by Rick R. Reed
“Stacy?”
She nodded.
“Can you tell me what zero times two is?”
Truman smirked. The poor girl actually had to think about it. Then she grinned and rolled her eyes. “Oh, okay. Zero.”
Mr. Wolcott nodded, smirking. “So let’s get started. Who wants to go first?”
Everyone shifted in their seats, almost in unison. Almost also in unison, everyone stopped talking. The silence went on until it felt like an unwelcome extra presence in the auditorium.
Truman stared down at the floor, noticing the subtle pattern in the brown-and-beige tiling. He was ready, but he wasn’t so ready that he’d volunteer to go first.
He breathed a sigh of relief when Stacy Timmons, at last, raised her hand.
“Stacy!” Mr. Wolcott clapped. “Thank you for stepping up to the plate. Make your way on up to the stage.” He watched as she mounted the set of stairs at the side of the stage and then turned to the kids assembled in the third and fourth rows of the auditorium. “You guys? If you’re afraid to get up and audition, how are you gonna get out in front of a whole bunch of people when this theater is filled to capacity? Because it will be. Your families alone will guarantee that.” He chuckled. “So, I expect no hesitation when Stacy’s done with her reading.” He smiled, looking at each of them in turn. “Okay?”
He turned his back on the crowd and sat down. “Stacy? If you’re ready, go ahead.”
Truman looked at the young woman standing in the spotlight. She was obviously terrified, and in a way that made Truman feel better. A whole fleet of butterflies had taken wing in his gut, now that this process was becoming real. She coughed. Shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Flipped a mass of dark hair over one shoulder. Peered into what Truman knew was only darkness beyond the stage lights.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Wolcott urged in a soft and gentle voice.
Truman thought Stacy had nothing to worry about. Like Natalie Wood, she was stunning, with thick mahogany hair and big brown eyes that seemed larger than the average person’s. She was petite yet had an exuberance about her that almost made her glow, made her seem larger than she probably was, which Truman would guess was around five one or five two, weighing in at no more than a hundred pounds.
Truman surmised that, no matter how good or bad she was, she’d get a part, maybe even the part, that of Myrtle Mae Simmons, a young debutante. Stacy’s beauty was mesmerizing, and Truman was young, but old enough to realize the treasures the world bestowed on the young and beautiful.
Stacy began to read, and as she read, Truman realized she had something. She stumbled over a couple of words and kept her head bowed over the script pages a bit too much, but a small transformation took place as she read—she became Myrtle Mae, a little older than Stacy’s actual years, maybe not even as smart, caught up too much in appearances, with a kind of vintage charm about her.
The thing Stacy managed to do—and what Truman hoped he could do when his turn came—was that she made you forget where you were, made you forget too she was a teenaged girl reading a part from some old play that had originally debuted long before his mother was born, maybe even before his grandma was born.
He was surprised when she finished.
Everyone in the auditorium applauded, and Stacy smiled. It wasn’t a smile full of guile, as though she were getting the accolades she deserved, but one of genuine surprise and gratitude. She walked quickly off the stage to Mr. Wolcott’s words, “Thanks, Stacy. Very good.”
He stood again. “Next?”
And again, it was as though he were asking who would be next to mount the gallows. No one raised his or her hand, and it also seemed no one could be bothered to meet Mr. Wolcott’s gaze. Truman couldn’t allow the poor man to suffer again, not when he knew what Mr. Wolcott had waiting for him at home.
And Truman was not thinking of Jo Jo potatoes!
So he stood up. “I’ll go.”
“Thank you, Truman.” Mr. Wolcott sat down as Truman headed toward the stage. His spine stiffened a bit as he very clearly heard someone whisper—someone anonymous, it was always someone anonymous—“Who’s she trying out for? Veta Louise?”
There was snickering, and Truman tried to pretend the cutting remark didn’t bother him. But it did—it always did, no matter how secure he became in his own skin. It wasn’t so much the assault on his masculinity that hurt—even Truman had to admit he was about as masculine as Miley Cyrus—no, it was more the fact that it felt like someone wanted to hurt him. On purpose.
Why? Why do they want to do that?
Now’s not the time, Truman. Get up there and do the one thing you need to do—act well your part.
A hush again fell over the cavernous space as Truman approached center stage. He cleared his throat and tried to relax. He knew the paper with the lines he was about to say quaked, right along with his trembling hand.
He allowed himself the luxury of shaking out his arms, wiggling his fingertips.
“Whenever you’re ready, Truman.”
“Or Tru-woman,” someone shouted out, to snickers.
Mr. Wolcott shot up and turned around. “Mr. Keller, you can exit through the rear doors.” He paused for a moment, and when nothing happened, he said firmly, “Now.”
Truman, because of the bright lights shining in his face, couldn’t see anything, but he heard quick footfalls, the slam of the auditorium door.
Mr. Wolcott said, “Sorry, Truman. Even in the theater, we do not escape idiots. But at least we can have a say in whether or not we tolerate them.”
“Thank you,” Truman said, feeling unexpectedly choked up. He drew in a quivering breath.
From out of the shadows, a female voice: “Go, Truman! You got this.”
And now Truman was ready to burst into blubbers. Kindness, when it was simple, genuine, and real, never failed to touch his heart. He turned away for a moment, trying to compose himself, and then began his audition, looking up a little as though he was thinking, and started talking about how he’d been driving this route for fifteen years.
When he finished, there was silence for several long seconds, which the scared Truman interpreted as a sign of failure.
But then, as he walked off the stage, the applause erupted, and someone even whistled. Should I bow? Should I acknowledge? No, this is a tryout, for crying out loud. Still, the clapping warmed his heart.
He hurried from the stage, and his performance was quickly eclipsed by the next person waiting to audition.
LATER, THE sky was beginning to darken just a tiny bit as dusk fell. Truman looked up to see how it was navy blue high up, but as his gaze came down, he took in the change of colors as the sun set behind the hills. There was gray, then lavender, and the tops of the hills were touched with a kiss of tangerine.
Beautiful. Sometimes, Truman thought, living in this little burg wasn’t so bad after all. He still longed to get out to bright lights, excitement, some city that never slept, but in moments like these, with the hush, the cool breeze, the silhouetted hills and trees against the darkening sky, he believed Summitville might not be such a bad place to return to when he came home to see Patsy.
He reminded himself to never forget that his roots were here. There’s no place like home….
“You did great,” a voice called from behind, startling him. Truman tensed, not so sure he wanted company on the long walk home. But a nice compliment like that deserved to be acknowledged, right?
He turned. Stacy Timmons stood there, just above him on the long drive that sloped downward to the valley. The school was situated on a hilltop, from which one could view the whole little town and the brown-green Ohio River as it snaked through, dividing Ohio from the northern panhandle of West Virginia.
He didn’t really know Stacy, other than being as familiar with her face and her name as he was with the other faces and names of the one hundred and three other kids in his class. She’d always been on a different plane—one of the popular kids, a cheerlea
der, National Honor Society, student council. She was never without a posse of cool kids around her.
She was from a different world, one Truman didn’t exactly aspire to, but one in his weaker, lonelier moments he envied.
She’d never given him attitude, never teased him. Yet Truman was surprised she’d spoken to him, because he wasn’t even sure she knew he existed.
She hurried down the hill toward him. When they were face-to-face, Truman smiled slightly and bowed his head a bit. “Thanks.” He stared for a moment into those wide brown eyes and then told her, “You were great too.”
She curled a lock of hair around one finger, let it go. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“Get out! You were!” Truman said. “For a while I completely forgot who you really are. You, uh, what’s the word? You inhabited the role.”
A smile spread across her features. “Wow. Thank you. That’s high praise. I appreciate that.”
Truman vainly hoped she’d say the same about him, but those hopes were quietly dashed when she said, “Are you walking home?”
“Yeah, all the way down to East End. I live down by the river.” He rubbed his arms and shivered, hoping she’d get the message he wanted to be on his way.
“I know where you live.” Stacy started walking, and Truman joined her. It was getting dark fast. He honestly had no idea where she lived. Maybe one of the old mansions that lined Park Boulevard?
“You do?” Truman couldn’t imagine why she’d know that. And immediately he felt a little embarrassed. Their house was tiny, run-down, and right now it seemed like the best description of it would be a shack. He knew Patsy did her best to make their little home presentable, and Truman wanted to kick himself for the momentary shame he felt when he realized Stacy knew where the house was.
Surely Stacy lived under much grander circumstances, although he had no basis for the belief.
“Sure. The cute little house up the hill from the river. You always have such nice flower beds out front in the spring.”
They continued on down the hill. A cool breeze picked up. Stacy said, “I hope you don’t mind my walking with you. It’s scary for a girl, especially at night.”
“Not at all.” Truman was quiet for a moment, and then he couldn’t resist. “I have to ask. How do you know where I live?”
Stacy giggled and elbowed him. “Come on, Truman! There’s—what?—nine thousand people in Summitville? Everybody knows where everybody lives.”
Truman blurted, “I don’t know where you live.”
“I’m about ten blocks from you. I’m in the green-and-white two-story on Ohio Street.”
Truman knew the house. It was right at the bottom of the highest hill in town—and on the busiest street. People exiting off the bridge over the Ohio would race down that hill way faster than they should go. Stacy’s house was big, on a corner lot, but it was run-down, with rusting aluminum awnings over the door and picture window at the front, weeds choking the brick sidewalk outside, a dirt driveway at the side of the house, and at least four broken-down heaps, a mix of trucks and cars, flattening what grass there was in the side yard. But all Truman did was nod and say, “Okay.”
“Besides,” Stacy said. “My grandma lives just two doors down from you.”
“Lula Stewart?”
Stacy nodded. “Yeah, didn’t you know? I’ve been over lots of times.” Stacy laughed. “I used to watch you on your front porch, playing Barbies.”
Scalding heat rose to Truman’s cheeks. Truman had a flash of the black patent leather trunk he kept the Barbies and their clothes in—and how Patsy, bless her heart, had never once given him shit about wanting them. And then he realized something—there was no trace of ridicule or judgment in Stacy’s voice either when she mentioned him playing with dolls. He expected her to snicker, but her face and voice stayed impassive. In fact, if he had to guess, he’d say there was a touch of envy in her voice; she might have wanted to join him.
“Oh God, that was a long time ago.” They were now away from the school, and Truman led Stacy down the road that would come into the valley where they both lived, gallantly keeping her on the wooded side of the road so she wouldn’t be at risk from the cars whizzing by. There were no sidewalks leading down to their neighborhood.
It was now full dark.
“Your grandma’s nice,” Truman said, thinking of the woman with the dyed jet-black hair who always sat out on her porch on an ancient aluminum glider, simply watching the world pass. Her husband, Welcome, had passed away when Truman was ten. He’d drowned in the Ohio. Lula contended to everyone he was swimming, and everyone nodded sympathetically, but they all knew it was suicide. Who went swimming in the Ohio in October?
“She’s sad,” Stacy said. “She’s never gotten over Pap’s death.”
They were quiet for a bit, and then Stacy said, “But at least she’s not quite as lonely anymore. Her boy moved back in with her a few weeks ago. George? He’s a mechanic at the Shell station downtown? He and his wife got a divorce last summer. His boy, Mike, lives with his mom, over on First Avenue.”
“My friend Alicia lives on First.”
“Then you’ve maybe seen Mike. He lives just a couple houses down, in the duplex? Big boy, dark hair? Gorgeous.”
And Truman’s mouth got dry. Could Mike be the boy he’d seen on the first day of school? The handsome, quiet boy?
Truman pressed her. “Is he, uh, like really tall? Kind of football-player build? Black wavy hair—” Truman stopped himself before he blurted out “And the most beautiful blue eyes.”
“That’s him. Do you know him?”
I wish! “Nah. I just saw him at the bus stop that first day of school.” Truman shrugged like he didn’t care. And realized he was acting. “I haven’t seen him lately, though.”
“He’s terrible. He oversleeps all the time. Misses the bus every single day. His mom? Carly? Well, I shouldn’t talk, but she’s a little, um, loose? And she’s, well, let’s just say she’s not often home in the mornings to get her boy off to school. Mike pretty much has to fend for himself. He’s real quiet. My uncle George is trying to get custody.”
Truman wasn’t sure what to say. He was thinking that if Uncle George got custody of Mike, then Mike would be his neighbor.
“I think this is where you and I have to part ways.” Stacy stopped abruptly. She pointed down Ohio Street to where Truman now knew she lived. “I’m down there.” She smiled. “Sorry I talked your ear off. I tend to do that when I’m nervous.”
Truman laughed. “You don’t need to be nervous around me.” The thought that anyone would be nervous around him was just about incomprehensible.
“Well, you should come sit by me at lunch or something sometime. I liked talking.”
And you can tell me more about Mike. “Thanks. I’ll do that.” It’ll save me from hiding out in the library at lunch.
“Well, bye, Truman. I hope you get a part.”
Truman had almost forgotten about Harvey in his excitement over learning about Mike.
“Yeah, I hope you do too.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Stacy said. “But I appreciate your nice words.”
“They weren’t nice words. They were the truth. You’re a shoo-in.”
“Thanks, Truman.” She turned and walked away. Truman stood in silence as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance until she disappeared into the run-down house at the bottom of the hill.
Maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
Chapter 3
THE FIRST thing Truman noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke wafting in through the kitchen screens. Patsy hadn’t smoked in years, so long ago Truman could barely imagine her with a cigarette, so he wondered who might be out on the back porch. He could hear the little Bluetooth speaker he’d gotten for Patsy last Christmas, playing her favorite Pandora station—Al Green. Right now “Oh Girl” was playing, by the Chi-Lites. If it weren’t for Pandora, Truman was sure he would have never heard of the band or the song. B
ut he had to admit he liked it, and it didn’t sound dated at all.
The second thing he noticed was his dog, Odd Thomas, gingerly hopping down from the couch to greet him. Odd was getting up in years—he’d be eleven his next birthday in December—and the dachshund/bulldog mix was showing it. There was a stiffness about his movements that didn’t used to be there, and lately, all he seemed to do was sleep.
But still, him making the effort to come and greet Truman at the door brought a big smile to Truman’s lips. He went down into a squat as Odd neared, stump of a tail wagging, snorting and grunting. People had actually had the nerve to tell Truman that Odd Thomas was one of the ugliest creatures they’d ever laid eyes on and that his name fit him. Truman agreed that the name did indeed fit, but the ugliness? Well, that was in the eye of the beholder. Truman had had the old boy most of his life and, right about now, couldn’t imagine a sweeter or more beautiful sight than Odd lumbering over to cover his face with stinky kisses.
“Oh! I didn’t hear you come in. I was just about to take him out for a little walk.” The slam of the screen door heralded Patsy’s entrance.
“‘Little walk’ is right. About all he can manage these days.” Truman stood to grab Odd’s leash and harness off the hook by the front door. “I can take him.” He squatted back down to get Odd “suited up.” When he was ready to open the front door, he paused. “Got company?” It wasn’t just the music and the smoke, but Patsy looked particularly lovely tonight, in a pair of jeans and simple white lace cropped top. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and she wore sterling silver hoop earrings.
Patsy giggled, and Truman could have sworn she blushed a little bit.
“Yes. I want you to meet him. I think it’s about time.”
Truman nodded. Odd tugged at the leash, wanting to get outside. With age had come a lack of control, so Truman knew he should heed the dog’s urging. “So this isn’t one of the girls from the diner?” Patsy sometimes had one or two of the waitresses over from the Elite for a beer and gossip.