Colors (10 page)

What now?

“You know, Neil, if you want to keep singing with the choir, you need to join the church.”

Crap. “Oh, no,” I protest. “No way.”

She starts to counter my resistance. She puts her hand on my arm, but I stand, take two quick steps away, and change the subject. “When’s the accompanist going to be here?”

“She said she’d be here about 6:45,” Melissa answers, evidently giving up her campaign. But I know her: she won’t give up this easily. I’ll be prepared the next time she brings it up.

“Well, she needs to be here now,” I say a bit too urgent sounding. The colors incident, the
invitation
, the
joining the church
thing—all a bit too much.

“She’ll get here, Neil. Calm down.”

God, please help me get through this.

T
HINGS
ARE
going well. The
Godspell
number
,
the opener
,
was well received, as were Melissa’s first solo—we agreed on two for her; after all, it is her church—and the three Miriam songs. The hymn medley? Big, big hit.

But “I Believe” twisted my mind. Strangest reaction I’ve ever had in a performance. Several audience members waved their hands in the air during the song, eyes closed. Strange, strange, strange.

Then I remembered the same thing happened Sunday. That’s when I was reminded this was no ordinary concert. We’re here, in a church. Not just a church, but the biggest church in town. Theater’s in my blood. I perform and everything slips away. I forget where I am. I read once about a “method” actor making a movie. Said he would go into character and stay in character until the end of the shoot. Nobody could get close to him, not even his costars, all megastars themselves, because his character was a loner, so he was too. I’m kinda like that.

But hands waving in the air breaks my concentration. And I don’t like that, church or no church.

Next up is Melissa by herself, yet again. As she begins, I zone out. I need my concentration back. My solo’s next, and I have to be ready. I run through the “show” I’ve invented for my song: My character is Glenn, a midthirties, beer-drinking, blue-collar worker. Glenn’s son Tyler is in a coma. Glenn, who never goes to church, has spent the night praying in a hospital chapel, making promises to God, asking him to bring Tyler out of the coma.

“You’re going to be all right, Tyler, buddy.” Glenn hovers over Tyler’s hospital bed. “Just open your eyes for Dad.”

The sun is coming up, streaming sunbeams through the window.

Slowly, Tyler begins to rouse. His face has a “Where am I?” look. Then he pulls on Glenn’s hand. A look of joy comes over Glenn’s face. He embraces his son, saying, “Thank God, thank God,” over and over.

Tyler’s first word out of the coma: “God?”

Glenn points to the window and says, “Yes. He brought you back to me, son. Do you see him there? In the sunshine?”

As I get deep inside Glenn, feeling the joy, the gratitude he feels that his son has awakened, I’m startled by the applause for Melissa’s number. She has finished. I’m up.

Showtime.

Glenn steps to center as Melissa walks offstage. He stares out at the audience, then looks up.

Help me, here,
he begs.

And then, at the risk of breaking character, I, too, repeat Glenn’s prayer. I hope some unseen force out there is listening. I once had faith. Not a shred now. But, if Someone
is
out there, I hope He’s listening.

The pianist begins the intro. Tyler. I bow my head, looking prayerful, channeling Glenn.

And Glenn begins to sing, quietly praising his God, pouring out the magnificent lyrics that praise God for the world he has created.

Giving the performance of my life, I—no,
Glenn
finishes with the last line, a rousing statement of the song’s title, an affirmation of Glenn’s God’s greatness.

Immediately, the congregation rises. They are shouting, applauding, whistling, stomping. “Amen!” and “Praise
him!”
reverberate in the cavernous space. And I also hear “Wonderful!”
and “Bravo!”
Church, meet theater. Theater, meet church. I feel like Thespis, that first actor, must have felt upon hearing his first applause. I’m awestruck.

I don’t want to leave the character behind. I don’t know what to do. Is it acceptable to take a bow in church? The teenager in me is confused. What’s the protocol here? But the actor in me is milking it for everything it’s worth. This is amazing.

Satine whispers in my ear, “Go for it.” I start to bow.

But—suddenly—I rein in actor Neil. It is church, after all. A bow is a little over the top, so I simply stand as the crowd finally dies down and sits. At last I break character and nod.

Melissa takes her place beside me. We clasp each other’s waists, as rehearsed, as we sing the finale, “You’ll Never Walk Alone.”

The final chord chimes. Brother Kenny strides up to the pulpit.

“Brothers and Sisters, Neil and Melissa have said it all—you’ll never walk alone if you walk with the Lord. Won’t you pray with me, now?”

He bows his head. “Dearest Lord Jesus, walk with all of us here tonight….”

As Brother Kenny prays, I say my own prayer of thanks.
Whoever you are out there, thank you for standing by me. I needed the strength you gave me.

Amens boom throughout the congregation as Kenny continues speaking over the quiet piano music.

“There are those among us who have felt the Lord’s power through this glorious music we have heard here tonight. Perhaps you have joined our community and are looking for a church home. Won’t you make the Church of Shelton Road your spiritual home?”

I peer out at the congregation. Some are already standing, moving toward the front.

“Maybe there are those of you who have felt drawn to the Lord tonight,” Kenny continues, his voice quiet, soothing, mesmerizing. He knows his business well. “You have felt alone, unloved. You are not alone.”

You are not alone… you are not alone… you are not alone…
. The words echo within me.

“You have a friend here at the Church. Come to the altar, dear ones. We have counselors waiting to answer your needs. Won’t you join us?”

I feel a pull, deep down in my heart. Something—
Someone
—is tugging at me.

Am I really not alone here? Is there something for me?

“L
OOKS
LIKE
we were a hit.”

“We?” Melissa laughs. “You’re the star.” I see the love she has for me fill her glowing eyes.

“Nah,” I play my humblest self. “You had the crowd warmed up. I simply had a really good, showy song.”

“What’s your secret, Neil?”

“Secret?”

The colors. Has she figured it out?

My stomach lurches. I swallow. Then I become rational again.

No, there’s no way. I’m being paranoid.

“There’s no secret,” I say.

“No, no, no.” Melissa shakes her head. “There has to be something. You sang that song as if you believed every word of it. I know you better than that. You’re not a religious guy.”

“Okay,” I say. Now she’s talking my language. I can talk about acting until the
cows come home
. Aunt Jenny has a million of those sayings.

“I’ll clue you in. I invented a whole show for the song to be in. I had a character and a plot. That song was the finale of the show.”

“You’re kidding me!” Melissa howls with laughter. The joy she’s showing lights up her face. I see an appealing quality in her she has not shown a lot lately. Give her a good laugh, and she apparently can light up a room. Forget the church, take the woman to a comedy club.

“But, you know what?” I say.

“No, what?” Melissa counters.

“I think maybe I
am
starting to believe some of it.”

G
LASS
OF
milk. Chips Ahoy. Perfect after concert snack—eating plan be damned. I deserve it. I sit at the kitchen table, ready to plow into my treat.

“So, how is the weather up there in the stratosphere tonight?”

Midbite, I see Aunt Jenny standing in the doorway.

“Huh?” Quickly, I slip the milk-dunked cookie into my mouth before it makes a soggy, crumbled mess.

“You were definitely a star tonight. You blew the rafters off the church,” she says.

Always my groupie. “You like everything I do,” I say, taking another cookie from the bag.

“No, I mean it. I watched those people. They loved you!” she says, sitting at the table. “Give me one of those cookies.”

Chips Ahoy are
our
thing. Since our first day together. She claimed she’d baked cookies for me; then, with a wicked smile, she brought out the familiar blue package. Oh how we laughed, the nine-year-old wounded orphan and the gypsy aunt. Now we loved to sit and have our “homemade” cookies.

“You know,” I say, a mouthful of milk and cookie sliding down my gullet, “it really felt good up there.”

“I don’t doubt it. Success like that is what you’ve been working toward. I’m proud of you, kid.” She takes another cookie from the bag.

Proud of me? Like I don’t already know. But it’s nice to hear her say it.

“You’re right. I do work at it all the time—to be the best I can be at my craft. Which I learned, by the way, from someone sitting very near me right now.” I pause, covering the silence by grabbing another cookie, dunking and devouring it. The silence however is cracked by Aunt Jenny’s grateful giggle.

Then I’m ready for—as they say on game shows—the big reveal.

“But it was something more. Oh, I was acting, all right, but it was really more. Like there was a message.”

“I wondered when it would kick in,” Aunt Jenny says, poker-faced.

“Kick in?” I can’t tell what she’s talking about.

“The religion thing. I’ve felt guilty all these years, not taking you to church. Your parents were such fanatics. Sis and I used to argue all the time about that. I just couldn’t see it. She swore there was something greater out there and going to church was the way to find it. Sis bought the whole religion thing our parents pushed down our throats, hook, line, and sinker. I, on the other hand, was always like Grandma. Question everything. She wasn’t into organized religion. But she wouldn’t let me just go along with her ideas. She made me examine, question. And decide for myself. I found the whole thing turned me off. So, not being a churchgoer myself, I never pushed it on you.”

I grab another cookie. I’m not sure how to handle this. I don’t like it when she says anything that makes her look like she did anything wrong with me. Aunt Jenny is my savior. I nibble a bit of the cookie, planning my answer.

“That’s okay. Don’t feel guilty. I had enough church the first nine years of my life to last forever, believe me.” I smile at her, hoping the smile masks what is welling up deep inside me… a memory of Brother Gramm. I quickly continue talking, quelling the feeling. “But tonight somehow what I was feeling was different. It felt right. Maybe it was the music. I don’t know.”

“I see your point. Sometimes when I’m working in my studio, I feel something transcending. If a piece turns out particularly good, I feel totally inspired. Maybe that’s God. And maybe the music does it for
you
. It’s worth exploring. Just because I don’t go to church, don’t think you can’t.”

“I’m glad you feel that way.” I stop, wait a beat, not believing what I’m about to say… “Because I think I want to keep going there.”

M
ONDAY
MORNING
chaos reigns in the choir room. I take in the babble: choir members chatter about the movies they saw over the weekend, others pound out notes on the piano, reviewing parts of current pieces, and still others talk about the hot chick at the mall or the sexy new substitute teacher—male, but the person who is talking is a guy too. Ms. Walter’s camped out in her office, drinking her last cup of coffee. It’s a given that if she has her coffee, she is not to be disturbed. That last ten minutes before first period belongs to her and Mr. Starbucks.

Sitting on the risers, I finish up some homework I didn’t get done, thanks to the Sunday night concert. I’d intended to tackle it when I got home, but I was too keyed up.

Then came the cookie party with Aunt Jenny. And after that, I didn’t want to think about homework. My mind was too full of everything else.

Zane bounds through the door. It’s almost a leap. Dancers call it a
jeté
. And if I know Zane, that’s exactly what he was going for, his curl leaping with him.

“Man-o-man, you were awesome last night,” he shouts from across the room.

I motion for him to sh-sh, then beckon him closer. No point in everyone hearing.

“You think?” I say when he is hovering over me.

“Think?” Zane whistles. “I know. You had them eating out of the palm of your hand. They were groveling for more. You needed an encore number.” He plops down beside me.

I laugh, thinking about bursting into an encore at church.

“Wait a minute.” I look at him. “If you were there, why didn’t you stick around?” Suddenly, I’m a little hurt he didn’t talk to me last night.

“With all those holy rollers? Not my scene.”

“If it’s ‘not your scene,’ then what were you doing there?”

“You think I would miss your big show?” Zane shakes his head. He puts his hand on my arm. “No way, Jose.”

The weight of his warm hand is anchoring. Feels good. My mind is reeling. But in a good way. Why aren’t I pulling away?

I dismiss the previous thoughts. The idea’s too new. Too strange. So I change the subject. “Melissa was fantastic too, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, she was good, but you were
gooder
.”

“Well, if it isn’t the new Michael W. Smith.” Melissa is suddenly standing before us. Did she just magically appear—like a fairy or a witch? Or was I too caught up in Zane?