Under a Bear Moon (12 page)

The hair on Greg's neck bristled.

Richard grinned. “I hate to interrupt your lunch but Mendelson wants us to try on our costumes before the dress rehearsal tonight. Lynda?” Richard held out his hand and helped her from her seat.

Lynda smiled apologetically. “Gotta go. See you after school.” She turned and left the cafeteria with Richard.

Greg watched her leave and continued staring long after the cafeteria door swung shut behind her.

GREG SLAMMED the front door and stomped into the living room. A young woman stood by the window. He stopped and stared. “Megan?”

The gangly, snub-nosed brat had grown up. He could hardly believe she was only fourteen. Her freckles had vanished, as had the hostile squint. The scruffy braids were gone. Her hair flowed past her shoulders in a sun-kissed cascade, and her eyes warmed to golden brown before she hugged him.

Dropping his backpack, he returned the embrace. Megan's head now reached the top of Greg's shoulder, and he couldn't help noticing she'd grown in other ways beside height.

“Hi, Greg,” she said. “How's my favorite teddy bear?”

Greg blinked at the nickname; he'd forgotten she used to call him that. The image of a chubby kindergartner begging for just one more story burst into his mind.

“Our plane got in early, for once. Mother's in the kitchen visiting with your folks, but I thought I'd wait here and catch you coming in. It's been a long time.”

“Yeah, it has,” he agreed, taking her arm and walking her down the hallway. “Too long.”

FRIDAY DAWNED wet and miserable. By evening, the intermittent showers had settled into a steady drizzle. In spite of the dampness, Greg opened the door to Goodspeed Hall, and Megan hurried outside.

“Do you go through that every Friday?” Megan asked after he joined her on the sidewalk.

“No way. Dad goes to the weekly seminars, but this is the first time he made Mom and me come along.”

“I guess he thought you should, since Mother's the guest speaker.”

As if on cue, Megan's mother stepped through the double doors, followed by a mob of animated graduate students. Greg's father broke through the babble of voices surrounding his sister-in-law. “As you all know, we will be meeting in Greektown to continue the discussion. Any of you with questions for Dr. Cummings can ask them there.”

They stepped away from the building and made their way to the parking lot. While Greg's father fumbled with the keys, Megan stood up on tiptoe and whispered in Greg's ear.

He nodded. “Good idea. Dad, would it be all right if Megan and I don't go with you to Greektown? She's still pretty worn out from the flight yesterday. I think she'd rather grab a pizza and head home.”

Bernard Ursek eyes narrowed thoughtfully, then he nodded. “That is considerate of you. Yes, you may take your cousin to dinner.” He looked up at the overcast sky. “I believe the weather has stabilized, but just in case.” He thrust a battered umbrella into his son's hand. “I expect you to be home when we return from Greektown.”

“Don't worry, Dad. See you later. You too, Mom.” His mother smiled and waved through the closed window.

“'Bye, Mother. Uncle Bernard, Aunt Sue,” Megan called.” Have fun at dinner.”

“'Bye, dear.” Her mother slipped into the car and closed the door. The car sputtered to life and coughed out of the lot.

Greg took Megan's arm. “Come on, I'll show you what real pizza tastes like.”

MEGAN LOOKED around the dimly lit restaurant. “You're right, it does remind me of home.”

Greg watched while his cousin examined the graffiti-covered booths with their gouged tables. She studied the artwork on the wall and smiled when strains of Vivaldi began playing under the murmured conversations.

A waitress came by with their menus. “Are you ready to order now, or do you need a few minutes?”

“How hungry are you, Meg?”

“Starving. According to my tummy clock, it's after ten, way past dinnertime.”

Greg grinned. “Do you trust me?” At Megan's nod, he turned to the waitress. “We'll have an extra large Garbage pizza, please, no anchovies, and a monster salad. Thousand Island dressing for the salad. Right?”

“Always.”

“Anything to drink?” she asked.

“I'll have Coke.”

“Me, too.”

“Better make that a pitcher,” Greg said.

“Great.” The waitress closed her pad and smiled. “The pizza will be up in about twenty minutes. How many are joining you?”

“None.” Greg suppressed a grin at the server's expression. “My cousin and I are hungry this evening.”

She stuck her pencil behind her ear and looked at them quizzically. “Are you sure you want the extra large pizza? They feed six to eight.”

“We're sure.”

Shaking her head, she turned back to the kitchen.

Megan started laughing. “You must not come here often, if they don't know about your appetite.”

“I don't come here much in the evenings. Weekends are a different matter. The last time we had brunch here, Dad and I polished off a dozen of their chocolate croissants just waiting for our eggs to get ready. Sandy, the waitress we usually get, knows us so well she just kept them coming.”

The kitchen door swung open, sending wafts of espresso, oregano, and toasted cheese into the dining room. Megan sniffed. “I hope the pizza tastes as good as it smells.”

Greg stood and pointed to a sign directing men to the right and women to the left. “Go ahead and start when the salad gets here. I'll be right back.”

She nodded. “I'll save some for you.”

“Don't bother. We can always order more.”

Megan's bright laughter followed him into the rest-room.

THE CAST OF
You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown
sang the title song while they paraded along 57th Street. The opening night performance had been a smash, and the cast was on its way to The Medici to celebrate. Matt took the lead, directing the others like a band leader. Lynda followed, pretending to play a trombone. Perry frolicked like the dog he played and punctuated the end of each stanza with an ear splitting howl. The rest of the characters marched in a line behind Lynda, each making the movements for their musical instrument. Richard fingered an imaginary keyboard. Keisha pounded a nonexistent drum. David Newberg, the boy who played Linus went through the motions of playing a fife, complete with a revolutionary limp. As if to accommodate the marchers, the rain that had been falling all day eased up. The breeze fanned Lynda's cheeks with cool, moist air.

They turned with parade ground precision to enter the restaurant and marched to the velvet rope next to the sign that read “Please wait to be seated.” Matt told the hostess they needed a table for six. Even at nine thirty at night, they had to wait while she checked to see if the large table in the back was free.

Since there was no room to march, they contented themselves with stamping in place and playing their imaginary instruments. When Perry barked and Keisha “boomed,” the people sitting nearest the exit jumped. It seemed to Lynda that everyone in the restaurant turned to watch them. If she'd been herself that evening, she would have felt embarrassed, but she was Lucy that night, the girl who would be Queen. She raised her head with regal pride and sang louder. In record time, the hostess returned and showed them to a booth.

The benches on either side were long enough to fit all six actors. Lynda slipped in between Matt and Richard, while Keisha sat opposite her between David and Perry. Perry slid as close to Keisha as possible, put his arm around her shoulder and crooned into her ear. “I feel every now and then that I've got to bite someone.”

He leaned down and attacked her neck with mock fury. Keisha giggled and pretended to push him away.

“Watch out, Snoopy,” Lynda said before Keisha wrapped her arms around him and returned the favor. “She bites.”

Lynda smiled. Keisha and Perry made an intriguing couple. Keisha reveled in her African ancestry. As if deter-mined to deny the European ancestors who'd bequeathed her a narrow nose and hazel eyes, she corn-rowed her hair and preferred bright, flowing dresses to blue jeans. Lynda knew that Keisha's secret dream was to someday visit the African continent and search for distant relatives. Perry, on the other hand, had grandparents who immigrated from Haiti the year before his father was born. The relative purity of his ancestry showed in his blue-black complexion and classic African features. He was tall, a full head taller than Keisha, and thin. Lynda could imagine Perry standing on one leg, spear in hand, surveying the Serengeti Plain. But Perry had no interest in Africa, or in his African origins. He was an all-American boy, and proud of it. No one followed baseball with more fervor. No one ate more hot dogs and hamburgers. No one watched more sitcoms on TV.

Richard put his arm around Lynda and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “They're a cute couple, aren't they? Almost as cute as we could be.”

Lynda found herself returning a remarkably warm smile, and had to remind herself that Richard went through girlfriends like most people went through potato chips. Glancing around the room, she spotted a girl watching them from a nearby table. The girl had long hair the color of spring sunlight and amber eyes. Lynda guessed she was fifteen or sixteen. “We'd make a terrible couple,” she said, pulling away from him. “She's more your type.”

Richard followed Lynda's gaze to the solitary girl. The girl smiled tentatively before turning back to an enormous bowl of salad. “Good point.”

Standing, Richard nodded to the others and sauntered over to her table. Lynda—stung that he'd agreed with her and angry at herself for caring—refused to watch, but she couldn't help hearing their conversation through the buzz around the table.

“Hello.” Richard's voice dripped interest. “I'm having a party with some friends. Want to join us?”

The waitress dropped off six glasses of water and a stack of menus. Determined not to pay any attention to what Richard was doing, Lynda snatched a menu from the pile and threw it open, nearly ripping it in half.

“Thanks anyway,” the girl said. “My date'll be right back.” Her voice was soft and light, like her hair, with a noticeable east coast accent.

Lynda tried to concentrate on pizza.

“He should know better than leave a pretty little thing like you all alone.”

Jerk, Lynda thought.

The blonde must have agreed because her answer was cool and firm. “You should get back to your table before your friends miss you.”

“Come and meet them,” Richard insisted.

Lynda heard a sharp intake of breath. She was laying down her menu when another voice, low, angry, and familiar spoke.

“Let her go, Hammer.”

The menu dropped to the floor. Lynda spun around and saw Greg looming over Richard. They stood beside the booth, the blonde sandwiched between them. Richard glanced over at Lynda. “Hey, Lynda, I told you there had to be a reason Ursek's never free at night. Here she is.” His smile turned her stomach to ice.

Greg turned and appeared to notice her for the first time. “Lynda? What are you ... I mean, I thought with the play and all...”

Jumping up, Lynda stormed to Greg's table. On the way, her elbow hit a waitress carrying a tray of drinks. The tray tipped, the drinks slid, and the waitress swore when ice and soda splashed across her blouse. Lynda never noticed. A molten mass clogged her throat. It stung her eyes and drenched her words with sarcasm. “So, you only go out on evenings you think I'm busy. How considerate of you.”

Lynda knew Greg wasn't like Richard, that she should ask him what was going on. But she was too humiliated. Blinking back tears, she turned and fled the restaurant. Before the door swung shut behind her, she heard the soft, light voice ask, “What was that about, Greg? Who is she?”

Sobbing outside the restaurant, Lynda never heard Greg's answer.

HE STARED INTO the alley. The building's lights were off; its occupants slept. Even the bulb over the stairwell had burned out. Street lights struggled to brighten the night, but they seemed miles away. No illumination invaded the shadows. The dark shapes lining the alley could have been trash cans, Weber grills, or lonely people with no better place to sleep.

A siren sounded in the distance. Its undulating wail shattered the alley's silence, but couldn't lift the crushing solitude. He looked accusingly at the sky. Even through the thick cloud cover, he could feel the moon's presence, but it offered no comfort. Riding high above the world, the infant crescent was powerless to brighten the alleyway, or to lift the shadow from his heart. Turning his back on the night, he returned to his dark and lonely bed.

LYNDA WAS late. Tearing around the corner of the Circle theater, she almost missed the stage door. She threw it open and rushed inside, nearly colliding with Ellen and Matt.

They stood next to an old fashioned rotary pay phone, apparently arguing. Ellen never blushed, but today her cheeks burned as brightly as her eyes. Matt stared at the toes of his running shoes, his whole face crimson. Not wanting to get mixed-up in their fight, Lynda murmured an apology and continued toward the dressing room.

Ellen caught her arm. “I was about to call you. Miss Mendelson wants everyone to get into costume ASAP.”

She turned back to Matt and said in a rush, “What I'm saying is that I'm in the dance recital next weekend. I'd like it if you came.”

Without a word, he fled past her into the men's dressing room.

Ellen sighed. “At least he listened to the invitation.” She paused and looked closely at Lynda. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Because you look awful, that's why. Come off it, Lynda, this is me you're talking to. What's up?”

“I had trouble sleeping last night.” Lynda darted into the women's dressing room before Ellen could ask more questions.

Ellen barged in after her. “You can't fool me. I know you too well. You're upset about something.”

Lynda sat in front of the make-up table. “Would you just leave me alone?” Wincing at the dark rings under her eyes, she picked up a coverstick and started dabbing it on.