Chapel of Ease

by Alex Bledsoe

  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.

  And they were.

  The next song was clearly meant for a woman, and was almost out of my range. Was this one running around Emily’s head even as I sang?

  Too many sorrows

  Too many lies

  Too many failures

  Too few tries

  His love left me hopeless

  His touch left me cold

  And I, I run to him

  Whenever he calls.

  We sang the whole score. A few of the other songs intended for female characters really strained my voice, but I never cracked and we all laughed when I couldn’t quite hit the high notes. The story that emerged from the score was simple yet moving, a symphony of emotion rather than plot. If it could be effectively translated to the stage, it would be incredible, of that I was absolutely sure.

  When we finished the last song, Neil said, “That was great, Matt. Except for that one high note.” He teased.

  “I think I have the wrong anatomy for that one.”

  Ray stood, shook my hand, then impulsively hugged me. “Thank you, Matt. Sorry for taking up so much of your time. This was supposed to be a quick meet and greet.”

  He glanced at Neil. If they had a predetermined signal, I didn’t catch it. “We’ll be in touch,” Neil said.

  Ah, the old “we’ll be in touch” line. Well, it had been a fun couple of hours. “Thanks.”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Neil said as he walked me to the door. “But we will be in touch. This was extraordinary.”

  I still didn’t get my hopes up. “
Thank you, Neil. Great to see you again. Ray, nice to meet you.”

  Ray looked up from straightening his sheet music. “Hey, you got any plans for right now?”

  That caught me off guard. “Well … no.”

  “I’m starving. If I don’t eat, I get cranky. Want to go grab a sandwich?”

  “Uh … sure.”

  I looked at Neil, wondering if he’d invite himself along, wishing like hell that he wouldn’t. He shook his head. “I have at least one agent to call,” he said with a knowing little smile. He handed Ray some money. “Can you bring me back a pastrami on wheat?”

  “Sure.” Ray put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on.”

  We left the theater and walked three blocks down to Yancy’s, a sandwich shop I’d never been to. It smelled great, though, and it wasn’t crowded. We ordered at the counter and waited for our sandwiches at a table in the front window.

  I watched Ray for any clues that this was meant as a date. Sure, he’d dated Emily, but this was New York, and lines were so blurry here that you had to be in New Jersey to see them, and then only if you squinted. I didn’t know what their couple status was, or even if they had one. But I did know that it probably wasn’t a good idea to get into even a flirting relationship with the composer of the show my agent might, at this very moment, be making the deal for. Yet he was so cute, in an irresistible floppy-dog sort of way. I wanted to fix his ponytail and turn down his askew collar, using it as an excuse to touch him.

  He straightened (no pun intended) me out right away. “Just to be clear, man, I’m not gay, so I’m not hitting on you. I was just really, really impressed with your singing. You have the voice I’ve always heard in my head for Colton.”

  “Wow, thanks,” I said, and swallowed my disappointment. This was work, after all.

  “Neil better be signing you up right now. You mind dyeing your hair black like mine?”

  “No. So Colton is based on you?”

  “No, not at all. But all the Tufa have the same black hair.”

  “What’s a ‘Tufa’? Is that your tribe?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, sort of. We’re not Indians, though. We’re—”

  The server arrived with our sandwiches, and since the shop’s delicious smell had made me just as ravenous, we tore into them before he could tell me more. When we came up for air, I said, “You were telling me about your people?”

  “Oh yeah. Well, according to legend, the Tufa were already in Appalachia before the ancestors of the Native Americans came over from Asia. Nobody knows where we came from, or what race we descended from. And with this hair and skin”—his skin was a dusky olive, like a swarthy Mediterranean—“a lot of people thought we were part black, which you definitely didn’t want to be in Tennessee back in the day. So we just kept to ourselves up in the mountains, and still pretty much do.”

  I’d never heard of them before. “Interesting.”

  “So most of the characters in the story will have this same black hair.” He grabbed a stray strand and held it out as an example.

  I briefly wondered if that would make it hard to tell us apart onstage, but then remembered that would be Neil’s problem, not mine. And only if I got the job.

  “So I gotta ask,” he inquired between sloppy bites. “What did you think of the songs?”

  “They were great. Seriously.”

  “I’ve been working on them a long time. A really long time,” he added with personal irony that I didn’t get.

  “So was Neil serious? That this was a true story?”

  He wiped his chin as he thought. “Some parts are true, some are made up. The stuff set in the Civil War is all true, or at least it was told to me as true. But there are rules about … Well, a lot of the Tufa back home don’t believe any of us should ever do anything to draw attention to ourselves. Sure shouldn’t tell our own stories out of school, if you know that expression.”

  I didn’t, but the context made it clear. “Will you get in trouble?”

  “Naw. It’s not like anyone in Needsville follows the New York theater scene. Besides, the songs are all mine, and ultimately so is the story. Ain’t nobody’s business who I tell it to, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed, wishing his Southern accent wasn’t so damn hot.

  * * *

  When I got home, I got online and looked up the people he’d mentioned. At first I tried spelling the word in overly complicated ways: “Toupha,” “Tewpha,” and so forth. It wasn’t until I tried the simple T-U-F-A that I got a ton of relevant hits.

  Well, as “relevant” as this sort of thing could be. At the time, I was more amused than anything else. As he said, they weren’t a Native American tribe. They also weren’t Scotch-Irish, like most of the other original white settlers of Appalachia. If you believed the Web sites, the Tufa did predate both of those.

  But the anthropological mystery paled beside the paranormal ones. Supposedly the Tufa had secret magical powers, could seduce anyone, and used their musical skills to get their way. They lived in a tiny, isolated community and had very little to do with the outside world, even today. Their most notable citizen was Bronwyn Hyatt, a soldier who’d been captured and then rescued on live TV during the Iraq War.

  I poured a glass of wine and settled in to read these stories in detail. After all, if I got the part, I’d be tasked with bringing a member of this subculture to life. I glanced in the mirror and wondered what I’d look like with black hair; my own was light brown, almost blond if I spent any time in the sun.

  As the wine took hold, I realized two important things: I really wanted to sing those songs again, for an audience. It had very little to do with being the star, or even being onstage. I just wanted to share them with other people, to watch them have the same effect on strangers that they had on me. They were that good, and that original.

  And second … I had a totally hopeless crush on Ray Parrish.

  3

  “Yeah, I know him,” Thad Kilby said. “I was in a show he did a couple of years ago. The songs were great. The rest of the show, not so much. But he only wrote the music.”

  Thad was an old boyfriend of mine, one I was still on speaking terms with. I didn’t consider myself high maintenance, but for whatever reason, almost every relationship ended in screaming and burned bridges. Thad, though, was different; we’d realized we worked better as friends, and although we occasionally hooked up again when we were both free, we knew it for what it was.

  Now we sat at the counter, eating over-easy eggs and drinking coffee at Cafe Edison while I pried him for information about Ray.

  He saw right through me, too. “You do realize he’s straight, right?”

  “Yes, of course, I could tell that in the first five minutes.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure you could. You weren’t even sure I was gay until our second kiss.”

  Earlier that morning, I’d dug even harder online, trying to find out more about Ray, checking the social media accounts of the actors, singers, and dancers in his earlier shows. He was mentioned a few times, and there were pictures of him in various people’s Instagrams, but he had nothing on his own. It was almost like he was a ghost, popping up and then vanishing. A big, adorable, always-grinning ghost.

  And that brought me back to the stories of his people, the Tufa. Talk about some full-bore insanity. The same sort of people who believed in Bigfoot, UFOs, and conspiracy theories put forth elaborate claims about the Tufa, none of which matched up with the photographs of normal people that illustrated their claims. How could you believe a tale of an ancient tribe of Israel when the pictures showed people sitting around drinking beer or driving old pickups? Even the Google Maps photos of Needsville, which Ray said was his home, just showed a typically fading small town.

  The only photo that actually supported any of these wilder claims was on a site called Fred, White and Blue, which was mostly a right-wing political hub run by one of those overweight white men who writes as if he’s screaming at you. He had a zoomed sat
ellite photo that seemed to show the night-vision outline of several flying people soaring over a forest. But the image was as blurry as any Sasquatch photo, and someone with even basic skills could’ve easily Photoshopped it. It didn’t help his credibility that the author went to great rhetorical lengths to tie them into the liberal agenda.

  “I hear he’s got a new show, one he wrote all himself,” Thad said.

  “Yeah. I had an audition yesterday. That’s when I met him. We went out for lunch afterwards.”

  Thad reached over and took my hand. “Straight,” he said seriously.

  “I know,” I said with identical emphasis. “But he’s just so fascinating. Did you know about his background?”

  “I know he was a session musician for a while. Lenny Kravitz came by our rehearsal to talk to him about something once.”

  “No, I mean, his ethnic background. He’s a Tufa.”

  Thad looked blank. “I don’t know what that is.”

  I gave him the quick rundown. He sat back in surprise. “Wow. I’ve never even heard of them before.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “And he told you all that?”

  I nodded, not wanting to admit I’d spent half the night reading up on it. “That’s what his new play’s about, too.”

  “Really? Mysterious people, mountains, star-crossed lovers … sounds really good. Put in a word for me?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  As I headed into the station to take the subway home, my phone rang, and it was the call I’d hoped for: my agent saying I’d gotten the job. I let out a huge whoop, which no one around me even noticed. Then I danced down the steps to the L train.

  * * *

  The first rehearsal was the following Monday morning. I’d gotten some calls from other people I knew who’d been cast, so I wouldn’t be totally alone. Still, I’d be one of the three leads, with the supremely butch name “Colton,” and although I’d sung the score, I hadn’t even read the script yet. So I wasn’t totally sure what I was getting into.

  The Armitage Theater—nicknamed “the Armpit”—did not inspire confidence, even if its reputation was better than its structure. Its most notorious quirk was that its only bathrooms were located at the front of the house, near the box office. If you needed to go during a show, you had to slip out the back door, brave the alley at night, and run around the building to the front. I’d heard that the cast of the last show to open here had, as a sort of initiation, made its members strip down to their underwear before making the run, like Michael Keaton in Birdman.