Free Right of Thirst by Frank Huyler Page B

it.”
    â€œIt’s never one phone call, Eric. For anything. That only happens in the movies.”
    â€œYou know what I mean. I’m as good as a lot of people. There is no reason why it shouldn’t be me. I’ve had encouragement here, too. It’s not just my teacher.”
    â€œYou’re better than a lot of people,” I said.
    He smiled then, his face lighting up. He resembled Rachel in some ways—the same coloring and gestures, the same physical ease within himself. But he had none of her restraint, none of her wry watchfulness. He was the opposite of that, another pole of the magnet entirely, and if he had news, I knew it at a glance. He smelled of cigarette smoke, and a single black coil of the tattoo he’d gotten a few months earlier was just visible below the cuff of his shirt at his wrist, and his earring, a dullpewter stud, gleamed a little in the soft lighting, but for an instant, with his dark curly hair and his green eyes, he looked like a boy again anyway. I knew that he was a little spoiled, that he assumed good things would come to him because they always had, and we had given him a bit too much over the years—a new car in high school, trips with his friends, generous sums for clothes and music and all the rest. And though his intelligence was plain, he had little tolerance for work that did not interest him, and his grades in high school had not been good enough for a first-rate college. My own had always been more than good enough, and yet I’d gone to a state university on a scholarship, and part of me resented him for squandering the opportunities I had not been given. But I was also proud to give them, even as I envied him the freedom that he felt was his. With his privilege came something else, something I’d lacked at the same age: he was kinder than I had been, even-handed and generous to his friends, with hardly an ill word toward anyone. I envied him that as well.
    In what he’d chosen, though, he was as driven and as disciplined as I ever could have wanted, and that was where I saw myself in him. My handsome, good-hearted son—who was I to deny the possibilities, which perhaps were not impossible, not entirely out of reach?
    â€œHave you been in touch with your teacher?” I asked.
    â€œYes,” he said. “I talk to her every couple of weeks. She’s really optimistic for me. She really believes it will happen.”
    â€œTell me,” I said, after a moment. “How do you feel when you audition for a part you really want, and you don’t get it?”
    â€œDisappointed,” he replied. “Of course. Sometimes I’m crushed.”
    â€œWhich role are you playing then?”
    â€œThe role of the waiter,” he said, and we both laughed, andI wondered how much Rachel’s illness had prompted him to seek solace with that woman, who believed in him and encouraged him, so nearly his mother’s age, offering what passed for answers. He was so young, I thought, and so confident, and so full of passionate ideas that would not endure the test of experience. But on that night especially I didn’t want to be the voice of caution.
    When I finally told him that he was the best thing in the play, that I thought he’d been terrific, he smiled uneasily and confessed that he was embarrassed by the script, and that had in fact been the reason he’d agreed to the role. His teacher had said that in order to develop as an actor he must be willing to immerse himself even in work he was uncomfortable with, and that my presence in the audience had been a still greater test. He must learn to become a chameleon, and lose himself no matter who was watching, and only later indulge in the luxury of choice, and he was trying to follow her advice.
    I’d been relieved a little by his words. But it also occurred to me that the world is not so pure, and does not respect or appreciate such trips to the monastery,