Chapel of Ease (7 page)

I understood that, for sure. Although my father was surprisingly supportive, both when I came out and when I said I wanted to be a dancer and then an actor, my mother still thought it was phase I'd grow out of. And my grandparents simply stopped acknowledging that I was part of the family. I became “the weird one,” which was their code for “the gay one.”

“So I sort of gave up that family when I came to New York,” he went on, “and I've been okay with that. But sometimes, you just need someone to look when you point at something, you know? You need someone to laugh at your jokes, or cry with you when you're sad. That's what family does, right? And I haven't really had anything to fill that hole since. But those of you working on the show, and the ones who come around here to pick-and-grin, and the ones who just go out of your way to say hi and let me know I'm your friend … I ain't exaggerating when I say you've become my family.”

We all tapped on our drinks or plates with our silverware in response.

“And I'd like to say something special to the cast and crew of
Chapel of Ease.
Without y'all … I mean, people that have lived nowhere but in my head now walk and talk and sing and dance right in front of me. And some of you are no doubt tired of me talking when you want to be eating,” he added with a chuckle. “But before we dig into the goodies, I just wanted to thank all of you for bringing my people to life.”

We all raised our glasses in response, a few said, “Hear, hear,” and I even heard sniffles around me. When he sat down, Emily leaned over and gave Ray a quick kiss.

Ray caught my eye and winked. And in that moment, it really did feel like family.

*   *   *

About eleven, I decided to call it an evening. The wine had made me loose, and I knew from experience that bad decisions lay in my immediate future if I didn't stop now. I had just found Emily to tell her good-bye when the power went out.

We all stood or sat immobile, waiting to see if it would come back on. “Somebody didn't pay their electric bill,” came a singsong taunt. Through the window we saw that the apartments across the way still had electricity, but a quick check of the hallway outside showed it was the whole building, not just Ray's apartment.

When it was clear that the power wouldn't come back on right away, the room filled with the glow of cell phones as people began to text and post about it. A few people fumbled around as they gathered their stuff and prepared to leave.

“Hey, whoa, y'all,” Ray said loudly. “Emily, there's some candles in back of the silverware drawer. We ain't letting a little thing like no power shut us down, are we?” The strum of an acoustic guitar filled the air.

Ray, the instrument strapped across his shoulder, walked into the center of the room. He pointed to the closet and said, “There's another couple of guitars in there, and some drums, too. Help yourselves.” He picked away, noodling little minor chords as Emily placed candles on the windowsills.

As the drums, mostly djembes and a couple of bongos, got passed around and the candles grew brighter, Ray said, “We got a roomful of singers here, I reckon we can amuse ourselves. Anybody else know ‘I'm Nine Hundred Miles from My Home'?”

No one spoke up. Even by candlelight, Ray's grin was huge.

“What, y'all Yankees ain't never heard of Fiddlin' John Carson? Well, then, let me introduce you to Pickin' Ray Parrish.”

Something happened then, something that bound us all together in a way even two weeks' worth of intense rehearsal had not been able to do. The air in the room grew still, and even the candles stopped flickering. Drummers found the rhythm and accompanied him. As my eyes adjusted, I watched people lean slowly forward, wanting to be closer to the music even though Ray was near enough for most of them to touch. And no one used their phone to make a video, preserving the sanctity of the moment.

There was something in Ray's voice, too, an ache that I'd never heard there before. Or for that matter, anywhere else. As he sang about the distance between himself and his home, I felt the distance in my own heart. And, as I looked around, I saw that everyone else did, too.

When he finished, we all applauded. “All right, I ain't the Bon Jovi, now,” he said, his drawl growing stronger. “Somebody else pick something, and we'll sing it.”

So for the next two hours, that's what we did. We jammed. Ray passed the guitar around, and I took a turn on one of the drums. A neighbor from the floor above stopped by with his saxophone and things got a little jazzy. We sang Broadway tunes, popular songs from the '90s and '00s, and songs from our show. No one came by to complain about the noise. By the time the lights came back on at 3
A.M.
, we were exhausted, and elated, and never wanted the night to end. But of course, it had to.

Emily kissed my cheek as I left. “Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Ray told me he asked you about me. You could've told him all the shitty stories about how I behaved, but you didn't. So thank you.”

“If you really want to thank me, you can get him to tell you what's buried in the chapel.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like I haven't tried. He said he'd tell me after opening night.”

“That's what he told us, too.” I waved at Ray, who'd been cornered by two slightly tipsy cast members explaining in great detail why he was so awesome. “Good night, Emily. Thank Ray for a lovely evening, will you?”

On the walk to the subway, I whistled and danced, not worrying or caring that someone might come out of the shadows and decide to beat the shit out of me for it. I felt invincible.

*   *   *

The next Monday found Jason, Cassandra, and me in a nearby dance studio with Stella the choreographer. The too-small room smelled of disinfectant, and the mirrors on the wall were stained and cloudy with age. Stella had a three-foot-square piece of wood propped against her thigh, and as we watched, she let it topple over to the floor. The bang as it struck was like a shot. “Everybody awake now? Good. This is what you'll be dancing on.”

“There's only that much of the stage open?” Jason asked. We still hadn't seen the set, only cardboard cutouts representing the chapel, but I thought we had more room than that.

“No, you misunderstand me,” Stella said, stepping onto the board. “You'll be dancing on this exact board, or one very much like it. It's a kind of clog dancing they have in the mountains. They bring these boards along, throw them down wherever they happen to be, and dance on them.”

The three of us exchanged looks. This was new.

Stella, in tap shoes, began to move. “It's called flatfooting. The idea is to raise your feet as little as possible off the board. It's quieter than real clogging, and you don't flop your legs around like you do in buck dancing.”

She wasn't kidding: her feet barely moved. Yet we could tell from the tapping that she was dancing. I'd never seen, or attempted anything like this, and Jason voiced the same immediate concern I had.

“Will anybody be able to tell we're dancing? Because it doesn't look like much.”

Before she could answer, Ray came in, carrying an instrument case. “Sorry I'm late, Stella. Have I missed anything?”

“Just showing them what we're doing.”

“Great,” he said with a big grin. He dragged a folding chair away from the wall and put the case on it. He took out a banjo, put the strap over his shoulder, and said, “Ready, Stella?”

“When you are, Ray.”

Ray plucked and turned a tuning peg. “Hey, Stella, know why a banjo is better than a guitar?”

“They burn longer,” Stella deadpanned.

Ray let out a cackle of a laugh, then played a lively tune I didn't recognize. Stella started to dance. It reminded me at first of Irish dancing, the way her upper body stayed mostly immobile while her legs from the knees down did all the work. But it was also very different: she actually watched her feet, something I was taught at an early age to never, ever do.

“Can you read music?” she asked Ray.

“Not enough to hurt my playing,” he said back.

After a few moments, Ray said, “Hey, what's the difference between a frog and a banjo player?”

“Beats me, Ray.”

“A frog might get a gig.” He looked at us. “Y'all got no idea what a frog gig is, do you?”

We shook our heads, having no idea how we should respond to all this.

Stella continued to dance as she said, “Hey, Ray, what do you call a guy who hangs out with a bunch of musicians?”

“I don't know, Stella. What?”

“A banjo player.”

Jason barked out a laugh, then caught himself. Cassandra tossed her hair and giggled.

“Hey, Stella, you know why all these banjo jokes are so dumb?”

“Why's that, Ray?”

“So dancers can understand 'em.” He grinned at us, and winked.

He finished with a flourish, and so did she, leaping up and landing on the floor beside the board. We applauded and whistled. Ray said, “Hoo-
ee
! That was great!”

“Did you just use a hog call on me?” Stella said, and wiped sweat from her eyes.

“That's
soo
-ee,” Ray said. We realized that they'd worked up this whole schtick for our benefit.

Ray took off the banjo. “So what do y'all think?”

We exchanged looks; then Cassandra said, “It looks easy enough. I mean, not easy, but like something we can learn.”

“Do we have to do the jokes, too?” Jason asked.

“We'll see if they work in the show,” Stella said. “The main thing is to learn to do this the way the real dancers do. I'll send you links to videos to watch. But for now, let's get to practicing.”

“Wait,” Ray interjected. “Can I show you something first?”

The tension in the room immediately ratcheted up: composers didn't upstage choreographers. None of us had ever seen anything even remotely like this before, and braced for the expected explosion of defended territories and union demarcations. But Stella magnanimously said, “Sure,” and stepped off the board.

Ray took her place. “The thing is, when I've seen the best dancers in my hometown do this, it's looked like water dropping into a puddle. It's graceful, but it has
impact.
Now, I know Stella probably told you you ain't supposed to move your feet off the board much, and that's true. But what you
do
move, you make it count. Like this.”

He let out a deep breath and then sang the old rockabilly standard “Tutti Frutti.” And as he sang, he danced.

What he did wasn't hard; it certainly posed no challenge for me, after nearly fifteen years of regular dancing. But it felt exactly the way he described it, like water falling into a puddle. His boots—it was the first time I noticed he wore black cowboy boots—tapped and slid, barely rising an inch from the board, and created a noise like the flowing of a river. And it
looked
like water, because even though his upper body stayed essentially still, and he looked down at his feet just as Stella had done, everything
flowed.
He finished with a flourish on the final, “A-wop-bom-a-loo-mop-a-lomp-bam-boom!”

We clapped. Even Stella smiled her approval. Ray stepped off the board and said, “Okay, who wants to try now?”

“Everyone,” Stella said. She indicated two more identical boards propped against the wall. “Get those out here and get up on there. Ray, you got some more music for us?”

“You bet,” he said as he picked up his banjo.

 

6

“Well, that was … lacking,” Neil said to us the following week, after our first complete off-book run-through with full band and choreography. We all knew it, too. Ray sat on the piano bench with his arms folded, not looking at us.

“Anyone want to hazard a guess as to what went wrong?” Neil continued. “Because I don't really have a clue. Yes, there were some missed cues, but this isn't exactly a complex show, staging-wise. What happened?”

He looked to the side of the stage. “Stella?”

The choreographer also had her arms tightly folded. “They know their steps,” she said, defending her dancers while still agreeing with Neil.

“So that's not it. Ray, any trouble with the orchestra?”

Ray shook his head. We all knew that, too. The musicians gazed at their instruments, their sheet music, or the floor.

Neil cupped his hands and shouted to the back of the theater. “Ellie! How's the tech crew?”

“Sharp as a laser,” she called back.

“Well,” Neil said, pretending to be perplexed. “What could it be, then?”

The pieces had all been polished, but when they were linked together, there was no life to it, no spark. Even the songs, those gorgeous and beautiful songs, didn't properly work. We all looked anywhere but at Neil, whose searching gaze fell on each of us like a prison spotlight.

Finally he said, “Okay, then. Perhaps we're just all tired. We'll run it again, and see what happens. Pick up your cues, put some energy into it, and give it a little heart, okay?”

“It's not about ‘heart,'” Julie said suddenly.

We all turned to look at her. She seemed both angry and scared.

“What, then?” Neil asked.

“We're supposed to be telling a mystery story,” she said, her voice shaking with the immensity of confronting Neil. “Who or what is buried in the chapel of ease? That's the hook, right? And none of us knows the answer. It's like doing
Ten Little Indians
without knowing who the killer is. We
need
to know so we know how to play it.”

Several of the other cast nodded or made little gestures of agreement. I was careful not to respond, but I did watch Ray. He scowled.

Neil turned to him. “Ray? Any comment?”