Lynne Tillman - Cast in Doubt

Stephen bounces up and again smoothes the creases and wrinkles in his blanket, for rather too long a time. Will it ever be right? It seems that it never will. Perfect, perfect, he murmurs. His sounds are more like purring than speech. At last satisfied, he stations himself at the edge of my blanket and stares down upon me again. He is grinning. It is disconcerting, but then one expects bizarre behavior from a hermit. I sit up. Obviously he is pleased to see me, too. He is in much better shape. He has washed recently. He is wearing cut-off blue jeans, faded but not in ruins, and he has trimmed his unruly beard. Actually one can now recognize how handsome he is or was, how nature once endowed him generously. Stephen had the kind of looks that could kill, as Stan Green would put it. His looks surely brought him an early fame and caused an equally precipitous fall. His looks may have killed only him.

“Welcome, welcome,” he exults. Up until this moment, no words had passed between us. After this hearty salutation Stephen flings his arms out as if to embrace me. He doesn’t, as I am sitting. It is merely a gesture. I stand up and embrace him, which surprises him. Perhaps this is somewhat uncharacteristic of me. Nevertheless, he doesn’t run away, which is good. In unison we both sit down again upon our respective blankets and remain so, side by side, for quite a while. The uncanniness of his appearance in this lonely spot forges my silence. And also it is pleasant to be with an old acquaintance to whom one does not have to speak or to explain. Stephen does not, and would never, ask me why I am here, what brought me to this place, and why should I inquire it of him?

He is scooping up sand with one hand and depositing it into the other. He does this over and over, compulsively repeating the same action in the same way and in the same rhythm, until I feel on the verge of nausea. It could be hunger. Or it could be the sun beating down upon me. Like me, Stephen may be at a loss for words or without any pressing need to converse. That is typical of him. No polite colloquy for Stephen. With him, as far as talk goes, it is feast or famine.

Sweat pours from him. The English, I believe, have difficulty taking the sun. He is turning beet-red. Stephen leaps up and races toward the sea. As a child might, he swings his arms exuberantly and runs crazily — his legs going this way and that — then he flings himself headlong into the water. I marvel at his joyousness and strangeness. And to think, we are here together.

I change position, so that my back is to the sun. I clasp my knees to my chest. Stephen has always loved swimming and diving and will be in the water a long time. I watch him frolicking. He may think he is a dolphin. Such a harmless soul, now, but when he was younger and eminently presentable, men and women alike flocked to him. He toyed with them and cast them off and about with nary a care. I watch him swimming back and forth — he is shouting and singing ecstatically. I look again at his absurd beach blanket. Where did he get such a thing? And his shoulder bag. What does he have in that silly bag? I could, I think playfully — without his ever knowing — search it. I could go through its contents. This mischievous idea plants itself inside me and takes root. He would never know. How would he know?

Without fanfare or further ado, I reach for the bag and stick my hand in it and bring out its contents. A book on electricity, a copy of Aesop’s Fables , a leather purse with a few coins, a red bandanna, sunglasses, pen, and…Helen’s diary. The book with ANALYST inscribed on its cover. This is it, I exclaim to myself, heart beating, this is it. Astonished and alarmed, I shove everything back into the bag and then place it again on Stephen’s blanket.

But I do not and I cannot relinquish Helen’s diary. I will not. It is mine. I ought to have it. I smooth Stephen’s blanket to return it to its previous pristine condition.

I have never before stolen. Never. Not since I was a small boy and then only a trinket. It meant nothing. I glance anxiously, shiftily, toward the sea where Stephen still swims, innocent of my theft. But why should he have her diary? Why Stephen? Then it comes to me. Yes. How stupid of me. The last night I saw Stephen was also the last night I saw Helen. So she must have gone off with him, which I did consider then. Helen followed after him that very night and did not go off with the Gypsy girl. Or all three joined up and ventured off together. But I cannot ask Stephen what happened, and obviously Helen is no longer about, as he has her diary, and I will not surrender the diary. About this I am adamant, even indignant, and I certainly don’t want him to know that I have gone through his bag. Of course I could replace the diary in the bag and hope that the whole story would spill out, and probably a story would — but Stephen cannot be counted upon for a reliable report, and I would not have Helen’s writing, her own words. Besides, the diary — I keep thinking this — belongs to me. I am insulted that he should have it. I stare at the book. I cannot open it now. Who knows what will be in it?

The sea and sky, the sand, the view, all this is as it was, but I am not. I do not know what I am. But I know I have to leave. I must get out of here before Stephen finds out what I have done and what he is missing. For surely he will miss it and know. Still, I remind myself, he is so crazy he may think he lost it. He would never suspect me, Horace, of such an outrageous and scurrilous deed. Not Horace. This calms me and enables me to contemplate the situation and to devise a plan.

Yes, I see it now. I can grasp it. Stephen is here as he arrived at this place with Helen, who left abruptly, the way she can. Alternatively it was he who was living at Bliss’ house, with her, or by himself after she left, so it could have been he who made the map and the drawings. But whatever, whatever, I repeat to myself, Helen befriended Stephen, that is as clear as the pellucid sea, and they disappeared together, at least from my purview. These facts square with the evidence, with the diary, its being in Stephen’s possession. These things clearly show themselves; they are demonstrable. A fact is a fact, after all. One must confront reality.

I place Helen’s diary in my shoulder bag and gather my belongings. I straighten Stephen’s blanket again. I know exactly what I will say to Stephen. I cannot — and do not — run away, for that would make him suspicious. Upon Stephen’s return I will tell him that I am sick and must leave the south and drive home, as quickly as possible. I will say it is my heart. He will be sympathetic but I will not let him help me. I will tell him I have left my pills at home. Strange to say, but as I concoct my cover story I do begin to feel queasy, as if I might have a heart attack. The best cover, as Stan Green knows, is honesty. No one should blow an honest cover. Didn’t Joseph Conrad once write that all a man can betray is his own conscience?

Stephen returns. In short order I tell him I am ill. He is dripping wet and not ready for my revelation, which is perfect for my plan. Before he can utter a word in response, I hurry off and leave him with his towel on his head. I march to the path that leads to the road and even more quickly thumb a ride — I have never before hitchhiked — to Partheny’s store. I throw my things together and shove them into the suitcase. I pay my bill— scarcely thinking about what she will make of my sudden departure. Then I jump into the car and drive like the wind — or in any case with more speed than I ever have — toward home and safety. It is possible, I realize, that Helen did not give Stephen the diary. He may have stolen it from her. That is just as likely. In which case, I am no more a thief than he.