by Rick R. Reed
“Oh?” Truman asked. “I didn’t think there was much left to talk about. It seems like all we need to do is keep things on track. This train is rolling effortlessly into the station.”
“Truman, you’re ignoring the obvious.”
Truman knew immediately to what he referred. Stacy. He hadn’t seen her since the night she had crept into his bedroom and shared her secret with him. He knew that Patsy had gone, the very afternoon following that night, to see Stacy’s aunt with her, to help her break the news. According to Patsy, the aunt was a basket case, far too old to understand how to talk to a young girl in trouble, and far too Catholic to show even one iota of compassion. Patsy said she all but had to pull the aunt off Stacy. Before she did, the aunt had slapped the poor girl’s face a couple of times and, according to script, called her a puttana or “whore.”
Patsy had tried to intervene, suggesting that Stacy could come and stay with them, even though they could ill afford it in terms of space or money, but the aunt would not be dissuaded—Stacy needed to be sent away. There was a Catholic girls’ home for unwed mothers just outside nearby Youngstown, and it was there Aunt Sus insisted her great-niece go to wait out her gestation and then, in her aunt’s words, to give up the baby to “decent” people.
Truman didn’t even think such places existed anymore. And if they did, he guessed they were little more than prisons.
“Stacy. I know,” Truman said, thinking for a moment of her wide brown eyes, her innocent smile. He hoped they were treating her okay in that home…. “You haven’t found a replacement yet? Doesn’t somebody want that role? It’s a juicy part!”
“Well, I kind of do have a replacement in mind.” Mr. Wolcott eyed Truman. Truman grinned and scratched the back of his neck.
Ever since Stacy’s disappearance from town, Truman had been reading her lines to keep rehearsals moving. He had them all memorized now. “You do?”
“I do.” And before he could get the absolutely insane idea out of his mouth, Truman knew he needed to stop what Mr. Wolcott wanted to propose.
Truman held up a hand. “Don’t even go there.”
“Truman. Why not? I can’t think of a more perfect solution.”
“Oh Lord, Mr. Wolcott, don’t you think I have enough trouble heaped on my shoulders without that?” Truman stared down hard at the floor, feeling the panic rising in him like some winged thing, trapped, with no escape. “You put me up on stage as a girl—no, a young lady—and I’ll be not only the laughingstock of the school, but also of this whole town. Do you hate me that much?”
And yet the idea of donning the dotted-swiss dress, black and purple, he’d found for the character in a thrift store, and the wide-brimmed straw hat he’d swiped from Patsy’s closet, had a certain appeal. Appeal that was, paradoxically, causing a wave of panic so severe to rise within him he feared hyperventilating. All I need is a pair of white lace gloves and some white kitten heels….
Mr. Wolcott smiled, his gaze taking Truman in and looking, Truman thought, a little sad. “You don’t really think I hate you, Tru, do you? After all we’ve been through?”
Truman could see the fear on Mr. Wolcott’s face and thought if he answered his question in the affirmative, he’d just about break the poor teacher’s heart.
“I like to think of myself as your greatest champion around here. Dane and me.” Mr. Wolcott stared ahead, his voice soft but steady.
Truman thought of his freshman year, when things had gone so horribly wrong he’d literally wanted to throw his life away by leaping from the school’s roof, and how both Mr. Wolcott and Mr. Bernard had stepped up to the plate, counseling him and letting him know life was worth living. No, more than that, that life was worth living on Truman’s own terms. That there was nothing wrong with who he was, and he didn’t need to change a thing simply to suit a sometimes cruel and often misunderstanding world sitting in judgment, a world where men were men and women were women and woe be it to anyone who dared to mess with those definitions.
Uncharacteristically and perhaps a little boldly, Truman reached out and took one of Mr. Wolcott’s hands in his own and squeezed it. “Of course you don’t hate me. You guys saved my life. You showed me it was okay to be me, no matter how whack me turned out to be.” Truman gave him a small, sad smile. “I love you—and Mr. Dane—for that. I always will.” Truman had to look away, the rawness of his admission pretty much ripping his heart open.
When he looked back, Mr. Wolcott stared at him with something that, to Truman, looked an awful lot like admiration in his eyes. “You may not realize it,” he told Truman, “But you are one of the bravest men I know. I look up to you.”
Truman laughed. Brave? Him? Truman associated bravery with butch, macho types. People like cops and cowboys, construction workers straddling beams thirty stories above some hazy cityscape. And yet…. And yet, the idea that he was brave caught Truman up short because he suddenly felt, deep within, the truth of it.
He saw himself looking into a mirror, mouthing the words, “I am brave.” And he wasn’t laughing.
Anybody can blend in with the crowd. It’s what most folks do. It’s where they’re comfortable. In truth Truman envied them. But on the other hand, it did take a kind of courage to be different, to stand out starkly from everyone else. Truman knew he had little choice in the matter, but that didn’t make him any less brave.
Still, this thing Mr. Wolcott was about to propose…. It was outrageous! He hadn’t really even said the words yet, but Truman was 99.9 percent certain he was going to ask him to take on the role of Myrtle Mae Simmons. Truman had to admit he already had over the past several weeks. Even though he only sat on the side of the stage in a folding chair and pretended to read from the script—he had every one of Myrtle Mae’s lines memorized and had done so from so early on; they were now second nature, a hybrid of himself and this rather silly and naïve young woman mooning over some sort of insane asylum orderly—he had let himself become her. He’d added in a little laugh that he thought suited her, sort of a musical titter. He had a way of talking that was high and a little breathless, sort of like how Marilyn Monroe spoke in those old movies Truman loved watching on rainy afternoons.
“Truman. I know it seems crazy, but when you think about it, it’s the only logical choice. You’re already playing her. And it’s a stellar performance, I might add.”
“Logical?” Truman snorted, imagining himself sashaying around on stage in a dress and picture hat. He could hear the laughter now, and it made him sick to his stomach. It made him break out in a cold sweat. Even though in reality, he’d probably be blind to the audience when he was on stage on account of the lights, he could see them in his mind’s eye, clutching their bellies, breathless with laughter.
The idea was terrifying.
And yet he wanted it. In a strange way, he knew he could play the hell out of the part and do it way better than anyone else could have, even Stacy. In fact, he’d wondered how he’d feel when Mr. Wolcott did find a replacement for Stacy and Truman would have to give up the part. He knew he’d be jealous of whatever female classmate got the role. He also knew how silly such jealousy would be, because any other alternative, i.e. Truman as Myrtle Mae, was just impossible.
“Yes. Logical. You know the lines. You know the blocking. And come on, I’ve listened to you. You’ve got the part down pat. You’re not just reading lines to keep the flow of the play moving; you’re becoming her, inhabiting her. It’s been beautiful to watch, Truman. And that’s okay. It’s what acting is all about. It doesn’t make you ‘less than’ anything if that’s what you’re thinking, beating yourself up about. Think of Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie, or John Travolta in Hairspray, or Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire.” Mr. Wolcott touched Truman’s cheek lightly, forcing Truman to look at him. “You want me to go on?” He smiled. “I have more examples.”
“Nah. You don’t need to. Tyler Perry as Madea, and that classic pairing, Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot. Although
you could argue those last two weren’t really playing women. Well, none of them really were. They were just guys in drag.”
Mr. Wolcott mussed up Truman’s hair, and Truman had to fight an urge to right it.
Mr. Wolcott said, with great admiration in his voice, “Your knowledge amazes me. You’re probably the only kid in school who can keep up with me on pop culture. And you’re deliberately missing my point.” He looked away for a moment and then back. “So? What do you think?”
Truman wasn’t aware, until this very moment, of the power of a single idea to both terrify and excite at the same time. “I don’t know,” he whispered. Although he did. Yes, he did. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes….
Before he could say any more, several of the cast came in, laughing, shoving, swearing. A gust of frigid air rode in with them. And Truman felt he’d been caught in a compromising position with Mr. Wolcott. By the way he rushed to his feet, a big stupid grin on his face, Truman knew Mr. Wolcott probably felt the same way.
“Hey, guys,” Mr. Wolcott called, his voice bright and overly cheerful. “All set to go?” He moved away from Truman a bit as he headed toward the auditorium to switch on lights and begin the process of transforming a small-town high school stage into a stately old house and a “rest” home. He paused for a moment, looking back at Truman, who sat, clinging to the bench as if his ass were superglued to it.
“You coming? You’re gonna do it, right?” Even though Mr. Wolcott only mouthed the words, Truman heard them in his head loud and clear. Mr. Wolcott nodded encouragingly.
In spite of his daring to wear makeup to school, in spite of his daring to dye his pale hair—or hanks of it—every color of the rainbow, and even in spite of his boldly and unabashedly donning some of Patsy’s prettiest blouses for school, Truman felt his robin’s heart just might fail at the thought of doing what Mr. Wolcott proposed.
No, really, he thought he might die.
He got up, and before Mr. Wolcott could smile with relief, Truman dashed into the closest restroom, which just by coincidence happened to be the girls’ room. Ignoring Tammy Applegate, who was leaning against one of the sinks smoking a cigarette, Truman dashed into a stall and brought up the contents of his stomach in a dramatic, splattering fashion. He grunted on into the dry heaves, tears streaming down his face, his throat burning with acidic bile.
“Gross,” Tammy remarked from outside the stall.
Heaving, Truman wiped his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. He slunk out of the stall, avoiding but feeling “Stretch’s” stare on him.
“You okay, fella?” she asked on an exhalation of smoke.
But Truman didn’t answer. He simply hurried from the restroom into the lobby, which he was relieved to find empty. If there had been anyone there, most especially Mr. Wolcott, he couldn’t have done what every primal cell in his body told him to do—flee.
He dashed to the double glass doors and, holding his breath, pushed them open and ran off into the night. At that moment he felt a kinship to Stacy, certain he would never return.
WHEN HE got home, he found Patsy waiting, wrapped up in a big wool blanket, sitting on the steps of the front porch. Odd Thomas was curled up next to her, his head in her lap. Patsy idly played with one of his ears.
“What are you doing outside? You’ll freeze that bony ass of yours off. I heard we’re supposed to get snow tonight.” Truman approached the porch. He couldn’t think of a time when the sight of his mother was less welcome. He just wanted to get inside and into his room, where he could collapse on his bed and, yes, cry.
“Bony ass?” Patsy asked. “Anyway, Seth Wolcott called. He said you bolted out of rehearsal tonight. Just up and took off without a word. He wanted to know if you’re okay.”
Truman stood, shivering, in the dark. He didn’t say a word.
“Are you?”
Odd raised his head, peered in his direction, then lay his head back down in Patsy’s lap.
Truman toed some loose dirt. “I guess.”
“Why’d you run away?”
“Can we talk about this later?” Truman tried to edge by her to get to the front door. “I’m so tired. I just want to crawl into bed and sleep forever.”
But Patsy was having none of it. She grabbed on to one his calves and held fast. “Yeah. You’re tired. But I didn’t raise you to run out on people. He was worried. Tru, this isn’t like you.”
Truman looked down at Patsy’s face. It was the very picture of determination. He knew that to fight her, to try to get away, would be an exercise in futility. He yanked his leg out of her grip. “Can we at least talk inside? It’s freezing out here.” Almost as though the universe wanted to prove his point, several snowflakes fluttered down.
Patsy stood. Wordlessly, they watched as Odd Thomas also got slowly to his feet, then descended the couple of steps into the yard and peed. He fairly trotted back. “I’ll make us some cocoa,” Truman said.
They went inside.
In the kitchen, Patsy slouched in one of the kitchen chairs while Truman busied himself making what they called cocoa—Nestlé’s Quik stirred into a simmering pan of milk, bubbles just beginning to appear on the sides.
“We have baby marshmallows?” Truman poured the hot chocolate into mugs.
“No. And no Cool Whip either.”
“Guess we’ll have to make do.” Truman set a mug before his mom before joining her at the table.
She sipped. “What happened tonight?”
Truman wasn’t sure how—or even, really, what—to tell her. His first thought, unfair as it was, was that she’d laugh. That somehow his greatest champion and the person who loved him most in the world would laugh at him. It wasn’t fair to her, and it was so off base that it was, well, laughable, but Truman couldn’t help his fear, which he sensed came from a primitive place.
He started. “He wanted—” He couldn’t continue. He lowered his face to his hands and cried.
Patsy was behind him, her hands on his shoulders, kneading. “C’mon, say the words—get it out. I know what he suggested. As a mom, I don’t want to see you get hurt. As a person, though, I don’t wanna see you ducking and hiding from challenges. You don’t have to play this part, Tru, but you have to face that you handled things all wrong tonight. You can say no. And you can stick by your choice. Mr. Wolcott wouldn’t fault you for that. And you know I’ll support you, no matter what you wanna do.”
Leave it to Patsy to speak the simple truth. Of course, she was right. He should have just marched right into the auditorium, pulled Mr. Wolcott aside, and told him he just wasn’t gonna do it. Period. In fact, he could see himself doing it in his mind’s eye. He could see the understanding—and the disappointment—on Mr. Wolcott’s face. He knew he’d tell Truman it was okay. Even though it was last minute, they’d find someone.
Truman let that sink in. That his refusal would not be the end of the world. That the show would go on. That the cast, Mr. Wolcott, and everyone else associated with the play wouldn’t hold it against Truman if he didn’t want to make such a bold and daring move. They’d accept it graciously and move on.
But could he? Could he actually accept not playing that role? In a way, to not do what Mr. Wolcott wanted him to do felt very much like a betrayal. When he shoved his fear aside, Truman realized he’d be crushed if anyone else took over the part. It was his. It was him. He turned to look up at Patsy. “What do you think I should do?”
Patsy snorted. “When did you ever listen to me on that score?” She took her hands away from his shoulders and sat back down at their maple kitchen table. “I guess I’d answer that question with what I really believe—do what your heart tells you.”
And a sudden thought intruded, jolting. Mr. Wolcott could have recast that part a long time ago. He didn’t because I was doing such a good job of it. Has this been his plan all along?
Truman stared down at the varnished surface of the table. It had been here all his life; his high chair, once upon a ti
me, had been pulled up to it. The legs were scratched, and one needed a matchbook under it to keep it level, but the table represented home to him. “That’s so corny, Ma,” Truman said, even though he knew, yes, in his heart, that she was right.
“Corny or not, one thing I’ve learned as I’ve become a wise old woman—” She chuckled. “—is that your heart, most of the time, is right.”
Truman stood up from the table and grabbed his cup from it. “I’m gonna go to my room. Got some thinking to do.”
“Okay. I’ll be out here for a little while longer. Then I’m gonna do the crossword and turn in. I’m beat.”
“No special visitor?” At the archway leading to the next room, Truman turned and significantly raised his eyebrows.
“Sweetie, it’s not appropriate for boys to ask their mothers about things as delicate as their periods, for heaven’s sakes.” She took a gulp of hot chocolate, not looking at him.
“You know that’s not what I meant. Is George coming over?”
Patsy shook her head. “He wanted to. But all I wanna do in that bed tonight is sleep… for hours and hours. I don’t need some damn man keeping me from that.”
“But things are good, right? Between you?”
She nodded.
“I told you I met his son, didn’t I? Mike?”
“Maybe you mentioned it. I’m not sure. George says Mike’s enrolled in the vocational school—wants to be a welder when he grows up or something. I assumed your two paths would never cross.”
“He’s on the stage crew for Harvey. Very good with his hands,” Truman said and wished he knew more about that statement, despite Mike’s silence.
He started toward his bedroom, and Patsy called, “Did he mention me?”
Truman paused, thinking. Should he tell her? He shook his head and shrugged, about to tell her she didn’t come up in what little conversation they’d had, but instead he said, “Yeah. He told me his dad’s nuts about you.”
