Riven (7 page)

“Do you have an electric guitar?”

“No.”

“Can you borrow one?”

“I don’t play.”

“You don’t have to play. It’s just a prop. I did a little musical theater myself, so trust me. You audition in this suit carrying an electric guitar, and you’d have to be the worst actor in the world to not get the part. I mean, come on, you look like Birdie in street clothes. Imagine yourself in this.”

With a flourish, the man pulled a suit off the rack and squared it up so Brady and Peter could get the full effect.

“Oh, man!” Peter said. “Brady, you’ve
got
to get that!”

Brady stared and shook his head. “That’s gonna be way out of my price range.”

“It’s on sale!”

“Of course it is.”

“I’m serious. And we have it in your size. It would have to be tailored, but—”

“I have to take it with me tonight, man.”

“Hmm. We usually like a few days. Tell you what, I’ll do it myself, while you wait.”

Brady showed him how much money he had.

“Hmm. You’re a little short, but given the circumstances, we’ll make it work. But you have to tell me how everything goes tomorrow. And if you know anybody with an electric guitar . . . the louder the better.”

“I told you, I don’t play.”

“I’m not talking volume, sir. I’m talking color. Just be sure it doesn’t clash with the suit.”

Brady and Peter got home with just minutes to spare before Brady had to clean the Laundromat. Worse, his mother’s car was there. And she was on his case from the minute he opened the door.
Where have you been; why didn’t you leave a note; what have you gone and wasted your money on now; what’s the idea keeping a kid out this late?
—the whole bit.

Brady hurried Peter off to bed. “Just mind your own business, Ma, and don’t try to tell me Petey
is
your business. You’re the one who’s supposed to be here with him, not me. I do more with him than you do. I had an errand to run; what was I going to do, leave him here alone? Now I gotta go to work, and then I’m stopping over at Stevie Ray’s.”

She was still screaming at him as he left.

Brady had never worked so hard and fast. He had the Laundromat tidied in no time, and that night he didn’t skim even a quarter.

At 10:30 he knocked at Stevie Ray’s trailer. A thirtyish man with a long ponytail and wearing workout shorts and a wife-beater undershirt answered the door. “Hey, dude,” he whispered. “C’mon in. Gotta be quiet. The baby just went down.”

“You busy?” Brady said, stepping in.

“Nah. Just watchin’ the end of the news. Have a brew.”

Stevie Ray pulled a couple of Buds from the fridge. Brady knew he shouldn’t, because he planned to be up all night memorizing lines. But, hey.

Stevie Ray muted the TV as they sat. “So what’s up? Haven’t seen you in a while. Heard your dad passed.”

“Yeah. Listen, I was wonderin’ if I could borrow your Stratocaster.”

Stevie Ray took a long pull and studied Brady. “You kidding? That’s my life, man. Cost more’n my car. And you don’t play anyway, do you?”

Brady explained why he needed it. “I mean, unless you have a gig tomorrow. I could have it back by seven or so.”

“We only play weekends now; you know that. Doing the Ramada Friday and Saturday and some kid’s birthday party Sunday.”

“Cool.”

“So you don’t need the amp? You’re not gonna plug it in?”

“I’m just going to hold it and pretend.”

“You’ll keep it in the case at all times otherwise?”

“Promise.”

“And you’re not gonna let anybody else so much as touch it.”

“I swear. Man, I really appreciate this.”

“You’re a nut, Brady. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

Stevie Ray went to get the guitar, and Brady could hear him talking with his wife. Then he laid the case on the couch and opened it. “I’m just an old rocker,” he said, “but I learned something from the pros. You treat your ax like a gem. None of that trashin’ your equipment for me. Maybe those dudes can afford a new one every week, but not me.”

The gleaming instrument was metallic blue with white trim. Perfect.

“Stevie, you’re as good a picker as I’ve ever heard—Clapton, Harrison, all of ’em included.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stevie Ray said, smiling. “And those guys don’t work on cars between gigs. Listen, so much as a scratch on this thing and you’re dead.”

“I’ll protect it with my life.”

8

Oldenburg

Thomas Carey had never considered himself handy, but things around the new house needed attention. So he was up at dawn, dressed in work clothes, and unshaven. He never, ever, missed his morning Bible reading and prayer ritual—even on his days off. Today, as usual, Ravinia was at the top of his prayer list. How he agonized over her, pleading with God to draw her back to Himself.

Normally Grace was fixing breakfast by the time Thomas had finished his devotions, but he heard no stirring and decided to tackle a few small projects in the bathroom while waiting. He was under the sink with tools and caulk when hunger overtook him and he wandered out to see about Grace. He found her still in bed.

“A little punky this morning,” she slurred.

“Big day yesterday,” he said. “I’m exhausted too. Hungry? Let me bring you something.”

“Not really, but that’d be nice. Something light and easy.”

He laughed. Toast would tax Thomas’s kitchen abilities.

He put water on to boil for tea, poured a small glass of orange juice, and soon delivered both with lightly buttered toast and marmalade. But Grace was asleep again, her breathing even and deep.

Her graying hair was pulled back into a bun, and yet even without makeup she still looked like the sweet young thing he had met at Bible college. Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on her shoulder, but she did not stir. He idly munched toast and sipped the juice, finally leaving the room to finish his chores.

Loud banging at the door startled Thomas, and he leaped to his feet, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He hoped he could find a cap between the bathroom and the front door. Visitors on his day off was a pet peeve, but worse was being seen out of uniform. Any other day, by now he would be shaved, showered, combed, and in at least a shirt and tie.

He splashed a little water on both hands and ran them through his hair, reminded by the sound of splashing on the floor that he had not yet resecured the drain. If only Grace were up and could save him the embarrassment of appearing at the door with stubble on his chin. . . .

The phone installer was expected that day. Thomas supposed he could abide being seen this way by a workingman or -woman. But no such luck. It was Paul and Patricia Pierce in full shrillness.

“Got a little worried about ya not being in the office this morning,” Paul said as they entered and sat. “It’ll be handier when you’ve got a phone. What’s up?”

Thomas hesitated. Did he really have to explain himself to Paul? It seemed too soon to put his foot down, stand his ground, all those things Grace had urged him to consider. “I generally like to take Monday off,” he said.

“And you did, right? Tuesday starts the church week here, as a rule.”

“Well, I was pretty busy here all day yesterday, and then last night was the—”

“You were on your own time putzing around here yesterday, and last night was hardly working, was it?”

In fact, Thomas had met a third congregation and conducted a service the night before, but Paul had been there and knew that.

“I have a lot to finish here today, so I’ll be back in the saddle tomorrow.”

“With the week half gone and five churches to worry about?” Paul said. “Well, you’re younger’n I am, so I guess you can cram it all in. Where’s the missus?”

“A little under the weather this morning actually. I’ll pass along your greetings.”

It was as if Patricia Pierce had heard the news about Grace as a signal to rise. She began tidying the room, opening curtains, adjusting this and that.

Thomas was suddenly overcome with anger and had to bite his tongue. He imagined himself demanding that these people leave and give him and his wife room to breathe.

But he would not do that. Never had. God would give him grace, he decided, and it would all seem minor once they were gone.

“Hey!” Paul said. “Here’s the phone company now.”

Within minutes a young man was drilling and wiring and installing a phone jack near the counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the living room. Both Paul and Patricia had ideas where it should go, but Grace had lightly penciled the spot on the wall.

“I wish she was up,” Patricia said, “because I believe she’d agree that here would be less conspicuous.”

The installer said, “You’ve got plenty of wire to put the phone where you want. The jack can go anywhere.”

“Sure,” Patricia said, “if you don’t care a thing about decor.”

The installer checked his paperwork. “You also wanted an extension phone in the bedroom?”

Thomas explained that his wife was still asleep and asked if that could be installed another time.

“Probably be another week, and I’d have to charge for a separate visit.”

“He won’t bother her, Tom,” Paul said. “And you don’t want to pay twice. That would have to be a personal charge. You wouldn’t expect the church to—”

“Next week will be fine,” Thomas said. “And of course I’ll cover it. Now I should see about Grace.”

“And I’ll see you at the office later?”

“No, Paul. I’m taking today off. Next week I’ll get into the routine of taking Mondays off. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

“I’ve got a meeting with two of my sons tomorrow, Thomas.”

“Do you need to be there when I am?”

“Well, no, I guess not. But being your first week and all, and with me overseeing the other congregations for you—”

“Will you be around Thursday, Paul?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s talk about the other congregations at that time.”

“Talk about them?” Paul said.

“Thursday.”

Addison

Brady Darby had not considered how conspicuous he’d feel with a garment bag over one shoulder and carrying a guitar case onto the school bus. At least it gave him a reason to leave his books at home.

“You in a band now?” fat Agatha whined. What had he ever seen in her? Well, he guessed he knew that well enough.

“Yeah,” he said. “The Beatles are gettin’ back together and want me to play lead. Shut up.”

Oldenburg

When Thomas again checked on Grace, he noticed that while the tea had clearly been sipped, nothing else on the tray had been touched, and she was asleep again. She was rarely ill and hardly ever lost her appetite. He was just glad she had been spared the Pierces’ drop-in. They had taken down the Careys’ new number and would likely be the first callers.

Thomas knew whom Grace would call first. He could only hope Ravinia would be encouraged by their new situation. His wife would know better than to tell her all about the Pierces.

Forest View High School

Brady ducked into Mr. Nabertowitz’s office just before first bell and asked if he could stash his stuff somewhere. “It doesn’t fit in my locker, and I don’t want to lug it around all day.”

“What in the world is it?”

“You’ll see.”

“How interesting! You have props?”

“I guess.”

“What’s with the guitar?”

“Like I said, you’ll see.”

“I love that you’re coming prepared, but as I told you, we’ve cast most of the leads. We have a guy who would be perfect for the father, but he can’t carry a tune. Can you?”

“I think I can, but I’m not trying out for the father.”

“There’s nothing left, son. Just town kids, bit parts.”

“I’m auditioning for Birdie.”

Nabertowitz sighed and shook his head. “I told you I had someone for that.”

“Is it a done deal? ’Cause I don’t think I’m interested in anything else.”

“You’re going to have to thrill me, and I’m going to have a real problem if I change now.”

“Sorry.”

“Truth is, I wouldn’t mind the problem. My Birdie hardly has the bad-boy look I want. He’d be much better as the jealous boyfriend. But he wants the part, and he’s earned it. He’s going to Northwestern next year, and his parents are supportive of me and the program here and are thrilled to death he has the lead.”

“Birdie’s not the lead.”

Nabertowitz cocked his head. “I thought only I understood that.”

“Anybody who’s read the script ought to know Birdie is just the title character. The lead is the manager. Give hotshot that part. Can he sing and dance?”

“He sure can.”

“Then there you go.”

“I have an older-looking kid for that. Real promising.”

“Make him the father, hotshot the manager, me Birdie.”

Nabertowitz led Brady to the door. “You’d better get to class. And we’re way, way ahead of ourselves here. I’ll let you audition for Birdie, but you must know it’s a long shot. It’s not a terribly demanding part, as you know. The look is paramount, and you have that. But it’s also crucial you can sing and dance, and not even you know that yet.”

The rest of the day, Brady went over and over in his mind his plan for the audition. He sat in the backs of classes and assumed his bored, defiant look, so teachers didn’t bother with him. He carried no books, took no notes, just sat and thought. He’d never sung in front of anybody but Petey, but he always sang along to the radio—classic rock, oldies, and hard rock. Who knew whether he was any good? He sure didn’t.

Dancing was another matter. He had been to a few and there were those who seemed to appreciate a James Brown thing he could do. Birdie was, of course, more of an Elvis figure with a hip shake Brady would have to learn. But for today, he’d stick with what he knew.

Problem was, every time Brady really thought about the prospect of standing alone on stage, in costume, singing and dancing for Nabertowitz along with who knew how many kids, he seriously doubted whether he could go through with it. Part of him had a feeling this might be his ticket from trailer trash to respectability, something that would allow him to rescue Petey from the same horrid existence. But another part of him was certain this was a pipe dream, the ridiculous notion of a nobody from nowhere.