He glanced at his watch. “See you in two weeks?”
“Fine.”
He gave me one last smile. “We can meet next week instead, if you want. You can come here anytime.”
“That’s okay,” I said, standing up. “I’m good.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
At rehearsal that afternoon, people were still weirded out by Friday’s events. When Stewart didn’t appear, they got even more nervous.
It made me realize just how much he was the heart of the production, and not because he was the lead role. We tried blocking out the last few scenes, focusing on some places where Don Quixote—or Cervantes—wasn’t as prominent, but the performances were lifeless. The timing was off, none of us could get our lines straight, attention wandered. Without Don Quixote, without Stewart, the show had no soul.
I was relieved when Ms. Vale called it quits early. I wanted to get back and check on Stewart.
“Okay,” Ms. Vale said, gathering us all onstage. “Every production has a bad day or two. We just happened to have ours back to back. That’s good—now that we’ve got them out of the way, we can really focus. We’ve got less than three weeks of rehearsal left. Not much room for mistakes. When Stewart comes back tomorrow, we’ll finish blocking, squeeze in another stumble-through or two, then start working scenes. That’ll take us all the way to the end of next week, leaving a week for dress rehearsal. Then it’s showtime. Any questions?”
I raised my hand. “Yeah, what does ‘working scenes’ mean?”
When we first started, questions like that usually drew snarky eye rolls or sighs, but no one made a peep. Maybe they’d gotten used to my ignorance. Or maybe they were just too freaked out by the schedule to care.
“When we block out scenes,” Ms. Vale explained, “we’re not going for perfection. But then we go back and work through the scenes that were problematic. You know, to give them a bit of polish. So we basically work the scene until it’s just right.
“Oh, and one more thing, folks,” she said. “It looks like we’re going to have to have not one but two Hell Saturdays, so mark your calendars.”
We all looked at one another and groaned.
I turned to Kaela. “Hell Saturday?”
“We go from eight in the morning until six. A full day of rehearsal.”
“No moaning, people,” Ms. Vale snapped. Everyone quieted down. She looked each of us in the eye and smiled. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but keep centered on the performance. I said when we started that I thought this would be the greatest show Gilliam has ever produced, and now I’m sure of it. So go home, relax, and come back ready to work. Off-book.”
We quietly dispersed, all of us feeling the weight of what was ahead. Ms. Vale pulled me aside on my way out.
“You sure Stewart will be back tomorrow?” she asked with only the slightest hint of desperation in her voice. It was weird to see her so on edge. I didn’t like it at all.
“Yeah. I talked to his mother this morning.”
She nodded quickly. “Good. We can’t have another day like this.”
“It’s Monday,” I said. “Nothing good ever happens on a Monday.”
She smiled. “You okay? How was the weekend?”
“It was all right. Stewart and I went out and drummed up some publicity.”
“He told me his plan,” she said, laughing. “I’m sure you were wonderful. That was a great idea.”
“It was.”
“I called Stewart Friday night. We had a little chat.”
I nodded. “He told me.”
“He sounded tired. Keep an eye out for him, will you, Frenchy? Just like Sancho would.”
“Yeah, okay.”
I hurried out of the auditorium. As if trying to be Sancho in rehearsal wasn’t hard enough, now I was stuck with the role twenty-four hours a day.
“Frenchy?”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped. It was Kaela. She looked amused.
“Sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“You in a hurry?”
“I just want to get home.”
“Well, let me give you a ride. I mean, Stewart’s not here, right?”
I nodded. We walked out to her car together in silence. I kept trying to think of something to say. I’d never had trouble talking to her before, but now that it seemed there was something between us, it was different. All awkward and wonderful and scary all at once.
“So this is becoming quite a habit,” I said as we got into the car, then grimaced. Fucking cheesy.
She just laughed. “I missed you on Halloween.”
I grimaced again. “I forgot that I already had plans to go out with Stewart. It’s kind of a tradition.”
“Yeah, I heard all about your little escapade.”
“You did?” My heart started pounding.
“Well, yeah. Lots of people were talking about you performing La Mancha in your costumes.”
“Oh.” I sank back against the seat in relief.
“I mean, it’s cool,” she said, misreading the look on my face. “I wish I’d seen it.”
I mustered a smile. “It was fun. Good practice, actually,” I said. “I’m sorry about the party. I should have called you.”
“That’s okay. Next time.”
“Definitely.”
We left school and the awkward silence behind and headed for the Heights, chatting the whole way. I cracked a few jokes and got her laughing pretty hard. She had a nice laugh. Loud and rugged and full, with a little snort at the end that was kind of goofy and cute.
Pretty soon we were back at my house.
“So,” she said, drawing out the word and pausing, making my heart beat hard all over again. “Should I come in? I don’t have to be anywhere for a while.”
“Oh,” I said. I must have sounded surprised because she shrank a little bit.
Of course, I was surprised. I was shocked, in fact, because I’m an idiot. I’d been so focused on getting home and running up to Shangri La that the possibility of something like this happening hadn’t even occurred to me, and now I didn’t know what to do. I mean, all day I’d been thinking about Stewart, one worry piling on another with every new conversation, from Mrs. Bolger to Mr. Bryant to Ms. Vale. And now this girl was inviting herself into my house and all I wanted to do was ditch my friend and say yes. Life has a cruel sense of humor sometimes.
“Well, yeah…that would be great.” Then I hesitated. “Normally, that would be awesome, actually.”
She winced a little and so did I; we both knew what I was going to say.
“But I can’t today. I’ve got some stuff I have to do. Sorry. Really, sorry.”
“It’s Stewart, isn’t it?”
I sighed. “I want to check on him, see how he’s doing. Ms. Vale’s really worried, I think.”
She gave a smile and nodded. “You should go.”
“I mean, any other time. Really.”
She laughed. “It’s okay. Tell Stewart we missed him today.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand, and I panicked all over again. Was I supposed to kiss her or what? I didn’t have a clue.
So I did the gentlemanly thing. I yelped some sort of good-bye, jumped out of the car like a pussy, and ran for the house without looking back. Look, I’m no Don. Just a sad little Sancho.
It was getting gloomy in the woods. Yesterday’s storm had finally started to move out, leaving a narrow band of open sky on the horizon through which the sun was quickly sinking, casting an eerie glow against the trees under a roof of purple clouds. The temperature was dropping and the air was getting crisp, but the ground was still soaked from the day of rain, so my steps were silent on the leaves.
By the time I’d made it up to Shangri La, Stewart was gone. Mrs. Bolger met me at the door with her usual grin through the window.
“Frenchy, hi,” she said, finally opening the door. Whatever angst she’d had this morning seemed to have disappeared.
“Hello, Mrs. Bolger.” I stepped inside.
“Just wanted to stop by and check on Stewart.”
Mr. Bolger was sitting on a stool at the counter, reading the Boston Globe, which is what he could usually be found doing when he wasn’t in his shop. He lowered the paper when I came in and gave me a nod.
“Stewart’s outside,” he said. “Wanted to go practice his lines, since he missed rehearsal.”
“Outside?”
Mr. Bolger shrugged. “Why not? Good to get some fresh air. He’s been cooped up in his room for almost two days straight.”
He went back to reading the paper. Mrs. Bolger’s smile faded. There it was, that same look from this morning.
“Try the path,” she suggested.
So I headed out, all rattled by a day of bizarre turns. Forget the weird ride to school and the crappy rehearsal—Kaela’s invitation was gnawing at me more than anything, and the farther into the woods I got, the more I felt like an idiot for turning her down. Then there was Bryant with all his bullshit talk about self-medicating, like I was some pathetic basket case who couldn’t handle it.
I could see Stewart up ahead now through the maples, perched on the smoking rock, doing what looked like some weird sort of dance. Slowing down, I pulled my coat tight around me and drew closer. Pretty soon I was close enough to see that Stewart was back in costume—everything but the makeup. And I realized he wasn’t dancing at all.
He was fighting. Cane sword in hand, he alternated thrusts and slashes, pausing in between, taking time to murmur words I couldn’t make out.
So I crept closer, coming in behind him, quietly, to listen.
At first I thought he was muttering lines from the play. Mr. Bolger had said he was rehearsing. But as I drew near, I realized they weren’t lines at all. Not from La Mancha, at least.
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” He whipped the sword before him. “I don’t care. I don’t care what you say. You can’t hurt me. You’ll never hurt me.”
And then he laughed. Laughed so goddam loud, his voice seemed to ring through the empty trees. The noise shook me from my spell, and I shivered and looked around. I felt like there were others with us, or should be. Others in the audience. But I was the only one.
“See that?” He thrust again with a grunt. “See how I defy thee? See how I stab at thee?”
I started to feel sick. I hadn’t eaten much at lunch, but my stomach was turning, and I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears. I wanted to leave, run away, back to the house. He hadn’t seen me yet. But even as I turned to go, I stopped. I couldn’t leave him there alone.
“Stewart?” I called out.
He whirled, swinging the blade around as he turned. I flinched, worried he might throw it at me.
But he didn’t. He just squinted and leaned forward, as if searching through a thick fog.
“Sancho?” he cried at last. “Sancho, get up here, quickly. Quickly, quickly!”
His voice was so urgent, I scrambled up onto the rock without even thinking.
“What’s the matter?” I asked as he grabbed me by the shoulders before clutching me in a quick embrace.
“Oh, thank God you made it. It’s safe here, Sancho. He can’t get us here.”
“Who can’t get us?” I kept trying to figure out what he was up to. For a moment I thought it might be some kind of game or some bullshit acting exercise. He was always reading those goddam Web sites; who knew what he’d picked up? Maybe, for all his talk of purity, he’d spent the day doing bong hits in his room. Or worse. But seeing the terror on his face, I realized it was none of those things.
“The Enchanter!” he cried, his eyes widening as a drop of spit flew from his mouth. “Who else would it be? He’s after me. After both of us, goddam it! Don’t you dare deny it, Sancho, or I’ll have you flogged!”
There it was, the Enchanter again, Quixote’s imagined enemy. And Stewart seemed to have made him his own, made Quixote’s delusions his own. I had my hands on Stewart, gripping the edges of his armor, but he was slipping away from me. I could see it in his eyes—that glassy, distant look, pulled farther and farther away by some force deep inside him.
It was too much. I had to look away. Glancing down, I noticed a dark crack running the width of the stone between us. Was it new or had it always been there? I suddenly couldn’t remember. I looked back up to see his eyes darting back and forth, searching in fear.
“So where’s the Enchanter, Stewart? Help me see him.”
“You can’t fucking see him. That’s what makes him so good! All you can see are his minions.”
“Where?”
“There! There, there, there!” he shouted, thrusting his sword toward the woods in the direction he’d been sparring, before turning away.
I looked out into the trees, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about, but all I could see were bare maples and beeches clustered along the slope running down toward my house. That sick sort of feeling started up again in my stomach. Then I shifted, my eye caught something, and I felt even sicker.
It was the farthest row of trees, the ones against the horizon. Something was wrong with them. They were too straight. Then I realized they weren’t actually trees.
“The wind towers?” I looked over at him.
He gave the slightest nod. He was trembling now.
The cold had drawn the moisture from the earth, forming a band of mist that drifted down the slope and circled the rock we were standing on. I tried to say something, but my head was spinning. I could hardly think. All I knew was that something was wrong with Stewart. Not just off, not just funny or annoying, but really, really wrong. Worst of all, I began to realize that, deep down, I’d known it for a while. I took the sword from his hand, spotted the empty cane scabbard at my feet, and sheathed the blade.
“Stewart, they’re just wind towers. That’s all.”
He stopped shaking. That look came back into his eyes. He grabbed me.
“No, they’re not. They’re with him. They all laugh at me. Just like he does. All day, they just laugh at me and call me names. I can hear them. When the wind blows, I can hear them mocking me and my parents, all of us. The whole town. Like a bunch of overlords. Like a bunch of fucking corporate pigs, turning and laughing.”
“Stop it, Stewart.” I tried to ease his grip on my peacoat.
“And we’re just a bunch of peasants to them. Just a bunch of fucking rubes, toiling under their shadow. They want to make all of us their slaves.”
“Stop it, Stewart.”
“No!” He pushed me. “I won’t be a peasant, Sancho. I won’t be like you. I am Don Quixote!”
“No, you’re not!” I grabbed him by his cloak and shook him. “You’re not fucking Don Quixote or Cervantes or anybody else but yourself, so get a fucking grip!”
He froze, his eyes widening in surprise. He felt so thin beneath his cloak, beneath the armor, like of a bunch of sticks all ready to break. I let go of him. He sank down onto the rock and burst into a string of sobs so horrible I had to look away.
“Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.” I turned in a circle, looking around the woods, half searching for someone to help, half afraid someone was actually there to see us.
I bent down beside Stewart and patted him on the back.
“It’s okay, Stewart. It’s going to be okay.”
It only made him cry harder. I’d never seen another guy bawl before. Not since I was a kid. I mean, I’d seen my father with tears on his face plenty of times. But this was on a whole different level. Pure pain.
“You have to help me, Frenchy,” he whispered. “Please.”
I took a little box from my pocket, the one I’d grabbed before leaving the house, and pulled out the leftover joint from Halloween night. I lit it up and took a long, steady hit.
I held it out to Stewart. Still heaving from the sobs, he glanced over at it, then reached out and accepted it with trembling fingers.
We finished the joint, then sat there on the rock for a long time without saying a word, watching our bre
ath form clouds of steam as the night air settled in, feeling it nip at our ears and noses. It was so quiet in the woods. The songbirds were long gone, and not even a crow or squirrel disturbed the silence. Stewart seemed to have settled down, settled into himself. It was strange to see him so at peace after all that agitation. It was the pot, I guessed, which had calmed him. Fucking Bryant.
“You know what day it is, don’t you,” he said at last.
“Yeah. It’s Monday.”
“No, no. What day it is. What day.”
“November second?”
“That’s right. That’s right, Frenchy. All Souls’ Day. The day we pray for the departed dead. We should pray for your father.”
I turned away. “I’m not much the praying type, Stewart. Neither was Dad.”
“Not one prayer?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll say one for him, then. He deserves it. He was a noble warrior, after all. A fellow knight.”
I sensed the wave coming in before it hit and managed to close my eyes against the tears. Then I bit the inside of my cheek. The pain distracted me. I held on until the wave passed. Finally I could speak.
“Yeah. We should go. It’s almost dark.”
I helped Stewart to his feet, then turned and jumped down off the rock. He wouldn’t come at first. He just stood there for a moment. I could see him holding back, hesitating. He wouldn’t look at me.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Come on.”
He finally stepped down off the rock and we headed for Shangri La. I walked behind him. There was just enough light to follow the path. Pretty soon, I could make out the kitchen lights through the trees.
“Maybe you should quit,” I said as we neared the house.
“Quit what?” He stopped.
“Quit the play. Quit being Don. I’ll quit too.”
He turned to face me. It was dark enough now that I couldn’t really see his face.
“Impossible.”
“Why?”
“We are the play, Frenchy. If we quit, it’s over. We can’t do that to everyone. Besides, maybe you can drop Sancho, but I can’t quit being Don.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“I just can’t, okay?” he hollered.
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