Colors (14 page)

“Zane, the concert is the same weekend as the rally. I can’t go.” His look kills me.

“But you promised,” he repeats, like a little kid.

“Zane, come on. You know as much as I do I can’t break a commitment.” At this point, looking at him, it’s something I might consider if I were anyone but me. Commitment is my life—especially a show commitment.

Zane won’t let it drop. “That choir has a zillion voices in it. They won’t miss yours.” There’s almost a tear in his voice.

“I have a solo. It’s national TV.” I look at him. “And even if those two factors weren’t there, I can’t just duck out on commitments, especially performance dates. You know that as well I do.”

“But you can, Neil. You can. Just tell them you won’t be there.”

“Zane.” I speak slowly, emphatically, like I’m chiseling in stone—or at least, pounding the message into his hard head. “I repeat: I have a solo. In Miriam’s song she wrote just for us.”

Zane’s face: it registers disgust, then disappointment, then resignation. I think I’m in the clear. Then he says, “Surely there’s someone else who can sing.” But I hear it. It is a half-baked attempt to get me to change my mind.

“Sorry, guy. My career and my commitments to it come first.” I try to appease him. “Maybe you can go without me.”

“And how would I do that? I’ve got no wheels; can’t even drive for that matter. I could hop a Greyhound, I suppose. Like my parents are gonna put their seal of approval on that idea.”

“Zane, again, I’m sorry. There’ll be other concerts. Satine will be a star. If I know her, she’ll skip college and go straight to Broadway. Who knows? We’ll probably be cast—all three of us—together someday in a Broadway show—our first, her second or third.” I grin, hoping it’s contagious.

“T
HANKS
A
lot for coming with me today,” Aunt Jenny says. “There’s no way I could have done this setup by myself. My old chassis’s worn out, and the craft show hasn’t even started yet. They need to jack my body up and run in a new one under it.”

“No problem,” I say, laughing at her. Aunt Jenny has a way with words like no one else I know. “Besides, I couldn’t miss your big day—featured artist at the Cawton County Art Festival.”

“No biggie,” Aunt Jenny scoffs, humble as ever.

The annual craft show, the biggest one in the area, is held in a clearing in the woods just outside the city limits. Over a hundred crafters—painters, photographers, potters, jewelers, and others—set up booths to sell their wares. The air is crisp and clear this morning. You can smell the freshness. It’s a good day for a fair.

I stare out the side window, thinking of Scott Scheer’s reaction to the young actors turned drug dealers. My eye catches the enormous stained glass windows of St. John the Divine as we pass the cathedral.

“I got a call from Scott Scheer last night,” Aunt Jenny says, her eyes focused on the road ahead.

My breathing speeds up, my heartbeat thumps faster.
Stay calm, Neil.
There is no way Scott could know about Brother Gramm.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Aunt Jenny says, mimicking him. She hates it when I revert to teenagerisms. “Could you please inform me as to his reason for calling, dear Aunt Jenny?” She is precise and overdoes it to make her point. “Show some respect here, young man.” Then a belly laugh explodes from her. Apparently, she thinks she’s funny. I, however, am too deep in my thoughts to find anything amusing.

“So what did he want?” I venture cautiously.

“He wanted to reassure me after that article came out. He’s so sweet. His exact words were I ‘shouldn’t fear entrusting you to him.’”

“What did he say about the drug dealers?” My words are measured, probing. But I try to keep it conversational so she doesn’t suspect I’m scared shitless.

“Oh, he didn’t say much. He repeated what he told the newspaper: that they were talented kids who went astray. But he did tell me there wasn’t any rampant drug use at MusicTheatreMidwest. In fact, he claims the three arrested weren’t users, just
alleged
dealers. I got the feeling he used the word
alleged
because he didn’t want to label anyone until there is total proof. He’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah, he is,” I say, my heartbeat slowing
.
Thank God Scott doesn’t know about Brother Gramm—and he will never find it out, either.

“How’s your friend Zane? You haven’t mentioned him in a while.”

“He’s fine,” I answer, relieved she’s changed the subject. “We worked on our audition pieces for
Oklahoma!
the other day. I’m telling you, he’s got a lock on Jud.”

“That little shrimp?” Aunt Jenny laughs.

I start to defend Zane. Yes, he is skinny, but he knows how to use his body. I picture him as Jud in my mind, and I like what I see. But, in the end, I decide he doesn’t need defending.

“Yeah, who’d a thunk it?” I say.

A pause. Trees whiz by as the car picks up speed.

“So,” she says, slowly, eyes pinned to the road ahead, “is Zane gay?”

My jaw drops. That came out of the blue. I’ve never heard that word escape her lips.

“What makes you ask?” I measure my words, not believing she just asked me this.

“You know me. I don’t give a good
got-dang
whether he’s gay or not. It’s just another way of looking for love. So”—she cuts her eyes toward me—“looks like I’m fishing here. Maybe what I want to know is, are
you
gay?”

A monumental coughing fit. I’m flailing, pounding on my chest. What in the world has gotten her so fixated on this subject today? And why would she think I’m gay? And does she really not give a good
got-dang
as she said?

The car moves to the side of the road. Aunt Jenny cuts the engine.

She pounds on my back. “Whoa!” she yelps. “I didn’t mean to cause a conniption.”

The coughing halts. I clear my throat. “Talk about subtlety.” First Melissa, now Aunt Jenny. What is this? Are they seeing something I’m not? I look out the car window. No, they are both wrong, wrong, wrong. I am not gay! I had enough of that stuff with Brother Gramm.

There is a long pause, and then I decide to tell Aunt Jenny.

But before I can speak, she says, “Did I hit a nerve here?” She waits. I’m still formulating words. “Well,
are
you?” she asks again.

I can’t believe her. Did she wake up this morning thinking, “Well, I guess it’s time for the gay talk. After all, the boy’s not gettin’ any younger. He’s bound to be at the age where he’s thinkin’ about men’s genitals.”

I turn. Look her in the eye. My acting training tells me I can make my point if I am straightforward, pull no punches. “No—I’m not gay. As a matter of fact, Melissa and I are officially a couple now.”

It’s Aunt Jenny’s turn to cough. “Whe-whe-when…,” she sputters.

“Why are you so surprised?” Still looking her in the eye. “You’d rather I’d be gay than have a girlfriend?”

“No, no, no… it’s not that. It’s just you talk an awful lot about Zane. I never thought you and Melissa were headed in that direction. So I guess I got my wires crossed. When did you decide all this?”

“The other day. We’ve been hanging around each other for a long time now, and it just seemed right.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it. Are you sure you made the right decision here?”

She’s starting to piss me off. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I emphasize
sure.
But am I pissed at her or myself? She has a point. This thing with Melissa is kinda sudden. But I deserve a girlfriend. “I like, no love, her… I love her a lot. I love singing in the church choir with her. I’m glad she steered me there. The music is awesome. It seems right we should be committed.”

“Okay, if you say so, sonny. But don’t tell me wedding bells are in your future any time soon. Not that I don’t want you to get married—someday. But you’re much too young for it now. I’m just saying….” Her voice trails off.

“Look, let me just have this for now. I like having Melissa. This love thing. It’s something new, something I’ve never felt before. We’ll see where it takes me.”

I know the woman. I know that look. She’s not buying it.

“I’m hearing some reservations, though.” She won’t let up. But how can I be mad at her when she’s voicing my own, deep down thoughts?

“Okay—you’ve always seen right through me.” I take a breath. “I’m finally enjoying going to church again, but I don’t know. I may find out Melissa is just a little too intense for me.” Why is it Aunt Jenny can pull things from me I didn’t even know I was thinking?

She starts the car again and pulls onto the highway. I know she’s stalling. It’s her way… distract herself with something mundane while she plots her next move. Again, part of her calculated moves, she stares straight ahead at the road. Then she speaks.

“In what way?”

“Like maybe she’s a little too Bible-thumping for me.” So much for “teaching the kids about the church.”

“Praise the Mother.” Aunt Jenny throws her hands to the heavens. “My boy takes after me after all.”

I grab the wheel of the car.

“Would you stop it? I don’t want to be your
dead
boy here.”

And that breaks the tension. It’s just another beautiful morning. Two people who love each other, out driving.

We laugh as she takes the wheel again.

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with your getting involved with the church.” Her tone is conversational, sharing, nurturing. “Just because I’m not a Bible-thumper, as you call it, doesn’t mean you can’t be one. No one ever was harmed by exploration.”

“I know,” I say. “You’ve told me a million times….”

“Knowledge is power,” we recite in unison.

“And if that’s part of a deeper relationship with Melissa, I’m fine with it. If, however, you find Melissa is not the
one
, then I’ll have your back, ya know, homey?”

“Gangsta don’t suit ya, know whut I mean, sista?” Again we laugh. It’s fun being out here with Aunt Jenny. Alone time. With my rehearsing, the church, Zane, Melissa, my workouts… I’ve kinda neglected Aunt Jenny the last few weeks. I smile.

But then it floats back into my consciousness.

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Ask you what? About Melissa? I care about you. I want you to be happy.”

“No… earlier. About the gay thing. You know me.”

“You’re right. I guess it’s just the maternal in me leaking out. You and Zane have become pretty tight since he moved here. I guess I just needed reassurance.” Reassurance? What does that mean?

A pause. “And, by the way, if you’d told me you were a flaming queen and had sixteen boyfriends, it wouldn’t matter a hill of beans to me.”

I wonder.

“It’s just it is a hard life.” There is something in her voice. A sadness. A regret. Why?

No, maybe it’s just her reservations coming out.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about me, and you don’t have to worry about Zane. He’s not gay, either.”

“Are you sure? And, again, it doesn’t matter to me, but from what you’ve told me, he sounds a little too flamboyant to me.”

“That’s just the theater in him.” I defend Zane once again—like he
needs
defending—but this time when I say it, I’m not really trying to convince Aunt Jenny. As she said, she couldn’t care less. No, I’m trying to convince myself. Are Aunt Jenny and Melissa onto something about Zane I am just refusing to see? And why am I refusing to see it? If, that is, it is really there? Am I a raging homophobe? Not a chance. It’s something else. Something I need to work on. Satine would not put up with this. She’d make me dig until I had an answer. That episode where she confronted the choir’s queer-baiting asshole was the best ever. I almost wish she were here, prodding me to figure this out, right here, right now. But tomorrow’s another day. I just know if Zane is gay, I shouldn’t care. No. I don’t care. Zane is my friend. He can be anything he wants to be. Gay, straight, bisexual….

“If you say so. That’s for Zane’s parents to worry about. I’ve got enough to ponder with you and your newfound love.” Aunt Jenny takes her eyes off the road a millisecond, long enough to smile at me.

And as the sexy voice on the GPS says, “You have arrived at your destination,” she pulls into a parking spot, then shuts off the engine.

“What say we survey our spot before we move all this stuff?” she says, opening her car door. She’s all business again.

I swing open my door and almost hit a tall, gorgeous redhead. I hadn’t seen her approach, but I guess she’d been looking for us. Must be one of the organizers. She’s Aunt Jenny’s age, so I’m not getting horny for her or anything, but she is a looker. Piercing violet eyes, flawless pale skin. Head to toe designer duds.

“Jen,” she calls across the car. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I look across at Aunt Jenny. I’m puzzled. She looks drained, pissed.

“Kris, what are you doing here?”

She knows this woman. Calls her by name. Tone in her voice is not happy.

“I just want to hang out with you. Promise. Nothing heavier.”

Now that is some weird talking. Who is this woman? And why is Aunt Jenny tripping? And who calls my aunt Jen?

“No, Kris,” Aunt Jenny says, quietly. Almost hesitantly.

“Jen, it’s been years. Let’s just catch up. No pressure. Promise.”

There’s that word again. Why does she keep saying it? And what is she promising?

“I’ll help set up. We can visit. Then I’ll leave, if you want. Come on, Jen. You owe me that much, don’t you think?”

I look at Aunt Jenny. She does seem to be melting.

“Okay,” she says. “But no expectations. Clear?”

“Clear.”

This Kris person holds out her arms. Aunt Jenny slowly approaches her. I can see her body tense as she lets Kris embrace her.

“How did you find me?” Aunt Jenny asks.

The woman looks at the ground, obviously weighing her words. “Private eye.” Then she quickly adds, “But only because you cut me off totally.”

I have never, ever heard my aunt mention this woman. And now I hear she “cut her off”? What is she saying?