Page 84 of Playworld

We got off and waited together again for her northbound bus, which appeared on the hill’s crest far too soon. I was gathering the courage to ask her out when she beat me to the punch.

“Want to come babysit with me next week?”

I held out my open palm, which delighted her. “Write down the address.”

—

That evening, Oren, Mom, and I went to see Dad rehearse his new show at the St. James Theatre.

The cast was seated onstage in folding chairs, with the four principals, including Dad, in the front row. All of them had binders in their laps. But for an upright piano downstage left, the space was bare. The rear curtains and backdrop were raised to reveal the far wall’s exposed brick, which made the stage seem bigger. A fissure, patched with pale mortar, ran diagonally across its face.

A small man wearing a jacket and tie shuffled in from the wing; he was greeted by applause and raised his hand to the audience of friends and family, and then stood next to the instrument for a moment in acknowledgment. Mom leaned toward my ear as she clapped and said, “That’s Hershy Kay, he wrote the music forA Chorus Line.” He reminded me of Elliott, as round and solid as he was, his countenance at once impish and formidable, this intensified by the occasional flash from his glasses’ lenses when they caught the light. He had a full head of white hair and full lips, and when he bowed it was more a gesture toward one: he lightly tapped his palms to his hips and bent ever so slightly before taking his seat at the piano.

José Ferrer—“He’s the director,” Mom said, “he was very famous for his role as Cyrano”—followed Kay onto the stage. He was tall. Imposing. There was a dashing regality about his bearing. He had a goatee, and his mustache was wide and dramatic as a musketeer’s. He even bowed like a swordsman, hand to chest and the other arm stuck out, toe pointed daintily toward us as he bent at the hips, which indicated a surprising agility and also got a laugh.

Abe Fountain, whom Mom knew I recognized and simply glanced at me as the applause rose in response, walked on last. I had not seen him since Christmas, and I was struck again by how noticeably he’d aged sinceThe Fisher King.He’d already donned his white gloves, a long-standing habit to protect against biting his nails; and while he was the youngest of the triumvirate—he was only sixty-three—his mannerisms suggested the greatest fragility. He touched one hand to his heart in a gesture of gratitude. I think often about these men, on that particular night, because there was an old lion’s grandeur about all three, their great careers attending them like page boys, widening behind them like a wake, and I was touched by the fact that their confidence in this new project, their hope for it—a hope that my father wholeheartedly embraced—was fissured like the backstage wall, was belied by their self-consciousness during these introductions. By their awareness that this show might in fact be their last. So that even here, at the start, the rehearsal had about it an aura of a curtain call. But there was another layer that made these introductions so memorable. These men were so obviously one another’s people, a family, as Al Moretti liked to say, that they chose. They hadgravitated to performance, here, to the stage, as a means of belonging. Here, where they put on the masks that, in some cases, others had made for them, masks that had, by now, grafted to their skin, behind which they were at once safe and allowed to be successful. Here, where they could be at home and hide in plain sight, until opening night, when the world decided, once again, whether it approved.

“Good evening,” Fountain said. “We appreciate you joining us for this musical run-through ofSam and Sara.” There was another round of applause, which Fountain tamped his hands to shorten. “Our plan tonight is to get through all the numbers with minimal interruption. Be warned, however, that we may pause here and there for all three of us to make some comments—breaks I hope you don’t find too distracting. So, without further ado…Sam and Sara.”

There was no dimming of the lights, no orchestra making the final clatter of readjustment in the pit. Only Kay’s accompaniment, the instrument sounding small and tinny in the comparatively empty space, accompanied in turn by the chorus as they stood to sing the first number, which took place, so far as I could figure, at a college campus, but it was difficult to tell without costumes. It was made more confusing the moment the show’s pair of stars took their place center stage, and the blocking was important. They stood alongside my father and the woman playing opposite him, but each slightly in front of the other. A couple coupled off. And they were noticeably older than their partners. Olivia White played Sara, the love interest. Her voice was raspy and tarred, and she sang in a register that was closer to speaking. Her gestures were at once spunky and feminine, and there was a hint to all of them of impersonation and overemphasis, like a girl playing dress-up. “She starred with your father inOliver!” Mom whispered. “She was Nancy to his Bill Sikes.” Marc Morales, who played Sam, was chestnut-haired and towering, with a slow swing to all his movements. He had a booming singing voice—“He’s a star at the Met,” Mom said—that was operatic and in heavily accented English. His fingers, when he extended his thin forearms, visibly shook.

The number concluded, the applause’s volume described the audience’s size, Oren leaned forward to catch my eye and thumbed toward the aisle.

“Where are you going?” Mom asked us when we stood.

“Around,” Oren said.

We passed the remainder of the rehearsal as we had so many run-throughs of former shows. We climbed to the balcony’s highest seat, so that we could look down upon the cast members’ heads. We visited the empty lobby. We snuck behind the mezzanine’s bar, and Oren got us Cokes from the fountain, though there was no ice and the soda was flat. Via the wings, we climbed the catwalk’s ladders and crossed its bridge, pausing in the middle and leaning on its railing to watch another song. We snuck into the orchestra pit, which seemed cramped even without the instruments and musicians, while above us the performers sounded muffled and far away. And later, as we lounged in one of the dressing rooms, as Oren did pull-ups on the exposed pipes and blackened his palms with grime, I thought about how much I’d have liked for Amanda to see this place. I had the strange and incongruous fantasy of the pair of us living here, as if it were our own apartment, sharing the tiny bathroom, cooking small meals on the hot plate, reading the dated graffiti scratched onto the ceiling above our tiny loft bed. And I was flooded with love for her.

Dad wanted to go to Chinatown after the rehearsal was over, surprising Oren and me. “How about Hung Wa?” he suggested to Mom.

She appeared surprised as well. “That sounds great,” she said. “What do you think, boys?”

We took a cab again. It was a long ride, but Dad didn’t seem to notice the meter. He talked to the driver animatedly. In the back seat, Mom, Oren, and I were silent, lest we somehow change Dad’s mind. It had been a family tradition when Oren and I were little to eat at Hung Wa every Saturday night, but this had ended once we moved back to Lincoln Towers. The restaurant’s walls were a drab, faded green, although there was a wall-length fish tank by the entrance to the kitchen that was brightly lit and filled with albino oscars and pygmy catfish and gourami. The waiter arrived with wonton strips and ramekins of hot and sour sauce and mustard. When the waiter returned with the pot of tea, Oren and I filled our small cups with two sugar packets so that the drink was overly sweet. Dad ordered for the table, the very same things he had for Oren and me when we were little: egg drop soup followed by chicken lo mein; forMom, Chinese broccoli and the shrimp in special sauce; and for himself the beef short rib. Oren and I took a moment to look at each other full-on, amazed that he’d remembered.

“How’s the new tooth?” Oren asked when he watched Dad eat.

“It’s a temporary,” Dad said, “but it seems to be working great.” He asked Mom, “What’d you think of the show?”

“I loved your numbers.”

“But what about the whole thing?”

“It’s early,” Mom said, and blew on a broccoli stalk. “It’s hard to tell.”

“It’s an incredible array of talent,” Dad said.

“They’ve all had great careers,” Mom said.

“Marc gets going and the hair stands up on my neck,” Dad said.

“His pronunciation when he reads his lines is terrible,” Mom noted. She finished her wine and, catching the waiter’s eye, pointed at her glass.

“Olivia’s still a gorgeous gal,” Dad said.

To me, Mom said, “Pour me some of your soup,” and handed me her teacup.

Dad said, “It’s hard not to feel good about things.”

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