Colors (13 page)

“Fun time?”

“Sure was.” I grin. Should I tell her about Melissa and everything? No, it’s too new. I want to keep it just for me for now. “Awesome group. I heard how great they are when we sang with them before, but tonight, singing as a group member, I was totally blown away. We did some powerful music making.”

“You’re going to be quoting the Bible, chapter and verse, at me before you know it.” Aunt Jenny stands. She puts her arm around my shoulder, cradling me. “Come on into the kitchen. We can share some of my famous homemades while you’re still talking to this sinful old gypsy.” She laughs.

We goose step into the kitchen. She fetches the Chips Ahoy from the cupboard while I get out the milk and two glasses.

As we sit at the kitchen table, Aunt Jenny orders, “Okay, buddy boy, tell me all about it.”

“Well, we started with a prayer, evidently the way all their rehearsals begin. I bowed my head, but I didn’t close my eyes. I wanted to get a good look at who was there. A lot of them are old, forties and fifties….”

Adopting a quivering voice, Aunt Jenny almost whispers, “Land’s sake, little boy, they
are
old, by cracky!” Continuing her “old woman” act, she lifts her milk glass with both hands, a visible shake slopping the milk onto the table.

“Okay, okay, you make your point. But they seem a lot older than your forty-five years. Maybe because I don’t know them like I know you.”

I look at Aunt Jenny. True, she doesn’t seem like she’s been on this planet almost a half century. But she has. And alone. At least as long as I’ve known her. I wonder why she never married. She’s a great catch. Beautiful. Talented. Smart. Caring. Someone should have snapped her up years ago. Has she ever been in love? Or even dated?

I get up to get the dishcloth and wipe the spilled milk. And wipe the crazy ideas pickling my brain. Aunt Jenny is Aunt Jenny. She’s got
me
to love her.

Aunt Jenny cackles again as she sets her glass down.

“Anyway, the point I’m making is Melissa and I are the only ‘kids’ in the group. A lot of those people have been singing with the choir for over twenty years. And Melissa says there are eight or ten who have degrees in music.”

“Professionals, huh?” Aunt Jenny muses. “Must be fun working with them.”

“That can’t begin to describe it. Singing with them is like—what is it you say? Like a sow in a mud puddle? You know… hog heaven.”

Aunt Jenny’s girlish laughter fills the kitchen as I use her grandmother’s favorite exclamation.

“We first worked on some pieces for future services, including this really rocking version of ‘Bringing in the Sheaves,’ then Kenny had us pull out this piece still in manuscript, a new song by Miriam Railston—”

“The woman who wrote those three songs you and Melissa sang in your concert?” Aunt Jenny interrupts.

“Yeah, the same one. This new piece is all about protecting the children of the world. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever sung. I got so wrapped up in it. It was incredible.”

Aunt Jenny’s eyes probe. She must have seen the tear that leaked from the corner of my eye because she immediately asks, concern in her voice, “Neil, what’s wrong?” She puts her hands on mine. Her forehead wrinkles, her eyes probe. “Did the song remind you of your parents?”

If only it were that simple,
I think, picturing Brother Gramm and our
little secret.

“No.” I pause, just to make sure I’m thoroughly composed. “I don’t know what it is about it,” I lie. “It is just so comforting.”

And, sure enough, I once again leak a tear.

“Look at me—what a crybaby.”

“Poo!” Aunt Jenny thrusts a napkin at me. “Perfectly natural reaction.”

I stand and take my empty glass to the sink. I need time to get myself together.

“I think the others must have liked it as much as I did, because we breezed through it. And it wasn’t like it was an easy piece. It was just such a joy to sing. We’re doing it Sunday morning.”

T
HE
CHOIR
files into the sanctuary in their immaculate white robes. We sit at Kenny’s signal. The organ prelude finishes, and like the other services, an assistant pastor goes to the lectern.

“Won’t you stand and bow your heads for the opening prayer?” he implores.

The massive congregation stands, en masse. The AP begins. My eyes dart about. I seem to be one of the few whose eyes are not closed.

Red. Yellow. Green

The colors dot my choir robe. It begins. The fainting feeling. I thought I was over this. I just knew I had conquered my fears. The mind plays tricks on you.

Blue. Purple. Orange.

My knees begin to buckle just as I hear “Amen.” I collapse in my seat as the rest of the congregation sits too.

Panic. The knot in my stomach grows. Sweat pours from my forehead. I have to get out of here. I search for a way out. I’m wedged in—second row, eighth seat.

Deep breaths. Concentrate on the announcements. Focus on something else. That’s helped me before when I felt this way….
Wednesday night… keep him in our prayers… church supper next Sunday….
It’s working. The panic’s subsiding. I feel a little better.

Then Kenny positions himself before the group and motions for us to rise. It’s time to sing the Railston. I command myself to stand with the others, hoping I won’t pass out.

The introduction. At once a calm comes over me. As the choir sings the opening phrase in one glorious voice, I forget the colors. Miriam Railston’s comforting words cradle me. At the final “protect them,” a peace envelops me, whispering to me all is well.

The congregation is silent. One second, two seconds, three seconds… a full ten seconds of silence. Then someone in the balcony thunders, “Praise His Holy Name,” and the place erupts with “Amens!”

As the choir seats themselves, Kenny turns to the lectern. “What a glorious shout to God,” he praises. “You have just heard the newest song by one of America’s most blessed songwriters, Miriam Railston. She has honored the Church of Shelton Road’s choir with her new piece. And, I am pleased to announce we will be premiering the piece on national television.”

A murmur builds throughout the choir and the congregation.

Kenny turns to his group and smiles. “That’s right. I said national TV.” He turns back to the congregation. “I hadn’t told the choir this because I wanted you to share in their joy. Miriam Railston has organized a three-day rally called Family First. It will be televised from our civic auditorium and feature preaching by Brother Robert Hawkins. The event will include a family festival with games and exhibits, plus the nightly services. Miriam has asked our choir to sing this anthem, ‘Suffer the Little Children.’”

“Hallelujah!” The cry echoes from the choir and congregation. A warmth flows through me. I’ll be meeting Miriam Railston and singing on national TV. What a rush.

“H
AVE
YOU
heard the news?” Zane hovers closely over me. I feel his hot breath. And if I wanted to let it be, it could be rather enticing.

I’m already digging into today’s fiesta: taco salad. The lettuce is a little wilted and the meat is cold, but otherwise it is edible—as long as you stay far away from wondering just what the
meat
is and just how much E. coli could be in this lettuce.

I swallow, almost choking because he startled me. And his heat next to me. You’d think I’d be used to him now. “What news?” I sputter.

“It’s all over the newspaper.” Zane plops—he always plops, plants, or crashes… never just sits—right next to me, then turns. “It’s okay for me to sit here? Your girlfriend won’t mind?”

The sarcasm in Zane’s voice is like acid.

“Of course it’s okay.”
I guess I ought to tell him how Melissa and I are committed totally now.
But I hold back. I’m not sure why. Would he care? Do I care if he knows?

Zane rips open the cellophane packet containing his napkin and spork. He dramatically tucks the napkin into the front of his shirt. He jams the spork into his chicken potpie. A cloud of steam releases, like the mushroom cloud at Hiroshima. Everything’s a production with Zane.

A sporkful of salad precariously perches above my plate. I wait for Zane’s “news.”
For once, can’t you cut the act?
I think. But I quickly erase the thought. Drama is what defines Zane. Without that, he would be just another teenager trying to get by.

Zane splays open the top of his milk carton and forces the pouring spout with his thumbs. He ceremoniously gulps the entire contents of the carton. Smashes the carton in one hand, tosses it over his head toward the nearest garbage can, misses the shot—as expected—shrugs, and grabs a second carton of milk off his tray.

I can take it no more. I bark, “
What’s
all over the newspaper?”

“The scandal.” He crams an enormous glop of potpie into his mouth. Just as he is going in for another sporkful, I slap his hand.

“Stop it. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

Zane reaches into his book bag and thrusts a folded newspaper at me.

The headline reads, “Scandal Rips Through Local University Program.”

My look says it all, but I verbalize too: “So—why do we care?”

His latest bite has retained some of that steam-filled heat because he is waving his hand furiously in front of his open mouth. As he grabs for his milk, he mutters, bits of food trying to escape his mouth, “Read on.”

I unfold the paper and read the first sentence aloud: “MusicTheatreMidwest, the prestigious theater program affiliated with the state university, was rocked by the news three of its best and brightest are local drug dealers.”

“What the
hell
?” My stomach lurches. This can’t be happening.

“Keep reading.” Zane points, his hot bite problem finally under control. “It gets juicier.”

I quickly and silently scan the story….

A police spokesperson says Ronald Ribenstein, 19, Gerald McCrae, also 19, and Susan Gonzalez, 20, have been arrested for allegedly possessing three kilos of cocaine with intent to sell. An undercover agent approached them with an offer to buy after being tipped off by an informant.

The news of the arrest was a major blow to MusicTheatreMidwest’s director Scott Scheer. The program was started by Scheer three years ago as a training program for aspiring theater professionals….

“T
HIS
BITES
.”
Zane breaks my concentration. “Scott’s program may go up in flames.”

“Why?” I ask. I’m thinking the same thing, but I don’t want to hear Zane’s answer. There are any number of reasons something like this can destroy a respected program.

“Funding.” I’m relieved by his answer.

“It’s part of the university. It’s state funded,” I counter.

“Now there’s where you’re wrong, buddy. The state only contributes a part of the money—a very small part. Most of the backing is courtesy of one Marshall Hanna, self-made zillionaire arts supporter. Problem is, the guy’s ultra-ultra conservative, a real Fundamentalist. It’s hard to believe he’s behind a theater program, but he is, to the tune of millions. And this enigma thinks today’s youth—that’s us—are, as he puts it, ‘going to hell in a handbasket.’ I don’t know how Scott ever convinced him to fund MTM, but he’s gonna have to do some fast talking now.”

“How do you know all this?”

“
Time
magazine feature on Scott Scheer and MTM… I’ve done my homework.”

As Zane finishes his chicken pie, I skip to the last paragraph.

Scheer says the three who were arrested last night are “talented young people who unfortunately sought a shortcut to fortune. But their bad choices should in no way reflect on our program. Nevertheless, following the adage of ‘one bad apple,’ we will be examining each of our students, present and future, more closely for anything that could reflect badly on us.”

I set the paper down, stunned.

“Weird, huh?” Zane gulps more milk. “Hard to believe that could happen in Scheer’s program. Who’d want to risk everything when they were working with Scott Scheer?”

I ignore Zane, or rather, his words don’t register. I’m panicked, thinking of Brother Gramm and
our little secret…. You like it, don’t you? You won’t tell anyone, Neil.

Nausea begins to come in waves, first tiny ones, then tsunami ones. I want to run from the room to throw up, but I don’t want to have to explain it to Zane. I will myself into an imitation of control. But even if my gut problems are subsiding, my mind is racing. If my secret comes out, it could ruin me.
Anything that could reflect badly on us.
Scott Scheer would cancel my scholarship in a heartbeat.

“You gonna eat those chips?” I hear Zane, but once again, his words make no sense. He reaches over to my tray and grabs a packet of tortilla chips.

Suddenly I’m back in the real world and glad of it. To quote Miss Scarlett, “I’ll think of this another day.”

“Hey. Give me back my chips, you bum.”

He drops my chips and bellows, “OMG!”

“What? Why are you screaming?”

“I forgot.” He digs in his pocket and comes up with a wrinkled newspaper clipping. “Satine’s tour schedule. We’re in luck. That 250-mile radius is a reality.” He waves the clipping at me.

I grab it from his hand, trying not to rip it apart as he gyrates his hands above his head.

I scan the list, looking for a gig near us.

Zane is impatient, though. He stabs the very spot my eyes have landed on. “See. We’re in luck.”

The date is the same weekend as Miriam’s rally. Now what do I do? I don’t want to disappoint Zane, but I can’t just blow off the rally. I have a solo, for God’s sake. It’s national TV.

I take a slow, deep breath.

“What? I know that breath,” Zane says, his voice quivering a bit. “You promised.”