Colors (18 page)

I want to hug her. Let her know everything she is revealing is okay.

“I told her I was going to take care of you, and I didn’t think our lifestyle—that’s the ignorant word I used—was suitable to bring up a young boy in.”

“You gave up your happiness for me?” I blurt.

“Wait a minute. I didn’t give up any happiness. You’re my happiness. At that point, I’d convinced myself my life with Kris was over anyway. I was looking forward to giving you all the love you deserved. And I didn’t want to share you, I told myself.”

She looks at me. It is the most heartbreaking look I’ve ever seen on her face. And I know: she is heartbroken because I’d lost my parents and she felt like she would never replace them and probably hadn’t ever, and she is heartbroken because she gave up something that could have only strengthened the love she had for me. I know that. Ever since Kris had come back into her life, I’d somehow felt like Aunt Jenny had changed, like her love for me had grown stronger. It’s just her love for Kris reflecting and multiplying.

“Kris never gave up on us, though. Even when I moved to this house, changed my phone number, she still searched. She said she looked at every craft show within 300 miles, searching for my name on the roster. It got easier with the Internet, but as you know, with the Internet, I quit going to so many shows, choosing to concentrate on my online business. But Kris persisted and finally she found me. So that’s the story. Your aunt’s just a big ol’ bull dyke.”

She’s trying to be humorous, but I hear the shame.

“Stop it! Don’t you ever use that term again. You are my Aunt Jenny—my mother. And that’s all you have to be to me. I love you for whoever you are. You’re practically perfect in every way.” She laughs as I quote Mary Poppins. “And Kris loves you too. And you know what? I love
her
for loving
you
. So it’s settled. We’re just one big, happy, loving family. ’Kay?”

She laughs a belly laugh that shakes the room. It’s a laugh that releases every pent-up hurt, doubt, regret she’s ever had.

“Well, I guess I wish Kris would call. I don’t know what’s holding her up. I need to tell her we’re back together.” She sings “We are family!” and boogies across the room.

I shout above her, “Call
her
.”

“Can’t,” she yells. “She’s in a business meeting.” And she continues jiving.

“I’m going upstairs,” I bellow. “You just keep right on dancin’.”

“Call Scott,” I hear as I bound up the stairs.

“By the way.” On the landing, I turn. “Is Zane doing Jud?”

“Yep.” I jump back down the stairs. I think of him and smile. “You should have seen how happy he was. He was literally dancing around in circles. Like some other ol’ fool I know.” I laugh at her again.

She just waves her hand and keeps dancing.

“C
ONGRATULATIONS
, C
URLY
.”
Melissa throws up her hands, grabs my cheeks, pulls me to her, and plants a big kiss.
Whoa.
Unexpected. Why? We’re a big fat couple now. I should expect her pawing me all over.

I don’t want to make her mad—as startling and unwelcome as her kiss was—so I lapse into character.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, in my strongest Oklahoma cowboy drawl.

I pull my church choir folder from the rack.

“I guess Zane’s happy too,” Melissa says. Is there a tinge of darkness in her voice, or is that just what I’m expecting?

“Happy is not the word for it,” I say. “He’s ecstatic.”

“I can’t imagine him playing Jud.” Melissa straightens the music in her folder. She looks like she’s deliberately trying to catch me off guard. “He’s so limp-wristed.” And the bomb falls.

I scowl.

“That’s enough, Melissa. I’m tired of hearing that from you. If you think everyone in the theater is gay, then what are you thinking about me? Huh?”

“Aw, come on, Neil.” Melissa looks me in the eyes. That puppy dog look, the one that really annoys me. “You know I don’t think that about you. I
love
you. I just have my doubts about Zane.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you had seen Zane’s audition. None of his personal mannerisms….” I stop. I can’t believe what I said. Lately I have been noticing Zane’s peculiar mannerisms.
Is
Zane gay? Do I care? Do I want him to be? I shake my head at the thought. It invaded my mind without warning. Maybe he just acts that way for some reason or other. I’ve said it again and again, theater people are different. “Nothing about him personally,” I repeat, “gets in the way of the character. That’s what makes him a great actor.”

“Well, I hope for your sake, you’re right. You don’t want him messing up the show, I’m sure.” She grabs my hand. “What did your aunt say when she heard you got the part?”

Hmmm. And what would Melissa say if I told her Aunt Jenny’s news? She certainly has a lot to say about Zane. What if I told her I’m close to someone who really
is
gay? Would it make a difference in our relationship? But that’s for another time. “She’s very happy for me, of course.”

“Of course.” She smiles. “Come on.” She yanks my arm. “Remember? Kenny said we were rehearsing in the sanctuary this evening.”

We go into the sanctuary where Kenny is already waiting for the choir.

Early evening sunlight streams through the stained glass windows.
The colors.
They’re there, dappling the carpet, the blond furniture, the choir members, Kenny. It isn’t until after we sit down to wait for Kenny to begin I’m hit with it.

I’m not bothered at all by the colors.

Why is that?

Am I becoming so comfortable here that the colors no longer bother me? Will this feeling carry over in my life outside the church choir? That would be a relief.

After a prayer and about ten minutes of warm-ups, Kenny takes us through next Sunday’s special music. It’s a lush arrangement of the old standby “Softly and Tenderly.” The song tells me everything I need to know. If the inner peace the music provides is God, then I’m finding him. And if I’m finally finding God again, then that has to be why the colors are no longer bothering me.

Last up in the rehearsal is another read-through of “Suffer the Little Children.”

“Excellent, brothers and sisters,” Kenny gushes when the song ends. “We will make the Lord proud when we sing for the broadcast.”

The TV show. On the Agape Broadcast Network, a cable channel—one of those way up in the numbers. I guess there’s not a huge viewership for that channel, but it
is
national exposure.

“Now,” Kenny adds, “before we have our closing prayer, I have an announcement. As I told you before, this Family First rally is also a fair with booths and games for the family. They are in need of volunteers to work at the fair on Saturday. I was hoping some of you would sign up to work. I don’t need to remind you the Church of Shelton Road is known for its community outreach programs. There is a sign-up sheet posted on the bulletin board out in the hallway.” He closes his music folder. “Now, let us pray.”

As Kenny leads the group, I offer my own prayer. “The colors are only colors now. Thank You for that.”

A chorus of “Amens!” echo Kenny’s. The choir members file back into the rehearsal room.

“We’re gonna volunteer, right?” Melissa asks as she puts her folder back in the rack.

“I don’t know,” I answer.

“I know you, and I know what you’re thinking. The fair is just
one
weekend. It won’t interfere with your rehearsals,” Melissa pleads.

“But I might want the weekend to study lines.”

“We might get a chance to meet Miriam, since she is in charge of all this.” Melissa gives me her “please, please” look. Manipulation? Probably. But she said the
Miriam
word, the magic word.

I give up. I act like I can’t resist the batting of her puppy dog eyelashes. She apparently thinks that act is one of her most appealing qualities. But, left unsaid, I like the idea of meeting Miriam Railston.

“Okay, okay.” I start toward the bulletin board, leaving her in my dust. “Let’s go sign up.”

M
Y
SPORK
almost melts as I excavate the tomatoey/gooey glop of today’s fiesta.

“What’s that?” Zane tosses his steak finger basket on the table, then straddles the bench.

“This is what is known as Fiesta Surprise,” I say, nodding with a smirk. “Surprise—guess what’s in it.”

“Can’t tell.” Zane rips open his ketchup packets. “What’s in it?”

“No—I was hoping
you
could tell
me
.” I joke, but I am having a hard time recognizing the components of this culinary delight. I see the tomatoes with flecks of something dark… maybe chili powder, I see the cheese, maybe a tiny crumble of what goes for hamburger meat around here. And wait… I see two layers of soggy, flat noodles. Ladies and gentleman, what we have here is Mexican Lasagna.

“Hm-m-m. Tasty—you and your fiesta line. Have you considered trying something else?”

“Yeah,” I say, blowing on my first bite of blood-colored lava. “But the fiesta line is familiar. There’s something comforting in that.” And the fiesta is true to its name. It is a big surprise: the surprise is it’s not half-bad.

“I know what you mean.” Zane chomps on a steak finger. “First review came in. Guy says she’s gonna be a major star.”

I know who he is talking about. Ever since I told him I couldn’t go to Satine’s concert, he has needled me. Little comments here and there. Just to see if I weaken. But, I know deep down, he knows I won’t change my mind, and furthermore, he knows I shouldn’t. We have the same work ethic when it comes to performing.

“Yes, Zane. Satine is great. And, no, Zane, I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Can’t fault a guy for trying,” he mumbles through the wad of food in his mouth.

I change the subject. We only have twenty-three minutes here. I don’t want to spend it arguing about Satine.

“So what do you think of rehearsals?” I say.

“Talk about comfort—rehearsals are the same no matter where you are. I feel right at home.”

“You really heat up that stage as Jud, man.” I swig my bottled water.

“Thanks.” Zane beams. “I try.”

“You’re more than trying, you’re incredible. Where does that come from?”

“I don’t know.” Zane opens another ketchup and squirts it on his remaining fries. “I guess I understand his loneliness and his rage.” He’s concentrating on the ketchup/fries task, so he has his head down. I almost get the idea he’s weighing opening up to me.

“Why’s that?”

He stuffs his mouth with his newly architectured concoction, chews longer than I’ve ever seen Mr. Gulp chew, then eventually he speaks.

“I was just so angry when my parents moved us here.” He pauses, either to make the decision to tell me more, or to give a dramatic pause. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Zane’s life is drama, from the tiny to the earth-shattering. “Like I told you before, not only did they not ask me about it, they didn’t even tell me we were moving until two weeks before.
That
sucked.”

His words thrust me back. I had to leave. I had to give up
Oliver!.
I had to start a new school, start a new life. Thank God I had Aunt Jenny to see me through. She’s always been there for me, unlike Zane’s parents.

“Yeah, guy, I’m sure it
did
suck.” Sometimes making it better is just agreeing.

Zane flashes a grateful smile at me. He takes a steak finger and gobbles it up. Fortified once more, he says, “They took me away from Carnival and my only friend, Cara. And for what? So I could lie around the house in a new town while they ignore me. Dad’s always at the plant, and Mom’s doing her volunteer thing. If I didn’t have Jud right now, I’d go postal.”

Having poured out his anguish to me, he silences. I’m helpless. I wish I could do more.

“Wow, man.” My words are almost reverent, like I’m saying a prayer for him. It’s not much, but maybe it’s enough.

We continue our lunch in silence. But I’m torn. Do I try to cheer him up? Do I simply let it lie, hoping just my presence will make him feel better? For me, the silence becomes uncomfortable. I want to help him, to reach out, but I don’t know how. Friends are supposed to be there for you. And here I am at a total loss.

Finally, Zane speaks again. “So I guess that’s why I understand Jud Fry.” He chuckles, a look of embarrassment on his face. “So what’s your story? Why are you so good onstage?”

I look at him. I’m still reeling from my helplessness with him, and he snaps out of his funk like it was nothing.

“Come on,” he pleads. “I just stripped my soul naked. Now it’s your turn.” He smiles and plants his hand on my arm.

I jerk back, instinctively, then I remember—I’m not bothered by Zane’s touches anymore. I kinda like them. What a butt I am to treat my best friend this way.

“Sorry.” Zane puts his hand in his lap.

“No,” I say, hoping I’m telepathing
sorry
with my eyes. “I shouldn’t have jerked away. You’re just trying to be nice. I guess I just overreacted, out here in the open like this.” Now I’m sounding dumb. If Zane is gay, he’s going to think I care. Or worse, he’s going to think I care that the world thinks I might be gay. Damn. I’m getting paranoid here. I don’t care if Zane’s gay. I don’t care if anybody thinks I’m gay. I don’t care if anybody is gay. What difference does it make? What I do care about is being a butt in front of my best friend.

“In answer to your question,” I continue, banishing the trash from my head, “I guess I just like being someone else. When I was younger, I didn’t much like being me. I didn’t have any friends either. When my parents died, I felt so alone. Thank God for Aunt Jenny.”

“She seems like a really nice lady,” Zane says.

“Nice doesn’t even begin to describe her. She’s the best.”

“So, here we are—two little lost boys.” Zane laughs. “All we need is Peter Pan….”