Colors (17 page)

“S
O
,
WHAT
’
S
today’s report?” Aunt Jenny calls as soon as the front door slam reverbs. “And do you have to knock the door off the hinges? We’re not made of money here, you know?”

“I know, I know,” I holler, walking to her studio. She covers her ears, feigning pain from my loud voice, the voice of frustration, of
not knowing.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” I stop in the doorway, gleefully distracted.

As I reach the studio doorway, I see she’s not alone. Kristina sits nearby, thumbing through
Vogue
. I nod to her, she nods to me.

How very strange. A few weeks ago, I was worried Aunt Jenny had no friends. Sure, everybody loves her, but it’s like she never connected with anyone she could do things with. Her whole life, it seems, has been raising me—and her work, of course. Now, despite the rocky reunion, Kris is around all the time. I guess they worked their differences out. I’m glad. Aunt Jenny deserves a friendship.

“Hey, that’s nice.” I point to the bracelet Aunt Jenny is making. “I like the color of the stones. Very dramatic.”

“Thanks, honey.” She blows me a kiss. “Kris likes it too. You did notice Kris is here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, we locked eyes.” I smile. “But I didn’t want to break your concentration by speaking to her, what with that blowtorch you’re wielding.” I lean over to kiss Aunt Jenny. As I rise, I toss off, “Hey, Kris.”

“Hey, yourself,” she answers.

“Enjoying your magazine? Aunt Jenny ignores everyone when she’s working.”

“Tell me about it. She invites me over, then says, ‘Come visit as I work.’ I knew right then and there it was a good thing I tossed the new issue of
Vogue
into my bag this morning.”

“You two quit ganging up on me,” Aunt Jenny says.

“We’re not ganging up. Who said we were ganging up? Were you ganging up on her, Neil? I certainly wasn’t ganging up on her. No, sir. Not me. No ganging up.”

“Enough, enough, enough, you cinnamon-haired witch. I get plenty of ribbing from this one”—she points to me—“about my single-mindedness, I don’t need to hear it from you. You better be careful, or I’ll banish you for another nine years.”

Her words are harsh, but her tone is playful. But the last remark did register. So Aunt Jenny quit seeing Kristina about the same time I came into the picture. Why?

“You won’t get rid of me so easily this time, Missy,” Kris says.

What is that look in her eye?

Aunt Jenny gives her a haughty raspberry with her lips, then turns to me.

“But enough about my so-called talent; tell me about yours. Did you wow ’em at the readings?”

I’d forgotten this all started when I mentioned how beautiful the bracelet was.

“I hope so.” I stop. A beat. “And Zane seemed to think so.”

“He does this every time,” she tosses off to Kris.

“Just like his modest aunt. I’ve known you since high school, Missy, and you’ve always been quick to poo-poo your own work.”

What is this
Missy
? That’s the second time she’s used it. Do they have pet names for each other?

“Quit second-guessing yourself, Neil,” Aunt Jenny says. “You think you were lousy or just adequate, then you get the part. Just because you think you have strong competition this time doesn’t mean you blew it. Tell me about him, this guy. Sonny, isn’t it?” She turns to Kris. “He has the crazy notion this Sonny may have outsung him yesterday.” She sighs.

“Well, he wasn’t bad. I think he has a shot.” Even I hear the defeat in my voice. Aunt Jenny has to hear it too, but it’s not her way to acknowledge negativity.

“And how do you feel about that?” She takes a soft cloth and polishes the bracelet. A calculated gesture to get me talking. To ease my dis-ease. I know her scheming ways.

She’s working me like she works the clay she sculpts sometimes. I’m not sure I want to talk in front of Kris. I glance at her. She’s hanging on Aunt Jenny’s every word. I see support there. So I spill.

“I’m okay, I guess. I mean, I want to play Curly. But if I get Carnes—or even Ali Hakim, I’d be happy, I guess.”

“So you read the peddler, huh? I thought you didn’t want to jinx Curly by reading for something else.”

“Well, I got to thinking. Ali’s a great part. He has the one good song, and he’d be fun to do, the accent and all. And you know what they say….”

“Oh, spare me the theater maxims. No small actors, no small parts… I’ve heard it before. You know you won’t be happy unless you get Curly.”

“No, really,” I try to convince myself. “Ali Hakim’s a great role.”

“Hakim’s funny,” Kris says.

“You know
Oklahoma!
?”

“Why, cowboy,”—she has suddenly slipped into an Okie twang—“yer a talkin’ to Aunt Eller herself. UB Theater, 19….” She swipes her mouth to obliterate the actual year.

“Vanity, thy name is Kristina,” Aunt Jenny spouts.

“You done anything else, Kris?”

“A few shows. Always got stuck in the character roles. My height, I guess. But I did do Sally Bowles. That’s my favorite.”

“You did
Cabaret
? I’m impressed.”

Aunt Jenny chuckles and nods.

Text Messaging: Zane and Cara

Cara:
okay, tell me about it

Zane:
wat?

Cara:
don’t shit with me, z. u know

Zane:
u mean the auditions?

Cara:
no, the stock market. of course, the auditions

Zane:
got my email report yesterday?

Cara:
yes. went well, huh?

Zane:
more than well

Cara:
i’m gonna brain you. did you get the part?

Zane:
yep

Cara:
my baby! i’m so proud of u

Zane:
twas nothin. no competition.

Cara:
i’ll bet. u said the other day there was at least one other good one. no mention of him in yesterday’s email

Zane:
guess i forgot. couldn’t read

Cara:
a stumbler, huh?

Zane:
you got it

Cara:
and the hunk?

Zane:
curly

Cara:
what about the other guy. sonny

Zane:
carnes, thank god

Cara:
lucky for you. so, six weeks of togetherness. you and hunk

Zane:
don’t i know it

Cara:
and the date?

Zane:
wat date?

Cara:
the burger the other day. something else u left out of email. need better emails, babe. spill it. the date

Zane:
wasn’t a date. just ate

Cara:
forget the rhymes, lord byron. it was a date

Zane:
whatever

Cara:
so, tell me

Zane:
he’s nice. lives with his aunt

Cara:
i know all that. any action?

Zane:
no. but maybe in the near future. got bad news, good news

Cara:
information, please

Zane:
bad news… sounds like he and girlfriend are heating up

Cara:
that’s real bad news

Zane:
maybe, maybe not. i think he’s just confused. he’s gay

Cara:
and now we have the good news. how do u know?

Zane:
he told me

Cara:
wat??????

Zane:
not exactly

Cara:
spill it, z

Zane:
said his aunt asked him if he was gay

Cara:
and??

Zane:
we got interrupted… didn’t tell me his answer

Cara:
find out

Zane:
give me time. virgin, tho. sure of that

Cara:
how sweet. my baby’s gonna bust a cherry

Zane:
why, gypsy girl, how u talk. i’m shocked

Cara:
keep working him

Zane:
i’ll double down the time step, fosse

“O
KAY
,
OKAY
—tell me!” Aunt Jenny is at her workbench when I come in.

“Tell you what?”

“You know.” She carefully forms a sheet of silver into a bracelet shape. “Did you get the part?”

“Oh, that.” I casually look through the mail I brought in with me. I love yanking her chain.

“Enough, Mr. Casual.” She takes a piece of brass and, using her blowtorch, attaches it to the bracelet and etches a design. It’s a technique she developed herself. “Are you going to tell me, or am I going to have to use this on you?” She points the flame at me mock menacingly. “I have ways to make you talk, 007.”

“No, no, Goldfinger—not the
blowtorch
.” I throw up my hands, shielding my face. “My face is my living.”

“Then talk… talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.”

“Yes,” I finally acquiesce. “I got the part.”

“Wonderful!” She leaps up and envelops me in a giant bear hug, holding the blowtorch behind me. That was twice today, I’d been hugged. Funny. I don’t mind it now and didn’t mind it then. Zane was so happy, it just happened.

“Whoa.” I laugh as I extract myself from her arms. “Would you put that thing down before someone gets hurt?”

She switches off the blowtorch and puts it on her workbench, then turns to me. “Did you call Scott?”

“Why? Do you think he cares?” Her question is both alarming and happy making. To hear her say Scott Scheer would want to know about my doing Curly makes me feel great. But, with the recent scandal, I’m not sure he has either the time or desire to hear from me. Maybe, with Brother Gramm always lurking in my psyche, I don’t want to talk to Scott. Maybe he is just in the frame of mind to trip me up. To make me spout out my own potentially damaging escapades.

“Of course he cares. You’re going to be his next star.” Aunt Jenny’s enthusiasm is amazing. Almost makes me think I
should
call Scott.

“Scott’s focused on saving MTM from the drug thing. He doesn’t need me interrupting him.” What if he started asking questions?
Anything that would reflect badly on us.

“Oh, poo. All the more reason why you should call him.” Aunt Jenny pushes me toward the kitchen. “He needs some good news for a change. Now”—she motions to me, shooing me in the direction of the kitchen phone—“make that call. And hurry up. I’m expecting Kris to call.”

“You two have been spending a lot of time together. Must be nice to have a friend, huh? I know I like having Zane around.”

“Yeah. It’s been fun reconnecting.”

“What happened to you gals? Earlier, I mean. From what I’ve concluded, you’ve known each other since high school. You must have kept up the friendship until you were in your thirties. Then—what was it? Nine years ago, you lost touch?” I’m probing, but sometimes you have to probe with Aunt Jenny.

“You’re thinking it has something do with you, aren’t you?” Aunt Jenny stares at me.

“Well, yeah. Best friends, then I come into the picture. Boo-yah. Big breakup.”

“It wasn’t that. We parted ways before I—uh—” She hesitates. “—got you.”

She’s being cautious. She gets this way whenever the topic of my parents’ accident comes up.

“Look,” I say, “you can mention Mom and Dad. I know there was a time when it bothered me, but I’m grown now, and I can talk about it.”

“I hope you’re grown,” she says.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I don’t know whether to be angry or inquisitive.

“I just mean if you think you’re ready for it—if you’re as grown as you said—then I have something to tell you.”

Uh-oh. What could this be about?

“Sit.” She points to the dining table. “Should I get out the cookies and milk?”

“No, I’m good. Just talk.”

We sit, then she takes both my hands in hers.

“A few months before your parents died, I broke it off with Kris. It just wasn’t working. It wasn’t her fault; it was mine.”

This is starting to sound heavy.

“Kris and I were very close. We spent every waking moment together when we were in high school. If she wasn’t at my house, I was at hers. I took drama class, she took art. That’s how close we were.”

I look at her. She is struggling.

“We were certain we were going to the same university. But fate turned against us. She got a full scholarship to UB. And my scholarship offer was from KU. What to do, what to do? Neither set of our parents was wealthy. We couldn’t turn down free money. So we went to separate schools and vowed to see each other on breaks.

“At KU, I saw the gay kids. They were just becoming more and more visible, more and more
out
. I saw how they were treated. It was horrible. There was even a very much publicized gay bashing on campus. And you’d think it would involve one of the gay boys. But, no, it was one of the girls. Three haters just decided to go out and beat up a lesbian—just for kicks.”

This has just taken a weird turn. What is she telling me?

“I didn’t like what I was seeing around me. It was horrible. It was scary. I’d go home for breaks, and it would be me, nonstop, talking to Kris about it all. She would try to reassure me, but it was just too scary.

“We finished our degrees. I got my teaching job. Kris got hired in broadcasting, at a local radio station. We tried living together.”

Oh my gosh. She
is
telling me what I think she’s telling me.

“But we’d go to the mall, go to restaurants… I’d be sure we were being watched. Gave me the heebie-jeebies. Kris was fearless. But I wasn’t. So I called it off, moved here.”

“Are you telling me—”

She puts her hand up.

“Just let me continue so I can get it all out.”

I nod.

“So….” She takes a deep breath. “I got a teaching job here. Kris would call at first, begging me to come home. Then she’d show up at my apartment, pleading. It wasn’t pretty. She was desperate to change my mind. She vowed she would never stop. I begged her to just leave me alone. Then the accident. When I came for the funeral, came to get you, she showed up. I quickly pushed her out of the house. I didn’t want you to hear what I had to tell her.”