Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  “Neil, don’t even think such a thing. Brother Gramm is a fine man, a great pastor. Why in the world would you link his good name to such a vile act? What in the world has gotten into you? You’re gone for ten minutes, and you come back spouting all sorts of nonsense that doesn’t belong in the holy Christian atmosphere that people like Miriam and Brother Gramm have created at this rally. You just stop it.”

  “But, Melissa….”

  “Neil, it’s all that theater stuff messing with you. You’re creating one of your little scenes in your head, aren’t you? I know you, Neil Darrien. I know that ninety-nine percent of the time, you’re lost in your wonderful world of theater. Well, get your head on straight right now. I don’t know about your precious Scott Scheer and MTM, but if it was me and you started coming up with trash like that, I would take your scholarship away. No college program in its right mind would want someone with perverted thoughts like that around.”

  Melissa has never, ever gone off at me. Not as vehemently, anyway. Is that what she really thinks of me and the theater?

  But Melissa’s rant proves one thing: I can’t tell Miriam. I have to figure out another way to save Obadiah.

  Chapter 24

  “IS THAT you, Neil?” Aunt Jenny calls out as I latch the back door.

  “Yeah.” I sigh, exhausted, defeated.

  “Come in here. Your old auntie needs a hug.”

  I had hoped to go straight up to my room, but instead I go to the studio. I don’t need any hassles with Aunt Jenny right now.

  “I’ve been working on this order all day,” Aunt Jenny says as I half-heartedly wrap my arms around her. “I have to get it ready to ship tomorrow.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” Maybe I can forget everything, especially Melissa, if I offer a little physical labor.

  “No. I’m almost finished. Kristina was here. She helped me,” Aunt Jenny answers. There is a contentment in her I’ve not seen before. A lovely lady has gotten lovelier.

  “Are you in love, beautiful lady?” I ask.

  She hesitates. Then coyly: “Maybe.”

  “Good for you. Now, let me help with this stuff.”

  “No, really, I’m almost done.”

  So much for distraction. Or am I just looking for an excuse to stay here awhile with Aunt Jenny, loving, unjudging Aunt Jenny?

  She looks up from her work and frowns. “You look whipped. Rough day?”

  “Long.” I turn. I can’t answer any questions right now. Too tired, too afraid of what I’ll answer. “I’m going to go work out, then I’m hitting the sheets.”

  “Neil, you worked out this morning before you left. I heard you. That ought to be enough for one day. There’s such a thing as too much exercise, you know.”

  I scowl. I don’t need this right now; what I need is a long, mind-numbing, distracting workout.

  “Well, I just need to do a few reps to unwind.”

  I don’t turn back.

  “Besides, I’m working on my upper arms.”

  “Neil, come out with it. I’m not blind. I’m well acquainted with my son’s patterns. You push your body when you have something to work out in your mind. So what’s bothering you? You’ve been awfully nice about Kristina and me, but I know I’ve laid a heavy thing on you. Is that what’s bothering you?”

  I scrunch up my face, horrified she would think that. “No. No, no, no, no, no, no. I am so happy for you. Kris is great. And I’m glad you have somebody.”

  “Well, I’ve been worrying about it all. If you recall, right before Kris showed up, we’d had that talk.”

  I think back to the drive to the craft show. All that gay talk.

  “I still mean what I said,” Aunt Jenny continues. “Being gay can be a hard life, but living a lie is harder. Know what I mean?”

  Is she still thinking I’m gay?

  “I told you, Aunt Jenny. There’s not a gay bone in my body.”

  She shakes her head. “I believe you. But there are several in my body. And I denied it all for so many years, out of fear. Now I’ve accepted it. And I want to make sure you have.”

  “Listen here, lady,” I scold. “I am totally on board with anything you are. If you told me you just committed an axe murder, I would say to myself, ‘Well, I guess they deserved it.’ And being gay is a far, far cry from being an axe murderess.”

  She laughs. “Well, I would hope so.” Then she turns dark again. “So what is bothering you these days? And don’t say ‘nothing’ again.”

  I’m just not ready to tell her everything. Brother Gramm, Obadiah—I have to figure it all out before I say anything to her. She’ll just want to fix it all, and I don’t think even Aunt Jenny can fix this.

  “I had a fight with Melissa.” Maybe I can satisfy her with that.

  “Oh, Neil, I’m so sorry. What about?”

  “Nothing really. I think we’re just both tired. And all the Christian stuff is kinda getting to me. I just said something that pissed her off.”

  “Well, you knew early on it might not work out. And, if you ask me, religion is a big relationship killer. She wants a church wedding/he wants to elope to Vegas; he wants to sleep in on Sunday morning/she wants to sit in the front pew; he wants a night out with the boys/she wants Wednesday prayer meeting. Some couples make it work, others split up over it. And I’m not just saying it’s always the woman who is religious. Sometimes she wants to prowl the bars with the girls while he’s the one who wants the front pew Sunday evening. I’m telling you, you both have to agree, or it’s doomed.”

  “I know, I know… but I just don’t think I’m ready to give up yet. That’s why I apologized. And I think she accepted.”

  “Well, good for you. Give and take, that’s important too. But sooner or later, you’re going to have to come to terms with the religion thing, because I don’t think she’s going to give in on that one.”

  “You’re probably right,” I accede, more to get out of here than anything. She’s has a point, though. “But at this moment, I don’t plan to race to the altar. And Melissa can be fun. And she’s so… she’s so….” A warm blush creeps into my face. I can feel it.

  “Pretty?”

  I smile. Aunt Jenny can read my mind every time.

  “What? You don’t think I noticed? She’s a hottie. And I’m not saying that because of my lesbianic tendencies; I’ve seen how you look at her. I don’t blame you, son. But I don’t want you racing to the altar, so you just take your time and enjoy it while it lasts.”

  I sigh. “Good night.”

  “Oh.” Aunt Jenny stops me before I can get to the doorway. “I almost forgot. Scott called today.”

  “Scott Scheer?” I punctuate the last name as I jerk around.

  “Do we know any other Scotts?” She gives me an exasperated look.

  “What did he want?” I ask, fearing the answer.

  “He has to go to New York soon. He wanted to double-check the dates for Oklahoma! He said he didn’t want to miss your performance.”

  “Oh,” I say. How long can this go on, Neil? If you expose Brother Gramm, then it’s bound to make the news. Then what will Scott think? Will he want that kind of news to taint everything he’s built at the university? No, he definitely won’t want you and your dirty little secret at MTM. After all, he has a program to protect.

  I trudge upstairs. More confused than ever.

  I THRUST my right arm toward the ceiling, and with my left arm on my waist, I bend sideways, reaching toward the wall. After several stretches, I switch sides and repeat.

  “…our little secret….”

  I grab my left foot, bending my leg behind me. I pull, stretching my hamstring. Again, after a few reps, I repeat the movement with the other foot.

  “…Scott called….”

  With both arms reaching for the sky, I stretch my upper body.

  But the tension lingers.

  “…you like it….”

  I run in place, feeling my heart rate rise. I feel for my puls
e and, looking at my watch, count my heartbeats. I continue running, breathing deeply.

  “…children are a gift from God….”

  I splay myself on the weight bench below the bar. I lift the bar, doing five reps of ten lifts each.

  “…ready to snatch our children….”

  I repeat the reps, over and over, longing for that burn that tells me I am doing some good.

  “…he didn’t want to miss your performance….”

  I sit up. I reach for a dumbbell. I unscrew the safety screws, take off a two-and-half-pound weight from each end, and replace each with a five pounder. Tightening the screws once again, I steady my right elbow against my thigh and slowly do my arm curls.

  “…today’s youth are going to hell in a handbasket….”

  I switch the dumbbell to my left hand. Again, I slowly do five reps of ten curls.

  “Neil, go to bed,” I hear Aunt Jenny shout at the bottom of the stairs. But she does not take me out of my floating thoughts.

  “…examining each of our students… for anything that could reflect badly on us….”

  I return the dumbbell to its rack.

  I stand and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. A nine-year-old face looks back at me from the mirror, pleading with me.

  You can’t let Brother Gramm get away with this, you know. He hasn’t changed. He hurt us, and he still hurts other little boys. Stop him, Neil. Stop him.

  I turn on the shower full blast. The roar will block out the voice.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, steamy fog obliterates the nine-year-old me in the mirror.

  I strip and step into the shower. Hot—almost scalding—water inundates me. I want it to make me feel pain. Make me forget. Furiously lathering myself, I try to scrub away the day. Zane. Sonny Broadnus. Scott Scheer. Brother Gramm. I rinse and turn off the faucet.

  I grab the towel and rub the water from my body. Rubbing. Rubbing. Almost raw.

  I still feel dirty.

  I return to my bedroom. Sitting on the bed, I reach over and switch off the bed lamp. Then I slide under the covers and pull them up to my chin, trying to make the safe cocoon that has protected me for years. The dark silence of the warm covers have always blocked out my torments.

  But not tonight.

  Sleep doesn’t come.

  I stare at the ceiling, light from the window playing on it, forming ominous shapes.

  I turn over on my side, pulling the heavy covers with me. I curl into a fetal position, longing for sleep.

  The look on that little boy’s face. Obadiah Railston is going through the same hell I’ve gone through.

  I kick at the covers, suddenly feeling stifled. I gasp for air. Choke. Gasp again.

  Do I sacrifice all I’ve wanted, all I’ve worked for? How could I live with myself?

  I stand, go to the chair by the window. I gaze at gray-streaked clouds as they race past a full moon.

  How can I live with myself?

  Drops of rain begin to pound the window.

  Chapter 25

  I STIR sugar into my cup of coffee. Three spoonsful. I need the energy. I feel like hell. I didn’t sleep a wink. Or at least that’s how it feels. I know I did, though, because I dreamed. I watched myself, hovering overhead as Brother Gramm’s hands caressed my tiny body. I felt the spiders, crawling, creeping, and then my face changed. In its place was Obadiah Railston’s, a silent scream in his eyes. And I awoke from my restless slumber. I struggled with my waking thoughts, managed to go back to sleep, and the dream began again. Over and over and over and over.

  “Coffee?” Aunt Jenny stands in the doorway, towel-drying her long hair. “You almost never drink coffee,” she says, shaking her hair to loosen the wet strands. “What’s up?”

  This is all I need right now. Here I am, dying from lack of sleep and wishing I had any other place to go today but the rally, and now Aunt Jenny is giving me the third degree.

  “Nothing,” I say, hoping she will take my one-word answer and leave with it. Like that’s going to happen.

  “You didn’t hear a word I said last night? I’m not hearing ‘nothing’ in your voice. Still worried about the Melissa thing? Come on, spill it.”

  “I promise you,” I insist, trying to sound light and carefree, “nothing is up. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, so I thought I’d juice up on caffeine.”

  “Yeah, right.” She eyes me. I know that look. “Why didn’t you sleep? Are you coming down with something?” She walks to me and puts her hand on my forehead.

  I brush her hand away. A gesture I’ve made a thousand times. I hope she just takes it for what it was those other 999 times. An unconscious reflex. “I’m not sick. I guess I’m just excited about the rally and all.” Please go away. Or at least, let’s change the subject.

  Aunt Jenny sits at the table, next to me. So much for going away.

  She takes my cup and sips from it. “Yuk—you must need a pick me up. This is pure sugar.”

  “Hey. Get your own. You think I want your cooties?” Maybe a little humor will distract her.

  “You won’t catch anything from me, young man.” She bops me on the head. “And besides, cooties live in hair, not the mouth. And I don’t recall dredging my raven locks in your coffee cup.”

  She stands, pours her own cup of coffee, then sits back down.

  “Lord, son,” she laments, as she sips, “how I could use your help today. Maybe Kris can come help. This order is killing me… twenty bracelets, thirty pairs of earrings, and ten toe rings. It’s the biggest order I’ve ever put together. But thank God, we’re finally making some decent money off of this enterprise.”

  Finally. Talk about your jewelry.

  “How do you do it?” I encourage her. “You come up with designs that are totally different. No one can think of what you think of. It’s no wonder your stuff sells.”

  “Well, it wasn’t always that way.” She stares into space as if remembering.

  Keep it coming… keep talking.

  “Really? You mean there was a time when you had ‘artist’s block’?”

  “No, no, no… I’ve never been at a loss for ideas.” She takes another drink of her coffee and swallows. “No, there was a time when my stuff wasn’t selling.”

  “That had to have been before my time,” I say. “Even when you still had your teaching job and didn’t have some of these bigger jewelry contracts, your things sold out at every crafts show you dragged me to.”

  She laughs at me. Oh God, I’d almost forgotten how her laughter could lift my spirits, make me forget my worries, my problems, even if just for a little while.

  “Oh, my designs were selling, but technically, they weren’t my stuff.”

  “What do you mean? If they were your designs, they were your stuff.”

  “No, my boy, early on. Before you came into my life. I was a victim. I was busy with teaching, trying to put bread on the table. I did the jewelry designs, but I needed help with the execution. So another art teacher at the school where I taught offered to help. We were best friends at school, so I thought, ‘What fun… to have some help and work alongside your best friend.’

  “Night after night, we’d be side by side, bringing my designs off the page and into reality. And it was so much fun. To have someone to work with, someone who shared my passion. I think what was most enjoyable was the conversation. We shared just about everything in our lives. And, no—I see that look—not in a sexual way. Kris is the only woman I’ve ever felt that way about.”

  “TMI, Mom, TMI.”

  She smiles, then continues her storytelling. “One night, we started talking about an upcoming craft show, the first she was going to go to with me. I said, ‘It will be so great, having you there in the booth alongside me. I get so bored, alone out there.’

  “‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I can’t wait till Saturday. I’ll bring the sandwiches; you bring the cooler with plenty of cold drinks. They say it will be hot, hot this weekend.
And, Jenny, just so you understand this, I’m just going to be there to help out, to hang with you. If anybody asks, these are your creations all the way. No one has to know I had anything at all to do with them. The fact I helped assemble them will be our little secret.’”

  I feel my stomach lurch. Concentrate on her story, Neil.

  Aunt Jenny continues her tale. “So everything went on as usual. We’d work on the jewelry at night, then we’d go to shows a couple of times a month.

  “One Saturday, I came down with the stomach flu. I was sick as a dog. She told me not to worry, she would ‘man’ the booth for me.

  “I was so grateful to have such a good friend. She came over Sunday morning, bringing chicken soup and the proceeds from the sale. She handed over the money and said it had been a slow day. I didn’t think much about it at all. Some shows just didn’t do as well as others. I gave her her cut—she wouldn’t take any credit, but she had begun to take a quarter of our earnings, which I thought was only fair.

  “By Monday, my fever had broken and I felt well enough to go to school. In the lounge that morning, one of the English teachers came in wearing a pair of my earrings. I overheard her tell someone who complimented her that her mother had bought them for her at a craft show the past weekend.

  “I waited for her to say they were my design, but what she said instead threw me for a loop. She said, ‘Mom said the designer was one of our art teachers.’ I waited to hear my name, but instead, I heard my friend’s name.

  “I thought I’d heard wrong, so I pretended I hadn’t heard any of the conversation. I walked up to the English teacher, praised her earrings and asked who had designed them. Again, she said my friend’s name.

  “I went straight to my so-called friend’s classroom and confronted her. To her credit, she admitted everything. She’d not only taken credit for everything she’d sold that Saturday, but it seemed on weekends when I hadn’t scheduled shows, she had been going to shows in surrounding states, selling things she’d made from my designs.”

  “So what did you do? I hope you had her locked up,” I said. Obadiah flashed through my mind.