Riven (22 page)

With music, timing, and lighting, Clancy Nabertowitz pulled every string at his disposal. Now if Brady could just appear bigger than life when the spotlight hit him and show a sneer and a swagger that covered his fear . . .

Brady had a lot going for him as he tiptoed out to his mark. He had taken not one shortcut since the first day. He had memorized the script, every word of every part. He knew everyone’s cues and stage directions, even the lyrics to songs he wasn’t singing. He was as ready as he could be, but his eagerness had lost the battle with stage fright.

He stood there, heart hammering, gasping, sweating.

But he had one more advantage, and it was not lost on him. Nabertowitz had engineered the scenes in such a way that all the newcomers—except Brady—had already been on stage, singing and dancing in crowd scenes. Uplifting fun and funny stuff had brought the audience to life. The spectators were into the story, laughing at the right places and cheering every solo, dance, and punch line.

So when the spotlight finally hit Brady Darby in his Conrad Birdie gold lamé suit, the kids onstage jumped and squealed on cue, and the house erupted with cheers and applause. That gave Brady a beat to gather himself, to drink in the adulation, and to affect the knowing persona of the mega rock-and-roll star. He cocked his head, raised a brow, and winked, and the stage was his.

When he hit his first note on key, every distraction left him. He lived in the moment, playing to the kids, playing to the crowd, belting out his tune and dancing all over the stage as the teen actors swooned. When he finished with a flourish and both girls and boys lay at his feet, the audience rose as one, and he knew what people meant about a number stopping the show and bringing down the house.

As he exited, he saw Mr. N., clipboard tucked under his arm, jumping and clapping, tears in his eyes. Brady would never be able to get enough of this. He suddenly knew what he wanted to do with his life. Nothing could stop him. He imagined himself moving from the high school boards to community theater, a college scholarship, being discovered by a talent scout, getting to Broadway, then a TV series, maybe a recording contract, and the movies. He would have the same impact on the public that Conrad Birdie had.

He’d show everybody: Coach Roberts, Dean Hose, his mother, even Alex North and his snooty parents and snotty little sister.

The rest of the musical only got better. Yes, technically, Birdie was not the lead character. That was the agent/manager, and Alex was great in the role. But Birdie was the one who lit up the stage and brought squeals and laughter each time. And because Brady had been unknown before this, he could sense the wonder and mystery on the part of the crowd. He imagined them murmuring, “Who
is
this guy?”

Between scenes, as Brady waited in the wings or backstage, he realized he had a whole new image before his castmates. He had gone from curiosity to star. Nabertowitz kept grinning and giving him thumbs-up. Guys—except for Alex—clapped him on the back, shook their fists at him, mouthed “Way to go, man!” Best, girls hugged him, not once but often, and not one but several. This was the life.

With about twenty minutes left in the show, noise from the back of the theater distracted the crowd, and Brady noticed that even those onstage sneaked a peek. Brady moved to where he should have had a line of sight, but the spotlights blinded him.

Was it a fight? Mr. N. sent two stagehands running to the back of the house to deal with it. When they returned and whispered to him, he glanced at Brady, then shook his head. “No!” he said. “It’ll wait!”

“What?” Brady said.

“Nothing to worry about,” the director said. “Let’s finish strong. Ignoring distractions is what being professional is all about.”

Brady was in the middle of one of the final segments, a poignant train depot scene, when he heard loud talking from the back and people shushing the offenders. Soon there was shouting before security removed someone. Brady’s heart sank. Had that been his mother’s voice? Her drunk voice? There was no way, was there?

Whoever it was, he would not let anyone spoil this for him. He was going out with a bang. And as his character left the stage, rumbling away on the train, the laughing crowd bid him a warm adieu. As he disappeared into the wings and stood next to Nabertowitz to watch the final scene, he was so drained he felt he could melt all over the floor.

Mr. N. looked at him with such gratitude and admiration that Brady was intoxicated by it. But the director soon turned back to the stage to study every detail of the finale. Brady stood there fearing he might burst into sobs. He had been so uptight, so scared, yet so ready for this. And it could not have gone better.

He forced himself not to weep. The houselights would be up when he joined the rest of the cast for the bows, and there would be no hiding it if he was out there bawling. Talk about breaking character. His whole aura would be lost.

Yet he would not completely maintain the Birdie image. He would look the same, but he would not act the same. Now was the time for class, for a genuine, humble smile, a receiving of the adulation that was sure to come. He bucked himself up for it.

As the last song segued into the musical themes, the chorus burst back onto the stage, and the houselights came up. Mr. N. had said it was hard to read an audience for high school productions, because they felt obligated to respond with standing ovations just because the kids were young and had tried hard, regardless how good they were.

But there was no doubting the sincerity of this crowd. They cheered, they clapped, they stomped, they shouted, they whistled. And the crescendo grew as the chorus gave way to the gaggle of girls, then the female lead and her boyfriend, then her parents, the agent’s secretary, the agent’s mother, and Alex as the agent. He was thunderously rewarded, and though he had played the lead, he knew enough to allow Brady to be last to take a bow.

Alex turned grandly and generously gestured for Conrad Birdie, and as Brady jogged onstage, the audience let loose a new crescendo, and even the cast applauded. Cast members departed in the order they had appeared and were demanded back three times. Finally Brady forced Mr. N. to also make an appearance, and when that had gone on long enough, the director cued the curtain, and the cheering crowd finally, seemingly reluctantly, settled.

Brady had never been so high. The cast and crew congratulated each other as they slowly changed into street clothes, and as they made their way out of the dressing rooms and up the corridors to the front of the theater, parents and friends and fans slapped their hands and called out compliments. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to meet Brady, and his castmates appeared to love introducing him as if they were his dear friends.

He caught sight of Alex, crowded by his parents and little sister and surrounded by his friends; he also noticed they seemed to be sneaking glances his way and measuring the attention he was getting. The little girl, Katie North, suddenly appeared at his side and slipped her arm around his waist, beaming.

“This your sister?” someone said.

“Nah, Alex’s,” he said.

“I’m his lady friend!” Katie chirped, and everyone laughed. Even little kids loved the bad boy.

“Mother of the star, comin’ through!” came the undeniable voice.

Erlene Darby was trailed by her boyfriend-slash-boss, and it was plain they both were drunk. Brady immediately shook free of Katie, moved past his mother to her boss, and squeezed his shoulder as he bent close. “You get her out of here right now, or I swear on my life I’ll burn down your restaurant.”

“They kicked us out of the theater, Brady!” the man said.

“And I’m kicking you out of
here.
Now go!”

“Made me stand to see my own son!” his mother said, and Brady saw people spin, mouths agape. He wanted to shout that he had never in his life seen this ghastly creature, still in her waitress dress. Seeing they weren’t going to leave, he took each by the arm and marched them outside.

“Did you cause that ruckus in the back?” he said.

“I shouldn’t have to stand to see my son in a play!”

“You were late! And you didn’t have tickets! What were you thinking?”

“When they found out who I was, they put us in the corner behind the back row. Then somebody thought I was cheering too loud. But why not? You were great, Brady.”

“You’re pathetic. You embarrassed me.”

“How can you say that, you ungrateful little—”

“Where’s Petey?”

“He’s home, and he’s fine. Don’t you worry about him.”

Alejandro approached.
Oh no!

“This your
madre
?” he said, girlfriend in tow. “Bet she’s proud of you tonight, eh,
muchacho
?”

“I’m proud o’ him, but he’s not proud o’ me!” Erlene Darby slurred, and Brady saw instant recognition on Alejandro’s face.

“Well, you did a good job, man,” his boss said. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”

Adamsville

Thomas had talked Grace into retiring early, but the house was small enough that as he sat reading on an old couch in the tiny living room, he could hear her tossing and turning. He wondered whether it was better to let her fall asleep before joining her. He decided to memorize one more verse first.

But as he was working on it, he heard Grace begin to sing. As prodigious as he was in retaining the words of Scripture, she had hundreds of hymns—every verse—burned into her memory. He looked up from his Bible and lay his head back, closing his eyes as she softly sang.

O to be like You! blessed Redeemer,

This is my constant longing and prayer;

Gladly I’ll forfeit all of earth’s treasures,

Jesus, Your perfect likeness to wear.

O to be like You! O to be like You,

Blessed Redeemer, pure as You are!

Come in Your sweetness, come in Your fullness;

Stamp Your own image deep on my heart.

25

Sunday, 2 p.m. | Touhy Trailer Park | Addison

Barely a sliver of sunlight invaded Brady and Peter’s tiny bedroom through the cheap, bent blinds, but it was enough to make Brady roll over and bury his throbbing head under his pillow. He let out a long groan. Why did he do this to himself?

Brady had never really liked beer, and when his friends had told him it was an acquired taste, he wondered why they bothered to acquire it. He drank only to look cool and get a buzz, certainly not for the taste. And hangovers like this—his worst ever—were the price. Every beat of his heart sent shock waves through his skull that reached his cheekbones. Why?
Why?

To celebrate. Both shows Saturday had been as good as—some said better than—opening night. The local paper had shown up and interviewed everybody—cast, crew, relatives, fans—and taken pictures galore. Brady opened his eyes in the darkness afforded by the pillow and squinted against the raging pain. Before heading to Stevie Ray’s to drink himself into oblivion, he’d had the presence of mind to leave Petey a note and a dollar so he could buy a Sunday paper. If he ever felt able to get out of bed, he’d see if it was there.

Oh no.
He had wet himself in the night. And his breath tasted and smelled of vomit. How come they never showed that on the commercials?

How had he even gotten home? He didn’t remember. Stevie Ray’s wife had stomped out from their bedroom periodically to quietly but fiercely insist that they call it a night. And she kept saying that Stevie should get Brady home, as if he couldn’t get there himself. But he could, couldn’t he?
Hadn’t
he?

Brady sat up and let the sheet and blanket slide off. He planted his feet on the floor and held his head in his hands.
Never again. Never, never, never.
He licked his lips, which made him gag.

“I got your paper,” Peter said, and Brady looked up. Or tried to. He forced one eye open just a slit to see Peter in the corner, watching him.

“You read it?”

“Yeah. Cool. Lots of pictures and stuff about you.”

“No kiddin’? Get it.”

“You stink, you know.”

“I know. You like the play?”

“Sure, ’course. But I didn’t know where you were last night.”

“I wrote you a note.”

“But you didn’t say where you were gonna be, so I didn’t know till Stevie Ray brought you home.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. Really late. You were laughing and singing.”

“Seriously?”

“Some song from the play, but not as good.”

“I can imagine.”

“Stevie Ray must really like you.”

“Friends help each other.”

“Help them throw up? He was in the bathroom with you while you were puking your guts out.”

“Ugh.”

“I think you wet your bed too.”

“That’s what booze will do to you, Petey. Don’t ever—”

“Don’t worry! But why do you?”

Brady shrugged. “’Cause I’m an idiot. Don’t be an idiot.”

“I don’t get it, Brady. You were so good in that show and everybody loved you. Why’d you go and get drunk after that?”

Brady shook his head. “Thought I was celebrating. Stupid. Just stupid.”

“I don’t want a brother who’s stupid. I was telling everybody who I was at the play. They said I must be really proud. I’ve never been so proud.”

“But not right now, huh?”

“Nope.”

“All right. I’m sorry, man. I really am. Funny thing is, I don’t even like beer. Stevie Ray does. Loves it. He’s learned to drink only on weekends after his gigs so it doesn’t affect his playing.”

“Whatever.”

“I said I was sorry. Now bring me the paper.”

“Take a shower first.”

“Just bring it!”

But when Peter went to get it, Brady staggered into the shower. At least they had water pressure. Not much heat, but the tepid liquid on his head offered some relief.

Adamsville

“I feel almost guilty, Grace,” Thomas said, resting on the couch with his Sunday paper, an NFL game on TV. He had changed out of his church clothes after lunch.