing down their necks to a final point on each; their shoes were brightly shined, but their T-shirts were grimy and speckled with holes. Julio had poked the holes in his shirt with his finger, one night.
They walked across the sidewalk to a lawn, down the lawn's decline to the artificial lake and along the lake's edge. There were no boats out yet.
"Danny," Julio said, "why you suppose Paco picked me?"
Danny Arriaga shrugged. "Your turn."
"Yeah, but what's it going to be?"
"For you one thing, for another guy something else. Who knows? It's all what Paco dreams up."
Julio stopped when he saw that they were approaching the boathouse. "I don't want to do it, I'm chicken--right?"
Danny shrugged again and took out a cigarette. "I told you what I would've told Paco, but you didn't want to. Now it's too late."
"Gimme a bomb," Julio said.
For the first time, suddenly, as he wondered what he had to do tonight, he remembered a crazy old man he had laughed at once in his father's pharmacy on San Julian Street and how hurt his father had been because the old man was a shellshock case from the first world war and couldn't help his infirmity. He felt like the old man now.
"Better not crap around like this," Danny said, "or Paco'll start wondering."
"Let him wonder! All right, all right."
They continued along the edge of the lake. It was almost dark now, and presently they came to the rear door of the park's boathouse. Danny looked at Julio once, stamped out his cigarette and rapped o
n the door.
"Check the playboys," somebody said, opening the door.
"Cram it," Danny said. "We got held up."
"That's a switch."
Julio began to feel sick in his stomach.
They were all there. And Julio knew why: to see if he would chicken out.
Lined up against the far wall, Gerry Sanchez, Jesus Rivera, Manuel Morales and his two little brothers who always tagged along wherever he went; seated in two of the battery boats, Hernando and Juan Verdugo and Albert Dominguin. All silent and in their leather-jacket-and-jeans uniforms. In the center of the big room was Paco.
Julio gestured a greeting with his hand, and immediately began to fear the eyes that were turned on him.
Paco Maria Christobal y Mendez was a powerfully muscled, dark and darkhaired youth of seventeen. He sat tipped back in a wicker chair, with his arms stretched behind his head, staring at Julio, squinting through the cigarette smoke.
"What, you stop in a museum on the way?" Paco said. Everybody laughed. Julio laughed.
"What are you talking? I ain't so late as all that."
"Forty-five minutes is too late." Paco reached to the table and moved a bottle forward.
"Speech me," Julio said. "Speech me."
"Hey, listen, you guys! Listen. Julio's cracking wise."
"Who's cracking wise? Look, so I'm here, so what should I do?"
Danny was looking at his shoes.
Paco rubbed his face. It glistened with hot sweat and was inflamed where the light beard had caused irritations. "Got a hot job for Julio tonight," he said. "Know what it is?"
The Howling Man Page 20
