CHAPTER SEVEN

MARRIONETTE STRINGS

August

The last profitable show of summer ended the second week of August. The singer was some local guy that Will never heard of, but his appearance on American Idol made him a Michigan hero and filled every seat in the theater. The artist was known for his combined singing, writing, and piano-playing talent, and the show exhibited his abilities exquisitely.

For the first time since opening night, Will hired outside help to oversee the event’s preparations. He stayed home during the piano-man’s performances and blocked out every insulting note with the hard plastic of Janie’s earphones.

Will had nightmares about his theater in the profitless months that followed. He dreamt the stage was like his left hand; a healthy extension of his body with performance-art as its lifeblood. When children danced and women sang, the stage thrived. But when the curtains were closed for extended periods of time, blood circulation slowed and the hardwood floor became like stagnant living tissue deprived of oxygen; blue and purple splotches with webs of visible veins. Arteries reopened in the form of church services and movie nights, but the relief was temporary and, when the events were over, the flecked purple dots turned grey. A thunderstorm at the end of July cancelled one service and stopping the blood supply for a full week. Will imagined veins of wrinkled death creeping up the green curtain and turning it black. Sepsis set in when the theater’s dried skin spawned living bacteria and the wood warped and swelled in an attempt to rid itself of the infection. Gangrene would take over completely, infecting not just the theater’s flesh, but the inside mechanisms required for production. The plastic seats grew bubbles of red infected puss and popped black. Swarming bacteria fed on the catwalk, spotlights, and fly system like piranhas on a bathing zebra.

It was fear of the smell that kept Will home in those stagnant months. In the hour before his surgery, his hand reeked of burning human waste. He stretched his bubbling fingers as far from his face as the gurney straps allowed and twisted his head and nose in disgust, but the smell was inescapable. Now he gagged at the thought of that oozing stage. 

If the theater was truly as putrid as he imagined, there would be no saving it. The sharp edge of a scalpel would cut the infection out (it worked on his fingers!) but surgery had to be done soon; if the bacteria escaped and descended the hill, the whole city would be at risk.

The wet gangrene put an end to Will’s Week of Creative Freedom and put a halt to his plan to win back his wife. He tried to resume work after his recuperation, and even asked Sarah to keep his writing setup in the living room. But as much as he danced between the piano and typewriter and cork-board and notes, the magic never returned. A week ago, Sarah pulled down all thirty-six completed pages from the window and dropped the stack on Will’s nightstand. If she scanned any portion of the script, she didn’t expound.

The infection that ate Will’s hand did not devour his theater. In late August, he finally braved the trek up the hill and prepared to shield his eyes from the horror, but there was no decay. In fact, nothing had changed since the last time he visited. The building just seemed... lonely.

Will ran the remaining third of his palm along the front of the stage, then patted the wood like one might pet a horse. “You’re holdin’ up better than me, old friend,” he said.

The circuit breaker for the chorus room was kept off to save electricity, so Will grabbed a flashlight from the storage closet and moved in. The defined beam of light cut through the sawdust atmosphere like deep-sea footage of the Titanic.

The chorus room was the belly of the theater now; eating and digesting remnants from the shows. Will’s light traced the scattered objects: a box of Sparkle Motion programs, a single tap shoe, shattered glass from a vanity bulb. A headless mannequin displayed a forgotten dress from the production of Madame Butterfly and church programs tiled the floor and caught themselves between mirrors. Posters from every concert and play were signed “To Will” by the performers and leaned in banded rolls against the brick.

A used condom graced the edge of the nearest vanity. Janie told him that the high school kids joked about having sex at the theater, but the rubber was the first evidence Will found of lewd behavior. Security had to be tightened... if he could find the funds.

He flipped off the light, closed the only chorus-room door, and stood alone in the dark. He wasn’t there to escape, he was there to reconnect. He fell to his knees and bowed his head against the cold cement floor. He clasped all seven fingers and prayed. He pleaded for forgiveness. He begged for another chance. He promised to do right by his wife and to love his daughter. And for the first time since the moment it happened, Will acknowledged the angel’s second proclamation; her warning to stop production on the theater. He slammed his fist against the concrete and admitted disobedience in that folded fetal prayer. He apologized for so deeply burying the memory of that night and realized (no... he always knew) that his unconscious had devised a plan to continue with the construction and to plead ignorance after the fact.

Will cried, “What could I do? I couldn’t stop! I’m sorry I didn’t stop!” With hands in the air, he released the fault into his covenant with God; he dispelled the act of self-deception that was binding his heart, and he knew for certain that he was forgiven.

Over the autumn months, God’s theater continued to take on qualities of the mundane. Pranks went out of style. Complaints stopped. “Letters to the Editor” turned back to city-council gossip.

And William missed the controversy.

*  *  *

“Will came by my store for the first time in a year. Asked about the speakers.”

“I don’t care anymore. I washed my hands of that mess.”

“I know, Kay.”

“What are you worried about?”

“I’m worried he knows. I’m worried that Sarah told him.”

“If he knew about the prank, Hyde, he would tell you.”

“What if he’s testing me? What if he wants to see if I’ll say something?”

“We barely see them anymore."

"I know..."

"This came in the mail.”

“Another fine?”

“Seventy-five dollars.”

“Fuck it.”

“Don’t swear.”

“I’m not paying it.”

“Hydey...”

“I’m not cutting my grass.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“I’d like just one summer to live like the man we nearly destroyed. I want one year to stand outside these petty obligations.”

“Obligations? Like work? Like me?”

“I love my job.”

“Just your job? Why... why would you say that?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, baby.”

“So you love me too?”

“Yeah, but if Will doesn’t have to cut his grass, then I shouldn’t have to either.”

“Are you five? The Carmels aren’t part of this subdivision, but we are! Those are the rules, Hyde. We signed a contract saying we’d cut the grass. If you don’t do it, I will.”

“He gets to build a theater in his backyard and it breaks curfew every night, but while he’s up there dancing with the choir I get fined seventy-five bucks for the length of my grass!”

“I thought you loved Will. You’re all buddy-buddy now.”

“I feel bad for him.”

“But you want to live like him?”

“My whole fucking life--”

“Don’t swear.”

“My whole fucking life has been tedium. I spent my childhood being a good boy and doing what was right. I spent my early twenties taking care of my dying mother, trapped in that hospital room for weeks at a time while trying to make something of my life. Now I spend every day buried in paperwork and loving you--”

“You love me because it’s the right thing to do?”

“That’s not what I meant--”

“It’s what you said.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re too young for a midlife crisis, Hyde.”

“Unless I die at fifty-four.”

“Is that why you drink now? Your little glass of ‘one before bed because it helps me sleep’ is part of a midlife crisis?”

“If you say so.”

“Is this why you won’t sleep with me?”

“Kayla...”

“Do you still want kids?”

“Of course I want kids.”

“Are you going to leave me?”

“Of course not.”

“Hyde... Are you going to leave me?”

“No, baby.”

“I know things were bad before. I know I went crazy and I made things hard on you. But that’s over. You understand? I’m getting my studio back together. And I just want you to cut the grass.”

“Okay.”

“Hyde?”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to know...”

“What?”

“...as long as I have you, I’m going to be okay.”