But I know from Milt’s original look-see of the house that my office hasn’t really had that much damage, so I’m not concerned. Much.
I gather a breath designed to make me brave. The technique is an abysmal failure. I take a tentative step in the hallway, then another. Okay, so far so good. The hallway floor feels no different than it always has. No suspicious creaks, no gaps beneath the carpet to indicate a sinkhole. So I’m reasonably confident. With all the bedroom doors closed, I almost feel as though nothing had happened, except for the thick sawdust layering every visible surface. A parting gift from the tree guys. I’d have gladly paid another hundred bucks if they’d included vacuuming with the estimate.
Standing outside my office, I give the knob a tentative twist and shove. The door swings open. I can’t help the sob that catches in my throat, nor the quick tears that appear in my eyes. Aside from the sawdust covering all my beautiful books—without regard to my first-edition copy of Gone With the Wind displayed on a cheesy picture-frame easel or my treasured copy of John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress given to me by my dad when I graduated from high school—there’s not a lot of damage to this room. I’m pretty confident as I walk over to the wall where my research bookshelf is leaning slightly askew but is otherwise untouched by nature’s fury.
There’s a hole in my wall about the size of a window, where a branch must have speared through as it crashed. And above me, a skylight I never asked for. Although I’m seriously thinking about asking the contractor what it would set me back just to add one since there’s a hole for it already. I keep thinking how neat it would be to work at night under the stars and a big, bright moon.
My bookshelf is right next to the hole in the wall. I’m not stupid. I know I need to be extra careful. Cautiously, I approach. I scan the shelf where I last saw my book. It’s not there. I tell myself “Don’t panic.” There are several missing editions, so it stands to reason they were knocked off by the force of the invading tree. I scan the dusty floor around the bookcase and wall.
A sigh pushes from my lips as I locate the treasure I’m after. It’s on the floor right below the hole in the wall. I hesitate as fear grips me in a flash of heat and butterflies. But I know I can’t get this close to what I came to find only to leave it behind because of a little irrational fear of heights.
I tiptoe (like being quiet is going to spare me a brutal death should I fall out that hole) until I’m close enough to bend over. My fingers curl around the book and I feel a surge of accomplishment. Task completed. Something has finally gone right in my twisted life.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement.
Okay, let me just admit that I’m jumpy. I wish I weren’t. But the fact is that I am. So when I’m alone in a creepy, musty house, and I catch movement, the first thing I’m going to do is scream. And that’s what I do. An ear-piercing screech that leaves the windows and mirrors in serious jeopardy of major crackage.
Simultaneously, I jump—only there is debris on the floor and I stumble. Horrified, I lose my footing and start to fall backward, toward the window-sized hole in my wall. And let me tell you, a flimsy tarp isn’t going to keep a size 12 butt (size 10 before my list of crises over the past two weeks sent me to Pizza Hut more times than I care to admit) from scooting on through the hole. I’m picturing myself falling backwards to my death.
Suddenly, the movement I detected materializes in the form of a hero. He zips across the room like Tom Welling (aka Clark Kent from Smallville) and before I know it, strong arms have encircled me and I’m upright and in the arms of a strange man. Even in my crazy mind-set, I deduce, judging from the auburn hair and green eyes—identical to Linda’s—that my best friend’s brother has finally arrived.
His face is mere centimeters from mine and suddenly he smiles. A dazzling toothpaste-commercial smile. And just like that, I’m finding renewed inspiration to write romance. Stu’s going to be so happy.
The good thing about having an over-the-phone life coach is the anonymity it offers. I feel like I can be completely honest—not that I’m a big liar in general, but I might have trouble opening up if we were face to face or trying to explain to a friend (as opposed to a paid professional) how rotten I feel over losing Greg. How every single day I’m tempted to pick up the phone and beg him to stop thinking about being a pastor.
All of my friends would say, “Stop being so dumb and call him. Be a pastor’s wife. You can do all things through Christ . . .” Yada yada. I know better than to talk to Mom about it, or Linda, or even Darcy, because they all think Greg is the best thing to come along since the value meal at McDonald’s.
But this life coach is here for me. I pay her a lot of money to be.
“I just don’t think I can be a pastor’s wife,” I’m telling her.
“Why not?”
“Pastor’s wives are amazing.” I’m thinking of Tina Devine, my pastor’s wife. She really is fantastic. Organized, put together, sings beautifully. Deals with people in the proper way (I’d probably be losing my religion every day if I had to put up with criticism and stupidity from people who probably don’t have the biblical knowledge to find the book of Genesis).
“Aren’t you amazing?”
I snort. And really, I think that pretty much answers the question.
I wait for her to respond. Finally I realize that she isn’t going to pipe in with anything resembling reassurance that I am, in fact, amazing like one of my friends would have done.
What does she know anyway? I think, miffed. I’m tempted to just keep quiet and make her come up with some brilliant life-coachy thing to say, but I figure, hey, it’s my dime. Better to suck it up and explain why I’m not amazing enough to be a pastor’s wife.
“Okay, here’s the thing,” I say, but as long as it’s been since she’s uttered a word I have a feeling that she’s either dozed off or is watching TV by reading the closed captioning. Still, I’m sort of committed to the process by now. “Well, I’m divorced for one thing.”
“A lot of people are divorced.” Ah, so she is listening.
“Yes, but some Christians believe a divorced person shouldn’t remarry.”
Now it’s her turn to snort. I feel my hackles rising in defense of all my Christian brothers and sisters who hold to this belief. Hey, whatever happened to being the objective observer? She finally speaks a full sentence. “I suppose that’s something you have to decide for yourself.” I’m proud of her. I really am. She could have given some really opinionated philosophies, but she didn’t go there.
“Considering how some folks feel, I’m afraid I might hurt Greg’s ministry if I’m his wife.”
“And yet he asked you to marry him?”
“Yes.”
“Then he must not be too worried about it.”
“I am though.”
“Claire, I feel you need to consider that fear of ruining his ministry isn’t the only thing holding you back from marriage to a man you clearly love.”
Tears pop into my eyes because she is so right. I adore Greg. I love, love, love him with a mushy capital L. But as much as I want to spend my life with him, I know I can’t be the kind of wife he needs. I know I probably don’t want to put myself out there. I mean, pastors’ wives work hard and have to be nice to morons who think they know better than the pastor the direction God is leading the church. I’d be hard-pressed not to just show those people to the door and point to the street corner, where the next church sits in our church-on-every-corner section of the Bible Belt. “I guess I’m not willing to step into that position with him.” Oh wow. I just went from I can’t to I don’t want to.
“Very good insight.”
“Is it?” I ask in a shuddering voice.
“Your inner desires are speaking more loudly than even your strong emotions. You must give them some consideration. Often our inner desires, those feelings at the core, are what lead us into our destiny.”
See, it sounds all right when she says it like that. So how com
e I have this little niggling of unease about Emma? The very first time I called her, I asked her if she believes in God, to which she responded that she believes in a higher power and is a deeply spiritual person. She would call that higher power God, but many people don’t see God in the same way evangelical Christians do. She prefers the term higher power so that she doesn’t offend. I let it be known that she was free to use the word God with me any time, but so far she hasn’t taken me up on my generous offer. I focus back on what she’s saying, which is costing me by the minute.
“Claire, there is nothing wrong with discovering that you don’t have the same ideas about the future as the man you love. In no way does it trivialize your feelings for him.”
“Then why do I feel so guilty?” I can hear the despair in my own voice, the tremor I get sometimes just before I let loose with a flood of tears.
“Guilt is nothing but a lie. Don’t give in to it.” Her voice is determined, not the gentle monotone I’ve become accustomed to. This is more aggression than I’ve heard from my even-keeled life coach since I started talking to her.
How do I not feel guilty when I’m not sure I’ve made the right decision?
As if in answer to my unspoken question, Emma continues her advice. “If I were you, I’d get back into the dating ring as soon as possible.”
As soon as possible? Doesn’t she realize that it took me five years to get back into the dating ring after my divorce? I may never get over losing Greg. “I just don’t think I’ll be ready for that anytime soon. Besides, where would I find anyone who wants to date me?”
“You have as much responsibility as the guy to show availability. What about your new contractor? You said he was pretty cute.”
And if by “pretty cute” she means hunk-a-rama, then yeah, I guess he is.
The children’s theater is putting on Peter Pan. I’m thinking it’s a little ambitious for the first play performed by the new theater group. But since no one bothered to ask my opinion, let alone take it into consideration, auditions begin today. I pull my minivan alongside the curb and turn to look at Shawn. Sitting in the passenger seat, the kid looks like he’s about to throw up.
“You okay, bud?” I need to distract him so I don’t end up with a mess in my van.
He nods.
“Look, you know you don’t have to do this. If you get in there and you don’t want to stay, it’s no big deal to me. We’ll do something else.”
I think that snaps him out of it, because he looks at me askance and scowls. “I don’t want to back out. I just have to push through my fear and be professional.”
This from an eleven-year-old?
My jaw drops a little at the new, grown-up version of my little boy. The thing is, I know he has the talent to be an actor, singer, musician, anything he wants. He and Tommy are even in a “band.” They’re horrible, but that’s mostly because poor Tommy needs to stick to what he’s good at: skateboarding. But this mom is not going to discourage him for however long he wants to think he’s a singer.
Shawn is still trying to screw up enough courage to open the door. “Do you want me to come in with you?”
He seems to consider it, then shakes his head. “You’ll make me more nervous.”
Now, a lesser woman would definitely be hurt by this. But I know Shawn didn’t mean anything by it. He just meant he’d be trying to impress me and might do just the opposite. Nothing to feel rejection over. Besides, I happen to know I can park around back, sneak in through the side door, and hide in the balcony to watch every move he makes. Duplicitous, perhaps, and I’m not recommending it to anyone necessarily, but come on, I have to watch.
“Come back in two hours,” he says like he’s a teenager (his sister, for instance, who has been blowing me off on a regular basis for the last four years).
I try to take it in stride. “Okay, I’ll be here by three o’clock.” I lean over to kiss him good-bye, only to be greeted by his back.
“Bye, Mom!”
Okay, then. Bye-bye.
I wait for him to be swallowed up by two massive theater doors, not at all sure I’m ready to let this one go. As a matter of fact, I know I’m not.
A few minutes later, I’ve parked around back and slipped inside and into the balcony. The theater is dim except for the stage lights and the muted lights along the aisles and walls to keep people from running into anything on their way to the bathroom.
The kids must be sitting in the seats as they wait their turn to audition, because I can’t see Shawn. I do, however, see a familiar regal figure striding across the stage. John Wells, the atheist, almost-Broadway, world-traveling actor. Reduced to children’s theater. How the mighty have fallen.
Unwittingly, I let out pretty loud snort. Doggone it. I step back into the shadows, but of course my paranoia is misplaced. No one is going to see me this far up. John begins to speak, and even without a microphone his voice projects throughout the empty theater.
The children don’t make a move. I mean no whispering, no shuffling of little Nikes on the concrete floor, nothing. Not a peep, not a finger wiggle. Nothing.
Not that I blame them. Sheesh, John Wells is obviously in charge. His ramrod-straight spine looks as though it were fused that way. And for some reason, he’s holding a gold-handled walking stick I’ve never seen before. I suspect John’s only carrying it for effect. To tell you the truth, it’s working. He looks suave, debonair, and not a day over sixty.
Still, that’s from a woman’s perspective. If I were a little boy like Shawn, I’d be looking for the nearest exit and forget the whole thing. I mean, it’s one thing to be an adult and engage in a little friendly back-and-forth with the heathenistic actor, quite another to audition for him. The very thought renders me weak with compassion over the ordeal upon which my son is about to embark.
“Good afternoon, children.” John’s studied gaze slides from one side to the other of the front row of the middle section of seats. “Welcome to the first audition for Peter Pan. Before we proceed, you will be divided into sections according to the part for which you wish to audition. Please stand.”
The children do as they are instructed. Again, with very little noise and no shuffling about once they are standing.
“All right. I want all Peter Pans to move to the left, filling the six seats in the front and second rows,” John said.
The non-Peter Pans move aside and allow the immortal child hopefuls to fill their seats.
“Next, all those auditioning for Wendy. Please leave two seats between you and the Peter Pans. Fill the eight seats on the front row and seven on the second directly behind.”
These, too, do as they are asked. “Fine, fine. Now I would like the rest of you to leave two seats on the front row, and three on the second, and fill in the next four seats on the front and second rows. We’ll begin with auditions for the Lost Boys. Mrs. Jensen will call two names. You will go to those steps”— he points to the stairs by the stage door—“Through the door. The second name called will stay backstage while the first is auditioning. When the first is finished, he or she will then exit on the opposite side of the stage through that door.” He points to the other door. “Mrs. Jensen will then call the next name, and you will come up and remain backstage while number two comes to center stage.”
He pauses and looks over what I’m sure are thirty blank faces. “Any questions?”
Not even one.
“Fine, then. I shall take a seat behind all of you. Please do not fidget and distract me from the auditions. If you cannot be still or quiet, you will be asked to leave. Once more, any questions?”
Again, not a one. I bite back a laugh. No way these kids got all that on the first time through. I just know someone is going to get lost, go to the wrong door, leave the stage on the same side they came in on.
But after four Lost Boys and two Tinker Bells, I realize I’ve been proven wrong. Knowing children like I do (mother of four here), I’m amazed at the ease with which John’s instr
uctions have been received and followed.
Note to self: Ask John Wells his secret for commanding the respect and/or obedience of children. I’m thinking hypnosis has occurred and I somehow missed it.
I sit through the auditions of at least thirty kids from ages six years old (the minimum) to fifteen (the maximum—I think they want the older boys for Hook and the other pirates). Most of the acting is passable for amateur children’s theater. The singing is positively painful with the exception of four or five kids—all of whom are girls except the fifteen-year-old boy who, as I suspected, wants to be the infamous Captain Hook. Judging by his performance and the fact that no one else tried out, I’m guessing he’ll get a callback.
Over an hour later, I’m waiting impatiently as the Peter Pans finally begin their auditions. By the fourth Peter Pan audition, I feel a sinful sense of glee that not only can’t any of them act their way out of a paper bag, but they can’t sing either. And to be honest, most of them just aren’t all that cute.
If all the kids are like this, I think with smug assurance, Shawn’s got this in the bag.
A little frown creases my brow, and I don’t even bother to smooth it out (thereby avoiding permanent creases between my eyes—a wretched sign of aging). A blonde girl walks onto the stage, and I recognize her as Jenny Devine. She has a little round face and rosy cheeks. I know from memory that the pastor’s daughter has enormous blue eyes. The child could have been sent straight from heaven. Her soul is as beautiful as her outward appearance. Only there must be some mistake because these are the auditions for Peter Pan, not Wendy. The Wendy auditions ended fifteen minutes ago.
John’s voice creeps from the fourth row back. “Begin when you’re ready, Miss Devine.”
The music begins, and my stomach plummets. There’s no mistaking that Jenny is following the footsteps of Mary Martin. And Sandy Duncan. She’s taking the traditional route and auditioning to play the role of Peter Pan.
Claire Knows Best Page 12