Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  After we’d managed to park, I found that the lobby was packed. Grumbling would-be patrons were now being turned away from the ticketbooth. For the first time in the Guild’s history, the playhouse had completely sold out, not only every seat, but standing room as well. The buzz in the lobby confirmed, as I feared, that this rush of interest in amateur theater had been generated not by Glee Savage’s glowing review in that morning’s Register, but by the news of Jason Thrush’s death, by the uncanny life-imitates-art circumstances, and by the knowledge, now common, that Thad Quatrain had threatened the Thrush boy before he died, stepping into the leading role.

  Neil and I divvied up our tickets. He and Roxanne would work their way toward the auditorium, escaping the crush of the lobby, while I would remain, waiting for Pierce. After a minute or so of watching the door, I spotted Pierce across the lobby, his head bobbing above the others, apparently in search of us, so I began sidling through the crowd in his direction.

  Along the way, I noticed Glee Savage enter the theater, accompanied by Lucille Haring. Glee had originally planned to review both the Friday and Saturday performances because of the double casting. Those plans had now changed, of course, but she had enjoyed the show so much, she was back for another look. Lucy, on the other hand, had not, to my knowledge, planned to attend at all, but with the murder and the potential for developing news, she had decided to see the play out of sheer curiosity; her decision was doubtless bolstered by the assumption that Roxanne would be in the theater that night. With devilish insight, I now understood why Lucy (not, by nature, a party person) had so readily accepted my invitation to the house after the show.

  Setting these thoughts aside, I continued through the crowd toward Pierce. Surrounded by a babble of voices, I seemed to hear both everything and nothing that was said. Snatches of conversation, phrases lacking context, words without meaning—the chatter was like aural wallpaper, seamless and unending, a random pattern of hearsay and do-tell, spoken in loud whispers of gossip. Most of it, I was certain, pertained to Thad and Jason, but I tried to assure myself that I was merely being paranoid, imagining my own concerns being bandied about by this cross section of the town’s faceless, nameless populace.

  Then I actually heard the two names, clearly and unambiguously, spoken by a woman within inches of my ear: “…a world of difference between Thad Quatrain and Jason Thrush.” I stopped, turned my head, and saw the speaker standing near my side, her back to me, conversing with another woman whom I did not recognize. The speaker seemed familiar, though, even from behind—her proper posture, her measured speech, her perfect, stiff hairdo. She was now speaking of Jason’s death in a tone neither hushed nor gossipy. She stated flatly, “What goes around, comes around. Sometimes destiny doles out its own harsh justice.” And with that, she offered the other woman a nod of farewell, leaving the distinct impression that she saw no tragedy in Jason’s passing. As she moved away, I got a good glimpse of her profile. It was Nancy Sanderson, owner of First Avenue Grill.

  Distracted by this encounter, I momentarily lost sight of Pierce in the shifting crowd. Focusing again on my mission, I stood on the balls of my feet, noticed Pierce doing the same, and caught his attention. Holding the tickets over my head, I motioned toward the double doors to the auditorium.

  A minute or two later, we greeted each other with a perfunctory handshake, took our programs from the usher, and headed down the aisle toward our seats. I told him, “Strange crowd tonight.”

  He glanced around. “Great crowd tonight.”

  I hesitated. “I don’t know—something tells me they’re out for blood.”

  Arriving at our row, we found the two outer seats left open for us so that Pierce could sit on the aisle; I resolved to sit through the entire show that night, regardless of whatever enticing emergency might lure Pierce away. Neil and Roxanne had taken the inside seats, but between them sat someone else, a woman I’d never met. As Pierce and I slipped in and sat down, Neil told me, “We ran into Cynthia Dunne-Gelden, and we had Barb’s extra ticket, so I asked her to join us.” Then he introduced us.

  “Mark,” said Cynthia, stretching across Neil to shake my hand, “at long last, such a pleasure.” Her gold bracelets rattled.

  I returned her smile. “My pleasure entirely. Neil’s told me so many nice things about you.” Saying this, I realized that Neil had in fact told me little about the woman, and I was surprised to note that she did not fit the vague mental image I’d drawn of her.

  I’d known only that she was a businesswoman, apparently well-off, and married to Frank for eight years. Frank was forty, but I felt that he looked younger than his years; Cynthia seemed older. Though she looked trim and fit, and she dressed beautifully, she was not (to be coldly objective) “pretty.” In short, I thought that she and Frank seemed mismatched—but I quickly chided myself for judging them on mere appearances. They were both mature adults when they had married, and it was unfair of me to question their pairing on such superficial grounds. Clearly, I reasoned, their commitment ran deeper than “good looks,” and the ring on her finger proved it. Recalling too the ring on Frank’s finger, I was ashamed of myself for finding him so attractive, for judging her so unworthy.

  Cynthia was saying to me, “I’m dying to get acquainted later this evening at the party—thanks, by the way, for inviting us.” Then she returned to the conversation she’d already struck up with Roxanne, who sat on her far side.

  Neil leaned toward me, fanning his playbill open. “Have you seen this?”

  I opened my program and found a new page inserted in the center. There was a general announcement that, for the remainder of the run, the role of Ryan would be played by Thad Quatrain, the role of Dawson by Thomas Morales. The announcement was followed by a short letter, signed by Denny Diggins, informing the audience of the tragic death of Jason Thrush (on the off chance that someone there that night hadn’t heard the news yet). Finally, at the bottom of the page, was a solemn, black-bordered box with funereal script, dedicating the entire production of Teen Play to the loving memory of Jason Thrush.

  More and more, I was getting the uneasy feeling that Thad would have a rough time winning over the audience that night.

  And I was right.

  When the houselights finally dimmed and the crowd hushed, there was the usual moment of expectancy before the stage lights came on, but the mood of the audience was palpably different from that of the previous night. On Friday, there was a mood of excitement; the crowd was ready for magic. Tonight’s audience, like a many-headed beast waiting in the dark, projected a silent anticipation that was both grim and demanding.

  With a sudden hum, the stage lights were at full power, and the play began. After a few lines of opening dialogue from minor characters, Thad entered as Ryan. If he was expecting the same round of spontaneous applause that had greeted his entrance on opening night, he was surely disappointed—not a sound came from the audience, not even a cough, not even a squeak from the old seats. Hurdling this cold welcome with aplomb, Thad plunged onward into the scene.

  Several pages into the script, Tommy Morales made his entrance as Dawson, the smaller of the two leading roles. For the first time, the audience came to life, greeting Tommy as they had greeted Thad the night before. The characters onstage knew how to handle it—they froze in tableau until the applause began to wane, then carried on with the scene as if nothing had happened. But something had happened, of course, something profound. The crowd, by some mysterious, fickle, collective logic, had bestowed star status on Tommy. Were they punishing Thad? Had they already judged him responsible for Jason’s death? Had they decided to shun Thad?

  Those were the vibes they seemed to be sending, a silent message that Thad decoded with ease. Before my eyes, his performance began to deteriorate. His vocal projection flagged, his words lacked the dual sparks of life and realism, and at one point, he even flubbed a line (a first in his year of acting), which further shook his confidence.

  In contrast, T
ommy’s performance soared. He played the smaller role of Dawson with all the insight and maturity that Thad had shown in the same role at Wednesday’s rehearsal. Though Tommy had stepped into the role on Friday and played it only once, he now performed it with the confidence that arises from weeks of rehearsal. In spite of the agonies I felt for Thad, I was genuinely impressed by the skills of his younger counterpart.

  When intermission at last mercifully arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief. Though Thad’s performance was clearly “off,” he’d made it through the first half, and I hoped the brief break would give him the opportunity to collect his thoughts, focus on his role, and reignite his dramatic passion for the rigors of act two.

  “It was wonderful,” said Cynthia Dunne-Gelden, leaning from her seat.

  Roxanne seconded, “Thad’s stealing the show, all right.”

  They were both sincere in their compliments, but neither had seen the previous night’s performance, so they couldn’t appreciate how far Thad had slipped. “Actually,” I told them, “Thad seems a bit…tired tonight. I’m sure things’ll pick up after intermission.”

  Pierce and Neil nodded their agreement, but offered no further comments.

  The rest of the row got up, excusing themselves for a stretch in the lobby, but I remained alone in my seat, claiming fatigue—true enough, but more to the point, I had no appetite for the jabber I’d encounter out there. Real or imagined, all the buzz would be Tommy-this and Tommy-that; references to Thad would be gloating and disparaging.

  Just who, I wondered, is this Thomas Morales? Thumbing through the program, I found the cast members’ profiles. He was listed last, since his assigned character, the Old Man, was the play’s smallest role. Under his name, a parenthetical line also noted that he was understudy for the role of Dawson. His blurb was brief. I learned that he was sixteen, a year younger than Thad, attending the same school, Dumont Central, where Tommy had appeared in every play for the past two years. The credits all struck me as minor roles, and I assumed this was due to his height, which was a few inches on the short side, or perhaps the leading roles routinely went to upperclassmen—I wasn’t sure. Teen Play was his first production outside of school. He thanked the Dumont Players Guild; the show’s director, Denny Diggins; his high school director, Mrs. Osborne; his mother and father; his four siblings; and God.

  I’d never met Tommy, though I’d seen all that fussing with his Old Man costume at Wednesday’s rehearsal. I couldn’t recall that Thad had ever spoken of him, and though they’d been in school plays together, I’d simply never noticed Tommy, confirming my hunch that his roles had been small. Watching the first half of his performance tonight, I had no reason to think he was anything other than “just a good kid,” and his printed litany of thanks seemed to bear out this conclusion. On top of which, his face had a certain innocence, a boyishness. Indeed, his darker skin and delicate features made him look downright beatific, like a little Latin cherub. Still, he had just trounced my own kid in act one—I decided I didn’t like him.

  Act two did nothing to soften my prejudice.

  Thad’s performance remained at low ebb, but the audience had ceased to notice—all eyes were now on Tommy. He acted his little heart out, playing not one role, but two (Dawson and the Old Man). During the final encounter, the bloody bludgeoning in which Dawson kills Ryan, the audience roared its approval as Tommy slew Thad. The previous night, the crowd had witnessed this climactic scene in silent, breathless horror, but tonight they got a kick out of it, venting their hostilities as if at a century-old melodrama. They all but threw vegetables.

  It was the curtain call, however, that frosted the theatrical cake. The audience was having a great time, applauding and whistling as the actors came onstage for their bows, working their way up from the smallest roles to the leads. When there were two spaces left, center stage, where Dawson and Ryan would bow, there was a long (dramatic) pause—where the hell was Dawson? The audience continued clapping uncertainly, then out hobbled the Old Man in full costume, one of the quickest changes I’d ever witnessed. When the Old Man finally made his way to downstage center (milking every feeble step), he bowed as if his back would break, then, on the upswing, whipped the wig and beard from his face, revealing (oh, my God!) that it was none other than Dawson—little Tommy Morales, there in the flesh! The audience ate up this shameless grandstanding, as if everyone were taken by complete surprise, as if no one had even glanced at a program. They loved it. They were on their feet, clapping their hands raw, shouting themselves hoarse.

  After what seemed a full minute of this brouhaha, Ryan (the star, remember, my nephew Thad) wandered out for his bow, doomed to an anticlimactic reception. Though the audience remained standing (only because it was time to leave), the level of hysteria instantly dropped, leaving polite applause. Thad bowed for the scraps that were offered, but before he’d even risen, the stage lights winked out. A moment later, when the cast had disappeared, the houselights rose.

  Chatter broke out all around, but I wasn’t listening. Purses snapped, keys rattled, people were moving into the aisle. Neil gave me a nudge. “We’d better get going,” he told me, affecting an upbeat tone, trying to mask his own disappointment. “Our guests will be arriving at the house.”

  I nodded without comment, stepping with Pierce into the aisle, my eyes still focused on the empty stage. Then an obvious thought crossed my mind:

  Tommy Morales owed tonight’s triumph to the death of Jason Thrush.

  A mixed crowd of kids and adults would descend upon the house on Prairie Street for the cast-and-crew party. By the time I arrived home with Neil and Roxanne, early arrivals were streaming up the sidewalk from the street; others, earlier still, were already inside, as evidenced by the blur of silhouettes passing by the windows.

  “I need a drink,” I told my companions as we climbed the back stairs and crossed the porch.

  “I’ll second that,” said Neil, who had found Thad’s disastrous performance even more upsetting than I had.

  Pausing at the kitchen door, Roxanne asked warily, “Isn’t this a kids’ party?” She was questioning the presence of alcohol, which she herself had forsworn—with good reason.

  While sensitive to the issue, Neil was in no mood to slog through this particular night without booze. Entering the house, he explained, “There’ll be plenty of adults around, crew as well as parents. Most of them will want to drink, and they can help keep an eye on things. As an extra precaution, adults will serve themselves here in the kitchen, under Barb’s menacing gaze; the kiddy bar is in the dining room with the food.”

  As he said this, Barb let out a shrill whistle. “Hey, you—out, you little delinquents!” And a pair of inquisitive kids backed out of the kitchen, laughing.

  “Evening, Barb,” I said dryly. “Everything under control?”

  “Yeah”—she snapped her fingers—“no problem.” Then: “What’s wrong with you guys? Somebody die?”

  Neil answered with a half laugh, “You mean it shows? Thad didn’t do so well tonight. The audience was hostile. Frankly, I think we should have canceled the party—things could get weird.” He stretched his shoulders, grimacing.

  “Nah,” Barb assured him, stepping behind to knead the kink from his neck, “the party will be good for all of you, even Thad. He’s the big man tonight.”

  She was right. The whole point of tonight’s festivities was to let Thad shine—I just hoped the party’s tone would in fact be “festive.” Looking about, I realized that everything was in order, even the bar, so I helped myself to some Japanese vodka, pouring stiff shots over ice for both Neil and me. Neil sliced an orange peel, twisting slivers of it over our glasses, the finishing touch for “our usual.” Roxanne helped herself to mineral water, opting for some orange peel as well. Tasting it, she nodded her approval. Neil and I exchanged a silent toast, then drank. The evening looked a measure better already.

  The main crush of guests had begun to arrive, with repeated rings of the doorbel
l, which were answered by anyone nearby. Bracing myself, I told the others, “Time to mingle.” Roxanne stayed behind with Barb for the moment, but Neil and I ventured forth from the safety of the kitchen.

  Thad had arrived from the theater, still looking sweaty from a quick shower, but exhilarated. With Kwynn Wyman at his side, he’d managed to leave the horrors of the performance behind. Someone turned up the music in the living room, and to my relief, the whole house took on a party atmosphere. The kids had discovered Barb’s lavish spread of food in the dining room, descending on it like a throng of refugees—they were even wolfing the black-trumpet spread (after having heard the coroner’s mushroom theory that afternoon, you couldn’t have paid me to touch it, let alone eat it). Spotting me standing there staring at the goo, Thad came over and sampled it, swiping from the bowl with a finger.

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “Tough crowd tonight, eh?”

  He rolled his eyes. “You just never know. Every audience is different. I was sorry it didn’t turn out better for Roxanne, though.”

  “She loved it.”

  Tommy Morales popped up to the table.

  “Hey,” said Thad, “try this, Tommy. Black trumpets—I picked them yesterday, and Barb made the spread. It’s great.” He was blissfully ignorant of the cream cheese he was eating.

  “Yeah?” Tommy’s eyes sparkled (he had a beautiful face, I’ll hand him that). He tried the spread on a piece of warm, crusty bread. “Wow. They’re right at their peak. Where’d you find them?”

  “As if I’d tell!”

  Both boys laughed, fellow devotees of the hunt, it seemed. What surprised me, though, was that neither said a word about that night’s performance—there wasn’t a hint of animosity over what had happened. Maybe I’d been imagining their rivalry, suckered by the realism of their acting. I still had a lot to learn about the theater world.