Chapter Seven “Déjà Vu”

seven

" Déjà Vu "

I must have immediately passed out on top of my bed from all of the booze, but toward morning I groan and begin to regain consciousness. A nearby conclave of cardinals screeches out an endless fugue that threatens to make my eardrums bleed. And if that isn't enough to split my brain in two, an aggressively perky truck horn blasts repeatedly through the air. As the sun slowly starts to burn geometric patterns through my bedroom curtains, I find myself unable to ignore what happened last night. And the realization hits me right between my bloodshot eyes. I'm going to have to apologize to the person I hate the most.

I look out the window to see Luke's truck pulling into the driveway. Dad's riding shotgun and there is some medical equipment in the back. More perky horn blasts. Mom steps off the porch and goes to greet them. Great. Luke's proving once again what a saint he is. Infallible as scripture. I fight the urge to hide in my room like a coward. Time to man up. I drag myself out of bed and down the stairs.

Mom walks Dad toward the house as I run up to him, trying to think of some way to be helpful. "Sorry I didn't come pick you up."

Dad stops just long enough to say, "Your mom told me you were too drunk."

Mom shoots me a guilty look as she and Dad climb the porch steps. I walk as slowly as humanly possible up to Luke, who's standing on the bed of the truck organizing supplies. I catch my reflection in the truck's back window and realize I'm sporting a gravity-defying case of bedhead. Great. Nothing beats looking like an idiot while you stumble through an apology.

"Hey, Luke."

Luke doesn't look up and only offers me a frosty "Hey" in return.

He's clearly not going to make this easy and maybe I deserve that. I take a deep breath and get down to business.

"So, listen, I'm sorry about what I said last night. I was drunk and I'm a dickhead and…" I promptly fizzle out, realizing I have no real excuses to offer.

Luke sighs and climbs down from the truck with a cardboard box in his hands. "I'm not gonna lie. That was a pretty shitty thing to say. But I get it now. You don't like me. That's okay, not everybody is gonna like me."

"But it kind of seems like everybody does," I admit, begrudgingly. "My parents do. Everyone in town does."

"Just not Noah Adams. That's cool. I wish that wasn't the way things were, but…"

"It's not that I don't like you. I guess I just can't let go of some things from the past." I take the cardboard box from Luke and he sits on the tailgate, massive arms crossed and staring at the ground. "And I think it's great that you're close with my dad, but it rubs me the wrong way sometimes."

Luke simply stares at me, as if I'm supposed to elaborate or my apology won't stick. I set down the cardboard box and continue.

"Look, things have always been complicated with Dad and me. Like when I was thirteen, he asked me to help him deliver a calf. I mean, what was he thinking? Can you imagine a thirteen-year-old me being forced to look at a cow's vagina? And when yellow liquid exploded out of the cow's vag and then two little sticky hooves followed, well, I immediately threw up all over my brand-new Capezios."

Luke stops me. "Capezios?"

"They're dance shoes. Jazz shoes. Anyway, after I threw up, Dad and I just stared at one another and it was obvious right then that I was never going to be the kind of son he wanted. And, of course, we love one another. But something shattered into a million pieces that day. I kept trying to feign interest in the farm, in the cows and the hay and the tractors, but the incompetent cat was out of the bag. And after a while I got tired of suffering through Dad's disappointing looks so I just, I don't know, gave up."

Luke seems unmoved and reaches back to grab a small oxygen tank. He starts to head toward the house. I quickly grab the cardboard box and follow him. I decide to keep the apology going. "In for a penny, in for a pound," as Chase would say.

"And then you show up here and you don't mind pulling smaller cows out of larger cows. For all I know, you're actually good at it. And Dad's face lights up when he sees you in a way that I can never expect him to light up when he sees me. So I guess all of that fucks with my head and maybe that's why I said something really terrible last night and for that I am truly, truly sorry."

Luke stops in his tracks and appears to be processing this for a moment, invisible wheels turning inside his manly skull. He sets the oxygen tank on the front steps and turns to me. I think about bringing up the years of shit he put me through as a teenager, but I figure that would dilute the apology. And for some inexplicable reason, I need him to absolve me of being a prick.

And then Luke can't look me in the eyes as he says, "I know your dad isn't perfect, Noah. But at least he stayed. Which is more than I can say for mine."

A wave of nausea hits me when I realize just how cruel my words were. Never in a million years did I think I would actually feel sorry for Luke Carter. When I would complain about him to Mrs. Henson during free period in high school, she used to say, "Well, Noah, hurt people hurt people." Maybe she had a point, but I tend to tune people out when they start speaking in bumper stickers.

Luke and I stare at one another, clearly at an impasse. I go to set the box on the front steps and when I turn back to Luke he unexpectedly reaches up and, for a second, it almost seems like he's going to touch my hair. His hand just lingers cautiously in the air.

"What…what are you doing?"

Luke hesitates. "Just…helping you tamp down that bedhead. Is that okay?"

I find myself nodding. His fingers go through my hair and every nerve ending in my body instantly burns like fire. Something unspoken passes between our eyes. And then Luke's hand is gone and he's heading back to his truck.

"See you at practice." Luke catches himself. "Rehearsal, I mean."

Luke climbs into his pickup and pulls away in a cloud of dust and I stand there in total and utter confusion. What was that all about? I find myself trembling slightly and I realize that I'm holding my breath. All because Luke's rugged fingers ran through my hair? I shouldn't be reacting this way. I force myself to take a breath and regroup. What the hell does it matter if Luke tried to wrangle my bedhead? I have a gorgeous boyfriend back in New York and I'm out of here in four weeks and counting. I'm here to put on a show, not get sidetracked with sexually ambiguous former high school acquaintances.

To my surprise, I find Dad at the kitchen table, drinking coffee with an oxygen tube under his nose.

"What's this?" I ask.

"Stupid doctors are worried about my breathing now. I told them I had a heart attack. What does that have to do with my lungs?"

Mom gives me a conspiratorial look. "Your father is just being a first-class grump because he can't go for a ride at the Balloon Faire this year."

"Are they still doing that?" I ask.

Mom shoots me a scandalized look. "Are they still doing the Balloon Faire? Honey, it's what this town has become famous for. People drive all the way down from Chicago for the Balloon Faire. It's been a huge economic boon for every business in a thirty-mile radius. Are they still doing the Balloon Faire? How could they not? That'd be like canceling Christmas."

I don't even try to hide my eye roll. The Plainview Balloon Faire. At some point in the 1990s, some local got the idea to sabotage a perfectly good weekend with a parade of hot air balloons. Apparently it started out with just a few balloon enthusiasts meeting in a nearby park and flying their colorful contraptions in tandem over rinky-dink little Plainview. Then it somehow ballooned (pun intended) into a whole three-day celebration that included local bands, craft booths, and costume characters for kids. Though I've never been, it seems to be a study in kitsch and tacky as hell.

But for some reason Dad is on board with the whole thing and now if you don't know what to get him for his birthday, just find him something with a hot air balloon stamped on it and you'll have made his day.

Mom gazes at Dad with unabashed pity. "Your father looks forward to that tethered ride every year."

Since I'm clearly being prompted, I ask, "Tethered ride?"

"You know, they put you in a balloon, but they keep it tied to the ground. You get to go straight up, float for a little bit and then come right back down. It is just heaven."

"If the weather's good, you can see all the way to Salem," Dad adds.

"Sounds intoxicating," I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mom gives me a knowing look. She's the only one who's aware that I'm not the biggest fan of heights. When I was in the fifth grade a carnival came to town and Mom and I went on the Ferris wheel together. She wanted to treat me to a picturesque view of Plainview from above. Instead, I treated her to the sight of me throwing up into her purse.

"Well, your father can't take his oxygen tank in a hot air balloon. That's just the way it is. The doctor was adamant about it."

"Which doctor? Dr. Dunbar?"

Dad gives a grim nod as Mom brings him over a plate of goop. Mom is a retired nurse, so she gets a little prickly when Dad trash-talks her former colleagues.

"Now you both be nice to Dr. Dunbar. He's got a lot on his plate with that poor wife of his. Joanie Marie Dunbar has lost her mind and insists that her dog has body dysmorphia. How can a dog have body dysmorphia? It's a dachshund. It isn't even big enough to look at itself in a mirror. But, great gal! Great gal!"

Dad chews his food, looking depressed.

I swallow my pride and say slowly, "So the set for the musical. It's pretty impressive, Dad. I mean, everybody thinks so."

"Do you think so? Up to your standards?"

Don't take the bait, Noah. The man has health issues. "It exceeded my expectations, Dad."

I can tell what he's thinking. His face moves as he contemplates exactly how to be unkind. Maybe he'll say something like, "Nothing could exceed your expectations, son." But to my surprise, he simply says, "Glad you liked it."

My phone vibrates. It's Chase. Finally. I run out onto the porch and answer. "You promised inappropriate texts!"

Chase laughs and is instantly contrite. "I've been swamped, but I haven't stopped thinking about you for a moment. Our bed is a very depressing setting without you in it. How's your dad?"

"Fine. I think he might even be mellowing. We were actually cordial just now. Oh, but get this: I'm removing the whole cyborg thing from the musical. It turns out I don't even have to change the dialogue, it's only referred to in the stage directions."

"What made you do that?"

I stretch out on the creaky porch swing. Chase's voice is so sexy that I quickly have the need to be horizontal. The humidity turns me into a puddle of sweat within seconds. "Oh, one of the actors brought it up and I guess I realized the whole idea was way too Star Trek-y and ridiculous in the first place. What was I even thinking?"

"I blame Danielle Vincent."

"No, it was my boneheaded idea. I can't blame her for that one. Although she could have stopped me, maybe. What did you do last night without me? And your answer had better be ‘nothing fun.'?"

"Nothing fun. I ate all by my lonesome at the bar at Gramercy Tavern. And suffered my way through Aleister Murphy's latest play and resisted the urge to gouge my eyes out when I was through reading it. God, it was absolute rubbish. Then I had a glass of port, thought of you, and wanked off, then went to bed."

"You're so romantic. God, I hope this month speeds by so I can get back home and back to being the one who wanks you off. Or more."

"You're so cute when you try to use British words with your sexy little American accent. I'll call you tomorrow."

A lawn sprinkler snaps on and pathetically tries to urge the sparse grass in the backyard to grow. I put one foot on the porch and give it a shove. I'm hoping that if I swing, I'll magically cool down. But it doesn't work and I give up. "God, I can't stand being away from you, Chase. It sucks! You don't have to send me inappropriate texts, but I do need to know what you're up to. I feel so stranded here."

"I'll do better. And after this is all over, ‘we shan't be parted no more.'?"

"Good." And then I try a cockney accent just like the character of Scudder in Maurice . "I don't wan' 'a be par'ed no more, guv'ner!"

Chase groans. "Please never speak like that again. Love to the family."

"Love you!" And the line goes dead. I sit up on the porch swing and wonder if I should have told Chase about the bedhead incident with Luke. No. That would be ridiculous.

Nothing really happened anyway. Besides, it's not my fault that my hair is so luxurious that even straight guys want to run their fingers through it.

—

I arrive at the theater that night and find Luke busy threading white Christmas lights through a black backdrop. I make a big show of shuffling papers. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle. He finally looks up and waves the fabric in his hand. "It's, well, I think it's called a star drop. For the final scene. I sourced the lights from the Methodist church. They don't have any use for Christmas lights in the middle of summer."

"Smart thinking."

More superfluous paper shuffling from me. Busy, busy, busy. Why are we both acting so weird all of the sudden?

"Man, your mom seemed relieved to have your dad back home."

"Thanks for picking him up. And helping with the equipment."

"Oh, it's no problem. She tips me in eggplant paintings."

I laugh. "She told me about her Etsy page. She has no idea what she's actually selling."

Luke drops the Christmas lights and gives the biggest, richest laugh known to mankind. "She told you that? What a liar! She had a booth at a fair over in Fairview Heights and all these hipster wannabes were buying them. She asked me what people saw in them and I explained that they were basically emojis that meant boners. She got all excited and asked if I thought more people would buy them. She's definitely in on the whole thing. Only she calls them ‘emotions' instead of ‘emojis.'?"

There's a pause and Luke jumps off the stage and starts toward me. He gets close enough that I smell him. What is that smell? I noticed it earlier when we were standing by his pickup. It's earthy, kind of. Is it an orchard? Does Luke Carter smell like a fucking orchard?

He stops very close to me, then reconsiders and takes a few steps back.

"So, I just want to say…um, I get what you were saying earlier about you and your dad. Just so we're clear, I don't want to try to take your place or anything like that."

"Of course. I mean, I don't really think that…because that would make me a crazy person. And I'm not. A crazy person. Well, mostly I'm not."

"Right." Luke hesitates for a moment, then adds, "Hey, so…was it weird that I touched your hair this morning? Because I kind of felt weird about it afterward."

I become overly dismissive. "What? No! I actually forgot that even happened."

And then we just stand blinking at one another in complete confusion. We remain like this for an eternity until I decide to ask, "So, random question. What cologne are you wearing?"

Luke screws his face up in a surprised smile. "Do I look like a guy who wears cologne?"

He just smells like that naturally? So not helpful.

The cast starts to arrive and Luke goes back to his star drop as rehearsal begins. I announce that the costumes for the now non-cyborg Goneril and Regan will be the only change. Thankfully no one will have to relearn any dialogue. I'll just have to keep reminding Jackie and Julia not to speak in their so-called robot voices.

I suggest we start blocking some of the easier scenes and out of nowhere Luke yells, "Places!"

He leans out of the wings and gives me a questioning look. "Did I get it right?"

"You did," I say, smiling in spite of myself.

And as we work through the scenes, I can't stop thinking about the orchard smell. I'm not surprised I confused it for cologne. Chase tends to go a little overboard with the stuff. It's one of Chase's very few flaws. Everywhere he goes he leaves a trail of expensive Gucci cologne mixed with an air of cool superiority.

I realize that everyone is watching me daydream and snap back to reality.

"I think we need to shift Captain Lear's command station module a little more stage left."

Luke comes bounding out of the wings, a cross between an overeager puppy and a Viking, and grabs the set piece. "Got it!"

"I know this is only the second night, but I guess we should start staging the opening number next. Time is of the essence."

Abby asks, "Who's going to teach us the dance moves?"

"What?"

"You know, the dance moves. For when we're singing."

"Oh, it's not really a dance show. There's no choreography, per se."

Abby looks disappointed. "Oh, well I took three years of modern dance in junior high, so just keep that in mind if we get into a pinch."

"I'll keep that in mind. Let's start staging."

Mrs. Henson starts to put the cast through their paces as they belt out the opening number, "Who Doth Love Him Most?" An hour later we've managed to stage the entire opening and we're all sweaty and out of breath.

"Let's call it a night before we melt into the floor from exhaustion."

The cast starts sharing a bunch of furtive looks.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, hoping to God we don't have another cyborg situation on our hands.

Finally, Abby steps forward. "Well, you see, there's a scene in the show that we're all a little concerned about."

"Why am I having a major déjà vu right now?"

She giggles nervously and adds, "It's not your writing, God, no, I blame the source material."

"Okay."

"Well, we're all a little squeamish about the scene where Drew is supposed to pull my eyeball out and stomp on it."

Drew Parees, who teaches economics at the local community college and also happens to be playing Cornwall, steps forward. "How am I even supposed to do that? How is that even going to work?"

"Well, on Broadway we used a lot of stage blood. There are small gel packs that get rigged—"

"I don't mean to interrupt," Abby says, interrupting. "But it just seems like a real nasty thing to do to a person."

"Sure, they're nasty people."

"Oh, I understand that. But it's so gory. It's like a Freddy Krueger movie or something."

"Shakespeare is notoriously gory. Famously so."

Finally, it's Louis's turn to step forward. "What I think these two are trying to say is that there will be children coming to see the show."

"And?"

"Well, what are Abby's grandkids going to think when they see their grandma getting her eyes ripped out of her head?"

"Well, could they just not see the show?"

Abby begins to panic. "Oh, no! They're dying to see it. Everyone in town is. And what about all the children I drive to school every day? Now they can't come either? Their little hearts will be broken!"

I take a very long inhale and Melissa shoots me a "tread lightly" look. I turn to Abby and do my best to put on a strained yet happy face.

"First, you guys didn't like the way I wrote Goneril and Regan. And maybe you had a point. Hence the costume changes. Now you want me to cut a famous and important scene out of my musical?"

Abby is quick to backtrack. "Oh, no, no, no. We wouldn't dream of it. We were just wondering if there was a way to rethink it slightly."

Drew jumps in. "Yeah, like we were just tossing around ideas. Like, instead of gouging her eyes out, maybe I just shove her really hard."

"Or slap me. He could slap me," Abby says quickly. "I think the little children could understand a slap much better. They see it on the playground all the time."

I try to hold in my exasperation. "But for the rest of the plot to work, Gloucester has to be blind. That's the whole point."

"Well…" Abby's mind seems to be going a mile a minute. "What if I get hysterical blindness?"

Drew quickly nods. "Yeah, what if I slap her really hard and she gets hysterical blindness?"

I can feel my patience fraying. "First of all, hysterical blindness isn't a thing."

"Oh, yes, it is," Jackie McNew starts in. "Our aunt got it for two weeks when they canceled her favorite soap opera."

"Then your aunt is psychotic," I snap before I can stop myself.

Sensing that I'm about to lose it, Mrs. Henson steps in. "I think we should just table this for now and we'll come back to it later when we all have cooler heads."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Henson. My head could definitely use some cooling. See you guys tomorrow night."

Everyone slowly starts to gather their belongings and Luke approaches me cautiously. He tousles his floppy hair and it makes that perfect curl over his left eye and I silently weaken a little from the sight. Then I think of Chase back in New York sleeping alone in our bed and feel a small surge of guilt. Luke shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his heels a little, as if he's trying to figure out what to say.

"Luke?"

"Um…I know what they're asking you to do sounds crazy. You shouldn't have to bend your show just for a bunch of kids."

"I agree."

"But…"

"Really, Luke? You're going to pile on, too?"

"I'm just saying, if there was a different way to skin that cat, you'd be the man to do it."

"Maybe that's our answer. Instead of Drew gouging out Abby's eyes onstage, he could just skin her cat."

"I get it. None of my business." He changes the topic. "You going to Bumpkins tonight?"

"Oh, no. My liver would crawl out of my body and slither away in protest."

Luke looks crestfallen. "But I like drunk Noah! He tells me all about his pricey New York haircuts!"

"I'm sure you have better things to think about than my hair."

Luke pauses and then says cryptically, "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that."

Wait a second. What's with all this ambiguous flirting? Is this guy queerbaiting me? Not cool.

"Well, you know. Rain check."

Luke nods, almost as if he's accepting defeat. "Okay, well. You'll be missed."

Then he gives me a soft punch in the stomach like I'm a five-year-old and saunters away, joining the rest of the cast as they head out the door.

I'll be missed? And what's with the good ole boy punch in the stomach? And the poking me in my chest at Bumpkins? I hate all that frat boy bro shit. Don't I? Yes, I definitely do.

What kind of game is Luke Carter playing?

Whatever. It doesn't matter. I've got to figure out a version of Stage of Fools where hysterical blindness is an actual thing. Mom's earlier advice comes back to me. "Just make up your mind to make up your mind."

Sigh.

That sounds like a problem for tomorrow Noah to figure out.