Bigger Love

by Rick R. Reed

  Truman watched, peeking out from behind the curtain with a sinking heart. It felt as though his belly had slowly filled with lead.

  He’d already dressed in the black-and-purple dotted-swiss dress, the kitten heels, the big straw hat. His makeup, self-applied, was flawless, his cheeks glowing rosy, his lips an alluring shade of crimson. Mascara. Fake lashes. Even a shoulder-length blonde wig.

  He was Myrtle Mae Simmons.

  But none of that was any comfort, because he realized the protestors must have all bought tickets. Otherwise they couldn’t have gotten in. Could they be thrown out? They were gathering in the shadows at the rear of the theater. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere as people began to give voice to either their consternation or their confusion. Whispering and laughing reached Truman’s ears dimly from the stage.

  What were they planning? Heckling and jeers? Would the cast have to shout their lines over them to be heard? Would they parade up and down the aisles with their signs, ruining everything?

  Would the cast, at some point, have to concede defeat, shut the production down, and send everyone home? If they succeeded in something like that, Truman didn’t know if he’d be horrified, enraged, or in despair. He supposed all three could coexist, but it wouldn’t be comfortable.

  A hand on his shoulder caused Truman to jump. He barely stifled a scream. He turned to take in Mr. Wolcott standing next to him.

  Mr. Wolcott didn’t look happy. There was a kind of fire in his eyes.

  “I’m going to go talk to them,” he told Truman, his tone more somber and grave than Truman had ever heard it. “They can’t be a disruption. We’ve all worked so hard on this show. I won’t let them ruin it.”

  “B-but they have tickets,” Truman mumbled. As if that changes anything….

  “They still can’t disrupt our show. Part of the implied contract of the theater is that we put on the entertainment and the audience gives us their respectful attention. Everybody knows that. It’s a cornerstone, a foundation.”

  Truman wondered if the rubes at the back of the auditorium had ever even heard of such a contract. And if they had, would they give it any credence?

  “I don’t know if talking to them’s going to do any good.”

  Mr. Wolcott shook his head. “It can and it will. It has to. If they want to put down their signs and take their seats, they’re just as welcome as anyone else, but I will not have them take over our show with their antics. Don’t you worry—I won’t let them take it away from us, all of us.”

  Truman watched him walk away. In seconds he appeared again out of the door at the foot of the stage. As he strode up the center aisle, Truman admired his courage and bravery. He could read both in his confident stride. Truman wished, though, he had more hope, could take more assurance in Mr. Wolcott’s words. He felt a little sick, continuing to watch as Mr. Wolcott approached the protestors, whispering a nearly silent prayer that things wouldn’t turn ugly.

  Truman wasn’t the only one observing either. People coming in were slowing to stare. At least half of those already seated had turned in their seats, craning their necks to get a view of the unexpected sideshow.

  Braced for yelling, accusations, jeering, and slurs, Truman shrank away from the curtain. He stood in the stillness for a few moments. It was eerie how quiet it was backstage. The rest of the cast and crew were affected by the protestors, maybe just as much as he was.

  Everyone seemed in a kind of trance.

  Fortunately, he was deaf to what Mr. Wolcott was saying—and to how the protestors were responding. Maybe the lack of volume was a positive sign—maybe it meant Mr. Wolcott was making some sense to them. Maybe it meant there was some reasonable discourse going on. Truman knew how persuasive Mr. Wolcott could be.

  But his hopes all shattered at once with the sound of a strident voice, shrieking loud enough for everyone backstage to hear her.

  “No! No, sir! We have every right to peacefully protest! We will not sit down!”

  He could at last hear Mr. Wolcott’s voice too, placating, but a little louder.

  A man, “The Constitution of these United States gives us the right to assemble!”

  Then—a chorus of angry voices rising up.

  No. This is getting out of hand. I’ve had enough.

  Truman pulled the heavy red velvet curtain aside and started out and onto the stage.

  “What the hell are you doing?” someone loudly whispered behind him.

  Truman turned, only briefly. He opened his mouth to respond and then closed it when he realized the only words he wanted to utter, right at this very moment, were not toward his peers onstage but to the buffoons in the audience.

  He headed for the stairs at the side of the stage, heels clicking on the stage’s polished hardwood floor.

  “Don’t! You’re in a dress, for God’s sake. You’re just gonna make them madder. It won’t do any good! You’ll just make things worse.”

  It wasn’t one person saying the words, these cautions. It was a chorus of desperate voices, pleading.

  Truman tried to shut them out, tried to believe his own bravery and courage meant more than a dress and a pair of heels. That what was going on in the back of the auditorium was because of him, and so it was up to him and not Mr. Wolcott or, God forbid, the police, to fix.

  He stormed up the aisle filled with righteous indignation. Adrenaline, knowing he was right, stubbornness—whatever the reason, Truman suddenly found he was no longer afraid. And even as he acknowledged his fearlessness, he questioned it. Was he simply being stupid? Was he setting himself up to be hurt—emotionally and physically?

  He didn’t care. Everything in the past couple of months, he felt, had led him up to this point—building, building, building.

  The only way to find relief was to speak up—and out.

  As he approached, there were half a dozen furious voices raised in vehement disagreement.

  Almost as one, they all stopped as Truman drew near.

  Mr. Wolcott turned to look at him, and his jaw dropped. Then his eyebrows came together in confusion and concern. He started to open his mouth to speak, but someone beat him to it. He raised a hand as though to ward Truman off.

  “Well, look,” the man Truman assumed was Tammy Applegate’s father sneered. “If it isn’t Little Miss Mary Sunshine, come to toss pixie dust and wave her rainbow flag.”

  The protestors erupted in guffaws and titters.

  Truman, trembling violently inside and on the verge of throwing up, forced himself to smile—and curtsy. “Truman Reid, actually, but I will answer to Mary Sunshine if the money’s right. You can just call me Tru. And what should I call you, Mr.—?”

  “Never you mind who I am. You need to get your faggot ass out of here before I kick it down that hill!” Fire blazed in the man’s eyes suddenly, and Truman was honestly taken aback. So much so that he took a step or two backward, feeling as though he’d been sucker punched and the wind knocked out of him. It wasn’t so much the words he’d put out there, but the sheer hatred with which he said them. Truman knew that this week’s vocabulary word should be zealot.

  Truman had been teased, bullied, stuffed into dumpsters, beaten up, had his lunch money taken from him repeated times, had his name besmirched in speech and print, had been called a girl too many times to count—as though being female was an insult!—but he thought that tonight, right here, with this man, he was facing unvarnished and unfettered hatred—a crazy kind of hate that knew no reason.

  And that was scary. Truly terrifying.

  The potential of such hatred, Truman thought, could be life-threatening.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Patsy slip into the auditorium. He wanted to run to her, push her back and out of harm’s way. He knew how protective she could be, how riled up she could get when her boy was threatened. Right now, though, he could see she was stunned by what was going on. Her hand came up, clutching at her chest.

  She looked beautiful, her hair pulled b
ack and away from her face, in a simple black dress and heels, a rope of pearls—not real, of course—around her neck. A young Audrey Hepburn. There was something dignified about her, and for a moment Truman forgot his terror and simply felt proud of her.

  Coming in behind her was another surprise—Stacy. Dressed in jeans and a loose red Ohio State hooded sweatshirt, presumably to conceal a swelling belly, she too radiated beauty, though in a different way from his mom. There was youth and vulnerability, but there was also a glow about her, a certain radiance. Her dark eyes sparkled.

  Truman was jolted out of this small reverie.

  “You gonna go or what? You filthy cocksucker…,” the man spat. The words were like darts flung directly into Truman’s heart.

  Patsy strode forward. Her luminous features darkened even more with shock and rage. From past experience, Truman could tell she was about to launch into a tirade against this man—full of insults and righteous indignation and no shortage of cussing. He also knew she would not be above physically assaulting him.

  And Truman felt a rush of love for this woman who cared so much about him that she’d risk her own safety to defend him.

  But he wouldn’t let her. Couldn’t.

  This was a battle he needed to fight for himself. Wanted to fight for himself….

  So he held up a hand, stopping her. He met her eyes and shook his head. She stepped back a little.

  He turned his attention back to the man. “I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Applegate.” He paused for a moment, waiting to see if Tammy’s father would try to deny his own identity, if he was that small a man.

  He didn’t. He simply stared at Truman, eyes focused into laser-thin pinpricks of pure hate.

  “My place is here. I have a job to do. And I would appreciate if you would let me do it. If you have a problem with who I am, or what I am, or how I play this part, maybe we can meet up later and hash it out. Would you like that?” Truman made himself smile. He pointed over Mr. Applegate’s shoulder at his mom.

  “You know Patsy Reid, right?”

  Mr. Applegate turned to look at her, then returned his gaze to Truman. Something had shifted in his expression, weakened perhaps. Or if not weakened, turned in a way. He didn’t seem so sure of himself. He looked again at Patsy, then back to Truman, and nodded.

  “She works down at the Elite Diner? Best fries in town. She’d be happy to find us a booth, rustle up some fries with gravy and a couple Cherry Cokes, and we could have ourselves a little chat, maybe. What do you think?”

  Truman didn’t wait for the man to answer. “We could talk about, I don’t know, concepts like the Golden Rule—you know that one, don’t you?—or maybe I could clue you in on live and let live, or maybe turn the other cheek. We could discuss things like equality and diversity and how the world is actually a better place because of all the colors in it. Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  And as if on cue, something happened then that shocked not only Truman, but everyone watching—which was the entire audience now, who thought they’d come to see a high school production of a classic play and were now witnessing something far more important and far beyond their wildest imaginings.

  The space behind Patsy darkened as a shadow fell. And—someone came in. Someone Truman didn’t recognize at first, but when he did, he gasped and then laughed. His eyes widened.

  As one, the protestors turned to see who’d entered the auditorium, who Truman was staring at, slack-jawed.

  Truman would say that what they saw—at first—was a very tall, very ugly woman. Hell, he thought it was a big, not-so-attractive broad-shouldered, ungainly lass at first himself.

  And then he latched on to those eyes—those crystalline blue, blue eyes. He’d know them anywhere.

  Mike.

  His dark hair was hidden under a black velvet hat, one that had a small bright red feather sticking out of the ribbon around its brim. His face, closely shaved, was nearly unrecognizable beneath a layer of foundation applied poorly—perhaps with a trowel? The eyeliner was too thick and as crooked as a politician’s campaign promises. God love him, he’d tried to put lipstick on but wound up with more of a clown mouth than a lady’s lips.

  The aqua blouse with white pinstripes and—dear Lord—shoulder pads was a throwback to the heyday of 1980s fashion—or at least Truman supposed, based on what he’d seen in pictures. The blouse, along with the white palazzo pants, were way too tight. And the white sandals he’d managed to cram his size-twelve feet into? They had to be killing him.

  The effect was almost comical. In fact, already, all around him, people were elbowing each other and giggling.

  But Truman’s heart didn’t find Mike’s gesture comical. He found it touching. He found a hand extended in solidarity. It had to have taken Mike a lot of courage, if not drag artistry, to do what he’d done, just to support him.

  Mike smiled shyly at him, and for just one singular and magical moment, everything around them dissolved and they were alone in the room. “Hi, Tru,” Mike said softly. Truman noticed that while Mike stood tall and proud, shoulders back and chin high, his hands were trembling.

  “Hi.” Truman smiled shyly. Truth be told, Mike looked awful, more a mockery of a woman than a woman. It was amazing to Truman how such a beautiful young man could morph into such a frighteningly unappetizing young lady.

  Yet Truman loved him for it. His gesture was all at once kind, supportive, and genuine—he put his ass on the line for Truman. It was skin off his ass!

  This was a moment he’d always remember. Because, by not saying a word, by not making some sort of political statement, but by sacrificing himself and his own reputation, Mike had shown such caring and love for Truman, it nearly took Truman’s breath away. So far in this life, I don’t think anyone, other than Mom, has shown me such caring.

  Mike simply stood there, not saying anything, but the message was clear. I’m with you, Truman Reid, and not ashamed of it.

  Truman eyed the protestors. Tammy Applegate had turned a deep shade of crimson and, of all of them, seemed the most aghast. Everyone gathered around her, earlier so vehement in their protests, were curiously quiet, eyeing Mike as one would a two-headed creature in a sideshow.

  A lovable two-headed creature, Truman thought.

  Even the signs the protestors carried drooped, now down near the floor. It was as though the wind had literally been sucked out of their sails. They seemed flabbergasted and tongue-tied.

  Truman thought they weren’t so much understanding as dumbfounded. And he knew it wouldn’t take them too long to rev right back up to where they were before, so he used the shocked, hushed moment to his advantage.

  He clapped his hands together. “Hey! Did everyone forget? We’ve got a show to put on here!” He glanced down at the white-gold bracelet watch Patsy had loaned him. “We’re ten minutes past curtain already. Could everyone please take their seats?”

  Mr. Wolcott stepped up to the plate then too. “Truman’s right. It’s time to start the show. Please—everyone—find a seat. There’s plenty of room for all.” He looked pointedly at the little cluster of protestors. “So no one should have to stand.” This, Truman knew, was his subtle way of saying they needed to sit down.

  As much as he would have loved to thank Mike for his gesture—perhaps giving him some tips on applying eyeliner—he knew this moment of quiet, of a kind of awe, wouldn’t last forever. And he knew they needed to capitalize on it.

  What he wanted to do, though, was give Mike and his mother a hug. He wanted to stare into Mike’s eyes, offering up his thanks with a meaningful look. And maybe a kiss….

  But what he needed to do, as both student director and Myrtle Mae Simmons, was turn around and march his ass back to the stage and get behind the curtain so things could start.

  As he neared the stage, he glanced back over his shoulder. Almost everyone, save the protestors, had seated themselves. There was an expectant hush now in the room, where before there was an almost
palpable sense of tension, almost like the hum of power lines.

  Mike stood near the last pair of open doors, arms across his broad chest, eyeing each of the protestors with so much menace, Truman was a little chilled. Mike might have been dressed as the world’s ugliest woman, but he was still imposing. In his stance and in his expression, he was daring any of them to step out of line.

  Truman watched with a kind of bittersweet sadness as the protestors edged by Mike—and out of the auditorium. In a weird way, he’d hoped they would stay for the show. Maybe there was a chance they’d see he was just playing a part—and that he was good at it. Maybe they would have had a night of laughter, maybe shed a few tears—you know, the kind of pleasure good entertainment brings a person. Instead they’d probably go home and wallow in their self-righteous hate.

  Truman shrugged. It’s their choice.

  After the last protestor was outside the set of double doors, Mike closed them. He smiled shyly at Truman, which just about made Truman gasp, and lumbered gracelessly down the aisle, wincing with every step. Those shoes! Those damn shoes! They’re three sizes too small, Truman figured.

  Mike took his seat, folded his hands in his lap, and waited for the show to start.

  Chapter 19

  “OH MY God,” Truman whispered to Rex Lucas, who’d done such a wonderful job in the lead as the charming and whimsical Elwood P. Dowd. Truman thought Rex was easily just as good as Jimmy Stewart in his iconic film interpretation. He should have been, because he’d confided in Truman that he simply aped Stewart’s film performance and had watched the movie version of Harvey more than a dozen times. Out of the corner of his mouth, Truman said, “We’re getting a standing ovulation.”

  Max snickered. “And curtain call’s not even over yet. Wait until they see—” Max stopped, Truman supposed because he noticed Mr. Wolcott in the wings, pressing a finger to his lips.