The Concert - Part 3 - Thursday’s Rehearsal

Wednesday was a snow day, and the boys were able to practice at our house again, for most of the day. There was an underlying feeling of tension. No one voiced their fear of what Thursday might hold. If the man was there again, the concert would be cancelled. We were all in agreement. I think sleeping on what had happened made the boys realize the risks involved with someone so unpredictable, who owned at least one gun.

They were back to school Thursday, and once again I met them at the barn. I held my breath when we approached the barn door. I could hear someone inside. 

“Well how the hell are you, Heather?” Aaron greeted me when I walked in. “Is this your son?” he asked, pointing to Frank. “Shit, he’s grown up.” I knew Aaron from the wine bar. We’d hired him several times. He was the hayride guy. The one who drove the tractor pulling the flatbed during special events hosted by the merchants in town. He is a great guy and I was so relieved to see a friendly face. He introduced me to Brian, whose name I recognized as father of the scary man.

Brian assured me that the family, many in number, would do whatever was necessary to keep his son away from the barn, not just that day, but the day of the concert and in the future. His parents didn’t need that in their lives, he told me. “He’s okay until he drinks,” he said. “And then the next day he doesn't remember what happened.” Little by little my fear dissipated. It still lingered, but less and less so.

The only issue I saw was the tractor was still in the barn. Dead center in the middle of the floor. With a flat tire. Brian saw me looking in that direction. “I’ll get this outa here soon as I find the damn key, I don’t know what the hell my son did with it,” he said. Uh oh, uh oh, chimed the voice inside my head.

Rehearsal was great. Really great. The boys ran through their entire set list and one of the other parents showed up to watch. So did another band, who would be opening for the Lost and the Lonely. Using my iPad, I filmed every song they played. 

I had to leave before they were finished, but was happy another parent was there to help them close up the barn. As I walked out the barn door, I turned back, and looked at the tractor that sat there, an unpleasant reminder that everything was not as okay as we were pretending it was.

I left feeling a connection with the boys I hadn’t felt before. As I filmed them, one by one they’d look to me, eyebrows raised in question. “Are we good enough?” their eyes pleaded. I’d nod and smile, and they’d smile back, continuing to play with greater enthusiasm.