Dawn of a New Day (4 page)

“Wait a minute! You can't walk to Fort Smith,” Les said.

“Well, maybe I could borrow your car, Dad.”

“You can on one condition.”

“Why, sure. What is it?”

“I think you ought to take Prudence with you. She hardly gets to go anywhere. Hearing her cousin would be a real treat for her.”

Mark hesitated and frowned. “But I'm going steady with Debbie. You know that.”

“I don't know anything about it. I know if you want to take the car, you'll take Prudence—and not
with
Debbie!”

The argument went on for some time, and Les leaned back, saucering his coffee and sipping it noisily, enjoying it. Finally Mark shrugged and said, “Well, all right, Dad, but Debbie's going to kill me.”

Prue was painting the picture of the sketch she had made of Bandit when she heard her mother calling her. Quickly she moved into the storage room and locked the picture in the armoire. She did not know why she could not show her pictures, or sketches, or paintings to anyone. It had become a very private thing with her. She brought home report cards studded with mostly Cs and Ds, her good grades only in math, so when she had discovered at age eleven that she had a gift for drawing, it was something she kept secluded. She could not explain it to anyone. Perhaps she was afraid that she would fail at that as she did at everything else. At times she knew she was foolish and that she could get help from the art teachers in school, but somehow drawing had become a sanctuary for her. Many times she had gone into her room in tears over her failures in the classroom, but as she began to sketch, or to paint, somehow that all faded away and a sense of well-being and security would arise in her.

Now she went downstairs and found Mark standing in the kitchen talking to her mother. He grinned at her at once, saying, “Guess what you and me are going to do?”

Prue halted, and an alarm went off somewhere in her head. She had been nearly two years getting over what she thought would be her first date with Mark. It had left a tiny scar that was still sensitive, and now she said, “What do you mean? What are we going to do?”

Mark reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two small pieces of cardboard. “Look at this. Two tickets to your cousin Bobby Stuart's concert.”

Prue took the tickets, noted the date, then said, “This is in Fort Smith tomorrow.”

“That's right. Dad says I can have the car, so I want us to go over and take it in. How about it?”

“What about Debbie? Is she going too?”

“Nope. This is just for you and me, Prue. I figure we could go give Bobby all the support we've got. Will you go?”

Prue turned and said, “Is it all right, Momma?”

“Why, of course. I think it would be fine, but I suppose you'll be home late.”

“Probably will,” Mark said cheerfully. “But you know me. Old reliable Mark. I'll take care of your little girl.” He went over and put his arm around Violet and grinned down at her. “You trust me, don't you?”

Violet could not help but smile. “Yes I do, but you drive careful, you hear?”

After Mark had left, Violet said, “Isn't that nice?”

“At least it won't be like last time.” There was a tone to Prue's voice that caught her mother's attention. She knew that the girl had never gotten over her disappointment, and now she said, “Well, this time it'll be just you and Mark, and you can have a good time.”

As Prue got ready to go to Fort Smith, she remembered the last time she had gone to the same town—to hear Kennedy. This time she had not bought a new dress; the one she had was nice enough. Her mother and father had gone to Little Rock to visit one of her father's distant relatives. While they were there her mother had taken her to M. M. Cohen's, which had a tall woman's section, the first that Prue had ever seen. She had tried on dresses so often that simply did not fit, but here, for the first time in her life, she found that there were dresses made for tall women. The saleswoman had been very helpful, and finally her mother bought her three dresses; Prue had gasped at the price, saying, “Daddy will kill us!”

“You deserve them, Prudence. Now, just see how nice you look.”

Prue stared into the mirror at the dress she had chosen. It was a purple and blue checkered print with a rounded neck, long, narrow sleeves, and a low, hip-hugging waistline, and it fell to midthigh. Her legs were covered with dark blue tights, and she had on a pair of black, low-heeled shoes. She could not help but admit that she looked better than she had two years earlier, for though she was tall, her figure had blossomed, and as she left the room and went downstairs, she was hopeful that Mark would notice.

Mark came up to the door, and when he opened it his eyes brightened. “Hey! We look good, don't we? Both of us.”

Prue laughed shyly, saying, “Yes, you certainly do.” He was wearing a dark blue sweater with long sleeves and a V-neck where a light blue knit shirt peeked out, a pair of khaki-colored slacks, and two-tone oxfords.

Mark opened the door for her when they were outside at the car, then got into the car beside her. “Here we come, Fort Smith! Hey,” he said, “you remember the last time we went? It was to hear Kennedy.”

“I remember.”

Something about the brevity and terseness of her reply caught Mark, and he suddenly remembered that she had not been happy. But now he said, “Just you and me this time, Prue. I got enough money saved that we can go to that fancy Italian restaurant after the concert.”

The drive to Fort Smith seemed to go by very quickly, and Mark, who could be highly entertaining, kept her laughing most of the way. When they arrived at the Municipal Auditorium it was packed, as they had expected. Shoving their way through the crowd, Mark muttered, “Not exactly what I expected. We look out of place here.”

Prue had already discovered that. She looked vainly for others wearing nice, sensible clothing, but several of the teens looked like what had come to be called “Hippies.” Most of them, boys and girls, wore T-shirts with various signs or symbols on them, some of them downright vulgar; blue jeans, either skin tight or sometimes exceptionally baggy; and penny loafers.

“Well, I guess this is the rock-and-roll crowd,” Mark said, shaking his head. “They look pretty bad to me. Some of them need to take a bath.”

Prue nodded, but before she could speak the program began. An emcee came out and introduced an act that proved to be loud: four men who could jump around the stage expertly while playing guitars. The lyrics were familiar, some of them, for most rock performers latched on to current hits. Prue settled down with Mark, aware that his arm was touching hers and of his pleasant cologne. It felt good that she didn't have to slump as she did with most boys to try to be shorter, and despite her distaste for some of the music, she enjoyed herself.

Finally Bobby Stuart came on. Prue knew him, of course, for he came to the Stuart family reunions, but he had not been there for the past two years, and he had changed. His auburn hair was longer, his blue-green eyes seemed almost electric, and his handsome face was rougher. It was not his looks alone, but something about his presence that came across. He sometimes stood at the piano and played standing up, his left hand pounding a steady beat while the fingers of his right hand flew over the keyboard. His hair fell in his face, and he moved his shoulders to the rhythm as the house went wild.

Mark watched, with shock, as the crowd seemed to lose all semblance of sanity, mostly young women who screamed and threw their arms around wildly. It interested him, but he raised his voice, and putting his head close to Prue's ear, said, “I hope you don't go into a fit like that.”

Aware of his lips almost touching her face, Prue shook her head. “I don't think there's any danger. They all act like maniacs. Bobby can sing and play, but they act like he's a god of some kind.”

That was the impression that both of them got. There was idolatry in the wave of adulation that swept through the auditorium, and when the act was over, several young girls broke through the guards and came pulling at Bobby, trying to tear his clothing off apparently.

“Come on,” Mark said, standing up. “We're going back to see your kinfolk.”

Staring at him, Prue shook her head. “They'd never let us in.”

“That's what you think. Just stick with me, Prudence.”

Mark's confidence was not unfounded, for after most of the fans had filtered away, he accosted a local policeman, saying, “Go tell Bobby his cousin is out here. Prudence Deforge.”

It worked, somehow, and they were permitted to go back to Bobby's dressing room. He had taken off his coat and was removing his makeup when they came in. His eyes lit up when he saw Prudence, and he jumped up immediately. “Hey, this is great! Why didn't you come earlier? We could've gone out together.”

“We didn't want to bother you, Bobby,” Prue said. “This is Mark Stevens, and I guess you remember me.”

Bobby shook Mark's hand, then turned to Prue. “No, I don't remember you,” he said. When Prudence looked disappointed, he grinned and said, “I remember a skinny, little girl with some kind of weird bangs, but this is another story.” He put his arms around her and said, “You done growed up on me, Prudence.” He kissed her on the cheek and laughed. “Well, let's go out and eat. I'm starved.”

Bobby had become adroit at missing the crowds. He had called ahead, and they had a private room at the fanciest restaurant in Fort Smith. As they sat down to a table covered with a white tablecloth and candles gleaming, he said, “I can't go into McDonald's anymore. They tear my clothes off of me.”

The waiter came, and Bobby said, “Order anything. I'll have spaghetti myself.”

“That sounds good to me. What about you, Prue?” Mark asked.

“Oh yes. That'll be fine.”

For the next hour and a half Mark and Prue sat there listening as Bobby talked and ate, dropping such names as Buddy Holly, Elvis, and other stars in the firmament of the rock world.

After the meal, Bobby said, “I've got a little partying to do. You two come along. It'll be fun.”

Quickly Mark said, “We'd like to, Bobby, but I promised Prue's parents that I'd get her home as soon as possible. It's a long drive; we'll have to take a rain check.”

Bobby twirled a wine glass in his fingers and leaned back in his chair. There was a strange light in his blue eyes, and he studied them clinically as if they were creatures from another planet. “I can remember,” he said very quietly, “when Richard and I were growing up. He was always conscious of what our parents wanted. Always wanted to be home on time so they wouldn't worry, and I was always the one who stayed out until morning.”

A pensive expression crossed his face, and he appeared to listen to the music that was playing softly in the background for a time. “Now Richard's preaching in the slums of Los Angeles, and I'm making a million dollars a year.” He said no more, but it was obvious to both of his hearers that it was a subject that preyed on his mind often. He spoke again, and it was as if he was talking to himself, not to the two who sat before him. “As long as the spotlight's on, and the kids are screaming my name, or as long as I'm partying, it doesn't seem to matter much. But every time I get quiet like this, I think about what it all means, and sometimes it just doesn't add up.” Abruptly he shook his shoulders in a strange gesture of dissatisfaction, drank the rest of the wine, then stood up saying, “Well, the party's about to begin. Hey, Mark, do you like to hunt deer? How about if you and I go together while I'm here?”

“You mean it?” Mark demanded.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” Bobby grinned. “I'll be dropping by to see your folks, Prue—and you can take me hunting, Mark.”

After they left the restaurant and began their journey homeward, Prue and Mark did not speak much for some time. It was a cold, starry night, and Mark turned the heater up full, and also the radio. He found a powerful station, and for a while the sound of music filled the car. Finally he said, “Did it seem to you that something was troubling Bobby tonight?”