The Rehearsal

by Sarah Willis

  “Jimmy took Nate and Mac fishing on the lake,” Ben says, his voice hushed.

  “They left quite a while ago,” Victor Peters says. “They should have been off the lake when this hit, Will.”

  Will nods. Yes, they had been gone a long time. They would be safely on land by now. Then again, no one has come back from fishing when they said they would.

  Greg Henry yells out, a sound that makes Will’s blood run cold. He can’t help thinking it’s the same sound he wanted from Greg once before, in some play; he can’t remember what play, but he remembers wanting that effect.

  “He’s going to die!” Beth moans. Will almost tells her to bring the hysterics down a notch; if he were directing this, he would. She’s making him nervous.

  “All right,” Will says. “Norton and I will take Greg to the hospital now. Lars, will you please drive down to the marina and see if the boat has come back? Victor, see how the barn survived. Ben—you, Frank, and Chip look for Myra. Beth, check to see if the phone is working.” She doesn’t move. Ben goes into the living room.

  “It’s out, Will.”

  “I’m coming to the hospital too,” Beth says.

  “No, you’ll stay here,” Will tells her.

  “But I want to be with you, and Greg. Greg saved my life.”

  “Stay here,” Will says. “No discussion, do you hear me?” Then to Ben, “You will find Myra, won’t you?

  Ben nods. “I’ll find her, Will.”

  “What should I do, Will?” Melinda asks from her cross-legged position on the floor. Greg’s eyes are closed. Blood oozes out from under the towel.

  Will thinks of a few things Melinda could do, including running away with him to Jamaica. He wants to be anywhere but here. “Make dinner?” Will asks, hoping she won’t be offended by this request.

  Melinda nods. “Can do,” she says. “Do you have tofu?”

  Is that some kind of fish? Will thinks. “No,” he says. “Hot dogs would be fine.”

  “Oh, I’ll do better than hot dogs, Will,” Melinda says, and leans over and kisses Greg on the forehead. Beth moans even louder.

  She’s just afraid, he reminds himself. And so is he. He goes over to where Beth is slumped against the fridge and puts his palm against her wet cheek, discovering that through the dampness, there is heat. “Your mother will be fine. You stay here, where it’s safe.” He can’t even think about Mac. His body won’t let him. Move, or think about your son, it says, and Will chooses to move, only because that is the easier choice.

  The storm comes so quickly from the other side of the hill that Myra has little time to get scared. One minute she’s nodding off, drunker than she realized, and the next she’s drenched, but not hurt. The sumac trees are short and flexible; dead leaves rush about the ground and lift off like little brown paper airplanes. She ducks her head between her knees and remembers hiding under her desk in the drills they did almost thirty years ago.

  Instinctively, to keep from worrying, she sings. She sings, softly and slowly to the ground, her eyes closed. She sings “Blue Moon,” because she loves the sound of it and it fits her range so well. But she doesn’t feel blue. She feels alive and glad of it, giddy with it. Being stuck outside alone in a great storm brings a sort of excitement, a wash of adrenaline. She sings “Singin’ in the Rain,” for the sheer fun of it, then “Soon It’s Gonna Rain,” because it just slips out, and then “Here Comes the Sun,” for hope, and then, just as if the storm has listened to her, it passes, carrying her songs with it. But she has more inside. She may never act again, but she has songs, and she can sing, and you know what? she tells herself, Will can’t sing. Not a bloody note. Not “Happy Birthday” or the Pledge of Allegiance. He has all this imagination, but he can’t make music. He’ll never know the pleasure she feels from a simple song coming from nothing but herself. She almost feels sorry for Will. She giggles at the absurd thought. She’s laughing, and it’s a wonderful feeling.

  Myra crawls out from under the sumac trees, and there, like a gift, is a field of shaggy bush and tall grass, with a regal elm in the middle, everything glistening and dripping. She knows this field. If she walks down the hill, there should be a narrow stream, and she can turn back into the woods where it meets a line of ancient maples that must have been boundary markers at one time, and then she will find herself in the open woods, and then home. But she’s not ready yet. She sings “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No.” She sings “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” She’s so full of gratitude, to be alive and singing, that she promises to love everything and everyone from now on. No more poor-old-me. No more melancholy. No more anger. She will kiss the first person she sees, even if it’s Norton Frye—or Beth. She is soaking wet, and her shirt, a bright pink polyester, clings to her uncomfortably. Taking it off to squeeze the rain out, she feels the warmth of the sun on her skin, so she steps out of her jeans and underwear and lays them over a bush. There is no hurry to go home. She can dry off first. Naked, Myra sings “High Hopes” to the clear blue sky.

  Ben, Frank, and Chip decide to split up. Chip will drive his car around the immediate area, calling out for Myra, while Ben and Frank go into the woods. Ben will follow a deer path that Beth told him leads to a place near the top of the hill where she once saw her mother. Frank will go through the pine forest to the right of the house.

  The ground is soggy, and the tall grass is flattened all in the same direction. Ben crosses the field, imagining a steamroller a mile wide. Tree limbs lie scattered like a giant’s broken toys. God forbid anything has happened to Myra.

  In the woods, he calls her name over and over. After a while, he comes to a spot that looks like the place Beth described, and he hollers, “Myra,” turning in all directions. Then he listens. Nothing. Nearby is a huge fallen maple that has brought down more trees in its path. Ben imagines Myra pinned under a tree, unconscious, or worse. He walks as quietly as possible so his footsteps won’t mask her cry for help. The deer path leads through a hole in some brambles, and he has to hunch over to get through. The land slopes down, and when he gets through the brambles, he’s on the other side of the hill. The damage is noticeably less on this side. On the ground, in the mud, he sees a footprint. Then he hears singing.

  Ben is so surprised, he doesn’t call out, but follows the voice, which seems to be coming from a place right ahead, a field, maybe. The singing grows louder. He can hear words: “tender bough,” “garden wall,” “fairies sing.” It is Myra; he recognizes her voice. He creeps forward quietly. He should call out, but he doesn’t.

  Mac is so scared, he’s crying and can’t stop. The boat smashed real hard into the dock sideways, and Jimmy yelled at Mr. Johnson to get out and do something with the rope, but Mac clamped his arms around Mr. Johnson’s neck and wouldn’t let go. When the boat hit the dock the second time, the dock cracked like a broken pencil. Mr. Johnson jumped out, holding Mac tight, carrying him quickly along the wobbling wet dock. Mac was sure they were going to fall, but Mr. Johnson never even slipped. Jimmy jumped out too, yelling, “Fuck the boat!” and he did fall but grabbed onto the dock and got back up to scramble to the shore. The wind was so strong it pushed them, like a big hand. The rain hurt. They ran as fast as they could to this little white shed, where Jimmy banged his shoulder into the door until the door gave way, and they dove inside. Even now, Mac is still holding Mr. Johnson; he can’t let go because he is crying, and shaking, and the shed is shaking too. Mac hears the black man saying, “Shhh, shhh, you’ll be okay.”

  A shrieking noise, louder than the wind, makes Mac bury his head even farther in Mr. Johnson’s shoulder, so he can hardly breathe. Rain comes down on them in bucketfuls, and Mac understands that the roof has just been torn off. His whole body goes rigid; he can feel his muscles become bone and his jaw get so tight his teeth hurt. Jimmy is yelling, “Fuckin’ shit! Jesus Mother Mary!” and these words scare Mac even more. Mr. Johnson holds the top of Mac’s head with the palm of his hand and bends over, keeping some of the rain
from landing on Mac, even though Mac is all wet, every bit of him. Mr. Johnson keeps saying, “Shhh, shhh,” and it helps Mac breathe again, but then he starts crying louder because he remembers his mother making that same hushing noise when he used to cry, and he wants his mom so bad. He’s sure they are going to die, but the shhh shhh sound gets louder and the wind gets softer, and pretty soon the loudest sound is his own crying.

  “Oh my god,” Jimmy says, then says it again a few more times. Rain is coming down, but the shed has stopped shaking. Mac lifts his face up. The roof is gone. He cries out once, takes a big, huge lungful of air to cry again, and chokes on it. He didn’t know you could choke on air, but he has. His body is heaving, trying to let the breath in or out. Mr. Johnson thumps Mac’s back, and the air rushes out, and he’s okay.

  “You all right?” Mr. Johnson asks.

  “Uh-huh,” Mac says, surprised he can talk. “Did we die?” The sudden quiet of the air, the sky being light again, seems suspicious.

  “We made it,” Mr. Johnson says. “And I think we should say thanks.” Then he does something Mac has never seen anybody do, but he knows just the same what it is. Mr. Johnson prays, folding his hands together around Mac’s body, lowering his head, and talking to himself in a slow, quiet voice, a voice Mac likes right away.

  “Dear God,” Mr. Johnson says. “Thank you for sparing our lives today. Thank you especially for making sure Mac was not hurt. And thank you for giving me an extra day on this earth, and whatever time Jimmy might need to learn not to swear so much. Amen.”

  Jimmy laughs and adds, “Amen to that!” Mac, who has just been prayed for, says amen too. Mr. Johnson rubs Mac’s head with his hand and says, “Good boy.” He gets up, awkwardly, still holding Mac. They step out of the shed.

  The boat is upside down on the land.

  “Jesus, was I scared,” Jimmy says. “I think I pissed in my pants. How about you, Mac?”

  Mac doesn’t know. He’s so wet, he could have. He shrugs.

  “The boat’s a goner for sure. I wonder what those papers were I signed before we took her out.”

  They just stand and look at the boat. Finally Mr. Johnson says, “How about I put you down, Mac?”

  Mac nods. It’s a bit uncomfortable now anyway. Mr. Johnson lowers Mac so his feet touch the ground, and Mac stands on very shaky legs. Mr. Johnson’s hand slips into Mac’s, and Mac holds his hand right back. It feels like the most normal thing in the world, even though Mr. Johnson’s hand is so dark, Mac can’t believe skin can get that color, and he never imagined he’d be holding a black man’s hand. But it’s all right. They walk over to the upside-down boat.

  Beth sits on the wet porch steps, blowing her nose in a napkin. Please let her mother and her brother be all right, she thinks. What would she do without her mom? It’s like looking at this big empty place—she can’t even imagine it. And her brother … But even as she works up a good scare, she just can’t believe anything could really happen to them. They are just too much a part of her life. They can’t die. But Greg Henry, now that she can imagine. A young man dying from the act of saving a girl he has fallen in love with. And by now he might be dead. Oh my god! Her mother could be badly wounded … and her brother might have drowned … and her boyfriend’s probably dead. It just couldn’t get any worse.

  While Jimmy McGovern knocks on a door to ask if he can use the phone, Nate stands on the lawn looking at the gingerbread latticework scattered across the green grass. It is our souls that have survived, not the structures, he thinks. He had been sure, out on that lake, that he was a dead man, and he had been afraid, not just for the boy but for himself; he was not ready, and apparently God agreed. This storm was sent for a reason. Nate has never forgiven God for the pain and death he saw in Italy. Nor has he forgiven himself for wanting to go to war, for believing in war. This storm, and this boy whose hand he now holds, is a message, plain and simple. He has been given time not to understand God but understand himself.

  Jimmy hops down the front steps shouting, “The phones are out!”

  Nate shrugs. “We’ll have to walk to the marina.”

  “It’s gotta be miles away,” Jimmy says.

  “Well, we’d better start now, then,” Nate says. He and Mac head east toward the marina, hand in hand. They are on the road that runs around the lake, and the marina is on the lake. They won’t get lost. Heck, Nate’s been walking about with his eyes closed for so long, it will be a pleasure to be walking with his eyes open. He was scared out there on the lake, scared mostly that he might have died just when he was learning how much he wanted to live.

  “Hey, Mac,” he says. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. How about you, Mr. Johnson?”

  “Fine, Mac, just fine.”

  Norton stays by Greg’s side while the doctor finishes stitching his face. Twenty-two stitches so far. Norton has counted each and every one. The local anesthetic must be working; Greg doesn’t wince as the needle slides in and out of his skin, although he did complain about having a terrific headache.

  But Norton himself is having a difficult time, and it has nothing to do with the blood or raw flesh. (Will has decided to remain in the lobby. The man seems to be rather faint-hearted about this whole thing.) Right now Norton is having trouble with his own feelings. He keeps looking at Greg Henry’s face, his thick eyelashes, his whiter-than-white teeth, the soft pink flesh right inside his swollen bottom lip. At first Norton looked at Greg’s face because he was concerned about the gash, which he is, certainly, but concern is not the feeling that is most prominent now. Norton can’t find the word that best explains his feeling, but his hand desperately wants to brush the dangling brown lock of hair off Greg’s forehead. He can imagine doing even more, and closing his eyes doesn’t help one bit.

  Norton isn’t fooling himself. He’s a homosexual, just not a practicing homosexual. It’s a choice he made a long time ago, in college, after a brief affair with a young man who—deciding he wasn’t a homo—went and joined the army. Norton had been so embarrassed by the whole fiasco, he decided there were other things besides sex. Theatre, art, literature, food—the good things in life. So right now, looking down at Greg Henry’s face, with those big brown eyes, Norton thinks he should turn and walk away. What he wants to do is much more complicated and frightening.

  Greg is just a kid. Norton is fifty. There’s not a chance in a million Greg Henry would have the slightest interest in Norton, yet … Norton remembers seeing Greg at the bar with an older gentleman, and right before the local anesthetic, Greg had reached out to grip Norton’s hand, giving a little squeeze, saying, “Hey, Norton, you’re the best.” That little squeeze made Norton’s stomach flutter.

  “This is the last stitch,” the doctor says, giving the thread a little twist and turn to tie it off.

  Twenty-four, Norton thinks. It’s silly, but he knows he will remember the number of stitches in Greg Henry’s face forever. It will be one of those stupid facts he will go to the grave remembering—a time when Greg Henry most likely won’t even remember Norton’s name. A harsh thought indeed, which might work to quell some of these unwanted feelings, except that at that very minute, Greg Henry says, “Help me off this table, Norton.” Norton reaches over and takes hold of Greg’s upper arm.

  “Not so fast, my friend,” the doctor says, placing a hand on Greg’s shoulder to ease him back onto the table. There’s an uncomfortable moment before they both let go of Greg that Norton sees as the physical struggle of his very soul.

  “You need to take it easy,” the doctor tells Greg. “Move slowly, and don’t stand or sit up quickly. Use a bag of ice for the swelling, ten minutes every hour for the rest of the day. If there’s any seepage, I want you back here pronto. Do you understand?”

  “Sure, doc,” Greg says, grinning lopsidedly, half his face not responding.

  “I’m going to give you a prescription for aspirin with codeine. Someone should keep their eye on you for the next twenty-four hours for signs of concuss
ion, make sure you don’t become unusually sleepy.” The doctor turns to Norton. “Could you do that, sir? Will you be around to observe Mr. Henry?”

  Norton nods. “Yes, doctor, I could do that.”

  “Norton will take good care of me, doc. Thanks for sewing me up.” Greg slips gently off the table, not needing help from anyone. “I could use that medicine though. My head’s killing me.”

  As the doctor writes out the prescription, Greg looks in the mirror above the sink. His lopsided grin falls, and his eyes widen in horror. “Oh my god! I’m Frankenstein!”

  “No, no, Greg. It’s not that bad,” Norton says, coming up behind Greg and putting a hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth coming through Greg’s thin cotton shirt right into Norton’s palm.

  “It looks bad now, Mr. Henry,” the doctor says, “but it will heal. It wasn’t a clean cut, and there will most likely be a thin scar by the corner of your lip. You’ll need to come back in a week to get these stitches out, and by then you’ll be looking much better.”

  “You look fine, Greg,” Norton says to the back of Greg’s head, to the soft curls of brown hair, to the curve of his neck. “A scar will add a mysterious character to your handsome face.” Norton can’t believe he has said this, it was only a thought. How did it come out of his mouth? Miraculously, Greg smiles slowly and meets Norton’s eyes in the mirror.

  “Thanks, Norton. A mysterious scar. I like that. Now let’s go home.”

  Norton takes a shallow breath, because he can hardly breathe at all. It’s the let’s go home that floors Norton, the casual, simple words that mean Will’s farm but that Norton envisions as meaning so much more. But Norton doesn’t suffer fools lightly, and he knows one when he sees one. The fact that the fool is hiding behind his own face makes no difference.