Chapel of Ease (2 page)

“Wrong? Nothing. Why?”

“You look like you've seen a ghost. Who was on the phone? Did you get bad news?”

“That? No. It was…” Her concern was so genuine, and I'm such a terrible liar, that my brain refused to cough up a reasonable deception. “Some scam call trying to tell me I had a bunch of money coming because some rich uncle died. Heh-heh.”

Emily stared at me. I couldn't blame her. I felt myself turn red.

“They called you,” she said at last. It was a whisper, but the jealousy and accusation in it were so loud, I was sure they heard it in Queens.

I lowered my head and nodded. “Yes. I'm sorry. I danced in one of Neil's shows, so they thought…” I wasn't about to tell her they'd offered me one of the leads.

Fresh tears filled her recently re-mascaraed eyes. Without another word she ran off down the street. I knew better than to follow; the last thing she wanted right now was my presence reminding her that she'd been passed over yet again. I wondered if she'd mention this to Ray, or if this spelled the end of that relationship. Or perhaps her friendship with me.

I went back inside, drank the rest of my tea, and Emily's, in a kind of blank daze. It was just another Off-Off-Broadway show, an original musical at that. The run would probably be two weeks at the most, and the money barely enough to exist on. But I felt a surge of excitement building in me far out of proportion to the reality. Was this how those first performers in
A Chorus Line
or
Rent
felt just before going in to audition for those shows? Did they, at some subconscious, instinctive, primal level, just
know
? Because looking back, it was clear I did.

I stayed in that daze as I headed home to Bushwick. Ray hadn't described it as an audition, and Emily said they were just calling people they already knew could perform. But I didn't want to be caught off guard. I mentally ran through a list of songs I knew I sang really well, and then tried to remember if I had sheet music for them. If not, at least I had time to download it.

And while I was downloading, I could find out a little more about Ray Parrish.

I knew
nothing
about this show yet, I kept reminding myself. But I already knew I wanted it.

 

2

The entrance to the rehearsal studio where I was supposed to meet Ray Parrish and Neil Callow was at the top of a steep narrow staircase that ran along the outside of the building, ending at a covered stairwell. The lightbulb was out, so as you looked up the stairs, it was easy to imagine going into that blackness and never coming out.

I checked the address again. Yep, this was it, above a fortune-teller's storefront that advertised, in neon,
PSYCHIC CRYSTAL AND TAROT READINGS
. Perhaps I should stop in with Star Aurora and see if she had any insight. Then I saw that “tarot” was misspelled
TOROT
, and decided that was a sign.

In college, we'd studied old hero myths and I seemed to recall something about the hero having to pass through the underworld at some point. It was ironic that the underworld might be located at the top of the stairs, but as I slowly took the steps, it certainly felt like I was embarking on something epic.

It hadn't taken long to learn all the Internet had to tell about Ray Parrish. He was from a small town in Tennessee, and he'd come to New York as a session musician, working with some of the biggest names in the business. But he always wrote his own songs, too, and after discovering the fringe theater scene, he decided to put his energies toward writing for the stage. At first he worked with established writers, putting songs to their stories, but now he was ready to do it all himself.

I found only two pictures of him: one was a rehearsal shot, and he was far in the background, while the other was an actor's backstage photo posted on Facebook. In it, Ray sat at an upright piano, hunched over the keys with the kind of serious intent I'd seen on classical performers. Yet he wore a baseball cap with the silhouette of a tractor on it. Ray himself had no social media presence, and I wondered just how weird he was likely to be.

Fortunately, in real life Ray Parrish had a grin that lit up the room. When I tentatively opened the door to the studio, Ray sat in a folding chair beside the piano, engrossed in texting someone. He turned suddenly, and smiled. “Matt Johansson!” he said, and jumped to his feet.

He approached me with his hand out. “I'm really glad you could make it, Matt. I've been telling Neil here all about you. I saw you in
Regency Way,
and you were phenomenal. That song at the end, where you had to break down … you had the audience riveted.”

“Having a good song helped,” I said.

“I reckon so. But I saw it three times, and once with your understudy, so I know how much of it was just
you.
”

“Thank you.”
Wow,
I thought. I'd missed one afternoon show after the train broke down and stranded me, and my understudy had gone on in my place. By all accounts he'd done fine, but I was lucky that hadn't been the only show Ray saw.

“Neil!” Ray called. “Come meet Matt Johansson.”

Neil Callow strode over to us. He was short, bulky, and wore his hair the same way he must have in the '90s. “Yes, no matter how many times I tell him that I know you, he just can't seem to retain it. Good to see you again, Matt. Are you still dating Chance Burwell?”

Chance had been a featured dancer in
Sly Mongoose,
and we'd been a couple for a few months. It hadn't worked out, but the parting had been genial. “No, he and I broke up.”

“That's too bad. I heard he was working on a cruise ship.”

“We haven't kept in touch.”

“Well, that's all in the past. Let's get started on the future. Take a seat.”

Even though I'd been told this wasn't an audition, it was hard not to think of it that way. That was okay, though; auditions were nerve-racking for some, but I always found them exciting. Even when I didn't get the part, which was most of the time, I tried to always leave a good impression, since you never knew what might happen someday. My presence here right now was a perfect sign of that.

“I think we have a mutual friend,” I said to Ray. “Emily Valance.”

He smiled, and I swear he blushed a little, too. “Oh yeah, I know Emily. She's amazing.”

“She says very nice things about you.”

“Really? Like what?”

“You can talk about that in study hall, boys,” Neil teased good-naturedly. “Right now, Ray, why don't you tell Matt about the show?”

“Sure!” Ray said, brimming with excitement. “It's set back in my home place, Needsville, Tennessee. Ever heard of it?”

I shook my head.

“Well, it's little-bitty, so I'm not surprised. It's way up in the Appalachian Mountains.” He pronounced it
Apple-Atcha,
not
Apple-LAYcha,
the way I'd always heard it. “It's about a place called a chapel of ease. Know what that is?”

Again I shook my head, but volunteered, “A whorehouse?”

He laughed. “Naw, but that might make a good story, too. No, it's like a branch church; when the real church is too far away for a lot of people to get to, they set up a small one to kind of fill in the gaps. The preacher comes around every so often to do weddings, baptisms, and so forth. It gives the distant faithful a place to gather.”

I had not been raised in any religion; in fact, I'd only set foot in churches for weddings and funerals. So this was as foreign to me as the Russian peasantry in
Fiddler on the Roof.
“Okay,” I said. “Sounds interesting.”

“It's about two trios of characters, one from the Civil War, one modern. In both, two of the people are in love and about to get married, and the third one is secretly in love with one of the others. So it'll have ghosts, and murder, and all the things that make theater great.” He grinned with unabashed delight. “The thing that pulls the two stories together is the mystery of what's buried in the floor of the ruined old chapel.”

“Which is?” I asked.

Ray grinned in a way I would soon hear him characterize as “like a possum.” “I can't tell you that. See, in the show, we never find out.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Neil said with a weariness that implied he and Ray had discussed this issue a
lot.
“I know how it sounds, but in the context of the show, it really does work.”

“But do you know?” I asked Ray.

“Yeah, of course I know.”

“You should also tell him,” Neil said more calmly, “that this is based on a true story.”

“It is,” Ray agreed. “It's something I grew up hearing about, and I used to sneak over to the old chapel just because they told me I couldn't. I always knew someday I'd use it as the basis for something, so I kept turning it over in my mind until I came up with this show.” He did a drumroll with his hands on the table. “So you want to try some singing? We'll do something you already know to warm up, then we'll try some stuff from the show.”

“Ray's not just the writer and composer,” Neil said. “He's also the musical director.”

“And I intend to be playing piano in the orchestra, too. Well, it'll be more of a band. But I want to be there.”

While Neil went to sit by the wall so he could watch and listen objectively, I followed Ray to the piano. I couldn't help myself checking him out: he was lean, lanky, and walked with his head hunched down the way some tall guys do. His long jet-black hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, as if he'd done it just to get the hair out of his way. He had high cheekbones, and at the time, I thought he must have some Native American in him.

He settled down at the piano bench and I handed him the music of one of my favorite songs, which also happened to totally show off my voice: “Synchronicity II,” by the Police. He looked at it, smiled knowingly, and said, “Oh, man, I love this one.” Then he imitated Sting's voice: “Dark Scottish loch.” He hit a note for me, then said, “Ready?””

I tore through the song, which he played slightly faster than I was used to. He added little fills and at one point during the cacophonous guitar solo part, hit the keys with his elbows. We both laughed. He finished with a glissando.

Because we went so fast, I didn't have time to worry and second-guess myself, but just plowed ahead with as much full-throated enthusiasm as I could muster. I almost wished I had a microphone on a stand in front of me, to grab and use as a prop.

Neil politely applauded when we finished. He'd done this long enough to expertly hide any response other than basic appreciation for effort. “Matt, I can't remember: Can you sight-read?”

I nodded. Ray flipped through some music and said, “Here, let's try this one.”

The song he handed me was called “A Sad Song for a Lonely Place.” I read through it quickly, getting a sense of the rhythm. It was comfortably in my range. “Okay,” I said.

“I'll go through it once, and then you can come in,” he said, and began to play.

Except that “play” doesn't do it justice. I knew he could
play
from our first number. And I knew a lot of great musicians, especially pianists, but I'd never seen or heard anyone like him. His fingers worked the keys with the fluidity of a mountain stream, and his body rocked with the grace of a willow bending in the wind. And the music itself was so touching, so affecting that I totally missed my cue. He looked up at me with a grin and, still playing, said, “Wait till I come around again.”

I did, and then at his nod, I began:

The stones were set to last forever

But the mortar crumbles away

The trees may stand for centuries

But eventually fall to decay

And me, I'm a blink of the great oak's eye

My time so pitiful and short

So why does this pain cut me so to the quick

And leave a hole in my chest for my heart?

I sang as simply and directly as I could. I understood the audition process: this part wasn't about anything other than making sure I could hit the required notes with as little effort as possible. And I could. It was like it was written for me.

That made me think back on Emily, who'd felt so certain when she heard the songs from this show that they were meant for her. I wondered how many other actors were wandering around New York thinking the same thing.

When we finished, Ray glanced back at Neil, who nodded very slightly.

“That was great, Matt,” the director said. “But I wonder if you could try it a little differently? Emphasize the weariness. Try to bring out the weight of time that the singer is feeling. Does that make sense?”

“You bet.” Neil was seeing if he and I really understood each other, and if I could take direction. So I sang it again, the way he requested, and damn if the song wasn't even easier this way. My first attempt missed a crucial element, and now I'd found it.

When I finished, I wasn't even out of breath. If anything, the song had energized me.

Ray flipped through the sheets on the piano's music stand. “Let's try another one,” he said eagerly. “Your character doesn't sing all these, naturally, but I've heard myself sing 'em so much, it's just a treat to hear a different voice. Okay with you, Neil?”

Neil mock-shrugged. “Sure. But just so you know, Matt, it's not going to be a one-man show.”

I laughed, and Ray turned eagerly to me. “You up for it?”

“You bet,” I said. I tried not to get excited and read any subtext into his “your character” comment. I knew from experience that I didn't actually
have
the role until my agent got that all-important offer from the producers. But if the rest of the songs were as beautiful as the one we'd just done, then I wanted to sing them just for the pleasure of it.