Dawn of a New Day (6 page)

The answer seemed to intrigue Bobby Stuart, and finally he muttered, “Well, I hope before it's over I do more good than just exciting a bunch of hysterical teenyboppers.”

They got no deer that day, but the next morning they were out early, and Bobby got his trophy, a fine ten-point buck. It seemed to please him more than any of the awards he had gotten from the world of entertainment. They dressed the deer out and took the head to the local taxidermist. Bobby said as they left, “I reckon we ought to celebrate tonight. I'm looking forward to our party with your lady and Margie—what's her name?”

“Margie Satterfield.”

“Yep! That girl's quite a swinger.”

Clearing his throat, Mark said, “You better be a little bit careful. She's a local girl, and—”

“Oh, don't worry,” Bobby said. “I'll treat her just exactly like she wants to be treated.”

Bobby Stuart looked around the interior of the Blue Moon and grinned with satisfaction. “This looks like my kind of place,” he said. He turned to wink at Margie, whose arm he was holding tightly. “What do you think about it, sweetie?”

“I been here before,” Margie said, leaning against him. “The last time I came Pa found out about it and just about killed me.”

“Well, let's hope Daddy don't find out about it,” Bobby answered. “You ever been here before, Mark?”

“Nope. Never have. Kind of got a shady reputation.” He shifted uneasily and glanced at Debbie. “I'm not sure I should have brought you, Debbie.”

“Oh, don't be such an old stick-in-the-mud! It'll be all right.” She was excited. Her eyes glowed as she looked around the room. “I've always wondered what it was like in here.”

The Blue Moon was like dozens of other small places of entertainment scattered around the county. It was set back off Highway 23, a low, squat building with a flat roof and the windows blacked out. The parking lot usually sported more pickup trucks than anything else, for it was the home of the indigent redneck. The five-piece country western band was already at work, and the clientele were highly appreciative. A constant battle was fought between the local authorities, for although there was a liquor license in existence, the Blue Moon was the scene for underage drinking and activities such as drug dealing and fights between young, rawboned farmers wearing Tony Llama boots and Stetsons.

They found their way unassisted to a table, and a waitress wearing too much mascara came over and said, “What'll it be?”

Bobby said, “Bring us the best you got, and keep it comin', honey.”

The waitress looked at him and chewed her gum intensely. “Ain't I seen you before somewhere?”

“Sure, I'm Elvis Presley's twin brother. Don't you see the resemblance?”

“Ah, get out of here,” the waitress said scornfully, and twisted away, fighting off several eager hands as she made her way to the bar.

Actually there was little doing in the Blue Moon except for the purpose of consuming as much beer and hard liquor as possible. The band members took turns singing, and all of them had the same twangy voice that seemed prerequisite for a country western singer.

After an hour, the room was filled with the acrid smell of marijuana and cigarette smoke, and the noise had increased to an astonishing level so that the only way to be understood was to shout.

Mark leaned over and said, “Debbie, I feel as out of place here as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rockers. There's gonna be trouble here sure as you're born.”

“Oh, it's fun, Mark. Come on. Let's dance.”

Mark did not consider himself much of a dancer, but at least he was sober, which could not be said for most of the other patrons. Debbie snuggled close in his arms, her eyes going all around the room. She danced twice with Bobby, and Mark danced with Margie. He asked her, “What do you think of Bobby?”

“He's really somethin',” Margie said. She was wearing a dress that revealed her charms, and she grinned wickedly. “He's got designs on me, I do believe.”

Startled, Mark flushed and said, “Be careful, Margie. This is a different kind of world than Cedarville High School.”

“You better believe it,” Margie said, obviously pleased with the difference.

After two hours, Mark looked at his watch. It was only ten o'clock, but he said, “I've had about enough of this, Debbie. Come on.”

Debbie protested, but Mark leaned over and said, “How about let's cut out of here, Bobby?”

Bobby had been drinking drink for drink with some of the rough-looking fellows that had come around to meet him. The word was out that he was Bobby Stuart, and they were all curious.

Bobby said, “No, I'm gonna give a little concert here. Stick around. You'll see somethin'.”

The concert at the Blue Moon was not the same as the one Bobby had given at the high school assembly. He sang the raw blues of New Orleans, the lyrics being scandalous and blunt. He sang jazz, and then he moved into the senior side of rock and roll, which dealt almost altogether with sex and drugs.

As Mark sat there he kept his head down, for he felt embarrassed, and shocked, and ashamed by what was going on. When he did glance up he saw that Bobby had shed his coat and perspiration was on his forehead. He was on some sort of drugs, Mark figured, although he had not seen him take any. “I wish we could get out of here, Debbie,” he said. “Maybe after he gets through singing.”

But afterward Bobby clung to Margie, who seemed to melt against him. He leaned over and kissed her roughly, and she put her arms around his neck. Mark had been watching her and knew she had drunk hard liquor, and he did not know what else she had taken. Her eyes were getting glazed, and there was a looseness to her mouth and a suggestiveness in the way she leaned up against Bobby Stuart.

“Come on, Bobby. Let's get out of here,” he said. But he had little hope of any response. He got none either, for Bobby simply shook his head, saying, “I'm having too much fun, Mark.”

“Well, I've got to go and get Debbie home.”

“See you tomorrow,” was all that Bobby said; then he turned his attention back to Margie Satterfield.

Debbie protested but knew that it was hopeless. They drove home, and when Mark took Debbie to the door she leaned against him and he kissed her, but his mind was preoccupied. “I wish Margie and Bobby had come on with us. That's a pretty rough place.”

Debbie was angry at having to leave the party, and angrier still that Mark paid no attention to her when she put her arms around his neck and pulled at him. “Well, go on then!” she said. “You're nothing but a blue-nosed Puritan!” She stepped inside, slammed the door, and Mark went back to the car feeling that the night had been a disaster.

“Mark, get up!”

He had been asleep, his head under the covers, but when he surfaced he saw his father standing there. “What is it, Dad?” he mumbled.

“Get your clothes on and come downstairs,” Les said. There was a stiffness in his voice and a serious look in his eyes that brought Mark awake instantly. He did not question the orders, and after his father left, he jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, socks and shoes, and a pullover. When he went downstairs, he found his father standing with Sheriff Zach Wilkins in the living room. Wilkins turned around, nodded, and said, “Hello, Mark.”

“Why, hello, Sheriff,” Mark said, and even as he stood there, a sense of disaster began to grow in him. “What's the matter?” he asked quickly.

Sheriff Wilkins was a tall, lanky man of thirty with a droopy mustache and a set of cool, blue eyes. He pulled his hat off now and asked directly, “You were at the Blue Moon last night, weren't you?”

“Yes, sir, I was. Debbie and I went with—”

“With Bobby Stuart and Margie Satterfield.” Sheriff Wilkins nodded. “What time did you leave?”

“Oh, it wasn't late. About ten thirty, I guess.”

“But Bobby and Margie didn't come with you?”

The sense of disaster grew within Mark. “Why, no. They were going to stay a little longer.” He hesitated, then said, “What's wrong, Sheriff?”

The sheriff's eyes grew bleak, as cold as polar ice. “Margie Satterfield's parents have filed a complaint. They claim she was assaulted.”

“Oh no!” Mark gasped. He looked at his father and understood the glance of disapproval. “She was all right when we left there,” he said weakly.

“Well, she's not all right now. Did you see her take any dope?”

“Well, she had a few drinks—”

“How many?”

After Mark answered all of Sheriff Wilkins' questions, he finally asked, “What's going to happen?”

Closing his notebook with a vicious gesture, Sheriff Wilkins stuffed it in his pocket, then jammed his hat on his head. “Probably nothing to the one responsible!” He looked at Les and said, “I'm sorry that Mark had to get involved with this, Les, but it looks like he's clean, at least.”

“What's going to happen to Bobby?” Mark burst out.

“Nothing probably.” Disgust was rich in Wilkins' voice and he shook his head. “He's already made bond and skipped out. We'll never get him. Not with the money he's got to hire lawyers.” He adjusted his hat and turned to face Les, saying again, “Sorry about this, Les.”

“I'm sorry too. Margie's people are going to be pretty broken up.”

“Yes, they are, and that—” Wilkins started to say more, but then pulled his lips together into a tight line and shook his head in disgust. He turned and left the house, and as soon as the door slammed Les said, “Sorry you got involved with this. It's going to be bad for Margie's family.”

“Gee, Dad, I am too. I didn't want to go to that Blue Moon in the first place. I sure didn't think anything like this would ever happen.”

Les Stevens' face suddenly reflected a sadness. “I'm sorry for Bobby's parents,” he said. “They'll suffer the most over this.”

“Do you suppose the newspapers will get it?”

“What do you think? You know journalism. It's what you want to do. Would you miss a story like this?”

Mark shifted nervously and clenched his fists. “I guess you're right. If I'd known about it, I'd never have let Bobby go to that place.”

“You couldn't have stopped him. That young man's on a downhill run, and he's going to crash one of these days.” A sense of doom and frustration seemed to hang over the two. They stood there, and finally Mark said, “I'm sorry, Dad. I should have been more careful.”

“Not your fault. A man makes his own choices—and Bobby Stuart seems to be a genius at making the wrong ones!”

P
rue stirred, bringing her head out from under the covers as her automatic alarm went off. She hated the harsh, ringing sound and had set the radio to play; Bob Dylan's voice filled the room, singing “Blowing in the Wind.” She lay there drowsily until Dylan finished, and then she sang along with Andy Williams on “Can't Get Used to Losing You.” At long last she threw the covers back, moved down the hall to the bathroom, and after washing her face, she came back and quickly dressed. As usual, she paid little attention to what she wore. She couldn't wear the three dresses bought from the tall shop at M. M. Cohen's in Little Rock all the time, so she pulled on a skirt that was too short and a blouse whose sleeves were two inches above her wrist bones, then shook her head with a sense of despair. She had refused to play girls' basketball primarily because she was ashamed to wear the brief uniforms, and she felt she was all bones. This had been several years ago, and despite pressure from almost everyone, except her parents and Mark, she had kept her resolve. Standing before the mirror, she pulled the brush and comb through her thick hair and analyzed herself. “Too tall, too gaunt, figure like a coat hanger!”

Abruptly she moved away, replaced the comb and brush, then grabbed her books and left her room.

At breakfast she was quieter than usual, and her father reached over and pinched her chin, grinning as she blinked. His face was fresh from a shave, and his eyes were fixed on her as he urged, “You need to get out more. What ever happened to that young fellow that was hanging around? What was his name?”

“George Featherstone.”

“Yeah, that's it! Nice young fellow. What ever happened to him?”

“He got tired of reaching up to kiss me good night.” Featherstone had been a respectable five ten, but the two inches between his own height and that of Prudence made a difference. She had seen it in his eyes and knew that he had taken considerable ribbing. Finally she had said, “George, go find a short girl. No point our carrying on like this.” He had grinned and said, “Doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother you, Prue.” However, he had taken her advice and dated one of the majorettes who was a diminutive five four.

“There must be some tall guy in that school who appreciates a good-looking girl.”

“There is,” Prue said, taking a bite of her toast and rising from the table. “His name is Leon Dicus.”

“Oh yeah! Plays guard, doesn't he, on the football team?”

“That's him. You wouldn't like him.” She paused at the door, turned around, and shook her head futilely. “I don't,” she said, and then turned and left the house. She found Mark at the end of the driveway, as usual, and they exchanged greetings while waiting for the bus.

When they were aboard, she and Mark sat down next to each other. As soon as the bus lurched off, he said, “I been thinking, Prue. You know the tryouts for the school play are tonight. I think you ought to give it a whirl.”

“I'm no actress.”

Mark laughed and nudged her on the shoulder. “I'm no actor, either, but I'm going to try out. It's not going to be a very classy play, and it'll probably be bad. All high school plays are, I think. All I've seen anyway.” He looked out the window for a time, examining the landscape as if he had never seen it before, then returned to his conversation. “Debbie will get the lead role, she always does, and I'm hoping to get the lead male role.”

“You'll get it,” Prue said firmly.

“Well, maybe so, but in any case, there are two or three more roles, and anyway, it's not the acting. Well, it's just the fun of it. The rehearsals, going out for hamburgers afterward, and it's always a lot of laughs. Mr. Spender will be directing it. He's a good egg. Full of energy and hoping to make this a great production that'll set the world on its ear.” He laughed and turned to face her, his eyes bright with humor. “I told him waiting for the results of a high school play was like throwing a rose petal off the Grand Canyon and waiting for the effect.”

Prue could not help but laugh. “You do have a way with words, Mark. I think you're right about that, though.”

“Will you try out?” he asked eagerly. “Some of the rehearsals will be late, and I'll have the car, so gettin' back and forth won't be any trouble.”

Prue had taken part in very few activities at school. A thought came to her mind,
This is Mark's last year. Next year he'll be off somewhere starting on a football team and surrounded by pretty girls. This is my last chance to get any time with him.
“All right,” she said smiling. “It probably won't do any good. Do they have a part that calls for a female giraffe?”

Mark frowned, reached down, and took her hand and squeezed it until it hurt. “Don't say that!” he said. “I don't like it! You're always putting yourself down, Prue. All of us have things we can't do and things we can do.”

Prue did not answer. She looked down at his strong, large hand that covered hers, then looked up and said, “What can I do?”

“You can take care of crippled birds, and you can bake the best coconut pies in the Western world. Maybe in the universe. Yes, in the universe.” He began to tease her, and finally said, “All right. The tryouts are after school. We'll stick together. Right?”

All that day Prue looked forward to the tryouts with dread and yet a faint ray of hope. She had no idea if she could be a competent actress, but she had a good memory and knew that she could memorize her lines quickly. The thought of stepping out on a stage before a crowd of people—well, she blotted that out of her mind. She had sung at church before—for she had a lovely contralto voice—but this was different.

That day at the tryouts Prue found herself almost ready to bolt. She might have run away, except one of her friends, Lylah Maddox, latched onto her, saying, “I'm so glad you came. Maybe we can both be in the play, and we could help each other with our lines.”

Mr. Spender, the English teacher and director of the play, was a rather small man of thirty-three with thinning blond hair and pale blue eyes. He loved drama and inevitably directed all of the school plays. Now he stood up and said briskly, “This will just be a preliminary tryout.

“As some of you are aware, I will have each of you today read a small part, and then from these I will select some who will do a full-fledged scene. It's a difficult thing to cast a play, and I want us to have the best production possible. Now, let me pass these out. Who's trying out for the part of Helen Teague?” He smiled as only one hand went up. “All right, Debbie. No point in trying you out since you have no competition. Okay, what about the part of Harry Bowers?” He looked over three or four boys, Mark being one of them, handed out some sheets, then moved on down the line.

Prue took the sheet of paper and studied it. She had a phenomenal memory, and by the time she was called to stand up on the stage and read the part, she knew it perfectly. Her heart almost failed her, even though there were only a few students there, but she saw Mark wink at her and give her the high sign. Without glancing at the paper, she recited the part in a clear voice and stepped down off the stage, thinking,
Well, that's that!

She was mistaken, however, in her feeling that she would not be chosen. Mr. Spender came to her and said, “I can tell you right now you're in the running, Prudence. You have a good, clear voice, and I think you might do well in the part of Sally. It's not a big part, but it's very important. The main character, Helen, will be defined by those around her, especially by the character called Sally.” He handed her a few sheets of paper, and said, “We'll try you on a scene tomorrow with other actors and see how you do.”

The next day after almost a sleepless night, Prue walked through the scene somewhat awkwardly, but not forgetting her lines. The scene involved Helen, played by Debbie Peters, and she knew her lines perfectly as well.

After the scene was done, Prue left the auditorium feeling that she had at least a chance. Debbie walked over to Mark, who had been watching, and said, “I know she hasn't had any experience. That might be a problem.”

“Not a chance.” Mark shook his head. “She doesn't do well in her subjects except for math, but she's got a memory like an elephant. She can remember everything that ever happened to her, I think.”

His words somehow displeased Debbie, and she gave him an odd look. “We'll see,” she said.

Later that day, after school, Mr. Spender was gathering his books together and preparing to leave when he had a visitor. He looked up as the door to his classroom opened and said, “Why, hello, Debbie.”

“Oh, Mr. Spender, may I talk with you for a few moments?”

“Of course, Debbie.”

Debbie came over and said with a worried look, “Mr. Spender, you're the director, and I know it's up to you, but one thing about the play concerns me.”

Spender blinked with surprise. “What's that, Debbie?”

“Well, it's Prue. I don't think she's right for the part of Sally.”

“Why, I thought she did very well. She hasn't had any experience, of course—”

“But it's such a terrible chance to take! She does all right when there's nobody there, but what about in front of an audience? Why, you know how Mary Ann Gateau froze up last year during the play. It ruined it!”

Spender rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That's right,” he said. “I hadn't thought about that.” Then he added, “But I think she'll be all right.”

“Oh, it isn't just that. She's so terribly tall, and I'm petite. Helen is supposed to be a strong person in the play, and here's this giantess towering over her. I don't think I can overcome that, Mr. Spender.”

Spender walked over and sat down on his desk, his brow furrowed. He rubbed the wrinkles away, and for the next ten minutes the two talked earnestly. Finally he said, “Well, I'll think it over, Debbie. I wouldn't want anything to go wrong with the play.”

“Of course, I'm sure she'll understand, and Dale Roberts would be perfect for the role.” She added quickly, “And you could let Prue help with the costumes or something like that.” She gathered her books up, held them to her breast, then said, “It'll be better. You'll see, Mr. Spender.” She turned and walked out, a satisfied smile lurking on her lips.

Prue could not keep the good news to herself, and she excitedly told her parents that night at supper that she was going to be in the play. Her sparkling eyes and obvious good spirits made her father say, “Why, that's fine, Prue! I'll even come to it myself. Might be better than a Texas wrestling match.”

Prue laughed at him and then went out the next morning with the same excitement. Mark met her with a smile and said, “I bet you didn't sleep a wink.”

“Oh, I did too, but it is exciting. And I think, like you said, Mark, it's going to be fun.”

The two talked about the play all the way to school, and all that morning Prue thought about the days that were to come.

At lunch, in the cafeteria, she was almost through eating when Mr. Spender came by and paused beside her. “Prudence,” he said very quietly, “after you finish eating, I need to have a word with you.”

“Of course, Mr. Spender. I'll come to your classroom.” Thinking that it was something concerning the part, Prue hurriedly finished, then made her way out of the cafeteria and down the halls. When she went into Mr. Spender's classroom, she saw that a troubled look was on his face. “Yes, sir?” she asked. “What is it?”

Ira Spender was not a man who could deal with difficult situations easily. He began talking in a rambling fashion about the integrity of a cast and how every member was a part, like a part of a machine. Prue listened to him, wondering where in the world he was going. Finally, almost in desperation, he said, “I know you'd like to do the part of Sally, but I just don't feel it's right for you.” He saw the disappointment drive the smile from her face and hurriedly said, “You've got another year, and this would be a good time for you to get experience. Perhaps you could help with the costumes, or be a prompter.”

All the joy left Prudence, and she said dolefully, “No thank you, Mr. Spender. Maybe I wasn't meant to be an actress anyway.” She turned to leave, hearing him call out to her, “Now wait a minute, Prudence! Don't take it like that!” But she closed the door quietly, and for the rest of the day said not a word. The disappointment cut like a knife, and then she saw Mark and Debbie walking down the hall arm in arm late that afternoon headed for practice, obviously, and anger touched her. She was not a girl given to anger, as a rule, but somehow she just knew that Debbie Peters had something to do with her rejection.
She knows how to work men, and Mr. Spender wouldn't be anything for her
, she thought as she watched Mark and Debbie disappear into the auditorium.