A few observations about Jason Thrush are in order. Though I’d heard the name often during the rehearsal period of
Teen Play
, I’d never seen him till that night, and then from the back of the auditorium. I knew that he was Thad’s age, seventeen, and on the basis of a short feature that had appeared in that morning’s
Register
, I knew that he’d been involved with theater a few years longer than Thad. Jason’s surname was familiar—a local industry bore the name Thrush, so I assumed his family to be moneyed. But because he and Thad went to different schools, I knew nothing more about him.
I did know this: physically, Jason Thrush was a knockout. Face, body, bearing, you name it—he was classically handsome and athletically butch, though not brutishly muscular, lacking only a smile, a real smile. Something about him seemed hard or distant. Perhaps he was distracted by the summer cold he was nursing. More likely, he was just stuck-up, looking down with disdain upon a world less beautiful and privileged than himself.
Objectively, Jason was better looking than Thad. Don’t get me wrong. Almost anyone would agree that Thad too was an attractive young man—he’d had his own share of luck in the gene pool. What’s more, he’d grown out of his adolescent gawkiness, and his theatrical pursuits had refined both his movement and his speech. He was pleasant, intelligent, and hardworking.
On a purely cosmetic or superficial level, though, Jason Thrush took the prize, hands down, and I could understand why he’d been chosen to play the starring role in Friday’s premiere. I didn’t know if the play’s director had justified this decision based on Jason’s greater acting experience, or if lots had been drawn, or if coins were tossed. Regardless of how the casting was arrived at, it made sense to me—in spite of my prejudices resting loyally with Thad, in spite of Thad’s gut-deep desire to star in the opening, now two nights away.
“Hey,” said Thad, “since we’ve got a few minutes, I want you to meet some people.” He started leading us down the aisle toward the activity near the stage.
“Are you
sure
?” asked Neil, laughing. “We’re just a couple of old farts.”
I knew what he was really asking: Wasn’t Thad embarrassed to have his teenage friends see him dragging around his “parents,” parents who happened to be a same-sex couple? Such a setup was pretty rare anywhere. In heartland Dumont, it was unique—and a tad controversial.
Thad stopped in his tracks, turning back to us. “Are you kidding?” His tone was reprimanding, but the emotion underlying it was pure affection. “I
enjoy
showing you off. Come on.” And he continued down the aisle.
Neil and I followed, sharing a melting glance that confirmed his knees had weakened, as mine had. He squeezed my shoulder and whispered into my ear, “How’d we ever get so lucky?”
I shrugged. I laughed. How else could I answer?
“Mr. Diggins?” said Thad, approaching his director. “You’ve met my family, haven’t you? Mark Manning and Neil Waite.”
Denny Diggins turned from the conversation he had just finished with the good-looking crew guy. Denny’s big smile was forced and toothy; the too deep chestnut hue of his hair vainly covered gray. “Of course, Thad. So very good to see you gentlemen again.” He reached to shake our hands limply, greeting us in turn: “Neil. Mahk.” Though Wisconsin-born forty-some years ago, closer to fifty, he claimed to have studied abroad at some point in his youth (a little research of my own had revealed that college took him no farther than Madison), and he spoke with an affected, vaguely Continental accent. So I was “Mahk.”
Neil had encountered Denny from time to time that summer, recruited into parental tasks of running various production errands, so they were chummy enough. My own history with Denny, though, stretched back a few months further and was considerably less cordial.
His radio program,
Denny Diggins’ Dumont Digest
, was something of a local institution. The afternoon interviews drew a respectable audience, leading Denny to claim bragging rights as the town’s only
other
dependable news source—the primary source being the
Dumont Daily Register.
Denny never missed an on-air opportunity to trash my paper, at times questioning my journalistic integrity. His pompous and outlandish claims of superior professional standards were nothing short of libelous. Indeed, I had considered suing this self-inflated fruitcake more than once. On the calming advice of a lawyer friend, I had done nothing, realizing that Denny would relish a juicy, public controversy with me. My best response was no response. Why dignify his nonsense by wasting my time with it?
This decidedly tense relationship would change, though, when Denny wrote his play and convinced the Dumont Players Guild to mount its premiere production, with Denny himself as director. His casting needs included two strong teenage leads. Imagine his dismay when auditions revealed that one of the most accomplished young actors in town was Thad Quatrain, foster child of the dreaded Mahk Manning. Denny needed Thad to help assure the success of his debut as a playwright, and naturally, I wanted Thad to enjoy the opportunity and excel at it. So Denny and I entered a period of strained truce. Thad was largely unaware of the bad blood between Denny and me, and in fairness, Denny was good to Thad, whose talents continued to blossom, even under the tutelage of an eccentric director.
Neil was saying, “We can’t wait for this weekend, Denny. We’ll be bringing a crowd. Looks like you’re ready.”
I added, “It’s been a long haul, but it was obviously worth it. Thad talks of little else these days. I can see why—great job tonight.” Though the compliments felt like shards of glass in my throat, they were sincere enough.
“Thank you, Mahk,” Denny gushed. “I had no
idea
what I was biting off when I began this venture.” He whisked a silk hankie from somewhere—it must have been tucked up a sleeve—and began mopping his brow, bemoaning the heat, the work, the lack of proper funding for the arts, and on and on. As he yammered, I noticed something. There near the stage, a distinctive new scent had joined the smells of dust, lumber, and paint that I’d whiffed from the back row of seats. It was sweet and flowery, with a hint of pine, vaguely familiar. Had Denny doused himself with too much aftershave for the hot night? “But all the effort,” he concluded, “has indeed paid off. Just a few technical glitches to resolve, and the show, I daresay, will be
perfect
.”
“Which means,” added the other man, whose conversation we’d interrupted, “I’ve got work to do.” His good-natured comment seemed to confirm my assumption that he was on the show’s crew. He stood about my height, not quite six feet, and seemed about my age, perhaps a few years younger. Due to the heat, he’d worn shorts that night (I wished I’d done the same), showing legs that were nicely toned and well tanned. Though sweating, and apparently beleaguered by Denny’s “technical glitches,” he displayed an amiable attitude that complemented his pleasant features. I was hoping to be introduced when, to my surprise, he asked through a handsome grin, “How’s it going, Neil?”
“Fine, Frank. Though it seems
you’ve
got your hands full tonight.”
“Just the usual last-minute travails of an amateur tech director.”
Denny assured us, “The best in the business.”
“For the price,” added Frank, “which is nothing.”
We all laughed. I extended my hand. “I’m Mark Manning.”
“Duh,” said Neil, slapping his head, “sorry, Mark. I thought you’d met. This is Frank Gelden, the show’s technical director. You’ll rarely see him down here in the theater—he’s usually cramped up in the control booth, working lights and sound.” Neil pointed up and back, in the direction of the balcony.
“I enjoy it,” Frank explained with a shrug. “Pleased to meet you, Mark.”
Thad said, “I’ve told you about Mr. Gelden before. He’s our faculty adviser for Fungus Amongus.” Responding to my bewildered stare, Thad amplified, “You know—the mushroom club.”
Then he sat at the nearby worktable, joining the playbill assembly line.
“Jeez,” I said with a laugh, shaking my head, “I can’t keep track anymore.” I really couldn’t. There’d been a time, barely a year earlier, when Neil and I had fretted that Thad lacked “involvement” and could be headed for trouble. Now he had so many interests, I wondered if he needed to scale back. There was theater, of course—plus cars, photography, and of all things, the school mushroom club. There were doubtless other activities that hadn’t even sunk in with me yet. I asked Frank, “You’re a teacher, then, at Thad’s school?”
“I’m a teacher, yes, but not at Dumont Central. Actually, I’m on the natural-sciences faculty at UW-Woodlands,” he told me, referring to the local branch-campus of the University of Wisconsin. “I’m a molecular-biology prof, and mycology has always been a special interest, so I volunteered to advise Central’s mushroom-hunting club. They’re a great group of kids, the Fungus Amongus.”
Looking up from his program-stuffing, Thad informed me from the corner of his mouth, “Mycology is the study of mushrooms.”
I mussed his hair, telling him, “I figured.” Turning to Frank, I said, “Between your volunteer work at Central and your volunteer work for the Players Guild, how do you find time for teaching?”
“I’m off all summer, and when things do get frantic, well—Cynthia and I have no kids of our own, and I like being able to help. It’s fulfilling.”
In a nutshell, Frank Gelden struck me as a nice guy. Interesting too. I removed from a pocket the pet fountain pen I always carry, an antique Montblanc, and made a note to mention Frank to my features editor, Glee Savage. She might want to work up a story on him. Local readers can’t get enough of those homey, feel-good profiles.
“How
is
Cynthia?” asked Neil. “Could you let her know that when she gets back to town, I’ll have a revised set of drawings for her?”
Something clicked. I interrupted, “You mean Cynthia Dunne-Gelden?” She was a recent architectural client of Neil’s, a businesswoman planning a sizable addition to her country home. I’d wondered how Neil knew so much about Frank’s involvement with the theater group, since Neil’s own involvement was tangential at best. The house project explained everything: Neil knew Frank through Cynthia.
Neil proceeded to detail for me exactly what I’d just figured out. While nodding to these presumed revelations, I had the opportunity to get a closer look at Frank, intending to inspect his legs again, to study their lustrous nap of sun-bleached hair, but my eyes locked on his wedding ring. Oddly, this tangible symbol of “where he stood” came as something of a relief. More often than not, upon meeting an attractive man, I was content to presume him gay until my wishful, groundless theory was contradicted by reality. I would then mourn the loss of yet another potential addition to the brotherhood. In Frank’s case, though, I was glad to set this speculation aside from the outset. Frank’s life had already touched both Thad’s and Neil’s, so I prudently nipped any prurient notions then and there, before they had an opportunity to root in the fertile loam of my imagination.
“I’ll phone her later tonight,” Frank said of his wife. “She’ll be delighted to hear about the blueprints—she’s been itching to break ground.”
“Denny?” asked a woman as she stepped into our circle of conversation. She carried a pile of clothes and a long, ratty wig. “I’ve made all the changes to Tommy’s costume. Got a moment to check him out before act two?”
“Of course, Joyce. Anything for you, my dear.” Then Denny remembered his manners. “Oh. You already know Neil Waite, but I don’t believe you’ve met Thad’s, uh…” He gestured toward me, whirling his hand vacantly, unsure what to call me.
“Uncle,” I supplied the missing word, taking only minor offense at Denny’s hesitation. “My pleasure, Joyce. I’m Mark Manning.”
She offered her hand, after extracting it with some difficulty from the bundle she carried. “I thought so,” she said, “from your pictures. My name’s Joyce Winkler, costume mistress extraordinaire.” She puffed herself up with comic pride, then blew a stray lock of hair from her sweat-shiny forehead.
Neil told me, “Joyce is also Nicole’s mom.” Drawing a blank look from me, he elaborated, “Nicole is in the cast. She’s up there with Jason and Kwynn.” His glance led my eyes to the stage.
Jason Thrush still sat center stage, talking with two girls as other kids milled about. I knew Kwynn Wyman, Thad’s friend, so I assumed Nicole Winkler was the other girl, the pretty one I’d noticed doting on Jason. She was still at it. Though she chattered vacantly while preening her luxuriant gold tresses, her hungry eyes betrayed an obsession with the hunky young actor. I had sensed this from the back of the theater; now, at closer range, Nicole’s lewd daydreams were embarrassingly obvious.
Her mom was explaining, “Theater has always been Nicole’s thing, not mine. But she’s been through some…‘rough spots’ lately, and she’s off to college this fall, and, well, I thought it was time to do a bit of bonding. So here I am, ‘sharing her interests.’ ” Joyce laughed at the pile of clothes in her hands, at the self-imposed drudgery she’d taken on. “And the worst part was juggling schedules with my
real
job. I owe people night shifts for a year now.”
Denny told us, “Joyce is a lab technician at the hospital.”
“I don’t know squat about sewing, but duty called, so here I am. Fortunately, most of the ‘costumes’ are just street clothes.”
“It’s a contemporary drama,” Denny reminded us through pursed lips, “requiring little by way of
constructed
costuming.”
“Except”—Joyce hefted the wig, robe, and whatnot in her arms—“the Old Man. I’ve pricked my fingers to the bone building the one costume that spends the least amount of time onstage. Let’s nab Tommy,” she told Denny, “and see if this sucker
finally
fits.”
“Dear, sweet, put-upon Joyce,” Denny told her, “I am at your command.” And with a regal flourish befitting a Louis, he led her away from us, approaching the smallish Latino boy who sat alone, studying his script.
“I’d better get busy myself,” Frank told us. “There are a couple of complicated cross-fades in act two that just haven’t been working. Of course, it would help if we had some decent equipment—every circuit is already overloaded, and most of those dimmers are on their last legs.”