Riven

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Thomas hesitated. Did he really have to explain himself to Paul? It seemed too soon to put his foot down, stand his ground, all those things Grace had urged him to consider. “I generally like to take Monday off,” he said.

  “And you did, right? Tuesday starts the church week here, as a rule.”

  “Well, I was pretty busy here all day yesterday, and then last night was the—”

  “You were on your own time putzing around here yesterday, and last night was hardly working, was it?”

  In fact, Thomas had met a third congregation and conducted a service the night before, but Paul had been there and knew that.

  “I have a lot to finish here today, so I’ll be back in the saddle tomorrow.”

  “With the week half gone and five churches to worry about?” Paul said. “Well, you’re younger’n I am, so I guess you can cram it all in. Where’s the missus?”

  “A little under the weather this morning actually. I’ll pass along your greetings.”

  It was as if Patricia Pierce had heard the news about Grace as a signal to rise. She began tidying the room, opening curtains, adjusting this and that.

  Thomas was suddenly overcome with anger and had to bite his tongue. He imagined himself demanding that these people leave and give him and his wife room to breathe.

  But he would not do that. Never had. God would give him grace, he decided, and it would all seem minor once they were gone.

  “Hey!” Paul said. “Here’s the phone company now.”

  Within minutes a young man was drilling and wiring and installing a phone jack near the counter that separated the tiny kitchen from the living room. Both Paul and Patricia had ideas where it should go, but Grace had lightly penciled the spot on the wall.

  “I wish she was up,” Patricia said, “because I believe she’d agree that here would be less conspicuous.”

  The installer said, “You’ve got plenty of wire to put the phone where you want. The jack can go anywhere.”

  “Sure,” Patricia said, “if you don’t care a thing about decor.”

  The installer checked his paperwork. “You also wanted an extension phone in the bedroom?”

  Thomas explained that his wife was still asleep and asked if that could be installed another time.

  “Probably be another week, and I’d have to charge for a separate visit.”

  “He won’t bother her, Tom,” Paul said. “And you don’t want to pay twice. That would have to be a personal charge. You wouldn’t expect the church to—”

  “Next week will be fine,” Thomas said. “And of course I’ll cover it. Now I should see about Grace.”

  “And I’ll see you at the office later?”

  “No, Paul. I’m taking today off. Next week I’ll get into the routine of taking Mondays off. I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got a meeting with two of my sons tomorrow, Thomas.”

  “Do you need to be there when I am?”

  “Well, no, I guess not. But being your first week and all, and with me overseeing the other congregations for you—”

  “Will you be around Thursday, Paul?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then let’s talk about the other congregations at that time.”

  “Talk about them?” Paul said.

  “Thursday.”

  Addison

  Brady Darby had not considered how conspicuous he’d feel with a garment bag over one shoulder and carrying a guitar case onto the school bus. At least it gave him a reason to leave his books at home.

  “You in a band now?” fat Agatha whined. What had he ever seen in her? Well, he guessed he knew that well enough.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The Beatles are gettin’ back together and want me to play lead. Shut up.”

  Oldenburg

  When Thomas again checked on Grace, he noticed that while the tea had clearly been sipped, nothing else on the tray had been touched, and she was asleep again. She was rarely ill and hardly ever lost her appetite. He was just glad she had been spared the Pierces’ drop-in. They had taken down the Careys’ new number and would likely be the first callers.

  Thomas knew whom Grace would call first. He could only hope Ravinia would be encouraged by their new situation. His wife would know better than to tell her all about the Pierces.

  Forest View High School

  Brady ducked into Mr. Nabertowitz’s office just before first bell and asked if he could stash his stuff somewhere. “It doesn’t fit in my locker, and I don’t want to lug it around all day.”

  “What in the world is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “How interesting! You have props?”

  “I guess.”

  “What’s with the guitar?”

  “Like I said, you’ll see.”

  “I love that you’re coming prepared, but as I told you, we’ve cast most of the leads. We have a guy who would be perfect for the father, but he can’t carry a tune. Can you?”

  “I think I can, but I’m not trying out for the father.”

  “There’s nothing left, son. Just town kids, bit parts.”

  “I’m auditioning for Birdie.”

  Nabertowitz sighed and shook his head. “I told you I had someone for that.”

  “Is it a done deal? ’Cause I don’t think I’m interested in anything else.”

  “You’re going to have to thrill me, and I’m going to have a real problem if I change now.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Truth is, I wouldn’t mind the problem. My Birdie hardly has the bad-boy look I want. He’d be much better as the jealous boyfriend. But he wants the part, and he’s earned it. He’s going to Northwestern next year, and his parents are supportive of me and the program here and are thrilled to death he has the lead.”

  “Birdie’s not the lead.”

  Nabertowitz cocked his head. “I thought only I understood that.”

  “Anybody who’s read the script ought to know Birdie is just the title character. The lead is the manager. Give hotshot that part. Can he sing and dance?”

  “He sure can.”

  “Then there you go.”

  “I have an older-looking kid for that. Real promising.”

  “Make him the father, hotshot the manager, me Birdie.”

  Nabertowitz led Brady to the door. “You’d better get to class. And we’re way, way ahead of ourselves here. I’ll let you audition for Birdie, but you must know it’s a long shot. It’s not a terribly demanding part, as you know. The look is paramount, and you have that. But it’s also crucial you can sing and dance, and not even you know that yet.”

  The rest of the day, Brady went over and over in his mind his plan for the audition. He sat in the backs of classes and assumed his bored, defiant look, so teachers didn’t bother with him. He carried no books, took no notes, just sat and thought. He’d never sung in front of anybody but Petey, but he always sang along to the radio—classic rock, oldies, and hard rock. Who knew whether he was any good? He sure didn’t.

  Dancing was another matter. He had been to a few and there were those who seemed to appreciate a James Brown thing he could do. Birdie was, of course, more of an Elvis figure with a hip shake Brady would have to learn. But for today, he’d stick with what he knew.

  Problem was, every time Brady really thought about the prospect of standing alone on stage, in costume, singing and dancing for Nabertowitz along with who knew how many kids, he seriously doubted whether he could go through with it. Part of him had a feeling this might be his ticket from trailer trash to respectability, something that would allow him to rescue Petey from the same horrid existence. But another part of him was certain this was a pipe dream, the ridiculous notion of a nobody from nowhere.

  He sat watching the clock during his last class, weighing the prospect of just gathering up his suit and guitar and heading home.

  Oldenburg

  Grace had finally roused around lunchtime, complaining of fatigue and a lack of appetite. But Thomas persu
aded her to try half a cheese sandwich—again testing his culinary skills—with a little more tea.

  “Anything specific, hon?” he said. “You need to see a doctor?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m just wiped out. We’ve been through a lot in just a few days.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Thomas was stunned to learn that she had been wholly unaware the Pierces had been there. “You slept through all that? Paul’s not a quiet guy.”

  She nodded. “How long were they here?”

  “Long enough to try to supervise the phone installation.”

  “What? You didn’t tell me! I want to call Ravinia!”

  Thomas pointed her to the phone, encouraged that she suddenly seemed perkier. He cleared away the dishes as she dialed.

  “Yes, thank you, just a minute,” she said, then covered the receiver. “Thomas, write this down. Rav’s suitemate says she has a new number. She’s moved.”

  “Moved? What—go ahead, I’m ready.”

  Grace recited the number and hung up. “She’s not in the dorm anymore. The girl says she found a roommate off campus to save money.”

  “That’s prudent, but it sure happened fast.”

  “She’s always been good with money,” Grace said as Thomas slid the new number to her. “But I wish she didn’t have to do this.”

  Thomas sat, waiting his turn to talk to his daughter.

  “No answer,” Grace whispered, then, “Oh, wait.” She squinted, then opened her mouth as if to speak before quickly hanging up. “Oh no.”

  “What?”

  She stood and moved toward the bedroom.

  “Grace! What?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Of course I do; now what?”

  “Call her yourself,” she said, shutting the bedroom door.

  Thomas dialed, his fingers shaking. The number rang four times; then came his daughter’s cheerfully recorded voice: “You’ve reached Dirk and Rav. Leave a message after the beep and . . .”

  Thomas found Grace curled on the bed, sobbing. “It may not be as bad as it sounds,” he said.

  “Oh, Thomas, it’s one thing for us to be old-fashioned, but let’s not be naive.”

  9

  Forest View High School

  Brady seemed to move in slow motion, such was his dread on the way to the Little Theater. All around him fresh-scrubbed preppies bustled, laughing, gossiping, seeming eager to get to the sheets taped to the door, listing parts already cast. A few girls glanced at Brady, clearly wondering what he was doing there. Another held her nose and leaned to whisper something to a friend, but she quickly straightened when Brady glared.

  He recognized none of the names on the sheet and again considered forgetting the whole crazy idea, until he noticed “Alex North*” on the Conrad Birdie line. At the bottom he found “*Pending.” So Nabertowitz was withholding his final decision until he’d seen Brady onstage.

  No pressure there. As Brady headed toward his suit and guitar, kids were saying, “Did you see that? North’s not in for sure.”

  “No way.”

  “Why?”

  “C’mon—he’s automatic.”

  A small wicker basket lay on a table in the music room adjoining the stage. Kids were drawing numbers from it. Brady hesitated. He could just grab his stuff and still make the bus. This was crazy. Nobody would look at him straight on, but he felt everyone’s eyes. He had as much business here as a linebacker in an antique store.

  Brady made up his mind to go home. He marched to the closet and grabbed the garment bag and guitar case.

  “Hey!” a girl squealed. “Is he stealing something?”

  Brady whirled. “Who, me?” Everyone froze. “These yours?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Then shut your mouth!”

  Nabertowitz entered and seemed to quickly detect the awkwardness. “Hi, Brady,” he said. “Did you get a number?”

  “No.”

  “Grab one.”

  If Brady hadn’t been stopped, he’d have been out of there by now. With everyone staring, he put his stuff back in the closet and grabbed a slip from the basket: 38. Oh, great. If he didn’t get this over soon, he was going to explode.

  His eyes found the girl again, a cheerleader type.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, flushed. “I just thought—”

  “I know what you thought,” he said and moved to the wing of the stage, where he could watch.

  “I’m really sorry,” she said, grabbing a sheaf of papers off a table and moving past him. “That was stupid of me.”

  Brady wasn’t sure why, but she had somehow made him feel sorry for her. She had assumed a guy like him could only be up to no good in the music room, and worse, she must have considered him stupid enough to try to steal something in front of dozens of people. Well, he wouldn’t berate her anymore, but he’d show her.

  To Brady’s surprise, the girl strode directly to a spinet piano just offstage and arranged her music. From the darkened seats, where Clancy Nabertowitz sat surrounded by kids who had apparently been cast the day before, the director called out, “First sixteen girls, town chorus!”

  From both sides of the stage they came, some looking eager, others petrified. Brady could identify. He knew that by now he was the talk of the place. But these girls had a job to do, and within minutes, Cheerleader was whaling away on the piano as the others cavorted all over the stage.

  A girl stepped up behind Brady. “Is it true you’re trying out for Birdie?”

  He turned. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing to me. Might mean something to my boyfriend, though. That’s him right in front of Mr. N.”

  Brady squinted. A short, good-looking kid sat staring at the stage, arms folded, scowling. “Doesn’t seem as impressed with the dancers as everyone else is.”

  “He’d better not be,” the girl said, laughing. “’Course, he’s worried about you.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.”

  “He knows of you. He and Mr. N. are tight. He always gets the leads.”

  “He shouldn’t have any trouble beating me out.”

  “You ride a motorcycle?”

  Brady grimaced and faced her. “What makes you ask that?”

  “You look the type, that’s all.”

  “I can’t afford a motorcycle.”

  “Well, you’d look good on one.”

  Brady turned back to the stage, feeling himself redden. Had he just been hit on by a popular girl? Impossible.

  During the hubbub of kids taking and leaving the stage, Brady noticed the girl at the piano sneaking a peek at him. What was this? Never seen his type before?

  She mouthed, “Forgive me?”

  He cocked his head and shrugged, nodding. She beckoned him over.

  “I’m really not usually like that,” she said.

  “Forget it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Again confused and tongue-tied, he moved away, only to stop and spin. “You want to make it up to me?”

  She looked wary. “How?”

  “You know ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ the Carl—”

  “—Perkins classic? Of course. I don’t have the music, but I could figure it out. It’s not in this play, you know.”

  He shot her a look.

  “Sorry. Guess you knew that.”

  “Yeah, I knew. And do you know the lighting guys?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, here’s what I need. . . .”

  An hour later Brady was as antsy as he had ever been. These kids all seemed to know each other, to know what they were doing, and to be doing it well. Nabertowitz hollered, “Thirty-seven! Hi there! What’re you auditioning for?”

  “Bartender!”

  “Very good. When you’re ready.”

  Brady hurried to the closet, grabbed the garment bag, and ducked into the bathroom. It frustrated him to find a few other guys in there. The conversation quickly stopped. He hadn’t w
anted to change in a stall, but that was his only choice now.

  Brady got the door shut and opened the bag, kicking off his shoes and trying to maneuver in the tiny chamber. He heard a snicker. What must they be thinking?

  He swore when he realized his belt didn’t fit the tiny loops in the suit slacks. It still wasn’t too late to back out. If he didn’t answer when the director called his number, end of story.

  But as he pulled his shoes back on, Brady could think only of the trailer, his wasted mother, and Peter. Maybe this wasn’t the only way out, but it could be a start, and he owed that much to Petey. Somehow he knew that if he could keep his brother at the forefront of his mind, he could do this. He had no idea whether he was any good or if he would wind up humiliated, but he could at least try.

  Brady emerged relieved to see the bathroom empty, but when he got into the music room, the same guys were bending over the now open guitar case. “Sweet!”

  “A Strat!”

  “Touch that and I break your face,” Brady said.

  The boys recoiled. “Just looking, pal. Chill.”

  “Yeah, well, it isn’t mine and I’m not supposed to let anyone—”

  “Great threads, by the way.”

  From the theater Brady heard, “Thirty-eight!”

  He lifted the guitar, heavier than he expected, and slung the black leather strap over his shoulder. He should have practiced this. He just missed the doorjamb with the neck, and as he moved to the side of the stage, still out of sight, the houselights went black.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Brady padded carefully toward the single mike at center stage as murmurs faded to silence, but he could see nothing. What if he plunged into the orchestra pit? He treaded gingerly, feeling carefully for solid ground. Finally Brady nudged the mike, pulled it close to his mouth, and took a deep breath.

  Forcing his fear somewhere deep inside, he belted, “Well, it’s one for the money!” and the girl at the piano banged a loud chord. “Two for the show!” and she came in again. “Three to get ready, now go, cat, go!” and the spotlight hit him.