Chapter 12: Rehearsal

The Rialto smelled of dust and floor wax, the same as it had on April Fools' Day.

I stood at the back of the center aisle with my cane and looked down the rows of red seats.

Abel had parked at the curb and held the door for me.

"I'll be right behind you," he said.

"You don't have to be. The rope is gone."

"I know. I'd like to be anyway."

On the stage, about thirty people were rehearsing for Saturday's finals.

A girl in tap shoes was dancing in a circle, and a boy was blowing a trumpet, and a row of fourth graders in paper crowns waited for their cue.

Imogen stood in the middle in jeans and the sequined jacket, holding a clipboard.

Beside her, in his bow tie, stood my son, next to a long dark box with a brass latch.

"Again from the top," Imogen called. "Linus, sweetheart, stand by the latch."

I started down the aisle.

The tap dancer saw me first, and her shoes slowed.

Then the trumpet died in the middle of a note.

Imogen turned, and in less than a second she had her face ready, one hand pressed to her chest and her eyes already wet.

"Cora! You should be in bed."

"I'm not in bed."

I climbed the nine steps one at a time, with the rail in one hand and the cane in the other.

Nobody offered to help.

The boards had been scrubbed, but near the center I could see a pale patch where somebody had worked hardest.

I stood on it.

"My name is Cora Winslow," I said, to the cast, to the crew and to the children in the crowns. "Some of you were here on April first."

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