Chapel of Ease

by Alex Bledsoe

  We picked the story back up. Crawford shot Lucas when he tried to grab the gun to protect Jennifer. Then Jennifer shot Crawford after angrily denouncing him and saying she’d only put up with him out of pity. Then, standing between the bodies of the two men who’d loved her, she put the gun to her own head.

  Oh. Well, I guess I wasn’t Puck, or Horatio. I was Romeo … sort of.

  Our three bodies lay onstage as the three ghosts began their climactic number. Byrda sang of her love for Shad; the nameless ghost sang of his love, as well. He also sang that he had killed Shad during a battle, when no one would know, after Shad had rejected him. The two male ghosts departed in opposite directions, while Byrda was left onstage, singing about the love she’d lost and buried in the chapel. Then she disappeared. Old Byrda came back onstage; she looked over the bodies, saddened but not surprised. She sang:

  Time is not a line, or a river that flows to the sea

  It’s a circle, bringing the past back to you and me

  These old bones, they’ve seen it again and again

  It ain’t never a matter of what, only a matter of when.

  She knelt over the place in the floor where something—we’d never discovered what—was buried. She finished her song with:

  Cover it, bury it, hide it away

  A secret will always find its own way

  No matter how long, no matter how far

  When the time is right, it’ll always rise

  And carry its truth to all men’s eyes.

  We sat in silence after we closed our scripts. No one really looked at anyone else. The work was simply too powerful, too overwhelming for an immediate response. What would audiences think of this, when the songs were performed instead of spoken, when the actors expressed the emotions instead of reciting them in a non-acting monotone?

  At last Neil broke the silence. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our show.”

  “But—,” Julie began.

  “What’s buried?” Ryan blurted out. “In the chapel? What is it?”

  All eyes turned to Ray.

  Ray laughed. “Look, guys, it’s a metaphor, you know? The audience can imagine whatever they want.”

  “This is based on a true story, right?” Estella said. “So you must know what was really there.”

  “I do.”

  “Well?”

  He grinned even more. “Tell you what: I’ll tell y’all exactly what it is after our first show. It’ll give you something to look forward to.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said, and everyone pretty much echoed that sentiment.

  “Take a break, everyone,” Neil said. “Come back in half an hour to start singing. And let’s remember that it’s just a story, okay? It’s not history.”

  I don’t know how he’d put his finger on exactly how we all felt, but that was it, all right: we felt like we’d just participated in some kind of reenactment, not just a play read-through. If we could re-create this for an audience, we’d have it made.

  As I stood and stretched, I caught Ray’s mischievous eye, and he winked. It made me smile in return. And at the same time, I recalled the fates of the nameless ghost and Shad.

  4

  And so rehearsals went on for the rest of the day. The songs took everyone by surprise; some of the ballads brought those of us listening to tears. I relished the ones I got to sing, and envied those of the others, although truthfully, I couldn’t really complain. I definitely had my share of showstoppers.

  After we took a short break, Neil returned with someone new. “Everyone, gather around if you would.” He indicated the scowling, whip-bodied middle-aged woman beside him. “This is Stella Aragon, the choreographer. You’ll start working with her tomorrow.”

  She put her hands on her hips and said, “That’s right, my name is Stella. Ms. Aragon if you’re nasty. And the first one of you that quotes Stanley Kowalski at me gets fired.”

  There was a moment of total silence. Then all of us at once dropped to our knees and did our best Brando-style “Stel-LA!” This went on for several moments before we all got back in line, our expressions once again completely deadpan.

  The actor who played the nameless ghost said, “To be fair, my name really is Stanley.”

  “Nice,” Stella said with a half smile. “I hope your feet are as smart as your asses. See you tomorrow, wise guys.”

  We had time at the end of the day to begin blocking, and we used chairs to represent the corners of the chapel itself. I wondered what the final set would look like: Would it be stylized, or realistic? Would the audience immediately know what they were seeing, or would they have to be clued in by the cast? I’d never heard of a “chapel of ease” before; perhaps there would be a note in the program book.

  We were all exhausted by the time Neil said, “All right, union rules say we have to wrap it up now. Everyone take your scripts; I want us off-book by next Monday. We have only six weeks to whip this monster into shape.”

  “Monster?” Ray said in mock offense.

  “A beautiful monster,” Neil corrected. “Like Lady Gaga.”

  We laughed, then gathered our things to go. As I headed toward the door, Ray said, “Hey, Matt. You got time for a cup of coffee?”

  I wasn’t about to tell the genius behind this show I couldn’t hang out with him, so I said, “Sure.”

  We went to a shop around the block, got our drinks, and sat in a corner. Ray sagged gratefully into his chair. “Y’all did great today. Better than I imagined. It was fucking magic.”

  I grinned, both at the compliment and his use of “y’all.” I’d always assumed that was a Southern stereotype that wasn’t actually true. “Thanks. Hard not to with this stuff.”

  “Well, I just wanted you to know how happy I was. Please pass it on to everyone else.” He paused to sip his coffee, and I could tell he was working up to whatever he really wanted to say.

  At last he added, “So—you know Emily Valance.”

  “I do. We’ve been friends for a couple of years.”

  “So she said.” He sipped more coffee. “Do you, ah … Is she dating anyone?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, I thought. Here I’d imagined he was going to ask me about putting her in the show. I wanted to laugh, but I knew better. “No, she broke up with her last boyfriend over a month ago.”

  He nodded. “I read about that.”

  Emily’s last boyfriend had been Blake Welladay, scion of a prominent business family and once voted Manhattan’s Sexiest Bachelor. He’d been a nice enough guy, Emily said, but the bubble of his life was too much for her. They’d parted amicably, and she had been in no hurry to get into another relationship. Apparently that’s just when Cupid loves to strike. “How did you meet her?”

  “She came to my last show and said some very nice things. At first I thought she was just hinting that I should keep her in mind for the next one, but I think she genuinely likes me. The only thing is, I mean … I’m pretty poor. Compared to Blake Welladay, for sure. I can’t jet her off to the Hamptons on the spur of the moment, or anything like that.”

  “I don’t think that was all that important to her,” I said honestly.

  “I hope not. So … do you talk to her a lot?”

  Holy shit, Neil was right, we were back in high school. “I see her every so often.”

  “Does she ever mention me?”

  “We mainly talk shop.”

  He nodded, clearly disappointed. He was adorable in his discomfort, and I realized my crush was only getting worse. Still, it had no future, and I didn’t want either him or Emily to get hurt, certainly not because of me. I said, “Look, Ray, if she wanted to be in Blake Welladay’s world, she still would be. She broke it off with him. She probably likes you because you’re funny, outgoing, enthusiastic, and talented. Money can’t buy any of those, you know.”

  He nodded, and I swear he blushed again. It was the first time I’d ever been jealous of Emily.

  “I might bring her to the opening,” he s
aid. “Do you think that’ll be all right?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Well … I mean, she didn’t get asked to audition for the show. There wasn’t a part she was right for. She didn’t say anything, but I could tell it hurt her feelings. I don’t want to rub her face in it or anything.”

  The intensity of Emily’s reaction to my own invitation now made sense. “I can’t answer that, Ray. You’ll have to ask her. Although I imagine she’ll want to be there for you on opening night.”

  “I hope so. I really want her there.” He tucked a strand of black hair behind his ear. “It feels like everything I’ve ever done has led up to this show, to opening night. You know? You ever felt like that?”

  I was sure starting to. “It’s going to be amazing. Everyone’s going to love it.”

  “If they do, it’s because of the way you guys bring it to life. I mean, I’ve seen this story in my head for forever, but watching even the read-through today, hearing y’all speak the words, then sing—” He shook his head. “—I can’t even begin to tell you what it felt like.”

  He was so open and honest about his enthusiasm that I didn’t know how to respond. I settled for just grinning and drinking my own coffee.

  Just as we finished, his phone rang. It was too loud to hear in the coffee shop, so he excused himself and went outside. Through the front window I watched him pace, his black hair swaying with each turn. When he returned, he said, “You in a hurry tonight?”

  “I’m kinda tired. It’s been a long day.”

  “I know, but I’ve got a musician friend recording at a studio near here, and he needs some help. Shouldn’t take too long. Want to come along?”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “I’d rather not say. Let it be a surprise. But I’m pretty sure you’ve heard of him.”

  I shrugged and stood. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

  “That it will be,” he promised.

  * * *

  Cornflake Studios was located in the basement of a nondescript building with signage that said most of the structure was devoted to some sort of financial shenanigans. The separate studio entrance was guarded by an immense black man in a suit, with a visible gun bulge under his arm. He stepped aside for us and said, “Evening, Ray,” with such a bass rumble that I wondered what he sounded like when he was trying to be intimidating. We went down a narrow hallway carpeted floor to ceiling with ’70s-style shag. Ray stopped at the first open door we came to and said, “Hey, y’all.”

  Five people filled the control room, and another half dozen milled about in the studio beyond it. The scent of weed and wine was heavy in the air. One of the men at the panel stood up and said, “The genius has arrived.”

  “Yeah, and I’m here, too,” Ray said, and they hugged like old friends.

  The door to the studio opened, and Lance Abercrombie stepped out. He was as famous for his cologne ads as he was for his hard-driving music, and if I was a little disappointed to be taller than him, I was still pretty thoroughly starstruck. He looked at me, said, “Hi,” then turned to Ray. “Glad you could make it, man. Sorry for the short notice.”

  “Naw, no problem, I was right down the street. So what do you need?”

  “Johnny can’t get the drum solo right. We’ve been trying since noon, and we’re all about ready to strangle each other. Can you help us out?”

  “Where is Johnny?”

  “We sent him back to the hotel, man. He was so high, he was useless. All he wanted to do was play Minecraft.”

  “Tell me what you need. Oh, Lance, this is my friend Matt.”

  I shook hands with the megastar. “A pleasure.”

  “Likewise,” he said. Then he pulled Ray into the studio. I was left with the production staff, two older men, one black and one white, who looked exhausted. A pair of girls lounged nearby, and barely gave me a glance.

  “Hey,” the black producer said to me. “Stand behind me and you can see and hear the best.”

  “Yeah, he always makes sure he gets the sweet spot,” the white producer said.

  “That’s ’cause I’m the sweetest mofo in this room,” the black producer shot back.

  He was right: I had a view of the whole studio from there. Lance and his band took their positions, and Ray sat down behind the drum set. He adjusted a few things, then experimentally tapped the snare and cymbal. Lance counted four, and the band exploded into a rollicking old-school rock-and-roll number about a girl with a car coveted by the singer, although it was hard to tell which he wanted more. For some reason, I imagined this music being used to sell underwear.

  Lance Abercrombie was certainly a hottie, but it was Ray who really held my attention. He played with a certainty and mastery that implied he’d been rehearsing with this band forever. His rhythms propelled the song, and when the guitarist started his solo, he expertly left space for the screeching tones. Then he took his own solo, an insane swirl of pounding that went right to the edge of chaos before snapping back into the pocket for the last verse.

  The song ended with a mighty crash, and Lance jumped so high, I worried he’d smack his head on the low ceiling. There was a moment of dead silence, except for a faint buzz from one of the monitors. Then the band whooped and cheered, crowding around the drums.

  “That boy can play a pair of tennis shoes and make ’em sound like Jimi Hendrix,” the white producer said.

  “That’s the only black musician he knows,” the black producer asided to me with a wink.

  “Name one white musician,” the white producer shot back.

  “Lance Abercrombie,” the black producer said.

  “Name one who’s not in this room.”

  “Taylor Swift. It don’t get no whiter.”

  Then the rest of the band squeezed into the control room with us, and Ray recorded the drums solo, listening to the track through headphones. I couldn’t tell if it was absolutely identical to what he’d played with the band, but it was close, and the band was equally as happy. He went through it three times, and when he finished, the band swarmed him again. Lance picked him up in a bear hug and actually kissed him on the mouth, but it was a playful smack, and not anything truly amorous.

  “God damn, Ray, is there anything you can’t play? Please come on tour with us!” The rest of the band chorused their agreement.

  “Ah, you don’t need me. Johnny can learn that.”

  “In a year,” the guitarist said.

  “Well, I can’t right now, I have a show opening in six weeks. Matt here is the star.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the group. “Tell ’em about it, Matt.”

  On the spot like that, all I could think to say was, “It’s great.”

  “You won’t get as many girls playing Broadway as you will on the road with us,” the bass player pointed out.

  “This ain’t Broadway. This is what they call Off-Broadway. It’s where they put the weird stuff.”

  Lance took him by the shoulders and said, with total sincerity, “Please, Ray. Please. Write your own ticket. We need you.”

  Considering what a raging egomaniac Lance was reputed to be, this begging was extraordinary. Ray patted the musician’s arm and said, “Lance, I wish I could, but I can’t be in two places at once. And this show is my baby.”

  Lance looked down, disappointed. “I understand. Thanks for helping us out tonight. Same deal as always?”

  “Same deal. I’ll catch your show if you’ll catch mine.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Ten minutes later we were walking down the dark street as if we hadn’t just spent an hour with one of the biggest stars in the world. I asked Ray, “Just how many instruments do you play?”

  “I can find my way around most of ’em.”

  “‘Most of ’em’? You mean you can play any instrument?”

  He shrugged, as if the truth embarrassed him. “Pretty much. Although I ain’t never got to try the cimbalom.”

  “What’s that?”

/>   “It’s like a big ol’ hammered dulcimer.”

  I had no idea what that was. “I’m still back at my last question.”

  Ray laughed. “It’s like an inside-out piano, and you hit the strings with little batons.”

  “Ah. And how do you know Lance Abercrombie?”

  “Oh, I do session work when I have to make ends meet. Did some stuff on Lance’s big debut album, so I’m always glad to help out.”

  “What did he mean by ‘same deal’?”

  “I get union scale but no credit.”

  “Union scale? For playing like that?”

  “Hey, it ain’t for the money. It’s for the jam. Lance may be a pretty boy tabloid star, but he’s also dead serious about his music. You notice he wasn’t drunk or high.”

  We walked in silence after that, and split up when I headed to the subway. But on the whole ride home, I thought about nothing but him, and the way his play and music mirrored the soul I now knew lived behind those dark, mischievous eyes.

  I also remembered some of the wilder rumors about the Tufa that I’d read on the Internet. When I really thought about Ray and his music, somehow they no longer seemed so outlandish.

  5

  Still, work was work, and putting on an original show in six weeks was hard. For my part, learning the songs and words was a breeze; the trick was not getting wrapped up in everyone else’s songs, during those long stretches when I was onstage listening. The music was so compelling that I lost myself in it just as we hoped the audience would.

  And we guessed. We all had our thoughts about what was buried in the chapel of ease, and it was a source of constant discussion. We combed through the text, looking for clues, and with each revision Ray brought to us, we sought a new piece of the puzzle. After a week, someone hung a bulletin board, and Post-it notes with guesses quickly peppered it. Ray, damn him, said nothing, only smiled when he passed it and ignored our entreaties. (I know one actress offered him a blatant sexual favor if he’d tell her, but he turned her down.)

  My crush on Ray, meanwhile, cooled a bit as I started dating Joaquim, a second-generation Puerto Rican dancer who worked in another show about to open. We met on the subway, and hit it off almost at once. I had no delusions that this was love at first sight or anything; I’d yet to meet anyone who inspired that sort of depth of feeling. But he was the kind of guy I could tell anything to, and had to stop myself more than once from sharing secrets never divulged to another soul. Experience had taught me that it was best to wait for such things until you’d been dating longer than two weeks.