by Sarah Willis
Nate feels so bad for Will’s family, it almost breaks his heart. He’s glad he’s here right now, that God put him in this place to be with Mac. It’s a small gift of time for the both of them, and Nate closes his eyes and says thanks to God, grateful that between laughter and tears, love and sheer pain, there are moments of grace.
“You know,” Mac says, “if you put your hand right there in the water behind that rock, it might work better than if I do it by myself. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me, Mac.” Nate dips his hand in the water. It’s very cool, and that surprises him, it being such a warm day. Here he is, fifty-three years old, and he’s just put his hand in a creek for the first time. He wonders what else God might have in store for him.
Beth’s legs just give out. They’ve been shaking the whole time, and as her mother walks up the lane and goes into the house, Beth collapses against the side of the car and slides to the ground. She almost killed her brother. She really almost killed him. She loves her brother. How could she have lived this long and not known that? She starts crying again, scared about what almost happened, and about what she has done. Will her dad leave them, because of what she said?
She wants to be little again. She wants her dad to protect her from everything bad. She wants to say, “Daddy, Greg was kissing Norton Frye,” and for him to make everything better, like when he would kiss her cuts and scrapes. But it had all gone beyond that now.
“We’ll have to get this car out of the ditch,” her father says. He kicks the back tire. Then he smashes his hand onto the trunk. He doesn’t say anything else.
Beth’s arm hurts from where her father was squeezing it. Her eyes ache from crying. She wants to ask her dad if he’ll take her mom back. She wants to know if they will still be a family. “Daddy?” she says.
“Don’t say anything right now.” He hits the car again with his fist, the sound flat and dull. “Goddamn it to hell!” Then after a minute he looks at her. “I’m sorry,” he says. His eyes are all bloodshot, as if he has been crying, but she hasn’t seen him shed a tear. She tries to smile, but her smile turns into something else.
“I’m sorry too,” she says.
“We have to get the car out of the ditch.” He pauses, breathing heavily. “Go get Chip and Melinda.”
She thinks she can’t, her legs won’t support her, but they do. She’s very shaky, and now she’s got the hiccups. She’s glad her father didn’t tell her to get Greg Henry. She couldn’t do that. She will never be able to face Greg again.
Before she goes, she says, “Daddy, I love you, I really do.”
He looks at her and nods. She turns away and walks up the lane.
It takes a lot of rocking the car, and pushing and shoving, to get it out of the ditch. Beth steps on the accelerator as her father shouts, “Go, go on now! Hit it! Now!” She feels sick to her stomach, being behind the wheel. She takes her father’s shouts personally. When it is finally back up on the drive, her dad tells her to get out of the car, he’ll take it from here. He drives the car up the lane and parks it in front of the Theatre Parking sign. Then he pulls the sign out of the ground and tosses it as far as he can into the tall grassy field.
Beth wants to walk away, down the lane, but she needs her family now more than ever. Still, she can’t go home. What could she do in her house? She doesn’t even have a bedroom she can hide in.
Coming down the stairs carrying his suitcase and Betsy’s cage, Norton sees Greg Henry in the living room.
“Let me carry that,” Greg says, indicating Norton’s bag. Norton is terrified he might cry and hands it over without a word. Outside, Will’s car is back in its place, with tufts of grass and mud stuck in its front fender. Ben’s car is gone. The only sound is that of Norton and Greg’s footsteps on the pebbled lane, like a sad, soft-shoe dance. After putting Norton’s bag in the backseat, Greg Henry says, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. No one knows.” Norton gets into his car. He’s terribly grateful for these kind words, but he’s older than this boy. He knows that everyone in the company will know he kissed Greg before the week is out, although that news will be small fodder compared to the things that will be said about Myra and Ben. As mortified as he is about what they have done, he’s shamefully relieved to be upstaged this time. Driving down the lane, not looking back at Greg or the house, Norton thinks of quitting The Mill Street Theatre. There’s a lot of work to be found in dinner theatres across the country. He could travel. Write in his notebooks. Although he hasn’t missed a day of writing in three years, he will not write one word about today. He will try hard to forget it, pretend it never happened.
Chip is confused. Damn, things went to hell awful fast there. He heard what Beth said, but he’s having a hard time believing it. Ben and Myra? Shit. Ben? No way! But Ben drove off pretty damn fast, soon as they moved Will’s car. Melinda went into the house after Ben left, and everyone seems to be packing up, even though no one said they should leave. Chip wonders if Melinda might like to go somewhere with him. He’ll just wait for her to come out. She’s kind of funky at times, but he likes her. And someone ought to find Jimmy and Frank and Lars. Tell them the whole thing just blew up. It shouldn’t have to be Will or Myra.
Chip zips up his duffel bag, thinking about Beth. If he had been fooling around with her when all this happened, he sure wouldn’t want to be the one to have to help her figure it all out. He’s having enough trouble with that all by himself. How the hell could Myra go for a guy like Ben? It makes no sense. Ben is, well, big, and goofy. She never even looked in Chip’s direction.
Shit, if this can happen to Will and Myra, what chance does he have of sticking with a girl? Maybe Chip had it right in the first place. Enjoy the ride as long as it lasts, ’cause it ain’t going to last.
It takes Victor a little longer than the rest to pack up. He moves more slowly than usual because he’s distressed by everything he’s just seen. He wishes he could do something to help, but what? Helen would have gone right up there to Myra’s room and said something that might start the healing process. She wouldn’t be afraid. But he is. He’s going to slink away like all the rest and feel awful about it for a long time.
On his way out of the barn, he sees Greg Henry drive off. Ben’s long gone, and Norton’s car isn’t here anymore either. Chip’s duffel bag is next to his car, where he stands smoking a cigarette, looking like a cowboy waiting for his horse. The absence of cars seems like a desertion, rats leaving a sinking ship, and Victor feels that sinking feeling right in his stomach. He has to do something, and he knows what it is. He puts his bags in his car and asks Chip if he saw where Beth went.
“I think she’s behind the house, Victor. I saw her go back there after we moved the car.”
“Thanks,” Victor says.
Beth is there, curled up into herself, and crying. He sits down next to her and puts an arm around her shoulder. He can feel her whole body tense, but he doesn’t take his arm away. Helen tells him not to.
“Beth,” he says. He speaks her name softly and gently, but now she flinches. “Beth, I know this is all pretty awful, I’m not going to say it isn’t, but your dad loves you, and your mom loves you. And they’re going to need you.”
Beth shakes her head back and forth. “They hate me now.”
“No, they don’t, Beth. They still love you. Believe me, they do.”
She looks at him, eyes bloodshot and puffy. “I don’t believe in love. How could my mom do that if she loved my dad? If she loved Ben, she would have left with him. She’s staying here ’cause she’s embarrassed, that’s all. I thought I was in love, but I was just being stupid. And I won’t be that stupid again.”
“Love is real, Beth. I loved my wife. I loved her very much, and she loved me.”
“Well, good for you,” Beth says. Then, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” She puts her head into her hands and starts crying all over again.
Victor sits there, waiting for Helen to tell him what to say next, but she’
s silent. Behind the house is a field, blooming with tall grass and early wildflowers, fully recovered from the storm a few days ago. A breeze has just picked up, and everything seems to shimmer in the afternoon sunlight. Beyond the field are the trees, peaceful and quiet. What a beautiful place this is, Victor thinks. He wonders if Will and Myra will ever be able to love this place again, even if they learn to love each other. It’s a shame how love can hurt you, he thinks, remembering too vividly Helen’s funeral and the months that followed. He carries that pain with him always, even here, but it’s been filtered by time and memory to become part and parcel of Helen herself, so it’s important to him to remember it all the same. He wishes he could ease this girl’s burden, but he suspects he can’t. Still, he finds it helps him to sit here with his arm around Beth, even with nothing left to say. He closes his eyes. There’s no hurry to go anywhere yet.
Melinda has to get her things from out of Myra’s room, but Myra’s in there. Standing outside the closed door, Melinda thinks that normally she would side with the woman, but she can’t this time; she just can’t imagine how anyone could do this to Will. That poor man. To be betrayed like this, in front of everyone. Myra needs time to search her soul. That is something best done alone.
But Melinda’s uncomfortable with just walking away from a woman in pain. Maybe she should talk to her—maybe there are thoughts Melinda can share with Myra that will help her understand what has happened. Hesitating, she lifts her hand to the door and knocks softly.
“Yes?”
“It’s me, Melinda,” she answers. “Would you like me to come in, to talk?”
“No,” Myra says. Quickly. Without much thought, Melinda thinks. Well, she tried. She’ll just leave her things here; they can be replaced. Her money and driver’s license are in the van. The diaphragm is in her. There’s probably a thrift shop not far away. She’ll leave Myra a note. Tell her she’ll see her when she comes back for the summer season.
But what will happen to the summer season? What will happen to Of Mice and Men? If Myra has ruined their art … It’s a thought Melinda can’t complete, because anger almost invades her heart, and she is quick to stop it from blossoming. She shakes her head at her own folly. She must wish everyone peace, and leave. She’ll send them good vibes from wherever she goes. They’ll need them.
Outside, Chip waits by his car. “Where’s your stuff?” he says. “I thought you were going to get your stuff?”
“What an awful sentiment,” Melinda says. “Your stuff. Besides, I have everything I need right here.” She grins as he looks around for her luggage, and then his blue eyes twinkle.
“I get it,” he says. “Cool. But maybe you might want something?”
She tilts her head, curious. “Like what?”
“Me.”
“You?”
“Well, let’s just say, a friend. Tell you the truth, I could use one.”
“Me too,” she says. “So where to?”
“Well, I was thinking we should drive into town. Find Jimmy and Frank and Lars. Tell them what happened. Then we go get a cabin by the lake.”
She thinks about that. Some human warmth would be very nice. “All right. But shouldn’t we say something to Will?”
Chip shrugs, then stubs out his cigarette on the sole of his boot. “The man is pretty tense. Tell you the truth, I think we should just go.”
“Where is he anyway?”
“In the barn. No one’s in there but him. Gives me the shudders.”
Melinda can’t just leave Will behind like the things she has left in the bedroom. He has been a father to her, and her muse. “Hold on, Chip,” she says. “I’ll be right back.”
The barn is dusky, and it takes a minute for her eyes to adjust. Will sits on a bunk, his knees bent, his head in his hands. All around are the props from Of Mice and Men. The crates and playing cards, the ropes and tackle, lanterns and old metal beds. His thin, hunched-over body fits into this set so well, Melinda feels as if she’s watching the curtain open on a play. An old man sits alone in a bunkhouse. Something has happened. Who is he? Why is he alone? It’s a drama, not a comedy. You can tell by the lighting and the dusty set, the silence. Will has found the only place he can be comfortable now. In the stuff of his dreams. She hopes he will find the dream again. That it’s not too badly broken.
“Good-bye, Will. You’re in my heart,” she says, just loudly enough to be heard. He looks up at her, startled, then so sad and lost she almost runs over to embrace him, to hold him in her arms. She’s surprised that she doesn’t, that her body seems to know that this instinct is false, that she can’t be a part of what Will needs to find himself. He must understand this too because he nods once to her and lowers his head back into his hands, closing his eyes. She blows him a kiss, even though he can’t see her anymore, and then she turns and leaves.
Outside, the sky is so blue.
Myra listens from her bedroom. Four cars have driven off. Each time, as the engines come to life, she feels it in her stomach: a turning over, a tearing away, each leaving a condemnation, an ending, a door closing. She knows the actors are as embarrassed as she, and that makes it worse. She has been a wife and a hostess for too many years not to feel guilty at being the cause of their flight. She doesn’t blame them for leaving; even Ben—she doesn’t blame him at all. The details of her tryst in the woods with Ben seem oddly distant, as if there were a barrier between her and that moment. And she can’t go forward, she can’t see the future, even an hour from now. She is stuck here now, and there is no hiding. As frightened as she is, she senses a strange strength; she feels terribly alive, as if she will never be able to sleep again. She is alone in this bedroom, but she is all the company she can stand.
When she first came up here, she huddled on the bed and shook as if she had a high temperature, wanting Will to come running in, to hold her and say he loved her, forgave her, everything was going to be all right. Her thoughts were all single words, with nothing between them but shame. Will. Ben. Sorry. Help. Listen. Please. Listen. Help.
These heartbeats of words were trying to get her attention; slowly, they began to take shape. It is not Will she is asking for help. It is not Will she needs to listen to. Not yet, at least.
In the last week she has tried to believe in Will, in his love, in his concern for her. She has tried to believe in God, and Ben, and the role of an unnamed woman. She needs to believe in herself, but what should she believe? Perhaps that Ben was only the key, a key, to the Pandora’s box she was so afraid to open up herself. It’s open now, and there’s no going back, and maybe that’s for the best. She needs to be very careful now, to see what else is in it, not to close it back up.
She sits on her bed with her back against the wall, looking at her legs, her arms, her hands, and this calms her, because whoever she is, is still here. She may have destroyed her marriage—she hopes not, even though there is that possibility—but she must go on, wants to go on. She has lived a life that has been good in many ways, and lonesome in others, and not honest, recently, but all this time she has been standing in the wings, waiting for a cue from someone else. And Will, he has put off dealing with what they both have known was a faded relationship for too many years, put off life with her until the next play is over, and of course there is always another play. He has filled the holes in his life with theatre, bringing fictional characters to life, while she has filled the holes in her life with hope of something better, the something always vague and impossible, too far to reach, so why bother? No more. She wants to act again, and sing, but not in Will’s theatre. She wants to love Will again, and he to love her, but not in the gaps of their lives.
Will has been struggling with the fact that theatre changes, with trying to stay on top of it, even though that means trying something new, taking chances. He needs to understand love is just the same. That she took a chance at love again. That she would like to take a chance at loving Will again, and hopes he will do the same. She will not beg for his forg
iveness; she will meet him as an equal.
Myra lays her hands on her thighs and feels the warmth. She looks at the wall across from her, the wallpaper of plain pale flowers that was here when they bought this place. It’s a good house. The room holds her in quiet thought. She no longer wants Will to rush up and save her from herself. She hopes he takes his time, with whatever thinking he is doing now, because she needs it, this time alone. She has things to say, and they are just now forming. She wants time to practice the words she will say, before she shares them with Will. There is a lot at stake. She closes her eyes and sees Beth and Mac. She hopes they will understand.
Listen. Please. It is her own voice. And she does.
Also by Sarah Willis
Some Things That Stay
Acknowledgments
I grew up in the theatre, spending much of my youth watching rehearsals and performances from my specially allotted spot in the wings, just behind the red velvet curtain. My father was an actor and director at The Cleveland Play House, and the actors and techs were my family. I’d like to thank each and every person who worked at The Cleveland Play House from 1954 to 1972 for their kindness, their friendship, and their gift of grand and miraculous theatre. I would like to especially thank Evie McElroy, not only for the joy of watching her perform but for sharing with me her observations about Of Mice and Men, which she directed.
I would also like to thank my friends, family, and fellow writers in The East Side Writers Group, who read the first drafts of this book and whose comments were thoughtful, sincere, and of great value. And a very special thank you to John Glusman and Christy Fletcher, for their inspiration and hard work. I am honored and grateful to have all these wonderful people in my life.