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“It’s okay,” I said.
And of course, being the perverse person I can sometimes be, I felt an almost overpowering desire to reach for and hold his hand. I resisted, and the decision to do so felt as if I were now pounding the nails into my own coffin.
I am not to be touched. Haarm is not to be touched.
Messenger is not to be touched.
But Oriax . . .
Messenger blinked, nodded once briskly, seemed almost amused for a second, then slipped back into his usual taciturnity, and we next appeared amid the bustle and excitement behind a large stage.
Music was playing, very loud, very close. It took me a minute to assemble the pieces into a coherent framework and to realize that we were backstage at a live show. Costumed performers were rushing around, men and women with headsets were speaking terse instructions, crew were moving instruments and painted Styrofoam sets. There were cables snaking across the floor, and bright computer monitors everywhere as well as the glow of iPads carried by people whose jobs I could not guess but who were very busy and moved with the swift efficiency of long practice.
I heard a booming voice yelling into a microphone, “Now, how was that for some banjo picking? Ladies and gentlemen, I believe that was worth another round of applause before we bring out our next act!”
Beyond the edge of a drawn curtain a large audience clapped and whistled, and women’s high-pitched voices shouted, “Woo!” and men’s voices yelled, “Yeah!” I looked out toward the audience but couldn’t see them clearly because the lights shining on the stage, and therefore in my eyes, were too bright.
A three-piece band came off the stage, grinning and sweating, to hear voices crying, “Kicked ass, brother!” and, “That was the stuff, man, you brought it!”
The band walked through us carrying their instruments, and raced to a table set up with food and bottled water and beer.
“And nooooooooow,” the announcer cried. “Here she is, the newest country music sensation, she is taking over the charts, folks, a real talent, the real deal, give a big Grand Ole Opry welcome toooooooooo . . . Nicolet!”
Two facts. One: this was the Grand Ole Opry, the ultimate venue, the greatest stage for country music anywhere.
And two: Nicolet had been standing in the wings, just a few feet away without my noticing it.
Nicolet’s face split into a huge, toothy smile, and she strode toward the spotlight.
Messenger stepped in front of her. Nicolet saw him, tried to brush past, and found her feet were fixed to the boards.
“What the hell?” she demanded.
But no one was listening. Nor was anyone speaking. Everything, everywhere in the Opry, had stopped.
Nicolet looked around wildly. “Hey, what’s going on?”
Frozen stagehands. Frozen electricians. Frozen band members. A silent audience.
Silence everywhere.
Messenger held his hand up, silencing Nicolet as well, who continued to try to escape, but could not move from her spot just outside of the spotlights.
To me, Messenger said, “Bring Oliver here.”
Now I felt as frozen as everyone else. This was by far the biggest independent responsibility laid on me yet. I blurted, “Me?”
“Yes,” Messenger said.
In reality I probably stared blankly for no more than a few seconds, but it felt longer. But what was I going to do, refuse? So, I nodded. “Okay.”
I pictured Oliver in my mind, and when I did I saw a place as well. He was at school. He was in class, seated in a circle of desks around a teacher.
I imagined myself there, and then, I was.
He did not immediately notice that everyone and everything around him was still and silent. He was taking notes on an iPad and the soft impact of his fingers on the screen went on for a dozen words before he looked up with a quizzical look on his face. He saw his frozen teacher.
Then he saw me.
