The fog followed him up the twisty road to the top of Twin Peaks. He could see most of it below him, wrapped around the streets and houses, dimming the lights from windows and street lamps, and even muffling the persistent red and green Christmas lights that twinkled on and off all over the city. Above him, wisps of fog obscured his views of Perseus, Cassiopeia, and Andromeda.
It was disappointing. He stood by himself on the cold, windy edge of the hill. There were others beside him up there on the top of Twin Peaks, but all of them were inside cars, and most of them were not alone.
It was disappointing. Except for that one splendid night on Mount Tarn, his view of the skies had, for the most part, been obscured by fog or, if the night happened to be clear, a full moon.
He leaned against the front of the van and tried to think positively. His father was generous with the van, and his father never bugged him the way his mother did—or, at least, the way she used to. He raised his eyes to the fog now swirling more heavily above his head. It was disappointing. And suddenly, he was crying.
Nervously, he turned his head to the car on his right. Inside, he saw two heads close together. Nobody would notice him crying. Nobody would care. The tears raced down his face, and he found himself gulping for air. It was disappointing—the fog, his father—yes, his father was disappointing. He had expected—what had he expected? That his father would be his buddy, his pal, would make up for all those years of separation? His shoulders began heaving as he thought about his father, plunked down in front of the TV set, sulking because his girlfriend wouldn’t put him first before her sick kid.
He tried to remember when he was small if his father had ever stayed home with him when he was sick. He could remember his mother’s cool hands on his forehead when he had a fever, and his mother plumping up his pillows and playing cards with him, and making soup....
His mother. It was always his mother who had taken care of him, and how had he repaid her? The tears ran all over his face now, and he wiped them away quickly with the sleeve of his jacket. How cold it was! The wind on his wet face burned, but he stayed outside of the van, all alone on top of foggy Twin Peaks.
Why had he left her? Should he go back? No. No. It was too late now for him to go back. He gulped another throatful of the cold air and tried to straighten up. His mother—she wasn’t the same. She had changed. He had started a whole spiral of happenings by leaving. His mother had changed, and so had Marcy and even Jed. They were forgetting about him, and he—yes, he was forgetting about them too. His head whirled with all the changes. He felt as if he were spinning around in circles.
There was music. He could hear it faintly. It came from the car on his left—another car with two heads very close together. Well, he thought, well, standing up straight and mopping his face with his dry sleeve, you’re the one who started it, and you’re the one who’ll have to straighten it out.
The fog was so thick now there were no more glimpses down below of the tiny streets and houses. And no more misty views of the stars and constellations up above. He might as well get back into the van and head home.
Now he could hear somebody laughing. This time it came from the car on the right. Were they laughing at him? No, of course not. He didn’t exist as far as they were concerned. They were laughing into each other’s faces. They didn’t even notice him watching them.
Would it ever happen to him, he wondered. Would he ever be sitting up here with a girl, not caring whether or not the fog was obscuring Cassiopeia or Andromeda?
The fog was circling around him, but he began to feel better. Why not me too, he thought. Why not? Now this girl, Beebe Clarke, maybe she would be somebody for him. He tried to picture her. Cindy’s face bloomed inside his head—a tall, pretty girl, well-developed but sporty. No. Didn’t his father tell him that Barbara and Beebe were small and dark-haired? Another image bloomed inside his head—a lovely, slim, delicate, pale girl with long, dark hair and slender fingers, who played the piano....
No. Beebe was in that acting bunch. He shook his head slightly. Maybe she would be one of those phony, affected girls who wore a lot of makeup and talked in a theatrical way. A picture of Lauren, his father’s old girlfriend, with her painted face and bold look, now bloomed inside his head, and he shook it off. No. No. She wouldn’t look like that. His father said she was a nice girl.
His father. He shivered and quickly got back inside the van. Looking out at the fog through the windshield of a warm car made a difference. He felt better. Beebe Clarke, whatever she looked like—maybe she would be the kind of girl he could like. And vice versa. Then, inside his head, a picture bloomed of two people walking, at a distance. They were holding hands, and the smaller one, a girl, was smiling up at the taller one, a boy. He couldn’t see the girl’s face clearly, but he knew who the boy was, and he felt good. If they had nothing else to talk about, they could always talk about their parents. They could talk about them and laugh together at the mess grown-ups always seem to make of their lives.
They could talk and listen, and be in love. Mark wasn’t sure about what and how it happened that two people fell in love. He and Cindy hadn’t fallen in love. They should have, but they hadn’t. They circled each other, but never came together. And he knew now that, in love, two people came together. Mysteriously, wonderfully, they came together.
And why it happened so that up there, on the top of Twin Peaks, there were couples together in cars all around him while he was still alone he couldn’t say. But he wanted it to happen, and he knew he was ready.
Mark started up the van, backed out carefully, and began the descent. His father? Well, yes, his father was a disappointment, and he knew he would never be like his father when he grew up. He would stay home with a sick kid, and he would share his kid’s interests, and go with him up to Twin Peaks to look at the stars even if the night was foggy.
His father? He began to smile. A warm, indulgent feeling swirled inside of him, as the fog circled around outside, and he carefully and slowly drove down the twisty road. His father was like a kid, a big, loveable kid like Jeddy, and he was just going to have to accept him the way he was. He loved his father, and he knew his father loved him. The same was true of his mother. It wasn’t enough though. But for now, he had to find his way home in all this swirling fog. That was what he had to do now.
Chapter 11
“The fog has finally cleared,” said her mother cheerfully one morning. She partially opened the blinds in Beebe’s room, moved over to the bed, put her hand on Beebe’s head, and said, “You’re much cooler today. How do you feel?”
“Okay, I guess,” Beebe murmured, licking her dry lips. “But my head still hurts.”
Her mother stroked her forehead. “Poor baby,” she said. “What a time you’ve had.”
* * * *
It was not only her head that hurt, it was all of her. She had never really been sick like this before, and she surrendered herself completely to the aches, pains, exhaustion, and especially to the blackout in her mind. She didn’t think about anything. For the most part, she slept or drank cool drinks or let her mother move her around from the couch to the bed. She knew her mother was taking off from work to stay with her, and she burrowed deeply inside her mother’s love.
* * * *
“Wanda’s on the phone,” said her mother one evening. “Do you want to speak to her? I’ll bring the phone over to the couch.”
Beebe was lying awake now on the couch with the TV on. It was some kind of a talk show, and the guest specialized in raising attack dogs. Beebe was only half following the interview. She was very comfortable.
“Beebe,” her mother repeated, “it’s Wanda.”
“Wanda?” It took Beebe a moment to remember Wanda and the world out there. “I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”
“Beebe will call you later,” she heard her mother say. “She’s still kind of feverish but much better. Oh? ... Well, I couldn’t say.... Well, isn’t that nice... , Better not make it
this weekend though.... Sure ... Sure . . , I’ll tell her.”
Her mother looked pleased as she returned to the room.
“Wanda sends you her love, and ...”
Now the guest was a famous football player, and he was telling how he had broken his collarbone several times and his ribs.
“Should I turn off the set, Beebe?” her mother asked. “I don’t think you’re really listening anyway.”
Her mother turned off the set and sat down on the edge of the couch where Beebe lay, propped up on pillows and wrapped in a blanket.
“Wanda wants you to meet some nice boy she thinks you’d like,” said her mother, smiling. “She wanted to set something up for this weekend, but I said she’d better wait another week or so.”
Beebe sighed and tried to lose herself again inside her aches, pains, and forgetfulness. But it was creeping back. She couldn’t keep the world out there at bay for very much longer.
“Did she say anything about the play?” she asked her mother.
“No, she didn’t, darling,” said her mother tenderly, “and I didn’t ask her.”
Her mother knew everything. That first terrible night before the fever and the aches and pains had mercifully shut her down, she had spilled it all out as she lay wrapped up, weeping, inside her mother’s arms. She knew that her mother would feel the same kind of outrage she did over Ms. Drumm’s assassination of Romeo and Juliet, and the same disappointment over Mrs. Kronberger’s failure to get involved. Her mother had said something like, “Well, she doesn’t know everything,” when Beebe had related the teacher’s obvious incredulity over her hopes of becoming an actress.
That was long ago it seemed. And Beebe tried to forget all the anguish and remember only how cozy it was here inside her home, alone with her mother. But the world was creeping back.
“I think I’ll give up the play,” Beebe said.
Her mother picked up her hand and pressed it. “Good idea,” she said. “If it’s being massacred, why be a part of it?”
“I think maybe I should forget about being an actress altogether,” Beebe said carefully, and waited. She knew her mother would protest, would urge her to have patience, faith ...
Her mother nodded. “Maybe that would be a good idea, Beebe. It’s probably not worth all the rejections actors have to endure.”
“You didn’t have many rejections,” Beebe said, almost accusingly.
Her mother patted her hand but remained silent.
“Why did you keep encouraging me?” Beebe asked, angry for the first time since her illness began.
“Because you wanted it so much,” said her mother.
“No, no,” Beebe cried, pulling her hand away. “It was because you wanted it. I did it for you. I always knew I wasn’t any good. Well, maybe I didn’t consciously know it, but deep down, I knew it.”
Her mother stroked her hand. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, Beebe. What’s important is that now you can concentrate on your other interests.”
“What other interests?” Beebe asked. “I don’t have any other interests.”
Her mother smiled. She was looking very pretty tonight, Beebe noticed. She was also wearing her green Laura Ashley dress. “You have lots of other interests,” said her mother fondly. “Shakespeare and books and poetry. You’re a smart girl and you’re generous and loving.” Her mother cocked her head to one side and looked at her. “You’re also a pretty girl, Beebe, and who knows ...”
“I’m not interested in boys,” Beebe muttered, and in her mind, Dave Mitchell, dressed in the purple velvet jerkin and black tights of Romeo, whispered in her ear, “It is my lady; O, it is my love!” And she half smiled at him and half frowned at her mother.
“Oh, you will be, you will be,” her mother said confidently. She looked at her watch and stood up. “It’s nearly six. I’d better take down the garbage.”
“You look all dressed up today,” Beebe said, settling back on her pillow. “Is Jim coming over tonight?”
“No,” said her mother emphatically, “no, he’s not.”
“He’s a nice man,” Beebe said. “Too bad we couldn’t make it over to his house for dinner last week.”
“Beebe,” said her mother, “I’ve broken up with Jim. Last night, I guess it was. Over the phone.”
“But why, Mom? I thought you liked him.”
“I do, Beebe, I do. It’s just... I like him as a friend, and he’s been, well, pressing me.” She sat down again next to Beebe. “I mean, I’ve just started going out again, having fun. I’m not ready to commit myself to anybody, especially—well, he really is a darling, but we don’t have the same interests.” She looked at her watch again and leaped up. “I’ve got to take the garbage down.”
“What’s the big hurry about taking down the garbage?” Beebe asked.
“I’ll tell you when I get back.” There was a funny little giggle in her mother’s voice as she hurried out of the room.
She was gone nearly an hour. In that time, Beebe got up from the couch, took a shower, and examined her face in the mirror. Was she pretty as her mother said? No, she didn’t think so. Especially not now with her skin so pale and her face so thin. She ran a comb through her short, curly hair, and wondered what Dave Mitchell thought of her face. Did he think she was pretty?
She changed into a blue sweat suit, and, feeling tired, sank gratefully back down on the couch. She knew that the illness was past, and that she had some decisions to make soon. But for the time being, for the next day or so at any rate, she could forget everything unpleasant and lose herself inside her mother’s total attention.
She could hear voices outside the door, laughter, then a key in the lock, and her mother’s quick footsteps across the small foyer. Her mother’s face was pink and her eyes bright as she came back into the living room.
“What is it, Mom?” Beebe asked. “What’s happened? You look so happy.”
“Oh, it’s all so silly, and so ... so marvelous,” said her mother, sitting down again on the edge of the couch. “You know I usually take the garbage down in the morning before going to work. Or you take it before going to school. But you got sick last Thursday night, and I’ve been home with you ever since. Let’s see.” Her mother raised a hand and began counting on her fingers. “So the first night was Friday. I skipped Saturday, so the second was Sunday, then Monday, Tuesday, and tonight. So what’s that? Just five nights.” Her mother laughed and shook her head. “What a world!” she exclaimed. “What a wonderful, crazy world!”
“What happened, Mom?” Beebe asked uncomfortably. Her mother had changed, whatever had happened. Everything kept on changing and changing, but now, with her mother also part of the change, Beebe could feel something like terror. It grew and spun around in her head, and she lay back on the pillows and listened.
“Well, both of us got to the garbage can at the same time on Friday, and he was so funny. He held up the lid for me, and said something about tipping his lid to a lady. I don’t remember exactly how he put it, but I couldn’t help laughing. And we just chatted a little on the way up the stairs. So, I didn’t take the garbage down on Saturday, but, sure enough, he was there on Sunday. I kind of had the feeling he might have been hanging around, waiting. Well, one thing led to another and—he lives in apartment 2C, on the landing below ours. His name is Roland Belfiglio. He’s a writer. Not famous or anything, and he works as a translator. He speaks Italian and Spanish fluently, and he admires Shakespeare. Only he thinks King Lear is the best. Well, so I told him tonight maybe I might be able to go to the movies with him this weekend if you’re feeling better. We both want to see the new Henry V movie even if neither of us is crazy about the play. Incidentally, he thinks Dante is the greatest poet who ever lived, but I don’t really mind.”
* * * *
Beebe sat in one of the back rows in the auditorium and watched. Juliet/Jennifer, wearing a short, flippy skirt and waving a green and black pom-pom, was leading a group of other cheerleaders in a cry—
”Give me a C, give me a C, give me an A, give me an A....”
“Louder!” ordered Ms. Drumm from one of the front rows. “And Romeo, get over there, behind the billboard, and act like you’re really swept off your feet.”
Romeo/Dave, chewing gum and dressed in a red-and-white school jacket with the word Montague stamped on the back, slouched over to the billboard and assumed a casual, sneering stance.
“Okay, girls, show him your stuff,” said Ms. Drumm, sinking back into her seat.
The cheerleaders fanned out in a line behind Juliet, all of them waving green and black pom-poms. “Give me a C, give me a C....” they cried, pumping their arms up and down and stamping their feet on the ground.
Romeo/Dave, peeping through a hole in the billboard, suddenly rose, straightened up, and spit out his gum. He walked around the side of the billboard as all of the cheerleaders leaped into the air yelling, “Capulet!”
“Good, good!” Ms. Drumm said.
Then Juliet caught sight of Romeo and slowly moved towards him, and he moved towards her. Off stage could be heard the cries of the cheerleaders from Montague High School as they, in turn, shouted, “Give me an M, give me an M....”
* * * *
Dave was the first one from the cast whom she saw on her return to school that morning. He came up to her in the hall and asked, “Were you away for a couple of days?”
“I was sick for nearly a week and a half,” she told him.
“No kidding? Well, you’ve really missed something great. She’s a kick, that Drumm, and we’re having a ball.”
“I guess nobody circulated a petition or went to the principal.”
“Oh!” Dave made a face. “We’re lucky nobody did. The play is really fun now. Everybody loves it. It’s so cute and the lines are so easy.”
“Everybody?” Beebe asked.
“Everybody,” he assured her. “But you’d better go and check with Ms. Drumm about your part. I don’t have a mother in this version. Probably she’ll want you to be one of the cheerleaders. You’d make a cute one.”
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