At the same time Louis gave over his fickle philosophical flirtations and found the field of inquiry for which he’d always been looking— a blend of semantics and introspective psychology designed to chart the chaotic inner world of human experience. Although his present intellectual tactics lack the brilliance they had when Helen was nudging his mind, he still keeps doggedly at the project, which promises to add a whole new range of words to the vocabulary of psychology and perhaps of the English language.
Gene wasn’t ripe for creative work, but from being a merely promising student he became a brilliant and very industrious one, rather to the surprise of his professors. Even with the cloud that now overhangs his life and darkens his reputation, he has managed to find worthwhile employment on one of the big nuclear projects.
As for myself, I really began to write. Enough said.
We sometimes used to speculate as to the secret of Helen’s effect on us, though we didn’t by any means give her all the credit in those days. We had some sort of theory that Helen was a completely “natural” person, a “noble savage” (from the kitchen), a bridge to the world of proletarian reality. Es once said that Helen couldn’t have had a Freudian childhood, whatever she meant by that. Louis spoke of Helen’s unthinking social courage and Gene of the catalytic effect of beauty.
Oddly, in these discussions we never referred to that strange, electric experience we’d all had when we first met Helen—that tearing moment when we’d looked back from the doorway. We were always strangely reticent there. And none of us ever voiced the conviction that I’m sure all of us had at times: that our social and psychoanalytic theories weren’t worth a hoot when it came to explaining Helen, that she possessed powers of feeling and mind (mostly concealed) that set her utterly apart from every other inhabitant of the planet Earth, that she was like a being from another, far saner and lovelier world.
That conviction isn’t unusual, come to think of it. It’s the one every man has about the girl he loves. Which brings me to my own secret explanation of Helen’s effect on me (though not on the others).
It was simply this. I loved Helen and I knew Helen loved me. And that was quite enough.
It happened scarcely a month after we’d met. We were staging a little party at Es’s. Since I was the one with the car, I was assigned to pick up Helen at Benny’s when she got through. On the short drive I passed a house that held unpleasant memories for me. A girl had lived there whom I’d been crazy about and who had turned me down. (No, let’s be honest, I turned her down, though I very much wanted her, because of some tragic cowardice, the memory of which always sears me like a hot iron.)
Helen must have guessed something from my expression, for she said softly, “What’s the matter,
Larry?” and then, when I ignored the question, “Something about a girl?”
She was so sympathetic about it that I broke down and told her the whole story, sitting in the parked and lightless car in front of Es’s. I let myself go and lived through the whole thing again, with all its biting shame. When I was finished I looked up from the steering wheel. The streetlight made a pale aureole around Helen’s head and a paler one where the white angora sweater covered her shoulders. The upper part of her face was in darkness, but a bit of light touched her full lips and narrow, almost fennec- or fox-like chin.
“You poor kid,” she said softly, and the next moment we were kissing each other, and a feeling of utter relief and courage and power was budding deep inside me.
A bit later she said to me something that even at the time I realized was very wise.
“Let’s keep this between you and me, Larry,” she said. “Let’s not mention it to the others. Let’s not even hint.” She paused, and then added, a trifle unhappily, “I’m afraid they wouldn’t appreciate it. Sometime,
I hope—but not quite yet.”
I knew what she meant. That Gene and Louis and even Es were only human—that is, irrational—hi their jealousies, and that the knowledge that Helen was my girl would have put a damper on the exciting but almost childlike relationship of the five of us. (As the fact of Es’s and Gene’s love would never have done. Es was a rather cold, awkward girl, and Louis and I seldom grudged poor, angry Gene her affection.)
So when Helen and I dashed in and found the others berating Benny for making Helen work overtime, we agreed that he was an unshaven and heartless louse, and in a little while the party was going strong and we were laughing and talking unconstrainedly. No one could possibly have guessed that a new and very lovely factor had been added to the situation.
After that evening everything was different for me. I had a girl. Helen was (why not say the trite things, they’re true) my goddess, my worshipper, my slave, my ruler, my inspiration, my comfort, my refuge— oh, I could write books about what she meant to me.
I guess all my life I will be writing books about that.
I could write pages describing just one of the beautiful moments we had together. I could drown myself in the bitter ghosts of sensations. Rush of sunlight through her hair. Click of her heels on a brick sidewalk. Light of her presence brightening a mean room. Chase of unearthly expressions across her sleeping face.
Yet it was on my mind that Helen’s love had the greatest effect. It unfettered my thoughts, gave them passage into a far vaster cosmos.
One minute I’d be beside Helen, our hands touching lightly in the dark, a shaft of moonlight from the dusty window silvering her hair. The next, my mind would be a billion miles up, hovering like an iridescent insect over the million bright worlds of existence.
Or I’d be surmounting walls inside my mind—craggy, dire ramparts that have been there since the days of the cave man.
Or the universe would become a miraculous web, with Time the spider. I couldn’t see all of it—no creature could see a trillionth of it in all eternity—but I would have a sense of it all.
Sometimes the icy beauty of those moments would become too great, and I’d feel a sudden chill of terror. Then the scene around me would become a nightmare and I’d half expect Helen’s eyes to show a catlike gleam and slit, or her hair to come rustlingly alive, or her arms to writhe bonelessly, or her splendid skin to slough away, revealing some black and antlike form of dread.
Then the moment would pass and everything would be sheer loveliness again, richer for the fleeting terror.
My mind is hobbled once more now, but I still know the taste of the inward freedom that Helen’s love brought.
You might think from this that Helen and I had a lot of times alone together. We hadn’t—we couldn’t have, with the Gang. But we had enough. Helen was clever at arranging things. They never suspected us.
Lord knows there were tunes I yearned to let the Gang in on our secret. But then I would remember Helen’s warning and see the truth of it.
Let’s face it. We’re all of us a pretty vain and possessive people. As individuals, we cry for attention.
We jockey for admiration. We swim or sink according to whether we feel we’re being worshipped or merely liked. We demand too much of the person we love. We want them to be a neverfailing prop to our ego.