Little Did I Know: A Novel (25 page)

I thought of the old expression about mixed emotions. You know the one: mixed emotions are when you drive your new car off a cliff to avoid dinner with your girlfriend’s parents. I pulled the van onto the shoulder and put the car in park. I then put the emergency brake in place thinking it was a metaphor for the conversation I was about to embark on.

“Why,” I asked “did you make plans with your folks and not tell me? We’re just getting started. A week ago, I was just some boy passing through and now I’m a guest at Mom and Dad’s?”

“You’re not just a boy passing through. I never thought such a thing. Now we’re together and I’m so proud of us, of me for trusting you. And look how happy we are. I can’t stop smiling, and it’s been a long time since my parents have seen me this way.”

“It’s too soon, Veronica. It’s too much.”

She looked sad and confused. Not upset or angry, more as if she had taken a wrong turn and was lost late on a dark, moonless road. “No it’s not,” she said quietly, “It’s part of our journey. We have less than a hundred days together and we have to live it
all
before the sand runs through the hourglass.”

“When you’re our age, Veronica, a hundred days can be a lifetime. And who put a limit on us anyway?”

“You. Your ambition, your focus, ferocity of purpose, your goals and need to prove yourself, never taking a breath. You’ll move on, you can’t help yourself. You’ll be opening the next door before you close the one behind you.”

“And where is the trust in that?”

“It’s real, I’m holding on. But I want us to live each day with an abundance of color, so when the sand is all gone it will take a long time for those colors to fade.”

“And meeting Mom and Dad makes those colors bright? It’s just that simple?”

“Nothing is simple, Sam. You know there are no absolutes.”

She moved closer, laid her head in my lap and looked up at me with those eyes that made a sapphire sky seem gray.

“You know what I’ve been thinking, doll?” I said. “That I want to meet your folks.”

Veronica put her hand gently upon the back of my neck, sat up, and kissed me long and lingering. I thought,
This would be a nice way to spend a hundred days or a lifetime, whichever turns out to be longer
.

I started up the van and drove back onto the highway. I wondered how much wine would be served with our meal. Then I looked over at Veronica and saw that she was indeed happy, almost as much as I was.

She turned on the radio. “The Things We Do for Love” was in full lyric.

W
e stopped for wine, and I was faced with my first meeting-the-parents decision. Should I spend more than I could afford or buy something that filled a jug and was really manufactured to get a buzz on, fast and cheap. I choose the former, mostly because the label was attractive and the vineyard was in Napa. Once we arrived, I was glad I went for upscale.

The Chapman home was small, tucked away in a cul-de-sac abutting an inlet off Plymouth Harbor. It was shaded by ancient pines, and the sunlight filtered through the trees like magic hour on a movie set. The home although small was pristine. Fresh paint, buffed floors, and a gallery of family pictures chronicling a good simple life. This afternoon it was filled with the breath of spring flowers and yummy scents finding their way in from the kitchen.

Veronica’s parents were truly excited to meet me, and their warmth and easy energy made me feel special. Her oldest brother, Tommy Jr., was the perfect host, pouring me a huge glass of wine without waiting for my request.

The backyard was no more than a slip that housed Tom Sr.’s boat. A small table that nestled in between the sea and the deck was covered with a few dozen beautifully prepared tea sandwiches and a cold summer soup that was the origin of those delicious culinary aromas; it complemented the Napa chardonnay that was disappearing all too quickly.

Veronica introduced her mom as Julia, and if the adage that young girls become their mothers was true, then Veronica had many years of beauty ahead of her. Julia was an older version of her daughter, but in the right light they might have been sisters.

We sat around the small table under the ancient pines; the inlet sea lapped sweetly against the docked fishing boat, and the air smelled of Christmas trees and a natural sea-scented cologne. It was rich man’s weather, and I thought of Barrows alone and unhappy in his magnificent soulless mansion. I was glad I had come, and not only because it made Veronica happy.

We ate and talked about unimportant things. Yet their simplicity made them profound. Our eyes met and we listened to one another and connected. Mr.Chapman asked if I would like to see the boat, then took me on a quick tour. We stood atop the bridge and looked out at the blue water reflecting against a cloudless sky. The breeze off the inlet was brisk. It ruffled the vessel’s colors and made my shirt cling against my skin.

Tom Chapman asked me to sit, and pulled up a deck chair and sat close so we might speak to one another in private. As he gathered his thoughts, I realized I’d been invited to spend time with the family because Veronica’s dad had something to share.

“This boat was my father’s,” he started. “I’ll give it to the boys when the time is right. Fishing is a good honest profession. Veronica’s other brother worked the boat with me and Tom, but he’s been away now four almost four years. Did Veronica tell you?”

“Yes, sir, but only in passing, and I didn’t feel it my place to ask for more than she offered.”

“When Eddie went away, Veronica cried every day for two years. Every day. I mean real tears; not just sadness, but grief. She dropped out and left us for a while. She didn’t leave town or run away, it was just that she became a shell of the girl she was growing up.”

“I can’t imagine, sir, what kind of pain the loss of a son or a brother causes,” I responded, not truly knowing what to say to this man I had known for mere moments.

“Eddie’s coming home,” he said. “He is not lost, just ‘missing in action.’ Did you fight in Nam?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“College kept you home?”

“That and a terrific lottery number.”

“I fought in Korea, my dad in World War Two. We were both in the navy, and Tommy Jr. spent two years in Asia and came home in one piece. You never know where danger finds you. Barrows. You watch out . . . you just be careful. Would you have fought if they called you up?”

“I wasn’t forced to make that decision, sir. God was smiling on me, I guess, and he kept me safe.”

“You believe in God, son?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine.”

I could hear the happy voices of Veronica and her mother finding their way up to the bridge from the table below, giggles and laughter being swept away into an endless horizon. No clouds, an early crescent moon revealing itself in a sky of cobalt blue, time unrushed and of no consequence.

Tom Sr. went below and returned with two beers. He handed me one, took a long pull on his, and sat close by again on the deck chair.

“You Jewish?” he asked.

“Are you, sir?”

“No, of course not.” He laughed as if I had asked if he was green.

“I like your daughter, Mr. Chapman. She wanted me to meet you and your wife and so here I am. Nothing more.”

“There is a lot more, son. Ten days ago, Veronica came home smiling for the first time since Eddie was arrested. She talked all night about this boy she had met at work. Her face was bright and animated. She was a girl again.
My
little girl.”

“My mother always said, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ We somehow find a way, don’t we, sir? A way to get through all the stuff that comes along.”

He regarded me for a moment. “You be nice to Veronica, son.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, and offered my hand to seal the deal. He took it, held it firm and strong, then looked deep into my eyes.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“Kindness.”

“And what do you see?”

“Just what I was looking for, son, and a great deal more. Now let’s go see my daughter smile. Then you two can be on your way.”

W
hen I was in college, I was never a very good student. I took courses that began after noon, and would never consider a Friday-morning lecture. I crammed for midterms and final exams. I read only the books I wanted to read. I used Cliff’s Notes to get through the rest. I loved college, but the structure and the preparation required didn’t much work for me.

Except when it came to any course that dealt with the theater. Anytime a playwright was assigned, I didn’t just read the play, I read everything the playwright ever wrote. I did it for me and not for the grade. I also acted in many school shows. I was competent. Like a .280 hitter who bats sixth with a bushel of doubles. I paid attention and I saw what worked, what captured the audience. I watched the directors.

I came to believe two things. The first was that you never truly have all the answers; if you did, the theater would be a science and not an art. More important, a director must never lie to an actor, for if he does, the whole production is doomed to become a lie. Tell the actor the truth, help make him be better to find his way. Clarify his actions, advise him how to use his body, how to measure the beat. But never lie—as it stunts growth and kills creativity. The actor’s reward is in a fine delivery, not bogus rhetoric from some pontificating student director or false praise from someone with a PhD.

On Tuesday morning, we had our first rehearsal. JoJo and her management crew had dressed the stage with some fifty chairs in one big circle. The entire PBT company was in attendance. They had arrived early, wide awake, with their eyes and bodies suggesting they were ready to get up and dance. It was like a first date. Everyone wanted to look good and be liked, so they pretended to be who they perhaps were not. All too cooperative and oh so lovely. They laughed at all the casual jokes and listened with intense sincerity.

Usually at a first rehearsal there is a “table read” where the actors sit around and read the play. It breaks the ice and allows for discussion about the characters’ motivations and backstory. What did the playwright mean when he said that? Why that song lyric or orchestration? It is also good for the designers to hear the piece out loud. It is also fun.

However, PBT was summer stock. Five fully produced musicals in ten weeks. Eight shows a week dictated how much time was left for rehearsals, and it didn’t allow for a great deal of analysis of character or motive or backstory. Additionally, we were presenting famous musicals with dialogue, music and lyrics set in stone.
Cabaret, Funny Girl, Anything Goes, Company
, and
The Fantasticks
were part of musical theater lore. The gold standards. The songs and scenes had been played thousands of times. These shows were like the great classics authored by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Rand. Each time they were revisited by the reader, or in our case the performer, something of the reader was brought to the written word.

There was no table read. We didn’t have time. I had said that I had told everyone what I expected from them at their auditions or at the beach or through Jojo. I let Elliot speak regarding the music and Ellie regarding the dance. They reminded everyone that rehearsals set the steps or the notes, but perfecting their work had to be done their own time. Whether they were jogging or working out, eating dinner, shaving, or showering, they had to find ways to turn the sketch into a picture. They were allowed an occasional respite for making out or a ballgame or a brief letter home. But that was it.

I told them that Joe DiMaggio played every inning as if it were his last because, as he explained, “There was someone in the stands who came to see Joe DiMaggio play for the first and only time, and that fan deserved to see the real deal and not some faded copy of Joe DiMaggio who might be tired or bored, or upset about something that day.”

“We are all Joe DiMaggio,” I explained. “Whoever comes to see us deserves the best that we have to offer. If one of the greatest athletes of all time could give that to his public, we should be ashamed to offer any less.”

I looked at everyone seated in a circle in that old barn that had been putting on shows since the slaves were freed, and offered a final thought. “Everyone here has to want to be here. In some shows you will be the star, and in others you’ll play backup and give the star a foundation from which to shine. Whatever role you play, you must commit with all your strength and all your heart. Otherwise, you will be cheating yourselves, your friends, your audience, and me. If you don’t feel comfortable with that, then get up and go home.”

There was quiet in the theater. No one got up to leave, which I thought was a good sign. “Okay then,” I said. “Let’s go to work.”

W
hen I was a sophomore in high school, I was the only one in my class selected to be a starting player on the varsity football team. It was sort of one of those good news–bad news talks with my coach. Mr. Serpe told me I was a first-team player. That of course was the good part. Then he informed me that I would be up against the best middle linebacker in the state on Saturday morning when we scrimmaged with Roosevelt High. My stomach turned and I wondered if I really wanted to play varsity football.