Free Choir Boy by Unknown Author Page B

from Bach to Sinatra to those Backdoor Boys. I’m not picky. I just want to hear your pipes before they get all rusty like mine.”
    Sometimes Berry fantasized he’d had an older sister named Sylvia or Mary. Berry’s imaginary sister had been a delicate maiden with hair a shade redder than Berry’s. Her eyes had shone like pulled-over cop car lights—now white, now blue. Sylvia/Mary had looked after Berry while his mom was never home and his dad abnormaled. But then Berry’s dad had scared her off/upset her/thrown her out. Sometimes Berry actually believed Sylvia/Mary had existed and imagined her speeding-ticket eyes watching Marco and him.
    “Sorry,” Berry said. “Gotta save my voice for church.” “Okay.” Marco stared at his son’s slender back for a few minutes. His beer went flat against one thigh. “So you want to do something? I’ve got a few hours until my next client. She’s a twofer.”
    “What kind?” Berry watched some younger kids play in the empty lot below the window. One boy found Berry’s family’s old ice cream maker and threatened to throw a handful of rust-coated ice cream residue at the other kids.
    “Investment and spiritual. She wants to cherry-pick genomics stocks and find her animal guide. We ditched the word ‘totem’ because it makes everybody think of sequoia trunks with Larry King carved into them.”
    One of the kids threw the ice cream maker at the wall. Berry remembered when he and his parents had played with that machine, vying to see who could invent the silliest flavor. The winner, Berry’s pistachio anchovy bubble gum, had clogged the works beyond cleaning. Some time later, Marco had thrown the machine through the window mid-tantrum. Berry’s parents had fixed the glass but not the appliance.
    Berry glanced over his shoulder at his dad, guessing what bribe the old man would offer. He was torn between what he wanted and what he knew he should want. Teddy would have told Berry to demand porn or another visit to a strip bar. Berry wanted to watch the new Disney movie. He knew he was too old for Disney, and it was better to skew old than young in his tastes. He tried to envision what a grown-up Berry would want. It made Berry sad.
    “Take me to the mall,” Berry told the mandala.
    Berry and his dad went to the big shopping center a few miles out of town. They parked Judy’s rusty Corolla between SUVs and walked half a mile to the Citadel on the Hill shopping center. “It’s like a church,” Berry told his dad. He looked around the two-tiered structure heaped with clothing stores, accessories, shoes, and game show prizes. Berry imagined getting a makeover here. What would it take to make him look like Maura? Berry pictured continents moving, seas vanishing, to make his face a girl’s. Berry wondered if his dad would consider a makeover male bonding.
    “This place doesn’t have any of the things that give a church meaning,” Berry’s dad said.
    “Church has meaning because it’s pretty,” Berry said without thinking.
    Berry’s dad laughed and said millions of people in history had killed each other over whether that was true. But Berry shouldn’t say that prettier churches meant more than plainer ones or people who went to the plain churches would get mad. Berry sometimes felt his dad still talked to him like a kid. He resented and enjoyed it.
    “Do you ever miss being a choirboy?” Berry asked his dad.
    “I miss singing. I’ve thought of joining a group. I don’t think I could deal with church. Anyway, I still sing sometimes.” Marco swept his arms wide, as if about to serenade the food court.
    “Lots of people sing,” Berry said. “Only a few are choirboys.” They were silent for a while. Berry pictured a photo he’d seen of his dad three decades earlier—a tousled blackhaired boy with a ruffled collar, robe and white mantle, a soulful look in his deep-set eyes.
    “I guess I miss it a little,” Marco said.
    Berry dragged his dad into the