Chapter Eleven “The Pickle”

eleven

" The Pickle "

To absolutely no one's surprise, Sunday morning begins with a guilt trip about church services. As soon as I stumble into the kitchen, Mom's face brightens. "Oh, you're just in time! Go change clothes so we can all ride to church together! We can sit with the Glucks!"

"With who?"

"Jerry and Judy Gluck! They said they'd save us a seat in their pew. They always get the good one, right under the air conditioner vent."

"Yeah, no. I'm not going. But feel free to take a cardboard cutout of me!"

Dad's busy shoveling some grizzled Franken-meat into his mouth. "Leave him alone, Nancy Kay."

"But Pastor Ed and everybody in the choir…"

"Listen, Mom. I love Pastor Ed and everybody in the choir. But I'm not up to it. So why don't you and Dad just take your sin-stained souls to church without me?"

Dad noisily clears his throat. "Son, I just wanted to say that it was real nice of you and Luke to arrange that private balloon ride the other night. I still can't get over it. That put all them tethered rides to shame!"

Do I tell him that it was all Luke's idea? But why spoil a rare happy moment with Dad? Luke was the one who lied about us arranging the ride together. And the lie was Luke's gift to me, so why ruin it?

"I'm glad you both enjoyed it."

Mom pretends to be intensely concentrating on wiping down the counter when she is really, in fact, prying. "So, how did the face painting go? Did you and Luke make a good team?"

"Yeah, yeah. I might have…um, I don't know. Misjudged the guy."

"Well, that's why you should come with us to church and pray on it."

"Nancy Kay!" Dad bellows. Mom deflates, giving in.

"Have fun!" I yell over my shoulder as I start to climb the stairs.

Mom calls out behind me, "Would you like a couple pieces of fried Spam before I clear the table?"

I yell over my shoulder, "You know I would not!"

I'd like to say that I spent the rest of the day fighting off the urge to google news articles about Aleister Murphy's new play. But that would be a lie. I end up trolling several theater chat sites for any negative reactions I can find. I try to console myself by reasoning that professional jealousy is a perfectly human response. But what seems to console me even more is imagining Carrie Payne's review of a play about Nuremberg called Pattycakes .

What? I'm only human.

Later on I decide to scavenge through the fridge for something fit for human consumption. Hanging on the refrigerator door under one of Mom's garish magnets is a picture of Dad and Luke from last year's fair. The old me would have put the photo through the nearest shredder. But now, I shudder when I think about what I said the night after our first rehearsal. I believe the exact phrase was, "So you never had a dad growing up, does that mean you have to steal mine?" I take a scalding shower in an attempt to burn the guilt from my skin, but I just end up blotchy and remorseful.

Thankfully, Monday rolls around and brings with it plenty of diversions.

Local seamstress Allison Egan does all of the costumes for the Plainview Players. Partly because she knows how to sew and partly because she owns a fabric store and that means free notions and zippers. There's also a costume closet full of old clothes from past productions. We start Monday off seeing what Allison's come up with for Cordelia's look. She brings Melissa over in her costume and has her rotate in front of me as if she's standing on an invisible lazy Susan. The costume is a little bit Shakespearean and a little bit futuristic at the same time. And Melissa is unabashedly beaming.

"You look amazing, Melissa. Great work, Allison!"

Melissa curtsies. "I've decided that my character's subtext is that she's secretly pregnant."

"It ain't so secret, sister." I realize that Melissa is wearing a dainty tiara made out of greenery. "What's on her head?"

"Oh, that's a crown of oak leaves," Allison replies.

"Yeah, but, I mean, why is it there?"

"The way I see it, she's kind of the heroine of the musical. Or at least the moral center."

"And she should probably have more stage time," Melissa adds.

I give Melissa a look. "Don't start with me, you attention whore."

Melissa does a mocking pout. Allison continues, "And a crown of oak leaves symbolizes that heroism. And since her character was royalty, until her father disowned her that is, I figured she should still wear a crown. But now, instead of wearing a royal one, she wears one representing honesty and integrity."

I shake my head in awe. "That is really, really smart, Allison."

"Well, I like to research any show we do here."

Amazing. Allison Egan is so much more than just free zippers.

While I'm busy admiring Melissa's costume there seems to be yet another brouhaha brewing. Mrs. Henson is arguing with Jackie McNew over near the piano and from what I can make out, she's begging her not to say anything.

"What's going on, ladies?" I ask, though I'm sure I really don't want to know.

Jackie starts out, "Well, the thing is, Booboo—"

I stop her, nipping the nickname in the bud. "No."

Jackie rolls her eyes. "Fine. The thing is, Noah, I get you probably don't want to hear any more of our thoughts."

"Do I have a choice?"

Julia McNew steps forward wearing a ridiculous t-shirt with a cartoon mouse clutching an olive that reads, "Olive you." Her sister wears the same thing, naturally. "You're not gonna like this."

"Then why tell me?"

"It's just the dialogue—" Jackie starts and I can feel my blood pressure soar.

"The dialogue? The dialogue ?"

Julia corrects her twin. "Well, that's not true, it's also the lyrics, too."

Veins threaten to explode in my forehead as the rest of the cast gathers around me. "What about the dialogue and the lyrics?"

Julia hesitates. "Now, don't take this the wrong way."

"We're talking about my dialogue and lyrics. Is there a right way I could take it?"

Jackie, always the alpha twin, takes over. "Look, nobody is criticizing your writing here. We're just wondering why we're using all this ‘ye' and ‘thou' talk."

I give a disgruntled look to Melissa, who averts her eyes. Whose side is she on, anyway? And before I know what's happening, I snap. I snap big time.

"Why are we using ‘ye' and ‘thou' talk?! Well, let's think about that, you middle-aged twins who wear identical clothing as if you were babies! Maybe we're using ‘ye' and ‘thou' talk because it's an adaptation of a play written by William Shakespeare. Which it clearly states on the title page of everyone's script!"

Jackie morphs into a spitfire, jutting her chin out and putting her fists on her hips. "First of all, don't talk about the way me and my sister dress. Second of all, we don't speak with all of that ‘thee' and ‘thy' and ‘thyself' nowadays. And we're already a thousand years after when Shakespeare even lived!"

"What was that? A thousand years after Shakespeare even lived? A thousand ? Is that what you think?"

Jackie shouts out, "I'm not good at math and that's not the point!"

"Well, maybe you should get good at math. You know what numbers are, right? Them's the squiggles that ain't letters?!"

Jackie shakes her head like she's convincing herself not to jump me. "Forget it, Mr. Broadway. So sorry we had an idea. I thought you said the best idea wins when you made that big speech the first day!"

The room freezes. No one can actually look at anyone else for a few minutes.

Mrs. Henson pipes up as gently as possible. "That is what you said, Noah. About the best idea winning."

I feel my chest deflate slightly. Of course my own words would come back to haunt me. Of course!

"Fine! Explain to me why this is the best idea, then!"

Jackie gives what can only be a smoker's cough and then begins talking to me like I'm an infant. "So, we don't speak Shakespeare talk today and we're only however many years ahead of his time. Why—if your show is set even further in the future—do they speak Shakespeare talk when we even don't speak it now ? I mean, I don't get it! Did everyone in the future suddenly revert back to all this ‘my liege' crap?"

"Okay, okay. Let's say I even agreed with you about this, which I don't. But if I did, even if I decided to change the dialogue… what about the so-called ‘Shakespeare talk' in the lyrics? If I tried to change that, the lyrics wouldn't sit right. The syllables would be all off and wouldn't fit with the melodies."

Jackie looks at me like I'm a dummy. "But, like, didn't you write the melodies, too? Couldn't you just change them as well?"

"We open in less than three weeks! I mean, come on, people! Or maybe we just shouldn't open. Maybe this was all a terrible, terrible idea. You know what? Maybe we should not be doing this. So let's just not! Everybody go home! Rehearsal is canceled!"

There's a communal gasp and Mrs. Henson quietly bursts into tears. I rush toward the back of the theater, out through the exit and stop only long enough to kick a dumpster waiting in the darkness. I pace back and forth, trying to breathe and get my pulse to slow down. But it doesn't work and my mind keeps racing.

I turn to realize that Melissa has silently emerged from the building and is watching me pace.

"I'm the fucking author of this show, Melissa!"

Melissa's face is blank, but she nods and calmly says, "Yes, you are."

"What was I thinking? I should have known this would happen! I was giving everyone too much creative freedom! I've dedicated my entire life to theater, studied the great composers and librettists and somehow I ended up listening to a bunch of, no offense, amateurs!"

"That's exactly what we are."

"You guys don't know what it takes to craft a melody or come up with innovative rhymes or build a musical number to show character growth or story development!"

Melissa remains still and sphinxlike, her face giving nothing away. "You're right. We haven't the foggiest."

I freeze in my tracks. "What's going on? What are you doing right now?"

Melissa serenely replies, "Agreeing with you. Trying to avoid saying anything that will send you off into another screaming frenzy. Because you were kind of frightening back there."

A horrible realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

And it turns out that even if it's metaphorical, a ton of bricks is not fun to be hit by. Not by a long shot.

"Oh, no, Melissa," I say slowly. "I just screamed at all of those nice people."

"You sure did."

I find a patchy piece of grass and sit down with a thud. At least the stars seem happy, twinkling away and unaware that I just made a senior citizen piano player burst into tears.

Melissa approaches and puts her hand on my shoulder for leverage, lowering her pregnant body down to the ground next to me with a grunt. We are silent for a minute or two.

"So, to be clear I just threw a hissy fit of epic proportions in there, right?"

"Boy howdy."

I moan in shame.

I plop my throbbing head into my hands and squeeze my temples. It doesn't help.

Melissa gently asks, "Are you really going to just take your ball and go home?"

"Of course not. It's just…it's just that my mother, who is clearly in need of a lobotomy, invited a critic. And now everyone in there thinks I can just snap my fingers and transform the entire score in time for them to learn new lyrics before opening night."

"So…you agree with them? About the, I don't know what to call them, ‘Shakespeare-isms?'?"

"I don't know, Melissa. No. Maybe. I guess? But it doesn't matter because there is no time."

"We've got…" She stops, clearly counting in her head. "Fifteen rehearsals left. That's doable, right?"

"But it's a major undertaking. I'll admit, changing the dialogue would be relatively easy. But lyrics, they scan, you know?"

"I don't know what ‘scan' means."

"Okay, take the opening number. The hook is ‘Who doth love him most?' If I change that to ‘Who loves him most?' then it won't match with the notes in the melody."

"Now, are you all yelled out? Because I want to suggest something, but pregnant ladies shouldn't be yelled at."

I heave a sigh. "Suggest away."

"If you're married to that melody, can't you just stretch the word ‘loves' over two notes?"

Huh.

It could work.

It could actually work.

I stare at her, my mind spinning. And before I know what I'm doing, I jump to my feet and offer her a hand.

"Um, Noah? Where are we going?"

"To the Batmobile!"

I help Melissa up and we go inside to the upright piano. Thankfully, everyone has gone home, most likely to avoid being yelled at some more. I pull out the score and grab my trusty Ticonderoga and start making alterations to the opening number. "Does this sound better if I change the modulation here?"

Melissa listens carefully, her head cocked to one side like a Schnauzer. "You know, I think it does. It's kind of more foreboding that way. There's more tension."

I start scribbling like crazy over the sheet music. "It's almost like everyone onstage already knows that Captain Lear is going to make a bad choice. And if the people on the spaceship know anything about Cordelia, they'll know she won't be able to flatter her father."

Melissa and I are on fire now. "Noah, get this! What if after the bridge, it goes even more minor?"

"You crazy genius!!! I mean, it's not technically possible to go ‘more minor,' but I think I know what you mean. Like this?"

I play a few bars and Melissa isn't too pregnant to jump up and down. "I'm getting goose bumps!"

"Okay, I can play around with that some more. But, ugh, the Goneril and Regan duet is riddled with period words. How do we even start to hack away at that?"

Melissa gives me a grimace. "Noah, I love that you're on a roll right now. But I'm exhausted and have to get home to my husband before I absolutely collapse."

"Of course you do. Go ahead, I'll figure this out. Daddy is cooking with gas now!"

Once I'm alone in the theater, I have to admit it feels a little creepy. Theaters are notoriously haunted and, though I'm not like my mom who sees ghosts on a daily basis, I'm still a little spooked. But then I look at the sheet music scattered across the top of the piano and the work ahead distracts me. I wonder when I started caring about this little community theater production. At what point did I decide that it mattered to me? I can't really remember when the switch had flipped, but it clearly had. The Plainview Players had definitely grown on me and their roots were starting to furrow somewhere deep inside of me.

I'm slowly starting to work through the score and replace or cut the old timey words when I look up and see a ghost on the stage and gasp like an old lady.

Luke steps into the light. "It's just me."

"You fucker! You scared the shit out of me!"

Luke laughs. He walks over to me with his signature Luke Carter saunter. "I was just doing some adjustments to the set. Your dad gave me a list. An actual list."

I hesitate to even ask, but I have to. "So…were you there to witness my epic meltdown?"

"I might have been in the vicinity."

"Great. Now I'm extra mortified."

"Look, man, I think you've been a real sport. What you do is important to you, right? It's personal. And to have a bunch of people knock it so openly. That can't be easy."

"But I yelled at them. I yelled at those poor, sweet, apple-cheeked people who were just excited to do my show. How do I fix that? How do I make this into a safe space for them again? I was an epic asshole."

"Well, then, I guess you just have to make an epic apology. You know, one of those big speeches. You're good at those."

I close my eyes and consider for a second. "Yes, I suppose I could do that." I then look at Luke with a better idea. " Or I could pray to our Father in heaven and ask him to start the rapture in the next hour or so and then I'll be off the hook."

Luke morphs into a stern but handsome high school principal. "Noah."

"Fine. Epic apology it is." I sit back down at the piano. "You can go home. I'm gonna be here for a while. I can lock up," I say.

"No, I'll just silently keep you company, if that's okay."

"Why would you do that?"

Luke shrugs. "I owe you one. I mean, after dumping that sob story on you Saturday morning. I shouldn't have said all that shit about my dad. I think that's what people on TV call ‘oversharing.' Anyway, that's kinda why I left all the sudden. So, you know, sorry about that."

"I'm actually glad you felt comfortable enough to…um…tell me…about…all that…stuff…"

Luke just nods and walks over to a beat-up couch at the side of the auditorium. He slowly stretches and then collapses on the couch, crossing his colossal arms and closing his eyes. I pause long enough to take him in. There's the tiniest smudge of white face paint just below his jawline. All that's left of Britches, the lovable tramp. And though I'm not sure why he's staying, I have to admit I'm relieved. The theater is creepy as hell at night.

Without opening his eyes, Luke says, "And Noah, I think you were just about to figure out that duet between the evil daughters."

He's right. I was. Come on, mighty Ticonderoga. Don't fail me now.

—

As the hot summer sun comes up over Plainview, I shake Luke awake. I've stuffed all of my sheet music into my briefcase—a.k.a. The Executive—and as Luke locks up, I'm talking like a kid back from his first day of school. He grins crookedly as I breathlessly tell him about all the changes I've made during the night.

"Man, you're actually talking a mile a minute."

"I guess I'm just feeling so…" I search for the word I want to use and can't believe what I end up with. "Exhilarated? Strangely, frantically exhilarated? And also completely sleep-deprived, but that's another story. It's like I'm out of town with a new show."

"Explain the phrase ‘out of town.'?"

Does he really care about theater lingo? And if he doesn't, I have to say that for the record he's a much better actor than I am. I couldn't feign the same level of enthusiasm for his love of football or cars. Not in a million years.

We head out toward the parking lot.

"Well, when you're putting together a brand-new Broadway show, before you hit Manhattan and the snake pit of New York critics, you pack the whole kit and caboodle up and go to a less toxic place. Seattle, Boston, Chicago. Anywhere that isn't New York. And when I say pack up, I mean everything. The cast, the crew, the orchestra, the stagehands, the sets, the costumes, the wigs, the lighting rig…I'm sure I'm forgetting something."

"I'm starting to get the picture."

"And then you put the show up ‘out of town' to get feedback. Not just from the local reviews, although those come out at some point and can absolutely kill a show's chances of making it to Broadway. But you also feel the vibe of the audience. Are they laughing at the right time? Are they not clapping quite loudly enough after a production number? And as the creative team, you're always surprised. The joke or song that you thought would bring down the house fizzles and dies. Conversely, the thing that you had little faith in while you were in rehearsals kills and people are laughing or jumping to their feet and clapping until their hands bleed. So an ‘out of town' is crucial for a show. And now, St. Louis critic aside, I get to work on the show without all that pressure. I guess it's kind of, I don't know…creatively freeing?"

I stop myself, embarrassed. "Did I just use the words ‘creatively freeing'?"

"You did."

I wince. "God, am I fucking pretentious or what?"

"It's okay." Luke smiles. "In fact, it's kinda hot."

And there it is. Right out in the open.

It happens in the blink of an eye. His big pillowy lips are on mine and I'm backed up against the pickup. And my knees are actually disengaging. My mind is unspooling and it's so gruff and tender that I'm sliding down the side of the truck slightly. Somehow instinctively Luke wraps his arms around me and he's holding me up, both hands snaking around my waist. Without giving it a second thought, I grab his face and pull his mouth so desperately onto mine it borders on painful. When we finally come up for air, we just stare at one another in wonder. And then I ruin it with too many words.

"I, um…my knees sometimes…my knees have buckles. They don't have buckles, that would be weird. They do buckle. It's a funny-sounding word: buckle. It gets funnier the more you say it. Buckle, buckle, buckle—"

"Would you shut up?" And we're kissing again. And I'm buckling and sliding down the truck all over again. Then suddenly I think of Chase. What the fuck am I doing?

Guilt rushes through my arteries and I shove Luke away. The world stops spinning and the expression on my face must not be good because Luke looks contrite, regret filling his eyes.

"Shit! Shit, I'm so sorry," he says, panicked.

"I have to go." I quickly head for Mom's beat-up Toyota as the gravel parking lot and the surrounding hackberry trees whirligig as if I'm drunk.

Luke is right behind me and now he's the one talking a mile a minute. "I shouldn't have done that. I'm…Noah, I'm really sorry. Please, just let me explain!"

I'm fumbling with the keys to the car when, like out of a bad farce, my briefcase pops open and millions of pages of sheet music fall out onto the ground. "Fuck!"

I scramble to gather the sheet music up and Luke bends down to help. "Listen, you have to know something. I've had feelings for you for years. I mean, I couldn't admit that to myself when we were in school. I kept wondering why I was constantly thinking about Shakesp—Noah freakin' Adams—and all this time, I didn't know how to tell you, because I didn't know how to tell myself! And then you're back in town and getting all passionate about your job and standing there just now in front of me with that pretty boy face of yours—"

"Well, it's attached to my skull, so—" I grab the sheet music from him and shove it inside my stupid briefcase. "This isn't funny, Luke."

Luke gives a frustrated groan and a vein pumps in his thick, gorgeous neck. "None of this is funny to me! Confusing as hell, but not funny! My feelings aren't a joke, Noah!"

I finally unlock the car and toss the briefcase inside. "I have a boyfriend. Of almost two years. I'm in a committed relationship!"

Luke's eyes are clamped shut as he chants, "I know, I know, I know…" He's practically davening. "I just fucked everything up. Please say you forgive me, Noah."

"Sure! No problem!" I say and then I hop into the Toyota and peel out of the parking lot as fast as I can. What just happened? And why am I still shaking like crazy? Nothing, not one thing makes any sense. I burn rubber all the way home and barrel my way into the kitchen just as Mom is getting off the phone.

Mom halts, noticing me slumped in the kitchen chair with a look of horror on my face. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

I slowly try to piece it together. "Luke kissed me. Just now. In the parking lot of the Plainview Players."

"Well, I'm not surprised, honey," Mom says, unfazed. "You are very good-looking. It's genetic. You're welcome."

"I also have a boyfriend, Mom. A serious, live-in boyfriend."

Mom considers this for a second. "Oh, that is a pickle."

"Chase and I are in a monogamous relationship. Kissing high school friends or anyone else on planet Earth is against the rules."

"Oh, that is a dill pickle."

"Would you please stop talking about condiments and concentrate on whether or not I tell Chase?"

Mom takes another well-considered pause, then offers, "Well, I guess you have to decide what Luke's kiss meant to you."

And that's Mom in a nutshell.

A fucking Yoda in a JCPenney pajama set.

I have to decide what Luke's kiss meant to me? Easier said than done.

On the one hand, it's actually completely inconceivable that big, hunky Luke Carter had his lips anywhere near mine. And while it was happening, aliens could have invaded and I wouldn't have noticed. It was that intense. On the other hand, I love Chase. Chase who introduced me to jazz clubs and the ABT and art galleries. Who believed in my scripts and championed them when no one else cared. The man who patiently walked me through every professional disappointment and never once complained because he loved me.

Oh God. The guilt is all over me like hot sticky goo. I have to tell him.

After all, it wasn't my fault. Luke was the one who kissed me and pressed me into the side of his rusty pickup truck. True, I could have stopped it sooner, but I was in a state of shock. And Chase would understand. With my Broadway show closing and Dad's heart attack, I wasn't exactly in the right mind space to fight off advances.

"It's just such a surprise to find out that Luke Carter is actually gay. Or bi?"

"Well, one thing is clear. He's certainly a little gay for you, Noah." Mom sighs and shakes her head knowingly. "And I can't say I didn't see this whole thing coming."

I stare at her in total disbelief. "What do you mean you saw it coming?"

"Oh, Noah, that boy looks at you like you not only walk on water, but invented the stuff."

"If you actually thought that, then why for the love of God wouldn't you tell me?"

Mom shrugs. "People have to come around to these things naturally. And besides, I'm no gossip."

The guilt is wearing me down so much that I can't even contradict her. Mom can sense it and puts her hand on mine. "Chase will understand. After all, it was Luke who kissed you."

I ignore her and grab my cell. "I have to call Melissa."

Melissa answers and I don't even bother with small talk. "Luke Carter kissed me in the parking lot. Hard. And twice. And I kind of let him. But then I stopped him."

The line is silent for a moment. "No wonder Luke was such a bad lay back in the day. He was a total closet case." She pauses again. "Wait, do I turn people gay? Is every gay guy in this town gay because of me?"

"Probably, but let's stay on topic here. I have a boyfriend, Melissa! A loyal, well-dressed, hot boyfriend who is going to be furious to learn that I've been out kissing strapping cowhands!"

"But as Oscar Hammerstein said, ‘The farmer and the cowhand should be friends.'?"

"Stop saying that. And he said ‘friends,' not parking lot kissers."

My cell beeps and I look at it only to realize that it's Chase calling. I throw the phone on the kitchen table like it's a hot potato. Mom glares at me. "What's wrong?"

"It's Chase."

Mom shakes her head in resignation. "Time to face the music, Noah."

I reluctantly walk over to the kitchen table and slowly pick up my cell phone like it's a stick of dynamite with the wick already lit. I softly tell Melissa that I'll have to call her back. The minute I switch over to Chase's call I break out into a cold sweat.

"Hi, Chase…um…"

"Noah? Is something wrong?"

He can hear it in my voice. This is why I could never be an actor. I was never good at inner monologues. Subtext bleeds through my voice when I try to lie.

"I have something to tell you and it's really not a big deal, so please don't get upset."

Chase gives a leery, "Okaaaaay."

I step out onto the back porch to get some privacy.

"Um, it's just that…it's just that…" And then I take the coward's way out. "It's just that we're changing lots of stuff in the show, and it's going to take a lot of work, so I might not be able to talk as much. Because of all the work, I mean."

There's a patina of relief in Chase's voice. "Oh. Is that all? Well, I'm delighted to hear that you're so invested in this little production."

"It's crazy. I don't know why, but I am."

After I hang up, I walk back into the kitchen and Mom's curious glare.

She finally asks, "Well?"

"Um."

Before I can even lie about not telling Chase the truth, Mom gives me a scandalized, "Noah!" All I can do in response is give a slight shrug and stare at the refrigerator. Mom promptly goes as quiet and judgmental as a Franciscan nun. Trying to avoid her disapproving glare, I announce that I have a few more songs to tweak before tonight's rehearsal.

I start toward the stairs and Mom can't help herself. "Noah?"

I hesitate. "I know, Mom. I'll tell Chase soon. But it was just a kiss."

That's all it was. Really.