“I heard about the thing at the diner. Very brave of all of you.”
“Yeah. I thought so too.”
“Well,” Mr. Waters says, “okay if I show up to rehearsal tonight?”
“Sure. I’d like you there. You can give me your take on what I’m doing.”
“Fine, then. See you later.”
I think about all this as I drive home. I’m always glad to get a critique from Mr. Waters. He knows his stuff. As I run through the things I may want to rethink before rehearsal, maybe make some changes or leave alone, I look ahead on Belknap. There on the side of the highway is Jeep. Walking home.
I want to stop. Pick him up. But I have to be strong. I can’t lead him on anymore. If that’s what I’ve been doing. I just keep driving past him.
I find pork chops defrosting in the refrigerator. I take them out and decide I could use some company. I take out the white pages, look up Melvin Pollard. I dial the number. A young-sounding girl answers. “Is Butch there?”
I hear her scream, “Butchie. It’s for you.”
I wait. “Yeah?” I hear, finally. It’s Butch.
“Hey, Butch. It’s Dewey. Remember what we talked about? Come over now, and you can get a lesson in fried pork chops. You game?”
There is a long pause.
“Butch? You still there?” I ask.
“I’m here. I just can’t believe you called. I’ll be right there.”
“Don’t you need my address?”
“Nah, Dewey. Remember? Mama used to do ironing for your mama. I used to ride with her when she brought it over.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember.”
As I wait for Butch, I think about when he used to come over with his mother. With all the more recent stuff, I’d forgotten about those times. We were little then. We’d play together as Mother and his mama did their business and visited some. Crazy how little kids never seem to have problems together. It’s only when we get older that differences crop up. Well, I think, I hope, the differences between Butch and me are all ironed out now.
Our doorbell rings, and Butch is standing there on the front porch when I open the door. I let him in.
He looks around. “Wow, your house is really nice. It’s bigger than ours. Your daddy’s changed it a lot since we were little.”
I can’t believe what he’s saying. Our house is little, and even though Mother keeps it nice, Daddy hasn’t done a whole lot to it. All he did was add my room. I don’t think it’s all that luxurious or anything. We’re not rich, by any means.
“This is a lot nicer than our place,” Butch says.
“Thanks. Kitchen’s in here.”
We get in the kitchen, and I say, “Okay, we’re going to fry pork chops. See the Crisco there?” I point to the can on the open shelf. “Get that down, and I’ll get a big spoon.”
Butch follows my orders. I pull the plastic top off the can, and I scoop out a big glop of Crisco. I plop it into the frying pan on the stove. “We need two more spoonfuls that size.” I hand him the spoon, and he shakes the glop of shortening into the pan like he’s been doing it forever. “Good job,” I say. And Butch smiles like he’s never heard praise in his life.
I say, “Before we turn on the burner, we need to get everything ready.” I pull the flour canister to the middle of the counter. “There’s a scoop inside. Put two scoops of flour in this pie pan.” I point to the pan I’ve set down in front of us. Butch does what I say. “Now, shake some salt and pepper into the flour.” He looks around and sees the shakers. “Not too much salt.” He shakes. “A little more.” He adds some more. “Now, lots of pepper. Daddy likes pepper.” Butch peppers like crazy. “Now, we’re going to stir this with a fork, then dredge each pork chop in it.” He stirs. I dredge the first chop and put it on a plate. I gesture he can do the rest. I can’t believe Butch seems to be enjoying it all. “Now, before we fry ’em up, let’s make everything else.”
I show him how to peel potatoes. His mama, poor thing, must be so frazzled from working all the time and putting up with his daddy she doesn’t have time to work with her poor kids. Butch doesn’t know how to do anything in the kitchen except how to make toast, he says. And teaching him how to do what we’re doing is a lot of fun.
We set the cut-up potatoes to boil. He opens a can of green peas, and I produce a pan for him to pour them into. With the peas heating up, I show him how to fry the pork chops.
He reaches to turn them over, as I’d said we’d do, and I stop him by grabbing his arm. He jerks his arm back like I’ve just beaten him within an inch of his life. “Sorry.” I quickly drop my hand far away from him. “It’s just it’s a little too soon to turn them. Give them another minute.”
“Okay,” he says, very quietly. The look on his face is strange. He somehow seems embarrassed at what he’s done.
“Don’t worry about it. You’re still just learning. You just don’t ever want to eat raw pork, so we want to let them brown really well.” I smile at him. “You’re doing a great job, Butch.”
He smiles, and it lights up the room. Whatever kind of life does he have a simple compliment like that can make him so happy?
We wait a minute. “Okay, flip ’em over.” He does, and I say, “Beautiful crust on that side.” And again, that smile I’d never seen before a few minutes ago. Certainly not in all those years he tormented me.
We finish the chops, and with them on paper towels to soak up some of the grease, we put them in the oven, set at 150 degrees, to stay warm. I show him how to drain, mash, and season the potatoes. As we are finishing up the peas, Daddy comes home.
“King Cat,” he calls, “something smells really good!”
Butch looks at me. “King Cat?”
I roll my eyes. My secret’s out. “Yes.”
“Don’t worry. It will be our secret,” Butch says. “King Cat’s better than Shitpot,” he says. And I see in his eyes that must be what his daddy calls him. How sad.
Daddy comes into the kitchen. “Who’s your friend?” Daddy’s smile is wider than the cat’s is in the Alice in Wonderland cartoon movie I saw when I was little.
“Daddy, this is Butch. You remember. His mama used to do ironing for Mother sometimes.”
“You’re that scrawny little kid who used to come along with your mama?” Daddy smiles as he says this to Butch.
“Yes, sir, that’s me.”
“Well, you’re all grown up now. Glad to see you again. What you guys doing?”
“Butch wanted to learn to cook, so I told him to come over and I’d show him some stuff.”
Daddy bends over and looks through the oven window. “Pork chops, huh? That’s King Cat’s best, Butch. Listen to him. Your family is gonna be rubbing their bellies if you fix those for ’em.” Daddy turns, opens the refrigerator, takes out a beer, and pops the top. “I’ll let you boys finish up.” And he goes to drink his beer.
“Your daddy’s nice, Dewey,” Butch says.
“He is,” I say. A momentary thought I quickly banish: if he doesn’t ever find out about Saturday night.
“Okay,” I say, “now we’re gonna make some cream gravy. I used to wait until Mother came home and let her do this, but I finally figured out how to do it right. First”—I pick up the frying pan—“we want to strain off some of the grease. You want to leave just a little of the grease and all of that good, brown, crunchy stuff in the bottom of the pan.” I show him how to do that. “Then we add a couple of spoons of flour to the grease.” I make Butch do this, with a tablespoon. “Now, stir it all up smooth. We want a medium low heat.” I turn on the burner and show him the right setting. “Okay, keep stirring as we pour in this milk.” I reach for the measuring cup I’d poured milk in before. Butch stirs. “Keep stirring a lot to keep lumps from forming. Now see, it’s starting to get thick.” We wait, with Butch stirring and stirring. Finally, I say, “You think it’s thick enough?” Butch nods. “You have a good eye. When I first started making gravy, I made it way too thick. When we’d eat,
Daddy would say, ‘Pass me a slice of that gravy.’”
Butch laughs. “Must be fun living with your daddy.” Again, that sadness flits across his face.
“Can be,” I say. “So, turn off the burner.” He does. “Now, lift the pan, and we’ll pour it into a bowl.”
As Butch pours into the bowl I’ve put on the counter, Mother arrives home. She always comes straight to the kitchen.
“Well, you have a helper tonight, I see, Sweet Pea.”
I look at Butch, a smirk on his face. “Looks like all my secrets are out,” I say. The semitruth of that smacks me in the face.
Quickly, I say, “This is Butch, Mother. You remember, Butch Pollard?”
“Why, yes I do. It’s so good to see you, Butch. How’s your mama?”
“She’s great, Mrs. Snodgress.” Butch is so polite to Mother. I’m learning more and more about this kid who once tormented me. He can be really nice when he wants to be.
“Is dinner ready, Dewey?”
“Yes, Mother. Butch and I just finished. I was teaching him. He’s a good listener.”
“You’re a good teacher,” Butch says.
Mother smiles at both of us. “I’ll set the table. Butch, you’re staying, aren’t you?”
“I need to get home, Mrs. Snodgress,” Butch says.
I look at him. “Your cooking lesson’s not over until you taste what you made. Stay and eat with us, Butch.”
He looks at me like I’ve just given him a million dollars. “Okay,” he says. He adds, “Sweet Pea King Cat,” and smiles.
I want to bop him up against the head, but that would be impolite to a guest in our house, as Mother would quickly point out. Besides, I’m beginning to think Butch has had his share of bops against the side of his head.
Mother finishes with the table, then she calls Daddy. We all sit. “Dig in, boys,” she says.
Daddy forks a bite of pork chop and chews it. “Who made these? Delicious.” My daddy can be a real charmer sometimes. When he isn’t ranting about his very strong moral beliefs.
I point at Butch. He grins.
“Butch, you’re a good cook, my man,” Daddy says. “And my boy here’s a good teacher.”
We finish our meal, and Butch says, “Thank you. I really need to get home now.”
“Well, you come again sometime, Butch. We enjoyed having you,” Mother says.
Daddy adds, “And it’s good to see one of Dewey’s friends here, for a change.” Butch doesn’t realize, I hope, that’s a dig at me.
Butch leaves, and as I’m about to leave for rehearsal, Daddy says, “That Butch is a nice kid. Bring him around anytime.”
“I will, Daddy.” Thinking, probably not, but why spoil a good thing?
As I arrive at rehearsal, LuLu is waiting. She gives me a hug.
“Well, it’s good to see you too, Miss Hollywood Star.”
“I missed you over the weekend, DewDew,” she says. Her nickname for me is sort of unfortunate, but she says it with love. “How was your time without me?”
I don’t want to get into it with her, so I just say grandly, “I was desolate not having you in my presence, Scarlett.” Actors can be so full of bullshit.
“Rhett, you’ll make me swoon,” she says, in her Scarlett O’Hara voice. She uses her hand to fan herself, as if she’s about to collapse in a dither.
We both hear, “Well, Miss Scarlett and Mr. Rhett, you better get your behinds in here.” It’s Ben, standing in the doorway to the performance space. “I’m ready to do some of my patented, brilliant directing if you two will join us.” He is smiling.
“Sure thing, Ben,” I say. And we walk quickly toward him.
As LuLu passes him, I hear her say quietly, “Thank you for Friday night.” She’s talking about the diner incident, I know.
Ben says, “You’re welcome.” That’s all that is said, but I can feel it. A monumental breakthrough has been experienced by us all, and it has been commemorated with a simple thank-you.
We start immediately into running the show. Before long, Mr. Waters comes into the space. He has a tall, good-looking man with him. Ben notices their arrival.
“Cast, my best friend, one of the most talented theater people I know is here. Meet Rob Waters. And this is his partner, Glen.”
Murmurs of hello and good to meet you ripple through the cast as what Ben has just said sinks in. Partner? I push the thought away. Seeing Mr. Waters gives me a tiny case of the jitters. I want him to see what I’m doing here with the character, but at the same time, I don’t want him to see. What if what I’m doing is all wrong? He placed his faith in me when he got me this gig.
“Rob, Glen, have a seat. Take notes. These folks want to hear your take on what we’ve been putting together here, I’m sure,” Ben says.
We begin the rehearsal again. Everything goes well. When we finish, Ben motions for Mr. Waters to take the floor. He gives a lot of notes, most of it praising each actor’s work. He does clear up some blocking that has been plaguing us. Even Ben had been bothered, but he couldn’t fix it. Mr. Waters’s solution is perfect. But when all is said and done, the only thing Mr. Waters says to me is, “I want to talk to you after.”
My heart falls. Am I that bad?
Mr. Waters finishes, and Ben says, “See you tomorrow.” Everyone leaves, with LuLu giving me a crushing good-bye hug.
Ben hangs behind, but he stands, hovering, listening to Mr. Waters as he gives me my one-on-one critique.
“Okay, Dewey. First thing, you’re doing a great job, but Ben asked me to come and watch because he thinks what we have to say is better coming from me than him, since I’m the one who rooked you into this.”
Wow, what a mixed message. Great job? But? Am I getting fired?
Ben speaks up. “Dewey, I assure you, you’re a great actor. It’s the gay thing. I thought Rob—Mr. Waters—could help you better because you two are tight.”
“You flatter me, Ben,” Mr. Waters says. “You’re as good a director as I am. Better. But I’ll do what I can to help Dewey.” He turns to me. “Now, Dewey, you’ve got to loosen up. Right now, you’re much too stiff. Straight audiences are clueless. They think all gay men are flaming queens, ultrafeminine. Straights have no idea there are gay men like us. Gay men who are pretty much like every other man.”
I start to sweat. When he says “us,” who does he mean? I know Ben’s that way. Is Mr. Waters? Does he think I’m…?
“Now,” he says, “let’s work a little on your walk.” He demonstrates a walk that has a swing in it. “What you don’t want to do is make a caricature out of Randy, but you have to put enough stereotype into him the audiences believe that he is gay. Just enough, see?” He does the walk again. “Now you try it.” I do. “Good, good. You’re a born actor, Dewey.”
“Great, Dewey,” Ben says. “That’s exactly what we’re looking for. Just enough to convince the audience, but not so much they don’t like Randy. They’ve got to understand him and be pissed off and hurt when he gets killed.”
“Let’s work on some gestures now,” Mr. Waters says.
We work for another fifteen minutes. They are all pleased, and I feel like Randy has finally come to life for me.
“See you tomorrow, Dewey,” Ben says.
As I go through the lobby, I overhear, “That’s all he needed, Ben. Just to loosen up and be himself with the character.”
As I drive home, anger builds in me. They are convinced I’m that way. How dare they think that.
As soon as I’m home, I get that phone number out of my wallet. It’s too late to be calling, but I string the phone line into my room, and I dial the numbers.
A stern male voice answers. “Hello?”
“Sorry to be calling so late, but….” I think quickly. “I have a quick homework question for Dalayna. May I speak to her?”
“I’ll get her, but, young man, please don’t phone here this late again.” In the background as I wait, I hear, “Dalayna, telephone!” A pause. “It’s mu
ch too late for this, young lady.”
“Hello?” I hear her honey voice.
“Dalayna? It’s Dewey Snodgress?” A question? Like she wouldn’t know me if I just stated my name and went on. I take a breath.
“Dewey?” There is a catch in her voice. I’m not surprised. It’s not like we’re best friends or anything. I plow on, this time with more confidence in my voice—albeit manufactured confidence.
“I was wondering if you’d like to go to the movies with me on Saturday night.”
“Well, uh….”
So much for false bravado. “It’s okay. Just an idea. I understand.” I start to hang up.
“No, wait, Dewey.” She stops me from hanging up on her. “I was just trying to think. I know I have a basketball game to cheer at this weekend. I was trying to think if it was Friday or Saturday. But, I’m sorry, it’s Saturday. Maybe some other time.”
“Sure,” I say. “Well, good night.” I rack my brain. Yes, there is a basketball game Saturday night. But somehow I think if there hadn’t been, Dalayna would have had to wash her hair that night. Or visit a sick friend. Or go to her grandma’s funeral.
Chapter 8
I MADE it through the rest of last week. Mostly, I let myself enjoy choir and drama classes, but for the rest of the day I spaced out. I took notes, did my homework, kept up with everything, but I didn’t speak in class, and I certainly didn’t speak to anybody out of class. Once, Jeep came up to me in the hall, but I just kept walking.
That tore my heart out, but it was for his own good.
Dalayna did tell me, once again, how sorry she was, but I could hear in her voice she was just being nice. There was no way she would ever go on a date with me.
I did, however, get that Saturday movie date I was hoping for, only not with Dalayna. My cousin Jo fixed me up with one of her friends. I had called her to tell her I’d missed seeing her when my parents went to her house. I spilled about the whole Dalayna thing. And even though I never said a word about Jeep or rehearsal with Mr. Waters or why I called Dalayna, Jo knows me. She decided I needed a date to get me out of my funk.
All You Need Is Love Page 10