Under a Bear Moon Page 3

  Lynda's nose woke up before her ears. She lay in bed, dreaming of bacon when the commentator's words registered.

  Thursday? Tossing the pillow aside, Lynda sat up. Sunlight filled her room, making her eyes water. She blinked and squinted at the clock radio. 8:22. She'd have to hurry if she was going to get to school on time.

  “Lynda, are you up yet?”

  Jumping out of bed, Lynda ran to her dresser. She grabbed a clean pair of panties and her favorite T-shirt—black with a Siberian tiger on the front—from the top drawer, and threw them on. Hopping into yesterday's jeans, she buckled her watch around her wrist, stuffed her wallet into her back pocket, and started hunting for her shoes. She'd found one of her high-top sneakers under the discarded pillow and was on her hands and knees reaching under the bed for its mate, when her mother called again.

  “Lynda!”

  Lynda sat back and shoved on her shoes. “Coming!”

  Without waiting to tie them, she darted out of the bed-room and down the stairs. Swinging around the end of the banister, she flew off the last step and sped into the dining room.

  “Morning, Lynster.” Her brother Tom sat at their mother's Queen Anne table. He grabbed his glass of orange juice when Lynda started sliding toward him across the polished wood floor. She stopped inches from the table.

  He lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Nice entrance.”

  Lynda threw herself into her chair. “Thanks.”

  Everyone else had eaten. Her plate sat next to an empty juice pitcher and a serving platter with two slices of bacon and a piece of toast on it. Lynda reached for the bacon, but stopped when she heard footsteps on the stairs. She turned and saw her father amble into the dining room, briefcase in hand.

  “Morning, Angel,” he said, leaning down to kiss her.

  “Hi, Dad.” She pointed to the briefcase. “Leaving early?”

  “I've got a dissertation committee meeting this morning.”

  Lynda smiled. Every year her father advised several graduate students on their way to earning their doctorate in Economics. He was always going in early or staying late because of them.

  She reached up and returned the kiss. “Don't work too hard.”

  His ice-blue eyes warmed. “I won't be home for dinner tonight, but I'll see you before bedtime. Have a good day at school. And you,” he turned to Tom, “drive safely.”

  He stood, arms dangling by his side, then reached down and pulled his son into a bear hug. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.” Releasing Tom, he tilted his head up and yelled, “Good-bye, John-John!”

  “Bye, Dad!” called an enthusiastic voice from upstairs.

  “Have a good day at work, Stephen,” Lynda heard her mom add.

  “See you tonight, Carol!” Without waiting for his wife to come downstairs, he headed out the door.

  Tom sat down again, but Lynda didn't turn back to the table until after she'd watched her father leave the house. Then she leaned forward and snagged a slice of bacon. “You are so lucky. I can't wait to go to college.” Shoving the bacon into her mouth, she bent over and began lacing up her sneakers.

  “You know, Lynster, I'm really going to miss you.”

  Lynda tilted her head and studied Tom suspiciously. Tall, with her father's red hair and her mother's green eyes, he gazed at her with heart-warming sincerity. She wondered what he wanted.

  “Here, Tom.” Their younger brother, John, ran down the stairs and into the dining room. He held out a rumpled five dollar bill.

  “Thanks, John-John.” Tom took the bill and stuck it in the front pocket of his blue jeans. “I'll pay you back when I turn in my airline ticket.”

  Lynda sat up. “Tom Malone! I can't believe you'd take money from your baby brother.”

  Tom shrugged. “It's a long drive to Cambridge, and I told Jay I'd share the cost. I thought you might loan me a twenty. Just until I turn in the ticket,” he added when Lynda started shaking her head.

  She knew from experience it was easier to refuse if she didn't look at him. Staring at the platter, Lynda reached for the toast. It was dark, brittle, and too cold for butter. She spread jam on it instead and took a bite. Crumbs rained over the silk-screened tiger, and she brushed them away, keeping her gaze turned away from her older brother.

  But Tom was determined. He reached out and squeezed her arm. “I'll mail the money from school. Promise. Come on Lynda, just twenty bucks? Please.”

  He pleaded so well, Lynda had to grin. “Oh, all right. Here.” Reaching into her wallet, she withdrew a twenty-dollar bill.

  “Thanks, Lynda, you're the greatest.”

  She heard a car horn honk outside, pause a moment, and then honk again.

  Tom pushed back from the table. “That's Jay. Bye, guys!”

  Tom ruffled his brother's dark hair and gave Lynda a quick kiss on the cheek. Grabbing his black duffel bag from the corner, he ran for the front door.

  “Thomas.” A quiet but implacable voice stopped him before he'd left the dining room. “You weren't thinking of leaving without saying good-bye?”

  Lynda's mother stood on the stairway. Dressed in a slate gray suit and her grandmother's pearls, every silver hair in place, Carol Malone wore the determined expression she used to extract donations from Hyde Park's social elite.

  “Of course not, Mom. I just want to dump my stuff in Jay's car first.”

  “There's no time. I'm going to be late for my nine o'clock meeting as it is. Good-bye, dear.” She walked down the final steps and lifted her perfectly rouged cheek for his kiss. “Have fun at Harvard.”

  “I will, Mom. I'll call when I get there.” Tom waved to his brother and sister, turned, and ran out of the house.

  Lynda's mother entered the dining room and planted a dry peck on her cheek. “You're not going to school looking like that, are you?”

  Lynda sighed. “Like what, Mom?” Just once, she'd like to get out of the house without a lecture.

  “Looking like an overage tomboy instead of the lovely girl you really are. You haven't even combed your hair.”

  “I forgot,” she admitted. Her watch beeped, announcing it was time to leave. Eyeing the last piece of bacon, Lynda shoved the toast into her mouth and stood. “I'll brush my hair real fast, then I have to go.”

  “Don't forget your lunch; I left it on the mail table. And brush your teeth!” her mother called after her.

  A moment later, Lynda ran back in, hair brushed into a ponytail, backpack thrown over her shoulder.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  “Good-bye, Lynda. I might not be home until late. Please clean up the breakfast things when you get home and put the casserole in the oven at six.”

  “No problem.”

  Lynda gave her mother a perfunctory hug before running out the door.

  * * * *

  AFTER RUNNING late the whole day, Lynda finally dumped her backpack in her locker and ran across the courtyard to the school auditorium. As she ran up the stairs, a mob of children burst out of the auditorium's double doors. They looked about eight years old, and Lynda guessed that Mrs. Morrison's third grade class had been rehearsing its Columbus Day presentation.

  She waited for the stragglers to leave before walking in.

  “Lynda,” a voice rumbled behind her.

  Her stomach fluttered; she'd hoped Greg had forgotten about the audition. Cursing the impulse that had led Ellen to tell him about it in the first place, Lynda turned and forced a smile. “Hi.”

  “Have you met Matt Hughes?” He indicated the boy beside him.

  Lynda's smile brightened. “No. Hi, I'm Lynda Ma-lone.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, staring at the floor. Matt was shorter than Lynda and about ten pounds heavier. His hair hovered between blond and brown; his blue eyes looked bleached. He had a nice mouth, though pudginess softened his jaw.

  “Matt's in my Civics class,” Greg said. “He's new here, too.”

  “Really? Where you from?”

  He broke into a sh
y smile. “Boston. Can't you tell? I announce my hometown every time I open my mouth.”

  “Matt's a little self-conscious about his accent,” Greg added.

  “Why? I think it's cute.”

  Matt's face turned a mottled red.

  After a prolonged silence, Lynda asked Matt, “Are you here for the audition?”

  He shrugged. “I guess so. When is it?”

  “Right now.” Wondering if he'd have the nerve to get on stage, Lynda pushed the door open and strode through the lobby into the dimly lit hall. Greg and Matt followed.

  The house lights were on, but the cavernous auditorium absorbed their radiance before it reached the red velvet seats. The air smelled thick with dust and age. Just before Lynda reached the front row, a wedge of light brightened the carpet in front of the stage and a short, gray-haired woman entered from the side along with several students.

  “Miss Mendelson.” Lynda waved and broke into a trot.

  “What? Oh Lynda, I'm glad you're here; we're doing a mystery this fall. Where'd I put that script? Never mind, here it is. You should try reading for the best friend, Mavis McNalley. It'll give you a chance to do a Scottish accent.” The drama coach's voice was deep and gravely, the result of decades of cigarette smoke. She squinted and stared over Lynda's shoulder. “Who's that?”

  Lynda turned and saw Greg and Matt walk up behind her. “Greg Ursek and Matt Hughes. They're both new this year. Guys, this is Miss Mendelson.”

  Lynda could almost see the casting possibilities flash through Miss Mendelson's mind. “Here for the audition?”

  “I am,” Matt said.

  Greg shrugged. “Dad's nervous about living in a big city and doesn't want me out after dark. I can only be in the show if the rehearsals and performances are during the day.”

  Miss Mendelson frowned. “Most rehearsals are after school, but the dress rehearsals and two of the three performances are in the evening.”

  She turned to the waiting students, and the auditorium filled with her rough voice. “Okay people! You're here to audition, not flirt with each other. Excerpts from the script are on stage. Take one and sign the sheet beside them. I'll call you up in groups, and we'll run through the scene a few times.”

  The would-be actors filed to the front of the auditorium and collected their scripts. Greg took a seat and watched.

  * * * *

  “WHAT DID you think?” Ellen asked Greg when she and Lynda joined him after the audition. Ellen had read for the lead, a woman who fears her boyfriend is trying to kill her. Tears still glistened in the corners of her eyes.

  “You were great.” Greg stared at Lynda while he held the door open and they filed out of the auditorium. “I wish I could be in the show.”

  “It's too bad about your dad,” Lynda began.

  “Oh, You can still help with the sets and stuff. There's always a million things to do.” Ellen looked around. “Where's that guy you were with?”

  “Matt cut out a few minutes ago. Said something about having to get his homework done.”

  Ellen scuffed the ground with her platform heels. “Nuts. I was hoping you'd introduce us.”

  “Introduce you to who?”

  Lynda turned and saw Richard Hammer saunter toward them. Nearly as tall as Greg, but slender and more supple in his movements, Richard was a senior and resident heart-throb of the drama club.

  Lynda glanced at Ellen and saw her friend's smile stiffen. Last year, Richard and Ellen had been an item when they starred together in the Spring musical. The relationship had lasted until the closing night party. The following Monday, Ellen had startled her friends by announcing she was tired of Richard and wasn't seeing him anymore.

  Even before Richard put his arm around Ellen, it occurred to Lynda that he didn't seem tired of her. Ellen jerked away from him and stepped closer to Greg.

  “Should be a good show,” Richard continued, ignoring her reaction. “You'll make a lovely damsel in distress. Lynda will be reliable as always as your best friend, and I'll make a charmingly nasty villain.”

  Ellen pretended to gag.

  “What makes you think you'll get the part of Nigel?” Lynda asked.

  Richard grinned. “I know Mendelson. She'll hold auditions tomorrow, but she's already cast the main parts. She won't be able to resist casting me against type.” His killer smile bounced off Ellen's scowl. Eyes narrowed, Richard glanced from Ellen to Greg and back again. “Who's your friend?”

  “He's my lab partner.” Lynda stressed the last two words, not wanting anyone to misunderstand their relation-ship. “Greg Ursek. Greg, this is Richard Hammer.”

  The two boys nodded to each other.

  “Greg's going to help with technical stuff and maybe tryout for a part next semester,” Ellen added.

  “So he's not in the play.” The smug tone in Richard's voice made Lynda want to kick him. Not that she cared about Greg, she assured herself, she just couldn't stand Richard's superior attitude.

  “I'll be around for the rehearsals, though,” Greg said, his smile just missing his eyes.

  Greg's voice sounded calm, almost friendly, and Lynda wondered if she only imagined the warning in it.

  Interlude

  THE WAXING moon silvered the rooftops and drew inky shadows behind the trash cans and dumpsters of the ghetto alleyways.

  Ambling along the broken pavement, he basked in the scents that lingered there. The acrid tang of a tom cat. The rancid scent of rodents in the garbage. The noisy reek of the automobile. He lifted his face and searched the humid breeze. Spices. Perfumes. The aroma of deep fat and baby back ribs mixed with the stench of poverty and hopelessness.

  A string of open garbage cans beckoned him, and he rose and peered into the closest one. The remains of a Labor Day barbecue lay strewn over black plastic bags and cardboard cartons. His stomach rumbled, and he leaned closer, resting his weight against the thin, metal edge. The garbage can tipped, and crashed on its side.

  A second floor porch light flared. A door creaked. White hair, rough as steel wool, caught the moonlight above a small, dark face. A high, quavery voice rang across the alley. “Zachary!”

  Heart racing, he drew back toward the shadow of a nearby stairwell. The old woman squinted and leaned forward. “Blasted dogs got the garbage again.”

  The face disappeared. Snorting with relief, he spun and raced home.

  Chapter 4

  THE TUESDAY after Labor Day, Greg gathered his biology notes and stuffed them into his backpack. He lifted Lynda's bag along with his own and headed out of the classroom.

  She jumped off her stool and ran after him. “Hey, give that back!”

  Stopping by the outside door, he held it open for her. His eyes crinkled hopefully. “How about lunch together? It gets lonely eating alone.”

  Lynda sighed. When Greg looked at her like that, he reminded her of a lost puppy. Telling herself it wouldn't hurt to get to know him, she looked out at the early September sunshine. Her gaze lingered over the students lounging on the grass and littering the steps. “In the back. It's too crowded out here.”

  She led Greg around the building to a group of benches near the cafeteria. Someone had propped the kitchen door open, and the smell of hot grease and onions hung in the air.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked, setting the backpacks down on the nearest bench.

  “Out front.” Lynda grinned and pointed to the oak branches overhead. “Most people want to sit in the sun. They come back here in the spring, when the leaves are small.”

  Lynda and Greg sat on the bench. He unwrapped a sandwich, and she took out an apple. She'd taken her first bite when a high-pitched cry caught her attention. It sound-ed like a baby, but when she turned, Lynda saw a thin, tabby-striped cat slink around the kitchen door.

  Lynda stood and eased toward the building. The cat froze. Crouching ten feet away, Lynda extended her hand. “Here kitty, kitty.”

  The cat's ears flattened; its tail flicked. Lynda watched its sh
oulders bunch as it prepared to run. She started to back away when the cat's tail suddenly stilled and its ears rotated forward. Lynda glanced up and saw Greg crouched beside her.

  He held out a corner of his sandwich, tuna fish by the smell. “Crrouw,” he said, his voice rising to a surprisingly high note.

  The cat took a timid step forward. Lynda held her breath while it paused, then ran up to Greg and nibbled the crust.

  “There's a good puss.” Greg took a finger and stroked the cat between its ears. Without stopping its meal, the cat closed its eyes and started to purr.

  “That's amazing,” Lynda said. “Most of the feral cats around here won't let anyone near them.” Extending her hand, she slowly ran it over the cat's back. She ached at how thin the coat felt, how every vertebra jutted like a knob under the fur.

  Greg tore off another piece of sandwich and handed it to the cat. She accepted the tidbit daintily, then let him scoop her into his lap. “Momma Cat's hungry.”

  Lynda took a closer look and saw the swollen teats on the cat's abdomen. Clearly, the cat had recently had kittens. Impressed that Greg had noticed, she watched him give the cat another bite. “Think she'd like some yogurt?” she asked, glancing at her backpack.

  “Sure, but she'll run if you get up.”

  Lynda looked at the cat draped over Greg's thigh, and wondered how he knew. She didn't get up, though. Instead, she ran her finger along the cat's scabby jaw. “She's got fleas.”

  “Yeah, and worms, too. You're in bad shape, aren't you, Momma Cat.”

  Lynda glanced at Greg. The sadness in his voice surprised her. “I thought you didn't like animals.”

  He blinked and met her gaze. “Why?”

  The cat butted his hand, demanding his attention. Greg smiled and handed her the rest of his sandwich.

  “When I talked to you last week about the dog, you seemed ... I don't know, almost hostile.”

  Greg sighed. “I explained that.” He lifted the cat gently off his lap, and she trotted off, holding the last bite of sandwich in her mouth. “I was running late and didn't have time to talk. I'm sorry I sounded angry. I wasn't—at least not at you.”