Foxfire (33 page)

Hugh stuck his head out when he saw her and said, “Sit down, Andy, you'll have to wait.”

She sat down on the wicker bench squeezed next to a fat old Mexican woman with sore eyes—and a smell. The woman greeted Amanda with a toothy smile, and pointed at her capacious belly. “I got pains—” she whined. “Mebbe I eat too much chili. You think Doc fix?”

“I'm sure he will,” said Amanda, drawing as far away as she could. Now that she had made up her mind to consult Hugh, this delay exasperated her. And none of them looked very sick, she thought impatiently. A miner with a bandaged hand. A little boy with ringworm crusts on his head. A blowsy blonde in maroon silk who sat in the far corner on an up-ended packing case, one of Big Ruby's girls doubtless come in for monthly inspection.

It would take an hour to get through them all, thought Amanda, and there was nothing to read. She sat and tapped her foot. She thought of the last doctor's waiting room she had sat in. Two years ago, accompanied by her mother who was always so anxious over any of Amanda's slightest ailments. It must have been a cold she had had, because the doctor was a Park Avenue nose and throat specialist. She remembered the waiting room hung in gold brocades, with a moss-colored rug, all the latest
Vogues
and
Vanity Fairs
and
New Yorkers
on the inlaid central table. She remembered the two soft-voiced smiling nurses, the efficient secretary, the four gleaming white cubicles for the use of the specialist and his assistants. There had been an atmosphere of reassurance and smooth, charming warmth.

And did I ever think poverty was romantic? Why shouldn't we cushion ugliness and pain if we can? If we can. Her hand clenched on the envelope until it crackled.

The last patient left at four, it was the blonde crib girl, and as she stumbled out her slack mouth had dropped open like a gasping fish, tears streaked mascara runnels down her cheeks.

“What's the matter with her?” whispered Amanda as she walked into Hugh's office.

“Lump in her breast,” said Hugh curtly. “And no doubt what it is, either. She's let it go too long.”

Amanda exhaled her breath, staring at his square emotionless face. “Oh, Hugh, how dreadful. Did you tell her...?”

“Of course I told her. She'll have to go to Tucson at once for amputation if she wants a whack at a thousand to one chance of recovery. But it's hardly worth-while.”

“Would she have the money for an operation?” asked Amanda slowly.

Hugh shrugged. “Probably not. Now what may I do for you today?”

She looked down at the envelope in her hand. “Hugh, you're so heartless, so callous....I don't know. I'm sorry I came. I wanted to ask your advice about something but you'd sneer....”

Hugh leaned back and crossed his legs. “Okay so I'd sneer. I haven't had a really good sneer for ages. What is it, brand-new symptom?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” She fingered the envelope uncertainly. Too precious, too beautiful a dream, and she had no right——

“Ah, I've got it,” Hugh cried. “Dart's been writing love letters to another woman, and you've snitched one!”

The swift angry color ran up her face. “How dare you!” she cried. “Dart would never do a thing like that!”

Hugh burst into a roar of laughter. “How dare I! How pat the language of hick melodrama flies to the lips of outraged vanity. Do you think you're the only one who can indulge in a little playful adultery on the side?”

“I didn't,” she cried momentarily too stunned for anger. “That isn't fair—you don't understand about that trip.” She got up, putting the letter in the pocket of her smock. “I don't know why I was such a fool as to think I could turn to you.” Her voice trembled, and helpless angry tears blinded her. She started towards the door.

“Oh, Jesus—” said Hugh. “Women, tears. My misplaced humor. Sit down, and get it off your chest.” He pushed her back into the chair and took the envelope from her pocket.

“No—don't—” she faltered, but she stopped her protest watching him as he read the inscription. “Notes on the Lost Gold Mine, ‘Pueblo Encantado,' copied from those made by Dart's father Prof. Jonathan Dartland.”

She waited for his mocking laughter, but the face he raised to hers was blankly astonished. “What in the world...” he said, “what in the world have you got here?''

The mildness of his words decided her. “Well, read it,” she leaned back in her chair. “Read it aloud, will you? I'd like to get a fresh impression.”

Hugh glanced at her, then began to read in his harsh, clipped voice the Professor's cautious preamble.

“There exists here in this southwestern land an inordinate amount of myths and legends referring to so-called ‘Lost Mines' and buried treasure. I believe the majority of these ‘lost mines' to be as illusory and illusive as the various forms of ignis fatuus—(the will-o'-the-wisp, Jack o'lights or foxfire) which are popularly supposed to guide the gold seeker to their exact location.”

Hugh continued reading through the adventures of the two Franciscan missionaries, and Amanda could tell nothing from his face, but his voice slowed gradually, and dropped lower. He read the sentences, “The next morning they investigated the cliff dwellings which ... seems to have inspired both men with a great and strange fear. They reported that it glowed in the night ‘Like an enchantment.' They persisted however, and holding their crucifixes in front of them they explored the dead city and the reaches of the cave behind it. Here there were corpses (‘Los Muertos'—probably mummies), and here also at the back of the cave they were stunned to see a wall of glittering gold.”

Hugh stopped. His lips were tight-compressed beneath the short mustache. She watched him puzzled, for he got up, strode to the door, opened it sharply and peered outside. He then slammed it shut. So steeled was she for his derision that she did not understand this action.

“Maria,” he explained. “Supposed to be upstairs with the patients but one never knows. I think I better read the rest to myself.”

He's taking it seriously, she thought in amazement so great that it left no room for triumph.

Silence fell over the little office except for the flick of turning pages and the sound of Hugh's breathing. He finished the notes, examined her tracing of the copper map, and then read the notes again. His green eyes held an expression of intense, painful concentration, more than that, she thought, suddenly a little frightened. His eyes were like those she remembered in a painting of Savonarola—fanatical—then the burning light was veiled. He looked at her intently, with utmost seriousness he said, “Why did you bring me this? Does Dart know?"

She shook her head. “He doesn't believe in the mine. The whole thing makes him angry. We've had quarrels about it.”

“But you've talked about it. What did he tell you?”

She thought back trying to remember Dart's exact words. “He said the place, the enchanted canyon, was a legend in his grandfather Tanosay's tribe. That the Indians were afraid of it, it's sort of taboo.”

“Then he believes the place exists?”

She nodded. “He admitted that, said the details in the notes correspond to Coyotero tradition.”

Hugh leaned forward, eyes narrowed watching her. “Why did you bring this to me?” he repeated, this time in a harsh whisper that dismayed her still more.

“Because you are the only one I could talk to, Dart won't. But I thought you'd laugh ... I didn't think you'd-” Why had she come? Was it an obscure wish to hurt Dart? Had she after all half hoped that Hugh would laugh, that his caustic materialism would free her from the obsession? She had not bargained for this terrifying change in him, for the tenseness that galvanized his body, for the danger which she felt flowing across the littered desk.

She rose attempting to laugh. “But Dart's right, of course, it's just a lot of nonsense, just a fairy tale—” she said quickly, and she stretched her hand out for the envelope.

“Oh, no you don't, my lady.” He put the envelope in his pocket. “I'd like to study this some more. I find it fascinating.”

She sank down again, moistening her lips. “Hugh—” she said, “Hugh, that doesn't belong to you, it's Dart's. You can't keep it.—What have you got in your mind...?”

Her hands clenched on a fold of her smock, her heart pounded as he sat silent staring at her. “You've no right, give it back to me—” She heard her voice rising high and hysterical, and she controlled herself. That wasn't the way with Hugh. Instinct helped her. “It's Dart's,” she said quietly. “He's your friend.”

Hugh's eyes flickered and slid away from her white face. “This sudden tender loyalty moves me deeply,” he said through his teeth. “And I repeat again, then
why
did you bring this to
me?”

She made a choked sound, and her body slumped. “Oh, I don't know, except we need money so desperately—I thought, I don't know what I thought.”

“You thought I'd go searching for the gold, and bring it all back and dump it in your lap? You little damn fool.”

She leaned back in her chair, her eyelids drooped, and she listened to the echo of Hugh's words in full agreement, but her panic had passed and she found herself possessed of calm.

“I suppose you can steal the envelope if you want to,” she said. “And you can go off searching for the mine, too, but you'll never find it. Not without Dart. There's not enough facts there for one thing, and for another you don't understand this country any better than I do. You couldn't cope with the wilderness.”

He looked at her with grudging respect. The frenzy of desire which had leapt at him while he read now receded a little, it withdrew to a subterranean den where it crouched growling and watchful, but the dispassionate master in his mind regained control.

“Then Dart must go,” he said. And he went on in her own previous words, “The Mazatzals aren't so far. If Dart knows where the place is it wouldn't take us long.”

“I know,” she said. “But Dart won't go. At least, not for me.”

“I'll talk to him,” said Hugh.

She sighed and did not answer. Was this not the desired result of her impulse to tell Hugh? Was not his belief in the mine, and co-operation, the reaction she had longed for? Yes, but not like this. Not tarnished by the ugly thing that had been in the room with them for a little while. The Pueblo Encantado, the bright beckoning flower had indeed shriveled but not under his scorn, under the far more scorching and dangerous blast of greed. She had unleashed a force far bigger than she had expected, one that she could not control. But Dart could. He would be angry with her, and justly, but he would deal with Hugh, and Hugh would listen, because the only redeeming feature that she was sure of in his character was his attachment to Dart.

She dragged herself up from the chair. She was exhausted, drained and no longer knew what she wanted, except rest. Her head ached again, and she thought with yearning of her mother. Somebody to soothe, somebody to wave a magic wand and make things right. Darling, I'll help you of course, what does my baby want? Whatever it is I'll get it for her. Had her father or mother said those words once long ago? One of them had. Had this been what she had hoped Hugh would say? Poor little damn fool, indeed.

“I'm going home now,” she said faintly. “I don't care what you do about the envelope.”

“No,” he said, not moving. “You don't carry through very well on your impulses, do you? When you find things don't go as you planned exactly you give up.”

She did not answer. She stumbled out back into the heat and glare of the August afternoon.

Hugh sat on at his desk. He took the envelope from his pocket and spread the notes and map out in front of him. He got up and locked the office door. He looked at the cupboard where he kept a gallon tin of grain alcohol, but for the first time in years the idea of a drink did not appeal to him. After a while he took the photograph of Viola from his inner breast pocket. “Whistle and you'll come to me, my lad,” he said out loud. “Come bearing gifts like the Greeks. Come as my prince, my Emperor, that I may see how wrong I was twelve years ago.”

He smiled to himself, he put the picture and the envelope back together in his breast pocket. He crossed his legs and lit a cigarette, considering with all the coolness and intelligence at his command the best way to conduct his interview with Dart. For Amanda, so childish and uncertain about many things, was right in this: Dart's help and knowledge was, at least so far, essential.

H
UGH
achieved his interview with Dart that night. At nine o'clock he saw Dart striding past the hospital alone and obviously bound downtown. This was so unusual that Hugh could guess what had happened. Amanda had told him, they had quarreled, and Dart was following the normal masculine reaction of flinging out into the night.

Hugh walked onto the hospital porch and called, “Hey, Dartland, wait a minute!”

Dart paused on the road, but his face, plain in the starlight as Hugh came up with him, was dark and implacable.

“You going down for a drink somewhere?” asked Hugh casually.

“No. I'm just walking.” And he started off again.

Hugh followed for a block, conscious that he was panting and his shorter legs trotting to keep up with that long effortless stride. “For Christ's sake!” he burst out at last, “I know you won the hundred-yard dash, do we have to prove it here? I want to talk to you, Dart.”

“Amanda has already talked to me. And I'm not interested.” Dart's stride did not slacken.

“God, I know you're stubborn, but I've never known you to be unreasonable. You might at least listen for a moment!”

Dart's jaw tightened, he stopped so abruptly that Hugh bumped into him. “Well...” he said, “I'm listening.”