Riven

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  The night before, he had spent half an hour shining his shoes, and he had carried them to school, wearing sneakers. Now there was a look. He flipped off more than a half dozen friends and strangers—anyone who made a comment about him in tennies. They’d see who deserved jeers and who deserved cheers after tonight. If he was big now, imagine then.

  All he could think of all day was his first real appearance onstage. Everybody was talking about it, and most seemed as familiar with the musical as he was. All he had to do was stand and deliver. The exams were afterthoughts, and he was already long past dreading their outcomes and feeling awful for being utterly unprepared. Like an idiot, he knew, he hoped his talent would somehow miraculously spare him. If one—just one—of the people in charge had an ounce of mercy, maybe . . .

  Most exciting about tonight was that Alejandro and his girlfriend were coming. Brady had tried to shame his mother into coming too. “You’ve got a car. The ticket’s free. You could bring Petey instead of me having to get my old boss to do it. And now even Alejandro is coming and is excited for me. You don’t think people are gonna wonder where my ma is?”

  “They don’t care about me any more’n you do. Anyway, we always have a party Friday after work.”

  “And that’s more important than your own son. Someday, when I’m a star and you see me on some talk show talking about my career, you’re gonna wish you had a story about the first time you saw me onstage.”

  “Yeah, and that I knew you were going to be big.”

  “It could happen.”

  “And this trailer could grow white pillars.”

  Brady sat back and studied his mother. She looked way older than her years, though she had been a teenager when he was born. “Seriously, you’re not gonna feel funny if everybody’s talking about me and wants to know what you thought?”

  “Who’s going to ask me that?”

  “Anybody could. Everybody else’s parents are coming. Can’t wait. And if you had any idea how popular I am at school, I swear you’d be amazed.”

  “You got that right. Well, if Petey’s going with the Laundromat guy, he can tell me all about it.”

  At school Brady found a sassiness creeping over him. After each midterm, on his way out of class he shook hands with the teacher and smiled and told him or her that he hoped to see them at the musical that night.

  Each looked surprised at this new, gregarious personality and asked how he felt about the exam.

  “Oh, I have no doubt about that,” he said. “I bombed royally, flying colors. Not a prayer. Hardly recognized any of it, and what I recognized I couldn’t remember. And the one time I could’ve got a good look at my neighbor’s paper, you were watching.”

  He laughed loudly, but somehow not one of them seemed to find that in the least amusing. Each said they were indeed looking forward to seeing him onstage but hoped he hadn’t irreparably damaged himself academically.

  “Well, I’m sure I have,” he said. “But it’s been fun.”

  Adamsville

  “You sure you’re feeling better?” Thomas said.

  “I’ve never lied to you,” Grace said. “I’m afraid these discolorations on my arms are a sign of age, though. I use creams and everything, but it just seems my blood vessels are closer to the surface, my skin thinning, or something.”

  Thomas studied the fresh marks that looked like bruises. “And you don’t recall banging into something or putting pressure on them by pushing anything?”

  She shook her head, apparently eager to change the subject. “It’ll happen to you too, as you age.”

  “Grace, we’re not that old, despite that everybody thinks we are. Those aren’t age spots, and I don’t think your skin is thinning. It worries me.”

  “Well, I feel fine, and I’m done talking about it, all right? Now go change out of your suit and come put your feet up. I want to hear all about your day.”

  In truth, that sounded great. Not that there was anything so special about that Friday. But for the first time in years, it signaled the end of Thomas’s workweek, and it nearly made him want to dance. He and Grace could enjoy a casual dinner, take a walk, watch the news, read the paper, talk, whatever they wanted. And then Saturday was wide open. He could handle all the chores a normal husband handled, things Grace always had to take care of before.

  She had always insisted that he use his first day off to crash after all the weekend church activities and the second to just read and study. Thomas had never been idle, but he welcomed this new season of life where he could really be a fully functioning partner to her. The first thing he was going to do was scour the classified ads for a used desk.

  When he emerged from the bedroom, Grace was curled at one end of the couch, looking eager to hear whatever he had to say. She patted the cushion next to her and he settled in.

  “Learned a little more today,” he said. “Like every day. Gladys has really been helpful.”

  “She sounds wonderful. I like that type. Wish I could get to know her.”

  “She’s got a passel of kids, and her husband loves to cook—owns a barbecue place, in fact. She lives for the weekend. It’s church all the time for them. She’s big into the music program.”

  “Should we look into her church one of these weekends?”

  Thomas laughed. “I suggested that. Told her we wanted some recommendations. She implied that you and I probably would not be comfortable in her church.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because of the part of town it’s in. And because it’s almost 100 percent black.”

  “You told her, didn’t you, that we went to college in Chicago and we’re not afraid of black people?”

  “I did. She said, ‘Well, I have lots of friends who would be afraid of you!’ When we got serious, she said she had to admit that she was ashamed of some of her brothers and sisters there. She said there can be as much racism from within her community as without. Said she’s seen members get up and move to another pew when visiting white people sit down.”

  “No! Really?”

  “I was surprised too. She told me she’d sure welcome us, but did we like three-hour services, dancing in the aisles, people being slain in the spirit, nurses on call, all that?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Well, I mean, I appreciate their passion and I love their music. . . .”

  “Gracie, listen to yourself. Their this and their that? That sounds awful.”

  “You know what I mean. Still, I’d love to meet her, even if maybe she’s right about us and her church.”

  Thomas told her how Gladys had been so helpful in the office that he almost considered her his surrogate boss. “I report to Warden LeRoy, but he’s gone so much, and when he is there, I don’t want to bother him. But Gladys knows everything anyway and seems happy to help.”

  “Like with what?”

  “Well, today I finally got clearance on six of nine requests for a visit. Two of the inmates wanted private meetings, which were turned down and changed into just a stand-up outside their cells, and three were turned down because they didn’t convince the reviewers they were sincere.”

  “But you saw six? That’s a good start.”

  “Yeah, but every time I visit one of these guys, I come back with more questions. They all want something. No one just wants counsel or prayer or teaching. They all have an angle.”

  “And you’re finding it hard to say no.”

  “I have learned to tell them that I’ll have to check on things. It’s nice to be able to hide behind that for a while. I tell them I’m still learning and that I don’t want to promise anything I can’t deliver. That’s what I meant about Gladys. She told me to stop worrying so much, that there are rules to protect me and that’s all there is to it. I don’t have to apologize or wonder. I’m protected by what’s called ‘administrative regulations,’ which is what staff can and cannot do. No matter what anybody asks for, begs for, pleads for, whines for, finagles for,
my hands are tied if the ad regs don’t permit it. I can hide behind that without a second thought.”

  “What do all these guys want?”

  “Some just want to talk about their cases or their lives. You’d be amazed, though, at how nothing is private there. Even if we’re whispering, everybody else quiets down, turns down their radios and TVs, and listens to the conversation. They all chime in, boohooing, teasing, jeering. And it’s obvious they’ve heard everyone’s stories before.

  “One guy was telling me about his childhood, and from another pod a guy hollers, ‘Here comes the part about his mom treating him like dirt!’ Well, the first guy cusses out the other, I try to calm him down, others start fake bawling, and now he’s screaming at them all to shut up.”

  “Sounds like elementary Sunday school.”

  “That’s where the similarities end. But I’m finding that the one thing I have to offer these guys that they want the most is a free fifteen-minute phone call. It has all kinds of restrictions, but it’s entirely up to me whether to grant it. It has to be for a family emergency. Gladys tells me Russ granted just a few each year in all the time he was there. If a parent or a child is deathly ill or dies, we have to see bona fide verifiable documents. Then I can authorize a prearranged time when the inmate is strip-searched, bound, extracted from his cell, delivered to the phone bank, and allowed the call. He must talk to an immediate family member or someone principally involved in the matter, like a pastor, a funeral director, or a lawyer. And there’s no leeway on the fifteen minutes. The phone goes dead right on the second.”

  “How often is there such a death in the immediate family?”

  “Well, if you can believe these guys, four of the six today swore they had just lost someone.”

  “What are the odds?”

  “Exactly. I told each what I needed from him, and they all earnestly pleaded with me to understand that by the time they got all the documentation in the mail, Mama or Grandpa or Baby or whoever would have been in the ground for weeks. I have to tell you, I’m glad I was warned about this.”

  “Or you’d have believed every one of them.”

  “Hook, line, and sinker. These are the most convincing, sincere liars I have ever met. I do have an interesting request pending from one con though.”

  “For a phone call?”

  “No. Just a visit. It’s for a private session in the separation room.” Thomas told Grace all about the room with its Plexiglas barrier and its tiny slot for the transfer of documents. “Most requests are turned down or parceled out very sparsely, but I’m inclined to think this one will be honored.”

  “Because?”

  “It’s from a guy on death row who had regular weekly meetings with Chaplain Russ. And he’s due for execution before the end of the year.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Calls himself the Deacon, and the warden thinks he might be sincere.”

  Forest View High School

  The stretch between the end of the school day and the curtain that evening became the longest of Brady Darby’s life. He found himself having to go to the bathroom every half hour, despite having hardly eaten all day. And it warmed him to see on the faces of all the other leads, and even the orbital characters, the same dread he felt deep in his gut.

  He had looked forward to this all day, and now he had to talk himself into not escaping. All the confidence, the bravado, the eagerness to strut his stuff seemed to pool in his heart. Why had he thought he could do this? Yes, he knew his lines, his lyrics, his cues, his moves. But would they vanish in a wave of stage fright that would make an utter fool of him?

  Of course they would. He would get out there and freeze, be unable to see the director or anyone who might believe in him or encourage him. He would be unable to spot Alejandro or any other friend. All of a sudden he was grateful his mother wasn’t coming, at least for opening night. Each performance had to be better than the previous.

  Could Brady survive this? Would he be able to somehow muddle through, get the opening-night jitters out of his system, and avoid all the calamities that came with them so both Saturday performances would be stellar?

  No, this whole thing was ridiculous, a stupid idea. Why had he thought it made any sense? He felt his pulse increase and his breathing go crazy. He’d heard of panic attacks. Could this be his? If he didn’t calm down, he wouldn’t have a chance at pulling this off.

  Just when Brady reached the point of seeking out Clancy Nabertowitz and telling him he wouldn’t be able to go on, the director came rushing in, dressed to the nines, and called everyone together.

  “All right, listen up,” he said. It took longer than usual for the chatter to die down. “Those of you who have done this before understand what’s happening to you right now. You newcomers are ready to bolt, I know. I’ve been there. But let me tell you something. No one is going anywhere. Any physical ailments you think you have are all in your mind. We have rehearsed this and rehearsed this, and you’re all going to nail it tonight. The house is sold out. People can’t wait. I know you’re gonna knock ’em dead. In ten minutes I want everyone in full dress and right back here.”

  Brady didn’t feel much better, but as Mr. N. had said, nobody was going anywhere, particularly him. If this was the price for the future he fully expected, he would have to be willing to pay it before every performance. He hated it. It would be hard. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  But he could do this, had to do it. Brady believed with all that was in him that this was his one shot, his only hope. He was going to make something of himself. He was going to be somebody.

  He struggled into costume, his hands shaking, fingers trembling at every button and the zipper. The zipper. Yes, he was going to consciously raise the zipper and remember that he had so there would be no wondering onstage, in the spotlight, in front of everybody.

  Would it look weird to study himself in the mirrors that covered the back wall of the dressing room? All the other guys were. Brady struck a pose, firing out one hip.

  He was still scared to death, but hang it all, he was Conrad Birdie.

  On with the show.

  24

  Little Theater

  The beauty of Brady’s role was that although Conrad Birdie was the musical’s central figure—talked about, longed for, anticipated—he didn’t actually appear until the demand for him was at fever pitch. The pressure was on because both Birdie and Brady had to deliver. Their entrance must not disappoint. In fact, it must be more than worth the wait.

  With music, timing, and lighting, Clancy Nabertowitz pulled every string at his disposal. Now if Brady could just appear bigger than life when the spotlight hit him and show a sneer and a swagger that covered his fear . . .

  Brady had a lot going for him as he tiptoed out to his mark. He had taken not one shortcut since the first day. He had memorized the script, every word of every part. He knew everyone’s cues and stage directions, even the lyrics to songs he wasn’t singing. He was as ready as he could be, but his eagerness had lost the battle with stage fright.

  He stood there, heart hammering, gasping, sweating.

  But he had one more advantage, and it was not lost on him. Nabertowitz had engineered the scenes in such a way that all the newcomers—except Brady—had already been on stage, singing and dancing in crowd scenes. Uplifting fun and funny stuff had brought the audience to life. The spectators were into the story, laughing at the right places and cheering every solo, dance, and punch line.

  So when the spotlight finally hit Brady Darby in his Conrad Birdie gold lamé suit, the kids onstage jumped and squealed on cue, and the house erupted with cheers and applause. That gave Brady a beat to gather himself, to drink in the adulation, and to affect the knowing persona of the mega rock-and-roll star. He cocked his head, raised a brow, and winked, and the stage was his.

  When he hit his first note on key, every distraction left him. He lived in the moment, playing to the kids, playing to the crowd, belting out his tun
e and dancing all over the stage as the teen actors swooned. When he finished with a flourish and both girls and boys lay at his feet, the audience rose as one, and he knew what people meant about a number stopping the show and bringing down the house.

  As he exited, he saw Mr. N., clipboard tucked under his arm, jumping and clapping, tears in his eyes. Brady would never be able to get enough of this. He suddenly knew what he wanted to do with his life. Nothing could stop him. He imagined himself moving from the high school boards to community theater, a college scholarship, being discovered by a talent scout, getting to Broadway, then a TV series, maybe a recording contract, and the movies. He would have the same impact on the public that Conrad Birdie had.

  He’d show everybody: Coach Roberts, Dean Hose, his mother, even Alex North and his snooty parents and snotty little sister.

  The rest of the musical only got better. Yes, technically, Birdie was not the lead character. That was the agent/manager, and Alex was great in the role. But Birdie was the one who lit up the stage and brought squeals and laughter each time. And because Brady had been unknown before this, he could sense the wonder and mystery on the part of the crowd. He imagined them murmuring, “Who is this guy?”

  Between scenes, as Brady waited in the wings or backstage, he realized he had a whole new image before his castmates. He had gone from curiosity to star. Nabertowitz kept grinning and giving him thumbs-up. Guys—except for Alex—clapped him on the back, shook their fists at him, mouthed “Way to go, man!” Best, girls hugged him, not once but often, and not one but several. This was the life.

  With about twenty minutes left in the show, noise from the back of the theater distracted the crowd, and Brady noticed that even those onstage sneaked a peek. Brady moved to where he should have had a line of sight, but the spotlights blinded him.

  Was it a fight? Mr. N. sent two stagehands running to the back of the house to deal with it. When they returned and whispered to him, he glanced at Brady, then shook his head. “No!” he said. “It’ll wait!”