“Peter?”
Mary said, raising her eyebrows.
“I
can perform Romeo in my sleep,” he said calmly. “I’m cool with that.”
Latesha
glanced at him with an enigmatic expression, their eyes met, and then she
turned away with a look of extreme consternation. The others went about their
business and for thirty minutes Mary had them run through scenes which
contained Romeo. Peter performed flawlessly and several times, even though she
pretended not to be watching, Latesha was carried away in his delivery. He was
speaking as if every word was meant for her, and the others fed off his
professional manner. The energy level exploded and people started moving with a
purpose, a spring in their step. Even Beatrice began operating the lights more
efficiently, seldom missing her mark, or missing it by less and less each time.
Mary was so excited she glowed, flitting around and getting comfortable in the
director’s role.
The
rest of the evening Latesha practiced parts without Romeo and felt comfortable
for the first time, confident that she would not make any mistakes. But for all
the positive energy she derived from the heightened prospects for the
performance, that’s how uneasy she felt about her father. This feeling only
intensified as the rehearsal drew to a close. Several times she wanted to tell
everyone she had changed her mind, but the vibe in the building was electric.
People were full of hope and vigor as they left, animatedly discussing the next
practice sessions and the big night. In time only Mary, Latesha and Peter
remained.
“Can
you lock up, Latesha?” Mary asked, throwing on her jacket. “I have to go now.”
“I’ll
lock up,” she said.
Mary
waved at Peter and smiled. “Goodnight, Romeo.”
He
laughed. “Goodnight, Mary.”
Mary
gave Latesha a meaningful look. “You’ll be perfect together.”
“Goodnight,
Mary.”
Then
she left and closed the door. The loud, energetic and lively space was now
perfectly silent.
“What
have I done?” Latesha asked with an imploring expression.
“You’ve
tried to help your community. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She
knitted her brows. “I’m sorry for the way my father treated you the other day.
It was very nice of you to bring the flowers.”
“Do
you like them?” he asked.
“Yes,”
she said. “I like them very much.”
“I’m
glad.”
“That
business proposal,” Latesha said with a serious look, “how did it come about?”
“I’m
a member of The Old English Club and I was speaking with some members on the
executive board.”
“You’re
a member of The Old English Club?” Latesha asked with great surprise.
“Yes,
a lifelong member. My father bought our family a lifetime membership before he
died. I’ve been playing tennis since I was three.”
Latesha
pulled her face back and made a sour expression. “I never would have guessed
that.” Then her expression softened. “Tell me where you come from.”
“My
grandfather was born in South Africa,” Peter told her, “and he made money in diamonds.”
“Your
roots are in Africa?” Latesha asked with disbelief.
“They
are.”
“Tell
me more.”
“My
grandfather vacationed in America and fell in love with a woman from
Mississippi. They got married and settled in Biloxi, but they had a summer
place on the coast of Maine. The area got too built-up for them and they bought
a retreat in Nova Scotia, in Chester. Eventually they settled there and Dad was
born in that very house. He was an only child, and I am his only child.”
“The
end of the line,” Latesha said meaningfully.
“Yes,
Ms. Latesha Thomas, I am the end of the Elsworth line, just as you are the end
of the Thomas line.”
“That’s
interesting,” she said with an embarrassed expression, looking at the floor.
“So
you can see,” Peter resumed, “that you and I have a lot in common.”
“We
do,” she agreed thoughtfully.
“About
that business proposal that I brought to your father, what did he say?”
“He
wasn’t overly enthusiastic.”
“Okay.
But what about the doors?”
“He’s
not interested.”
“Could
I talk to him?”
Latesha
furrowed her brows. “After the way he treated you, you’d still talk to him?”
“I’m
willing to try.”
“You’re
willing to be abused? Why?”
He
didn’t need to answer.
“All
right,” she surrendered with a strange look. “If you’ve got the guts, I’ll ask
him. I’ll call him first, though. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
Latesha
went into the office and called, emerging with a shocked look a minute later.
“He said he’ll see you,” she told him in disbelief. “He wants you to come right
now.”
“Great.
We’ll drive up together.”
“No,
you wait in your truck for fifteen minutes and I’ll walk home alone. I’ll try
to get him prepared to be civil.”
“Good
luck.”
“I’ll
need it,” Latesha said, walking outside with him and locking the center. “Give
me fifteen minutes.”
Peter
waited and listened to the peepers as Latesha hurried home. When she got in the
door, her father had a dark, brooding look on his face. It was obvious he
expected to see Peter, but when the white man did not appear, he looked
suspiciously at his daughter.
“Where
is he?” Mr. Thomas asked menacingly.
“He’ll
be by shortly, but before he comes, there are a few things I want to say.” She
cleared her throat. “Dad, Peter has been very nice to everyone here and I don’t
want you making him feel bad. He has some things he wants to discuss with you
and you are to treat him civilly.”
“He’d
better not be working on the play,” Mr. Thomas said. “Someone else can do the
lights.” He fidgeted in his chair. “With you as director, working on the play
is just a ruse for him to get close to you. Surely you can see that.”
She
winced.
“Tell
me he’s not working the lights,” Mr. Thomas ordered.
“He’s
not working the lights, Dad.”
“Good,”
Mr. Thomas said, greatly relieved. “So, I don’t have to worry about him lurking
around here this week trying to get at you.”
Latesha
frowned. “It’s not like that, Dad.”
“When
you put the play on, he won’t be up there operating the lights? Do you give me
your word?”
“Beatrice
is running the lights,” Latesha said, still miffed at his tone. “He won’t be
working with them at all.”
“Good,”
Mr. Thomas said with a self-satisfied smile.
A
knock sounded.
“Be
nice!” Latesha insisted before she opened the door.
“Come
in,” Mr. Thomas barked in a gruff voice.
Peter
entered and stopped just inside the door, looking at Mr. Thomas as he sat in
his wheelchair in the middle of the living room. His arms were folded across
his chest and a menacing scowl was pasted on his face.
“What
the hell do you want?” he said.
Latesha
sighed, rolled her eyes, glanced with a wince at Peter, then sat down with a
fatalistic expression.
“I’ve
come to ask a favor,” Peter replied.
The
man of the house stared at him. “You’ve come for my daughter,” he said in a
slow, clear and firm voice. “Don’t bother trying to deny it. You like her,
don’t you?”
Latesha
felt like dying.
“You
like her, don’t you!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed, his eyes remarkably intense.
Peter
looked at him without showing any emotion. “Perhaps I do like her, but I’ve
also come to ask you a favor.”
“Don’t
be brazen, boy!” Mr. Thomas exclaimed. “This is my home.”
Peter
said nothing.
“You
will not mock me in my house!”
“I’m
not mocking you, sir,” Peter said.
Mr.
Thomas studied Peter as though he was a suspect in a police line-up. Peter did
not falter or take a backward step. He just stood there with a blank expression
on his face.
“I
came here to ask you something,” he said, trying to ignore the tension in the
air. “There is a situation that needs to be addressed.”
“I’ve
had people come up to me,” Mr. Thomas interrupted in a raised voice, “and tell
me that my daughter is the princess of Beechwood. The princess of Beechwood.
The jewel of this little community.” He wheeled up to Peter with fire in his
eyes. “She is all I have.” He stared at Peter as if there had been a long,
violent history between them. “The white man stole my people from Africa, boy,
but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you steal my daughter from me. You’re
not going to disrespect me like that.”
“I
have no intention of disrespecting you.”
“Your
mere presence here is disrespectful.”
“The
community center has been greatly improved over the last few months,” Peter
said, not backing down, “but before it will pass inspection, the building needs
two more doors. That’s code and it won’t be overlooked. If the inspection
fails, the play cannot be performed.”
“What
the hell does that have to do with me?”
“You’re
a carpenter. I’ve already brought the doors and framing materials, but I need
you to hang them.”
Mr.
Thomas scowled and gritted his teeth. “Are you making fun of me, boy?”
“No.”
“Look!”
Mr. Thomas exclaimed, gesturing at his paralyzed legs. “Or didn’t you notice?”
“You’re
a carpenter. Carpenters are magicians at getting around obstacles.”
“I’m
in a wheelchair!” he shouted. “That’s more than an obstacle.”
“Did
you ever hear of Rick Hansen?”
“What’s
that got to do with anything?” said Mr. Thomas with mounting aggravation.
“Rick
Hansen is paralyzed from the waist down, but he pushed his wheelchair all the
way around the world to raise money for spinal cord research. He went around
the world, Mr. Thomas. It took him more than two years and he covered over
twenty-five thousand miles. Think about it.”
“Get
out of my house!” Mr. Thomas hollered. “And don’t come back!”
Peter
walked to the door and put his hand on the knob, but hesitated and turned to
face Mr. Thomas. “People can crawl into little holes and spend the rest of
their days feeling sorry for themselves. It happens all the time and in some
cases you can almost understand why. But you have a beautiful daughter who
loves you and a community that needs you.”
“You’re
only here to steal her,” Mr. Thomas shot back in a vicious tone.
Peter
shook his head and grew very solemn. “I’m not here to steal your daughter, sir.
Yes, I am impressed by her. Who wouldn’t be? But I’m not trying to steal
anything from you or anyone else. If you have potential and you don’t use it,
if you sit in a chair and let life pass you by, you’re the one who is stealing.
You’re stealing from yourself.”
“Get
out!”
Peter
turned and left, gently closing the door. In the driveway, just as he was
getting into his truck, Latesha ran out to him. A flush of emotion crossed her
face, and in that split second of silence, the two of them felt a tremendously
powerful sense of intimacy.
“Can
I see you tomorrow?” she suddenly asked in a whisper.
“What?”
he whispered back, glancing over his shoulder and seeing that her father was
not watching out the window. “When?”
“Can
you get the afternoon off?” she asked hopefully.
“Why?”
he replied instantly, as if they were spies hatching a secret plot.
“There’s
a music festival in the city. I have the afternoon off and I was thinking about
walking that trail I told you about, the one behind The End of the Line Station.
I was hoping, I mean I would love it, if we could walk it together.”
Peter
looked overwhelmed. “I have the afternoon off. Can I meet you at the
university?”
“Yes,
by the Student Union Building where we first met,” she said excitedly. “I’ll be
there at noon. Bring your boots. It’s wet in sections.”
“Deal,”
he said, his spirit soaring at the prospect of being alone with her.
Latesha
nodded and walked into the house. She saw her father staring at her with a
scowl on his face.
“That
took a long time,” he said.
“Not
a long time,” she answered, emphasizing the word long.
Mr.
Thomas narrowed his eyes. “Tell me you’re not involved with that man in any
kind of romantic way. Tell me, Latesha!”
“He’s
a friend and he has been very nice. He’s been very nice to everyone.”
“Is
he finished with the wiring? Is he gone for good?”
“Yes
and no,” she said, her skin breaking out in goose bumps.
“What
do you mean, yes and no?”
“He
finished the wiring,” she said, “but he’s not gone for good.”
Mr.
Thomas peered at her. “What’s going on, Latesha?”
She
didn’t want to answer.
“Latesha,”
her father persisted. “What are you not telling me?”
Latesha
took a deep breath. “The play was short an actor and Peter volunteered to
help.”
“What!”
Mr. Thomas bellowed. “You’re going to be directing him in the play!”
Latesha
shrugged.
Mr.
Thomas gritted his teeth. “If you’re directing and he’s in the play, you’d have
to see him right up until Saturday. Tell me it’s not true, Latesha.”
“There’s
no choice,” she stated. “If he doesn’t act in the play, the whole thing falls
apart like a house of cards and we’ll have to pay back the ten thousand dollars.”
She looked hard at him. “Ten of us signed the contract, Dad, and I was one of
them. That’s a thousand dollars.”
He
visibly tensed. “A thousand dollars?”
“Yes.”
“Find
somebody else,” he said with exasperation.
“There
is nobody else.”
“Are
you telling me that no one in Beechwood would offer to recite a few lines? Do
you expect me to believe that?”
“I
can’t make you believe anything, Dad. You’re too set in your ways.”