Colors (5 page)

I take the OJ into the studio, where Aunt Jenny is busily soldering a clasp onto the bracelet.

“Yeah.” I gulp the juice as I lean on the doorjamb. “It’ll be fun. The choir is great, Melissa’s voice is beautiful, as usual, and I really enjoyed singing with the orchestra accompaniment. The morning’s performance will go well, I know.”

Stay focused, Neil. It’s just a performance. Like any other. Big audience. Great orchestra. Great choir. Forget it’s a church.

“Do you know where you’ll be on the program?”

“We should be about fifteen minutes into the service, before the sermon.”

“Great,” Aunt Jenny says. “I can sneak in the back, hear your song, slip out. You know me and church. I don’t rightly cotton to the hellfiah and brimstone fokes.” Aunt Jenny steps into her Deep South persona.

She makes me laugh. “Yeah,” I say, “neither do I, but I’m trapped until the end. Lucky you.”

“Honey chile,” she drawls, keeping up the Southern belle routine, “while you’re praisin’ the lawd, I’ll be here frying up some Sunday chicken, you heah?”

I give her the old roll of the eyes. “Give me a break—the magnolia and peach blossom routine doesn’t impress me. The only fried chicken you ever came up with costs $15.99 a bucket.”

Aunt Jenny huffs, pretending she is offended. “For your information, sonny, they’ve raised the price. I swanee—a gal can hardly affoad t’ feed her man these days.”

I kiss her on the cheek. “Gotta run.”

M
ELISSA
AND
I grab our positions in the choir just as Brother Kenny is saying, “Let us pray.”

I sigh and bow my head. Singing is what I’m here to do, not pray. Melissa takes my hand as we pray. It helps.

Warm-ups go by in a flash, and then Brother Kenny leads us through a short hallway. The orchestra is already in place as the choir files into the sanctuary.

I audibly gasp, then check myself.
Control yourself, Neil.
The place is enormous. It’s as big as any football stadium I’ve ever seen. Masses of people sit in purple, velvet-upholstered, theater-style seats. The assistant pastors are enthroned in the only pews in the church, ornately carved ones sitting on either side of the pulpit. The carpet down the center aisle matches the seats, with a swirl of gold running through the purple background.

I’ve never, ever performed in such a huge space before. As we file into the choir loft, I say my own little prayer: “Give me strength.” To whom, I don’t know. Maybe God, maybe the cosmos, maybe Satine. I just know I always speak to an inner spirit before a performance.

Brother Kenny gives the signal for us to sit. As one of the assistant pastors stands to begin the service, I check out the room. There are literally thousands of people, dressed in all manners. Some of the women are decked out in fancy dresses with hats, while others are in pantsuits. Many of the men have on suits, while others are just in shirts and ties, and still others in plain golf shirts. It’s definitely a mix of humanity.

Some place. This church is nothing more than a big theater. A lot of money flows through these doors.

I’m distracting myself. I can’t think about where I really am.

After an assistant pastor welcomes the congregants and makes a few announcements, he asks us all to stand for the opening prayer. All us choir robe-clad singers stand, along with the congregation. I bow my head. But I refuse to pray.

Then I see them.

Red. Green. Blue. Yellow. Purple. Orange.

The colors swirl, landing on the white choir robe I’m wearing. I feel my pulse quicken. I look to my right. Colors dapple Melissa’s robe as well. A drop of sweat forms on my brow. Where are they coming from?
Panic starts
. Ignore them… ignore them, ignore them, ignore them.

Orange. Red. Blue….

Not a word of the prayer registers. Colors bathe all of the previously snow-white choir robes. I feel shaky.

Green…. Purple…. Yellow.

The stained glass windows are too far away. They couldn’t possibly be the cause of my panic. Yes, colors spill over the congregation, but they don’t bother me. It’s the colors on me pulling me back, back to that horrible long ago.

Where? Where?

I look up. In the nave of the sanctuary, above the choir loft, are two huge stained glass skylights.

Sweat pours off my cheeks. I feel light-headed.

Stay standing, Neil. Don’t embarrass yourself in front of all these people.

But my knees buckle. I fall back, into my seat, brushing Melissa along the way.

Startled, she turns.

“What’s wrong, Neil?” she whispers.

“Nothing,” I say, feeling my heartbeat racing. “I’ll be okay. Just a little stage fright.” Please, oh please, let her believe my lie.

She smiles at me, then bows her head again.

I need to get out of here. I cover my eyes with the palm of my hand. This is making me crazy. Deep breaths
. Come on, Neil.
But my breaths are shallow, too shallow to do any good. I open my eyes and try to stand. I can’t leave. I have a song to sing. I blink a few times to stop my head from swimming.

No, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get out of here!

B
UT
BEFORE
I can escape, the prayer ends. Everyone sits.

Brother Kenny steps to the pulpit to speak: “Good morning,” he shouts—is shouting the only way these people can communicate? “Isn’t it a glorious morning to praise the Lord?”

“Amen!” The
shout
rings out from the congregation. What did I say?

I close my eyes a moment, trying desperately to block out the colors.
Be strong, Neil—like Satine.
What a fool: calling on a reality TV persona to help.

“This morning we are doubly blessed. Sister Melissa Watt has brought her friend Neil Darrien to honor the Lord in song. Can I get an ‘amen’ for Brother Neil?”

“Amen!” raises the rafters. And a couple of “Praise the Lords!” are thrown in for good measure.

My eyes spring open. Panic. This is going to happen whether I can sing this morning or not.

“And how about another ‘amen’ for Sister Melissa?”

Again “Amen!” fills the room. I try to distract myself. Anything to get my mind off those colors. As the amens are bellowed, some of the congregation raise their arms, swaying their hands, rapture on their faces. I’ve never seen anything like this before.

I look at Melissa. She’s glowing. Is she happy because she’s being praised, or is she feeling the spirit, as they say? She looks at me, and I feel a little better. I’m sure I see love in her eyes.

“And can you give me a rousing ‘amen’ for the Lord, who brought these talents to us?”

As a third roaring “Amen!” thunders through the sanctuary, my eyes search the congregation. Maybe if I see Aunt Jenny, she can give me strength. She’s been my rock, ever since….

But there are too many people. I know Aunt Jenny; she’ll be hiding in the back. No way I can find her in this sea of people.

My eye, however, catches one man. Looks to be about fifty years old or so. Balding. His shiny head’s a bit red, like he has worked out in the sun too long. His face carries the wrinkles of too many worries. But his eyes sparkle, obviously happy to be in church this fine Sunday morning. This guy has set aside his cares, his worries. On this morning, he has given it all up. Trusting. Believing.

“Okay.”
I take a deep breath. “
You’re just like him, Neil. You have a 9-to-5 you don’t particularly like, your daughter needs braces and you have no idea where the money is coming from, your wife nags too much, but you come here, and the amens make you forget it all. The shouting gives you strength.”

Being someone else gives me the strength to ignore the colors, to go on. I’m an actor. Actors act. And that gets me through.

Brother Kenny signals for the choir to stand. The orchestra members straighten, ready. Melissa and I stand, as we were instructed, step forward, and take our places in front of the choir. The familiar strains of “How Lovely” start from the orchestra. Immediately, I relax, totally at ease. This is what I was born to do, perform for a packed house. This is what it’s all about. This is my life. Whether in a church or on a stage, it’s all performing.

The work is perfection. I’ve been lifted to heaven, to a safe place. And when we finish, I am totally at peace. I smile at the audience. They sit there, totally still, like bumps on a log. Why aren’t they clapping?

I look at Melissa. A strange look crosses her face—is it pain, hurt, disbelief? Then she bows her head.

She knows they didn’t like it. That’s why she’s praying.

The seconds after our number seem like an hour. Just kill me, now.

Finally, the pastor stands up and speaks into the microphone at the pulpit. “Brothers and Sisters, do you feel blessed?”

“Amen!” they shout. All is back to normal. They did like it.

“Then let’s give Brother Kenny, our orchestra and choir, and especially Sister Melissa and Brother Neil a round of applause. Make a
joyful
noise!”

The congregation stands en masse and applauds thunderously.

So the look on Melissa’s face was just her “giving it up to God” as she calls it. I beam, I’m so happy. Suddenly, during the uproar, Melissa takes my hand, squeezes it. Does this handclasp mean she is sharing her God-thoughts with me, or is she telling me she loves me? What a puzzle this woman is.

I shake my head and bask in the adoration coming our way.

This is why I do it. It’s really not the applause, it’s what I get from making people feel this way. These people were truly moved by what I did… and yeah, Melissa, this great choir, and this amazing orchestra. But still, I was a part of it. Bringing a moment of joy. Wow.

We make our way back to our seats, and I bask—no other word to describe it—in the glory until the service ends
.
I love, love, love performing.

Back in the rehearsal room, I am crowing. Buoyed by the standing ovation and by Melissa’s surreptitious hand squeeze, I say, “They
loved
us. We were a big, big hit.”

Melissa smiles and says, “The Lord spoke through us, Neil.”

Speechless. Totally and utterly speechless—that’s what I am. Is she really so caught up in the amen corner? So much for thinking she was caught up in me.

“You two sure brought praise to him this morning.” Brother Kenny’s hot breath sears as he leans close to my shoulder; his rich, spicy cologne is stifling. I feel trapped.

Several of the other choir members echo Kenny’s enthusiasm. I should feel flattered, happy. Here, in this church, though, I’m trapped in another time.

“Brother Neil,” Kenny says, “I hope you’ll think about joining the Church. We could use you every Sunday here in the choir.”

Joining?
My heart races again. I want to scream
back off
!

M
ORNING
SUNLIGHT
streams through the practice room window. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams like fruit flies around a rotting banana. I pound out the bass part of a new piece on the piano. I love getting to school early so I can get a jump on choir rehearsal. Since Show Choir is first period, I can get warmed up and ready to go before anyone else is out of bed, most likely. Early riser, that’s what I am. Workout, warm-up. Get that from Aunt Jenny. Always in her workshop by the time I get downstairs.

As I do my vocal gymnastics, I think about the term Show Choir. Hardly like Satine’s choir on
Curtain Up!,
but then her high school is not much like ours, stuck here in the middle of Podunk. Satine has big city ways in a big city high school with big city money backing her choir. Still, our Show Choir is fantastic, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

A knock on the door breaks my concentration before I can get too wrapped up in my Satine fantasy. Before I can turn the knob, Melissa comes barging in. Like the gum commercials, she is smiling so big I can almost see a gleam of sunlight bounce off her teeth. All thoughts of Satine are gone. My lovely girlfriend stands before me.

“You’ll never believe this!” she whoops. “We are quite the success.” She smiles as she punches each word deliberately.

Dazzled by her smile and still thinking about Ms. Walter’s Show Choir, I am baffled for a moment. We haven’t even gone to Regionals yet. But then the Church of Shelton Road jumps back into my mind. A rapid heartbeat revs. I quash it. Think of how much fun it was to perform there. Remember the praise.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I say. “We got a standing O.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Melissa waves the back of her hand at me. “But you don’t know the best part.” Her grin gets bigger, if that’s possible.

“So tell me.”

“Well,” she begins, “Kenny says his phone didn’t stop ringing all day long yesterday.”

“That’s incredible.” I can’t help the grin that blooms. And my response is a bit too loud for this tiny practice room. If a piano didn’t stand between us, I would be hugging her big time right now.

“And what’s more,” she continues, out of breath, “Kenny told me he wants us to sing again in two weeks, but this time without the choir.”

A lurch.
Stop it, Neil. This is a chance you won’t pass up.
I hear Satine’s voice in my ear. I smile.

“Wow. What does he want us to sing?”

“Anything we choose. He said he’d leave it up to us.”

“Anything, huh? I heard a great rap number on the way to school today.” I love
yanking her chain
, as Aunt Jenny says.

Melissa rolls her eyes. “That’s not what he meant, and you know it. We can choose anything Christian. I was thinking we could go with something a little more contemporary this time.”

“Yeah, something a little more with it. ‘How Lovely’ is a great piece, but it’s a thousand years old.”