“Frenchy,” she said at last, “this is a very normal reaction. I’ve seen it many times, even with seasoned actors. And this is a totally new experience for you. I can only imagine how nervous you must be. Both of you. Everyone has different ways of coping. You have yours.” She paused. “Stewart has his.”
I stifled a groan. She had no idea. A pang of guilt washed over me.
“It’s times like this that you have to dig deep, Frenchy. Push that panic away. Both of you have had a horrible day. The last couple weeks have been tough on everyone. It wouldn’t be the theater without a little drama, right?”
She chuckled. Not me. I felt sick.
“Listen, I want you to take tomorrow off.”
“It’s Hell Saturday.”
I could hear her shift into damage-control mode. “We can work around it. Your part’s in pretty good shape, anyway. Just take some time to collect yourself. Have you told Stewart any of this?”
“No.”
“You need to tell him. The two of you are in this together, after all.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“All right, then. As for tomorrow, we’ll just tell everyone you’re under the weather. In the meantime, rest up this weekend, collect yourself, and I’ll check in Sunday night.”
“Fine.”
“And Frenchy,” she said, “we really do need you. As much as Quixote needs Sancho, this play needs your steadiness, your strength. Stewart may be the bright star, but you’re our anchor.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said and hung up. I hoped to hell she was just blowing smoke up my ass. If I was the anchor of this production, we were all screwed.
I waited until the next morning to call Stewart. I didn’t tell him about quitting. I stuck to Ms. Vale’s story. But Stewart doesn’t miss much. He knew something was up.
“Is this about yesterday?” he said.
“No. I’m sick.”
“You don’t sound sick.”
“Christ, Stewart, you almost killed Scott, not to mention nearly getting us shot by Chief Sullivan.”
“You’re afraid, aren’t you, Sancho? Afraid of the stage. No fear, old friend. No fear. No fear.”
“This isn’t about me, Stewart,” I snapped. “You know it’s not.”
He hesitated. “Sancho, we’ve come so far,” he finally said. “We can’t stop now. All the way, all the way, all the way to the top. I need you, Sancho.”
“No, Stewart. You don’t need me; you just need Don. It’s pretty obvious.”
“Don’t be jealous. Surely you know Don is nothing without Sancho.”
This was going nowhere.
“Look, I’m not coming to practice today. I might not come back at all. I warned you, Stewart, and you went too far. I can’t do it anymore.”
I heard him swear, then hang up.
A few hours later, I went for a walk. Ms. Vale had told me to collect myself, and walking always did it for me. It had gotten colder again, and what was left of last week’s snow had stuck around as a brittle crust. I didn’t mind. It felt good to bundle up in my coat, to pull inside my shell against the cold and breathe the sharp air. I tried to convince myself how good it was to be on my own, to get away from the production, but I couldn’t help thinking about everyone back at the school, singing, joking around, polishing each scene until it took on a life of its own.
Not that I had to worry about being alone. I hadn’t gone too far when a beat-up Camaro sidled up beside me.
“Where you going?” Ralph called out, rolling down his window. He had on a blaze-orange hunting hat and a red flannel jacket.
Ever since Halloween, Ralph had come sniffing back around. Sometimes he’d just show up on our doorstep, and my mother would make him wait outside in the cold while she paced around the trailer a few times, complaining, before finally letting him in like some stray mutt she felt sorry for. As for me, I continued to rag on him for a while, but he never fought back, and so I’d let up some. I don’t know; I guess I’d gotten used to the dope.
I shrugged. “Just walking.”
“Well, hop in. I’m heading up to the state forest for a little peace and quiet and maybe shoot a deer. It’s opening day, bro!” He let out a loud hoot and took a drag off a skinny little spliff he’d rolled.
“I’m good, Ralph. Thanks anyway.” I’d never gone hunting with anyone but my father, and even that I just did to get him off my back. Besides, I’d rather be thrown into a pit of Pokers than go within a hundred yards of Ralph with a loaded rifle in his hands.
“Suit yourself. But tell you what, when I get back tonight, your mom and me are going bowling. Come with us, Frenchy. Live a little. Just like your friend Dan Quixote says, right?”
“It’s Don, you douche bag.”
“Whatever, bro. Just come with us.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I actually had a weakness for bowling. Bowling and ribs. I glanced into the backseat where his rifle lay. All of a sudden, I shivered. It wasn’t from the cold. “Just be careful with that thing, Ralph. Knowing you, you’ll shoot your nads off or something.”
He leaned out the window and winked. “It ain’t loaded. In fact, I think I only got one cartridge on me. Don’t matter. Can’t shoot for shit.”
“Then what the hell are you going out for?”
He shrugged. “I just like to be out in the woods. Hunting always clears my head.” He looked at the joint in his hand for a second, then looked up at me. “You want a poke?”
Fucking Ralph. “No thanks, man.”
He flicked it over the roof of the car and into the snowbank. Then he got all serious looking and shook his head. “I got some thinking to do, Frenchy. Some real thinking.”
“Yeah, well, don’t hurt yourself, Ralph.”
He laughed, then I laughed, then he took off down the road.
I’d almost reached the pit stop when another familiar car approached, this time from the other direction. And though usually I was happy to see Kaela’s car, this wasn’t a usual day.
She drove into the pull-off and got out, waiting for me with her hands thrust deep in her pockets, a funky hat pulled down over her head.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” I called out to her.
“I was going to ask you the same question,” she replied with a shy smile.
“Funny,” I said, coming up to her. “I’m sick. Didn’t you know? Seriously, you should be at practice. Big day and all.”
“I’m on a mission,” she replied, “to see how you’re feeling.”
I pushed past her and she followed me into the field, hurrying to catch up, taking my arm in hers the way she always did. Our boots punched through the thin crust in lockstep.
“Brushing me off again, eh?” she said. “It’s okay, I’m getting used to it.”
I stopped and turned to face her. “Sorry about last night.”
“Me too.” She looked down. “I just want to know where I stand.”
“You’re out standing in the field,” I said.
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “That was bad.”
“Sorry. Best I could do on short notice.” I took her hand. “Kaela, you stand wherever you want.”
She pulled her hand away. “Wherever I want, huh? I’ll have to think about that.” For a second we just stood there, quiet, then kept walking.
“Ms. Vale sent you, I’m guessing. To try to talk me out of quitting.”
She frowned. “So it’s true? I didn’t actually believe her.”
“I’ve been a quitter my whole life. Why stop now?” She didn’t laugh at that one. “Come on, Kaela. I got no business being a part of this play. I was an idiot for letting Stewart talk me into it in the first place.”
“That’s a load of crap,” she said, shaking her head. “You don’t really want to quit. You love this play too much. I see it every day in rehearsal. You can’t fool me, Frenchy.”
“I don’t want to fool anybody,” I murmured. “That’s how I got into this mess to be
gin with.”
She hesitated. “Stewart told a few of the actors that you were scared. You know, stage fright.”
I paused for a second and shook my head, then started walking faster than ever.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said at last. “Terrified.”
“You’re a shitty liar, Frenchy.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ve got a tell. Every time you lie, you rub your belly. That’s how I know.”
I stopped and looked down at my gut. “Damn you, Sancho Junior! Betrayed again.” This time, she laughed. “How the hell are you so smart, anyway?”
I looked out over the field. The clouds were low and thick, hiding the towers from sight.
“My father may have taught me how to swing a hammer, but my mother taught me how to play poker.”
She pulled me around. I tried to look away, but she held my gaze.
“Frenchy, what the hell is going on?”
I closed my eyes and tried to figure out what to do. I felt more tired than I’d ever felt before. I’d made Stewart a promise, but where had it gotten me? Where had it gotten him? And Kaela was smart, smarter than me. She could tell me what to do. She could help me through this. I couldn’t rely on Stewart, that was for sure.
She saw me struggling. “It’s Stewart, isn’t it?”
I nodded. And then I told her. Told her everything. The confusion, the paranoia, the delusions, the voices. The more I said, the better I felt. But it was like I was pushing all the darkness onto her—she kept looking more and more upset. Her eyes began to well with tears.
“Poor Stewart,” she said when I’d finished.
“He’s just so afraid.”
She shook her head. “I had no idea it was that bad. I mean, Stewart’s always been different. And lately, with the play…I just thought it was the role. Everyone does.”
“It’s so hard, Kaela. Sometimes he’s his old self. And I thought he was getting better. He seemed less afraid this past week. He said he was taking care of it. And then yesterday happened. He could have killed that asshole Scott.”
“But he didn’t. He listened to you.”
“Yeah, well maybe next time he won’t.”
She looked up at me. “So that’s why you’re quitting?”
“I don’t fucking know. I just don’t feel like I can deal with this anymore. I’m tired of playing along, Kaela, of feeling so goddam powerless. I just want to do something.”
I brought my hands to my face. I had to cover my eyes—I knew what was coming.
“I didn’t do shit when Dad came back.” My voice sounded strangled, like someone else’s. “He was just so different, this freaked-out stranger who hardly spoke to us. I didn’t know how to deal with him and I was scared, so I just tried to pretend that everything would be okay. And it ended up with him in the ground. Now it’s happening all over again. It’s a fucking nightmare, Kaela. I just can’t escape it.”
I dropped to a crouch, balancing on my heels with my hands on my head, and stared down at the ground. I could see stalks of grass where our boots had punched through the crust, matted and broken in the snow, still holding on to a touch of their summer green. I reached down and tore up a handful of the frozen stuff, feeling the fibers bite into my hand. I grabbed another handful, yanking so hard I lost my balance and fell back onto my ass.
Kaela came up and crouched down behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling the coldness of the snow under me, the warmth of her above. When I opened my eyes, everything was blurry. I reached up and wiped the wetness from my face with one hand.
“Goddam it.” I tore the handful of grass in half and threw it on the ground.
“It’s okay.”
We were quiet for a minute. Finally, she stood up, then helped pull me to my feet.
“I understand what you’re feeling, Frenchy. But will quitting the play make things better? If the whole production falls apart—forget everyone else—will it help Stewart get through this?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, maybe,” she replied. “But tearing him away from it now might make things worse. He needs to say good-bye to Quixote. Maybe the performance will give him a chance to do that.”
“I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to let go. Now or later.”
“It’s only another week, Frenchy. And he promised to get help when it’s over. He’s your buddy—you’ve got to trust him.”
I shook my head. She gave me a little push.
“You’re a loyal friend. It’s one of the things I love about you. And maybe that’s all Stewart needs right now. Maybe that’s all you need to be.”
“Maybe that’s all I can be.”
She nodded and wrapped her arms around me again. This time, she held on for a good long while before breaking away.
“I better get back,” she said. “What do you want me to tell Ms. Vale?”
I thought about her going back to the auditorium, back to the bustling brightness of the stage with its cast and crew, with Stewart in the middle of them all, turning in confusion, like an old man looking for something lost. Don without his Sancho.
“Tell her I’ll see her Monday.”
When the knock came Sunday evening, I was expecting Stewart. I figured he’d been champing at the bit all weekend to know what I’d decided to do. But when I turned on the porch light and opened the door, I was surprised to see Mr. Bolger standing there instead.
“Frenchy,” he said, giving me that slight nod he often gave me.
“Mr. Bolger. What’s up?”
He was fidgeting around on the step. It was weird to see him nervous, since he hardly ever seemed anything at all. It made me feel nervous, and I got a sick feeling in my gut.
“Is Stewart okay?”
He nodded. “It’s been a tough weekend for him. Apparently practice didn’t go well yesterday. Obviously, being attacked by those thugs and then apprehended by the police the day before didn’t help matters. He was in a real state last night.”
“Yeah? Like how?”
He just shook his head. “Stewart,” he finally said. “Who can figure him out?” He offered a meager smile. I didn’t smile back.
“Anyway, he told us you might quit the play.” He wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I thought about it,” I said.
His mouth tightened. He nodded a little. I’d seen him get that look with his son plenty of times. Especially when Stewart wasn’t following the party line.
“So you’re here to talk me out of it?”
“Something like that.”
“You can come in if you like. It’s cold.”
He waved off the invitation. I could see where Stewart had picked up the gesture. Then he cut right to it.
“It’s vital, Frenchy, that you see this to the end. Surely you know dropping out now would be a severe blow to the production.”
“I know, Mr. Bolger, but the thing is—”
He held up his hands to cut me off. He had a speech to give.
“I understand you’re scared right now. There’s a lot of pressure. On both of you. Lord knows Stewart’s been feeling it lately. And I’m sure last Friday’s fight shook you up as much as it did him. So I wanted to offer you something. A little encouragement, you might say.”
He pulled something from his pocket and handed it to me. I looked down at the roll of cash in my hand. I don’t know how much it was, but it was wrapped in a fifty.
A look must have crossed my face because he lifted his hands again.
“Now listen. This isn’t a bribe or anything like that. Think of it as an incentive. I’m sure you and your mother could use it,” he added, wincing as he said it.
I ignored the insult and instead weighed the roll in my hand, marveling at the heft of it, fighting off the urge to lift it to my nose and smell it. Damn, it was heavy. Heavy as a cell phone, a new computer, maybe as heavy as a decent used car. He was watching me. I looked up and could swear I saw the slig
htest smile cross his face.
That was all I needed. I savored the weight of the cash one last time, then tossed the wad back.
“Keep your money, Mr. Bolger. I already decided to go back. But thanks anyway.”
His shoulders settled, and he took a deep breath.
“Okay, then. Good.” He hesitated. “Stewart really thinks highly of you. He depends on you, in a fashion.” The words seemed to cause him physical pain. I almost felt bad for the guy.
“He’s never had many close friends,” he continued. “And since moving up here…” He took another deep breath. “Lucinda and I are grateful.”
I looked over his shoulder at the Audi idling in the driveway. I don’t know which of us felt more awkward.
“Anyway, just a week to go,” I offered. “You must be excited to see him.”
“I have to admit, I wasn’t in favor of him joining the production. I worried it would be a distraction. Stewart’s applying to some big schools. Harvard, Yale. But it’s turned out for the best, I think. Being the lead will look great on his applications. We’re even putting together a video portfolio. The arts are important when you’re going for the Ivy League. Between that and his new project, he should have all the bases covered.”
“Yeah, what’s that all about, anyway?”
Mr. Bolger snorted. “Some pretty serious metalwork. A sculpture of some kind. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. Top secret. He’s taken over my garage, though he’s been working on a good chunk of it off-site. Almost as devoted to it as he is to the play. Of course, from what he says, the two are connected. The Quixote Project, he calls it.”
I thought back to the metal frame I’d seen Stewart working on in his father’s garage and tried to think of what the hell it could all mean. Whatever it was, I didn’t like the sound of it.
“You’re not worried it’s another distraction?”
He shrugged. “His schoolwork has slipped. We’ve gotten the warnings from school. But second-quarter grades won’t come out until after the new year. He can turn it around, I’m sure. Besides, by then the applications will already be in.”
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