A Dream for Addie (7 page)

“‘His legs bestrid the ocean,'” Constance continued. “‘His rear'd arm crested the world. His voice was propertied as all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; but when he meant to quail and shake the orb, he was as rattling thunder.'”

She said it fiercely, and we watched wide-eyed. She seemed really caught up in it, and I could actually imagine Cleopatra talking about Antony. Certainly Constance was only acting, but somehow what she was saying seemed more real than any of our “improvisation.”

“‘For his bounty,'” she went on, “‘there was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas that grew the more by reaping: his delights were dolphin-like; they show'd his back above the element they lived in: in his livery walk'd crowns and crownets; realms and islands were as plates dropp'd from his pocket. Think you there was, or might be, such a man as this I dream'd of? … if there be, or ever were, one such, it's past the size of dreaming …'”

When she had finished, she looked over at us almost as though she had forgotten we were there. We had been spellbound.

I wasn't quite sure what all the words had meant, but I knew that I had just heard something very special and moving. She was the first real actor I had ever seen, and the experience of watching her become another person in front of my eyes was something I would never forget. I sensed that Constance had within her that same creative secret that I would have to uncover in myself if I were ever going to be a real artist.

The next day, we trooped back to Constance's house for our second lesson. We were all caught up in the thrill of being actresses. I had been practicing at home in front of the mirror, trying to walk like Constance and trying to copy her British accent. I wrapped my old blue chenille bathrobe around me and swept dramatically up and down my bedroom, pretending I was wearing her black and red kimono.

She didn't answer when we knocked on the door, and we wondered if she had forgotten that we were coming. Finally, I realized that the door was open, and we went in. We called out to her, but there was no answer.

We tiptoed quietly down the dark hall, thinking she might be asleep, and peered cautiously into the living room. Constance was lying on the sofa, and a bottle of liquor and a glass sat on the table in front of her.

“Hi,” I said tentatively.

For a moment, she didn't stir, then she turned her head and looked at us. She looked bleary-eyed and pale, as though she were exhausted. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“It's time for our lesson,” I said.

“Go on home,” she said irritably. “Haven't got anything to teach.” She started to sit up and lost her balance, almost falling off the edge of the sofa. She put her hand out toward the table to steady herself.

“She's drunk as a skunk!” Tanya said in a loud whisper.

“Shut up!” I said, knowing Constance had heard. I turned back to Constance. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Just go away!” she said angrily.

“C'mon, Addie!” said Carla Mae. “She's drunk! Let's get out of here.”

“Oh, go on!” I said to her, and the three girls all ran quickly to the front door and left.

Constance seemed unaware that I was still there. She reached for a cigarette and sat slumped on the sofa as she lit it. She held the match in her hand a moment too long until it burned her fingers, and she dropped it quickly.

I ran over to her. “Are you all right?”

I had startled her, and she turned angrily toward me.

“Leave me alone!” she said.

“I was just trying to help,” I said. “Maybe I should fix you some coffee or something.”

“Coffee!” she said sarcastically. “I don't need coffee, I need another drink.” She took the bottle and started to pour more liquor into her glass. I could tell she really wanted to be left alone, but I wasn't sure I should go. I felt it wasn't right to just leave her there like that.

I reached for the bottle and tried gently to pull it back from her.

“Let go!” she said.

“But you're sick … you can't drink any more,” I said, and desperately tried to pull it out of her hands.

For a second we struggled with the bottle, then suddenly she thrust it toward me. “Take the damn thing!” she shouted, and it slipped out of my hands and shattered on the floor.

“Look what you've done!” she shouted. “You stupid little brat!” Her remark hurt me, but I knew she was not herself.

“I didn't mean to.” I said quietly, and tried to pick up some of the pieces of the broken bottle.

She moved away from me and stood near the fireplace with her back to me. “You shouldn't be nosing around here anyway,” she said angrily.

“We came for our lessons,” I reminded her. “You told us to come at three.”

“Lessons!” she said sarcastically. “I could give lessons for a hundred years, and it wouldn't make any difference!”

“You said we were doing good!” I replied, hurt by her remark.

“Good?” She laughed harshly. “It's pathetic! Not an ounce of talent … couldn't get a job sweeping the stage!”

She seemed nervous and very distraught, almost out of control. It scared me, but somehow I knew from the tone of her voice that she was just rambling on and that I shouldn't pay attention to what she was saying. I moved toward her. I thought maybe I could convince her to lie down or eat something.

“Constance,” I said.

“Go away!” she said, her back still to me. She said it in a weary voice, pleading with me to leave her by herself.

I reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Leave me alone, you scrawny little brat!” She turned on me suddenly and threw her drink right into my face.

I was so stunned that for a moment I just stood there, frozen to the spot, liquor running down my face and stinging my eyes. She stood staring at me, empty glass in her hand, as though she couldn't believe what she had just done.

Then I turned and started to run for the door. Halfway across the room, I turned back to her. “I'd rather be a scrawny brat than an old drunk!” I said, near tears. Then I ran out the front door. As I fled down the steps, I heard her call my name, but I didn't turn back.

I ran all the way home and burst in the kitchen door. Grandma was baking my favorite chocolate cake, and ordinarily that would have diverted me from almost anything. This time, though, I just threw myself down in a chair and started to cry all over the kitchen table. Grandma stopped beating her cake batter and wiped her hands on her apron and came over to me. “For heavens' sake, what's the matter, Addie?” she asked.

I tearfully told her what had happened and said that I hated Constance and thought she was the most awful person I had ever met.

“She was like a witch!” I said.

“Now, Addie,” said Grandma. “I don't want to hear talk like that. Even if you've got a right to be mad, don't go sayin' mean things.”

“I was just trying to help her, and she blew her top! It was awful!”

“Well,” Grandma said, going back to mixing her cake. “I guess she can't help herself.”

“She was so nice to us yesterday when we had our first lesson. Today she was like a different person. I think she's crazy!”

“Drinkin' can make people crazy.”

“Then why do they do it?” I asked angrily.

“Well, I suppose they got somethin' they just can't face up to, and liquor helps 'em forget for a while.”

“I just couldn't believe she was so mean.”

“You mustn't let such a thing hurt your feelin's. You just remember that Constance must be hurtin' a lot worse than you to go and behave like that.”

I knew that Grandma was probably right, but I was too angry to feel charitable. “I think Dad was right,” I said. “She's just trash!”

“Now I don't want to hear talk like that. Your Dad's pretty smart, but he gets some funny ideas sometimes. He don't show much sympathy for weakness, and he can't understand people who don't walk the straight and narrow just like him …”

“Well,” I interrupted angrily. “Nobody should behave like her!”

“It ain't right to go around judgin' other people's lives,” Grandma continued. “That's the Lord's business and not ours. You have to learn to be a little forgiving. You can dislike what a person does and still like the person.”

“I wouldn't ever go near her again!”

“Well,” she said quietly, “maybe you ought not to. But it'd sure be a pity if she didn't have any friends at all.”

There was something about Grandma's insistence on seeing the good in people that could be very irritating. Just when you were ready for anger and revenge, she would remind you that it was pointless, and you'd have to figure out some other solution. I was so angry at Constance that I wasn't ready to give in to positive feelings yet.

“Well, you said before she needed a friend,” I argued. “And I was her friend, and look where it got me! Some friend!”

“I know,” she answered. “Sometimes bein' friends is hard work. But a true friend don't give up on somebody when things go wrong. You try to help out.”

“Dad says it doesn't do any good. People like her never change anyway.”

“I think anybody can change,” Grandma said. “Why I was in my sixties when your momma died, and I came to live with you and your dad and started raisin' a family all over again. It was a big change in my life, but I did it, and it turned out fine.”

“But you weren't living a bad life,” I said, still arguing.

“Well, if your life is bad, then all the more reason you might want to start over fresh,” she said. “It's like things comin' up again in the spring—that's really what Easter is all about—the promise of a new life. Spring is like the Lord's tryin' to show us that there's always hope, and there's always a chance for a new life. You see?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. She had given me so much to think about that I wasn't sure what I thought. Grandma was hard to argue with when it came to the subject of right and wrong. She had been working it out for some seventy years, and she was pretty sure which was which by now.

I was angry and hurt, but I couldn't forget all the good feelings I had had about Constance when we first met. I couldn't forget how much I liked her, and I tried to figure out what to do about it.

“Well, don't you brood about it,” Grandma said, getting up from the table and handing me the cake bowl. “Here, you beat this thirty more strokes … that'll take your mind off your troubles.”

She busied herself with something at the sink, and I sat there beating the cake batter furiously and counting the strokes to myself under my breath. But I was thinking about what Grandma had said about anybody being able to change.

“Do you think Constance would ever do that?” I asked. “Start over … a new life?”

“I don't know,” said Grandma. “It's pretty hard when you're alone.”

I thought about Constance a lot for the rest of the day.

Chapter Six

By the following morning, I had decided to make one more try to get through to Constance. I didn't like what she had done, but I knew she had tried to be friends with me—coming to dinner and to the style show and giving us that wonderful first acting lesson. I thought I owed her something for that.

I needed Dad to help me with my plan, so I decided to go out and visit him on his job. I often did that when I was on vacation from school. The big gravel pit where he loaded the trucks with his crane was only a mile from town, and I would ride my bike out and take him some special treat to add to his lunch. He would let me climb up in the cab of the crane with him and let me work the levers, and we would talk and then eat together. He always pretended that I was kind of in the way, but I think he liked having me come out and visit him.

I gave him a super-loud whistle through my teeth as I pulled up on my bike, and he waved at me from the machine. He put the big engine into neutral so he could shout down to me from the cab. “What are you up to?” he asked.

“Brought you some cold lemonade and some chocolate cake for an afternoon snack. Grandma forgot to pack the cake for you this morning.”

“Boy!” he said. “You must want somethin' pretty big … comin' all the way out here with cake and lemonade.” Sometimes he could just about read my mind, which I found a big disadvantage. I wondered if he could guess what my plan was and why I had come to see him.

“Well,” I said, “I get some cake too.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “I thought there was a catch to the deal.”

“It's only fair! I helped make it,” I said, and climbed up into the cab of the machine with him.

“Well,” he said, “I paid for it.” He said that a lot around our house.

“That's your job,” I said, not wanting to hear his usual tirade about money. “To pay for stuff.”

“You're tellin' me,” he said sarcastically. “I wouldn't be sittin' on this thing if I didn't have to.”

“I like it!”

“Try it eight hours a day, and you won't like it so much.”

He was right about that. I had once decided I wanted to be a crane operator when I grew up and spent a whole day with him on a job. It was too hot and dirty and noisy for me, and at the end of the day I had decided on another career. I enjoyed being on the machine for an hour or so, but I wondered how he could stand it every day for all those years. I had much more respect for the work he did after that day I spent with him, and I knew that his job wasn't the fun it looked to be. I also knew he was very good at it and was proud of his skill with the big machine. I liked that about him.

“Let me run it for a minute, huh?” I asked.

“No, I want to stop and have my lemonade.”

“Oh, come on, just for a minute, just one bucketful?”