Chapter Two “Plainview”

two

" Plainview "

I always assumed that my first Broadway opening night would end with Chase and me passionately tearing each other's tuxedos off the minute we got home. Instead it ended with my ass hanging out of a paper hospital gown while I endured the world's longest MRI. Not ideal. After a very dramatic overnight stay in the ER and an even more dramatic bump on the right side of my head, I was released from the hospital and actually didn't get my bearings until I was in a cab heading toward LaGuardia with Chase.

Dad was stable and we were dutifully making the trip back to my hometown.

Manhattan blurs by the car window as Chase pecks at his phone. And I, true to form, pick at the wound.

"Have they taken down the marquee at the theater yet?"

Chase uses his gentle voice. Reserved for hurt animals and the elderly. "It's only been a couple of days."

The rest of the reviews had been only slightly less vicious than the Times . Stage of Fools had just joined the tragic list of musicals that opened and closed in one night. And the embarrassment of it all made my skin hot with shame.

But I can't stop asking questions. "Do we know which show is going to move into the theater?"

"There are rumors."

He knows. He's just shielding me. I quietly appreciate it.

But, of course, I continue on.

"Do you think…ugh…do you think it would have helped if we had stunt cast the part of Lear? Some big movie star? Like Hugh Jackman?" I feel sick to my stomach for even bringing it up. The cast was filled with Broadway royalty. The kind of performers I had been obsessed with since I was a teen in very unfortunate braces. But I can't help it. "I mean, then the reviews wouldn't have mattered. Maybe?"

Chase puts his hand on my knee. His hand is very well manicured, yet somehow still masculine. Even during all of the drama, his touch still makes my heart leap a little. "We'll never know. Stop torturing yourself."

I've refused to read the Times review. What's the point? Still, I have to ask. "Did she hate everything?"

Chase pauses, considering how to answer. "She thought you had some very clever lyrics."

"But the tunes? And the script?" His silence says it all. "Got it. So I guess I'm just damaged goods now, right? And the cast and the crew, basically everyone involved with the show is out of a job because of me. Everyone's unemployed because I couldn't cut it."

"That kind of thinking will not be allowed by either your agent or your boyfriend. So. Let's focus on your family."

My family. I let out a slightly tortured sigh. What is posher-than-posh Chase going to think about Mom and Dad?

"About my family. I love them to the moon and back, but they're not…" I'm searching.

Chase gives me an inquisitive look. Even in the middle of texting, he can pretend to be present and interested. "They're not what?"

"Just…Mom and Dad…they're…folksy. In fact, my entire town is folksy. I mean, Dad runs a dairy farm."

"I'm aware."

"Yeah, but just…" I search for the proper instructions. "Just…gird your loins."

Chase is back typing into his phone. "I am very excited to visit this place called Plainview. Why is it called that, anyway?"

"I don't know. Some leather-faced, Native American-killing settler must have arrived on the land and asked his bucktoothed wife what she thought of the view and she said, ‘It's plain.' And then they decided not to get all creative about naming things, because that might take up time from their butter churning and various hoedowns."

Chase gives me a look.

"What? I'm not being mean, I'm just trying to do some level setting here."

Chase nods. "Consider my levels sufficiently calibrated."

"But you're gonna be very judgy about it, I can tell. Our convenience stores are called ‘Hucks' after Huckleberry Finn , so that kind of says it all."

"So it's a town that values literature."

I give him a weary look.

"I promise, I will put on my least judgmental face. I keep it wrapped in mothballs for just this sort of occasion. For now, let's just be glad the old pater is doing well."

"I can't believe he had a heart attack."

"Why? He's not exactly a spring chicken."

"I know. It's just weird to have any scientific proof that he actually has a heart."

Dad and me. Unfortunately it's textbook. When I was a kid I would catch him looking at me like I was somebody else's luggage he picked up at the airport by mistake. He's a man's man and I practically came out of the womb wearing a dance belt and tap shoes. We didn't have much to discuss. Thankfully, I always had Mom on my side. While Dad was dealing with the farm, Mom was busy with her bizarre paintings and generally cheering on my various backyard performances. And now Chase was about to meet them both. And the town that I had fled as soon as my high school senior year ended. But for now, Chase was right. I was glad Dad was doing well.

We sit glumly on the shiny Airbus A320 and Chase goes over contracts on his laptop for what I can only assume are other, much more successful writers. Glutton for punishment that I am, I plan to spend the flight mourning my career like a Sicilian widow. All of those years of struggling to be a professional writer. The endless shitty jobs. Waiting tables or answering phones. The bartending gig at a gay bar where they asked me if I could wear a vest without a shirt. And then a few days later, if I could ditch the vest. And then a few days after that, if I could go out and dance in the middle of the club every half an hour or so. It took my stupid brain an entire week to realize that I'd been demoted from bartender to go-go boy. But the humiliation seemed worth it, because it paid the rent and the electricity bill. It paid for me to write. To keep the fantasy alive that one distant day I'd make it to the flashing lights of old Broadway. And then the miracle happened. Against all odds, the dream came true. And then it was pulled out from underneath me in a matter of hours. And all the previous toiling away, the striving and the praying and the bartering away the precious years of my twenties added up to what? A big, fat disappointment. To use the words of Carrie Payne: a nothing burger.

Chase reads my mind and takes my hand. Without him, this would all be unbearable.

"Thanks for coming with me, Chase. I mean it. I couldn't do this alone."

Chase smiles and recites our favorite quote from E. M. Forster's Maurice , "We shan't be parted no more."

It's what he always says when I'm sad or worried. And it works every time.

Before I know it, we're in the rental car, starting the hour-long drive south to Plainview, Illinois. Even though he was brought up with steering wheels on the opposite side, Chase drives because we both know he's more capable at that sort of thing. That's one of the many dreamy things about Chase. He's always there to do whatever I suck at. He figures out the tip on every bill. He makes sure my taxes get done. He sees to it that my closets get organized and my credit card bills get paid. He claims that it's all so I can focus my brain cells solely on being creative. Handsome, helpful, and willing to keep the boring parts of the world out of my hair. No wonder I fell for him so completely. What I did to deserve him, I'll never know.

As we pull into town, Chase gives a low whistle. "This place is very…" And then he just stops talking.

"It's lost some of its former glory, I'll give you that." And then I feel something rise up inside of me. Am I defensive of Plainview? Because that would be beyond hypocritical. I spent my entire high school career making fun of how backwater the place was. But it was my backwater place. Mine , damn it.

Plainview. Population: twelve thousand or so. Where people spend their weekends fishing for largemouth bass or catfish. Where basketball is a religion and gossip is a currency. And where I stuck out like a sore, sequined thumb. I brush the thought away.

"Take a right up here, at the grimacing garden gnome."

The creepy little statue welcomes visitors to our long gravel driveway and Chase remains silent as we drive past the steel and wood barn that's painted fire engine red. When we pull up to the house, there stands Mom on the front porch in all of her Mom-ness. Of course she doesn't take off her painting smock before meeting Chase for the first time. Of course she doesn't fix her hair, but just leaves it in a messy, curly bun. Of course she wears the hideous bright orange Crocs that I have forbidden on countless occasions. She looks like a crazy person and I wonder if she does this to embarrass me in front of my very polished British boyfriend. Some people mistake her for Sally Field. But they're wrong. She's one hundred percent Nancy Kay Adams and she won't let you forget it. Oh, and her eyes are constantly locked in full-on twinkle mode and it's endearing beyond words. And I find myself crying because she's exactly all the things I need in the world right now.

Chase notices me reduced to tears as he parks the car. "Those are happy tears, right?"

"Yep." I turn to Chase and say very seriously, "Before you meet her, you should know that my mother is completely and certifiably insane. And wildly inappropriate. And you will absolutely fall in love with her just like everyone else and probably run away with her to Rio."

Chase looks worried. "Does it have to be Rio? I think they require a visa and the waiting time might be a problem. I'm not a patient man."

Feeling that Chase has been sufficiently warned, I'm out of the car and up the front porch steps and Mom and I are doing our hugging-swaying dance, while she rains a million little smooches on my cheek.

Then, with what is probably a little too much pageantry, I gesture to Chase. "Mom, this is Chase."

Mom gives my glossy boyfriend one of her biggest smiles and for some unknown reason announces, "He doesn't look Jewish."

Chase and I stare at her in complete shock until I can manage a chastising, "Nancy Kay Adams!"

Mom gets flustered. "I mean, I just thought Abrams was a Jewish last name."

I turn to Chase. "This is the wildly inappropriate part I was warning you about." I turn back to Mom. "First of all, you've seen pictures of Chase online, so you shouldn't be confused about him not, quote, ‘looking Jewish.' I'm not even sure what that means. Secondly, his last name is also a British last name and he is very, very Anglican."

"Oh, now I've embarrassed you!" Mom squeezes Chase's hand. "Now, Chase, you know I wouldn't care either way. I was just being observant."

I'm not letting her get away with this. "Yeah, Mom, that can also read as anti-Semitic. So maybe filter the stuff coming out of your mouth hole a little more?"

Mom looks offended and strangely regal. "Honey, you know I'm not anti-Semitic!"

Of course she isn't. She's just Mom. "I know. You're right."

"I mean, I love bagels!"

Chase laughs at the top of his lungs and pulls Mom into a hug. "Mrs. Adams, your son warned me that I would fall in love with you and whisk you away. He was absolutely right and now I need all of your frequent flyer numbers."

Mom hugs Chase back and demands that he call her Nancy Kay. "Now, let me show you around our very elaborate mansion!"

Since Mom has always been an avid painter, our front room is filled with the numerous family portraits she's created over the years. She's actually not half bad. If you look closely at the portraits, it's easy to chart the increasing realization on my face that I didn't fit in and that I was probably as gay as a Fire Island tambourine. But there's something empowering about walking back into my childhood home with my sturdy, chiseled, and successful boyfriend.

Our house is a pretty typical, run-of-the-mill farmhouse, but Mom's great at putting on airs. I mean, it's clear where I get my flair for the dramatic.

"Now, the first stop on the tour—"

I cut Mom off. "There doesn't need to be a tour. Or if there does need to be a tour, couldn't it just be a self-guided tour?"

Mom scoffs. "Noah, you know we can't afford those little recording thingies they have in museums. Now stop interrupting. The first stop on the tour is this upright piano. Noah's dad bought it from the Presbyterian church and had his buddies help him move it here when Noah was ten."

A rush of guilt washes over me. "Jesus. Dad. How is he? He's kind of like the reason we're here."

"Oh, he's fine. He's got one more night in the hospital to make all the nurses crazy. And he's mad as a pistol that I even told you about it." She turns to Chase and whispers, "Macho."

Chase nods. "I've heard of such people."

"Oh, and thank you both for that very expensive-looking Get Well arrangement! It was as big as my head!"

Chase sent my parents flowers? But of course he did. How he manages to think of every thoughtful little detail is a constant wonder. I silently squeeze his hand in gratitude.

Mom continues her tour. "Now, Noah wrote his first song on this piano."

"Mother, stop it."

"It was called ‘The Jealous Pancake.'?" I can feel the tips of my ears turning red. "The pancake was jealous because it wanted to be a waffle, you see."

Chase is not even trying to hide his smirk. "Makes sense."

"And Noah rhymed ‘blueberry' with ‘There never was such a true berry .'?"

Chase gives a professional nod. "He's very serious about his rhymes, this one."

Mom agrees. "I sometimes think we should get a little velvet rope to put around this thing. I mean, now that he's a Broadway writer and all."

"A failed Broadway writer," I can't stop myself from adding.

Mom is annoyingly dismissive. "Setbacks! You're a writer, you should know that every story has setbacks and twists and turns. So this musical didn't stick? Write another one!"

"It's not that easy, Mom."

"Of course it is. You just have to make up your mind to make up your mind! If you're not already working on something new, then you're just being lazy. And I didn't carry you for nine months in the Southern Illinois humidity just to give birth to a lazy child."

I throw up my hands and say to Chase, "I told you. She is certifiably crazy."

Mom waves her hand to dismiss the idea. "Crazy like a fox. Now did Noah ever tell you how I used to embarrass him by the way I pronounced the word ‘theater'? I used to pronounce it ‘the-ATE-er.' It drove him nuts. So then he told me to think of pronouncing it the same way I would say ‘Theodore.' So now I just call it that. As in, ‘What time do we have to be at the Theodore , Noah?'?"

My phone vibrates and there's a text from Kiara: I need to know that you're all right. I am on a plane if you need me.

I respond back: I'm fine.

Her response: I love you so much I would jump off a building for you.

I respond: I love you so much I would put my balls into a wood chipper for you.

Her response: I love you so much I would have my vagina surgically sealed for you.

I respond: Please stop reminding me that there are vaginas in the world.

I'm about to return to whatever Mom is yammering on about when I catch a glimpse of the bedroom off the living room where Mom does her paintings.

"Mom, what in Satan's unholy playroom is happening in there?"

Mom follows my stare. "Oh, it's my new series. Come look!"

We follow her into the paint-splattered room and come face-to-face with several paintings of eggplants in various sizes.

"Now, I'm no professional, Chase. But I do find painting very therapeutic and soothing."

Chase and I take a couple of seconds to stare at the bulging eggplants in uncomfortable silence.

"But, Mom, why eggplants?"

Mom tilts her head to consider for a second. "You know, I don't know. They just seem to be everywhere these days. Little cartoon eggplants. Isn't that so random? But they're selling like crazy."

"You're selling these?"

"Oh, yes! Luke set up a page for me on something called Etsy. Young people are going crazy for them. I've even got one of those PayPal things. Luke says I'm Michelangelo and these eggplants are my Sistine Chapel. Luke thinks—"

Before she can say another word, I grind the conversation to a halt. "Wait, Luke ? As in Luke Carter?" The feeling of betrayal makes my jaw clench. "You're joking, right? Why are you chumming it up with Luke Carter, Mom? You know he's officially my nemesis."

"Oh, Noah, I can't keep track of all of your…oh, what's the plural of the word nemesis?"

"Nemeses," Chase offers, happy to be of help.

"Nemeses. He started working for your father last year and he's an angel sent from heaven."

"But—"

Mom digs her heels in. "But what?"

I'm pacing back and forth in front of the eggplants, shaking my head in disbelief. "After everything he put me through, he works here now? As in on our farm? You're joking, right? And why am I just learning about this now?"

Chase, sensing drama, gamely asks, "What's the problem with this Luke character?"

"Well, for one, he and his friends made high school a waking nightmare for me."

Mom has to burst in. "Oh, I'm sure he's very sorry for all that."

"Well, he's not forgiven. Two, he's basically the son my dad never had. Whenever he'd see Dad in town, they'd end up talking for hours about butch shit like carburetors and football and hay balers."

"He's a very nice boy, Noah."

Anger boils up from my stomach. Hot, acidic anger. Where is my mother's loyalty, damn it? "He is not nice! Stop saying that Luke Carter is nice! He's an asshole. And he has no right to take my…my…my filial place!"

This elicits a very loud laugh from Chase. "Filial? We're using the word ‘filial' now?"

My mother gives Chase a world-weary look. "I rue the day I bought that boy a thesaurus."

I give a loud huff and say, "You're both being fulsomely vexatious."