What was the right thing? Leslie and Catherine would have tackled him at the door and dragged him back to the bed, I imagined and laughed to myself. I sat up, gazing at myself in the mirror on the back of the armoire door. I looked flushed, my eyes still electric. Calm down, Rain Arnold, I told myself. Get some control.
I took deep breaths and then went to my things and started to dress. He came in while I was still in my bra and panties.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said, starting to back out.
"Randall, after what just happened, I don't think you have to step out," I said.
He smiled, nodded and came in, going right to his closet.
"I didn't mean for it to happen like that," he said with his back to me. "I mean, I didn't intend... that wasn't why I suggested you come here and all. I don't want you to think that," he said.
"Stop worrying about it," I told him after I slipped on my dress.
He turned to me. He had his pants on, but no shirt. "Really? You're not angry at me or anything?" "There's no reason to be angry at you, or even myself,"
I said. "We're both adults, aren't we? If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't."
He smiled.
"Yeah, that's right." He thought a moment. I could almost hear him telling himself that he had been a fool to rush out. It brought a smile to my face. Then he glanced at the clock on his desk. "We'd better get going," he said. "They might not let us in if we get there after the play has begun."
We completed our dressing in silence, moving safely around each other in his room, actually trying not to touch. It was as if we both believed that if we touched, we would lock in a passionate embrace and throw all caution out the window.
He looked very handsome in his blue blazer and tie. I fixed his hair for him and then we hurried out and down the stairs. As we rounded the turn in the lobby, I heard a door open and saw Leslie. She gave me a big wide smile, then laughed and stepped back into her room.
If only she knew, I thought, she'd wonder why we were bothering with the play.
Even a play by Shakespeare.
Giggling to myself, I clung to Randall's hand and hurried down the sidewalk with him into the warm evening, excited, never more alive and eager to see what lay ahead on this roller coaster Fate had decided I should ride.
7
The Hand of Fate
.
Unlike Randall, I had never seen professionally
performed theater, but I didn't reveal that until after the play. Of course, I had read Macbeth in school, but seeing and hearing the actors, watching Lady Macbeth go mad and hearing the poetry was so overwhelming for me, I sat with my eyes glued to the stage, afraid to look away even for a moment. Throughout the production I sensed that Randall was gazing at me from time to time. If he tried to speak, I quickly shut him off. I didn't want to miss a word.
"That was wonderful," I announced when the actors took their last curtain call. Everyone in the audience was standing. My palms were red from clapping so hard. "I can't wait to see my next play!"
Randall laughed at my enthusiasm. That was when I confessed.
"Maybe you think I'm weird, but I've never been to one of these before."
"Never been to a play?"
"Nothing but school productions," I said.
"You're kidding?"
"No, I'm not kidding, Randall. You still don't understand what I've been telling you, where I came from, what my life was like. We didn't have enough money for food, let alone for plays, and my school in Washington, D.C., didn't arrange for us to go see any productions. Maybe they thought only a handful of us would go or those who would go would ruin the performance with our behavior. They were probably right."
"I did forget all that," he admitted as we walked from the theater.
"Well, it's all true, and now that I've seen how professionals perform, I really don't know what I'm doing here pretending I'm going to be an actress. I can't even begin to imagine myself up there, doing what they do."
"Oh, I'm sure you can do it, Rain. I'm sure you will:' he said.
I gave him a side glance and smirked.
"I don't believe in the fairy godmother anymore, Randall. Some gang member in my old neighborhood mugged her," I told him.
"What?"
"Nothing. Let's just say I'm not making any plans to be disappointed, okay, and leave it at that."
He nodded.
"You want something to eat, right? We really didn't have any supper."
"I'm still too excited to eat, but if you're hungry, I'll eat something," I said.
He found a small place nearby called the Captain's Private Table where he ordered us fish and chips. When he asked for two pints of lager and lime, we exchanged quick glances, nervous as to whether we would be served without a check of identification. The waitress was overwhelmed with the noise and the crowd and just wrote our order down and brought it without question or comment.
"Now there's a successful performance," Randall told me. "We pulled it off together. Otherwise, it would have been embarrassing for me again. It's because you have that real sophisticated look."
"Getting by a distracted waitress is a little different from being on a stage in front of thousands of people, Randall Glenn."
I sipped my beer and gazed around. The restaurant looked like it was a local favorite, with no one but us appearing to be from out of town. At the table beside us, two young men spoke in what I thought was gibberish.
"I'll have Kate and Sydney," the taller of the two young men told the waitress.
"Me? I'll take the Lillian Gish with a pint of salmon and trout. Got a cigargette?" he asked his friend who quickly produced a cigarette and then stood up.
"Where ya off to?"
"Phone. Got to see if me wife is home."
"You mean your trouble and strife:' his friend said and they both laughed.
I leaned toward Randall who had been listening with a smile on his face.
"What are they talking about?"
"They're speaking mockney. It's fashionable these days to use the odd phrase trying to sound like cockneys. They're having fun with rhyming cockney slang. The one guy ordered steak and kidney, Kate and Sydney, and the other ordered fish, which is Lillian Gish, with a pint of stout, salmon and trout. Understand?"
"No. Trouble and strife? What did he mean by that?"
"He went to call his wife, so the other guy said, oh, your trouble and strife."
"How do you know all this?" I asked, astounded and impressed.
"Like I told you, I read. I have this book back in my room. I'll lend it to you, if you want. It's like a dictionary of cockney slang."
"I have enough trouble with the English language here as it is," I said. "I'll skip it."
He sipped his beer and we talked about the play. Randall thought that Macbeth's life was predetermined by Fate and he really had no choice but to come to a bad end. I disagreed and pointed out that Fate merely tempted him. It was still his fault because he listened to his mad, ambitious wife and killed the king.
"Then you don't think your life is all
predetermined for you?" he asked me.
"I hope not," I said. "Mine didn't get the best start, and if my future is anything like my past, I'm in for a worse Fate than Lady Macbeth."
He looked thoughtful.
"Sometimes," he said, "I feel that if I challenge things, do something I'm not supposed to be doing, I'm defying Fate and suffer for it."
"Randall, if you don't want to be doing what you're doing, you should tell your parents and not let them design your life for you."
"I know. It's not that I don't want to do it. I love to sing. It's just that ...sometimes, I think I'm missing so much, I won't have anything to sing about. Does that make sense?"
"Yes."
"Catherine and Leslie think so, too."
"Talk about temptation," I said, and he smiled.
The fish and chips came. I thought I wasn't hungry, but the aroma stirred my appetite and
I fell in love with the fries. I know I ate too many of them. Later, on the way home, I heard my stomach complain about all the grease. It was as if big, thick bubbles were popping inside of me. I had to make our good night very short and just made it into the house in time. I expected my moans and groans would bring Boggs out of his room, but he didn't appear, and I couldn't wait to curl up in bed. I tossed and turned most of the night, waking up frequently with stomach cramps.
In the morning I felt like a hag and thought I didn't look much different. When Mrs. Chester asked me why I was so "buggered out," I told her what I had eaten. She laughed and said I probably had gone to a real dump. She made some concoction for me and it did make my stomach feel better. At least I didn't look like death warmed over when I stepped into the dining room to help serve breakfast. Only my great-uncle was there.
"So?" he asked as soon as I entered the dining room. "How was the play?"
"Oh, it was wonderful. Thank you for getting me the tickets."
"I've been hearing good things about the actress who plays Lady Macbeth," he said, nodding. "Did you take another student from the school?" he inquired.
"Yes," I said.
"Did she enjoy it as much?"
"It was a he," I said.
"Oh?"
His eyes widened a bit and he sipped his tea.
"His name is Randall Glenn and he's studying singing. He has a beautiful voice and will probably be an opera star' I said. "He's very nice. He's from Canada and he's been here before with his family, so he has been very helpful."
He looked at me with dark, almost angry eyes.
"You want to be careful about your
relationships. One mistake can ruin your life," he advised. It sounded more like a threat. "The streets of London are full of girls your age who were tempted by far more sophisticated boys. Think of it this way," he continued, folding his paper and turning to me. Suddenly, he paused. Mary Margaret, who had been walking in and out of the dining room, lingered in the door a moment until he gazed at her furiously. Then she quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
"Think of it this way," he continued, as if he had been rudely interrupted. "Your hormones are like the engine of your vehicle. They run you and at this age, they are very powerful, so powerful, you can lose control of your vehicle and go off the road. You can crash and destroy yourself. Understand?" he asked.
He spoke to me as if he were speaking to a little girl, explaining the birds and the bees. I knew he was just trying to be helpful, but his tone of voice brought a small smile to my lips. He didn't like it.
"It's not a funny matter," he followed sharply.
"Oh, I know. Thank you for the advice. I appreciate it," I said.
"I hope so," he said. He went back to his paper, snapping it sharply.
"Is Mrs. Endfield all right?" I asked.
"She's just very tired this morning," he said. "Mrs. Chester has orders to send up her tea."
He didn't look at me. I could almost hear him say, "That will be all." I was dismissed.
When I returned to the kitchen, Mrs. Chester had my Great-aunt Leonora's tray all prepared.
"Ya can take this up ta 'en" she told me.
"Me?'
"And why not you, pray tell?"
I looked at Mary Margaret who turned away to get a dish of marmalade for my great-uncle.
"I've never been asked to do it before. That's all," I said.
"There's not much ta do, now is there?" Mrs. Chester chimed. "Jist don't drop it in 'er lap."
I took the tray and carried it up the steps to my great-aunt's room. I knocked and waited.
"Come in," she called.
She was sitting up in her bed. Without her makeup, her hair down, and still in her nightgown, she looked older, the lines in her face more vivid, her complexion more like thin parchment.
"Good morning, Mrs. Endfield," I said.
"Good morning. Please get that first, dear," she said, nodding toward a bed table resting on the floor by the wall.
I put the tray down on the vanity table, set up her bed table, and then brought the tray to it. "Don't you feel well, Mrs. Endfield?" I asked.
"I'm just so tired this morning. The trip and the whole day yesterday was a little much. Don't go," she said when I started toward the door. "Stay a while and tell me about your day and the play,"
I described our sightseeing and then the performance and what we did and ate afterward. When I told her how I had suffered a stomachache, she smiled and nodded.
"Heather was like that when it came to eating new things," she said and then she bit down on her lower lip so hard, it made the skin around it turn white. It was as if something forbidden had escaped her lips.
"Heather?" I said, stepping back. I knew who she meant because of what Grandmother Hudson had told me, but I didn't want her to know how much I had been told.
She shook her head, her eyes widening.
"I'm not supposed to mention her name," she whispered. "Don't you say a word."
"Who is Heather?" I asked.
"She was our daughter," she replied. Her eyes looked glazed over for a moment and then she batted her eyelids quickly as if she was clearing away mist and fog. "The Endfields suffered a horrible tragedy," she began like she was telling a story about some other people. "Heather was only seven when her little heart cracked and shattered as if it was some old glass window in the cathedral of her chest. She was a very sweet, precious little girl, full of smiles and love for her daddy. How her eyes would brighten when he appeared, two tiny lights flickering with her holiday laugh of joy as if every day was Christmas. Every day was special for her because she was given so few.
"Richard made every day festive for her. He never came home without a present in his briefcase or in his arms. He brought her dolls and doll's clothing, almost another doll every other day, and toy dishes and teacups, little furniture and clothes and jewelry. Whatever pretty thing crossed his eyes when he walked along the streets, he bought for her. She was never far from his thoughts no matter how big the case or important the client at the time.
"The morning she didn't wake up, he sat in her room and stared at her until it was nearly twilight. He refused to drink or eat a thing. He threw the doctor out, cursing the medical world for permitting it to happen. Nothing had helped, operations, medicines, nothing.
"Finally, his partners came from the firm and talked him into sending for the undertakers, but he would have nothing to do with it. Our solicitor made all the arrangements and when he went to the funeral, he moved and spoke like a man in a daze, hoping that any moment the nightmare would end. He looked at people and heard them, but he didn't believe they were there or they were really speaking.
"He's never once gone with me to her grave, you know. Heather's room is always kept locked. Mary Margaret is the only-one who is permitted in it once a week to dust and clean. I don't see the point in that, do you, dear? If the door is always kept locked, why bother?
"You mustn't utter a word of any of this in front of him," she added quickly. "You mustn't. He can't even stand to hear someone mention her name now."
"Why don't you have any pictures of her anywhere in the house?" I asked.
"Richard won't permit it. Years and years ago, he removed any reminder of her that was in the house, anything that would force us to dwell on the sorrow."
"But don't you want to remember her?"
"Richard thinks it's better if we pretend we imagined her. He's right," she declared with a maddening smile. "It makes it so much less painful. When I think about her now, it's as if I'm dreaming about someone whom I wish I had as a daughter, but never did,"
"You never tried to have any more children?" I asked.
She glanced up at me and stared so long, I thought she wasn't going to answer and I should just turn and walk out quickly for daring to ask such a personal question. Then she spoke.
"We were terrified that if we had another, the same sort of thing would happen. It was heredity, th
e heart problem. Richard's mother died when she was only in her thirties, you see.
"Oh, I know not having children has made us selfish," she continued with a slight nodding, "but there was nothing I could do. Richard wouldn't hear of adopting. A child wouldn't be loved properly in this house if he or she didn't have any Endfield blood, he told me, and I didn't argue. I suppose I was somewhat selfish too, and afraid.
"I'm not at all like Frances, you see. I pretend to be critical of her. It's a game we've always played, but I truly admire her for her strength. Sometimes, I think she wouldn't be rattled if the Queen herself came to visit. When our mother died, Frances was like a mother to me. She was even like a mother to her own husband sometimes," she added with a small laugh.
"Oh, but look at the time," she declared, gazing at the small marble-encased clock on her dresser. "You'll be late for school if I keep you here listening to my drivel?'
"It's not drivel," I said.
She didn't seem to hear me. She sipped her tea and rocked herself slightly in the bed.
I started out of the room and then, gazing to my left, saw the rocker she had been sitting in the morning I had come up to speak with her. There was a blanket on it, but visible, just beneath it, was the tiny hand and arm of what looked like a doll.
It put a shiver in me and sped up my exit from her room and the house afterward when I had finished with my morning duties and could leave for school.
All during the week I went to my lessons and attended my classes with much more enthusiasm because of the play I had attended. Randall said I was inspired and I didn't deny it. When I sat and
daydreamed, I did see myself on the stage. At the end of all my imaginary performances, the applause was deafening and someone always rushed up with an armful of roses for me. I envisioned my name in lights and saw myself featured in magazines. Back in Washington, D.C., those who had known me as just another poor black girl living in the projects were shocked to open. newspapers and see my picture in the arts sections. I'm sure everyone around me in my classes wondered why I was sitting there with such a silly smile on my face, but they couldn't see into my fantasies.
Hudson 02 Lightning Strikes Page 12