* * *
Tonight? Tonight’s different. Look at me, I’m here. Right here behind the curtain. In the eye of the storm. I’m standing on my legs. Standing straight. Standing tall. I’m a shining tower of calm behind the curtain. My body emanating two words: All’s Well. And all is well. Not dying at all for once. Not a ghost for once. Not even pale. So I’m trickling a little blood from my shin. It’s fine. I’m roses. They gasped a little when I entered the theater. Because I looked so wonderful. Didn’t even need to shower or change. Why shower, after all, when I washed myself in the sea? Why change when my poppy dress looks so good on me?
Professor Fitch, are you all right? they said when they saw me. They stared at my dripping hair and dress streaked with seaweed and salt. Looking so concerned I almost laughed. Oh, children.
I’m wonderful. All’s well. All’s well here. You’re the ones with the scrunched-up faces.
Professor Fitch, we need to get into the dressing rooms, they’re locked. Do you have the key? They pointed to the closed dressing room door.
Of course, I have the key, I said. I looked down at my hands, which were empty of all but glittering sand grains. I felt the pockets of my poppy dress. Nothing in there but seaweed and some herbal mulch. A few shells I collected at the water’s edge all morning and afternoon. The colors were so entrancing, the iridescence so shimmering.
Professor?
Must have lost it, I said. In the waves. And I tried to sound sad about this, but it was hard when there was this grin sliding around my face.
Where’s Grace? one of them said. She must have the key.
Grace? I said. Grace isn’t here. Grace had to go.
Where did she go?
Home, I said. She went home. I took her there. I helped her up the stairs. I tucked her in. Now about this door, I said, and then I kicked it hard, and just like that, the door opened right up. There you are children, I said. What are we waiting for? In you go.
And they just stared at me. You should have seen their faces.
Go on in, I told them. We just need to put on a good show. They just want to see a good show. That’s all they want. All they said they wanted.
Who’s “they,” Professor?
The three men, of course.
The three men?
They gave me a gift. I’m not tired at all. Grace is tired, that’s why I let her sleep. Let her rest. I didn’t want to wake her. But me, I’m not ever tired. I slept a little last night in the sea.
In the sea?
Oh it was lovely. Have you ever slept there? The waves are just like a blanket. The black waves give you dark green dreams.
Professor, you’re bleeding.
So awake all the time. Eyes wide open. Taking in all the light. They came to see a good show. We have to give them a good show. So let’s get a move on, shall we? Chop, chop. Ticktock.
* * *
Now I look out into the theater from behind the curtain. Full house tonight. When did we ever have a full house? Not ever. Not even for one of Fauve’s hideous musicals. Full house except three. Three vacant seats in the front row, dead center. RESERVED written ominously in block letters on a sheet of paper taped to each. No sign of them. No sign of those suits, those tapping leather feet. Those eyes that know me.
We just want to see a good show, Ms. Fitch.
The auditorium keeps filling. Can you believe this turnout, Grace? Grace isn’t here, I have to remember. Grace is resting. She needs her rest. Better she isn’t here tonight. People pouring in from every open door. Some parents. Some students. Some… are they locals? People I’ve never seen before. Not from the school. People who appear to be, are they pushing open the theater doors?
“Professor Fitch, I think Peter might need your help,” Dennis says, pointing to the double doors, where a chubby boy in a bow tie looks frightened.
I run to the doors, to Peter, who is standing there clutching his last program like a sad shield.
“What’s going on here?” I ask Peter.
Peter, I recall now, played a tree two years ago in my highly conceptual and somewhat unorthodox production of As You Like It. Human trees were crucial to my vision. And yet his was a valiant but ultimately wanting performance. Moved too much. I took him aside. Quietly, I told him, Peter, the role of usher is highly underrated. Perhaps this is your niche. In the theater, we all have our roles to play. Peter, poor wretch, believed me.
“Professor Fitch,” Peter says to me now, “these people want to come in, and they don’t have tickets.”
“Don’t have tickets?” I gaze at the crowd. A sea of bodies cloaked in semiformal wear. Faces I don’t recognize. All gazing at me and Peter, at the doors to the theater. Angry, impatient, murmuring to one another. Holding cups of wine. How did they get wine? And then I see an open bar by the foyer doors. A man in a black shirt pouring drinks. People in long lines, ordering. Who the hell are all these people? A woman in a fur coat appears to be their ambassador. She stands at the helm with a glass of champagne, staring at me. Her eyebrows are drawn in thickly with brown pencil. Her lips are bright red. Beside her is a funny little man who looks like an elf. He’s wearing a hat with a feather in it and leering at me.