Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  I get up to get the dishcloth and wipe the spilled milk. And wipe the crazy ideas pickling my brain. Aunt Jenny is Aunt Jenny. She’s got me to love her.

  Aunt Jenny cackles again as she sets her glass down.

  “Anyway, the point I’m making is Melissa and I are the only ‘kids’ in the group. A lot of those people have been singing with the choir for over twenty years. And Melissa says there are eight or ten who have degrees in music.”

  “Professionals, huh?” Aunt Jenny muses. “Must be fun working with them.”

  “That can’t begin to describe it. Singing with them is like—what is it you say? Like a sow in a mud puddle? You know… hog heaven.”

  Aunt Jenny’s girlish laughter fills the kitchen as I use her grandmother’s favorite exclamation.

  “We first worked on some pieces for future services, including this really rocking version of ‘Bringing in the Sheaves,’ then Kenny had us pull out this piece still in manuscript, a new song by Miriam Railston—”

  “The woman who wrote those three songs you and Melissa sang in your concert?” Aunt Jenny interrupts.

  “Yeah, the same one. This new piece is all about protecting the children of the world. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever sung. I got so wrapped up in it. It was incredible.”

  Aunt Jenny’s eyes probe. She must have seen the tear that leaked from the corner of my eye because she immediately asks, concern in her voice, “Neil, what’s wrong?” She puts her hands on mine. Her forehead wrinkles, her eyes probe. “Did the song remind you of your parents?”

  If only it were that simple, I think, picturing Brother Gramm and our little secret.

  “No.” I pause, just to make sure I’m thoroughly composed. “I don’t know what it is about it,” I lie. “It is just so comforting.”

  And, sure enough, I once again leak a tear.

  “Look at me—what a crybaby.”

  “Poo!” Aunt Jenny thrusts a napkin at me. “Perfectly natural reaction.”

  I stand and take my empty glass to the sink. I need time to get myself together.

  “I think the others must have liked it as much as I did, because we breezed through it. And it wasn’t like it was an easy piece. It was just such a joy to sing. We’re doing it Sunday morning.”

  THE CHOIR files into the sanctuary in their immaculate white robes. We sit at Kenny’s signal. The organ prelude finishes, and like the other services, an assistant pastor goes to the lectern.

  “Won’t you stand and bow your heads for the opening prayer?” he implores.

  The massive congregation stands, en masse. The AP begins. My eyes dart about. I seem to be one of the few whose eyes are not closed.

  Red. Yellow. Green

  The colors dot my choir robe. It begins. The fainting feeling. I thought I was over this. I just knew I had conquered my fears. The mind plays tricks on you.

  Blue. Purple. Orange.

  My knees begin to buckle just as I hear “Amen.” I collapse in my seat as the rest of the congregation sits too.

  Panic. The knot in my stomach grows. Sweat pours from my forehead. I have to get out of here. I search for a way out. I’m wedged in—second row, eighth seat.

  Deep breaths. Concentrate on the announcements. Focus on something else. That’s helped me before when I felt this way…. Wednesday night… keep him in our prayers… church supper next Sunday…. It’s working. The panic’s subsiding. I feel a little better.

  Then Kenny positions himself before the group and motions for us to rise. It’s time to sing the Railston. I command myself to stand with the others, hoping I won’t pass out.

  The introduction. At once a calm comes over me. As the choir sings the opening phrase in one glorious voice, I forget the colors. Miriam Railston’s comforting words cradle me. At the final “protect them,” a peace envelops me, whispering to me all is well.

  The congregation is silent. One second, two seconds, three seconds… a full ten seconds of silence. Then someone in the balcony thunders, “Praise His Holy Name,” and the place erupts with “Amens!”

  As the choir seats themselves, Kenny turns to the lectern. “What a glorious shout to God,” he praises. “You have just heard the newest song by one of America’s most blessed songwriters, Miriam Railston. She has honored the Church of Shelton Road’s choir with her new piece. And, I am pleased to announce we will be premiering the piece on national television.”

  A murmur builds throughout the choir and the congregation.

  Kenny turns to his group and smiles. “That’s right. I said national TV.” He turns back to the congregation. “I hadn’t told the choir this because I wanted you to share in their joy. Miriam Railston has organized a three-day rally called Family First. It will be televised from our civic auditorium and feature preaching by Brother Robert Hawkins. The event will include a family festival with games and exhibits, plus the nightly services. Miriam has asked our choir to sing this anthem, ‘Suffer the Little Children.’”

  “Hallelujah!” The cry echoes from the choir and congregation. A warmth flows through me. I’ll be meeting Miriam Railston and singing on national TV. What a rush.

  Chapter 12

  “HAVE YOU heard the news?” Zane hovers closely over me. I feel his hot breath. And if I wanted to let it be, it could be rather enticing.

  I’m already digging into today’s fiesta: taco salad. The lettuce is a little wilted and the meat is cold, but otherwise it is edible—as long as you stay far away from wondering just what the meat is and just how much E. coli could be in this lettuce.

  I swallow, almost choking because he startled me. And his heat next to me. You’d think I’d be used to him now. “What news?” I sputter.

  “It’s all over the newspaper.” Zane plops—he always plops, plants, or crashes… never just sits—right next to me, then turns. “It’s okay for me to sit here? Your girlfriend won’t mind?”

  The sarcasm in Zane’s voice is like acid.

  “Of course it’s okay.” I guess I ought to tell him how Melissa and I are committed totally now. But I hold back. I’m not sure why. Would he care? Do I care if he knows?

  Zane rips open the cellophane packet containing his napkin and spork. He dramatically tucks the napkin into the front of his shirt. He jams the spork into his chicken potpie. A cloud of steam releases, like the mushroom cloud at Hiroshima. Everything’s a production with Zane.

  A sporkful of salad precariously perches above my plate. I wait for Zane’s “news.” For once, can’t you cut the act? I think. But I quickly erase the thought. Drama is what defines Zane. Without that, he would be just another teenager trying to get by.

  Zane splays open the top of his milk carton and forces the pouring spout with his thumbs. He ceremoniously gulps the entire contents of the carton. Smashes the carton in one hand, tosses it over his head toward the nearest garbage can, misses the shot—as expected—shrugs, and grabs a second carton of milk off his tray.

  I can take it no more. I bark, “What’s all over the newspaper?”

  “The scandal.” He crams an enormous glop of potpie into his mouth. Just as he is going in for another sporkful, I slap his hand.

  “Stop it. Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  Zane reaches into his book bag and thrusts a folded newspaper at me.

  The headline reads, “Scandal Rips Through Local University Program.”

  My look says it all, but I verbalize too: “So—why do we care?”

  His latest bite has retained some of that steam-filled heat because he is waving his hand furiously in front of his open mouth. As he grabs for his milk, he mutters, bits of food trying to escape his mouth, “Read on.”

  I unfold the paper and read the first sentence aloud: “MusicTheatreMidwest, the prestigious theater program affiliated with the state university, was rocked by the news three of its best and brightest are local drug dealers.”

  “What the hell?” My stomach lurches. This can’t be happening.


  “Keep reading.” Zane points, his hot bite problem finally under control. “It gets juicier.”

  I quickly and silently scan the story….

  A police spokesperson says Ronald Ribenstein, 19, Gerald McCrae, also 19, and Susan Gonzalez, 20, have been arrested for allegedly possessing three kilos of cocaine with intent to sell. An undercover agent approached them with an offer to buy after being tipped off by an informant.

  The news of the arrest was a major blow to MusicTheatreMidwest’s director Scott Scheer. The program was started by Scheer three years ago as a training program for aspiring theater professionals….

  “THIS BITES.” Zane breaks my concentration. “Scott’s program may go up in flames.”

  “Why?” I ask. I’m thinking the same thing, but I don’t want to hear Zane’s answer. There are any number of reasons something like this can destroy a respected program.

  “Funding.” I’m relieved by his answer.

  “It’s part of the university. It’s state funded,” I counter.

  “Now there’s where you’re wrong, buddy. The state only contributes a part of the money—a very small part. Most of the backing is courtesy of one Marshall Hanna, self-made zillionaire arts supporter. Problem is, the guy’s ultra-ultra conservative, a real Fundamentalist. It’s hard to believe he’s behind a theater program, but he is, to the tune of millions. And this enigma thinks today’s youth—that’s us—are, as he puts it, ‘going to hell in a handbasket.’ I don’t know how Scott ever convinced him to fund MTM, but he’s gonna have to do some fast talking now.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Time magazine feature on Scott Scheer and MTM… I’ve done my homework.”

  As Zane finishes his chicken pie, I skip to the last paragraph.

  Scheer says the three who were arrested last night are “talented young people who unfortunately sought a shortcut to fortune. But their bad choices should in no way reflect on our program. Nevertheless, following the adage of ‘one bad apple,’ we will be examining each of our students, present and future, more closely for anything that could reflect badly on us.”

  I set the paper down, stunned.

  “Weird, huh?” Zane gulps more milk. “Hard to believe that could happen in Scheer’s program. Who’d want to risk everything when they were working with Scott Scheer?”

  I ignore Zane, or rather, his words don’t register. I’m panicked, thinking of Brother Gramm and our little secret…. You like it, don’t you? You won’t tell anyone, Neil.

  Nausea begins to come in waves, first tiny ones, then tsunami ones. I want to run from the room to throw up, but I don’t want to have to explain it to Zane. I will myself into an imitation of control. But even if my gut problems are subsiding, my mind is racing. If my secret comes out, it could ruin me. Anything that could reflect badly on us. Scott Scheer would cancel my scholarship in a heartbeat.

  “You gonna eat those chips?” I hear Zane, but once again, his words make no sense. He reaches over to my tray and grabs a packet of tortilla chips.

  Suddenly I’m back in the real world and glad of it. To quote Miss Scarlett, “I’ll think of this another day.”

  “Hey. Give me back my chips, you bum.”

  He drops my chips and bellows, “OMG!”

  “What? Why are you screaming?”

  “I forgot.” He digs in his pocket and comes up with a wrinkled newspaper clipping. “Satine’s tour schedule. We’re in luck. That 250-mile radius is a reality.” He waves the clipping at me.

  I grab it from his hand, trying not to rip it apart as he gyrates his hands above his head.

  I scan the list, looking for a gig near us.

  Zane is impatient, though. He stabs the very spot my eyes have landed on. “See. We’re in luck.”

  The date is the same weekend as Miriam’s rally. Now what do I do? I don’t want to disappoint Zane, but I can’t just blow off the rally. I have a solo, for God’s sake. It’s national TV.

  I take a slow, deep breath.

  “What? I know that breath,” Zane says, his voice quivering a bit. “You promised.”

  “Zane, the concert is the same weekend as the rally. I can’t go.” His look kills me.

  “But you promised,” he repeats, like a little kid.

  “Zane, come on. You know as much as I do I can’t break a commitment.” At this point, looking at him, it’s something I might consider if I were anyone but me. Commitment is my life—especially a show commitment.

  Zane won’t let it drop. “That choir has a zillion voices in it. They won’t miss yours.” There’s almost a tear in his voice.

  “I have a solo. It’s national TV.” I look at him. “And even if those two factors weren’t there, I can’t just duck out on commitments, especially performance dates. You know that as well I do.”

  “But you can, Neil. You can. Just tell them you won’t be there.”

  “Zane.” I speak slowly, emphatically, like I’m chiseling in stone—or at least, pounding the message into his hard head. “I repeat: I have a solo. In Miriam’s song she wrote just for us.”

  Zane’s face: it registers disgust, then disappointment, then resignation. I think I’m in the clear. Then he says, “Surely there’s someone else who can sing.” But I hear it. It is a half-baked attempt to get me to change my mind.

  “Sorry, guy. My career and my commitments to it come first.” I try to appease him. “Maybe you can go without me.”

  “And how would I do that? I’ve got no wheels; can’t even drive for that matter. I could hop a Greyhound, I suppose. Like my parents are gonna put their seal of approval on that idea.”

  “Zane, again, I’m sorry. There’ll be other concerts. Satine will be a star. If I know her, she’ll skip college and go straight to Broadway. Who knows? We’ll probably be cast—all three of us—together someday in a Broadway show—our first, her second or third.” I grin, hoping it’s contagious.

  Chapter 13

  “THANKS A lot for coming with me today,” Aunt Jenny says. “There’s no way I could have done this setup by myself. My old chassis’s worn out, and the craft show hasn’t even started yet. They need to jack my body up and run in a new one under it.”

  “No problem,” I say, laughing at her. Aunt Jenny has a way with words like no one else I know. “Besides, I couldn’t miss your big day—featured artist at the Cawton County Art Festival.”

  “No biggie,” Aunt Jenny scoffs, humble as ever.

  The annual craft show, the biggest one in the area, is held in a clearing in the woods just outside the city limits. Over a hundred crafters—painters, photographers, potters, jewelers, and others—set up booths to sell their wares. The air is crisp and clear this morning. You can smell the freshness. It’s a good day for a fair.

  I stare out the side window, thinking of Scott Scheer’s reaction to the young actors turned drug dealers. My eye catches the enormous stained glass windows of St. John the Divine as we pass the cathedral.

  “I got a call from Scott Scheer last night,” Aunt Jenny says, her eyes focused on the road ahead.

  My breathing speeds up, my heartbeat thumps faster. Stay calm, Neil. There is no way Scott could know about Brother Gramm.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Aunt Jenny says, mimicking him. She hates it when I revert to teenagerisms. “Could you please inform me as to his reason for calling, dear Aunt Jenny?” She is precise and overdoes it to make her point. “Show some respect here, young man.” Then a belly laugh explodes from her. Apparently, she thinks she’s funny. I, however, am too deep in my thoughts to find anything amusing.

  “So what did he want?” I venture cautiously.

  “He wanted to reassure me after that article came out. He’s so sweet. His exact words were I ‘shouldn’t fear entrusting you to him.’”

  “What did he say about the drug dealers?” My words are measured, probing. But I try to keep it conversational so she doesn’t suspect I’m scared shitless.

>   “Oh, he didn’t say much. He repeated what he told the newspaper: that they were talented kids who went astray. But he did tell me there wasn’t any rampant drug use at MusicTheatreMidwest. In fact, he claims the three arrested weren’t users, just alleged dealers. I got the feeling he used the word alleged because he didn’t want to label anyone until there is total proof. He’s a nice guy.”

  “Yeah, he is,” I say, my heartbeat slowing. Thank God Scott doesn’t know about Brother Gramm—and he will never find it out, either.

  “How’s your friend Zane? You haven’t mentioned him in a while.”

  “He’s fine,” I answer, relieved she’s changed the subject. “We worked on our audition pieces for Oklahoma! the other day. I’m telling you, he’s got a lock on Jud.”

  “That little shrimp?” Aunt Jenny laughs.

  I start to defend Zane. Yes, he is skinny, but he knows how to use his body. I picture him as Jud in my mind, and I like what I see. But, in the end, I decide he doesn’t need defending.

  “Yeah, who’d a thunk it?” I say.

  A pause. Trees whiz by as the car picks up speed.

  “So,” she says, slowly, eyes pinned to the road ahead, “is Zane gay?”

  My jaw drops. That came out of the blue. I’ve never heard that word escape her lips.

  “What makes you ask?” I measure my words, not believing she just asked me this.

  “You know me. I don’t give a good got-dang whether he’s gay or not. It’s just another way of looking for love. So”—she cuts her eyes toward me—“looks like I’m fishing here. Maybe what I want to know is, are you gay?”

  A monumental coughing fit. I’m flailing, pounding on my chest. What in the world has gotten her so fixated on this subject today? And why would she think I’m gay? And does she really not give a good got-dang as she said?