Forty Days and Nights: Love Stories. 18. Victor's Crown

He saw her from far off and the only thing he had room for in his mind then was that he wanted to be closer. When he got close enough to talk he tipped his hand, went ahead and told her he was a god. Godlike. Now, she wasn't looking for someone to worship just then, she had plans, things to do, an agenda that didn't involve gods, just people. People like herself. Perhaps, now, if he had told her he was a person, just a person, you know, a guy, it might have been different. She might have stopped and chatted, or at least smiled over her shoulder in a come-hither sort of way as she kept on her way. It might have been different, but then again, it might not. It might have been just as it was because she simply wasn't looking for a god right then. Not right then or right after. She might not have been able to say, to tell you, just what it was she did want, what it was she was looking for, but it wasn't a god.

That's for sure.

She told him so in no uncertain terms. He found that entrancing. She found that annoying. He decided it was a game. She decided to try to pretend he hadn't happened. He couldn't believe she was serious. She, seriously, couldn't believe in him. And so it went. From not-so-good to begin with, they ended at worse-came-to-worst. Throwing caution and her wishes to the wind he decided to make his move. She saw him coming a million miles away and packed it in.

Packed it all in. Moved.

She called her dad, told him she was in trouble. Her dad asked, and she told him everything. Told her dad everything as she drove along the river toward home. He keeps showing up at work, she said, he followed me on a date, she said, he calls my friends, she said, he wants to know where I am, where I am all the time. Her dad said, okay, honey, can you make it home? Can you get here before dark? I can, she said, I think I can, and she drove faster and faster.

Much, much faster.

But as fast as she drove, he drove faster because his car was unearthly and he got to her dad's house before dark. He always got everywhere before the sun went down, it was a thing people noticed about him. Where is she? he said, I know she's coming here. He let it appear he knew these things in a godlike way. But her father was bleak and pale and staring. Her father was grey faced and held the phone in his hand. He tried to speak, he cleared his throat, he shut the door. She's not coming, he said as the door closed, she didn't, she isn't, and her dad just shut the door.

Well.

He took it hard, he told all his friends, everyone, that he took it so hard. At parties he told them, at breakfast and at concerts and at the doctor's office he told everyone that he took it so hard. It was true, he did and it was also true that he never forgot her. He would sit under the trees, in the shade, and think of her fondly. Her memory still made him feel like a winner. Still. When someone did very well, pleased him mightily, he told them they reminded him of her. People, women especially, took it as a complicated compliment. Her dad took it hard, too, he told people. Her dad felt it keenly. Her dad had loved her, too, you know. Yes, loved her very much.

This was true. All that he said was true.

But her dad was a liar and had made the whole thing up. Really, she made it home, of course she did. Her dad got her set up with a job as an arborist in another city, in another state, in a brand new life. She met a guy, a nice guy, her dad really likes him. He's proud of his girl, her dad is, proud she didn't fall for a god when she had the chance, proud she hung on to herself. You're the crown, he tells her, the crown of my life. Thanks, dad, she says every time. You saved me.

You really saved me.


If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other--the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery-tales.
-G. K. Chesterton, All Things Considered, 1908