Dawn of a New Day (8 page)

“Pretty low, Lannie. Pretty low.”

“Well, I've got the medicine for that. Come on. We'll go out and have something to eat at a place I know.”

Bobby shrugged. “I don't think food's going to help any, but thanks. It'll be nice to get away from this place.”

Lannie took him in a fancy sports car, so expensive Bobby didn't even know the name of it, to a restaurant in the heart of the city. She was well known there, and after the maître d' had led them to the table and taken their order, she leaned back and studied him. There was a sultriness in her air, even when she did not intend it. “You don't want to worry too much about these things. You're worried because you did poorly for the scenes.”

“Well, of course, I am!” Bobby exclaimed. The waiter brought the drinks, and he downed his instantly. “Who wouldn't be worried? If I don't learn how to act quick, I think they'll call the whole thing off.”

“Yes, they might do that, but I don't want you to worry about it. Let's just eat, and drink, and dance, and then when you get loosened up we'll go to my place and talk about it.”

This was the way the evening went. Lannie Marr might not have been the world's greatest actress, but she was certainly world class in making a man unwind, and by the time they got to her apartment, Bobby, after several drinks, was feeling much better.

“Will you come in?” Lannie said, gazing at him directly. Then without waiting for an answer, she turned and went inside.

The apartment was about what Bobby had expected. A large area with art deco, lots of black-and-white marble, with pictures on the wall that looked like the artist never had any lessons. The couch was huge and overstuffed, looking more like the Goodyear blimp than anything else. It was also an odd color, sort of a mixture of lime and apricot. But it was comfortable enough, and when Bobby sank into it Lannie stood over him. “You're feeling better,” she said.

“Yeah, quite a bit—but I still have to go to the studio tomorrow and make a fool out of myself.”

“Don't you know what's wrong, Bobby?”

“I can't act! That's what's wrong!”

“I can't act either. Most people in the movies can't. Now on the stage, that's different. They've got to stay up there for hours.” She shook her head, saying, “I don't see how they remember all that. All I have to remember is half a dozen lines. That's all a scene is, and when I first started in this business I was as nervous as you are, but I found a way to calm my nerves down.”

She left the room and came back bearing a small box in her hand. She sat down close beside him and opened it; Bobby stared down into it at the white powder in small cellophane envelopes. He had seen enough of it in his time, and he had an inherent fear of it. He had tried marijuana and popped a pill or two, but he had seen too many people destroyed by this innocent-looking white powder. Shaking his head he said, “No, that's not for me.”

“All right. Have it your own way. I believe in letting people do what they want to do.”

Bobby watched as she put some of the powder on the bottle top, leaned over, and inhaled it through a straw into her nostril. She leaned back then, her eyes half closed, and she was silent for a long time. “You might as well go,” she said.

Bobby half rose and then slumped back. “Look, I'm afraid of that stuff. I've seen people absolutely ruined by it.”

“So have I. I've seen people ruin themselves with alcohol too. It's a risk, but you'll have to decide whether it's worth it. For me it was. I only use it when I'm doing a movie. Didn't you notice how relaxed I was today?”

“Sure, but I thought that was just—well, you were a professional.”

“I still get tense and uptight. I couldn't make it without this.” She turned to him and pulled him down. Since she was half reclining, he was pressed against her closely. Her lips were soft and moved against his, and her hands roamed along his back. Then she pushed him back and said, “That's enough.” She sat up, and Bobby was caught by the abruptness of her movements.

“I don't have time for failures, Bobby. Go on back to your concerts. You're doing well. Maybe you don't need the movies.”

Bobby suddenly realized he did need the movies. He turned and looked at her. “I do! I've got to do it, Lannie! I've got to make it in the movies!” He looked down at the powder and struggled with his thoughts. Finally he got up and paced the floor, wondering what his parents would say; then the thought came,
They probably think I'm already on heroin. They think the worst of me, it seems.
He worked himself up into a feeling of self-pity; all the while Lannie Marr was watching him with a small smile, as if she had seen this before.

Bobby finally said, “You really think it will help?”

“Try it tomorrow. It won't take much, but it just sort of makes you loose and easy. That's all that's wrong with you. You're so tensed up you can't do anything.”

“All right. I'll try it—but only just to get me through the beginnings. I'll pick it up soon, and I won't need the stuff.”

“Sure. That's the way to look at it.” Then she raised her arms and said, “Now, come to Momma, baby…”

By the time the picture was finished and released, Bobby and Lannie were in the midst of a torrid affair. All throughout the making of the movie he had kept saying to her, “I'll just have the stuff this one time, then no more,” and she had always agreed with him. He found out quickly, however, that the more he took, the more he required, and by the time the picture was released and was proclaimed a hit, Bobby Stuart was in the grips of the white powder. He always had Lannie beside him urging him to more parties, which always involved more dope. He was also besieged and offered the moon by those who wanted to capitalize on his fame. Caught up with Lannie Marr and the crowd she ran with, Bobby simply gave in and became what he never thought he would become, an addict, both of dope and of the arms of a woman, and of the fabulous offers of dollars that seemed to flood in from every side.

From time to time Bobby would seem to sense that something was dreadfully wrong—but then there was always Lannie whispering to him, driving those thoughts away. So he hit the big time in Hollywood and became a star.

P
rue stood looking at the canvas, cocking her head to one side and delicately applying a little deeper red to the lips of the child in the painting. Always when she painted there came over her an intensity, and she seemed to forget the world except for that tiny fragment that lay before her and the canvas on which she tried to capture what she saw. With a sigh she looked up and saw that Pearl Swanson was watching her with a puzzled light in her eyes.

“Well, that's about the best I can do today, Pearl,” she said.

“Can I see?” Pearl Swanson was one of those women of the Ozarks who married very early and had known nothing but a life of grinding poverty. Her daughter, Melody, had that fresh, sparkling beauty that children sometimes have, even in the middle of such poverty. Max Swanson worked at what he could get, having had no education and no training, and for now he was working with timbermen in the woods doing difficult labor in a hard and dangerous job.

As Pearl and Melody came over to look at the painting, Prue's heart went out to them. She took in the shack that had a dirt floor and no inside plumbing, and the red hands of the woman swollen with hard labor and thought,
She has so little and I have so much. I ought to be whipped for ever complaining about anything!

She watched as the woman and the child stood before the canvas on which she had painted their picture and remembered how Pearl had come by their house selling vegetables out of the back of Max's old truck. The Deforges had little need of them, but she knew her mother would agree so she had bought practically their whole stock. Pearl Swanson's gratitude was so great that an acquaintanceship had been struck, and Prue conceived the idea of painting the pair in an attempt to capture the spirit of the Ozarks. It was not a new idea, for she had painted a few toothless old women who still wore their dresses down to their ankles and used the branches of gum trees as their snuff stick. It was Prue's favorite subject, and somehow she hoped to capture the hard poverty of these people, like the Swansons, and at the same time the beauty of simplicity in Pearl's face and the fresh, blossom-like features of two-year-old Melody.

“It looks mighty good, Miss Prudence,” Pearl said, shaking her head. “I swan! I don't know how you do it. Just take that there brush, and look at somethin', and there it is right on that paper.” She smiled, and traces of her early beauty were apparent.

“I'm glad you like it, but it's really not as good as I'd like. I may have to come again.” She took a five-dollar bill out of her pocket and handed it to Pearl.

Pearl took the bill, held it as if it were fragile, then folded it up and put it into the pocket of her apron. “You come back anytime. Me and Melody will be glad to pose. Won't we, Melody?”

Melody looked up with her round, blue eyes and nodded vigorously. Pulling away from her mother, she ran over to the sack of peppermint candy and other treats that Prue had brought and popped a peppermint in her mouth at once.

Getting into the ancient Dodge that her father managed to buy as a second car, Prue started back toward the house. It was May in the Ozarks, and the trees were filled with blossoms; she noticed the dogwoods, the wild cherries, and the apple trees as she passed by the orchards. The smell of rich earth and evergreens came to her through the open window and she inhaled deeply. However, her mind was on the painting. “I didn't get it right,” she said to herself. “I couldn't get the way Pearl had her arm around Melody.”

She thought about the painting all the way home, and when she pulled up in front of the house, she started inside with it; then she heard the sound of an engine and saw that Mark had pulled in behind her and jerked his car to a stop. Quickly Prue put the painting back into the car in its canvas wrapping and turned to Mark. “Hi,” she said. “How's everything with you, Mark?”

“Oh, getting ready for the prom. That's what I came over to talk to you about.” He shifted uneasily, for somehow since he had kissed her the night he had brought her home from the Texaco station, there had been an awkwardness in his manner. She was somehow too much a childhood playmate, and he had vague feelings of wrongdoing about the caress. Still, he had thought about her a great deal, and now he said, “Getting geared up to do the senior prom.”

“I'll bet Debbie's spent a lot of time picking out her dress.”

“Well, you know Debbie. She really likes clothes.”

“Are you two going to get married, Mark?” It was the first time she had ever asked Mark directly, and although Debbie had no ring, everyone seemed to be sure that she would have one soon enough. She watched as Mark pulled his cap off and ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration, or so it seemed to her.

“I don't know,” he said. “Not for a long time; I've got some things to do first.”

When Prue said nothing, he added, “But I came over to ask you if you wouldn't like to go to the prom. Have you been asked yet?”

“No, I haven't.”

“Well, that won't be any problem,” Mark said quickly. “I know half a dozen guys that would like to have a date.”

“How tall are they?” Prue said, a tiny smile turning the corners of her generous lips up. When she saw Mark hesitate, she said, “Don't worry about me, Mark. I don't really want to go.”

Mark hesitated, then shrugged. “All right, but if you change your mind let me know. There are always some fellows who wait till the last minute. Good-bye, Prue.”

He went at once to Debbie's house, and as he pulled up he felt a moment's reluctance. Debbie's mother was very society minded, and the house was like a museum. He told Debbie once, in a jocular fashion, “Your mother ought to make people take their shoes off like they do in China. Or is it Japan?” Debbie had not found that amusing, and he had not referred to it again.

Moving up the porch, he rang the bell, and when Mrs. Peters opened it, he said, “Hello, Mrs. Peters. Is Debbie around?”

“Yes. Come in, Mark.” Mrs. Peters was a small woman, overweight from rich foods. She had been pretty as a girl, Mark supposed. In fact he knew it, for he had seen pictures. She had looked exactly like Debbie when she was a young woman. This had given him some pause, and he had tried to visualize Debbie as a thirty-five- or forty-year-old woman. Mrs. Peters was all right, but she sure needed to lose some weight.

“Have you decided about the football scholarships, Mark?”

Mark hesitated, then said, “I've been thinking about it a lot, Mrs. Peters.”

“Well, I know it would be thrilling for you to go to some of the schools in the East, but I'm hoping you will go to the University of Arkansas. It's so close to home, and we'll get to see you and Debbie so often.”

“Well, that may be,” Mark said noncommittally. At that moment Debbie came in, and for the next half hour he was subjected to the latest on dresses for the prom. This was rather boring to Mark, to whom the prom was just another dance, but Debbie put special emphasis on it, and he made himself show all the interest he could possibly work up.

“I guess we'd better get started if we're going to catch the movie, Debbie,” Mark said, looking at his watch. He managed to maneuver her out, and Mrs. Peters gave the inevitable warning about “Drive safe, and have her home early; Mr. Peters will be here, and you two can talk about the university. He went there, you know, and played football.”

Mark had heard this at least a hundred times, but he managed to keep himself from looking bored. “Yes, ma'am. We'll be in early.”

They went to the movie, which was not particularly exciting, and as soon as they were out, Debbie said, “Let's go down to Cranston's and get something to eat.” Mark agreed, and he sat there eating a hamburger, drinking a chocolate malt, and listening to Debbie talk rapidly about the prom. Who was going with whom, and who was not going with whom. Finally they left, and when they pulled up at the Peters' home, he shut off the engine and said, “Debbie, I've got to talk to you about something.”

Debbie turned to him, her eyes wide with expectancy. “Why, yes, Mark,” she breathed, moving over closer to him. “What is it?”

Mark had his mind on other things, or he would have noticed that Debbie was waiting for him so expectantly that it could only mean she was thinking that he might be about to propose. But Mark said, “I've got to tell you something that I haven't told anyone else—not even my parents.”

“Yes?” Debbie's lips were parted as she moved even closer and reached out to hold his hand. “What is it, Mark?”

“Well, I know everyone's expectin' me to go to college, and I could go on a scholarship, but that's not what I want.”

Debbie sat absolutely still. This was not what she had expected. “What are you talking about? Of course you're going to college!”

“Debbie, listen to me. College is right for some people. It's probably right for you, but I want to be a writer, and I've come to the conclusion that you don't learn to write in college. Not the kind of writing I want to do.”

“Of course writers go to college! What's the matter with you, Mark? Everyone's depending on you. I'm going to be there, and we're going to have a wonderful time.” She spoke earnestly, and Mark sat silently, listening, but when she ended, his voice was stern.

“I may go to college after a year, but I'm taking a year out to travel this country; I hope I can get a job with somebody as a reporter. Even if I can't, I can write, and after it's over I'll know whether I'm fit to be a writer or not.”

Debbie was furious. She, her mother, and her father had made careful plans. Both of her parents were planners, and Debbie had inherited their inclination to take over where others were concerned. At first she pleaded with Mark to listen to reason, telling him why it was foolish to waste a year. The scholarships wouldn't be there a year later; he wouldn't have any money. Even if he did come, she'd be a sophomore, and he would be only a freshman. On and on she went, and finally she said, “So, Mark, you see it's impossible, don't you?”

Mark turned to her, and there was a determination in him as he said, “I'm sorry, Debbie, but my mind's made up. I'm going to do this. It may mean we'll have to postpone our plans for a while, but—”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?” Debbie pulled away and sat glaring at him. “It's not fair, and you're being totally selfish!” She went on for some time, expecting him to change his mind. She had always been able to sway Mark. This time, however, she saw that her attempts were hopeless. She drew back from him and stepped outside the car, saying, “I'm not going to take this as your final answer! We've got our lives planned, and you can't just break those plans! You have to think about other people!” She turned and walked away, leaving Mark to stare after her feeling defeated and frustrated.

For the next week a state of unarmed warfare existed between Mark and Debbie. She was totally determined that he would go through with what she had considered the best plan, and Mark was just as determined not to do it. At one point he was dragged into the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Peters, who threw their weight behind Debbie, and all he could do was sit with his head half bowed and his teeth clenched. But he had finally said, “I am sorry if it disturbs you all, but I feel this would be the best thing for me, and the best for Debbie too, in the long run. I need to find out who I am. Can't you see that?”

The Peters could not see that, and at the end of the week when Debbie encountered Mark in the hall at school, she said briefly, “I'm sorry that you've been so stubborn, Mark, but until you come to your senses, I think it's best that we not see each other.” This had been the plan that her parents and she had agreed on, confident that it would bring Mark to his senses. Then she added quickly, “I also think it might be best if I went to the prom with Harry Findley.”

Mark stared at her helplessly. “But, Debbie…” he began.

But she shook her head and said, “I'm sure a little time apart will make you see reason, Mark.” She turned and walked away, and Mark, feeling as if he had been hit in the stomach, turned too and wandered down the halls, missing his next class and wondering how he had ever gotten himself into such a predicament.

Prue was shocked when two days after Mark's breakup with Debbie he told her what had happened. She was feeding the tiny fox that a neighbor had found in the woods, a vixen, and she looked up with astonishment from inside the pen where she kept the tiny animal. “What did you say, Mark?” She rose at once and stepped outside, saying to the fox, “No, Pulitzer, you stay in.” Then she turned and said, “You and Debbie have broken up?”

“That's about it. You want to hear the gory details?”

“If you want to tell me.” Prue saw that he did want to talk, and the two walked slowly to the edge of the woods that flanked the Deforge farm. They sat down on a log, and Prue listened as Mark recounted the incident. When he was finished, he looked up at her with despair and said, “I guess you think I'm nutty, don't you? Everybody will. Giving up all those scholarships to go traipsin' all over the country.”