I wasn’t even halfway through the forms when the room filled with the adults and a few of the students. I put the papers aside and came out of George’s office to quietly sit a little behind where he was standing, bracing myself for what I expected to be a contentious, difficult meeting. I saw the Robertsons, and they waved at me. I waved back. Behind them was Robbie, our problematic Angel, rock-star thin with a shock of black hair and pale skin. Sitting still, he didn’t look gay and wasn’t dressed all that flamboyantly, but I’d seen him move. He was one of those unfortunate kids who betrayed their sexuality with every flat-footed step, every over-the-top gesture. I guessed he was with his parents: a plump, petite woman who looked like she might feel most comfortable wearing an apron and a tight-lipped, iron-jawed man sitting with his arms folded already. That wasn’t reassuring.
My gaze roamed over the rest of the crowd. I knew a few of the adults, but not well. That didn’t matter. This was George’s show, not mine, and I was glad of it. If it’d been up to me, I would never have wanted to direct this play. Even if I hadn’t been gay, Rent had too many challenges for the school environment, especially in red-state Texas.
George started talking at ten on the dot, beginning by welcoming everybody and asking if they each had a copy of the script, because he’d sent them home with the kids and asked the parents to bring them. Of course half of them hadn’t, so he asked me to give out our extras to anyone who needed them. While I got up to do that, he went on with a basic description of what the play was about and the changes that had been made for the high-school version.
I took the stack we still had and began moving around the room, handing out the scripts that had come from Musical Theater International, the licensing firm in New York. “Take care of these,” I heard George say behind me. “We’re contractually obligated to return all the scripts when we’re done with them.” A few more parents came in while I was doing that. I stood at the door and offered a pamphlet as each came in, one at a time, and I got a “no,” and a “yes, thanks,” and a “no,” and then…. “Tom?”
My name came in a whisper from a voice that I’d remembered too often the past months, and my gaze flew up to see who…. It was Kevin.
Panic ripped through me, and I barely managed to prevent my jaw from dropping. For a wild moment I wondered if I were mistaken and here was only a man who resembled him, if I’d conjured him up from my well of discontent and thwarted desire. But it really was Kevin, with black-black hair cut skull-short and pure blue eyes—though he had facial hair now, more than scruff, less than a beard. Standing there in a striped Izod shirt and navy blue Dockers, he was as devilishly attractive as the day I’d met him.
We stood looking at each other, equally thunderstruck, while George went on about how much of the profanity had been removed from the lyrics. Kevin recovered faster than I did. I watched while he swallowed and seemed to gather his resolution.
“Hi,” he said, no longer whispering, though his voice was rich with irony. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Kevin Bannerman.”
I did not believe in improbable fables come true, or happily-ever-after, or pots of gold at the end of the rainbow. I’d metaphorically kicked myself many times since Houston, but even so, I didn’t feel adequately punished for my prime asshole performance there. And I wasn’t a religious man. I did not pray.
And yet standing here in front of me was the second chance I hadn’t even thought to ask for—and wasn’t sure I was courageous enough to take.
For what felt like a multitude of heartbeats, I didn’t move. I probably thought more in those few seconds than I’d obsessed under my red oak tree with my beers, with every scenario possible racing through my mind, including Kevin-flat-on-his-back-with-his nose-bleeding-and-a-vengeful-Tom-standing-over-him, as well as Kevin-flat-on-his-back-naked-holding-the-base-of-his-cock-waiting-for-Tom-to-lower-himself-onto-it. Nobody, it seemed, confused me like Kevin did.
Of course I shook his hand. We were in the middle of a room full of people, and even if nobody seemed to be looking our way, I couldn’t take the chance that they weren’t. It would look odd if I turned away from him. So, once again motivated by fear and hating the fact that I was, with nothing else but that clear in my own mind, I reached forward.
His fingers were warm and dry, nothing different from anybody else I’d ever greeted this way, though everything was different.
“Hello,” I said, and I was pleased that my voice was calm, even. Better than his had been. I could control this situation. I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do, and Kevin certainly wasn’t going to be the one to betray my secrets. “I’m Tom Smith, history teacher and assistant director.”
“Oh,” he said. “Smith. Really?” I couldn’t take my eyes off his rising eyebrow. “Right. I’m Channing Carlton’s father.”
Channing. Our Maureen, the attractive, contentious bitch whom Joanne and Mark both loved. Of course. Channing didn’t have her father’s air of quiet confidence, which I’d found so attractive I’d thrown all my cautions out the window, but now that I knew the relationship, I realized she did have his nose and mouth.
I shot a look over my shoulder. “She’s over there with… I guess that’s her mother.”
Kevin grimaced. “Right, my ex. I’d better get…. Nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
And as quickly as that he left, striding up to where there was an empty seat next to Channing, undoubtedly saved for him. A woman came in right behind him, and she took my last script. Anybody else who needed one would have to share. Kevin, who hadn’t taken one, would have to share with his daughter and ex-wife.
I went back to the front the long way, edging my way around the group, and sat down behind George, who was now expounding on the musical virtues of the play. This was the worst thing I could imagine happening: that a man I’d slept with would show up in my professional life. I’d have to be very careful without letting it appear that I was being careful. But… here was the man I’d thought about—for no reason that I could really understand—since April. My summer of regret had changed me. I’d made an exception for Kevin back in the spring, and I’d slept with him again. Could I…. It was hard to even think of it. Could I make another exception here in Gunning? I’d told myself I couldn’t, ever, but….
“If you’ll turn to page twenty-seven of the script,” George droned on, “you’ll see that.…”
I glanced in Kevin’s direction and immediately looked away when I saw he was looking at me. Was he interested? Was I? I hadn’t been back to Good Times since the spring. I’d tentatively thought of heading over there next weekend, but Hurricane Ike had hit Houston a few days ago, so that trip was definitely out while the city recovered. Kevin was here.
“My assistant director, Mr. Smith, will be—Tom, stand up so everybody can see you.”
I stood up and nodded. I allowed myself to pan my sight from one side of the room to the other, as I think I would have done normally. Kevin was looking at me again with a serious expression, but I couldn’t interpret it.
“Among other things, Mr. Smith will be working with the parent volunteers on the behind-the-scenes preparation, which I hope you all know is critical. I couldn’t direct this play without his unfailing assistance and dedication. If you haven’t filled out a volunteer sheet yet, please see him at the end of this meeting. We can use all the help we can get. If anybody can make a run to Home Depot today for basic materials and has a pickup, that would be excellent. Now, does anyone have….”
I stayed standing next to and slightly behind George in subtle support as he opened the meeting to questions. He hadn’t wanted to cede control by doing that, but I’d told him it was necessary. First there were the expected queries about scheduling and rehearsals and car pools. George announced that there wouldn’t be weekend rehearsals, and everybody seemed to approve of that. Then the baseball player’s mom, Steven-who-was-playing-Tom-Collins, stood up and asked that we please not advertise the play with a photo of her son in any,
uh, “uncomfortable” position. The other adults in the audience all seemed to shift in their seats or let out a collective exhalation. Mrs. McDavid meant she didn’t want him shown touching his play-lover, Angel, or kissing him, God forbid, though she hadn’t said that. Next to her, her son Steven put his hand over his face.
George quickly outlined the photo publicity plans, and she seemed satisfied.
Then one of the fathers got up. I thought his son was playing an extra. “How are you going to handle the drug scenes?” he wanted to know. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, whether he wondered if we were going to have real heroin on the stage or what, but George reassured him.
Two more parents asked questions that weren’t hard to answer, and I was beginning to think that we’d get off easy, when Mrs. Porter, the mother of Sandy, who was going to play Joanne, shot her hand into the air.
“Yes, ma’am?” George said easily.
She stood up and I saw right away she was an impressive woman. The kind of tall woman who didn’t hesitate to wear heels, the kind of educated woman who didn’t mind showing she had a fine mind.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. She was also the kind of woman who believed in getting right to the point. It wasn’t difficult to tell that she was going to be trouble. She fairly trembled with disapproval. “This play is about eight friends.”
George nodded. “Seven friends and one who used to be a friend but who is now outside the group. He married rich and abandoned the bohemian ideals the others live by.” He ticked the names off on his fingers. “There’s Mark, Roger, Tom Collins, Angel, Mimi, Maureen, and Joanne. And Benny, he’s the married one.”
Her upper lip positively curled. “One married person in the play.”
“Of the principals, right. But it’s an ensemble production, really. All eight will get star billing.”
“And among these people, they’re all friends. The ones who aren’t homosexual are easy friends with the ones who are. Forgive me if I’m not getting this correct, Mr. Keating, the play is confusing. It sometimes seemed to me that all the friends are homosexual, as they are exceptionally friendly. Is this a play about the radical left gay agenda?”
Someone in the audience laughed, then caught herself and changed it into a cough. Otherwise, it was dead silent.
“If you’ll read the play front to back,” George started off, speaking gently, “I think you’ll find that it’s not. The play is about acceptance, and—”
“Pardon me, I did indeed read this play.”
George smiled at her. “Then you will have noticed that there are four major characters who aren’t gay. Mark and Roger, who share a loft, and Mimi and Benny. Mimi is attracted to Roger.”
“I understand that this is the case in the literal sense. But I had expected them to…. If they are truly friends with the others, then surely they would attempt to get their friends to change such destructive lifestyles. Why doesn’t Mark, for instance, try to get his friends to live a more God-fearing life? He seems the most sensible one in the group. Certainly the most normal.”
George had the patience of a saint. “That would indeed make for an interesting theatrical experience, and perhaps other plays have been written with that theme. But Rent—”
“By the end of the play, one of the homosexuals dies. The one who dresses up as a woman. And the woman who is addicted to heroin also dies, or at least appears to. So the play must be a cautionary tale about the dangers of such lifestyles. Am I not correct?”
“I suppose if a person wanted to view it that way, those conclusions could be drawn.” George wasn’t smiling any more, and my own blood was boiling. What was Mrs. Porter trying to do? “Was there a specific question you wanted to ask?”
“Of course. I want your reassurance that you will stage the play in such a way that it’s clear the actions of the characters are to be condemned.”
“Mrs. Porter, I don’t know what—”
“I also have an objection to the scenes where the characters refuse to answer the phone when their parents call. The play does a thorough job of ignoring family values, but these scenes are an outright assault on them. I request that they be cut in their entirety.”
George took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Rent is about totally different lifestyles than what we are accustomed to in Gunning, but that doesn’t mean—”
“One last question. Were you planning on enacting a kiss between the two lesbians on the stage?”
“Yes, I was.”
“If you are going to allow such a disgusting display, then I’m sorry to say that I will not give permission for my daughter to appear.”
A young girl’s voice from the audience rang out. “Oh, no!” It was Channing, Kevin’s daughter, who would have played opposite Sandy Porter. When I looked her way, she had her hand up to her mouth. Her mother put an arm over Channing’s shoulder. Kevin was sitting with a stone face; I wondered if I looked the same way. I hoped so. I could never allow myself to react to any gay slur, any assault on what I truly was.
George turned around to his seat, where he had a clipboard. He picked it up, took out the pen that was clipped on top, and held it poised over the page. “Sandy won’t be joining us, then?”
“No, she won’t. I’ve already told her that, and her father is in agreement.”
George very elaborately crossed off something on the sheet, presumably Sandy’s name. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mrs. Porter. She’s very talented. We’ll regret not having her in the cast.”
For the first time, Mrs. Porter’s voice trembled. I imagined she’d had quite a scene at home, telling her daughter she couldn’t be the star of stage and screen. “Yes, well, I regret that you haven’t chosen a more suitable vehicle to showcase the talents of our high school students.”
She turned on her heel and walked out with her head held high, and I imagined she’d planned her exit for days. Everybody in the room swiveled their heads to watch her leave. Even though I wasn’t really in favor of Rent, either, it wasn’t because of the content so much as I’d been concerned about reactions from people exactly like her. The door closed behind Mrs. Porter and everybody returned to looking at George and me. Mostly George, I hoped. I waited for the next shoe to drop.
“Well,” George said with his hands on his hips. “Is there anybody else who feels like Mrs. Porter does? Now’s the time to say it if you do.” He surveyed everybody in the room. “No? I’m not going to pretend that this play will be like every other musical we’ve done in the past or that you might have already seen. Rent was groundbreaking when it opened off-Broadway in 1995, and it’s still topical today. Mrs. Porter asked if I was going to stage the play to emphasize destructive lifestyle choices. The answer to that is no. I will stage it to emphasize what I believe are the core values that Rent teaches: acceptance, love, and support. Yes, these values will be presented within the context of drug abuse, homosexual relationships, and people who are dying of AIDS. But that’s the story as the playwright gave it to us, and that’s the play that your children will work with me on staging.
“I believe that the actors we’ve chosen have the maturity level to deal with this material. But if you disagree with me, or if anybody is uncomfortable with your child being in this play, please, talk to me now. Or call me or e-mail me. All the information to get in touch with me is on the school’s website.”
He stopped there to take a breath. A sheen of sweat was showing on top of his head and his forehead, and he carefully pulled out a handkerchief and patted himself dry.
“Now,” he said, “you’ve all met Mr. Smith. He hasn’t worked with the counseling department for a while, but he has experience in that field. He’ll be available if you or your children want to talk to him about anything. His contact information is also on the school website, plus we’ve sent all that pertinent information home with your children.” He smiled slightly. “I know that doesn’t always get into your hands, though, which is what the website is for
.”
A ripple of laughter swept through the room, way out of proportion to George’s small joke, but people were uncomfortable and looking for ways to relieve the tension left in the wake of Mrs. Porter’s accusations.
“So,” George continued, “anybody have anything more to say? To me, to Mr. Smith?”
But nobody did, and I was surprised by that. Robbie’s parents, who I really had expected to object, remained quiet, even though his father projected a stern, Marine-sergeant-tough attitude simply sitting next to his son. It was hard to believe that all these adults were comfortable enough with the content of the play that they weren’t walking out en masse. With a church steeple jutting up into the air in just about every direction a person could look in Gunning, it would be hard to overestimate the influence of the churches in the town. But maybe the parents here had allowed Mrs. Porter to speak for them and were content with that? Or, even more cynically, I thought about stage mothers and stage fathers, or how kids could make life at home a living hell if parents opposed something the child really wanted to do.
George dismissed the crowd by reminding them that after-school rehearsals would start the coming Tuesday. He asked for volunteers again. A few adults came up to me saying they’d help, and I added them to my lists. The temporary crisis of defending the play slipped away, and I became hyperconscious of Kevin again. He was standing in the aisle near where he’d sat, talking with his ex-wife and daughter. I wondered if he’d leave right away. My life would be much less complicated if he did leave. But if he stayed…. Under any other set of circumstances that could possibly have played out, except what had actually already happened, I would not have seriously considered talking to him about spending any time with him at all. But I wasn’t about to repeat the mistake that I’d already made when I’d walked out on him in April.
Dreamspinner Press Year Three Greatest Hits Page 79