Circles by Marilyn Sachs

that she had to get home.
    “Well, it was very nice of you to come,” said Mr. Kronberger, moving towards the door.
    “I’m sorry, Beebe,” said Mrs. Kronberger, “but I just can’t get involved.”
    Why not? Beebe wanted to cry. Why can’t you get involved? Nothing would ever stop me from getting involved, no matter how sick I was. But Mr. Kronberger had already reached the door and was smiling at her, holding her coat and waiting for her to catch up with him. So she mumbled something about the nice tea and thank you for letting her come and that she hoped Mrs. Kronberger would be feeling better and ...
    “Good luck to you, Beebe,” said Mrs. Kronberger. “I hope there will be some happy stars in your future.”
    It wasn’t until she was outside, walking home at a furious clip, that the whole force of her visit with Mrs. Kronberger struck her. She hadn’t realized that Mrs. Kronberger was so sick. And she hadn’t realized that she, Beebe Clarke, would never be an actress. And, above all, she had not really believed it possible that Mrs. Kronberger would sit by and allow Romeo and Juliet to be destroyed.
    It was a chilly December evening, and the stars were already out as Beebe, trembling under her coat, hurried homewards. Mrs. Kronberger had hoped that there would be some happy stars in her life, but at that moment she felt star-cross’d. Yes, that’s what she was. Star-cross’d in everything that mattered. But she would have to find a way to stop Ms. Drumm from ruining the play. She didn’t know how she would do it, but she would do it.
    She could barely climb the stairs to her apartment, her teeth were chattering so and her whole body hurt. When her mother saw her face as she came inside, she cried, “Beebe what’s wrong? Is something the matter?”
     
    Chapter 10
     
    “They can’t come Sunday night,” his father said, “because Beebe—that’s Barbara’s daughter—because Beebe is sick.” His father was sitting, crumpled up, near the phone.
    “I’ll be back in a minute,” Mark said, carrying the groceries into the kitchen. His father looked so upset that he thought he should just dump the bags down on the kitchen table and hurry back. But there were a few frozen things, so first he hunted around in the bags, dug out the frozen chicken pies and the frozen sausages, and piled them into the freezer before returning to his father.
    “What’s wrong with her daughter?” Mark asked.
    “Oh—it sounds like kind of a flu. She’s running some fever and she’s coughing. No big deal. But Barbara doesn’t want to leave her.”
    Like Mom, Mark thought approvingly, or, at least, like Mom used to be. “Well,” he said, “maybe they can come the following Sunday.”
    His father’s eyes narrowed, and his face tightened as if something was hurting him. “She could come Sunday. It’s two days off. Her daughter should be a lot better by then. And I was expecting her to come. I even got a bottle of wine—one of those fancy wines the guy in the wine store said was special.”
    “Well, it will keep until next week, won’t it, Dad?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Anyway, Dad, what should we have for dinner tonight? I bought some frozen chicken pies and some sausages. We could have the sausages with the leftover spaghetti from yesterday. And I think there’s still some French bread.”
    “I just can’t figure her out,” his father said, not rising from his chair by the phone. “In the beginning, she was always ready to get together. She never put me off.”
    “But Dad, her kid is sick. She’s not putting you off. She’s worried about her kid.”
    “You think that’s what it is?” his father asked, his eyes widening with hope. It was embarrassing to see his father so affected. Embarrassing and troubling too. So far, there hadn’t been any girl in his own life who would have crumpled him up like that in front of a phone.
    “Maybe you’re right,” said his father, turning to the phone again and