Riven (8 page)

He sat watching the clock during his last class, weighing the prospect of just gathering up his suit and guitar and heading home.

Oldenburg

Grace had finally roused around lunchtime, complaining of fatigue and a lack of appetite. But Thomas persuaded her to try half a cheese sandwich—again testing his culinary skills—with a little more tea.

“Anything specific, hon?” he said. “You need to see a doctor?”

“I don’t think so. I’m just wiped out. We’ve been through a lot in just a few days.”

“Tell me about it.”

Thomas was stunned to learn that she had been wholly unaware the Pierces had been there. “You slept through all that? Paul’s not a quiet guy.”

She nodded. “How long were they here?”

“Long enough to try to supervise the phone installation.”

“What? You didn’t tell me! I want to call Ravinia!”

Thomas pointed her to the phone, encouraged that she suddenly seemed perkier. He cleared away the dishes as she dialed.

“Yes, thank you, just a minute,” she said, then covered the receiver. “Thomas, write this down. Rav’s suitemate says she has a new number. She’s moved.”

“Moved? What—go ahead, I’m ready.”

Grace recited the number and hung up. “She’s not in the dorm anymore. The girl says she found a roommate off campus to save money.”

“That’s prudent, but it sure happened fast.”

“She’s always been good with money,” Grace said as Thomas slid the new number to her. “But I wish she didn’t have to do this.”

Thomas sat, waiting his turn to talk to his daughter.

“No answer,” Grace whispered, then, “Oh, wait.” She squinted, then opened her mouth as if to speak before quickly hanging up. “Oh no.”

“What?”

She stood and moved toward the bedroom.

“Grace! What?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Of course I do; now what?”

“Call her yourself,” she said, shutting the bedroom door.

Thomas dialed, his fingers shaking. The number rang four times; then came his daughter’s cheerfully recorded voice: “You’ve reached Dirk and Rav. Leave a message after the beep and . . .”

Thomas found Grace curled on the bed, sobbing. “It may not be as bad as it sounds,” he said.

“Oh, Thomas, it’s one thing for us to be old-fashioned, but let’s not be naive.”

9

Forest View High School

Brady seemed to move in slow motion, such was his dread on the way to the Little Theater. All around him fresh-scrubbed preppies bustled, laughing, gossiping, seeming eager to get to the sheets taped to the door, listing parts already cast. A few girls glanced at Brady, clearly wondering what he was doing there. Another held her nose and leaned to whisper something to a friend, but she quickly straightened when Brady glared.

He recognized none of the names on the sheet and again considered forgetting the whole crazy idea, until he noticed “Alex North*” on the Conrad Birdie line. At the bottom he found “*Pending.” So Nabertowitz was withholding his final decision until he’d seen Brady onstage.

No pressure there. As Brady headed toward his suit and guitar, kids were saying, “Did you see that? North’s not in for sure.”

“No way.”

“Why?”

“C’mon—he’s automatic.”

A small wicker basket lay on a table in the music room adjoining the stage. Kids were drawing numbers from it. Brady hesitated. He could just grab his stuff and still make the bus. This was crazy. Nobody would look at him straight on, but he felt everyone’s eyes. He had as much business here as a linebacker in an antique store.

Brady made up his mind to go home. He marched to the closet and grabbed the garment bag and guitar case.

“Hey!” a girl squealed. “Is he stealing something?”

Brady whirled. “Who, me?” Everyone froze. “These yours?”

“No, I just—”

“Then shut your mouth!”

Nabertowitz entered and seemed to quickly detect the awkwardness. “Hi, Brady,” he said. “Did you get a number?”

“No.”

“Grab one.”

If Brady hadn’t been stopped, he’d have been out of there by now. With everyone staring, he put his stuff back in the closet and grabbed a slip from the basket: 38.
Oh, great.
If he didn’t get this over soon, he was going to explode.

His eyes found the girl again, a cheerleader type.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, flushed. “I just thought—”

“I know what you thought,” he said and moved to the wing of the stage, where he could watch.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, grabbing a sheaf of papers off a table and moving past him. “That was stupid of me.”

Brady wasn’t sure why, but she had somehow made him feel sorry for her. She had assumed a guy like him could only be up to no good in the music room, and worse, she must have considered him stupid enough to try to steal something in front of dozens of people. Well, he wouldn’t berate her anymore, but he’d show her.

To Brady’s surprise, the girl strode directly to a spinet piano just offstage and arranged her music. From the darkened seats, where Clancy Nabertowitz sat surrounded by kids who had apparently been cast the day before, the director called out, “First sixteen girls, town chorus!”

From both sides of the stage they came, some looking eager, others petrified. Brady could identify. He knew that by now he was the talk of the place. But these girls had a job to do, and within minutes, Cheerleader was whaling away on the piano as the others cavorted all over the stage.

A girl stepped up behind Brady. “Is it true you’re trying out for Birdie?”

He turned. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing to me. Might mean something to my boyfriend, though. That’s him right in front of Mr. N.”

Brady squinted. A short, good-looking kid sat staring at the stage, arms folded, scowling. “Doesn’t seem as impressed with the dancers as everyone else is.”

“He’d better not be,” the girl said, laughing. “’Course, he’s worried about you.”

“He doesn’t even know me.”

“He knows of you. He and Mr. N. are tight. He always gets the leads.”

“He shouldn’t have any trouble beating me out.”

“You ride a motorcycle?”

Brady grimaced and faced her. “What makes you ask that?”

“You look the type, that’s all.”

“I can’t afford a motorcycle.”

“Well, you’d look good on one.”

Brady turned back to the stage, feeling himself redden. Had he just been hit on by a popular girl? Impossible.

During the hubbub of kids taking and leaving the stage, Brady noticed the girl at the piano sneaking a peek at him. What was this? Never seen his type before?

She mouthed, “Forgive me?”

He cocked his head and shrugged, nodding. She beckoned him over.

“I’m really not usually like that,” she said.

“Forget it.”

“Thanks.”

Again confused and tongue-tied, he moved away, only to stop and spin. “You want to make it up to me?”

She looked wary. “How?”

“You know ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ the Carl—”

“—Perkins classic? Of course. I don’t have the music, but I could figure it out. It’s not in this play, you know.”

He shot her a look.

“Sorry. Guess you knew that.”

“Yeah, I knew. And do you know the lighting guys?”

She nodded.

“Okay, here’s what I need. . . .”

An hour later Brady was as antsy as he had ever been. These kids all seemed to know each other, to know what they were doing, and to be doing it well. Nabertowitz hollered, “Thirty-seven! Hi there! What’re you auditioning for?”

“Bartender!”

“Very good. When you’re ready.”

Brady hurried to the closet, grabbed the garment bag, and ducked into the bathroom. It frustrated him to find a few other guys in there. The conversation quickly stopped. He hadn’t wanted to change in a stall, but that was his only choice now.

Brady got the door shut and opened the bag, kicking off his shoes and trying to maneuver in the tiny chamber. He heard a snicker. What must they be thinking?

He swore when he realized his belt didn’t fit the tiny loops in the suit slacks. It still wasn’t too late to back out. If he didn’t answer when the director called his number, end of story.

But as he pulled his shoes back on, Brady could think only of the trailer, his wasted mother, and Peter. Maybe this wasn’t the only way out, but it could be a start, and he owed that much to Petey. Somehow he knew that if he could keep his brother at the forefront of his mind, he could do this. He had no idea whether he was any good or if he would wind up humiliated, but he could at least try.

Brady emerged relieved to see the bathroom empty, but when he got into the music room, the same guys were bending over the now open guitar case. “Sweet!”

“A Strat!”

“Touch that and I break your face,” Brady said.

The boys recoiled. “Just looking, pal. Chill.”

“Yeah, well, it isn’t mine and I’m not supposed to let anyone—”

“Great threads, by the way.”

From the theater Brady heard, “Thirty-eight!”

He lifted the guitar, heavier than he expected, and slung the black leather strap over his shoulder. He should have practiced this. He just missed the doorjamb with the neck, and as he moved to the side of the stage, still out of sight, the houselights went black.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Brady padded carefully toward the single mike at center stage as murmurs faded to silence, but he could see nothing. What if he plunged into the orchestra pit? He treaded gingerly, feeling carefully for solid ground. Finally Brady nudged the mike, pulled it close to his mouth, and took a deep breath.

Forcing his fear somewhere deep inside, he belted, “Well, it’s one for the money!” and the girl at the piano banged a loud chord. “Two for the show!” and she came in again. “Three to get ready, now go, cat, go!” and the spotlight hit him.

Somehow Brady had begun on pitch, and now that he was into it, he just let loose. Air-picking the gleaming blue Stratocaster, he could see the spotlight dancing off his suit, gold lamé from head to toe.

During a piano interlude, Brady danced all over the stage to the squeals and cheers of the crowd, and the light followed him. No one was going to believe this hadn’t been choreographed and rehearsed. How could he ever thank the piano girl and the lighting guys?

When he finished, Brady took a sweeping bow and ran from the stage, holding up his pants with his free hand.

“Get back out here, Brady Darby!” Mr. Nabertowitz squealed. “Encore! Encore!”

Brady stopped, panting.

“Go back,” someone said. “Curtain call.”

Hands from everywhere pushed him back out. He visored his eyes with his hand but couldn’t see Mr. N. in the darkness.

“Kill the spot!” the teacher said, and the houselights came up. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Mr. Conrad Birdie!”

More cheering and clapping, but it was not lost on Brady that Alex North rose and stormed out.

Well, Alex was Nabertowitz’s problem. For now, Brady was Christmas-morning happy. He imagined himself on the cover of the program, but he also knew there would be a lot of hard work between now and opening night.

By the time he got back to the music room, Nabertowitz was there. “You are something special, my young friend!” he said. “You can sing. I hope you have a little range in your dancing, but we can work on that.”

“You gonna have trouble with North?”

“Of course.” The teacher leaned close. “Between you and me, I’m worried more about Mom and Dad, but I can handle it. You just worry about learning your part.”

Brady carefully reboxed the guitar, and this time he kept it with him when he returned to the bathroom. But his clothes were not hanging in the stall. Had he forgotten which one he’d changed in? As he moved from door to door, he noticed two sinks were full of water.

One also held his shirt.

The other his pants.

10

Thursday | Oldenburg Rural Chapel

Paul Pierce was away for more meetings with his sons, so Thomas Carey felt productive all morning, talking by phone with contacts at each of the other four churches in his circuit, getting a little studying and sermon preparation done, and even somewhat organizing the modest office. At the back of his mind was Grace, who had again been slow to rise and exhibited a strange bruise on one wrist. She attributed it to the heavy work around the house but couldn’t remember a specific injury.

The puzzle of Ravinia was always with him. What had he and Grace done wrong? How had they failed her? How would God bring her back? Thomas had always believed and taught that God wooed unbelievers but chastised His own when they strayed. He dreaded that for his daughter.

And then there was also the coming confrontation with Paul.

Thomas hated the word
confrontation
almost as much as he hated the activity itself. He imagined himself straightforward and firm when he knew he was right, but the truth was, Grace was better at these things. She was slow to anger and usually diplomatic, but she was not afraid to speak her mind when she felt it important. Thomas had good intentions, but he always seemed to think of a better way to have said something long after it might have been effective.

There was no getting around it though. If he didn’t start standing up to Paul, his life would quickly become miserable. Such long-term grief would be much worse than the sharp pain of a brief encounter where he stood his ground. Thomas jotted a few notes on what he wanted to say and how to say it. Paul was expected at 2 p.m.

Forest View High School

Brady Darby felt like a Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s court. He had never read the Mark Twain novel, assigned in English the year before, but the title had amused him, and the class discussion had given him an idea what it was about. Now he could really identify. In a matter of forty-eight brief hours, he had become the talk of the drama department.

He still looked the same, smelled the same, dressed the same. But suddenly he was no longer invisible to the larger culture. Usually, except for the occasional peek or sneer, aside from the negative attention on the bus every morning, normal kids looked right through his type—if they looked at all. Of course they were afraid of him, and that suited Brady fine. He scowled and snapped and blustered enough to keep them at bay.