I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable with the psychological talk. "Repressed memory isn't my problem," I told her. "But I will try the relaxation exercises you mentioned."
"And the incremental exposure."
"That, too."
She smiled agreeably. "Still need a walk?"
"Yeah."
"Stay on this block within the area of the four houses we're occupying. It's perfectly safe, but I'm an old worrywart. Check in with me in twenty minutes, all right?"
I nodded. "Thanks."
For the first few minutes I sat on the front steps of Drama House and gazed at the night sky. Across the road the tall tower on Stoddard cut a dark pattern out of the glittering sky, its clock glowing like a second moon.
I walked up and down the block, then circled Drama House, curious to see my room from the outside. Just as I reached the back of the house, I heard a noise from the fraternity next door, a grunt, then a thud, like a fall that had been muffled by grass. A guy swore softly. I peered around the lumpy trunk of an old cherry tree at the same time that Mike, standing by a window of the frat, turned to look over his shoulder. He grimaced when he saw me.
Maybe he thought I'd mind my own business and walk on, for a moment later he checked to see if I was still there and grimaced again. I wasn't moving; I wanted to know what was going on.
He threw a stone against a second-floor window and someone raised the shade. "I need your help," Mike called quietly.
He waited-I guessed for his helper to come down-stairs-and looked back over his shoulder a third time.
"Still here," I said.
The light in the first-floor room went on. The shade rolled up-it was the guys' bathroom. Maybe I shouldn't be looking, I thought, but of course I did. A stubborn window screen was yanked up.
"Ready?" I heard Mike ask the guy inside, then he leaned over, grunting and pulling. I stepped to the right of the tree to get a better view and saw a heap of a person on the ground, then a head come up above a set of shoulders as Mike heaved him onto the windowsill.
"Got a good hold?" Mike asked. "On the count of three. One, two-" In the bathroom light I saw Paul's head, then torso go over the window frame.
"Glad he's not any heavier," the guy inside said, tugging on the screen.
"Splash some cold water on his face," Mike instructed, "and let him stay in the bathroom for a while."
The shade was yanked down from the inside, and Mike turned away from the window. He seemed to be debating what to do, then strolled over to me.
"Out for a walk?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I guess you know it's past curfew."
"I have permission," I said. "What about you?"
He grinned. "I don't."
"What happened to Paul?"
"Oh, nothing too bad."
"Nothing too bad like what?" I asked.
Mike gestured toward the tree. "Want to sit down?"
Under a tree, alone with him in the moonlight? I wasn't sure.
"You climb trees, don't you?" he persisted. "You must if you're a gymnast."
The first strong limb was about four feet off the ground. I hoisted myself onto it-Mike was going to help me but thought better of it. Then I climbed up to a limb that grew in the opposite direction, about seven feet high. Mike made himself comfortable on the long lower limb. I wondered if he and Liza used to sit there together.
"Paul hangs around town and gets himself in trouble with the locals," Mike said. "I should have let him get his head split open by the giant he took on tonight. It's the only way he' ll get any sense knocked into it."
"You rescued him?"
"Are you kidding? I'm not an idiot. I grabbed him and ran like a good coward."
I smiled.
"Listen," Mike said, "you've got to keep this quiet, okay?"
"Give me a reason why."
"We need Paul for the production. But more important, Paul needs us," he added, his blue eyes intense, persuasive. "Theater is the only thing that has kept Paul in school. It's what has kept him from getting into the really bad stuff. We can't get him bounced out of here."
"He makes me very uncomfortable."
"He aims to," Mike replied. "It's just an act."
"Brian said the same thing about Walker."
Mike smiled. "Don't be fooled by Walker. At heart, he's a good guy."
I must have made a face, for Mike laughed up at me. "Yeah, I can see he's got a fan in you. But really, I don't know what I'd do without him. He found grant money for me so I could attend last year and this. He has taught me more than the books I've read or any of my other teachers. I'm really grateful to him."
"I'm glad he has helped you," I said, "but I still think he's an egotistical tyrant with a nasty streak in him."
"A lot of creative people are that way."
I prickled. I'd heard that justification one too many times. "Creativity is no excuse for obnoxious behavior."
"Are you worried about performing?" Mike asked quietly.
"That's not my reason for disliking him."
"I didn't think it was. I just wanted to tell you that there is nothing to be afraid of. The audience is rooting for you, Jenny. They see you on stage and want you to do well. Everyone out there wants to love you."
Speaking of ego, I thought to myself, what an assumption!
"Trust me," Mike said, his face animated, "it's a blast."
"For you, maybe."
"There's nothing like it. I've been putting on shows since I was five."
"Are you part of a theater group?"
He grinned. "No, the kid of a minister. I spent a lot of growing-up years hanging around the church next to our house in Trenton. It had a stage-the altar; a balcony-the choir loft; sort of an orchestra-the organ; even costumes-my father often wondered why his vestments were wrinkled on Sundays. I put on a lot of performances for my friends, all of them unauthorized."
I laughed out loud. Mike laughed with me, gazing up at my face. His smile, the brightness in his eyes made my heart feel incredibly light. Then I remembered Liza and looked away. I could imagine her slipping out to meet him here in the moonlight.
"Anyway, my parents aren't thrilled about my dream of being an actor. My oldest brother is doing mission work in Appalachia. The second one is studying at Union Theological. And then there's me. Since I don't seem to have a religious calling, they would like me to pursue something practical, you know, something that guarantees a good salary."
"But you have to follow your heart," I said.
"Yes… Yes, you do."
He waited for me to meet his eyes, but I didn't. I couldn't.
"You know, some of the guys have been talking about you, Jenny."
"They have? Saying what?"
"They're disappointed that you paired off so quickly with Tomas."
"Why should it matter to them that we're friends?"
He looked at me curiously. "You really don't know, do you?" he said." 'Her hair gives dawn its fire, her eyes give dusk its soul.' " He knew how to use his voice to melt a girl's heart, to make a girl want to believe. I steeled myself against the seductive words. "Excuse me?"
"It's a line of poetry describing a beautiful girl, one who doesn't seem to know it."
I dug my fingernails into the bark of the tree. "Well, there's your answer, the reason I like Tomas. He's real. He's not an actor."
"What's wrong with actors?"
"They quote poetry. A girl has to be crazy to believe one," I told him. "It's far too easy for an actor to give you a good line."
"You're quick to judge."
"No," I argued. "I've had experience with theater types. After a while they can't tell real from unreal.