Fabulous Creature (3 page)

In fact, when he was alone in the woods, he seemed at times to be scarcely aware of James Archer Fielding at all. What he was aware of was a kind of overwhelming majesty, dignity, and beauty that owed nothing to him or to any other member of the human species. Walking through cathedral groves, dipping his fingers in the pure clarity of natural fonts, climbing high rocky altars, he experienced what seemed to be a kind of spiritual aerobics—as if undeveloped capacities of some mysterious nature were being stretched and challenged. Part of it was a constant feeling of anticipation, of wonders about to be revealed and promises soon to be kept. And then he had stumbled upon the hidden canyon and its magnificent occupant, and it all seemed to come together. The deer became the center of it all, a symbol too secret and significant to be shared or discussed—at least not for the present. To Max he only wrote that nature sometimes does something so perfect that it’s almost enough to shake your faith—in agnosticism. And to William and Charlotte he said nothing at all.

At first it had been simple stubbornness. They had said he would love the wilderness, he had said he wouldn’t, and he resisted admitting that they’d been right. But before long it was much more than that. Before long it had become the kind of private treasure you don’t risk by exposing it to the appraisal of others. Particularly not if the others in question happen to have made a career of investigating other people’s value systems in the cold light of logic. There was nothing logical about the way James felt about the deer in the valley—and he didn’t want there to be.

“James! You’re getting to be as bad as your father.” Apparently he’d been daydreaming again and missed something his mother had been saying to him. But now the frustrated shrillness of her voice had gotten through not only to him, but to his father as well.

Looking up from the notebook he’d been scribbling in all through breakfast, William smiled at James. “What’s this? What have you been up to to merit such a harsh accusation?”

“Not listening.” James grinned. “I stand accused of the heinous sin of not listening.”

“Shocking,” William said sternly. “Capital offense. Off with his head.”

Charlotte smiled, and then sighed with exasperation, at both of them or at herself for smiling at them. “What I’ve been saying was—we’re out of bread and milk again, and I wondered if you’d mind going over to the Commissary for me before you take off for the hills.”

For just a moment he felt disappointed—he’d been thinking of taking a lunch and spending the whole day in the valley of the stag; but then suddenly the disappointment faded. Another image had appeared in his mind, taking the place of the noble beast. A hot pink and golden tan image. “Sure,” he said. “I’d be glad to.”

The west gate of The Camp was a small pedestrian-sized opening, on the opposite side of the enclosure from the main entrance. It was used mostly by Campers on their way into the mountains to hike or ski—and by Willowbyites on their way to and from the Commissary. There was no gatehouse or guard, but there was a very heavy duty gate. Admission was by remote control. You opened the call box, held down a button, and talked to the guard at the main gate.

“Main gate, Sergeant Smithers speaking. Who goes there?”

James suppressed a laugh. Smithers was the chubby bald guard with the pot belly and slightly embarrassed manner. Embarrassed, no doubt, by having to call himself sergeant when the only army he’d ever been in was probably old T.J.’s, and by having to say corny things like, “Who goes there?”

As far as James had been able to determine, Major T. J. Mitchell’s private army consisted of himself; Lieutenant Carnaby, his fat-legged secretary; old Sergeant Smithers; and the two other gate guards who only got to play they were privates. And then of course, the
troops
—the Camp residents, more than one hundred members of the affluent society ranging in age from doddering to toddling, who seemed, in T.J.’s fantasy, to play the role of a kind of reserve army, but who would be about as effective militarily as a pack of pomeranians, with the possible exception, on second thought, of the little golf ball hit-man.

“James Fielding,” he said into the speaker, trying to keep the giggle out of his voice. “Pass number one, eight, five, four, six.” The badge number was a case in point—as if The Camp had issued more than eighteen thousand passes. Eight would probably be more like it.

“Okay Fielding. Enter!” Smithers said, and a buzzer sounded, indicating that the gate was unlatched.

Recalling the two-year-old torpedo brought back images—most of which concerned his sister—and the fact that, as far as James was concerned, the main purpose of this expedition was more than the purchase of bread and milk. Man does not live by bread and milk alone. The main purpose was, of course—A. Diane Jarrett. And—B. The Don Juan Project.

The Don Juan Project had begun, or at least the idea had first arisen, in May not too long after James and Max had gotten acquainted. They’d been lying around the swimming pool at the university on one of the afternoons it was reserved for faculty families and their guests, and James had been telling Max, in an amusing and satirical way, about his history of identifying with famous characters from the past. While they were talking, Trudi Hepplewhite, whose father was in chemistry and who was one of the sexiest girls in James’ class, came in with three of her friends. It wasn’t very long before Max, who didn’t know any of the girls, was being suave and cool and just crass enough to be funny and the girls were all cracking up—while James, who had known them for years, was as usual, either saying nothing at all for so long everybody forgot he existed, or else coming up with a boring monologue or some joke that nobody got.

It had been that way with James ever since he’d started taking an interest in girls as such. And that had been a long time ago. Although he seemed to be retarded socially where females were concerned, there was every indication he was normal physically, or even precocious. He’d started thinking seriously about girls fairly early, and the more he thought about them, the more he tied up when they were around. Earlier, much earlier, before sex entered the picture, girls he’d known had been simply people and no particular problem. But the more interested he got, the more he worried about what they were thinking of him and the result was usually—fiasco. Like Heather Rubenstein, for instance. Heather was a neighbor with whom he built tree houses, published a neighborhood paper, started a dog walking business, discussed politics and co-authored several indignant letters to the editor of the
Oakland Tribune.
But then one day he’d noticed some interesting developments where Heather was concerned, and shortly afterwards he’d blown the whole relationship by trying to kiss her. It wasn’t that she refused him, either. She’d simply asked him why he wanted to, and he hadn’t been able to think of anything to say. And he hadn’t been able to think of anything to say to her ever since.

He’d discussed the problem with Max before that day at the pool, but he’d never really leveled with him. It just wasn’t easy to admit to someone with Max’s experience that you hadn’t even kissed a girl—at least not very successfully.

But Max must have guessed. That day at the pool, after the girls had gone, he did something typically Maxian. In the same circumstances anyone else would either have kidded James, or if they were abnormally kindhearted, pretended not to have noticed that he’d made an ass of himself. But Max didn’t do either one. What he did do was bring up the subject in a very unemotional way, analyze it, discuss it, and proceed to figure out what could be done about it.

According to Max there wasn’t really any reason why James was such a dud where girls were concerned. He was certainly smart, he could be very amusing in the right circumstances, and he wasn’t even bad looking.

“Oh sure,” James said, flexing his almost nonexistent biceps. “I’m a regular Mr. America.”

Max, who not only had a charismatic personality and an attractively homely face, but also a very adequate build, shrugged. “You’ll fill out,” he said. “I’ve filled out a lot since I was your age.” Max was eleven months older than James. “Besides, there are a lot of women who really go for that unhealthy, soulful look. Look at Peter Frampton and Rod Stewart.”

“And Byron and Chopin,” James agreed eagerly.

Max regarded him thoughtfully for a minute before he said, “You do have a few problems—but it’s nothing that can’t be remedied. It’s mostly a matter of changing your style and building your confidence.” After he’d thought for a while longer he said, “Building your confidence is probably the crucial thing, and I know just the place to do it.”

It seemed that the year before, Max had worked for the summer recreation director at St. Mary’s, which was a private school for girls. Max had been in charge of keeping the swimming pool area clean and checking out towels and lounge chairs. This year he had moved up to the position of lifeguard and his old job would be open. It was an easy job, and there was plenty of time for socializing. And Max would be there in case James needed advice or moral support. It would be the perfect place for him to get the practice he needed to build his confidence. In fact, Max said he wouldn’t be surprised if, by the end of summer, James was into a whole new identification thing. Only this time it would be with a historically famous lady killer like—

“Don Juan?” James had suggested.

Max shook his head, grinning. “Sure,” he said. “Sure enough. Don Juan it is. This will be the summer of the Don Juan Project.”

Only it had turned out to be the summer of the New Moon Lake instead; and until Diane Jarrett had shown up there’d been no reason to think that any part of the Don Juan Project was transferrable to the high Sierras.

Inside the west gate a path led down through a grove of old trees and leveled out to merge with the jogging trail that bordered Anzio Avenue. After curving past two cabins, Anzio ran into Bunker Hill Road and directly down to the center of The Camp. On the jogging trail James shifted from the swift silent tread of the woodsman to a jog—when in Rome—and in a very few minutes was in sight of the complex of buildings grouped around a central quadrangle known as the “Parade Grounds.”

There was no sign of Diane Jarrett in the Commissary, where James purchased bread, milk and half a dozen other items that Charlotte had added to the list at the last minute. There was no one of interest on the tennis courts either, or in the pavilion snack bar, or at the post office. In fact, at this hour of the day, nine thirty
A.M.,
very few troopers of any description were in evidence anywhere. It would appear that in this particular military establishment reveille tended to be a bit late. But James persevered. Sometime earlier he had noticed a map on the post office wall—a map on which names had been inscribed at the location of each private cabin. Previously he’d had no particular interest in finding out who lived on which of T.J.’s favorite battlefields. But now, scanning the map eagerly, he located not one, but two cabins labeled with the surname, Jarrett. Above Cabin sixteen
The Duncan Jarrett Family
had been inked in, and on the neighboring premises,
Hank and Jill Jarrett and Family.
Both sixteen and seventeen were on Gettysburg Road, not far from the end of Anzio.

Considering the possibility of a different route home—one that included a tour of Gettysburg—James was studying the map when the sound of running feet made him turn towards the window. A group of joggers was passing the post office; and judging by a split-second glimpse of a provocative profile, one of them might be the object of his quest. Collecting his sack of groceries, he shot out the door and into the Parade Grounds in time to see the joggers come to a stop at the sidewalk service window of the snack bar. Quite suddenly, it occurred to him that he was very thirsty.

There were four of them—four blond, sturdily trim and damply glistening joggers. Thick, snowy white socks hugged their ankles and terrycloth sweat bands in colors that matched their jogging suits encircled their wrists and brows. And one of them was, indeed, Diane Jarrett. One was a tall, thick-chested man, another was a sturdy-looking middle-aged woman, and the fourth was a young man who was probably in his late teens. While the older man ordered at the service window, the others walked in circles, panting and gasping; but when the drinks arrived, they all subsided around one of the sidewalk tables. To James, now crouching behind a Dr. Pepper at an indoor table, they seemed to be surrounded by a kind of aura.

Diane and the man and woman, probably her father and mother, were talking animatedly between diminishing attacks of panting and studying their wristwatches and the pedometers strapped to their ankles. The young man, however, only sat quietly, leaning back in his chair, his eyes staring blankly in the general direction of the lake. He was definitely, James decided, Diane’s brother—or else gay. There couldn’t be any other explanation of the fact that he was staring at the lake while sitting next to a glowing, panting Diane, whose chest, under her tight sweat shirt was still heaving in a really remarkable way.

Something suddenly interfered with James’ line of vision, and he refocused to find himself eye to eye with Fiona, the young Englishwoman who worked in the snack bar. Fiona, probably in her mid-twenties, was lean and bitter. She was bitter about England, America, the older generation, the younger generation, The Camp, T. J. Mitchell and the fact that her visa was going to expire at just about the time the weather got really bad in London. James found her even-handed disillusionment vaguely inspirational—an indication that prejudice was not inevitable, except perhaps against life itself. In the past he’d enjoyed chatting with Fiona, but at the moment she was refilling the sugar bowl on his table and in the process blocking his view of the outside world.

Leaning around her and pointing he asked, “Do you know who those people are?”

Fiona glanced wearily over her shoulder. “That lot at the table? Do I know that lot? Better than I’d like to, I can tell you.”

“Why? What’s the matter with them?”