Chapel of Ease (16 page)

I was too startled to respond at first. I wasn't worried about singing, but even though Thorn had warned me, I hadn't expected to be asked to take part in the wake. But everyone applauded, and the people near me gently urged me forward.

Well, who was I to turn down a cheering crowd, even at a funeral? I strode to the front and stepped onto the stage, then went to the microphone. “Thanks,” I said. “Yes, I've been working with Ray on his latest play,
Chapel of Ease,
which will open Off-Broadway in a week. We had our press preview, and the reviews were all raves. So I'm actually very happy to share this with you.”

I paused, letting myself settle into character, or at least as much as I needed to to sing the song. “I'm going to sing my first big number, the one that opens the show. I hope you enjoy it.”

I took a breath, closed my eyes to get where I needed to be mentally, then began to sing.

Deep in the woods

There's some old stone walls

With no frame, no roof, no floor.

Yet buried inside

The old chapel of ease

Is a truth folks would kill and die for.

I wasn't watching the crowd at first; my usual trick was staring into the middle distance over their heads, so that their reactions wouldn't throw me out of character. I also usually had stage lights in my eyes. I sang as simply as I could, the way my character Crawford did, although obviously I wasn't also acting the part.

But then something amazing happened. As I began the second verse, a long, low fiddle part accompanied me. I glanced over and saw the fiddler from the earlier band, an older woman with short black hair, watching me closely, as if my body language somehow helped her play. Instantly I felt self-conscious, something I hardly ever did onstage, and had to wrench my focus back to the song.

As I continued, the fiddle was joined first by the upright bass, and then by the guitar and banjo. Before I reached the second chorus, the whole band was with me, and they were spot-on. If our pit band had been this good, the critics' heads would've exploded.

At the bridge, I turned to the band and said, “You take it for a while.” They smiled, nodded, and went off on solos, first the fiddler and then the banjo picker. The fiddler nodded that it was time for me to come back in, so I began the third verse.

Shad was a man

with a furrowed brow

He thought long and he thought deep.

He loved little Byrda

like the dew loves grass

And her heart was tender and sweet.

I sang with a drawl now, something I'd failed miserably at in rehearsal. Neil had even said, “Your speaking accent is fine, but your singing accent sounds like you ate Andy Griffith and he's stuck in your throat.” But here, I managed it without even trying.

And on the reprise of the first chorus, not only did the band play along, but the crowd sang as well. I found myself leading a choir of a hundred … or maybe more? It was hard to tell; the inside of the barn seemed larger than it had been before, and the crowd seemed ridiculously huge.

The song ended, and I applauded along with everyone else, because this wasn't a performance; it was a communal event. I'd only led the ceremony.

I glanced over at Thorn, who jumped up and down in excitement and approval. I guess she wasn't trying to humiliate me after all. But how could she have known it would go over like this?

I stepped offstage and accepted congratulations from dozens of black-haired strangers. I looked around for Ladonna and Gerald, but didn't see them. Uncertain of where to go—surely they hadn't just abandoned me here—I found a spot on the wall and waited.

“Excuse me,” said an older man I didn't know. “Have you got a moment?”

“Sure.”

“I know this might be bad manners at a wake, but my name's Don Swayback, and I work for the
Daily Horn,
the newspaper over in Unicorn that covers Cloud County. I understand you were friends with Ray Parrish.”

“We worked together, and I'd like to think we were friends, yeah.”

“You brought his body back home?”

“His ashes.”

“Ah. Well, I wondered if I could talk to you on the record about Ray. Not too many people from this area make it to Broadway.”

“Technically he only made it to Off-Broadway.”

“Well, it's still a long way from Needsville. How long are you in town for?”

“Three more days.”

“Do you think you could work me in? The Tufa get a bad rap for being backwards and weird, so this would be a nice balance for that.”

“I guess. I'm staying with Ray's parents. Do you know them?”

“I know his sister, Thorn. Okay if I call you out there tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

We said our good-byes, shook hands, and he left. I still saw no sign of anyone I knew, although I got no sense of danger. At least, not yet. Then the music resumed, and I had the almost uncontrollable urge to dance.

 

13

So I did. Dance, that is. After all, I'd been practicing steps like this for weeks. I watched long enough to get a sense of the basic moves, then slid into one of the lines between an old woman in a big skirt and a little barefoot girl. Instantly I felt like one of the community, and the music seemed to guide me so that I never put a foot wrong. And I couldn't help smiling and laughing at both the ease of it, and the beauty of the music and what we were all creating with it. I'd felt similar things on occasion in shows, but never this strongly and never all the way through.

Exhausted, I stepped off the dance floor and looked around for something to drink. I saw Thorn standing by the door holding two beers, and when we made eye contact, she raised one in my direction. I nodded and started toward her.

Suddenly a firm hand grabbed my arm and turned me. C.C. stood there and said seriously, “Don't drink that.”

“Why?”

“It's complicated. If you're thirsty, come out to my truck with me.”

“There's beer right over there.”

“You drink that beer, you may live to regret it.”

I looked back at Thorn, who scowled at C.C. in annoyance. “Did she poison it?” I asked.

“There's things you don't understand about the Tufa. Come on and I'll explain them to you.”

“I don't know—”

Now
he
looked annoyed. “Dude, you either trust people or you don't.”

“I barely know you.”

“Yeah, well, with that attitude, that ain't likely to change.”

I thought I heard a hint of … something in there, and it was enough to overcome my reticence. As we passed Thorn, C.C. snagged one of the beers from her, leading her to exclaim, “Hey!” But we were already out the door.

It was full dark by now, and the trees hummed with insects that were easily as loud as the traffic in Manhattan. “What makes all that noise?”

“What noise?”

“The insect noise.”

“Oh. Crickets. Cicadas. Tree frogs.”

“Are they always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So loud.”

“Except in the winter. Then they go, ‘Brrrrrr.'”

He said this so deadpan that it took a minute for me to realize he was joking. By then we'd reached what I assumed was his truck, a much newer and shinier model than most of the others. I didn't know if it meant he was better off financially, or just had a little more pride in his ride.

But wait, I thought. Hours earlier, I'd seen this truck at the Parrishes', and it was just as dusty and worn as their vehicles. That meant he'd gone somewhere and
washed
it. Was it because he knew I'd be here?…

No, don't be an idiot.
He was coming to a wake. It was no doubt out of respect for the dead.

He opened the passenger door and handed me a beer from a cooler. I couldn't read the label in the light. “What makes this beer different from the one Thorn had?”

He turned his up and drank. I was desperately thirsty and wanted to do the same, but sensed that his answer might be important. Then he belched lightly and said, “Henry Hudson.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You ever read ‘Rip Van Winkle'?”

“The kids' story?”

“It's not a kids' story. It's a cautionary tale. Rip drinks some beer from the strange people he meets, who're led by Henry Hudson, and sleeps for twenty years.”

“Yeah. And?”

“It just goes to show that accepting drinks from the wrong people can have consequences.”

I looked at the beer he handed me. “But you're not the wrong people?”

“Not tonight.” He touched the neck of his bottle to mine. “Cheers.”

I took a tentative swallow. It tasted fine, and I recognized it: Heineken Dark.

“Is that all right?” C.C. asked.

“It's my favorite,” I said truthfully.

“I thought you looked like a Heineken man,” and for the first time, he smiled. We tapped bottle necks again.

“You sounded great in there,” he continued.

“It's my job.”

“Then you're bound to be a star.”

“I shouldn't take credit for it. It's mostly Ray's songs. They're so good, anybody would sound great singing them.”

“Maybe. I wouldn't.”

“You don't sing?”

“Nope. I'm probably the least musical Tufa you'll ever meet. Never really learned to play anything beyond basic chords, can't sing, and sure can't dance.” He shook his head. “If I didn't have the hair and the teeth, I'd wonder about my parents.”

“Well, I'm sure you have … other qualities.” Luckily, it was too dark for him to see me blush as I realized I was openly flirting now, regardless of what he was doing. I still couldn't tell: all the usual clues I was used to recognizing in my social milieu didn't seem to apply here.

“I can fix things, and build things, and I'm pretty good in a crisis,” he said. “Of course, there has to
be
a crisis for that last bit to apply. Things pretty much just cruise along here.”

We stood in the relative silence for a moment, until the music started back in the barn. I said, “I suppose I should go back inside, in case the Parrishes start to think I've wandered off.”

He held up another bottle. “Want one for the road?”

“No, I need to keep my head reasonably clear. Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

It was an opening the size of an eighteen-wheeler, but he didn't take it. Instead he just said, “Well, I'll see you around, I'm sure. I'm doing some work for Gerald out in their barn.”

Impulsively, I asked, “Say, do you know where to find the real chapel of ease that Ray wrote about?”

He stood very still for a long moment. “Maybe.”

“I'd love to see it, and take some pictures for the rest of the cast. We all kind of have our own ideas of it.”

“Don't you think that's better? What lives in your mind and heart is always better than reality.”

Well,
that
wasn't the kind of insight I'd expected. “I don't know if it's ‘better,' but I know they'd like to see it.”

“I'll see what I can do.” Then he closed the truck's door and headed back to the barn. I followed, more unsure now than I'd been before we started talking.

*   *   *

It was well past midnight when I returned to Ray's old bedroom. I'd danced more tonight than I had since I was new to New York, when youth and various substances kept me going at a maniacal pace until dawn. I'd had nothing but beer tonight, and not much of that; it was the music that gave me energy and made sure I continued dancing and singing. Well, that and the fact that everyone around me seemed as good as, if not better than, the professionals I knew back in the city.

I fell on the bed, intending to take off my clothes and check my phone, but fell asleep almost at once. My dreams were strange and disturbing, and consisted mainly of scenes from
Chapel of Ease,
except it wasn't Jason, or Julie, or Ryan. Instead the people in my dream all had the Tufa look, as well as the hard, harsh angles that mountain living seemed to give to the faces around here. They spoke to me, and I responded—but when I opened my eyes all those words went
whoosh.

I turned my head slightly, momentarily disoriented, and thought I heard the faint trace of someone humming “The Sun on the Ridge” from the play. The dawn was gray and faint, and in the shadows beside the window I saw a shape I recognized immediately.

“Ray?” I said, my voice ragged. Then I blinked, and the shadow was gone.

Well, that got the old adrenaline going. I sat up straight, eyes wide open, and stared into the corner where I thought I'd seen him. There was nothing but a stack of boxes that, if I squinted, looked vaguely human-shaped. I waited for my heart to stop pounding.

I dug out my phone and found a text message from Joaquim:
Tried to call, but it kept going to voice mail. Let me know how you're doing.
Then, below that, another text from him:
I'll pick up Chinese on my way over. Don't get dressed on my account.

It took me a minute to process that. He knew I was out of town, so …

Oh.

Clearly it was meant for someone else. The implications were also unmistakable. I should've been upset, or at least a little sad, but actually, I felt nothing. Whatever I had with Joaquim had not progressed to the point that I now felt its loss, and I had enough other concerns to occupy my time.

I put on some pants and a shirt and went into the kitchen to see if there might be coffee. Sure enough, a big pot had brewed, and Thorn sat at the table, sipping a cup. She wore a man's athletic shirt and, from the evidence of her bare legs, little else.