The Rehearsal

by Sarah Willis

  Norton just can’t seem to find the energy to worry about being turned down. All Norton knows is, the moment has come. He grins. A week on this farm has changed him. He’s very calm. Actually, he could sit here all day, not even reading a book, just watching the grass in the field sway in the breeze. Is there a breeze? He looks at Greg to ask him, but then remembers Greg is asleep. But then, like fate, Greg Henry opens his eyes.

  “Hey, Norton, what you looking at?”

  “You.” It is the slowest word Norton has ever said. He watches as it slips out of his mouth and hangs in the air to be heard by Greg, to be reheard by Norton, to be pondered in all its implication. Greg takes it more simply than it was meant.

  “Well, I’m quite a sight, I guess. I never knew skin could turn green. I feel like one of those lizards that change color. What are they?”

  “Chameleons.” Greg answers his own question just as Norton says the word. They grin at each other. “Jinx!” Greg says.

  “Excuse me?” Norton says.

  “We said the same word at the same time! I called ‘Jinx’ first. You can’t talk till someone says your name three times.”

  Norton is unsure of what to do. He thinks he should laugh it off, but there is something exciting about Greg telling him not to speak. He looks right at Greg, trying to say something with his eyes, like Let me touch you. Greg laughs.

  “Hey, Norton, you look like a baby bear about to cry. Don’t worry. Norton, Norton, Norton. There now, I’ve saved you from being mute the rest of your life. You owe me.” Greg Henry grins. Norton feels his legs go weak.

  “I’d like to clean those sutures,” Norton says. “Bugs could have been crawling on your wound while you slept. The gnats are bad in this heat. Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Okay, Boss,” Greg says.

  When Norton stands, he finds his legs are indeed weak, and he wobbles.

  “Hey, bud,” Greg says. “Steady. Guess you melted in the sun.”

  Norton nods, accepting Greg’s hand on his arm to steady him. The touch of Greg’s hand makes Norton’s legs feel even weaker. He finds it strange that just two beers have affected him like this, and he’s suddenly afraid that he’s not well, but that fear goes away like rain off a duck. Usually he has to consider all the alternatives before dismissing a possible illness, but this time it just disappears into some empty void. Norton tests this new ability by trying for a moment to work up some worry about what he’s about to do, and that, too, just slips away, unformed, like a half-realized thought. Greg lets go of Norton’s arm, and they both enter the house.

  “I’ll need some warm water,” Norton says. He reaches for a bowl and turns on the tap. They wait. There is no warm water. Nate Johnson walks into the kitchen rubbing his head with a towel.

  “I think I used up the hot water, Norton, if that’s what you’re trying for.”

  Norton can’t work up any indignation and just stands there looking at Nate.

  “We’ll heat some on the stove,” Greg says. “No problem.”

  Nate leaves the kitchen, and Norton stands at the sink staring at the pot in his hand. “Here,” Greg says, nudging Norton over and filling the pot with water. “This’ll do it.” Norton imagines kissing Greg’s cheek, working his way to his lips, but the excitement of fifteen minutes ago seems diminished. He wonders if he’s in shock, if his decision to pursue this desire has caused some part of his brain to shut down. Is that the only way he can make love to Greg, by closing off his emotions? He’s sure that the last time he had sex—although that was a long time ago—he felt passion, excitement, fear, love, and hurt, and so maybe it is the water as Melinda insists, or pesticides on fruit, or … The entire thought vanishes, and Norton’s mind is left with a space filled with the word what? Greg looks at him.

  “What are you looking at, Greg?” Norton says, a smile spreading across his face.

  “You,” Greg says.

  They both laugh. Greg pours the hot water into the bowl and carries it upstairs. Norton follows, holding on to the banister. They go into Greg’s room. Norton closes the door behind him.

  In the barn, Chip and Victor Peters talk about Will’s idea. It’s a conversation to fill time. Chip is waiting for Melinda, for something special she had planned. Victor and Chip have already said everything twice, they’re just finding new ways to say it, like rewriting a line until it reads well.

  “We could use the extra stimulus of the other actors,” Chip offers, thinking this sounds worse than the way he phrased it last time. Hell, where is Melinda? She’s been in the house at least an hour. Is she taking a shower? “I mean, that last rehearsal was so great, we should give the other actors a chance, or they’ll resent us.” Shit, his first try, “Will’s idea is pretty good,” was better than all this mumbo jumbo. Chip’s about to go into the house to look for Melinda when Nate Johnson walks into the barn carrying a towel, obviously just out of the shower. Mac follows him, carrying a board game. Checkers.

  “You were in the shower!” Chip says.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Stark. I’m hoping that was all right with you,” Nate says, bobbing his head.

  Chip realizes he asked his question with a bit of an attitude. “I didn’t mean it that way, Nate, so cut out the act. I thought Melinda was in the shower.”

  “Well, it was only me in there all by myself, I can tell you that for sure. I’m old, but I would have noticed a naked lady.”

  “Well, what’s she doing?” Chip says, standing up.

  Victor Peters chuckles. “I can’t tell you the specifics, Chip, but let me tell you two things. One, you don’t want to interrupt her, and two, I imagine it will be worth the wait. Sit down and relax. Give the woman some time to fuss.”

  Chip’s not so sure Melinda’s the type to fuss, but what the hell; if she is, it could be fun. “Guess I’ll wait a little longer then.” He sits back down on the bunk.

  “Mac and I are going to play some checkers,” Nate says, placing the game on the heavy wooden table. “I’ll let you play him first, Chip, take your mind off your wait. I’ll play the winner.”

  “But I thought I was going to play with you, Nate,” Mac says.

  “Oh, you will, Mac. You’re just going to win this game first.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Chip says.

  “I’m betting on it,” Nate says.

  “How much?” Chip says.

  “Two bucks.”

  Chip sticks out his hand, and they shake.

  “You’re betting money on me?” Mac asks.

  “Yes, sir,” Nate replies. “It’ll be like taking candy from a baby.”

  Victor Peters reaches into his back pocket. “I’m putting two bucks on Mac too.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Chip says. “You’re on.”

  Mac’s face breaks out into a big smile. “You’re both betting money on me?”

  “We are,” Victor says.

  Chip carries a chair over to the table. “You guys are going to lose two bucks each,” Chip says, getting into the game of playing the game, knowing full well he won’t win, even if he can. “Okay, kid, show me your stuff.” They set up the checkers. Chip looks at the barn door. Give me ten minutes for this game, then you better walk in that door.

  Two games later, Chip is down twelve bucks and actually trying to win. Melinda is still in the house.

  “You play poker too?” Chip asks, just trying to ease the tension that has spread from his groin to his fingers.

  “Would you teach me?” Mac asks, his eyes big.

  “Oh, jeez—I didn’t really mean … I can’t play you for money, Mac. Your dad would kill me.”

  “Pebbles!” Mac says. “We could play for pebbles! Please? I’ll get a bunch of pebbles, okay?”

  Mac’s looking up at Chip with those large little-boy eyes. “Well, I guess—”

  “Great!” Mac jumps up and grabs a tin can off the floor that has a few cigarette butts in it, then dumps the butts into a pail over by Ben’s bunk. The “no smoking in the barn�
� rule lasted only one night. “I’ll get the pebbles and rinse them off. How many do we need?”

  “Oh, a whole lot, kid. A can full.” Maybe by the time he has gotten all those pebbles, something else will have come up—like Melinda walking through that barn doorway wearing red lipstick. “Fill it up, pardner, and make sure they’re clean, okay?”

  “Sure!” Mac says, running out.

  Shakes, who has been sleeping under the table, stands, shudders once, then wanders out. From where Chip sits, he can see Shakes follow Mac down the lane. Just like Dorothy and Toto, Chip thinks. Except Mac’s a boy, and he’s carrying an ashcan. Still, with a little imagination …

  Through the sparse trees on the hill, Ben sees Myra waiting for him on a blanket. It’s like a dream. There’s definitely the feeling of not being in the real world anymore. He grins stupidly as he walks over and sits down next to her. The ground is bumpy. He can feel sticks and stones hidden under the blanket. She hasn’t said a word, but they need to talk.

  He wants to tell her she’s beautiful, that he’s crazy about her, but that’s not what he really needs to say. “We should talk about this,” he says. He wants her to go first. Break the spell, so he can laugh when she says it’s all a mistake. Turn it into a joke.

  “Really?” she says. They aren’t touching, not a knee or a foot or a hand.

  “I think we should. I don’t want you to regret this. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

  Myra smiles and laughs, just a small breath of a laugh, but Ben can feel it on his arm. “Ben, I’m not dumb. I know how—nuts this is. But if anyone’s pressuring anyone, I think it’s me. I’m just as scared as you. But I want this. I want to make love to you.” She touches his thigh. “Is that enough?”

  Oh, that’s enough. Nothing could stop him now. He runs one finger down her nose, then touches her lips. She kisses the tip of his finger and then takes his hand and presses it to her chest, above her breasts. She’s wearing a blue tank top and white shorts. Her shoes are off. Her skin is warm. He leans over and kisses her. He feels her hand against the back of his head. They kiss for a very long time. I won’t hurt you, Myra, he thinks. I only want to love you.

  When they stop to breathe, Ben begins to lie down.

  “Wait,” she says. She pulls the tank top over her head and folds it loosely, placing it on the edge of the blanket. Then she stands up and removes her shorts and underwear, all the time looking him in the eye. He doesn’t look at her body, just in her eyes. She smiles at him, then sits down. He undresses more awkwardly than she, conscious of the wrinkles on his legs, the way his stomach sags, how his penis, getting hard, bobs about like a fat metronome. He has on long pants, socks, and shoes. It takes some time, but finally he’s back on the blanket, naked, lying on his side, facing Myra. She takes his hand again, pressing it to that same spot, not breast or crotch, just the flat area below her neck that offers him no padding between them. He can feel her bones, her warmth, the beat of her heart. He knows now that he loves her. That he is in grave danger.

  “Why do I think you have already seen me naked?”

  “I did. When you were singing. After the storm.”

  “That’s why you want to make love to me? Because you saw me naked?”

  “No. Because I heard you sing.”

  Myra’s hand tightens around Ben’s. She takes a breath he can feel through her chest. The bottom rims of her eyes fill with tears, but they don’t run down her face. He kisses each eye, tasting salt. Gnats begin to cluster about them. He can feel them land on his back. Something crawls up his left foot. He shakes it off.

  With one arm pinned underneath, he has only one hand to touch Myra, and she holds it, so he uses his mouth. He kisses her chin, her neck, her shoulder, her breast. His mouth finds her nipple and she moans. He takes his time, his tongue pulling her nipple into his mouth. From somewhere behind him, he hears a branch snap.

  “Jesus Fucking Christ!” Beth shouts.

  Myra twists out of their embrace and yells, “Oh, no!” Ben turns around. Beth stands ten yards away, pointing a camera at them.

  Beth thought she might find her mother and Ben together, thought something was going on, but she had not imagined fully what she would find, not believed for one minute that her mother would really cheat on her father. When she saw two naked bodies through the trees, she actually told herself they must be some other couple, an odd coincidence. They could not be her mother and Ben.

  But with each step forward, they had come into focus, until the vision was so sharp that it hurt her eyes, and she had to stop and close them. But even with her eyes closed, Beth could see the curve of her mother’s waist, the way her hair fell loose across her shoulder, the sheer mass of Ben’s back. Almost against her will—because what her heart wanted was to walk away and forget what she saw—she crept out from behind the tree, aimed the camera, and walked slowly forward. Just before pushing the button, she stepped on a branch, the snap shocking her. She yelled, “Jesus Fucking Christ,” the words coming from her in a push of air like the shout before a karate kick, an attempt to shatter the picture she saw, shatter it into a million tiny pieces that would fall on the forest floor like glass breaking into sand, not a shard left to hurt anyone, not even memory.

  But her shout doesn’t make anything go away, and she pushes the button on the camera, so frightened that her hand grips the camera as if she and it are now one, as if she will constantly carry around with her the proof of her mother’s infidelity. Her mother is shouting, and crying, and grabbing her clothes. Ben’s trying to put on his underwear. Beth begins to cry. She paces around in a circle as if she is trapped in a space of three feet, not able to go forward or back.

  “How could you!” Beth yells. “What’s the matter with you? Do you know how disgusting you are? You’re pathetic! You’re a slut!”

  “Beth,” Myra says. “Wait. Listen, Beth. You don’t understand. You’re too young. I love you. Beth. Please.” Some words are shouts. Some are said on an intake of breath so painful, Beth can hear the gasp of air through her mother’s throat. Her mother’s face is pale, her eyes pleading. For a moment Beth imagines they are mirror images. Except her mother is naked.

  “You disgust me,” Beth says, trying not to look at her mother and Ben. “You’re a loser. A big loser.” And suddenly Beth understands something. “Daddy won’t let me act because he’s afraid I’ll embarrass him like you did! He’s afraid I’m like you. A loser!”

  Beth’s mom stops moving. She stands there with tears running down her face. “Beth, this has nothing to do with you. Don’t hate yourself. I’m so sorry. Please let me get dressed. Let’s talk. Please.”

  “I’ll never, ever forgive you. Do you know that? Do you?” Beth yells, the words tearing her throat. “But you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to go sleep with Greg Henry right now, and you better stay away. You better not ruin this. I have the picture. Right here.” She waves the camera. “You just stay here in the woods and fuck Ben all you want, because I’m going to be doing the same thing. Like mother, like daughter. Except I can act. I can fucking act. Just you watch me!”

  “Beth. Please don’t. Don’t do this to yourself!”

  “Just stay away from me,” Beth says. She turns and runs back toward the house. From behind, she hears her mother calling out her name.

  The woods waver as if they have lost their solidity, as if the world has come unhinged and forgotten its shape. Nothing will ever be the same, Beth thinks. The forest will never be made of trees again; they will always hold the image of her mother and Ben. She will never be able to look at her mother and not see her naked and weeping. Beth runs faster. She wants Greg Henry. Now she needs him too.

  Norton cleans Greg’s face slowly, finding in the motions an art; taking care of Greg’s face is not a quick fix but a step toward a well-healed wound. He imagines the doctor telling him he did a good job. He smiles, but his face isn’t working right, and the smile just hangs there all dopey. He must look
like an idiot, but he just doesn’t care. Everything is fine. He giggles, then lays the gauze on the bedside table and kisses Greg on the forehead.

  “Norton,” Greg says. He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t pull away.

  “I’ve never done this before,” Norton says. “Well, once, a lifetime ago, and it was different. I didn’t even know what I wanted then. I do now. Well, somewhat. I suspect these things are not so clear-cut. But I want to—”

  “Norton,” Greg says again, but Norton raises his hand and stops him from saying more.

  “Please. Somehow, saying this is just as important as … doing it. Maybe not. I’m a little lost here, but please listen. You’re so very sweet, and I’ve become more than fond of you. I want to make you happy, and make myself happy, and I’m not asking for anything more than that. I swear to you, I won’t ask again. I might hope, but I’ll never bother you. Please.” Norton sits down on the bed next to Greg, not wanting to seem pushy, but his legs won’t hold him up. His arms feel like they belong to someone else. His lips work. That he knows. He can still feel Greg’s forehead on them. His lips feel like sponges, as if they could absorb smell and taste and touch and hold them indefinitely. He puts a hand on Greg’s thigh. He wants Greg to know he’s real.

  “Norton, you’re a nice guy, and I’m not saying I don’t like you. I mean, maybe in the right place, the right time, I would feel better about this. But it’s too weird, you know. I mean, there are people all around. You really want to … ?”