Chapter 4: Dressing Room B

"You want to sit down?" he said. "You look like you want to sit down."

"I want to know who you are."

"Briggs Eklund. Fire department. I'd shake your hand, but I've been touching pipes."

He wiped his palm on his jeans and held it out anyway.

I shook it.

His hand was huge and warm and a little gritty.

"Tomorrow," he said. "There's a diner on Lake Street with bad coffee and good pie. Nine o'clock. I'll tell you all of it."

"Why not now?"

He looked at his watch.

"Because my kid gets out of art class in twenty minutes, and she bites."

The diner had red booths and a waitress who called everyone hon.

Briggs was already there when I walked in, in the back booth, with two cups of coffee and a manila folder.

He stood up when I sat down. Then he didn't seem to know what to do about it and sat down again.

"I'm bad at this part," he said.

"Which part?"

"Talking. I'm good at the part after."

His phone buzzed on the table. He looked at it and sighed.

"I'm sorry. She won't stop until I answer."

He turned the screen to me.

A girl of about eight was on it, gap-toothed, with two brown braids and a face pressed much too close to the camera.

"Is that her?" the girl said. "Is that the actress?"

"Birdie, this is Romy. Romy, this is my daughter, who promised Grandma she'd eat her eggs."

"I ate them. Are you a real actress? Like on TV?"

"Like on a stage," I said.

"That's better than TV. Can you cry on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Do it."

"Birdie," Briggs said.

I let my chin wobble. I let my eyes fill. One tear went down my good cheek.

Birdie screamed so loud the waitress looked over.

"Dad! Dad, she did it!"

"I saw. Goodbye. Eat a vegetable."

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