All You Need Is Love

by Russell J. Sanders

  Daddy reaches into his lap and pulls out the Star-Telegram, folded back to a story. He hands it to me. “Read.”

  I look at the headline: “LOVE Is a Must-see.” What? The paper reviewed us?

  I begin to read, silently. “Read it aloud, Sweet Pea.” Mother is bubbling over.

  So I read:

  Anna Maria Entonces has devised a compelling new play LOVE, a show everyone in the greater metropolitan area should flock to. This show must be seen.

  Under the skillful direction of Ben Klein, a TCU graduate, as is Entonces, this story of a disparate group of young people who plan and execute a protest of the Vietnam War, is ripe with controversy but filled with passion. This reviewer defies anyone, whether for or against this war, not to be moved.

  The cast, gathered from TCU and high schools across the city, works like a well-oiled machine. Rarely in amateur theater does one see a group so in tune with each other. This ensemble plays together so well, it seems almost a disservice to them and to Klein to single out any of them. But two cast members must be praised.

  Lucretia Belton’s Molly is hard as nails yet vulnerable in many ways. In her full-bodied portrayal, we feel for her, know whether the protest succeeds in changing anything or not, Molly will continue her quest to bring her boyfriend home alive from the war, yet we see the moments of doubt she personally has, not overtly but deep inside this complex character. Belton has a future in acting. Of that, I am sure.

  As does Dewey Snodgress, the star of the show. We know he is the star, not only because of his star-turn curtain call, but also because it is his Randy, the openly gay young man who feels an affinity for the young men fighting in Vietnam, who propels the show. Snodgress’s Randy is the character everyone else is playing off of, the one who may have the most to lose. And each of the other actors and actresses play their characters as if they know that. As if they know he is the one who needs the most protection from the brutal, clueless police officers who try to quell their protest. And here’s the genius in Snodgress: without a word that makes this clear, we are well aware his Randy knows most of these officers are simply doing their jobs. Yes, there are brutes among them, but to single out the brutes would spoil the show for you. And you must see this. Hurry. You’ve only one more chance to see this masterful work.

  I finish reading and Mother and Daddy stand and applaud me. They can be such goofs sometimes, but this morning, I am so happy I bow my head to them each in thanks. And all the while, I’m grinning. My heart is about to burst. This is amazing. This guy loved the show. He loved Ben’s work and Anna Maria’s writing and everyone’s acting and LuLu’s performance. And me. Wow!

  “I’ve read that thing at least ten times this morning, dear, and my heart fills every time. Dewey, baby, you’re a star. I always knew it, but now this total stranger confirms it.” Mother is using her napkin to wipe tears.

  “King Cat, you know what I like most about this? Besides, of course, the part about how incredible my son is.”

  “What, Daddy?”

  “This guy says everyone should see this, no matter—how does he put it?” Daddy grabs the paper and scans the story. “‘…whether for or against this war….’ Like I said the other night, I had a hard time with the first act. But by the end, my mind was changing. Never ever will I think we shouldn’t honor our boys for doing their jobs over there, but I got busy reading about this thing, and thanks to your play, I’m convinced President Johnson should never have gotten us into it. And now it’s up to Nixon to get us out. Period.”

  Amazing. Daddy is dyed in the wool Democrat. He thought Lyndon Johnson, Democrat and Texan, walked on water. I can’t believe he’s said this about him.

  “Daddy, I’m proud of you. This war is totally wrong. That’s what everyone on stage is saying. That’s what Randy believes, and that’s what I believe.”

  “I get it, King Cat. You do quite a job on that stage convincing us. I got so caught up I believed you. That’s why it was so hard to see you die at the end. It was like seeing my son die for what he believes in, not just a character in a play. It was hard to watch.”

  Are his eyes filling with tears? Not my daddy. The stoic.

  “But now, King Cat—” He flashes a smile to try to cover the moment of vulnerability he’s just shown. “—don’t get to believing your character in every way. I don’t want you to waltz in here one day and tell me you’re a queer.” He laughs.

  I laugh too. But deep inside, I feel a stab in my gut. I know that will never happen, but Jeep’s face floats in my head.

  “Don’t worry, Daddy.”

  He stands, leans over, and kisses Mother. “I’m going to the workshop. See if I can get a little done finishing that thing.”

  “You do that, dear.” Mother’s eyes follow him as he leaves. “Like he’s ever going to finish that thing. It’s been three years since he started building it at the back of the garage. But it gives him something to do.”

  Mother loves Daddy so much she will never say anything really bad about him. I just smile at her. Then I say, “Need help with the dishes?”

  “No, dear. I’ll take care of them.”

  I stand and go around to her. I grab her and wrap her in a giant hug. “Thanks.”

  “You’re very welcome. It’s not every day I see your name in print with such glowing adjectives attached.”

  I head to my room and pull the phone in. I’ve got some calls to make.

  First up, I dial Jo’s number.

  She answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Joey? I figured Aunt Juney would answer like she always does.”

  “Oh, Dewey, she’s still holed up in her room. I don’t know if she’s ever going to get over this.”

  “Jo, she’ll never get over it, but she’ll learn to live with it. Just give her time.”

  “I’m going crazy over here. She and Dad are moping around. It makes it really hard for me to hold it together.”

  “I know it’s hard, Joey, but you have to, for their sake.”

  “I know, cousin. I’m trying. Tell me something good to cheer me up.”

  “You haven’t seen the Star-Telegram this morning?”

  “No—it’s still lying in the yard. Daddy doesn’t like me to touch the paper until he’s read it. I was hoping he’d go get it. It would provide some distraction for him.”

  “Well, go out there and get it, Joey. I’ll wait.” I hear her put the receiver down and the front door open. After a minute, she is back on the line.

  “What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “Section C, page two.”

  The sound of rustling paper comes across the line. Next I hear Jo mumble as she reads. It’s an annoying habit she has. She doesn’t know the meaning of silent reading.

  “Oh, my God! Dewey! This is fantastic!” she shrieks.

  “Not too shabby, is it?” I try to sound modest.

  “Dewey, what did your folks say about this? I bet they are so proud of you. ’Course, they’re always proud of you. That goes without saying.”

  “That’s why I called you, Joey. I want to thank you for dragging them to the show. Now they know what this reviewer is talking about. And Daddy told me this morning his mind is totally changed about this f-ing war. That’s your doing, Jo.”

  “Well, I knew they had to be there. For you. Whatever mind-changing was done was your doing, cousin. You and that play and that cast. Freaking fantastic. All of you.”

  “Thanks, Jo. I feel kinda embarrassed the others weren’t named in the review too. They deserve all the praise they can get.”

  “Yeah, they do. But this guy is right—you’re the star here.”

  I don’t know what to say. “Well, I just wanted to say thanks for getting my folks to the show. I know I told you that yesterday, but today, I’m even more thankful.”

  “You’re very welcome, cousin. Now, I’ve got to get off this phone. I want to show this to Mama and Daddy. They’ll be so proud of you, Dewey. I know they wil
l.”

  “I love you, Joey.”

  “Love you too, cousin.”

  And we hang up.

  Next, I need to phone Butch. I dial his number.

  Again, his little sister answers.

  “Is Butch—” Before I can finish, I hear her scream, “Butchie, telephome.” I love the m she puts in the word.

  “Yeah?” Butch answers after a moment.

  “It’s me. Dewey. Wanted to know if you need another cooking lesson. I feel like baking a cake to take to the theater tonight.”

  “I’ll be right over.” And he hangs up on me.

  I go tell Mother Butch is coming over and I’m teaching him how to bake a cake. She is happy to hear the news. Her exact words: “I’m so pleased you and Butch have become friends. He needs a friend.”

  I had planned to call LuLu, but with Butch rushing over, I guess it will have to wait. I need to get things ready in the kitchen. I pull out Mother’s Watkins Cook Book—she calls it her kitchen bible. She got it from the door-to-door salesman who hawks Watkins spices. The book practically falls open to the chocolate cake recipe. First Mother, then I, have made it the favorite dessert of our entire family: aunts, uncles, cousins. I almost have the recipe memorized, but I want Butch to read it carefully before we ever begin.

  In ten minutes, Butch is at the front door. He is pumped up at the idea of making a cake, of all things.

  “I have an idea. Mother has two sheet cake pans. Why don’t we each make a cake? Then you’ll have one to take home with you.”

  “But your mother bought all the ingredients. I don’t have any money to pay you for them.”

  “Big deal. Mother won’t care.”

  “But what if I screw up?”

  “It’s foolproof. Follow the recipe and my excellent step-by-step instructions. After all, I’m a star.” I can’t help myself. I thrust the review at him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Just read it.”

  Butch reads the review. It takes forever. I don’t know if he’s a slow reader, or if I’m just anxious to hear what he has to say.

  “My gosh, Dewey. This is amazing. But if I’d written this thing, which I wouldn’t because I’m not too good at writing, this is exactly what I woulda said about you. You’re the best actor I’ve ever seen. Better than Clark Gable. And he was so good in Gone with the Wind. My favorite movie. We watched it on TV.”

  No one else would compare me to Clark Gable. Maybe Brando or Dean or Newman. And then it hits me. Butch probably doesn’t have much money to go to movies. So of course he’d compare me to someone he saw on TV.

  “Thanks, Butch. That’s a really good compliment.”

  “You deserve it, Dewey. And if you act that good, I know you can play baker and walk me through this cake.”

  We both laugh. “Okay.” I hand him the cookbook. “Read the recipe first. Always. Especially if you’re baking. Cakes are pretty much unforgiving. You have to measure everything right.” The exact words my mother said when she taught me to bake.

  Butch takes forever to read the recipe. After his crack about not be able to write well, coupled with the time it took him to read the review, I know now he’s not as good in school as I am. I should have figured that out, but all those years of his picking at me had made me stay as far away from him as I could. Now I know I need to help him as much as I can before graduation. He’ll never go to college, I suspect, but he needs to get the best job he can.

  He finishes. “What do we do first?”

  I hand him a paper towel. “Smear this in the shortening—there”—I point to the can—“then spread a thin layer of Crisco all over the bottom and sides of this pan to get it good and greasy.” I give him one of the pans, and I do the other. When we’re finished, I tell him to use the scoop to dump some flour into each pan. I show him how to shake the pan to cover the grease with flour. Then we tap the loose flour out of the pan into the garbage.

  After setting aside the pans, we begin to mix the batter. Mother has only one Mixmaster, so I let Butch measure each ingredient as I show him how to work the mixer and how to scrape the sides of the bowl. When everything is mixed, he pours the batter into one of the pans. We start all over to make the second cake.

  I had already preheated the oven, but I turn it off and say, “This seems stupid, but I want you to turn the oven on to three hundred and fifty degrees.” He laughs and does what I say. “Now, you do that before you start doing anything else so the oven is hot when you put the cake in. Got it?”

  He nods.

  “Open the door and slide the cakes in on the middle shelf.”

  Butch does it so carefully, so gently, I can tell he’s afraid of doing something wrong.

  “Now, we wait. See that?” I point to the timer on the stove. He nods. “Turn the dial until it’s set to twenty-five minutes. When it dings, we test to see if the cakes are done. If they are, we’ll take them out to cool. Then we’ll make frosting.”

  “Please let them be good,” he says into the atmosphere, almost a prayer.

  “Now, we’ve got at least an hour before they are done and cooled. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. Want to play catch?”

  Long ago, Daddy bought me a softball and two gloves, so he could teach me to catch. I was not a very good student. He abandoned the lessons after only a few tries.

  I am hesitant, but if this is what Butch wants to do, I guess I could try. “Sure, but don’t expect me to be any good at it. I’m not sure I can even see a ball in the air, much less catch one coming at me.”

  “It’s easy,” he says.

  I go get the gloves and ball, and we go to the backyard to begin this ordeal.

  Butch knows what he is doing. I don’t. But just like I taught him to bake a cake, he proves to be a good teacher of the art of ball catching. After I screw up a few times, he starts telling me what I’m doing wrong and how to do it right. By the time I’ve caught about ten in a row, I’m feeling like a real guy, a ball-playing, average guy. And Butch is so patient with me. He seems to be glad he can teach me something for a change. As he’s heaping praise on me, I look at my watch.

  “Uh-oh, we need to check our cakes.”

  We go inside, and sure enough, the timer is dinging.

  I get a toothpick, and Butch opens the oven door. I show him how to test the cakes. They are perfection, so we pull them out of the oven and set them on racks to cool.

  “You up for more catch?” I ask. Here I am, Mr. Never Been an Athlete, and I really want to resume our game.

  “You think I’d let you quit now?”

  We go back out, and I have so much fun I’m whooping and hollering. Butch is talking a mile a minute, shouting, “Right here in the glove. Hit the center. You can do it. You can do it.”

  I see Daddy step from the workshop to see what all the commotion is about. The look on his face is striking. It’s the same look of pride I saw this morning when I read the review.

  “Good job, boys! Butch, you’re a miracle worker. Keep at it, King Cat.” He goes back into the workshop.

  “King Cat? I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” Butch yells.

  “My secret,” I say.

  I get exhausted eventually. This ball playing stuff’s hard. Winded, I call out, “Uncle! You’ve got me beat, Butch. Let’s go finish our cakes. I need a rest.”

  “Rest? I’m just getting going. It’s the baking tires me out.”

  All in your perspective, I guess.

  Inside, we make a double batch of mocha frosting and slather both cakes.

  “Let’s get some forks. I’m ready to dig in,” Butch says, pulling open the silverware drawer.

  “You can mutilate your own cake, but mine is for the cast. Token of my appreciation.”

  “And they deserve it.” Butch grabs a knife. “My family can’t eat all of this in one sitting, so what say we run a test on mine?” He cuts two chunks and slides the knife under each piece to remove it from the pan
.

  Swallowing a huge bite, Butch squeals, “Did I make this? This is the best cake I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

  “And you did it. Yes, you did. Your folks are going to drool over this.”

  “Well, Mama will. Daddy….”

  I don’t want to hear it. He doesn’t need to think about that right now. “Your whole family will love this. Not only because it’s so good, but because you made it. My mother says a baker puts love into every creation.”

  Butch seems so happy. “Thanks, Dewey.”

  “Let’s get this covered in foil to protect its magnificence. Than I have to kick you out of here. I’ve gotta get ready for tonight. All that ball playing has me funky as shit.”

  “I wondered what that smell was.” Butch holds his nose as he ribs me.

  “You’re not smelling like a rose either, guy.” It’s so much fun to have a friend, especially when the friend is my ex-archenemy.

  After Butch leaves, I take a shower. I read a while to unwind. Reading relaxes me and banishes the butterflies. I always have a touch of stage fright right before I go on. But get me on that stage, and I’m lost in the reality of fantasyland.

  At the theater, during the circle, Ben says, “I know you’ve all seen our review. Well, my phone—the number on the poster—has been ringing off the wall all day. We’re sold out! In fact, we have a waiting list for tickets. Need to see you after the show, back here. I have an idea. Good show, everybody.”

  There’s a lot of chatter as we take our places. We all pretty much know what Ben’s idea is.

  We’re pumped up during the show and during the six curtain calls. The audience won’t let us leave the stage. As we retreat backstage, we hear a rumble from the departing audience members. I’ve never heard so much after show conversation. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I know it’s good.

  “Everybody. Gather round,” Ben calls. “I need to say this so you can go greet your fans.” We form our circle. “Okay—the response has been tremendous. I have a list of people who want to see the show. If you can all fit it into your schedule, I want to hold the show over through next weekend.”