Chapter Nineteen “More Than Words Can Hold”

nineteen

" More Than Words Can Hold "

After a couple of days and endless lectures about taking better care of himself from the entire hospital staff, Dad is finally released. I was too preoccupied with Dad, and to a lesser extent with Mom, to even think about the musical. Mrs. Henson took over running things, lifesaver that she is. With Dad safely installed back at his usual place at the kitchen table, I realize it's time to head back to the theater. Luke drives and when we walk in, the houselights are off and the cast is running through the show. I take a moment to appreciate how different it feels without the dated language. It seems more urgent, simpler and yet somehow more complex. But it's also bare. There's no "high concept" for the words and music to hide behind. There are no Danielle Vincent special effects. It's just the show, out there all on its own, on display for everyone to see.

I take a seat in the second-to-back row. Luke whispers in my ear, "I'd better go help Eddie."

I grab his arm. "Wait. Sit with me and watch for a second."

We watch. They may be amateurs, but they're damn good ones.

"Man, they're really finding their groove, right?" Luke gives my knee an encouraging squeeze.

"There aren't any distracting cyborgs or blood packs or futuristic trappings. Maybe we've stripped it back too far?"

"Have a little faith in your show. Maybe it doesn't need any extra bells and whistles."

My phone buzzes and it's Anna Wong. I walk out into the lobby to take the call.

"Hey, you."

"I have news to report. Apparently some theater chat sites have caught wind of the Plainview Players production of your show. And so has Carrie Payne at The New York Times . She's coming to see it, Noah."

My knees start to buckle and not in a good way. A wave of nausea hits me hard. "She's coming here? To Plainview? She can't do that."

"Anyone can buy a ticket, Noah. Word is she wants to write a human-interest piece."

"But I don't want humans interested in this particular piece, Anna Wong!"

"But at least it's not going to be another review of the show."

"Of course it is! Oh, she'll disguise it with little distracting flourishes here and there. But it's another chance for her to publicly humiliate me in print and online. Why does she want to destroy my career? What did I ever do to her?"

"I can't stop this from happening. But I'll be there, for moral support, and also to try to sweet-talk her."

"That's not how it works! There is a golden rule that neither the author nor the author's representative is allowed to talk to any critic."

Maybe going with Anna Wong was a mistake. How did she not even know the basics?

"I'll be there anyway. Just for hand-holding."

She hangs up and I slump to the floor.

Luke finds me lying there in the lobby a few minutes later and sits down on the ground next to me. I put my head in his lap and tell him the whole tragic news. He strokes my hair as I talk and it actually does seem to slow my pulse slightly.

Then he kisses me so perfectly that nothing happens except that my vertebrae vibrate and fall apart like a crumbling Jenga tower. When my eyes come back into focus, Luke says, "Let them come. Let them say what they want. The show is great. And with all the changes that have been made, who knows? Maybe it'll blow their minds."

I take a minute to digest the thought and then say, "It will definitely not blow Carrie Payne's mind. She has a vendetta against me."

"Listen, the show has really grown, Noah. Maybe you can't see it because you're so close to it. But believe me, it's like an entirely different musical now."

"I don't know, it just feels like something is missing, you know?"

"Come on. You're just being paranoid. Nothing is missing from your musical, Noah."

My mind starts racing and suddenly an alarm bell sounds in my brain. I find myself shooting straight up into a sitting position. "I know what's missing, Luke!"

"What?"

"Just like your mom said. Heart."

Once the cast is gone Luke gets cuddly on the beat-up couch and closes his eyes. I sit at the piano, trying to find something Cordelia can sing that will add Sue Carter's much-needed heart to the show. I attempt to pluck a melody out of the air and try it out on the piano. Nope. I try another one. No, too syrupy. The next one almost sounds like it's a military march, which is the exact opposite of heart.

Think, Noah. Ignore the pressure and think .

Why did we have Cordelia's ghost come back at the end of the show? It's not in the source material. What's the point? Her sisters are dead and lying in a heap. Her father is broken, wracked with insanity and despair. And what does that have to do with her?

It's not her fault that she couldn't fawn all over her father with flattery. Deep down she clearly loved him much more than her sisters. But she just couldn't express her love so boldly. What did she say in the very first scene? "My love's more ponderous than my tongue." Which means what? Which means that though she can't say it, she loves him more than words could hold. Can hold.

More than words can hold?

More Than Words Can Hold.

Is that the song title? That's the song title! Holy shit, that's the song title! She's there to tell him what she couldn't in the first scene. That mere words aren't big enough to contain her love for him. But does she really mean that? Screw it, in this version she does.

I take a deep breath and try to musicalize the phrase. I close my eyes and attempt to open my mind to the universe. I hear it so softly in my head. A five-note melody. I carefully open my eyes and the melody comes out of my fingertips.

"That's the one," Luke says, watching me from where he's lying with a grin on his face.

By the time the sun comes up, the song is done. I call Melissa and she rushes over to the theater. When she walks through the door, it's clear she just pulled on whatever clothes she could find. Not a usual look for Melissa, who's always polished and camera-ready.

She's almost pulsating with excitement. "You wrote a song for me? For little old me?"

I'm almost nervous to play it for her. If she hates it, everyone will hate it. I give Luke an anxious look.

"Go ahead, Noah. Play it for us."

"It's called ‘More Than Words Can Hold.' And I'm a terrible singer, so don't let that affect your opinion of the song."

"Enough chitchat, just play it already," Melissa begs.

"Just trying to manage expectations. Here we go."

I start lightly playing the intro and Melissa holds onto Luke's arm for balance as she slowly sinks into a chair. I can't look at either one of them as I sing. I try to give my voice a breathy quality instead of the usual strident sound that comes out of my mouth. Whenever I have to audition a song for anyone, actors, producers, directors, I always get a little flop sweaty. Time moves in slow motion, because I know that my talent is being judged right along with the quality of the song. It's terrifying and seemingly endless. But the worst part is when I play the final note and I have to turn in silence to see how the listeners are reacting. It can be brutally embarrassing for everyone involved if it doesn't go well. And then no one knows what to say. But that dreaded moment is here: I play the final note and let it hang in the air until it fades into oblivion.

I take a deep breath and turn to Melissa and Luke. Melissa has tears running down her face and Luke is just standing there beaming, his thick arms crossed and shaking his head back and forth.

Melissa has me record the accompaniment on her phone and promises she will have it memorized by tomorrow's run-through. Thankfully, it's Sunday morning, so I decide to crash for a couple of hours. There's not much more I can do writing-wise, anyway. When I wake up and come downstairs, bedhead and all, I find Mom sitting on the back porch. Still dressed in her church clothes, she's busy with a rag and paint remover, furiously trying to get paint out from under her fingernails. She's constantly either adding paint to her body or subtracting it.

I take what has become my usual spot on the porch railing. Humidity is just starting to turn the air into quicksand. Even the wind chimes sound sluggish.

"How's Dad?"

"I just took his blood pressure. It was slightly elevated, but All Girls Garage was playing on the TV, so that might explain it."

"Ugh, can't he just watch porn like a normal person?"

Mom chuckles softly and shakes her head.

"So, I've kind of got a job that starts after opening night. It's to be a show doctor on a really shitty show. But it's a sizable check and I can't turn it down. And Kiara's husband found me a studio rental where I can keep my stuff while I'm on the road."

"You don't sound very excited about it."

"It's based on Barbarella ."

"That movie where Jane Fonda runs around in a fur bikini and gets bitten by doll babies?"

I groan. "That's the one."

"Good Lord, Noah. They better be paying you extra. What a colossal waste of everyone's time."

"The good news is that the movie actually has very little plot and what is there is a totally hackneyed mess. So in a way, that's kind of freeing, I guess. Maybe I can help them craft a story with some forward action and meaning."

"Or you could just have Barbarella shoot herself in the head in the first five minutes so everyone can be put out of their misery and go home."

"Okay, you can stop talking now."

Mom looks up and flashes a smile. "What does Luke think?"

"That it's bittersweet. I'm going to have to be gone for over a year."

"But he's worth it, isn't he?"

"Of course. He's just so honest and unassuming that it's hard to believe he's actually real. Like, maybe this is all a joke. And the way he exists in the world is crazy, too. It's like he has no idea that he's about as perfect as a guy can get, inside and out. And he's interested in me? I don't get it."

"Oh, don't play humble, Noah. It's boring. And for my money, I'm glad you two are going for it. After what you've been through with that Chase character, it seems like sweet Luke might be just what the doctor ordered."

"But what does Luke get out of the deal? A neurotic writer whose only redeeming quality is that he thinks that Luke Carter is the best human being that God and/or evolution ever created? I mean, am I just supposed to go on blind faith that I'm actually going to be enough for that guy?"

Mom pauses for dramatic effect.

"Well, as we say in the church basement on Thursday nights, ‘ Bingo! '?"

I exhale loudly. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just scared to be happy. Or, even worse, maybe I just don't know how to do happy."

Mom leans in for a conspiratorial whisper, "I don't mean to frighten you, honey, but you're doing happy as we speak."

Once again, Mom has thrown me for a loop.

—

The following night we fold Cordelia's song into the show. When Melissa performs it for the cast, they go completely apeshit. I allow my head to swell for exactly three seconds before I go back to cracking the whip. There's no time for patting myself on the back. It's the final week of rehearsals and haste has to be made. Dad's lingering around, having been given the okay by his doctors to inspect the new set. It's just a collection of suspended windows and random door units with a simple drop behind them, but it's somehow effective anyway. Dad and Luke have repurposed a farm backdrop from The Wizard of Oz , but speckled it with bits of gray paint to make it less cheery. It's eerie in just the right way.

Afterward, in Luke's backyard, he spreads a blanket on the ground and we look at the night sky. There are so many stars it feels like they might start raining down on us any minute. We both lie back and take it all in.

"This is amazing, Luke. You can't really see any stars in the city. I guess because of all of the lights from the buildings."

"Well, that's just sad."

I turn to look at him. "Yeah, I guess it is, a little."

I move over and cradle his gorgeous head and wonder at his beauty. I close my eyes for a second.

"What are you doing?"

"Just trying to imprint this moment on my brain. There's bound to be some point in the future where I'm sad or frustrated or preparing for a colonoscopy and I'll need to summon the perfectness of this moment."

"Aren't you too young for a colonoscopy?"

I shrug. "I'm a planner."

"You know what my favorite part of your body is?"

"Well, I can guess which part you're most enthusiastic about."

Luke gets adorably annoyed. "Come on, I'm being serious."

"Okay, go ahead."

"My favorite part of your body is your brain."

"But it's so squishy and wrinkly."

"But such amazing things fall out of it."

I laugh. "Oh, they don't fall out. I have to force them out. Mostly through self-torture and panic attacks."

"That new song, though…I love the intro…" And then he sings a couple of lines from Cordelia's song so softly and effortlessly that I think I might pass out or at least forget how to breathe.

Once angels rush me from this weary world

My words won't reach you from up above…

It's almost too much to bear, so I stop him from continuing.

"Okay, it's not fair that you're so perfect, Luke. It's like I filled out a survey and then a team of scientists went into a lab with it and out you came. You check every single box. Don't you have any flaws? Not even one, so the rest of us can feel less inferior?"

"I can't write musicals."

I can't help but sneer. "Consider yourself lucky."

Luke sits up, urgent all of the sudden. "No, really. How do you do it?"

"How does anyone do anything? People are always trying to figure out how to pin down the creative process, but I just don't think you can. There's this story about Michelangelo. It might be apocryphal, who knows? He apparently said, ‘The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.' So basically his advice is to just remove any part of the statue that isn't a statue. That's not very helpful advice. Thanks for nothing, Mike."

"So it really is impossible to explain it? The stuff that goes on in your head when you're writing a song?"

"I guess I mostly just sit at the piano and pray to many unseen gods to send me inspiration. If nothing happens after a few hours, I usually think ‘screw it' and go watch horror movies on Netflix. Somebody once said, ‘Writing is hard, but having written is wonderful.' I always tell myself that when I'm struggling with a song. When it's done it'll be wonderful. Not the song, maybe. But the sense of accomplishment will be wonderful, at least. And I'll get to know that there's one more song in the world. And even if it isn't a great song, it might make something somewhere just a tiny bit better for someone."

Luke kisses me on the top of the head like I'm a puppy.

"I brought something else, just in case the stars aren't entertaining enough for you." He reaches into his pocket and brings out his battered paperback of E. E. Cummings poetry.

"If you think this cheesy attempt at being romantic is going to work on me, I'm here to tell you that you are completely and totally correct. You're playing me like a violin."

"Around here we say, ‘You're playing me like a fiddle.' But I guess violins are classier."

"As a rule, yes." I start to leaf through the pages. "Edward Estlin Cummings. But he preferred to use just his initials. And most of the time wrote his name in all lowercase letters. I tried to do that with the first musical I wrote in college. But my middle name is Oliver. So on the poster it said, ‘no adams.' And then people started calling me ‘no,' which was confusing as hell. So I finally just went back to Noah."

I notice one of the pages has been dog-eared. "Oh, look. It's your favorite. ‘anyone lived in a pretty how town.' The one with the guy who dies and no one will stoop to kiss his face."

"I kind of feel like that's how I'm going to end up one day."

"Well, that's just depressing…hold up, I'm gonna find you a new favorite poem." I leaf through the book and find what I'm looking for. I quickly dog-ear the page and hand it to Luke.

Luke reads the poem's title out loud. "?‘i carry your heart with me.'?" He gives me a tiny grin. "Now you're playing me like a violin."

"But I do, you know. And I will. Carry your heart with me. It's cheesy, but it's true. Please don't feel like that guy in a pretty how town. And please stop acting like this is over. I can't take it. It's not. We agreed."

"But you're going to be so far away. It's going to hurt so much."

"We'll text every hour on the hour like clockwork. And talk on the phone every night. And once I get my schedule, we'll figure out when you can sneak away and we'll have an amazing time. You'll visit me in Seattle. We'll take selfies at the Space Needle. We'll watch them throw halibut around at the fish market. Being apart will be hard, but think how much more special it'll be when we do get to be together."

A blinking airplane plays connect the dots with the stars overhead. I stare into Luke's eyes and borrow a line from Follies . "If you don't kiss me, Luke, I think I'm going to die."

His arms go around me quickly and he kisses me while hugging me so tightly it's difficult to breathe and I don't care. The ground beneath us turns into a Tilt-A-Whirl and we disappear into one another. And I realize that the moment could go on for an eternity and I'd still feel shortchanged.