by Bill Condon
I wait and wait. It’s like she can’t make up her mind which way to kill me.
Finally, and much more softly …
‘First of all you apologise for running off like that when I was speaking to you.’
I nod.
‘No, say it, please. And you mean it.’
‘Okay. I’m sorry. That good enough?’
‘No!’
‘I’m sorry! How many times do I have to say it?’
‘You show me some respect in future.’
‘All right.’
She bows her head and sighs.
‘Is that it? Can I go now?’
‘No, you can’t go. Stay there and shut up.’
There’s a lull and I think she’s gathering her breath to launch another attack. But then she looks at me with new eyes – the angry ones gone.
‘David, I don’t want to stop you from seeing your dad. You will, for certain. But leave it a while. That’s all I’m asking. Can you do that much for me?’
‘Why can’t I see him today?’
‘Because’ – long dramatic sigh – ‘in case you’ve forgotten, last night he – ’
‘Okay! I know what happened. And I’m over it.’
‘But I’m not. Wait a few days and then we’ll talk about it. Can we agree on that?’
‘What happens in a few days? Do I get to see him then?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Yeah, right. I know what that means. You can’t brush me off like that. I want to see him.’
Mum looks away and folds her arms, shutting me out. She has brown hair the colour of chocolate. It’s short and straight and drifts down to just above her forehead. Dad used to massage her head at night and she’d go to sleep on the lounge in front of the TV. Long after Allie and I went to bed Dad would sit with Mum, the TV off, the light off. He’d rub her head for hours. There were so many little things like that. The easy smiles, holding hands, notes they left for each other, always ending with a line of kisses. I don’t understand how they could go from that to this. The more I think about it, the more questions I find.
‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘What started all the fighting between you two?’
‘That’s a big subject. I don’t think I’ve got time to go into the whole thing now, David.’
‘I don’t want every detail. Just give me a clue.’
‘Well, there were a lot of reasons. Basically, your father became jealous – about my career. It all sprang from there.’
‘But, Mum, he encouraged you all the time. He wanted you to make it. He was proud of you, I know that for sure.’
‘I’ll always be grateful for how much your dad helped me. But then I was promoted. It happened at the same time as his business was failing. I’d come home full of stories about how wonderful my job was, and I didn’t stop to think that it was hurting him. He became bitter. It just ate him alive.’
‘Can’t you talk about that stuff with him, Mum? Work it out?’
‘Perhaps. Perhaps. In time.’
Mum lingers on those words. There’s a sadness in the way she says them that I’ve rarely heard from her. Mostly she’s Wonder Woman. Not now. I think of TV footage of people raking through the ashes of burnt-out buildings. That’s what she reminds me of. Only when she checks her watch do I know she’s back with me.
‘I suppose we better get going,’ she says.
‘Have we got a few more minutes, Mum?’
‘If you like. Is there something you wanted to talk about?’
‘I just want to get it clear in my head. About what happened between you two.’
‘I think I just told you.’
‘Yeah, I know. But there was nothing else?’
‘Not really.’
‘I mean … can I ask you something?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t have another guy or anything like that?’
‘Is that what your father told you?’
‘Nooo. He doesn’t talk to me about stuff like that. Dad never says anything bad about you. It’s only me asking.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s something I’ve thought about. I’d be a gutless wonder if I didn’t ask – just so I know once and for all.’
‘No, of course there was no one else.’ She says it quickly, then stares back at me, unblinking.
‘Fair enough, Mum. That’s what I thought. I just had to hear it from you. You don’t mind me asking, do you?’
‘No, I understand. Is there anything else you want to know?’
‘Only one last thing. You said you didn’t love Dad. You didn’t really mean that, did you?’
She slumps a little as if the question is a huge weight driving her into the ground.
After a moment …
‘Not last night. I didn’t love him then.’
Mum should be a politician. So good at dodging questions.
‘I’m not just talking about last night,’ I persist. ‘You can be mad at someone when they’re an idiot. You can even hate them for a while. But it doesn’t stay like that. If you really love them, you still love them. You know what I mean?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘So … do you love him, Mum?’
There’s a long pause when there shouldn’t be and suddenly I know her answer without her saying it. A tear gives it away.
She moves closer and then her head’s on my shoulder. I feel angry, disappointed, betrayed. Maybe angry tops the list. I don’t understand how you can switch love off. I’m sure I never will. But my mum’s hurting and I can’t help but put my arms around her.
For about half a minute she stays next to me and there’s no armour between us, no need for us to say anything.
Just as quickly the spell is broken.
‘Time to go. We’ll both be late if we’re not careful.’
She pecks me on the forehead and then, seeing the damage, uses a handkerchief to wipe away the lipstick.
‘I’ll ring Dad today,’ I say. ‘I have to.’
‘Of course.’
She smiles – not one of those brand new the world is wonderful jobs – a second-hand, battle-scarred smile.
‘That’s a good idea. Ring him. He’d like that … now, shall I drop you at school or would you rather walk?’
Don’t come anywhere near my school – puleeze!
‘Here is good, thanks, Mum.’
As I get out of the car she touches my arm and I turn around and look at her.
‘You didn’t want me to lie, did you, David?’
‘No,’ I say. But I wish she had.
‘Chop. Chop. No more dallying. Hurry along now.’ Miss Boyle claps her hands. ‘Let’s get this rehearsal underway. Cyrano is waiting.’
If she were an animal Miss Boyle would be a rhinoceros; head down and barging. She’s all bustle and business-like and her skin is so thick bullets fall away from it like snowflakes, or so she’d like you to believe. Now she glances around the room, mentally taking the roll. My friends and I have been here for twenty minutes. Present and accounted for.
‘Mr Pringle?’ Miss Boyle’s voice lifts to the ceiling. Her eyebrows aren’t far behind. ‘Not here? Again? That lad is testing my patience.’
Lanny is usually late for rehearsals. He has a job after school at the supermarket – filling shelves – and can’t always get away on time. Or so he says. I think he’s just slack. Miss Boyle isn’t working with us on the lighting and sound yet, so Lanny’s friend David doesn’t have to be here. But he is. Hardly ever misses. Today, after saying hi to everyone and helping move chairs around, he sits quietly at the back of the hall. I wonder about him; what he thinks and feels. When he’s with Lanny he melts into the background. But when he’s on his own like he is now, there’s a darkness that’s wrapped around him, some kind of sadness. I sense it, see it fleetingly in his eyes.
‘Do you think one of us should go and talk to him?’ I keep my voice low. ‘Just to be friendly
.’
Megan grins. ‘How friendly do you want to be?’
‘It’s nothing like that.’ I frown. ‘I’m only trying to be nice.’
‘I agree with you.’ Glenna has a quick peek over her shoulder at David. ‘He might feel a bit outnumbered with no other boys here. Why don’t you go and talk to him, Caitlin.’
‘Me?’
‘Oh, come on.’ Megan does the scoffing tone better than anyone. ‘You know you want to. Admit it.’
I think when Megan leaves school she’s going to be a mind reader. She gets me right every time.
‘You’re so wrong,’ I lie. ‘I don’t care one way or the other about him.’
‘Well, if you don’t care,’ she says, ‘you’ve got nothing to lose. Talk to him. I dare you.’
A moment later Miss Boyle trumpets, ‘We’ll give our young friend another five minutes. If he’s not here by then, we start without him.’
Five minutes isn’t a long time to talk, and I hardly ever say no to a dare …
I make the trek from the stage to near the back doors to utter this earth-shattering line: ‘Thought you might be lonely up here all on your own.’
‘Nah.’ Quick shake of the head. ‘I’m not lonely.’
‘Don’t you get bored?’
‘No. Got plenty of things to think about.’
It almost seems like he wants me to dig deeper. So I do.
‘Yeah? What kind of things?’
He seriously considers telling me. There’s a long pause, a lot of staring off into space. But in the end he says, ‘Aw you know, just stuff. Life. Nothing important.’
‘Life is annoying, isn’t it?’ I take one of the chairs stacked against the wall and sit beside him. ‘It keeps getting in the way when all I want to do is have fun.’
‘Yep.’ He grins. ‘I know the feeling.’
Megan waves and blows a kiss to me from the stage. I wave back and smile, while telling David out of the corner of my mouth, ‘She’s so embarrassing.’
He snorts. I’m not talking about a horsy kind of snort – it’s a gentle one, like the sound a baby might make.
‘She’s nice, actually,’ I add. ‘So is Glenna. We’ve been best friends for about a hundred years.’
He nods thoughtfully. But he’s looking in Megan’s direction, not mine. All the boys drool over Megan. It would be mean of me to let him get his hopes up …
‘We might have to break up the act soon, though,’ I say. ‘Megan wants to live with her boyfriend.’
‘Right.’
Dimly I hear the pencil in his head, scratching out her name.
There’s a lull in the conversation until I mutter, ‘I wonder where Lanny’s got to?’
‘Hard to say.’ He twists around to look out a window just in case Lanny’s in sight. ‘He’s probably forgotten all about it. I reminded him, but you know what he’s like … ’
Yes, I do. He’s Mr Corny Joke, Mr Say Anything for a Laugh. But I don’t know you, David. Wish I did.
I look at my watch. Stretch my arms back behind me. I see imperfections that I didn’t notice before: a bump on the ridge of David’s nose, one or two zits around his forehead. They’ll go away in time but the perfect mouth and lips will be there forever.
He catches me looking at him and I get his full-on gaze burning bright. Instead of turning away I gaze straight back at him. It’s a moment of truth.
‘I’ve got this bit of a problem, Caitlin,’ he says. ‘At least I think it’s a problem.’ He gulps as though this is going to be hard to say. ‘Can I tell you?’
Not if it’s bad news. Not if you’re rejecting me before I even get to know you.
‘Sure, David. You can tell me anything.’
‘Thanks. See, the thing is, I think you’re great.’
Now I gulp.
‘But …’
God, I hate that word.
‘But so does Lanny … and he’s my friend.’ He shrugs hopelessly.
It’s almost funny, but I don’t allow myself to laugh. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ I say. ‘Lanny’s everyone’s friend. He’s like a big puppy dog.’
‘No, it’s more than that. You don’t understand. He really likes you. He has since that first time we saw you from the bus.’
‘Is he sick?’
‘No. He thinks you like him, too … do you, Caitlin?’
‘I haven’t really thought about it. He’s all right. He’s lots of fun. But I don’t take him seriously.’
‘That’s the trouble. No one does.’
‘THIS WON’T DO!’
Miss Boyle’s thundering voice ends it for me and David. Just as well, too. There is no way I know what to say next.
‘Caitlin, are you intending to come up to the stage some time this year? I can’t wait around here all day, you know. I only have a limited life span.’
‘Yes, Miss Boyle. Sorry. Coming.’
‘Still no sign of Mr Pringle, I see.’ She glares at her watch as if it’s partly to blame.
‘He shouldn’t be much longer,’ David calls out.
‘We’ve already waited long enough. We’ll start without him. And if he doesn’t turn up today, he’s not coming back. Ever. This may be amateur theatre but I expect us all to be professionals.’
Glenna smirks – and gets caught.
‘What’s so funny, young lady?’
‘Nothing, Miss.’
‘Excellent answer. We’re not doing a comedy show here. I’ll start you off, Caitlin – Top of Page 19. Take over from me when you’re ready.’
When Miss Boyle acts she ceases being a sixty-something grey-haired little woman, interchangeable with a zillion others. She inhabits her characters. I want to be just like her when I’m old. Now she launches herself into the part. And she is Cyrano de Bergerac.
‘It’s time you learnt, you pug-nosed, flat-headed – ’
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Lanny stands at the door.
‘Ah. How good of you to honour us with your presence.’ Miss Boyle sounds like she’s addressing a bug she’s about to devour. ‘And what, may I ask, is the reason for your tardiness this time? Fire? Earthquake? Flood? Or did you merely forget about our little production?’
‘I had to work late. Couldn’t help it. Then I had to make a stop on the way here.’
‘I beg your pardon, lad? You knew you were already late and still you made another stop before you got here? Why on earth would you do that?’
Glenna’s loud whisper interrupts.
‘Look, behind his back. Flowers.’
Lanny’s face is almost as red as his hair. My heart goes out to him.
‘Oh, Lanny!’ Megan gushes. ‘I didn’t know you cared. Thank you! They’re my favourite!’
‘Settle down.’ Miss Boyle’s hands form Stop signs, dainty but firm as steel walls. ‘If those carnations are meant for someone, young man,’ she says, ‘I would kindly ask you to deliver them immediately so we can get on with the business we are here for – which is staging a play, in case it has slipped your memory.’
Lanny strides up to Miss Boyle and, as if he’s getting rid of stolen goods and the law is hot on his trail, he shoves the flowers at her.
‘I’m not going to hold them for you.’ She pushes them back at him. ‘Put them down somewhere so we can get started. We’re already late.’
‘But they’re for you.’
Miss Boyle’s mouth drops open.
‘You don’t mind, do ya?’
She doesn’t answer, just keeps looking at the flowers.
‘I was walkin’ past a flower shop,’ Lanny says, apologetically. ‘They had these ones out the front. Thought I’d get ’em for yer … to make up for bein’ late.’
A round of applause booms from the back row.
‘Good one, Lanny!’
‘Thanks, Dave!’
No one on stage dares to laugh because we’re all too close to Miss Boyle. She might turn into Cyrano and slice us up, with words if not a sword. But
almost instantly we see a laugh would have been wrong. All the bluster has seeped out of her. The dragon has been slain by a motley bunch of flowers.
‘Thank you.’ She clutches them to her chest as if they’re the only flowers she’s ever been given. Maybe they are. ‘This is a lovely gesture … Lanny.’
For once he’s not the boy, the lad, he’s not Mr Pringle. I’m amazed that she knows his name.
‘Woohoo!’ cries Megan.
Lanny struts around like a rock star.
‘Thank you, fans, thank you. Who wants an autograph?’
‘That will do.’ Miss Boyle deposits the flowers on a desk and stands very straight. ‘We have had our entertainment for today. Now I would like you all to try very hard to come to your senses. And as for you, young man’ – being called Lanny didn’t last for long – ‘I appreciate the flowers, but they won’t save you if you’re late again. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Very well.’
Miss Boyle takes him by the shoulders and positions him in front of me. ‘Your job,’ she says to him, ‘is to react to what is said to you by Cyrano.’ Now she faces me. ‘And your job, Cyrano, is to give this unfortunate creature hell.’
She claps her hands once more and off I go.
‘It’s time you learnt, you pug-nosed, flat-headed, plate-faced scoundrel – ’
‘What did I do?’ Lanny interjects, earning scorn from Miss Boyle and laughs from the rest of us.
I enjoy calling him names – ‘You puerile wreck!’ – but then I come to the hard part at the end of the speech, when I have to hit him. I look at Miss Boyle, pleading with her to let me off.
‘You won’t break any bones, girl. Slap him.’
I tap him lightly on the cheek.
Miss Boyle is close to having a convulsion.
‘No! No! No! The audience will never believe that, Caitlin. Forget your feelings. It’s your duty as an actor to whack him one. Do it!’
‘Go on, Caitlin!’ urge my fellow actors – the rats. David’s voice is in there, too. Lanny looks anxious. For good reason.
I whack him one.
‘Geez,’ he says, wincing. ‘That’s the last time I bring anyone flowers.’
Paul Myers didn’t matter. Each of us had long ago decided we came from different planets. But Lanny was another story. It’s been me and him against the world ever since I can remember.