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“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Wishing you were going to be there, that’s all.”
I was sorry as soon as it was out, but it was almost okay. Her smile faded, then came back. The way
the sun does when it passes behind a cloud that’s only small. “You’ll be there. Which means I will be.”
She looked at me with grave timidity from the one eye her Veronica Lake flip left visible. “If you love
me, that is.”
“I love you plenty.”
“Yes, I guess you do.” She kissed the corner of my mouth. “And I love you. So don’t break any legs
and give everybody my thanks.”
“I will. You’re not afraid to stay here alone?”
“I’ll be okay.” It wasn’t actually an answer to my question, but it was the best she could do for the
time being.
6
Mike was right about the walk-ups. We sold out the Friday night performance a full hour in advance
of showtime. Donald Bellingham, our stage manager, lowered the houselights at 8:00 P.M. on the dot.
I expected to feel a letdown after the nearly sublime original with its pie-throwing finale (which we
intended to repeat on Saturday night only, the consensus being that we wanted to clean up the Grange
Hall stage—and the first couple of rows—just a single time), but this one was nearly as good. For me
the comedy highlight was that goddamned dancing horse. At one point Dr. Ellerton’s front-half
cohort, a wildly overenthusiastic Coach Borman, almost boogied Bertha right off the stage.
The audience believed those twenty or thirty seconds of weaving around the footlights was part of
the show and heartily applauded the derring-do. I, who knew better, found myself caught in an
emotional paradox that will probably never be repeated. I stood in the wings next to a nearly paralytic
Donald Bellingham, laughing wildly while my terrified heart fluttered at the very top of my throat.
The night’s harmonic came during the encore. Mike and Bobbi Jill walked to center stage, hand in
hand. Bobbi Jill faced the audience and said, “Miz Dunhill means an awful lot to me, because of her
kindness and her Christian charity. She helped me when I needed help, and she made me want to learn
how to do what we’re going to do for you now. We thank you all for coming out tonight and showing
your Christian charity. Don’t we, Mike?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You guys are the best.”
He looked stage left. I pointed to Donald, who was bent over his record player with the tone arm
raised, ready to stick the groove. This time Donald’s father was going to know damned well that
Donald had borrowed one of his big-band records, because the man was in the audience.
Glenn Miller, that long-gone bombardier, launched into “In the Mood,” and onstage, to rhythmic
clapping from the audience, Mike Coslaw and Bobbi Jill Allnut flew into a jet-propelled Lindy far
more fervent than any I had ever managed with either Sadie or Christy. It was all youth and joy and
enthusiasm, and that made it gorgeous. When I saw Mike squeeze Bobbi Jill’s hand, telling her by
touch to counterspin and shoot through his legs, I was suddenly back in Derry, watching Bevvie-fromthe-levee
and Richie-from-the-ditchie.
It’s all of a piece, I thought. It’s an echo so close to perfect you can’t tell which one is the living voice and
which is the ghost-voice returning.
For a moment everything was clear, and when that happens you see that the world is barely there at
all. Don’t we all secretly know this? It’s a perfectly balanced mechanism of shouts and echoes
pretending to be wheels and cogs, a dreamclock chiming beneath a mystery-glass we call life. Behind