7

Colfax

There was no getting around it. The tiny flock of the faithful that met in the rec room of one of the parishioners’ homes seemed more than pleased to welcome the new circuit pastor and his wife, but the iciness between many of them and the Pierces chilled the room, not to mention the service.

Thomas didn’t want to probe that history. He also decided that using the little music stand for a pulpit or even standing to preach seemed too much in the small space before so few people. So he remained seated and joined heartily in the singing; then he and Grace answered a few questions about themselves before he launched into Jonah going down to Joppa.

Someone called out, “I hope you don’t see Colfax as Joppa!”

Thomas laughed. “Anything but,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you all. You know, the Lord’s not interested in numbers. He’s interested in souls.”

“But the more the merrier,” Paul said.

Thomas endured the awkward silence before continuing.

Addison

“Thought you got cut, Darby,” someone said on the activities bus.

“You thought wrong. I quit.”

“So now you’re in the chess club?”

The laughter made Brady flush. “You lookin’ to get hurt?”

That stopped the chuckling. The smart mouth, who would abandon the bus as soon as he was old enough to drive whatever car his parents gave him for his sixteenth birthday, held up both hands. “Relax, big boy. Just teasing.”

Brady turned and stared out the window, trying to shut out the whispers. At times like this an ache washed over him for something new, something different, something better. Everybody else sat with a buddy or a cluster of friends. He was empty-train-depot lonely, and he hated everything about his life. Hated everybody.

Except Aunt Lois and Uncle Carl. They were embarrassing and weird but hard to hate. And of course Brady didn’t hate Petey.

Petey.

What kind of a brother was Brady being to him? The kid was smart, that was clear, already starting to question everything. Used to be Brady could tell him anything, and Peter would buy it. Now the kid could see through Brady when he didn’t make sense. Peter wanted to know why he couldn’t do what Brady did.

If he was to be any kind of a role model and wanted anything good for Peter, Brady knew he ought to quit smoking, stealing, lying, being a bum. He ought to study, change his look, get a real job. But it was too late. He wasn’t sure his grades would qualify him for a role in the musical even if he somehow landed one.

Brady dug the script out of his bag. Was Nabertowitz right? Should he entirely change his look and avoid what Hollywood called being typecast? That would shake up the school, wouldn’t it? Not that he was known by more than a few, but it would be noisy if a guy like him suddenly became normal, an actor with a whole new look.

When the bus rolled into the trailer park, Brady was deep into the script of Bye Bye Birdie. He had heard of the old movie with Dick Van Dyke and Ann-Margaret, but he had never seen it. Musicals were hardly his thing. But now he was reading fast, imagining himself in the role of the father.

As he reached the front of the bus, still reading, the kid in the back hollered, “Checkmate!”

Brady spun and glared, and the kid and his friends looked away, snickering. Brady considered charging back there and drilling the kid with his fist, but the bus driver—an older version of himself—growled, “Don’t do it. Not worth it.”

Brady was still fuming as he trudged along the asphalt. It was unlikely his mother was home yet, and he hated the idea of Peter being there alone, but something in the script drew him, and he wanted to get through it. The sun was fading, so he stopped under a streetlamp and read fast.

By the time he was three-fourths of the way through the pages, he knew. Typecast or not, Conrad Birdie was his part. Nabertowitz said he had already cast it, but that probably meant he had some preppy trying to affect a look. Brady already had the look, the attitude, the swagger. The father’s role was fun and grumpy and maybe had a little more meat, and even the manager had way more to offer. But Brady knew he wasn’t ready for a lead like that. Maybe someday.

If Nabertowitz could be believed, all that would be left the next day would be bit parts. Even the father would likely have been cast, unless the director was saving it for him. Well, Clancy Nabertowitz was in for a surprise. Brady headed for the trailer with a spring in his gait that hadn’t been there for months. Soon he was actually jogging.

Glad to see his mother was not there yet, he burst inside, lit a cigarette, and hollered for Peter. “Get your jacket! We’re going shopping!”

“For what?”

“You’ll see. Now hurry.”

While Peter was shutting down his video game and getting his coat on, Brady went to his car-fund stash and pulled out two hundred dollars.

“Hitchhiking again?” Peter said.

“Yeah, but just into Arlington.”

Oldenburg

By the time Thomas and Grace finally returned to the parsonage and sat sipping tea, he was exhausted. “Amazing what they’ve done here,” he said.

“Most of these people seem wonderful, Thomas.”

“Most?”

“I’m not blind or deaf, dear,” she said, “and neither are you. Paul Pierce is going to wear you out. You’d better start setting your boundaries now.”

Thomas nodded. “This is unusual, though. I’m like the old circuit-riding preachers. I wonder what they did about church politics. Someone had to run the places while they were away.”

“Paul doesn’t just want to run this place. He wants to run the whole circuit. Maybe you ought to get Jimmie Johnson in your corner before Paul makes a mess of everything.”

“How would that look? All of a sudden Paul hears from headquarters? No, I’ve got to face this—and him—myself. It may not be pretty, but you’re right; I have to do it soon.”

They sat in silence.

Grace smiled at him. “Kind of nice not to have a telephone ringing all the time, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “But we’ll need one before long.”

“Tomorrow soon enough?”

“Really, Grace? That’s faster than in town.”

“It was my first order of business. I can’t wait to bring Ravinia up to date without having to stand at some pay phone.”

Euclid Street Haberdashery | Arlington

“That’s a funny name,” Peter said. “What’s it mean?”

“Just clothes, I guess,” Brady said.

It was an unusual place, one of few outlets where kids like Brady could get the kind of clothes they liked. The store had all the traditional men’s fashions—suits, slacks, sport coats, ties, socks, shoes, belts, hats—but it also had a section that catered to, well, Brady’s type. Leather jackets, big wallets with chains, tight pants, and best of all, just the right kind of shoes. It all seemed out of place in a suburban store, but apparently the owner knew a revenue stream when he saw one.

Brady, his curled script still in his hands, told the salesman exactly what he wanted and why.

“You’re in luck, sir,” the man said. “I have just the thing. Follow me, and may I make a suggestion?”

“Sure.”

“Do you have an electric guitar?”

“No.”

“Can you borrow one?”

“I don’t play.”

“You don’t have to play. It’s just a prop. I did a little musical theater myself, so trust me. You audition in this suit carrying an electric guitar, and you’d have to be the worst actor in the world to not get the part. I mean, come on, you look like Birdie in street clothes. Imagine yourself in this.”

With a flourish, the man pulled a suit off the rack and squared it up so Brady and Peter could get the full effect.

“Oh, man!” Peter said. “Brady, you’ve got to get that!”

Brady stared and shook his head. “That’s gonna be way out of my price range.”

“It’s on sale!”

“Of course it is.”

“I’m serious. And we have it in your size. It would have to be tailored, but—”

“I have to take it with me tonight, man.”

“Hmm. We usually like a few days. Tell you what, I’ll do it myself, while you wait.”

Brady showed him how much money he had.

“Hmm. You’re a little short, but given the circumstances, we’ll make it work. But you have to tell me how everything goes tomorrow. And if you know anybody with an electric guitar . . . the louder the better.”

“I told you, I don’t play.”

“I’m not talking volume, sir. I’m talking color. Just be sure it doesn’t clash with the suit.”

Brady and Peter got home with just minutes to spare before Brady had to clean the Laundromat. Worse, his mother’s car was there. And she was on his case from the minute he opened the door. Where have you been; why didn’t you leave a note; what have you gone and wasted your money on now; what’s the idea keeping a kid out this late?—the whole bit.

Brady hurried Peter off to bed. “Just mind your own business, Ma, and don’t try to tell me Petey is your business. You’re the one who’s supposed to be here with him, not me. I do more with him than you do. I had an errand to run; what was I going to do, leave him here alone? Now I gotta go to work, and then I’m stopping over at Stevie Ray’s.”

She was still screaming at him as he left.

Brady had never worked so hard and fast. He had the Laundromat tidied in no time, and that night he didn’t skim even a quarter.

At 10:30 he knocked at Stevie Ray’s trailer. A thirtyish man with a long ponytail and wearing workout shorts and a wife-beater undershirt answered the door. “Hey, dude,” he whispered. “C’mon in. Gotta be quiet. The baby just went down.”

“You busy?” Brady said, stepping in.

“Nah. Just watchin’ the end of the news. Have a brew.”

Stevie Ray pulled a couple of Buds from the fridge. Brady knew he shouldn’t, because he planned to be up all night memorizing lines. But, hey.

Stevie Ray muted the TV as they sat. “So what’s up? Haven’t seen you in a while. Heard your dad passed.”

“Yeah. Listen, I was wonderin’ if I could borrow your Stratocaster.”

Stevie Ray took a long pull and studied Brady. “You kidding? That’s my life, man. Cost more’n my car. And you don’t play anyway, do you?”

Brady explained why he needed it. “I mean, unless you have a gig tomorrow. I could have it back by seven or so.”

“We only play weekends now; you know that. Doing the Ramada Friday and Saturday and some kid’s birthday party Sunday.”

“Cool.”

“So you don’t need the amp? You’re not gonna plug it in?”

“I’m just going to hold it and pretend.”

“You’ll keep it in the case at all times otherwise?”

“Promise.”

“And you’re not gonna let anybody else so much as touch it.”

“I swear. Man, I really appreciate this.”

“You’re a nut, Brady. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

Stevie Ray went to get the guitar, and Brady could hear him talking with his wife. Then he laid the case on the couch and opened it. “I’m just an old rocker,” he said, “but I learned something from the pros. You treat your ax like a gem. None of that trashin’ your equipment for me. Maybe those dudes can afford a new one every week, but not me.”

The gleaming instrument was metallic blue with white trim. Perfect.

“Stevie, you’re as good a picker as I’ve ever heard—Clapton, Harrison, all of ’em included.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stevie Ray said, smiling. “And those guys don’t work on cars between gigs. Listen, so much as a scratch on this thing and you’re dead.”

“I’ll protect it with my life.”