Two Curtains Before the Last

When he was eight, Stanley Platt saw waving angels in the powdery white curtains his mother hung. They were quiet and pretty, and sometimes, they’d whisper little prayers as he ran through the house. On summer days, they brought back inside hints of magnolia, honeysuckle and sunlight. In the winter, they hibernated and smelled of crisp, clean starch. When his mother left, Stanley watched the curtains grow dirty and when they waved, they were grimy ghosts that brought in the odors of stale car grease and burnt meat from his father’s grill. Mr. Platt blared easy country and firey gospel as he worked on cars. Stanley knew about oil leaks, flooded engines and misaligned tires before he strong enough to work the crane and lift an engine. He did as his father did but could not bring himself to care beyond the Saturdays they spent working together on a Chevy Impala that would someday be his. Mr. Platt hardly spoke and the house was loud with the sound of heavy boots and microwaved meals announcing dinner.

The boy next door would play Queen as loud as his stereo would go and Stanley would throw open his window and let the curtains dance with him to Freddie’s voice. At school, the boy would not acknowledge him. The children made his tears a game. Stanley hid and sobbed until he learned to fight. 

He was fifteen before he tore all the curtains down. His father looked at the windows and grimaced. “Did you pack them up?”

“No.” Stanley, tall and thin looked to his taller and broader father. “They’re in the trash. They got too dirty to clean right.” Stanley saw the massive fist tighten and then exhale. 

“Yeah, I guess they were,” Mr. Platt said and that was that. 

They spent the next few years in silence interrupted by the ripped jeans Stanley wanted to wear, the insistant voice of Freddie breaking free and heavy boots heading down to the basement. The windows, naked and open, leaked out late-night shows and silvery-blue glows. 

Stanley was eighteen when he told his father about New York. His father knew no musicals and never went to movies or plays. Stanley wanted Broadway and the velvet curtains that were too heavy to ever wave goodbye. Mr. Platt shook, “If you go, if you put yourself out there, there’ll  be no money from me. Do you understand?”

Stanley nodded. “Yeah, I get it.”

Mr. Platt shook his head and stood, kicking his chair back from the table. “Don’t call, don’t write and don’t come back. If you go, you go and that’s it. No money, no home, and no car.”

Stanley looked towards the driveway where the Impala gleamed. “Can I buy it from you?”

Mr. Platt was breathing heavily and his eyes narrowed. He gave a ridiculous price and watched Stanley pale.

“Okay, I’ll make payments,” Stanley said.

“Cash or nothing.” Mr. Platt said, and that was that. Stanley left on a bus wearing ripped jeans and when a country song came on his iPod, he played it again and again until he fell asleep.

Stanley called his father the next day and Mr. Platt told him: “You can come back now and it’ll be fine, you’ve seen the city.”

”It’s beautiful dad, you should come.”

Mr. Platt ignored this. “Don’t call again, don’t write and don’t come back.” The call ended and Stanley moved on.

At twenty-five, he got his first apartment and it was small with one window a few feet from a wall. Stanley hung blue curtains and let them hide angry, red letters that would not be washed away. He called home once but a woman answered and he hung up. He wrote birthday cards and got them back-each a with hastily scrawled “Return to Sender.”

When Stanley was thirty-two, he saw his father from the stage. The show was not on broadway and the curtain was frayed with wispy strings falling out of the sad, gold tassels. But it paid well enough and there would be critics, a chance to be seen and heard. Stanley wanted to wave but it had been years and he was nervous. He envied Jacob who could stand as still as granite with only his lips moving through lyrics and lines. Backstage, Stanley sipped water and spat it out into the trash bin. He sweated and sighed. He could not stop brushing his hair. Then, he stood up and paced.

Jacob quickly ran over and patted his arm before going off to sing his part. Stanley wished for more and but as his cue came, he remembered Freddie and belted out his song. He could not see his father through the darkened audience so his eyes traveled up to the parted curtain that gleamed under the stage lights. 

When the first round of applause came, Stanley waved and grinned. Jacob held his hand and they bowed as the people shouted and whistled. Backstage, he drank more water. Jacob tightly hugged him and water spilled in exuberance.

“You’re amazing!” Jacob shouted.

”You’re better!” Stanley grinned. “Guess who’s here tonight?”

Jacob crossed his arms. “Your father?”

Stanley nodded, still grinning.

”Why are you so happy? Didn’t he kick you out for being gay?”

Stanley’s smile vanished. “It was never about that. My dad’s not like that.”

”I don’t get it. Why’d he kick you out then?”

”I guess he wanted to cut me off before I did the same thing my mother did to him-leave and never come back. He wanted things on his terms.”

Jacob frowned. “I don’t know, Stanley. I’m pretty sure it was the gay thing.”

Stanley laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I promise you it’s not. When I was little, he told me that there were angels in the curtains my mom hung up and they loved everyone the same, no matter what. He kept telling me that when I got picked on too.”

“Then why? I don’t get what else is bad enough to just drop you.”

“I just told you,“ Stanley said.

The stage manager called out the scene, and ensured the props were arranged the second act was about to begin.

From left-stage Stanley began to sing again. He felt the slight tightening of the harness he wore under his costume and in seconds, was lifted up to fly around the room as the music blasted through his skin and bones. The lights dimmed for an instant, and he saw his father’s shirt, as crisp and white as his mother’s curtains. For a moment, he felt the high of performing with a rush of adrenaline that laced itself with joy. Then, the harness jerked and Stanley muffled a gasp as it twisted and he felt himself slide. The lights were cut. A heavy, velvet curtain opened and Stanley took in the scents of magnolia, honeysuckle and sunlight. He heard the sound of heavy boots and smiled.