The Rehearsal

by Sarah Willis

  They drive to church in two cars and park on the street. No one says anything as they go inside the church, where they sit in the back row. There’s no stage. That’s okay with Mac.

  Myra feels nervous and slightly embarrassed. She is going to church for the first time in more than a dozen years for the purpose of testing Pandora’s box. If God speaks to her, she will turn her life around, become religious, and devote herself to the church. If God doesn’t speak to her, then she will take it as a sign to go on with her own plan, which is to have an affair with Ben. She knows she has stacked the deck in Ben’s favor, so she vows she will listen very closely, in case God whispers.

  She’s not sure if she believes in God, but she’d like to. Someone who will save her if she says she loves him. How much easier could life be? But on the other hand, she wants to be touched by Ben. He’s sweet and kind and could lift her up and carry her away. He listens to her. He looks at her. She has forgotten the lure of being looked at deeply. It’s exciting. She’s excited. She blushes. Opening the hymnal, she begins to sing. She realizes she is singing too loudly to hear God. He will have to speak up.

  Ben wants to make love to Myra. He wants one day with her, a separate day from all the other days, a day without consequences. Even sitting here in church, Ben can think of nothing else. Sorry, he says to God, like a kid who says sorry to his dad so Dad will forgive him and let him go back out and play. Ben figures God knows this. He hopes God is just a little bit too busy with the war in Vietnam to pay much attention to a middle-aged man lusting after his best friend’s wife. Ben’s embarrassed by how little the war affects his life and how much this one woman does.

  Nate sings and prays, just as he has for hundreds of Sundays, but for the first time in years, he means what he says, and knows God is listening—he understands that all along God has been listening. It’s up to Nate to do the things he’s asked God to do. The people on this earth are God’s hands. Must be hard, Nate thinks, to have your hands doing what they like all on their own, good and bad. Must be frustrating as hell. It’s not a job he’d ever want, being God. Being a good actor and a good person is what Nate’s got to concentrate on now.

  Nate watches Mac, who probably doesn’t understand much of what he’s hearing, but still, Nate’s glad to be the one to introduce God to this child. Someday Mac might need God, and it will be a welcoming back, not something foreign or frightening. Nate has quite a few questions he wants to ask God, but they can wait. He’s in no hurry to be face to face with God. Right now he’s content just to sing “Nearer My God to Thee.” In the row ahead of them, a lady in a pink dress sings off key, and Nate wonders why God didn’t give everyone a nice singing voice. Now, that wouldn’t have been so hard, would it? Just another question to put on the list.

  Jimmy McGovern has come to church just to prove Frank Tucker wrong, but he’s never been in a non-Catholic church, and he’s so surprised by its simplicity that he forgets what they were arguing about. It’s nice in here. He remembers going to mass with his own family, praying to the saints for his mother’s soul, how his dad held them together all those years after she was gone. He was a good man, and funny, could make everyone laugh. What kind of guy can laugh after losing his wife? Jimmy wonders. Someone who still loved his kids. A good man. I’m going to go visit him, soon, Jimmy thinks. Just show up at the door. It’ll surprise the hell out of his old man. Jimmy grins, then thinks about what Frank Tucker said about hating his old man. Sad as shit, that story. Jimmy’s going to be nicer to Frank, and just to make it stick, he tells God. I’ll be nice to Frank Tucker, he says. And watch over my old man, he adds.

  Jimmy looks at the people he came here with. He’s just a bit player in this play. Will told him once he’d get better parts when he got older, that he was going to be a very good character actor someday, like Victor Peters. It didn’t sound all that good to Jimmy then, but now he knows it was a compliment. He just needs time, and more parts. It’s funny, thinking ahead, trying to have patience. But look at old Victor, his head held high, singing out “Nearer My God to Thee” in his craggy voice. Hell, if Jimmy could play the part of Candy someday with half the talent Victor has, he’d be pretty damn proud of himself.

  He’s glad he came to church with these guys. He’s looking forward to the rest of the month. He has to admit he kind of likes arguing with Frank. Egging him on. He bets Frank likes a good argument too. But what the hell was he going to prove by coming to church again anyway?

  Mac didn’t see God, and he wonders if God was at another church today. He’d ask Nate, but everyone’s so quiet on the car ride back that Mac is afraid you’re not supposed to talk for a while after going to church, like not swimming for an hour after you eat. There’s a lot of stuff he doesn’t know, but Mac doesn’t mind having a lot of questions. Questions are fun things. It’s the answers that are hard. You have to do something with the answers, like fix the world or make tests for schoolkids. Mac really doesn’t want to have to be an adult. Except for driving a car, he doesn’t see what being an adult is good for. Beth says when he becomes an adult, he has to go to war and he’ll probably get killed. Even spiders don’t sound bad next to that.

  It’s so quiet, Mac wonders if everyone is thinking about something, as he is, or if sometimes people can just not think, if right now everyone has a big blank piece of whiteness in them with no sounds becoming words. He tries to do that, make no words inside his head, but he can’t. Mac wonders if watching plays and movies, and even going to church, is a way to let other words fill you up and give your own thoughts a break. Sometimes counting things can do that for Mac—like back in Pittsburgh, he counts how many cars drive by his house when he’s in bed looking out his window; how many red and how many blue and how many white. It takes away the words that make him worry and helps him fall asleep. He can see how church might do that too. It was pretty hard to keep his eyes open sometimes.

  Beth has done the most amazing thing, and she can’t believe she did it. She’s so nervous, her legs twitch and her hands shake. She had better find something to do, like running around the world, before her whole body just flies off in pieces. She went into her room—Greg Henry’s room—knocking softly at first, then knocking louder. When she opened the door a crack, Greg was asleep on her bed, completely out. Creeping in, barefoot and on her toes, Beth went right up to where he lay, his mouth slightly open, his wound covered with a fresh bandage, and she touched his shoulder. He didn’t move or make a sound. She said his name maybe five times, and then, without thought, leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. Seeing that he didn’t even flutter his eyes, she leaned back over and kissed him again, then, absolutely flying, she left the room, came downstairs, and began picking up things, like a fork on the floor, and old napkins, and someone’s pants. In just a few minutes, the room was clean. She could paint the house right now and still have enough energy to mow the lawn. She kissed Greg Henry, and his lips were as soft as silk. Satin. Rose petals. Kittens. Butter.

  Oh my god, she kissed Greg Henry while he was sleeping! She can’t believe it.

  “Beth!” It’s Melinda, calling from the kitchen.

  “Yes?” Beth doesn’t really want to talk to Melinda. She’s still mad at Melinda for that thing with Chip Stark, but Beth is so hyper right now, she’d talk to a tree.

  Melinda comes into the living room. She’s wearing some kind of white cotton short-sleeved dress with bright embroidery across the top. Her hair is in two loose braids with dandelions woven into it. No makeup. Not even mascara. Beth can’t imagine being caught dead without mascara and some blush, but it takes all kinds. What Chip Stark sees in her, Beth can’t imagine.

  “Hey, Beth,” Melinda says. “I have a present for you.” She holds something behind her back. Beth thinks, if it’s a bran muffin, she’ll puke. She’d also like to know who ate all her chocolate éclairs, but she’s guessing it wasn’t Melinda. Beth would die for a chocolate éclair right now.

  Melinda hands her a camera. It’s b
lack and bulky and really heavy. “It’s a Nikkormat FT,” Melinda says. “There’s film in it, and I have another roll for you. I’ll show you how it works.”

  Beth stands there dumb. Melinda’s giving her a camera? Like, lending it to her? So she can take a picture or two? She can’t be giving Beth this camera. It must be worth a hundred dollars. “I don’t get it,” Beth says. “I’m sorry. What do you mean? Why would you give me your camera?” Beth’s so sure there’s a catch, she’s waiting to hear what the terms are. Some kind of bribe to stay away from Chip? What?

  “I have no use for it anymore,” Melinda says. “I figured you might like it. Pass it on when you outgrow it. Maybe you won’t. Maybe cameras will be your thing. That’s cool too. But it’s hard to use. You have to focus and get the meter just right. I’ll have to show you how to set the film speed. Would you like it?”

  Chip hasn’t been mentioned. Or washing dishes for the next month. Beth’s still confused. “You mean you’re giving it to me? Really?”

  “Yes. Really. It’s a gift. You understand what a gift is, right?”

  “Yeah. Yeah. It’s just … Well, thanks. It’s really neat. I mean, I like it a lot. It just feels weird, taking your camera. My mom probably won’t want me to just take your camera, you know …”

  “Don’t you worry about that. Let’s go outside so I can show you about the meter. Come on.” They go outside, and for the next half hour Melinda shows Beth how to use all the rings that turn, how to judge backlighting, how to bring things into sharp focus. Beth loves it. She points it at a pink peony, finding out how close she can get before she loses focus. Without the tangle of the branches and green leaves, or the distraction of the house behind it, the flower, framed, alone and clear, takes on a whole new beauty. Or maybe it has always been this beautiful, but she just never knew it, and using a camera is a way of looking at something a little more carefully than she normally would. This is the kind of thing Beth usually thinks about after smoking pot, and it makes her feel high. She thanks Melinda, even gives her a hug. Melinda’s okay. Chip Stark’s still a jerk.

  “Use up that roll of film today, then tonight I’ll show you how to take it out and put in a new roll. Have fun!” Melinda goes back into the house, probably to bake bread or something. Beth is way off in the back field when her mom and the others come back from church. She points the camera at everyone crossing the yard, but they’re too far away and won’t make a very interesting picture. When she has only one more picture left, Beth heads back to the house. Victor Peters comes out of the barn, and she asks him to stand against the old pitted wood. She focuses on the wrinkles that radiate from his eyes. She never noticed before how wonderful wrinkles are.

  “Watch out, I’ll break your camera,” Victor Peters says.

  “No, no, you look beautiful,” Beth says. She means it. He grins like he just won a million bucks, and she presses the button. He has huge teeth that stick out of his gums like leaning gravestones. His face is as pockmarked as the gray wood behind him. His ears are big and droopy. He’s her first portrait, and she will never forget this moment.

  After a lunch of fresh-squeezed lemonade and a large colorful salad—with poppyseed dressing on the side (Melinda recommended eating the salad without dressing but was prepared for objections)—Will asks Ben and Lars if they are ready to go back to the creek in the pine forest to rehearse the last scene of the play. This scene is the hardest to rehearse, and perform, since it requires a depth of emotion that can leave most actors drained and depressed. Lars agrees immediately, but Ben hesitates. Melinda can understand. It’s a beautiful sunny day, and Will’s asking Ben to go into the dark pines and be killed a few dozen times. It’s a wonderful moment in theatre, but being a character that gets killed herself, she understands Ben’s feelings.

  “I’ll give you a long massage when you get back,” Melinda offers.

  Ben looks toward the house, then back at Melinda. “That’s okay. You don’t have to bother.” Will, Ben, and Lars go off to the barn to get their props, including the gun. Shakes follows them but halfway to the barn gives up and, circling a few times, lies down, looking like a well-worn coonskin hat. Melinda decides she will cook him up something special.

  When Will comes out of the barn, he hollers to the actors at the picnic table. “I expect you all to go do some improvs in the bunkhouse! Let Melinda give you some ideas. No strip poker!” He heads down to the creek, Lars and Ben in tow.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” Nate says. “Want to help me, Mac?”

  “Sure.”

  “If I go into the barn, someone needs to check in on Greg,” Norton says. “He didn’t sleep well last night, so I’m letting him rest, but someone should check on him every fifteen minutes to see if he’s breathing normally.”

  “I will,” Beth says.

  “Well … all right,” Norton says with obvious hesitation. “But don’t disturb him. If he wakes up or his breathing gets labored, come get me. And don’t let my cat out.”

  “No problem,” Beth says.

  Melinda notices Myra, who is listening to all this from the porch steps. “Myra, would you like to join us in an improv?”

  “No thanks. I’m going for a walk.”

  There are some odd looks from the actors at the table, which Melinda doesn’t understand. What could be the matter with Myra taking a walk?

  “Okay, kid,” Nate says. “Time for KP.”

  “What’s KP?” Mac asks.

  “I’ll tell you while we wash the dishes.”

  “Okay.”

  Melinda heads to the barn. Just before she goes inside, she looks around. Lying on the lawn like a dead giant is the old tree. Nearby, the picnic table, large enough for two dozen people, is covered with the remains of leftover salad that look like leaves from the fallen tree. Ten cars are parked on the lawn that borders the lane. One woman wearing a Mexican wedding dress is standing by the barn. A seemingly dead dog lies in the sun. What would someone driving by think? Melinda wants to know the stories they might invent. As she walks into the barn to play theatre games, she can’t help gloating. There are people working in factories, cleaning sewers, stuffed into suits at board meetings. It takes all kinds; she’s just so lucky she is her kind.

  Beth carries a dining-room chair upstairs and places it by Greg’s bed. While waiting for Greg to wake up, she imagines her life as it will be. She’ll get a small role next year in her father’s theatre, perhaps in The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Her father will direct her and be amazed at what she can do. He’ll ask her to join The Mill Street Theatre, where she’ll act for three or four years, cutting her teeth on some good roles, then she’ll move to Hollywood. Being in movies is what she’s really interested in. Not TV. She knows how shallow TV roles are. Her father has told her that a thousand times.

  Greg’s eyes open, then close. “Hey, Greg,” she says.

  “Hey, Beth,” Greg says, with his eyes still closed. His face is purple and bruised.

  “Can I get you something?” Beth asks.

  “A new face.” He opens his eyes, and they twinkle. One corner of his lip curls.

  “Your face is perfect,” Beth says. She blushes, but he doesn’t notice because his eyes are closed again. It’s easier this way, she thinks. She imagines them both lying in bed, side by side, their eyes closed, sharing their deepest secrets.

  “A perfect mess,” Greg says. “Maybe some water.”

  “Okay. Just a second. I’ll go get some.” When she gets back, he’s asleep.

  For the next two hours she sits by his bed—her bed—and has short but sweet conversations with Greg Henry as he wakes and falls back asleep. Each time he wakes up, he seems surprised that she’s there and doesn’t remember what was said before. It’s like rehearsing the same scene, and each time she does it better. She hardly blushes at all. She has the water waiting.

  Myra walks up the hill to sing but changes her mind and sneaks back through the woods to watch the rehearsal. Ben and Lars are crouch
ed at the edge of the creek. Will stands a dozen yards or so behind but interrupts every now and then. Kneeling behind a tree, she keeps her eyes on Ben. She stares at him as she has sometimes stared at the setting sun, knowing she shouldn’t. She is out of control, tumbling head over heels. She has the instinct to reach out and brace herself but doesn’t. She wants to fall.

  She is smitten. With a big, burly, not-really-handsome man who is warm and kind and sweet and wants her and is her husband’s best friend. She imagines she’s in a Shakespearean comedy, where the characters have all been drugged with fairy dust, all falling in love with the wrong people. She used to think those plays were so funny, but she’s not so sure now.

  When the rehearsal’s over, she watches the three men walk away. She has been married to Will for seventeen years. At this moment, she can’t feel anything for him. Not anger, or hope, or love. The shape of Ben’s large body moving through the woods makes her heart flutter.

  Shit, she thinks. I’m in trouble. She heads back up to the hill, then down to the house. When she gets there, Ben comes out.

  “I snuck out to watch you,” she says.

  “I know,” he says.

  She looks around. “Did you see me?”

  “No. I just knew you were there.”

  She holds perfectly still, to savor this moment of believing him. She wants to touch his face. “I better go,” she says. As she walks into the house, and he walks out, Ben runs a hand down her thigh. She closes the door behind her and sings out, “‘Come out, come out, wherever you are, and meet the young lady who fell from a star.’”