Chapter 21: What Linus Heard

By one in the morning the Rialto was empty.

The police had taken their statements and gone, and the stagehands had been sent home, and the last of the sequins had been swept from the boards.

Hattie sat in the lobby with the lighting man, drinking tea out of a thermos and telling him about Atlantic City.

Abel had found a broom and was working his way slowly down the center aisle, to give us room.

Linus and I sat on the edge of the stage with our legs hanging over the dark orchestra pit.

He wore Abel's black jacket over his sequined bow tie, and the sleeves hung past his hands.

Mr. Fenn sat in his lap, with a black thread ear.

"It's weird in here when it's empty," he said.

"It's quieter than it was."

"Is it going to be sad forever?"

"The building?" I said. "No. It's just a building."

"I meant us."

I took a moment to answer, because I did not want to say the easy thing.

"Not forever," I said. "Sometimes. Some days will be sad and some will be fine, and some will be both, and you won't have to explain which."

He nodded slowly.

He picked up the hem of the jacket and folded it around his fingers.

"Mom."

"Yes."

"I'm going to ask you some stuff, and you have to promise to tell me the real answer. Even if it's bad."

I looked at my son's thin face, with its white streak above the ear, and I remembered all the years I'd told him small, kind lies.

That the dentist wouldn't hurt, and the dog had gone to a farm.

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