Circles

by Marilyn Sachs

  “What line is that?” Mrs. Kronberger demanded.

  “ ‘A pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life,’ “ Beebe recited angrily. “She’s substituted, ‘A pair of high school kids caught in the fight.’ Please, Mrs. Kronberger, you have to do something.”

  Mrs. Kronberger was looking at her solemnly. “Why didn’t you take my Shakespeare class?” she asked.

  “I was going to take it next term,” Beebe answered. “I’m only a junior, and I had to get some other things out of the way first. But I was planning on taking it next year, and now ... and now ...”

  “Now,” Mrs. Kronberger finished, “now, you’ll have to take it with somebody else.”

  “There is nobody else,” Beebe said, almost accusingly. “You’re the only one I wanted. You’re the only one who ... who ...” She wanted to say, “You’re the only one who knows more than I do about Shakespeare,” but it sounded so conceited she just left the sentence unfinished. For a moment or two there was silence. Then Mrs. Kronberger said, “I’m not the only one. Don’t make that mistake, Beebe. There’s never an only one in anybody’s life.”

  “It’s not fair,” Beebe said. “It’s not fair.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Kronberger, “I suppose it’s not. Life is often not fair. And neither is art. Think of poor Romeo and Juliet. Art wasn’t fair to them.”

  “But art is different from life,” Beebe said. “Art can make sense of tragedy. Shakespeare’s language can make suffering meaningful. It demeans his art to turn the play into some kind of slapstick comedy.”

  Mrs. Kronberger smiled. “You sound like a college professor, Beebe,” she said. “Is that what you want to be?”

  “No,” Beebe said. “No. I want to be an actress.”

  “An actress?” Mrs. Kronberger shook her head. “Why would you want to be an actress?”

  And there it was—the unkindest cut of all. It didn’t slice into her with a dagger, but it came with the clarity of a simple, undeniable fact. Two and two are four and “Why would you want to be an actress?” What Mrs. Kronberger meant, of course, was why would somebody like you who was only an attendant in last year’s play without a speaking part, and was only Lady Montague with just a few lines in this year’s play—why would somebody without talent want to be an actress?

  “My mother,” Beebe murmured. “My mother wants me to be an actress.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Kronberger, “lots of mothers want their children to be actresses and actors.”

  “But my mother thinks I’m talented....”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Kronberger sighed and shook her head. “Lots of mothers think their children are talented.”

  “But if I don’t become an actress,” Beebe cried, “what will I do?”

  “Why, you’ll have to figure that one out for yourself, won’t you?” said Mrs. Kronberger, almost crankily. “And getting back to Romeo and Juliet, what is it you want me to do?”

  “Make her stop,” Beebe said fiercely. “Make her do the play the right way, or get us a different faculty advisor.”

  At this point, Mr. Kronberger carried in a tray with a teapot, sugar, spoons, cookies, and napkins, and set it down on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  “Dear,” said Mrs. Kronberger, “you’ve forgotten the cups, and maybe Beebe would like milk in her tea.”

  “No, no milk,” Beebe said impatiently, and then, remembering her manners, she added, “I mean no, thank you.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Mr. Kronberger said, hurrying off.

  Beebe kept her eyes on Mrs. Kronberger’s face, and Mrs. Kronberger raised her eyes from the tea tray and said, almost kindly, “I’m sorry, Beebe, but there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Why not?” Beebe demanded. “You could call Ms. Drumm and tell her to stop.”

  Mrs. Kronberger didn’t answer. She turned her attention to the tea tray, moving the teapot to one side and picking up the plate of cookies. They were chocolate chip cookies, Beebe noticed, and some of them were burned.

  “Will you have a cookie?” Mrs. Kronberger asked, smiling again and holding the plate out in Beebe’s direction.

  “No, thank you,” Beebe said coldly. She wanted Mrs. Kronberger to know how angry and disappointed she was. It wasn’t even that she had crushed Beebe’s own future hopes by letting her see how hopeless she considered them to be, but that she would also sit idly by and allow Shakespeare to be dismembered.

  Mrs. Kronberger picked a cookie—one that didn’t seem as burned as some of the others—and put the plate down again. She took a little nibble at it and whispered, “I think he forgot to put in the vanilla.”

  Beebe preserved a dignified silence, and Mrs. Kronberger turned to her and asked, “Why do you think ‘a pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life’ is the most important line in the play?”

  “Because it’s what the play is all about,” Beebe said. “Nothing worked right for them, not even their stars. And we know that Shakespeare wasn’t big on astrology since he has Cassius say in Julius Caesar, ‘The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves that we are underlings.’ It’s just that in Romeo and Juliet, everything goes wrong for them, including their stars.”

  Beebe reached over and picked up a cookie. As she bit into it, she realized that she had picked a burnt one.

  “You could teach,” said Mrs. Kronberger. “You’re certainly intelligent, and you might make an excellent teacher.”

  “Not me,” Beebe said. “I don’t want to teach. I want ... I used to want to be an actress, but now ...”

  Mr. Kronberger returned to the room with another tray containing cups, and for a while all the conversation focused on matters of eating and drinking.

  “Beebe is unhappy with how the play is proceeding at school,” Mrs. Kronberger said, finally, to her husband.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Kronberger. He held out the plate of cookies to Beebe and said, “Have another cookie?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “The new faculty advisor is turning the play, Romeo and Juliet, into a comedy about rival high school football teams,” Mrs. Kronberger continued.

  “Hasn’t that been done already?” Mr. Kronberger asked, picking up the teapot. “More tea anybody?”

  “No, thank you,” Beebe said.

  “You’re thinking of West Side Story, “ Mrs. Kronberger said.

  “Yes, I probably am,” Mr. Kronberger said, looking carefully at his wife. She set down her cup and leaned back against the sofa. Her cheeks had grown even more flushed than they were when Beebe first arrived.

  “And I think Beebe wants me to interfere,” Mrs. Kronberger said in a very tired voice. “And I know she’s disappointed that I won’t.”

  “Yes, well I’m really sorry to hear it,” Mr. Kronberger said, rising, “and I think it’s probably time for you to take your pill.”

  Mrs. Kronberger looked at her watch. “Oh my,” she said, “is it that time already?”

  Beebe understood that it was time for her to go, and she stood up and murmured that she had to get home.

  “Well, it was very nice of you to come,” said Mr. Kronberger, moving towards the door.

  “I’m sorry, Beebe,” said Mrs. Kronberger, “but I just can’t get involved.”

  Why not? Beebe wanted to cry. Why can’t you get involved? Nothing would ever stop me from getting involved, no matter how sick I was. But Mr. Kronberger had already reached the door and was smiling at her, holding her coat and waiting for her to catch up with him. So she mumbled something about the nice tea and thank you for letting her come and that she hoped Mrs. Kronberger would be feeling better and ...

  “Good luck to you, Beebe,” said Mrs. Kronberger. “I hope there will be some happy stars in your future.”

  It wasn’t until she was outside, walking home at a furious clip, that the whole force of her visit with Mrs. Kronberger struck her. She hadn’t realized that Mrs. Kronberger was so sick. And she hadn’t rea
lized that she, Beebe Clarke, would never be an actress. And, above all, she had not really believed it possible that Mrs. Kronberger would sit by and allow Romeo and Juliet to be destroyed.

  It was a chilly December evening, and the stars were already out as Beebe, trembling under her coat, hurried homewards. Mrs. Kronberger had hoped that there would be some happy stars in her life, but at that moment she felt star-cross’d. Yes, that’s what she was. Star-cross’d in everything that mattered. But she would have to find a way to stop Ms. Drumm from ruining the play. She didn’t know how she would do it, but she would do it.

  She could barely climb the stairs to her apartment, her teeth were chattering so and her whole body hurt. When her mother saw her face as she came inside, she cried, “Beebe what’s wrong? Is something the matter?”

  Chapter 10

  “They can’t come Sunday night,” his father said, “because Beebe—that’s Barbara’s daughter—because Beebe is sick.” His father was sitting, crumpled up, near the phone.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Mark said, carrying the groceries into the kitchen. His father looked so upset that he thought he should just dump the bags down on the kitchen table and hurry back. But there were a few frozen things, so first he hunted around in the bags, dug out the frozen chicken pies and the frozen sausages, and piled them into the freezer before returning to his father.

  “What’s wrong with her daughter?” Mark asked.

  “Oh—it sounds like kind of a flu. She’s running some fever and she’s coughing. No big deal. But Barbara doesn’t want to leave her.”

  Like Mom, Mark thought approvingly, or, at least, like Mom used to be. “Well,” he said, “maybe they can come the following Sunday.”

  His father’s eyes narrowed, and his face tightened as if something was hurting him. “She could come Sunday. It’s two days off. Her daughter should be a lot better by then. And I was expecting her to come. I even got a bottle of wine—one of those fancy wines the guy in the wine store said was special.”

  “Well, it will keep until next week, won’t it, Dad?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Anyway, Dad, what should we have for dinner tonight? I bought some frozen chicken pies and some sausages. We could have the sausages with the leftover spaghetti from yesterday. And I think there’s still some French bread.”

  “I just can’t figure her out,” his father said, not rising from his chair by the phone. “In the beginning, she was always ready to get together. She never put me off.”

  “But Dad, her kid is sick. She’s not putting you off. She’s worried about her kid.”

  “You think that’s what it is?” his father asked, his eyes widening with hope. It was embarrassing to see his father so affected. Embarrassing and troubling too. So far, there hadn’t been any girl in his own life who would have crumpled him up like that in front of a phone.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said his father, turning to the phone again and beginning to dial.

  “Dad ...” Mark began. He wanted to tell his father not to ... not to ... what?

  “Oh—right, Mark. Let’s have those sausages. Hi ... Barbara, it’s Jim again. Look, why don’t we just take a rain check on that dinner—put it off a week until Beebe’s feeling better. Right ... right ... but I was thinking ...”

  Mark went into the kitchen and began unpacking the other groceries. He put the four cans of minestrone soup into the cupboard along with the six cans of tuna and the eight cans of refried beans. He had forgotten to buy napkins again, and they’d have to use paper towels or tissues. His father may have been very organized in his hardware store, but he wasn’t at all organized about grocery shopping. Increasingly, Mark had taken over the shopping because he was growing tired of eating out.

  His father followed him into the kitchen, and sat down by the table. Now his face had a surly, dissatisfied look. “She won’t let me do anything for her. I offered to shop or pick up drugs, but she said no. If she’s so worried about leaving her kid alone for a couple of hours, how come she won’t let me go shopping for her?”

  “Maybe she doesn’t need any shopping,” Mark suggested.

  “Oh she does, she does.” His father sulked. “But she says a neighbor is doing it for her.”

  “Well, then ...”

  “She just won’t let me do anything,” his father said angrily. “I even offered to bring them some Chinese food so she wouldn’t have to cook, but she just said no. Everything I offered to do, she said no.”

  “Dad,” Mark said kindly, as if he were talking to somebody very young, “Dad, maybe you just have to ...”

  “Have to what?” his father snapped.

  “Well—have to leave her be. Maybe you just can’t crowd her now. After all, her kid is sick and ...”

  “Listen, Mark, I don’t need your advice. I know a lot more about women than you do.”

  “I know, Dad, I know but ...”

  “So just don’t tell me how to act.”

  “Okay, Dad, okay.”

  The phone rang, and his father flew out of the room. “Hello, hello,” he heard his father say.

  “It’s for you.” His father returned to the kitchen and sank back into the chair by the table.

  It was a girl. “Hi, Mark,” she said. “It’s Wanda.”

  “Wanda?”

  “I met you at Jennifer’s party a few weeks ago, and you were telling me all about the stars....”

  “Oh right. Sure. I remember.”

  “Well, maybe you also remember I told you I had a friend who also didn’t believe in astrology the way you said you didn’t.”

  “Uh ...”

  “Anyway, her name is Beebe Clarke and ...”

  “She’s sick,” Mark said.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I didn’t think you knew her.”

  “I don’t,” Mark said, and wondered how you tell somebody that the reason you know a girl you don’t know is sick is because your father is dating her mother. It was beyond him, and he muttered something about a friend telling him.

  “Isn’t that funny. I mean, I didn’t see her in school today, but I didn’t know she was sick. I was going to call her after I asked you.”

  “Asked me what?”

  “If you wanted to meet her. My boyfriend ...” Wanda stopped to laugh with pride. “I mean, he and I have just started going out together. Actually, you met him at the party too. But we hadn’t started going around together then. His name is Frank Jackson. He was up on Jennifer’s deck when you and I were down in the yard.”

  “Well ... I ...”

  “Tall guy with curly blond hair and sort of green eyes.”

  “Maybe I do remember him.”

  “He’s going to play Capulet in the play. Only it’s not Capulet anymore. But he’s Juliet’s father, and he’s very strict. It’s funny because he’s really such a quiet guy, and he really has to carry on when she stays out late with Romeo.”

  “Right,” Mark said quickly. “I remember him all right.”

  “Anyway, what’s wrong with Beebe?”

  “She’s sick—maybe it’s the flu. I know she has a fever and she’s coughing.”

  “How high is her fever?”

  “I really don’t know,” Mark said. “I just heard that she was sick.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I forget, but anyway, why don’t we put it off until she feels better?”

  “Okay, but do you know if she went to the doctor?”

  The conversation was getting sillier and sillier. Mark said firmly, “I don’t know if she’s gone to the doctor, but I have to go now.”

  “Okay, Mark. I’ll set something up after she’s better. Okay?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  He returned to the kitchen. His father was standing up now, looking into the refrigerator. “What do we have for dinner, Mark?” he asked.

  “Sausages and spaghetti, Dad, but listen. Something really crazy just happened.”

&n
bsp; “What?” His father half turned towards him, and tried to appear interested.

  “This girl just called, and she wants to set me up with guess who?”

  “I can’t imagine,” his father said without much enthusiasm.

  “Well, listen to this, Dad. She wants to set me up with Beebe Clarke.”

  Now his father was interested. “With Beebe, Barbara’s daughter?”

  “Right. And this girl is Beebe’s friend. I think she said her name was Wanda. She didn’t know Beebe

  was sick. I had to tell her and I don’t even know

  Beebe.”

  Now his father was grinning. “Hey, that’s a kick.” “Her friend sounds like a flake though. I hope she’s

  not like that.”

  “No,” said his father. “No, she’s not a flake. She’s

  a nice girl and a pretty girl. And she liked me. We got along just fine. You’ll like her.”

  “Well, I know I’ll meet her one way or another.”

  “Oh sure,” said his father. “Maybe I’ll give Barbara a ring and tell her. She’ll get a kick out of it too. She’s got a real good sense of humor. Kind of quiet but good.”

  His father looked ready to tear out of the room, and Mark said, before he could stop himself, “Dad ...”

  His father winced, but he turned back towards the refrigerator and said, “Okay, Mark, okay. Now what are we eating tonight?”

  Later, his father plunked himself down in front of the TV set.

  “Dad, will you need the van tonight?” Mark asked, after he had washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen.

  His father shook his head.

  “Well, I was thinking of driving up to Twin Peaks and looking at the stars. Somebody in the City Astronomers said it’s usually clear up there, and the view is great.

  “Sure,” said his father, his eyes on the TV set. “Good idea.”

  Mark hesitated. He wanted to do something for his father, cheer him up, make him forget his disappointment over Barbara.

  “Dad,” he said, “why don’t you come with me?”

  “No,” said his father. “I’ve been there lots of times.” But then, as if he was reminded of something, he looked up quickly at Mark, smiled, and said, “Thanks, Mark. You’re a good kid, but I’m kind of bushed tonight. We were stacking cans of paint all day. It’ll be your turn tomorrow. You go yourself. Maybe another time.”