No Dark Valley (66 page)

So he finally stopped midsentence. “Okay, okay, I give up. We have somebody new,” he said, then looked at Elizabeth. “You want to introduce her?”

“This is Maggie,” Elizabeth said. “She's from Rhode Island.”

Maggie grinned and fluttered her fingers over her head in a little wave that from anyone else might have looked silly and affected. She wore small round glasses, had a sparkle in her eyes and short black hair in a sort of rag-mop style. She looked a lot like Harry Potter, but without the lightning scar on her forehead. It was funny, Bruce thought, how you could tell almost instantly if a kid was going to fit in, and if so, where. Maggie had all the signs of winning a spot for herself right in the middle of things.

“She was in a community play last summer up in Rhode Island,” Elizabeth added. “Played Scout in
To Kill a Mockingbird
. She really likes drama and thinks it's cool that we're doing Shakespeare.”

Bruce couldn't help wondering how the folks up in Rhode Island had handled
To Kill a Mockingbird
, a story set in the Deep South. He wondered if they had attempted southern accents, a doomed endeavor for any northerner. He could see Maggie doing justice to the part of Scout but wondered who had played Atticus Finch and how many light-years away from Gregory Peck's performance the poor man had fallen. He had a sudden desire to see the movie again. Maybe he'd do that tonight. He had it in his collection.

Maggie's bright eyes were still on him, Bruce noticed, full of questions she wanted to ask, her chin lifted, her glasses perched on top of her . . . wasn't it called a “button nose” in books?

“Okay, Maggie,” he said, “first of all, I like your name, so you can be relieved about that.” He didn't tell her it was mainly because it was so close to Maddy or that he also liked everything else about her. “What's the rest of it?”

“Trump,” she said. “Maggie Trump.” No one seemed to think it was a funny last name. They were all staring at the back of her dark shiny hair, some of them openmouthed, as if a leprechaun had suddenly leapt into their midst. Several of the girls looked over at Priscilla Bernard, whose opinion carried a lot of weight concerning the social standing at Berea Middle, but right now Priscilla was chewing on the inside of her mouth, staring at Maggie along with everybody else and remaining noncommittal.

“Okay, good. Maggie Trump,” Bruce said. “Second, since you're new, I'll tell you what I tell all my students at the beginning of every year, only you get the short version because we need to get on with our rehearsal.” She was smiling up at him expectantly, swinging her feet now, which were crossed at the ankles.

Middle-school girls often annoyed Bruce, though in a mild way he could smile about. He thought it was a pity they had to camp out in such an unattractive stage for so long, that they couldn't shoot directly from the cuteness of elementary school to the beginnings of genuine femininity in high school. Even though some of them were already filling out their bodies to astounding proportions while others were as flat chested as Olympic gymnasts, they all behaved the same—shrieking hysterically at the most trivial things, whispering in conspiratorial clumps in the hallway, watching each other slyly.

But Maggie Trump seemed different. She had been in the room less than two minutes, but already she came across as refreshingly straightforward. He couldn't imagine her ever staying after class to ask him unnecessary questions in that awkwardly flirtatious way a lot of middle-school girls had. Or saying spiteful things about other girls behind their backs. But then, maybe she was a slow bloomer. Maybe she simply hadn't hit true middle-school gawkiness yet.

As he did in the fall with every new class of students, Bruce now turned his face sideways and pointed to the scars along his neck and jawline. “As you see, I have scars,” he said to Maggie. He held up his left hand. “Here, too.” He pushed up the sleeve of his sweater. “And here, all up and down my arm.” Maggie's eyes took it all in, and she gave a little half nod, as if to say, “Yes, I was wondering about those.”

“And here's why,” he continued, pausing dramatically. “As a child, I rushed heroically into a raging fire . . . but sadly, the victim died.”

Maggie's brow furrowed, and she pushed her lower lip out a little in a show of sympathy. The other kids, all familiar with the story, were rolling their eyes as they awaited the punch line. “I was only seven,” Bruce continued, “so I got these scars a long, long time before any of you made your debut into this world kicking and screaming like the little brats you were until you got to Berea Middle and we started whipping you into shape. I hardly think about my scars anymore, but I know other people wonder. So because of my keen understanding of human curiosity in general, and especially my deep insight into the notorious nosiness of adolescents, I like to set everyone's mind at ease. So . . . I was in a fire, okay?”

This was always his cue to start faking some emotion, which he did now. When he spoke again, his voice was low and quavery. “But it was too late for . . . for
her
. I couldn't . . . save her . . . because she was . . . she was already
gone
by the time they pulled me out.” He wiped at the corner of his eye. Maggie was studying him gravely, but her look of sympathy had changed into something closer to suspicion. It was clear this kid wasn't easy to hoodwink.

“I was only seven when I lost her,” he said sadly. “I had to grow up the best I could without her.” He decided to skip the loud nose-blowing part that usually went here, but he did drop his head and rub at his nose briefly before looking up again. “No more of her comforting presence, no more soft murmurs, no more loving caresses of her . . . paw.” There were a few titters of laughter as he closed his eyes, then inhaled deeply and shakily and concluded with, “No, I never found another cat to replace Tabitha.”

Everybody laughed. Maggie grinned and shook her head. Alex Bower piped up from the back and said, “Was there anything left of her after the fire? Like a skeleton or claws or anything?”

“That's sick,” said one of the girls.

“Only a few tufts of silky fur and the faint echo of her meow,” Bruce said, placing his hand over his heart.

DeReese laughed and said almost the exact same thing his sister Suzanne had said all those years ago: “He almost got hisself killed trying to save a
cat
.”

Bruce put on a face of sorrow. “There's always someone standing by to criticize any act of human kindness.” Then he clapped his hands sharply. “Okay, more than enough of all that. Whose idea was it to waste all this time anyway? Let's get started.” He nodded his head in Maggie's direction. “We're glad to have you with us, Maggie Trump. We'll find a place for you in the fairy troupe.” Already Bruce was wondering if he should let her try the long speech at the opening of act 2, which none of the other fairies had been able to do justice to, though all of them had tried. The lines needed a light, lyrical quality, and he had a feeling that Maggie Trump might be able to do it.

It was almost five o'clock when Bruce walked with Elizabeth out to the parking lot. Rehearsal had gone especially well that afternoon, and though Bruce was wishing he could take full credit for Nate Bianchi's improved performance as Bottom, he suspected there were more factors at work than his little inspirational talk with the boy beforehand. For one thing, it was obvious that Nate was not following the admonition to forget about his audience but, rather, had been uncommonly aware of his audience that day, particularly of the newest little fairy, who, not being involved in act 5, had remained in her chair on the front row, absorbing every detail of the rehearsal.

She was a great audience member, responding openly and warmly to everything—nodding, smiling, laughing out loud several times, even clapping her hands after Puck's “Good night unto you all” at the end. For some reason the whole mood of the rehearsal that day had been more buoyant than usual. The air in the music room had seemed cleaner and crisper, conducting the sound waves at an invigorating clip. Everything fell into place smoothly, no lapses of memory.

And Nate—well, the transformation was remarkable. He seemed to turn a corner midway through his first speech, during which he addressed first the night and then the wall. It was as if he had suddenly found himself on a scary carnival ride and had finally decided to settle back and enjoy it. Maggie wasn't the only one who laughed when he delivered his lines to the Moon as the ill-fated Pyramus, and then discovered Thisbe's mantle on the ground: “How can it be? Oh, dainty duck! Oh, dear! Thy mantle good, What, stained with blood!” And he had it exactly right. Not just close, but exactly right, with precisely the perfect blend of solemnity and humor.

And Bruce wasn't sure
how
he knew Nate was performing for Maggie, but he knew it. Maybe it was the single sideways glance Nate had shot in her direction the first time she laughed, or maybe it was simply the vast extent of his improvement, which couldn't be laid to anything as mundane as a pep talk from an adult. But still it mystified Bruce—so the kid had had this capability in a deep well inside him all along, but suddenly it had bubbled up to the surface when a girl's face lit up with pleasure at the sound of his voice?

To see such early evidence of womankind's magical powers blew him away. He wanted to laugh and cry both. “Oh, Nate,” he wanted to say, “you're in for a lifetime of it, buddy. Retreat, hunker down, regroup! Let yourself start caring what a woman thinks, and you'll never be your own man again.”

But surely his talk with Nate had to be at least partly responsible for the change, he argued. He wasn't willing to give it all up to Maggie. Both he and Elizabeth had witnessed Nate hanging around after rehearsal, however—something he never did. They had seen him rummaging around in his backpack, pretending to look for something but obviously filling up time until Priscilla and the other fairies had finished talking to Maggie and left. They had seen him follow Maggie and Tamara out into the hallway and trail after them, then suddenly feel the need for a long drink at the water fountain when Maggie said good-bye to Tamara and stopped at her locker.

“Wouldn't you hate to go back to those days?” Elizabeth had said to Bruce after they watched Maggie catch sight of Nate and call out something to him, at which exact point his thirst was immediately slaked and he pretended to notice her for the first time, then hastened in her direction. The thought of Nate Bianchi and a
girl
made Bruce realize all over again how life continually turned all your expectations wacky. And though he groaned and nodded at Elizabeth's question, he actually remembered thoroughly enjoying the adventure of those days.

While they waited around for everyone to clear out of the hallway and head home, Bruce felt a strong desire flood over him, a wish so powerful it made him ache inside. Really two wishes. First, he wished he could go back to those days and start all over with girls and do it right this time. And second, he wanted to call after Nate and pull him aside for another talk, this time about real life instead of acting. He wanted to say things to this boy that he wished someone had said to him as a thirteen-year-old.

He wanted to exhort him to be careful, to watch his step with girls, to guard his mind and his hands and his mouth so that he didn't have to live with hundreds and hundreds of regrets later on. He wanted to tell him that a girl's body was something you didn't mess around with, that he must regard it as sacred and never treat it as a toy, that he should control his natural curiosity, all those male urges to explore and conquer, and save them for one woman way down the road of life, somebody he wanted to spend his whole future with, somebody who would be the mother of his children.

How his old friends would laugh at him now, he thought as he went back to his classroom to pick up his briefcase. He, Bruce Healey, who had made a career of exploring and conquering, now talking up abstinence and monogamy.

“Great rehearsal today,” Elizabeth said a few minutes later as they were leaving the building together. “I wonder what got into Nate.”

“Oh, I had a few words with him,” Bruce said, then laughed and shook his head. “Life is full of mysteries I can't begin to explain.”

He pictured Nate, struggling to fill up his expanding body with some semblance of manliness. He saw him walking down the hall beside Maggie, so small and weak in comparison, yet in some ways the less vulnerable of the two. He imagined Nate glancing down at Maggie, his heart thudding at the smile on her upturned face, suddenly wishing he could . . . what? Bruce knew only too well the kinds of things boys wished. Again, he wanted to snatch Nate away and lecture him, maybe bind and gag him for a few years.

He wanted to tell him how horrible it was to bear the weight of sins of the flesh, to try to squelch images of things he never should have seen and done, to feel beaten down at the thought that he didn't deserve a woman's love and trust when he had sailed so thoughtlessly through so many conquests. God might forgive a multitude of sins—and Bruce firmly believed in God's inexhaustible grace—but where would he ever find a woman who had that kind of enormous capacity to forgive? “Squander your youth,” he wanted to say, “and you'll have a lifetime to make heavy payments.”

He knew he could never initiate such a talk with Nate or any other boy, though, for once he started, he wouldn't be able to stop. He would end up grabbing the boy's shoulders and shaking him till his teeth rattled in his head. He would rant like a wild man: “I know what you're thinking about, but
stop it
! Don't do it! Don't you dare lay a finger on a girl! You'll be sorry for the rest of your life if you do this evil thing! Find a school just for boys and go there!” They would lock him away for sure, either in jail or the loony bin.