“What?” Brady said.
“Nothing to worry about,” the director said. “Let’s finish strong. Ignoring distractions is what being professional is all about.”
Brady was in the middle of one of the final segments, a poignant train depot scene, when he heard loud talking from the back and people shushing the offenders. Soon there was shouting before security removed someone. Brady’s heart sank. Had that been his mother’s voice? Her drunk voice? There was no way, was there?
Whoever it was, he would not let anyone spoil this for him. He was going out with a bang. And as his character left the stage, rumbling away on the train, the laughing crowd bid him a warm adieu. As he disappeared into the wings and stood next to Nabertowitz to watch the final scene, he was so drained he felt he could melt all over the floor.
Mr. N. looked at him with such gratitude and admiration that Brady was intoxicated by it. But the director soon turned back to the stage to study every detail of the finale. Brady stood there fearing he might burst into sobs. He had been so uptight, so scared, yet so ready for this. And it could not have gone better.
He forced himself not to weep. The houselights would be up when he joined the rest of the cast for the bows, and there would be no hiding it if he was out there bawling. Talk about breaking character. His whole aura would be lost.
Yet he would not completely maintain the Birdie image. He would look the same, but he would not act the same. Now was the time for class, for a genuine, humble smile, a receiving of the adulation that was sure to come. He bucked himself up for it.
As the last song segued into the musical themes, the chorus burst back onto the stage, and the houselights came up. Mr. N. had said it was hard to read an audience for high school productions, because they felt obligated to respond with standing ovations just because the kids were young and had tried hard, regardless how good they were.
But there was no doubting the sincerity of this crowd. They cheered, they clapped, they stomped, they shouted, they whistled. And the crescendo grew as the chorus gave way to the gaggle of girls, then the female lead and her boyfriend, then her parents, the agent’s secretary, the agent’s mother, and Alex as the agent. He was thunderously rewarded, and though he had played the lead, he knew enough to allow Brady to be last to take a bow.
Alex turned grandly and generously gestured for Conrad Birdie, and as Brady jogged onstage, the audience let loose a new crescendo, and even the cast applauded. Cast members departed in the order they had appeared and were demanded back three times. Finally Brady forced Mr. N. to also make an appearance, and when that had gone on long enough, the director cued the curtain, and the cheering crowd finally, seemingly reluctantly, settled.
Brady had never been so high. The cast and crew congratulated each other as they slowly changed into street clothes, and as they made their way out of the dressing rooms and up the corridors to the front of the theater, parents and friends and fans slapped their hands and called out compliments. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to meet Brady, and his castmates appeared to love introducing him as if they were his dear friends.
He caught sight of Alex, crowded by his parents and little sister and surrounded by his friends; he also noticed they seemed to be sneaking glances his way and measuring the attention he was getting. The little girl, Katie North, suddenly appeared at his side and slipped her arm around his waist, beaming.
“This your sister?” someone said.
“Nah, Alex’s,” he said.
“I’m his lady friend!” Katie chirped, and everyone laughed. Even little kids loved the bad boy.
“Mother of the star, comin’ through!” came the undeniable voice.
Erlene Darby was trailed by her boyfriend-slash-boss, and it was plain they both were drunk. Brady immediately shook free of Katie, moved past his mother to her boss, and squeezed his shoulder as he bent close. “You get her out of here right now, or I swear on my life I’ll burn down your restaurant.”
“They kicked us out of the theater, Brady!” the man said.
“And I’m kicking you out of here. Now go!”
“Made me stand to see my own son!” his mother said, and Brady saw people spin, mouths agape. He wanted to shout that he had never in his life seen this ghastly creature, still in her waitress dress. Seeing they weren’t going to leave, he took each by the arm and marched them outside.
“Did you cause that ruckus in the back?” he said.
“I shouldn’t have to stand to see my son in a play!”
“You were late! And you didn’t have tickets! What were you thinking?”
“When they found out who I was, they put us in the corner behind the back row. Then somebody thought I was cheering too loud. But why not? You were great, Brady.”
“You’re pathetic. You embarrassed me.”
“How can you say that, you ungrateful little—”
“Where’s Petey?”
“He’s home, and he’s fine. Don’t you worry about him.”
Alejandro approached. Oh no!
“This your madre?” he said, girlfriend in tow. “Bet she’s proud of you tonight, eh, muchacho?”
“I’m proud o’ him, but he’s not proud o’ me!” Erlene Darby slurred, and Brady saw instant recognition on Alejandro’s face.
“Well, you did a good job, man,” his boss said. “I’ll see you Monday, okay?”
Adamsville
Thomas had talked Grace into retiring early, but the house was small enough that as he sat reading on an old couch in the tiny living room, he could hear her tossing and turning. He wondered whether it was better to let her fall asleep before joining her. He decided to memorize one more verse first.
But as he was working on it, he heard Grace begin to sing. As prodigious as he was in retaining the words of Scripture, she had hundreds of hymns—every verse—burned into her memory. He looked up from his Bible and lay his head back, closing his eyes as she softly sang.
O to be like You! blessed Redeemer,
This is my constant longing and prayer;
Gladly I’ll forfeit all of earth’s treasures,
Jesus, Your perfect likeness to wear.
O to be like You! O to be like You,
Blessed Redeemer, pure as You are!
Come in Your sweetness, come in Your fullness;
Stamp Your own image deep on my heart.
25
Sunday, 2 p.m. | Touhy Trailer Park | Addison
Barely a sliver of sunlight invaded Brady and Peter’s tiny bedroom through the cheap, bent blinds, but it was enough to make Brady roll over and bury his throbbing head under his pillow. He let out a long groan. Why did he do this to himself?
Brady had never really liked beer, and when his friends had told him it was an acquired taste, he wondered why they bothered to acquire it. He drank only to look cool and get a buzz, certainly not for the taste. And hangovers like this—his worst ever—were the price. Every beat of his heart sent shock waves through his skull that reached his cheekbones. Why? Why?
To celebrate. Both shows Saturday had been as good as—some said better than—opening night. The local paper had shown up and interviewed everybody—cast, crew, relatives, fans—and taken pictures galore. Brady opened his eyes in the darkness afforded by the pillow and squinted against the raging pain. Before heading to Stevie Ray’s to drink himself into oblivion, he’d had the presence of mind to leave Petey a note and a dollar so he could buy a Sunday paper. If he ever felt able to get out of bed, he’d see if it was there.
Oh no. He had wet himself in the night. And his breath tasted and smelled of vomit. How come they never showed that on the commercials?
How had he even gotten home? He didn’t remember. Stevie Ray’s wife had stomped out from their bedroom periodically to quietly but fiercely insist that they call it a night. And she kept saying that Stevie should get Brady home, as if he couldn’t get there himself. But he could, couldn’t he? Hadn’t he?
Brady sat up and let the sheet and
blanket slide off. He planted his feet on the floor and held his head in his hands. Never again. Never, never, never. He licked his lips, which made him gag.
“I got your paper,” Peter said, and Brady looked up. Or tried to. He forced one eye open just a slit to see Peter in the corner, watching him.
“You read it?”
“Yeah. Cool. Lots of pictures and stuff about you.”
“No kiddin’? Get it.”
“You stink, you know.”
“I know. You like the play?”
“Sure, ’course. But I didn’t know where you were last night.”
“I wrote you a note.”
“But you didn’t say where you were gonna be, so I didn’t know till Stevie Ray brought you home.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. Really late. You were laughing and singing.”
“Seriously?”
“Some song from the play, but not as good.”
“I can imagine.”
“Stevie Ray must really like you.”
“Friends help each other.”
“Help them throw up? He was in the bathroom with you while you were puking your guts out.”
“Ugh.”
“I think you wet your bed too.”
“That’s what booze will do to you, Petey. Don’t ever—”
“Don’t worry! But why do you?”
Brady shrugged. “’Cause I’m an idiot. Don’t be an idiot.”
“I don’t get it, Brady. You were so good in that show and everybody loved you. Why’d you go and get drunk after that?”
Brady shook his head. “Thought I was celebrating. Stupid. Just stupid.”
“I don’t want a brother who’s stupid. I was telling everybody who I was at the play. They said I must be really proud. I’ve never been so proud.”
“But not right now, huh?”
“Nope.”
“All right. I’m sorry, man. I really am. Funny thing is, I don’t even like beer. Stevie Ray does. Loves it. He’s learned to drink only on weekends after his gigs so it doesn’t affect his playing.”
“Whatever.”
“I said I was sorry. Now bring me the paper.”
“Take a shower first.”
“Just bring it!”
But when Peter went to get it, Brady staggered into the shower. At least they had water pressure. Not much heat, but the tepid liquid on his head offered some relief.
Adamsville
“I feel almost guilty, Grace,” Thomas said, resting on the couch with his Sunday paper, an NFL game on TV. He had changed out of his church clothes after lunch.
“This is like heaven,” she said. “You used to be so tired by now you’d doze off during dinner and nap the whole afternoon away.”
“I may yet,” he said. “What is it about doing nothing that is so exhausting?”
“It isn’t as if you’ve taken the whole weekend off,” she said. “You helped those boys move your desk in.”
“Supervised is more like it. I don’t remember ever being that strong.”
She muted the television. “You haven’t said a word about the church. How’d you like it?”
“It’s close by. I like the service time. Nice building. Friendly people. About the right size.”
“But?”
“The music was okay. I could have used another hymn or two and one or two fewer choruses.”
Grace shook her head and smiled. “I think we’re in the minority there, sweetheart. The hymns are going to die with our generation.”
“Perish the thought.”
“And the pastor?”
“Seems like a wonderful young man. Humble. I like that.”
“Me too. But that sermon could have been more biblical and less anecdotal.”
“It was a good bit of both.”
“And that’s the problem, right? Are you going to be content to sit under someone who tells stories more than he exposits Scripture?”
“He wasn’t bad.”
“I know. What I’m asking is, are we still looking?”
“Still looking, Grace. Don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
He studied her. Wan. Eyes milky. She was the one who needed a nap. But she was right. This was heavenly. To be able to just sit on a lazy Sunday afternoon evaluating a pastor rather than knowing that’s what everyone else was doing to you?
Thomas Carey could get used to this.
Monday Morning | Forest View High School
Brady drank in the looks from the other kids waiting for the bus, then reveled in the attention as the preppies all seemed to make room and want him to sit next to them.
At school it seemed everyone recognized him, called him by name, waved, smiled, high-fived him. Teachers he barely knew, custodial staff, office people—everybody seemed thrilled for him.
But Brady had no illusions. He knew the other shoe would drop, and soon. Because for all those who acted happy for him, some studiously avoided his gaze. They had to know what was coming. Brady finally had to admit to himself that he had not been celebrating Saturday night. He had been steeling himself against reality.
He had been telling himself that if he became the star of the play and the hero of the school, he would somehow be allowed to do the same the next weekend. But he knew better, even though he had excelled beyond even his wildest dreams.
He entered his first class to the cheers and whistles of his classmates, and just for fun he strutted like Conrad with a twinkle and tongue in cheek. But as soon as he sat down, his teacher entered and handed him a note. Dr. Hose and Mr. Nabertowitz were waiting for him in the dean’s office.
Brady considered leaving his stuff at his desk, as if he would be back soon. But that wasn’t going to happen. “Got to take a call from my agent,” he said, rising as he studied the note. And everyone laughed but the teacher.
Even knowing what was coming, Brady had no idea how he would react. With anger? remorse? Would he beg? Nah. This was his own fault. They’d warned him. He couldn’t be angry with anyone but himself.
The receptionist even looked sad when she ushered him in, and both Hose and Nabertowitz rose. Mr. N. would not meet his eye, but Hose stared directly at him. “Have a seat, Mr. Darby. You know why you’re here.”
When they were all seated, Dean Hose spread the Sunday paper before him and turned it around so Brady could see it. “I suppose you’ve read this.”
“’Course. Nobody I know ever got a write-up like that before.”
“And the pictures,” Nabertowitz said, his voice weepy. “You had the world at your feet, Brady.”
“Had?”
“If you think you still do, Darby,” Hose said, “you’re dumber than I thought.”
“Now you think I’m dumb? I thought you said I was smart.”
“Smart but stupid, son. It’s long past time to be sugarcoating things for you. With the grade point average from your first two years, you had no leeway this fall. Everybody who cared about you made it clear what you had to do, and you didn’t even try. Yes, you’re smart. You proved that onstage. You can do whatever you decide you want to do. You decided not to try on the academic side, but that’s a prerequisite for all the rest. Now you’re done. You’re out. No more musical.”
“Oh, Brady!” Nabertowitz said. “You’ve let everyone down, but primarily yourself. We’ll make do, but you know as well as I do that the show this weekend will be nothing like last. With just a little effort, you could have made this work. You could have switched to a work-release program, stayed in drama, made something of yourself. Now you’ve thrown it all away.”
“No probation? No second chance? Can’t I sign some sort of a contract, use a tutor, get help?”
“Too late,” Dr. Hose said. “How can I ask any of these teachers to bend the rules for you when you ignored every piece of advice up to now?”
Brady searched his mind for a smart comeback, but what could he say? He shrugged.
�
�I informed your mother.”
“She doesn’t care.”
“I got that impression. She did say she had hoped you’d be the first in the family to graduate high school.”
“Her big dream, eh? Well, if you think I’m staying here without being in the play . . . My little brother will be first to graduate.”
26
Adamsville State Penitentiary
Thomas never wanted to get used to the ugly coldness of the ASP supermax, but already the prison clichés had become part of his daily routine. His practice became to pray in the car as soon as the great, sterile, impersonal compound loomed on the horizon. He was able to put his mind in neutral as he approached the guardhouse at the edge of the property.
This morning the hulking edifice nearly blended in with a dark, roiling sky. The news said thunderheads would roll through most of the state by noon. Thomas prayed for his day, for his colleagues, for the inmates, and mostly that he would somehow be used.
It seemed to Thomas that some good must come of the years he had spent in devotion to God and His Word. The praying, the studying, the memorizing, the preaching, the teaching, the witnessing, the counseling—up till now it had all seemed to come to naught. He could count on the fingers of one hand the people who had actually been converted under his ministry and whose lives showed marked change.
Was he simply no good at this? Was sincerity not enough? Thomas had made a decision, a commitment. He had turned his back on all the world had to offer. He didn’t necessarily believe he would have been any good in secular pursuits either, but he had staked his claim with Christ. He believed Jesus had paid the ultimate sacrifice for him and for his sin, and just before he met Grace, he had pledged the rest of his life in service to God.
He was happy enough, he guessed. Grace was the greatest blessing he could have ever hoped for: a loving mate—if sometimes too perfect—who shared his values and encouraged his every step. They had never had much, had never wanted much. Beautiful Ravinia was currently a heartbreak, but Thomas believed she would come around. It was the years and years of seemingly futile ministry that really weighed on him.
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