She jumps up and smothers me in a hug, holding the bouquet behind me as she screams, “DewDew, these are gorgeous. I love you, love you, love you.” Then she breaks from me. Kisses me on the lips. Adds, “But only in a friend way. I know you’re gay, DewDew. You’ll figure it out.”
That again. I decide, because she has that wicked smile pasted on her face, she is teasing once again. I have to decide that. I can’t let her harping on the issue cloud my performance. I know I’m not that. As I’ve told her, I just play one on stage.
“Whatever you say, LuLu.”
We sit.
“It’s going to be a great show. A monumental show. Do you think the Star-Telegram will send a critic?” She is bubbling over with excitement. So much for meditation.
I look at her. Roll my eyes. “I doubt it, girl. We’re not Casa Mañana, now, are we?”
“But they sometimes review Fort Worth Community Theater. We’re better than them.”
“Maybe, but they’ve been around forever. We’re just a start-up, here. If we’re lucky, the TCU campus paper might come, since Ben and Anna Maria are their graduates. But don’t hold your breath.”
“DewDew, you’re a spoilsport. I say the New York Times has heard about us, and Mel Gussow is probably already checked into his hotel, enjoying a light dinner, and calling a taxi to get him here on time.”
“Dream on, girl. Dream on.”
She nods her head to emphasize she does, indeed, plan to keep dreaming. And I know she will.
“Are the doctor and his wife coming tonight?”
“Oh, yes,” she says. “If for no other reason than they can tell me they saw my performance, and I don’t have a chance in hell of making it in Tinseltown. And your folks?”
“God, no. I made sure I didn’t tell them it was opening night. I don’t need the added pressure of my daddy in the audience.”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, Daddy’s one of those gung ho for Vietnam people. This show would piss him off royally. So if I’m lucky, they’ll never come see it. At best, maybe I can stall them until closing night. Sort of ‘delay the inevitable wrath.’”
“Oh, DewDew, I’m so sorry. I fully understand, but I’m sorry for you. Your parents need to see your performance. It’s magnificent.” She brushes my cheek with her hand.
“Thanks, girl. You’re pretty amazing, yourself. If the doctor and his wife think otherwise, they have no taste whatsoever.”
We look up to see the stage manager staring at us. “Uh, you two. We’re opening the house now. Unless you want to be caught in full costume and makeup, you need to hustle backstage.”
“Oh, my God,” LuLu says, jumping up. I do the same. She quickly hugs me, and we head to our separate spots backstage, she to do more meditation, me to plead with Dionysius or whatever god may be listening.
The show cannot be better. There is lightning sparking us all. From the circle backstage, where we all gathered hands to transfer energy, we are alive. The audience hangs on every word. They laugh at the quips, they gasp at the atrocities, they cry audibly at Randy’s death. They leap to their feet at the end. LOVE has spoken, and these people have heard. We can only hope that scattered among the friends and family—those who are predisposed to like the show—there are those who are totally impartial and will spread the word about our little show. We have, after all, two more performances to do. We need butts in the seats.
As we do our curtain call, the applause is deafening, as are the calls of bravo and the whistles filling the space. When I arrive for my bow, the noise increases. I think of Miss Zelko’s blood, sweat, and tears. This show has all that and more.
They won’t let us off stage. We take four group bows, and still, they are thundering.
After the fourth bow, we motion for Ben to take the stage, applauding him as we shout, “Director, director.”
Ben humbly makes his way up the east aisle and bounds on the stage. He motions for the audience to calm themselves. It takes several moments of his hand motions before they stop.
“Thank you for all this. We could not be happier. And I could not be prouder of this fine play. I want you to meet the author of LOVE—Anna Maria Entonces.” He motions to Anna Maria, and she joins us onstage. The audience applauds louder, even though I don’t think that’s possible.
At last, they let Anna Maria speak. “I’m proud of my play, but a play is only as good as its cast. These actors have put their hearts and souls into this performance you’ve so generously lauded tonight. Having sat through these past weeks of rehearsals, I’ve come to believe one thing: in many ways, these people are not acting. They believe in the cause I feel so strongly about. We must end this war!”
Again there is applause. It is not as loud as before, so I guess some of the audience have loved the performance, not necessarily the message. But we have made our point to some, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Ben says, “Please, tell your friends about us. We have two more performances, and good seats are still available.”
There is another hearty round of applause. We exit as the house lights come back up.
There is a chaos of joy backstage. Hugs. Kisses. Handshakes. I am so caught up in it all it almost doesn’t register some of those kisses I’m getting are from the guys as well as the girls. It’s the theater.
Knowing we all have friends in the lobby who have come out to see us, we vow to see each other at the diner, and then we head out to gather our accolades. That’s another fun part of theater; you get praised after the show by everyone who loves you. They’re supposed to do that. They love you, after all. But after a performance, you don’t even think about it. So I’m primed for some praise.
I immediately see Jo. I quake. With her—Mother and Daddy. Damn. My steps become slower. But Jo rushes up to me.
“Dewey, you were fantastic!” she says, as she hugs me.
“Thanks, Joey,” I say. Then quietly, “What are they doing here?” I look over at my smiling mother, still standing with Daddy across the room. I can’t read the expression on Daddy’s face.
“I brought them. My own folks wouldn’t come. And knowing what your play was about, I knew they shouldn’t come. So I asked if I could tag along with your parents. Your mother was surprised when I asked her. Why didn’t you tell them it was opening night, cousin?”
“Because I didn’t want them to come, cousin.” I punch the last word to show her I’m not happy with her.
Jo plows on. “Nonsense. Did you not learn anything from what we talked about this week? You don’t keep your own parents in the dark about how you feel, what you’re doing. If Danny had told my parents earlier, made them understand, he’d be safely alive in Canada tonight.” Her voice catches as she speaks those last words. “So don’t let me ever hear you’ve lied to your folks again, you hear? Not even, as they say, a tiny lie of omission. Now, get over there and hear how much they liked the play.” She pushes me toward Mother and Daddy.
As I slowly make my way to them, I think, Yeah, I bet Daddy liked the play.
Mother hugs me the minute I reach them. “Sweet Pea, you were so good. I loved the Baby Ruth addiction. That was priceless. Made us love you so that when you died, we were even more hurt. Of course, seeing my baby die, even on stage, was a bit much for me to take.”
My mother—ever the sentimental one.
I look at Daddy. “Great job, King Cat.”
Whoa. Wait a minute. He called me King Cat. Now I am confused.
Daddy grabs me. Gives me a big bear hug. “I still think our boys over there are heroes, but your play made a good point. Maybe we are fighting a losing cause.”
I can’t believe my ears. This is not my daddy. Who is this man?
“You really think that?” I ask, looking into his eyes.
“Dewey, watching you die—yes, I know, you were playing a character—for something you believed so strongly in, made a big impression on me. Especially so soon after last week. I don’t know. I think it’s time I looked
at the big picture. I’m not saying I’m completely convinced, but I am saying maybe you have a point. Jo and I talked during intermission.”
I look at Jo, and she smiles.
“Your cousin,” Daddy says, “feels the same way you do. And I was ready to leave after the first half, I was so pissed. But Jo convinced me to stay. She said if her folks hadn’t been so closed-minded about Danny, he might not have died. I don’t know what she meant about that. It’s probably none of my business. But she said it with so much conviction, I realized I owed it to you and her—and Danny—to watch the rest of this thing and see how it all came out in the wash. And she was right. I guess your show changed me some.”
I hug him again. “Oh, Daddy. That’s all I ask. I just want you to think about it.”
“I will, King Cat. I will. How could I not after watching my son’s fantastic acting? What say we head over to A&W for root beer? My treat.”
I want to go so bad. After all, this is a totally new version of my old daddy. But I also want to go to the diner with the group. Luckily, Mother speaks up.
“I’d bet he has a party to go to. Huh, Sweet Pea?”
“Yeah. Everybody’s planning to hit the diner down the street.”
“You go on, Dewey,” Daddy says, “Rain check?”
I nod.
Daddy grabs Mother and Jo by the arms. “Come on, pretty ladies. We’ve got a root beer date.” And they leave.
As they leave, I see Butch, who apparently has been standing, hidden by them.
“Great show, Dewey.”
“Butch? I can’t believe you came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. How could I miss my friend’s professional debut?”
“Such fancy words, Butch. But we’re not professionals. Just an amateur group putting on a show.”
“Well, whatever you guys are, your play was really good. I think you changed a lot of minds about Vietnam tonight.”
“I hope so.”
“You know, Dewey, I watched your mother and daddy just now. They really love you. My mama loves me, but my daddy….” He stops.
“Your daddy loves you, Butch. He just doesn’t always show it. I’m sure.” I have no idea, but I have to say this. I can see he’s hurting.
“No, Dewey, he doesn’t give a fuck about me. Just ask him. But one day, I’ll find a way out of there. A way I can still help Mama but not have to see his face anymore.”
I see the hurt in his eyes. My words are not adequate, but I say, “I know you will, Butch. I know you will.”
He brightens. “Well, it’s a long bus ride home, so I’d better get going.” He shakes my hand, like we are business partners or something. I want to hug him, but I decide I shouldn’t.
“Thanks for coming.” I hate he has to ride the bus crosstown this late at night, but I’ve got a party to go to.
I turn to go backstage to clean up when I hear, “Wait.” I know the voice. My heart tugs.
I turn back.
There he is.
“Dew, did you think I’d miss your opening night?” He is all smiles. “I had to hitch a ride with a wagon train to get here, pardner, but I couldn’t miss this.”
Jeep.
Oh, Jeep.
Oh, silly, wonderful Jeep.
“Jeep, what are doing here?” Stupid me. I can’t think of something better to say?
“Dew, I just told you. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. And that wagon train thing? That was just an icebreaker. Mama let me bring the car.”
I had to have time to think. And this flashed across my brain: “Jeep, go out and find Butch. He’s at the bus stop. You can give him a ride home.”
“But I want to talk. To tell you how good you were.” Jeep looks crushed.
“Just go find Butch. Tell him to wait for you. You can come back.” And meanwhile, I can get my bearings, think of how to deal with this bit of unexpectedness.
As Jeep is outside, I think. I can’t lead him on. I can’t let him even get a teensy idea we can be a couple. But I am glad he came. Oh, I’m so glad he came.
He comes back in, taking giant leaps. “Butch says he’ll wait. I even opened the car for him, since it’s cold out there.”
“Good.”
“So, Dew, I just want you to know you are a great actor. That Randy guy was totally convincing. By the time he died, I was so caught up in it all, I was watching the boy I love—er, like—die. I was crying like a baby.”
I see a look of anguish.
“Jeep, I’m glad my acting affected you so. That’s just what I was going for.” Why am I sounding so detached? So cold?
When I want to grab him and comfort him. He looks like a lost little boy.
“Dew, I can’t lie. When you died up there, a part of me died. And yes, I was wrapped up in it all and knew it was Randy dying, but I wanted to jump up on that stage and hold him in my arms. It tore me apart he—you—were suffering.”
I can’t take it. I reach for his hands, to hold them, to show him I feel some of what he is feeling. He mistakes my gesture. He falls into my arms, tears flowing.
“I’ve missed you so much, Dewey. So much.”
I feel so false. I’ve missed him too, but not like he means. I’m not that way. He is. We can never be together.
I manage to push him away. To hold him at arms’ length. Quietly, gently, I say, “Jeep, you know we can’t be together like you want. We are friends. Nothing will change that. But you have to get the other thing out of your head, you hear me?”
A very strange look from him pierces my soul. Tears dried, he says, “Okay.”
He walks away, broken, it seems.
Just then, from a few feet away, LuLu.
“Not gay, huh?”
Chapter 12
SUNLIGHT STREAMING through the window awakens me. Trying to keep my eyes closed and fighting to stay asleep, I lift one eyelid a tiny slit to look at the alarm clock: 9:00 a.m. Crack of dawn. After all, it’s Saturday morning. I expel a huge sigh. Why am I up so early? The smell penetrates the cobwebs of my brain. Bacon. Pancakes. I can sleep through anything, but this morning, the bewitching aroma is too much for me to bear.
A knock on my door. Mother. “You up? I made your favorite for breakfast.”
“Give me a second,” I call out. Odd she has gotten me up. My usual Saturday is to fend for myself for breakfast. If she’s done something special, she just leaves it on the stove.
I heft myself out of bed. Stretch. Grab a sweatshirt off the floor and pull it on. My jeans from yesterday are tossed over the chair in my room. I slide them on. I sneak a peak in the mirror on the wall. Smooth the red tangle I call hair. Use my tongue to feel my teeth. Not too gummy. I guess I’m ready for breakfast.
Last night’s performance was great. The house was about 85 percent full. That’s probably the best we could hope for since we’re just a bunch of people who got together to do a play. Yeah, in all those movies I’ve seen on TV, Mickey and Judy have a packed house for the shows they put together in the barn, but this is reality. Having an almost full house is a great thing.
As I come into the dining room, I see Daddy sitting at the table, a grin as wide as Palo Duro Canyon on his face.
Mother has outdone herself. She’s used the good tablecloth and china. Her “good” china came from a gas station coupon offer, but she’s proud of it. Along with Grandma’s silver and best napkins, the table tells me something special is going on. This sort of thing is reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners.
“Have a seat, Hank Fonda.” Daddy’s favorite movie star.
I take my seat as Mother puts a steaming platter of pancakes in the center of the table. “Dig in, boys,” she says, as she sits.
I reach to fill my plate, but Daddy stops me. “Let the cook have first dibs, Dewey. Your mother’s been working on this celebration all morning.”
I fork a pancake and put it on Mother’s plate, saying, “That’s what I was doing, Daddy.”
Mother’s eyes flash lov
e at me. It’s a look I’m very familiar with from her. I put another pancake on her stack, and she says, “Two’s enough, dear.”
“Bacon, Mother?”
“One strip. I’m watching my waistline.”
Like she needs to do that. My mother is tall, slender, and gorgeous—reminds me of Jane Russell. I loved her in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes with Marilyn Monroe. Saw it on TV.
“Now, darling, fill your plate. After all, this is for you, my little star.”
I fill my plate and dig in, as does Daddy. The pancakes are incredible. Mother once said she had to stand over Grandma and measure everything Grandma put into the bowl in order to get a recipe for them. Now Mother doesn’t even need the recipe, and her pancakes are even better than Grandma’s. Grandma swears to that.
I grab another one, and I slather it with butter and syrup. As I lift the Aunt Jemima, I remember. “Mother, would you buy Log Cabin next time?”
“Why? We’ve always used Aunt Jemima.”
“Well, look at her. That mammy thing she has going.” I point to the label. “I don’t think we should support that sort of thing.”
Mother smiles, and Daddy roll his eyes. “My son, the civil rights crusader. What brought this on? Wait! I know. That girl. The one in your show.”
“Well, yeah,” I answer. “I suppose getting to know LuLu does have something to do with it, but I believed in civil rights long before I got into the show.”
“Are you sweet on her, King Cat?” His tone is light enough. He is using his pet name for me. But I can’t believe my daddy would want me dating a black girl.
“No—she’s just my friend.”
“Well, that’s okay. The guy who cleans up at the shop is a good guy. We’re friends. But you know, you can’t marry one of those people.” His voice is still pleasant, like he’s refusing to let any issue spoil this morning. I don’t get it. But I do decide not to push it.
“Yeah, I know.” I don’t know because I don’t see why, but something’s up here, and I can’t rock the boat. At least until after I know why we’re having this special breakfast.
Mother gets up, goes to the kitchen, and returns with the coffeepot. She fills Daddy’s cup and tops off hers. She takes the pot back. After she’s seated again: “This is killing me. Show it to him.”
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