He didn’t look at her; he was still staring at the magazine.
Across the front of it ran the glaring lines:
THE ENCHANTED WORLD OF
HOLLIS HARRINGTON!
Cautiously he slid off the stool and stalked the magazine. He reached out quickly and snatched it from the rack before it could elude him. For he had the feeling, until he had it safely in his hand, that the magazine would be like all the rest of it, crazy and unreal. He took it back to the counter and laid it down and stared at the cover and the line stayed there. It did not change; it did not go away. He extended his thumb and rubbed the printed words and they were real enough.
He thumbed swiftly through the magazine and found the article and staring out at him was a face he knew to be his own, although it was not the kind of face he had imagined he would have – it was a somewhat younger, darker face that tended to untidiness, and beneath that face was another face that was without doubt a face of great distinction. And the caption that ran between them asked a question: _Which one of these men is really Hollis Harrington?_
There was as well a picture of a house that he recognized in all its ramshackleness and below it another picture of the same house, but highly idealized, gleaming with white paint and surrounded by neatly tended grounds – a house with character.
He did not bother with the reading of the caption that ran between the houses. He knew what it would say.
And the text of the article itself:
_Is Hollis Harrington really more than a man? Is he in actuality the man he thinks he is, a man he has created out of his own mind, a man who moves in an incredibly enchanted world of good living and good manners? Or is this attitude no more than a carefully cultivated pose, an exceptional piece of perfect showmanship? Or could it be that to write in the manner that he does, to turn out the sleekly tailored, thoughtful, often significant prose that he has been writing for more than thirty years, it is necessary that he create for himself another life than the one he really lives, that he has forced himself to accept this strange internal world of his and believe in it as a condition to his continued writing._
A hand came out and spread itself across the page so he could not read and he looked up quickly. It was the hand of the waitress and he saw there was a shining in her eyes that was very close to tears.
‘Mr. Harrington.’ she said. ‘Please, Mr. Harrington. Please don’t read it, sir.’
‘But, miss…’
‘I told Harry that he shouldn’t let them put in that magazine. I told him he should hide it. But he said you never came in here except on Saturdays.’
‘You mean,’ asked Harrington, ‘that I’ve been here before?’
‘Almost every Saturday,’ she told him, surprised. ‘Every Saturday for years. You like our cherry pie. You always have a piece of our cherry pie.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said.
But, actually, he had no inkling of this place, unless, good God, he thought, unless he had been pretending all the time that it was some other place, some goldplated eatery of very great distinction.
But it was impossible, he told himself, to pretend as big as that. For a little while, perhaps, but not for thirty years. No man alone could do it unless he had some help.
‘I had forgotten,’ he told the waitress. ‘I’m somewhat upset tonight. I wonder if you have a piece of that cherry pie.’
‘Of course,’ the waitress said.
She took the pie off the shelf and cut a wedge and slid it on the plate. She put the plate down in front of him and laid a fork beside it.
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Harrington,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t hide the magazine. You must pay no attention to it – or to anything. Not to any of the things that people say or what other people write. All of us around here are so proud of you.’
She leaned across the counter toward him.
‘You mustn’t mind,’ she said. ‘You are too big to mind.’
‘I don’t believe I do,’ said Hollis Harrington.
And that was the solemn truth, for he was too numb to care. There was in him nothing but a vast wonderment that filled his being so there was room for nothing else.
‘I am willing,’ the stranger in the corner of the booth had told him many years ago. ‘I am willing to make a deal with you.’
But of the deal he had no recollection, no hint of terms or of the purpose of it, although possibly he could guess.
He had written for all of thirty years and he had been well paid for it – not in cash and honor and acclaim alone- but in something else as well. In a great white house standing on a hill with a wilderness of grounds, with an old retainer out of a picture book, with a Whistler’s mother, with a romantic bittersweetness tied to a gravestone symbol.
But now the job was done and the pay had stopped and the make-believe had ended.
The pay had stopped and the delusions that were a part of it were gone. The glory and the tinsel had been stripped out of his mind. No longer could he see an old and battered car as a sleek, glossy machine. Now, once again, he could read aright the graving on a stone. And the dream of a Whistler’s mother had vanished from his brain – but had been once so firmly planted that on this very evening he actually had driven to a house and an address that was a duplicate of the one imprinted on his imagination.
He had seen everything, he realized, overlain by a grandeur and a lustre out of story books.
But was it possible, he wondered. Could it be made to work? Could a man in all sanity play a game of make-believe for thirty years on end? Or might he be insane?
He considered it calmly and it seemed unlikely, for no insanity could have written as he had written; that he _had_ written what he thought he had was proved by the senator’s remarks tonight.
So the rest had been make-believe; it could be nothing else. Make-believe with help from that faceless being, whoever he might be, who had made a deal with him that night so long ago.
Although, he thought, it might not take much help. The propensity to kid one’s self was strong in the human race. Children were good at it; they became in all reality all the things they pretended that they were. And there were many adults who made themselves believe the things they thought they should believe or the things they merely wanted to believe for their peace of mind.
Surely, he told himself, it would be no great step from this kind of pretending to a sum total of pretending.
‘Mr. Harrington,’ asked the waitress, ‘don’t you like your pie?’
‘Certainly,’ said Harrington, picking up the fork and cutting off a bite.
So pretending was the pay, the ability to pretend without conscious effort a private world in which he moved alone. And perhaps it was even more than that – perhaps it was a prior condition to his writing as he did, the exact kind of world and life in which it had been calculated, by whatever means, he would do his best.
And the purpose of it?
He had no idea what the purpose was.
Unless, of course, the body of his work was a purpose in itself.
The music in the radio cut off and a solemn voice said:
‘We interrupt our program to bring you a bulletin. The Associated Press has just reported that the White House has named Senator Johnson Enright as secretary of state. And now, we continue with our music….’
Harrington paused with a bite of pie poised on the fork, halfway to his mouth.
‘The hallmark of destiny,’ he quoted, ‘may rest upon one man!’
‘What was that you said, Mr. Harrington?’
‘Nothing. Nothing, miss. Just something I remembered. It’s really not important.’
Although, of course, it was.
How many other people in the world, he wondered, might have read a certain line out of one of his books? How many other lives might have been influenced in some manner from the reading of a phrase that he had written?
And had he had help in the writing of those lines? Did he have actual talent or had he merely written the thoughts that lay in other minds? Had he had help in writing as well as in pretending? Might that be the reason now he felt so written out?