“Oh, okay.”
“I’m wondering if you could hang out with my grandmother on Saturday night. I have plans.”
She raised an eyebrow at me but didn’t say anything.
“Emma’s not very happy with me right now.”
“She’ll have to get over that.”
She frowned at me for a moment but then seemed to have an idea.
“I’ll trade.”
“Trade what?”
“We need to staff our annual plant sale. We need at least eight people, preferably ten.”
“How much are you paying?”
“It’s volunteer.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t exactly know ten people.”
She pushed forward a tin box that held three by five cards. “These are people who’ve volunteered in the past. All you have to do is make calls until you fill two eight-hour shifts. July 11th and 12th. Friday and Saturday. Eight to four both days.”
Honestly, I felt like I was getting the short end of the stick. But what else could I do?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gay men love divas. Britney Spears, Mariah Carey, Barbra Streisand, Whitney Houston. I’m old school. I love Cher. Which is why I chose to sing “Believe” when my grandmother and I went to audition for Sue Langtree and the church’s choir.
Now, I should explain why I chose that particular song. As much as I adore Cher, she really only has one good note. Wisely, she makes sure it’s in everything she sings. I know this sounds like I’m putting her down, but I’m not. It’s a really, really good note. Unfortunately, I have not found my good note.
Once we were inside the church for the audition, I went to stand to the side of the altar next to the organ. Sue was at the organ. For some reason that made no sense to me, she didn’t have the sheet music for “Believe.” I mean, maybe it wasn’texactlyreligious, but it was close enough. Other than ‘I believe’ it barely had lyrics. I didn’t see why youwouldn’tsing it in church.
Well, to each his own.
Nana Cole sat in the first pew next to Bekah Springer, the girl who told the scintillating story of Onan, who turned out to also be Sue Langtree’s granddaughter. Bekah, not Onan.
I hadn’t sung for very long before Sue stopped me by saying, “Oh my. Well, first of all, you’re a baritone, not a tenor. But that’sfine. We could use another baritone. Why don’t we start with scales.”
She began picking out notes on the organ. I’d do my best to hit them, and she’d say, “Lower. No, lower. Lower still.”
Honestly, it was very confusing. After I’d failed to hit at least a dozen notes, she asked, “Can you come to our rehearsals on Tuesday nights?”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“We’re short on men. I need you desperately.”
“But I can’t sing.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll work around that.”
I looked over to my grandmother for help, but she just sat there. Useless. I cleared my throat and that got her attention.
“Sue, I wonder if you could help me to the ladies room?”
“Oh, of course, I can.”
