“Which means,” added the other man, whose conversation we’d interrupted, “I’ve got work to do.” His good-natured comment seemed to confirm my assumption that he was on the show’s crew. He stood about my height, not quite six feet, and seemed about my age, perhaps a few years younger. Due to the heat, he’d worn shorts that night (I wished I’d done the same), showing legs that were nicely toned and well tanned. Though sweating, and apparently beleaguered by Denny’s “technical glitches,” he displayed an amiable attitude that complemented his pleasant features. I was hoping to be introduced when, to my surprise, he asked through a handsome grin, “How’s it going, Neil?”
“Fine, Frank. Though it seems you’ve got your hands full tonight.”
“Just the usual last-minute travails of an amateur tech director.”
Denny assured us, “The best in the business.”
“For the price,” added Frank, “which is nothing.”
We all laughed. I extended my hand. “I’m Mark Manning.”
“Duh,” said Neil, slapping his head, “sorry, Mark. I thought you’d met. This is Frank Gelden, the show’s technical director. You’ll rarely see him down here in the theater—he’s usually cramped up in the control booth, working lights and sound.” Neil pointed up and back, in the direction of the balcony.
“I enjoy it,” Frank explained with a shrug. “Pleased to meet you, Mark.”
Thad said, “I’ve told you about Mr. Gelden before. He’s our faculty adviser for Fungus Amongus.” Responding to my bewildered stare, Thad amplified, “You know—the mushroom club.”
Then he sat at the nearby worktable, joining the playbill assembly line.
“Jeez,” I said with a laugh, shaking my head, “I can’t keep track anymore.” I really couldn’t. There’d been a time, barely a year earlier, when Neil and I had fretted that Thad lacked “involvement” and could be headed for trouble. Now he had so many interests, I wondered if he needed to scale back. There was theater, of course—plus cars, photography, and of all things, the school mushroom club. There were doubtless other activities that hadn’t even sunk in with me yet. I asked Frank, “You’re a teacher, then, at Thad’s school?”
“I’m a teacher, yes, but not at Dumont Central. Actually, I’m on the natural-sciences faculty at UW-Woodlands,” he told me, referring to the local branch-campus of the University of Wisconsin. “I’m a molecular-biology prof, and mycology has always been a special interest, so I volunteered to advise Central’s mushroom-hunting club. They’re a great group of kids, the Fungus Amongus.”
Looking up from his program-stuffing, Thad informed me from the corner of his mouth, “Mycology is the study of mushrooms.”
I mussed his hair, telling him, “I figured.” Turning to Frank, I said, “Between your volunteer work at Central and your volunteer work for the Players Guild, how do you find time for teaching?”
“I’m off all summer, and when things do get frantic, well—Cynthia and I have no kids of our own, and I like being able to help. It’s fulfilling.”
In a nutshell, Frank Gelden struck me as a nice guy. Interesting too. I removed from a pocket the pet fountain pen I always carry, an antique Montblanc, and made a note to mention Frank to my features editor, Glee Savage. She might want to work up a story on him. Local readers can’t get enough of those homey, feel-good profiles.
“How is Cynthia?” asked Neil. “Could you let her know that when she gets back to town, I’ll have a revised set of drawings for her?”
Something clicked. I interrupted, “You mean Cynthia Dunne-Gelden?” She was a recent architectural client of Neil’s, a businesswoman planning a sizable addition to her country home. I’d wondered how Neil knew so much about Frank’s involvement with the theater group, since Neil’s own involvement was tangential at best. The house project explained everything: Neil knew Frank through Cynthia.
Neil proceeded to detail for me exactly what I’d just figured out. While nodding to these presumed revelations, I had the opportunity to get a closer look at Frank, intending to inspect his legs again, to study their lustrous nap of sun-bleached hair, but my eyes locked on his wedding ring. Oddly, this tangible symbol of “where he stood” came as something of a relief. More often than not, upon meeting an attractive man, I was content to presume him gay until my wishful, groundless theory was contradicted by reality. I would then mourn the loss of yet another potential addition to the brotherhood. In Frank’s case, though, I was glad to set this speculation aside from the outset. Frank’s life had already touched both Thad’s and Neil’s, so I prudently nipped any prurient notions then and there, before they had an opportunity to root in the fertile loam of my imagination.
“I’ll phone her later tonight,” Frank said of his wife. “She’ll be delighted to hear about the blueprints—she’s been itching to break ground.”
“Denny?” asked a woman as she stepped into our circle of conversation. She carried a pile of clothes and a long, ratty wig. “I’ve made all the changes to Tommy’s costume. Got a moment to check him out before act two?”
“Of course, Joyce. Anything for you, my dear.” Then Denny remembered his manners. “Oh. You already know Neil Waite, but I don’t believe you’ve met Thad’s, uh…” He gestured toward me, whirling his hand vacantly, unsure what to call me.
“Uncle,” I supplied the missing word, taking only minor offense at Denny’s hesitation. “My pleasure, Joyce. I’m Mark Manning.”
She offered her hand, after extracting it with some difficulty from the bundle she carried. “I thought so,” she said, “from your pictures. My name’s Joyce Winkler, costume mistress extraordinaire.” She puffed herself up with comic pride, then blew a stray lock of hair from her sweat-shiny forehead.
Neil told me, “Joyce is also Nicole’s mom.” Drawing a blank look from me, he elaborated, “Nicole is in the cast. She’s up there with Jason and Kwynn.” His glance led my eyes to the stage.
Jason Thrush still sat center stage, talking with two girls as other kids milled about. I knew Kwynn Wyman, Thad’s friend, so I assumed Nicole Winkler was the other girl, the pretty one I’d noticed doting on Jason. She was still at it. Though she chattered vacantly while preening her luxuriant gold tresses, her hungry eyes betrayed an obsession with the hunky young actor. I had sensed this from the back of the theater; now, at closer range, Nicole’s lewd daydreams were embarrassingly obvious.
Her mom was explaining, “Theater has always been Nicole’s thing, not mine. But she’s been through some…‘rough spots’ lately, and she’s off to college this fall, and, well, I thought it was time to do a bit of bonding. So here I am, ‘sharing her interests.’ ” Joyce laughed at the pile of clothes in her hands, at the self-imposed drudgery she’d taken on. “And the worst part was juggling schedules with my real job. I owe people night shifts for a year now.”
Denny told us, “Joyce is a lab technician at the hospital.”
“I don’t know squat about sewing, but duty called, so here I am. Fortunately, most of the ‘costumes’ are just street clothes.”
“It’s a contemporary drama,” Denny reminded us through pursed lips, “requiring little by way of constructed costuming.”
“Except”—Joyce hefted the wig, robe, and whatnot in her arms—“the Old Man. I’ve pricked my fingers to the bone building the one costume that spends the least amount of time onstage. Let’s nab Tommy,” she told Denny, “and see if this sucker finally fits.”
“Dear, sweet, put-upon Joyce,” Denny told her, “I am at your command.” And with a regal flourish befitting a Louis, he led her away from us, approaching the smallish Latino boy who sat alone, studying his script.
“I’d better get busy myself,” Frank told us. “There are a couple of complicated cross-fades in act two that just haven’t been working. Of course, it would help if we had some decent equipment—every circuit is already overloaded, and most of those dimmers are on their last legs.”
I sniffed. “I thought I smelled somethin
g electrical.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll get things patched together. We’ll survive the two-weekend run.” He turned to bound up the aisle toward the balcony, then paused, telling us, “Break a leg in act two, Thad. Good to see you again, Neil. And great to meet you, Mark.”
We echoed his friendly sentiments, and he was gone—eaten, it seemed, by the shadows of the old theater. “Nice guy,” I told the others. It was an offhand comment, conversational filler, not intended to carry any subtext, but as I said it, his wedding ring glinted in my mind’s eye.
“Mr. Gelden’s the best,” Thad agreed, rising from the table with a pile of finished programs. “All the kids in Fungus Amongus really like him. And he’s worked harder on Teen Play than most of the cast.” Thad jogged the stack of programs on the table, then crouched to place them in a corrugated box.
Neil told me, “Cynthia has suggested more than once that the four of us should get together—a double date.”
I laughed. “Fine with me.”
“Wow,” said Thad, jerking his head toward the brightly lit apron of the stage, “you’d never know Tommy in that getup.” Joyce and Denny fussed with the kid’s costume, which made him look like a hermit, an ancient troll, replete with a wig and beard in the style of a scruffy Jesus. Thad was right—Tommy’s costume totally disguised the boy within.
Confused, I said, “Denny called Teen Play a ‘contemporary drama.’ What’s up with Tommy? He looks like an extra from some Bible epic.”
Showing me a program, pointing to a line near the bottom of the cast, Thad explained, “Tommy Morales plays the Old Man, a bit part in act two. He pops into a scene that’s sort of a dream, speaks a few words of wisdom, then vanishes.”
“Oh.” I didn’t get it.
Thad continued, “Tommy is also the understudy for Dawson, the role I’m rehearsing tonight. Since Jason and I are double-cast as both Ryan and Dawson, either of us could take over the leading role of Ryan if the other couldn’t go on for some reason. Tommy would then step into the role of Dawson.”
“Ahhh.” Now I did get it. “That’s why Tommy had his nose buried in the script—the Old Man doesn’t take much study, but Dawson does.”
“Right. He’s learning Dawson’s lines. And if he ever needs to play Dawson, he can still play the Old Man as well because the two characters are never onstage together. No one would recognize Tommy beneath that beard anyway.”
With a grunt of approval, I told Thad, “I’m impressed. Denny has all the bases covered.” Laughing, I added with comic foreboding, “Should disaster strike.”
I have always scoffed at superstition, but there are doubtless those who will chide me for tempting fate with my glib tone. (In retrospect, I concede that my smug humor may have been brash, for tragedy did indeed prove to be looming. Still, I am reasonably certain that the impending calamity was rooted not in my offhand cockiness, but in the premeditated scheming of a killer.)
“Mica,” said Thad brightly to a girl who strolled past, in front of the stage, “I didn’t know you were here tonight.”
She stopped, turning to eye Thad with a blank expression that barely acknowledged his existence. Her features were pretty, if hard. Her fingernails (the word talons sprang to mind) were lacquered black. Her gleaming black hair was long and straight, chopped severely above a pert butt clad in a stretchy, black miniskirt that pushed the envelope of modesty—though modesty was clearly a concept that had never crossed her radar. She was of course pencil-thin. She told Thad dryly, “I didn’t think to report my presence. If you really need to know, I’m just keeping an eye on baby brother.” She smiled so faintly, it must have hurt.
Neil whispered in my ear, “I think that’s Mica Thrush, Jason’s older sister.”
“What a fright,” I whispered back. She and Thad were talking about something; she was asking how long the rehearsal would last.
With a low chortle Neil said, “Jason and Mica—typical spoiled rich kids.”
“Hey,” I reminded him, “Thad Quatrain is a ‘rich kid.’ ” By now, Jason had noticed his sister in the auditorium and, from the stage, joined the conversation with Thad and her.
“Yes,” Neil conceded, “but Thad’s hardly ‘typical.’ ”
“Of course not,” I agreed, mocking blind parental pride. “He’s ours.”
Exactly what happened next is not clear to me, as I was still gabbing with Neil, but at some point I became aware that Thad’s conversation with Jason had grown agitated, even heated. Other people’s chatter was quelled by this, and everyone in the theater, cast and crew alike, turned to listen.
Jason now rose from where he was sitting and stepped to the edge of the stage, stuffing his handkerchief in his jeans. He paused, looked Thad in the eye, and told him through a sarcastic smirk, “I see you brought your two daddies tonight. Are they proud of their boy toy?”
His words had the predictable effect—all present were stunned silent. The sheer bigotry of Jason’s attack, delivered with such bald arrogance, was meant not only to degrade Neil and me, but worse, to question the nature of our relationship to Thad and, in doing so, to hurt and humiliate him. As intended, Jason’s words did hurt Thad. I could see it in the boy’s face, in the way his body seemed instantly drained of energy, of life.
I wanted to rush to Thad’s defense, but anything I might have said would be perceived as a defense of myself. Oddly, I felt no urge to mount a counterattack against Jason’s adolescent homophobia. Rather, it was his mean-spirited bravado, his jock-boy swagger, that tempted me to forgo eloquence and simply slap the shit out of him.
Weighing all this, I felt paralyzed, wondering why the hell Denny Diggins didn’t do something, or at least say something. After all, he was in charge here—he had the authority and responsibility to maintain a semblance of decorum among his troupe. But silence reigned.
Finally, when someone did speak, it was Thad. The color had returned to his face, and I was delighted to read the intent in his grin. He had wisely decided to brush off Jason’s attack by trivializing it, as it deserved. He would respond to the words of an ignorant bully by bullying back, but with humor. Paraphrasing the closing words of act one, Thad said, “Keep it up, Jason, and you may not live till opening night. Remember, I’ll be waiting in the wings.”
A ripple of laughter and a chorus of ooh’s drifted through the theater, lightening the tension.
But Jason wouldn’t let it rest. “Ooh,” he said, picking up on the feigned fear voiced by the others and tossing it back at them. “I’m quakin’, Thad. I’m shakin’ in my boots.” In a girlish voice, he asked the heavens, “However will I sleep tonight?” Then, focusing again on Thad, he said, “That’s a pretty lame threat, coming from you, boy toy.”
This elicited another round of ooh’s from the crowd.
But it was Kwynn Wyman, Thad’s friend who’d been yakking onstage with Jason during the break, who spoke next. She sauntered downstage next to him, paused, and in the hot glare of the floodlights, snorted loudly, smelling him. She said, “That’s a pretty lame comment, coming from you, Jason—considering that cheap perfume you’re wearing.”
Others nearby waved their hands and held their noses, confirming that it was Jason who’d overdone it with the aftershave that night. And Kwynn’s description of it was dead-on—the flowery scent was anything but manly. Jason’s sister, Mica, dropped her steely composure and was the first to burst into laughter, quickly followed by others. Neil and I allowed ourselves a hearty chuckle, but Thad restrained himself, choosing instead to bead Jason with a quietly amused, unflinching stare of victory.
“Now, people, people!” scolded Denny, at last coming to life, rapping his hands. “Enough of this ‘teen play.’ We’ve got work to do, people! Places, everyone. Act two.” He turned, calling up to the control booth, “Frank? One minute till blackout.”
The cast rushed to take their positions onstage. The crew disappeared behind the scenes. Denny returned to his director’s table in the fift
h row. Neil and I chose seats near the middle of the auditorium. As the houselights began a slow fade, I mused about the petty skirmish we’d just witnessed—Jason’s slur, Thad’s threat, Kwynn’s comeback. They all seemed so…well, so juvenile, so inconsequential.
(Or so I thought. I hadn’t a clue that little Tommy Morales would soon be called upon to save the show.)
Thursday, August 2
FOLLOWING A NIGHT OF rain, the next day dawned hot and muggy. Sunrise consisted of a searing whiteness that slid upward through a blinding haze.
The house on Prairie Street, built for my uncle Edwin’s family in the years before air-conditioning was common, was designed to combat the dog days with broad, overhanging eaves shading long rows of shallow windows. A year ago, during my first summer in the house, I learned that while these features were deemed ingenious a half century ago, they didn’t begin to match the comfort-pumping power of several thousand BTUs. So the lovely old home was invisibly modernized with a high-efficiency air conditioner that I was assured “could frost a church.” An expensive retrofit of concealed ducts now blew bone-chilling relief from the high corners of every room. The house was sealed tight on that torrid August morn, and though birds greeted the day from surrounding treetops, I wasn’t even tempted to crack a window and hear their song. So much for fresh air.
“Going for a run?” Neil had asked me earlier, when we’d kissed, thrown back the covers, and swung our feet to the floor, rising from opposite sides of the bed.
I hesitated. A run with Neil was never drudgery; the mere sight of him in motion was its own reward (ah, the joy of aerobics). He too got a certain charge from our mutual workouts in the park, which were frequently topped off at home by a more languid form of exercise. “Uh, the heat”—I waffled—“not today. Sorry, kiddo.”
A bit later, around seven-thirty, when I arrived downstairs for breakfast, having showered and dressed for a busy day at the Register, I was alone in the kitchen. Neil was still out running. Thad was still in bed; he would sleep till noon if undisturbed. Barb, our live-in housekeeper, hired a half year ago in late January, didn’t seem to be around either. Coffee was freshly made though—bubbles still floated on the surface near the top of the glass pot. Morning papers were set out with a platter of pastries and bagels.
Boy Toy Page 2