"Soon I should be a man?"
"Yes, very soon."
Peter Pan shook his head. "I don't want to go to school and learn solemn things. No one is going to catch me and make me a man. I want always to be a little boy and have fun."
He blew into his wooden flute, the wire attached to his belt hoisted him up, and off he flew. The lights dimmed with his departure and the stage emptied. The scratchy recording of Big Ben began to play.
In the audience, Peter Banning blinked wearily, wondering how much longer the play was going to last. At least Maggie wasn't being flung about through the air any longer. What idiot came up with that idea? He straightened his tie and adjusted his cuff links self-consciously. His suit was already rumpled beyond help. He needed sleep and a shower. He needed peace and quiet.
What was it about this play … ?
He stared resolutely at the stage, frowning.
The stage lights came up, so faint they barely cut through the darkness, casting strange shadows everywhere. An older Wendy, dressed in a print dress and wearing reading glasses, was seated on the floor of the nursery close by a fire made of colored lights and tinfoil. A bed with a sleeping child was set to one side. Wendy was sewing, using the firelight to see. From somewhere outside, she heard a crowing sound and looked up expectantly.
Shutters blew open at the window and Peter Pan dropped to the floor.
"Peter,'' said Wendy, "are you expecting me to fly away with you?"
Peter grinned. "Of course. That is why I've come. Have you forgotten that this is spring-cleaning time?"
Wendy shook her head sadly. "I can't come, Peter. I have forgotten how to fly."
"I'll soon teach you again."
"Oh, Peter, don't waste the faerie dust on me."
She rose to face him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I will turn up the lights, and then you can see for yourself."
"No," he said. "Don't turn up the lights. I don't want to see."
But she did, of course, and Peter Pan did see. Wendy was no longer young. She was an old lady. He cried out in shock. She went to comfort him, but he drew back sharply.
"What is it? What's happened to you?"
"I am old, Peter. I grew up a long time ago."
"But you promised not to."
"I couldn't help it. I'm a married woman, Peter."
He shook his head vigorously. "No, you're not!"
"Yes. And the little girl in the bed is my baby."
"No, she's not!"
He took a quick step toward the sleeping child, his dagger upraised threateningly. But he didn't strike. Instead, he sat down on the floor and began to sob. Wendy stared at him a moment, then ran out of the room. Wendy's child, Jane, awakened by the crying, sat up in the bed.
"Boy, why are you crying?" she asked.
Peter Pan jumped up and bowed to her. She rose and bowed back.
"Hullo," he said.
"Hullo."
"My name is Peter Pan."
She smiled. "Yes, I know."
Together, they dashed for the window, preparing to fly away. Wendy rushed into the room, hands outstretched. The lights dimmed, the curtain closed, and all the children came out together and sang, "We Never Want to Grow Up." Everyone in the audience applauded, and the children on stage laughed and bowed.
Wow! thought Jack. Charged with the play's excitement and joy, he gave his dad a glowing smile.
Thank goodness that's over! Peter Banning sighed, and missed the smile completely.
Pitches
Sunlight filtered down across the woodlands, bright and warm, filled with promise. The spruce and hemlock crowded together on the foothills, verdant and thick as they backed their way upward into the tall peaks of the mountains beyond, where snow glistened whitely. Rivers and streams ran down out of the mountains, wending their way through the trees toward a cluster of lakes and ponds. Here, to the right, a waterfall spilled out of the rocks. There, to the left, a meadow of wildflowers painted a slope in rainbow colors.
Almost looks real, thought Peter Banning, feeling pleased with himself.
He turned away momentarily to stare out the windows of his office high rise into the fog that hung in a pall across the San Francisco cityscape, then wheeled back again to confront the mock-up.
"We'll get the environmentalists off our case by convincing them mat our clients won't develop the whole area all at once, that the project will be a gradual one, that we care about preserving me wildlife." His eyes snapped up. "You on that, Brad?"
Tall, sallow-faced Brad answered, "Ron's on that."
"I'm on that," Ron agreed. Short, round, and California tan, he was Brad's exact opposite in the looks department. What saved mem both from corporate extinction was that they thought alike, and more to the point, they thought like Peter Banning.
Peter gave him a sharp look. "I hope so. In line with that, my suggestion is we start with this piece." He pointed to the meadow. "An open space so we get rid of the greenies and regulators right off the bat before they have time to build up enough steam to shut us down."
He reached across the table into a box that contained a series of plastic models and began snapping them down on the mock-up. Condos, ski runs, shops, and single-family homes. Lots of money to be made. He filled the meadow quickly, hesitated, then pulled up several dozen of the plastic trees. A resort complex replaced them, and at the very center of everything, a small plastic nature preserve that consisted of a park with trails.
"Good." Peter Banning shoved his hands into his suitcoat pockets momentarily, then conscious of the wrinkles he was causing, withdrew them. "Once me zoning is approved and everything is in place, after the Sierra Club boys and girls move on to another cause, we begin adding on. A piece at a time until this wilderness is converted into our client's dream resort."
He looked at Brad and Ron.
"That's…" one began.
"… brilliant," the other finished.
Peter smiled. "I know. Let's just hope that between now and the close of this acquisition, no one throws us a curve.''
His gaze fixed abruptly on the wall clock and a hint of panic surged through him. "Rats! I'm late for Jack's game!"
He wheeled away from the table and strode out through the conference-room doors.
It was a crisp, clear December day, and a brisk wind ruffled the rows of pennants that represented each team that played in the league. Across the top of the scoreboard from which they hung was a banner on which had been lettered in red: santa series third annual datenut league winter TOURNAMENT.
Below, where things counted, the board read: 6th INNING, HOME 2, VISITORS 5.
From where he crouched in center field, hands on his knees, ready and alert for the next batter, Jack scanned the stands. They were only wooden planks settled on iron stanchions, and there weren't that many to begin with, so his search didn't take long. Most of the seats were filled. He could see his mother and Maggie in row three, yelling and cheering. Between them, the extra red seat cushion was still empty.
He better show, Jack thought determinedly.
The grass where he stood was green and lush from the weekend's rain. Jack kicked at the earth, straightened, and watched the next batter come to the plate. Kendall. Good hit, no field. That was the book.
He glanced again at the scoreboard: 5 to 2, and time running out.
He pounded his glove, thinking, He better!
The wind came up suddenly and stirred the infield dust, causing a break in the action. The plate umpire raised his hands to signal a stop. Jack sighed. All of the umpires were wearing Santa Claus suits. They looked ridiculous.
The wind died and play resumed. Kendall took a strike and two balls, then lofted a high fly toward Jack. Jack shaded his eyes, watched the ball rise and fall, moved beneath it, reached up, and snagged it easily. A cheer rose from his teammates and fans. He threw the ball in, trotted back to his position, and resumed his stance.