The Understudy
by Greg Youmans
I looked back to make sure my son was still standing where I left him. I couldn’t find him at first and my breath caught in my chest, but then I spotted him: a tiny figure in a red scarf and dark cap by the theater doors about fifty feet down the block. The snow and the crowd swirled past him, taking him from my view and then sending him back to me, and each time he returned he was staring straight at me.
I shouldn’t have left him there alone. He was only eleven years old and still overwhelmed by big cities. More than that, this was supposed to be his special day: we were in New York for his first Broadway show. His favorite “diva,” the irrepressible Penny Sharpe, smiled down at him from the marquee above his head, but my son didn’t look happy at all. He looked afraid, all huddled up with his arms wrapped tight across his chest.
“Just a couple more minutes, Kev!”
As soon as I yelled it, I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I motioned with my hand and I thought I saw him nod.
I had told him I wanted to sell his mom’s ticket, and it did the trick. He seemed to understand without me needing to say more that it was something I didn’t want him to see me do. It was true that the ticket had been expensive and we could use the money, but I suppose I also just needed a few minutes to myself before entering the theater.
There was a rush line trailing down the block, and I walked along it like a spy, flashing Sarah’s ticket from the lapel of my coat. People peered out at me from their ice-chipped scarves and cupped gloved hands, but when they saw I had just the one ticket they looked away. One guy asked me where the seat was, but when I told him rear mezzanine he scoffed and said, “I’ll try my luck here.”
I was about to tear into him, but then I turned and saw that Kevin was bouncing up and down now. Whether it was from anxiety or the cold I couldn’t tell—probably both. Despite my protests he had climbed into the truck that morning dressed for the theater but not for the weather. His long black coat was paper thin and no substitute for his parka. His red scarf was so short it didn’t even wrap around his neck. And as for his little felt cap, while I’m sure he thought it set off his curly hair, it couldn’t do anything to keep his head warm. But it was an outfit he’d picked out with his mom in happier times. He was so much like her: small, intense, and vulnerable, and absolutely unreachable when his emotions got the best of him.
Sarah had asked me to buy the tickets three months earlier as a Christmas gift for Kevin and with the understanding that she’d be coming with us. But that morning she had barely had the strength to get out of bed. In the kitchen before we left, she had come up to me from behind, sunk her forehead into the gap between my shoulders, and whispered, “Be good to him today.”
“I always am,” I replied.
She was quiet for a long time, and I steadied my breathing to hide my frustration.
“I know you are,” she finally said, “but show him that. Really be there for him, okay?”
I loved my wife and she was dying, but sometimes, despite everything, she could still piss me off. I had always thought my relationship with Kevin was fine. It didn’t look like hers, but why did it have to? It’s not like I forced him to play sports or expected him to go into manual labor. I let him be himself. But she acted like she knew everything about our son and I didn’t.
Her words stuck. On the long drive into Philadelphia to catch the train, I let Kevin play Penny Sharpe songs through the truck’s speakers. Three times as he stared out his window, he started to sing along in his high, breathy voice, but then he glanced over at me, saw that I wasn’t singing, and fell silent. What could I do? I didn’t know the words. The train ride into New York and lunch in Times Square didn’t go any better. He would barely look at me. I was already blowing it, and I didn’t know how to turn the day around.
With a sigh, I started back up the sidewalk toward my son. I hadn’t gone three steps though when I felt a tug at my arm.
“Excuse me. Sir? Are you getting rid of that ticket?”
It was an Asian kid, maybe twenty years old. I hadn’t seen him in the rush line and had no idea where he came from, but suddenly he was there at my side. I noticed he was even more sharply dressed than Kevin was, in a houndstooth coat over a black shirt and tie, and his face looked pained, as if it had been difficult for him to approach me. Was it shyness? Fear? I’m a pretty big guy, but there’s nothing to be afraid of.
“I’m not getting rid of it,” I said. “I’m trying to sell it. It cost me a hundred and fifty bucks.”
“Oh!” He made a little gasp as he said it, as if he hadn’t realized people were shelling out so much money to see Penny Sharpe. “That’s too much for me, but thanks.”
Instead of leaving though, he hovered there, and I held back a smile. This kid wasn’t shy or scared at all. He was playing me.
Sarah had drummed it into my head that our son might be like this one day: a “theater queen” studying at a college in New York and haunting Broadway to try to con his way into all the shows. There was nothing derogatory about “theater queen” when she said it. It was supposed to be a good thing, and she was desperate to make sure I understood it the same way. I had long since learned to set my jaw and nod when she talked like that, because even when I thought I was saying the right thing, I wasn’t saying the right thing.
I squinted at this kid now and tried to imagine my son standing one day in his place: older and self-possessed, fearless.
“Do you want to make me another offer?” I asked him.
I could see the gears turning behind his perfectly shaped eyebrows as he tried to figure out how low I’d be willing to go.
“No, that’s all right,” he said at last. “I’m just a student so I don’t have much money. But if I wait long enough, maybe my program will get us in to see the show.”
I was taken aback. I liked the kid and respected his game, but did he really think I was going to give him the ticket for free? “Uh huh,” I said. “Well, suit yourself.”
I turned to go. But after a few steps, I stopped and let out another sigh.
“Hey kid,” I called back, “you want it, it’s yours.”
“Really! Wow, thank you. Are you sure? I can give you at least a little for it.”
“No, don’t worry about it. Merry Christmas.”
I shouldn’t have left him there alone. He was only eleven years old and still overwhelmed by big cities. More than that, this was supposed to be his special day: we were in New York for his first Broadway show. His favorite “diva,” the irrepressible Penny Sharpe, smiled down at him from the marquee above his head, but my son didn’t look happy at all. He looked afraid, all huddled up with his arms wrapped tight across his chest.
“Just a couple more minutes, Kev!”
As soon as I yelled it, I knew he couldn’t hear me, but I motioned with my hand and I thought I saw him nod.
I had told him I wanted to sell his mom’s ticket, and it did the trick. He seemed to understand without me needing to say more that it was something I didn’t want him to see me do. It was true that the ticket had been expensive and we could use the money, but I suppose I also just needed a few minutes to myself before entering the theater.
There was a rush line trailing down the block, and I walked along it like a spy, flashing Sarah’s ticket from the lapel of my coat. People peered out at me from their ice-chipped scarves and cupped gloved hands, but when they saw I had just the one ticket they looked away. One guy asked me where the seat was, but when I told him rear mezzanine he scoffed and said, “I’ll try my luck here.”
I was about to tear into him, but then I turned and saw that Kevin was bouncing up and down now. Whether it was from anxiety or the cold I couldn’t tell—probably both. Despite my protests he had climbed into the truck that morning dressed for the theater but not for the weather. His long black coat was paper thin and no substitute for his parka. His red scarf was so short it didn’t even wrap around his neck. And as for his little felt cap, while I’m sure he thought it set off his curly hair, it couldn’t do anything to keep his head warm. But it was an outfit he’d picked out with his mom in happier times. He was so much like her: small, intense, and vulnerable, and absolutely unreachable when his emotions got the best of him.
Sarah had asked me to buy the tickets three months earlier as a Christmas gift for Kevin and with the understanding that she’d be coming with us. But that morning she had barely had the strength to get out of bed. In the kitchen before we left, she had come up to me from behind, sunk her forehead into the gap between my shoulders, and whispered, “Be good to him today.”
“I always am,” I replied.
She was quiet for a long time, and I steadied my breathing to hide my frustration.
“I know you are,” she finally said, “but show him that. Really be there for him, okay?”
I loved my wife and she was dying, but sometimes, despite everything, she could still piss me off. I had always thought my relationship with Kevin was fine. It didn’t look like hers, but why did it have to? It’s not like I forced him to play sports or expected him to go into manual labor. I let him be himself. But she acted like she knew everything about our son and I didn’t.
Her words stuck. On the long drive into Philadelphia to catch the train, I let Kevin play Penny Sharpe songs through the truck’s speakers. Three times as he stared out his window, he started to sing along in his high, breathy voice, but then he glanced over at me, saw that I wasn’t singing, and fell silent. What could I do? I didn’t know the words. The train ride into New York and lunch in Times Square didn’t go any better. He would barely look at me. I was already blowing it, and I didn’t know how to turn the day around.
With a sigh, I started back up the sidewalk toward my son. I hadn’t gone three steps though when I felt a tug at my arm.
“Excuse me. Sir? Are you getting rid of that ticket?”
It was an Asian kid, maybe twenty years old. I hadn’t seen him in the rush line and had no idea where he came from, but suddenly he was there at my side. I noticed he was even more sharply dressed than Kevin was, in a houndstooth coat over a black shirt and tie, and his face looked pained, as if it had been difficult for him to approach me. Was it shyness? Fear? I’m a pretty big guy, but there’s nothing to be afraid of.
“I’m not getting rid of it,” I said. “I’m trying to sell it. It cost me a hundred and fifty bucks.”
“Oh!” He made a little gasp as he said it, as if he hadn’t realized people were shelling out so much money to see Penny Sharpe. “That’s too much for me, but thanks.”
Instead of leaving though, he hovered there, and I held back a smile. This kid wasn’t shy or scared at all. He was playing me.
Sarah had drummed it into my head that our son might be like this one day: a “theater queen” studying at a college in New York and haunting Broadway to try to con his way into all the shows. There was nothing derogatory about “theater queen” when she said it. It was supposed to be a good thing, and she was desperate to make sure I understood it the same way. I had long since learned to set my jaw and nod when she talked like that, because even when I thought I was saying the right thing, I wasn’t saying the right thing.
I squinted at this kid now and tried to imagine my son standing one day in his place: older and self-possessed, fearless.
“Do you want to make me another offer?” I asked him.
I could see the gears turning behind his perfectly shaped eyebrows as he tried to figure out how low I’d be willing to go.
“No, that’s all right,” he said at last. “I’m just a student so I don’t have much money. But if I wait long enough, maybe my program will get us in to see the show.”
I was taken aback. I liked the kid and respected his game, but did he really think I was going to give him the ticket for free? “Uh huh,” I said. “Well, suit yourself.”
I turned to go. But after a few steps, I stopped and let out another sigh.
“Hey kid,” I called back, “you want it, it’s yours.”
“Really! Wow, thank you. Are you sure? I can give you at least a little for it.”
“No, don’t worry about it. Merry Christmas.”
*
Kevin ended up sitting between me and the college kid. We sat down first, and when the guy joined us, I introduced them. “Kevin, this is Owen. He studies plays in school here. Isn’t that great? Would you like to do that one day?”
Kevin looked up at Owen, then up at me, and then off into the space between us like a confused little penguin. Maybe I had made a mistake putting someone else in his mom’s seat. Or maybe he was just being shy.
I smiled at Owen to let him know it was all right, and we settled back in our chairs. I had assumed the rear mezzanine was better than the balcony, but we were tucked so far beneath the balcony we couldn’t even see the chandelier. I imagined the people above us floating happily in the open air of the theater. A few instruments poked out of the orchestra pit in the distance. I considered pointing them out to Kevin, but I worried he’d have to stand up to see them and then he’d really know how bad the seats were.
The ushers had given us programs on our way in, and I noticed he hadn’t opened his. He kept centering and recentering it on his lap with the tips of his fingers.
“Here,” I said, handing him mine. “You want to keep that one clean and we can smudge this one up together?”
He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, all liquid with emotion like Sarah’s. “Thanks, Dad.”
It felt good to have gotten something right with him again. It was like how it had been before, when everything was easier. I looped my arm around him and brought him in for the big squeeze.
For a second he let me do it, but then he struggled against me. “Dad!” When I let him go, he shot his eyes to the floor and tried to scoot away, but there was nowhere for him to go. I hated seeing him so upset. He was getting older and he didn’t need his dad doing the big squeeze anymore. But Sarah had told me not to stop. “Keep doing it,” she had said. “Promise me.”
The theater wasn’t full yet, and two guys maybe five or six rows in front of us had turned around when Kevin cried out. Even from that position I thought they were pretty obviously gay: trim and poised and delicate. One of them was Black, and the other was lighter-skinned. Puerto Rican, or maybe mixed like Kevin was? They were the kind of people he had few if any role models for in our little corner of central Pennsylvania, much to Sarah’s dismay.
The Black guy was whispering in the other guy’s ear, no doubt explaining to him what had happened. When they saw that I’d seen them, they smiled at me, and I smiled warily back. Apparently gay guys still loved a straight dad who was good, or at least tried to be good, to his gay son. Thank God for that.
Not that Kevin is gay. I mean, there’s a good chance he is, but I’m waiting for him to tell me. If and when he comes out, I’ll be ready. Sarah of course started getting ready when he was four, but she also kept reminding me that things were changing. It wasn’t just gay and straight anymore. He could be gay, he could be straight, he could be bisexual and date both boys and girls, he could be pansexual and date boys and girls and nonbinary kids, he could be nonbinary himself, he could be a transgender girl—but regardless, he’ll still be Kevin. Well, unless he’s transgender I guess, then he’ll probably change his name, but he’ll still be Kevin.
I heard a sharp intake of breath at my side and turned to see my son extracting a thin strip of paper from the program.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” he whispered.
I took it from his hand and read it, and my blood ran cold.
The woman we were there to see, the great Penny Sharpe, would not be performing in today’s show. Instead her part was going to be played by someone named Carrie Miller. Who the fuck was Carrie Miller?
Before I could think of what to say, Owen beat me to it. He leaned down on the other side of my son and murmured, “It’s because it’s a matinee.”
“Stop it!”
My outburst shocked even me. I had yelled it as if we were at a football game rather than in a theater, and I could sense the heads turning all around us. But I was furious. When I bought the tickets the web site hadn’t said anything about the star not performing at Sunday matinees. And the last thing I needed was for Kevin to think his dad had cheaped out on him.
Owen fell back in his seat. I was about to lay into him when Kevin put his hand on my arm. I looked down in surprise. It was the exact same gesture his mom used to make when I got carried away. Just a hand on the arm, placed firmly but gently, with hardly any pressure. And, like her, he didn’t lift his eyes to me. They were fixed straight ahead, modeling where my own attention should go.
I took in and released a deep, slow breath. “Sorry, buddy.”
He withdrew his hand and let out a small held breath of his own.
“I’m really sorry that Penny Sharpe’s not here,” I added. “I wanted to see her too.”
Suddenly his eyes were on me, and I knew I had gone too far. Kevin was fully aware that I didn’t like musicals. When he and his mom played Penny Sharpe’s songs in the house, I took it as my cue to go out to my workshop in the garage. If Sarah shot me a look and forced me to stay, then I watched from the sidelines with a goofy smile plastered on my face. But Kevin knew.
He lowered his head back down to the program.
I glanced over him and caught Owen’s eye. Poor Owen who had been cast in a family drama he never auditioned for. Did he regret his free ticket? I mouthed an “I’m sorry,” and the kid nodded back. His face said it all: he was sorry too, and he understood now how desperate I was to make this day special for my son.
As I sat back, I noticed the two gay guys had turned around again, this time with their foreheads creased in concern. Apparently I wasn’t the dad of the year they had thought I was. But then the Black guy flashed me a grin and raised his hand in the air. An identical strip of paper poked out from between his fingers, and he waved it at me like a white flag.
Kevin looked up at Owen, then up at me, and then off into the space between us like a confused little penguin. Maybe I had made a mistake putting someone else in his mom’s seat. Or maybe he was just being shy.
I smiled at Owen to let him know it was all right, and we settled back in our chairs. I had assumed the rear mezzanine was better than the balcony, but we were tucked so far beneath the balcony we couldn’t even see the chandelier. I imagined the people above us floating happily in the open air of the theater. A few instruments poked out of the orchestra pit in the distance. I considered pointing them out to Kevin, but I worried he’d have to stand up to see them and then he’d really know how bad the seats were.
The ushers had given us programs on our way in, and I noticed he hadn’t opened his. He kept centering and recentering it on his lap with the tips of his fingers.
“Here,” I said, handing him mine. “You want to keep that one clean and we can smudge this one up together?”
He looked up at me with his big brown eyes, all liquid with emotion like Sarah’s. “Thanks, Dad.”
It felt good to have gotten something right with him again. It was like how it had been before, when everything was easier. I looped my arm around him and brought him in for the big squeeze.
For a second he let me do it, but then he struggled against me. “Dad!” When I let him go, he shot his eyes to the floor and tried to scoot away, but there was nowhere for him to go. I hated seeing him so upset. He was getting older and he didn’t need his dad doing the big squeeze anymore. But Sarah had told me not to stop. “Keep doing it,” she had said. “Promise me.”
The theater wasn’t full yet, and two guys maybe five or six rows in front of us had turned around when Kevin cried out. Even from that position I thought they were pretty obviously gay: trim and poised and delicate. One of them was Black, and the other was lighter-skinned. Puerto Rican, or maybe mixed like Kevin was? They were the kind of people he had few if any role models for in our little corner of central Pennsylvania, much to Sarah’s dismay.
The Black guy was whispering in the other guy’s ear, no doubt explaining to him what had happened. When they saw that I’d seen them, they smiled at me, and I smiled warily back. Apparently gay guys still loved a straight dad who was good, or at least tried to be good, to his gay son. Thank God for that.
Not that Kevin is gay. I mean, there’s a good chance he is, but I’m waiting for him to tell me. If and when he comes out, I’ll be ready. Sarah of course started getting ready when he was four, but she also kept reminding me that things were changing. It wasn’t just gay and straight anymore. He could be gay, he could be straight, he could be bisexual and date both boys and girls, he could be pansexual and date boys and girls and nonbinary kids, he could be nonbinary himself, he could be a transgender girl—but regardless, he’ll still be Kevin. Well, unless he’s transgender I guess, then he’ll probably change his name, but he’ll still be Kevin.
I heard a sharp intake of breath at my side and turned to see my son extracting a thin strip of paper from the program.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” he whispered.
I took it from his hand and read it, and my blood ran cold.
The woman we were there to see, the great Penny Sharpe, would not be performing in today’s show. Instead her part was going to be played by someone named Carrie Miller. Who the fuck was Carrie Miller?
Before I could think of what to say, Owen beat me to it. He leaned down on the other side of my son and murmured, “It’s because it’s a matinee.”
“Stop it!”
My outburst shocked even me. I had yelled it as if we were at a football game rather than in a theater, and I could sense the heads turning all around us. But I was furious. When I bought the tickets the web site hadn’t said anything about the star not performing at Sunday matinees. And the last thing I needed was for Kevin to think his dad had cheaped out on him.
Owen fell back in his seat. I was about to lay into him when Kevin put his hand on my arm. I looked down in surprise. It was the exact same gesture his mom used to make when I got carried away. Just a hand on the arm, placed firmly but gently, with hardly any pressure. And, like her, he didn’t lift his eyes to me. They were fixed straight ahead, modeling where my own attention should go.
I took in and released a deep, slow breath. “Sorry, buddy.”
He withdrew his hand and let out a small held breath of his own.
“I’m really sorry that Penny Sharpe’s not here,” I added. “I wanted to see her too.”
Suddenly his eyes were on me, and I knew I had gone too far. Kevin was fully aware that I didn’t like musicals. When he and his mom played Penny Sharpe’s songs in the house, I took it as my cue to go out to my workshop in the garage. If Sarah shot me a look and forced me to stay, then I watched from the sidelines with a goofy smile plastered on my face. But Kevin knew.
He lowered his head back down to the program.
I glanced over him and caught Owen’s eye. Poor Owen who had been cast in a family drama he never auditioned for. Did he regret his free ticket? I mouthed an “I’m sorry,” and the kid nodded back. His face said it all: he was sorry too, and he understood now how desperate I was to make this day special for my son.
As I sat back, I noticed the two gay guys had turned around again, this time with their foreheads creased in concern. Apparently I wasn’t the dad of the year they had thought I was. But then the Black guy flashed me a grin and raised his hand in the air. An identical strip of paper poked out from between his fingers, and he waved it at me like a white flag.
*
We fell into darkness and the curtain came up.
It was a small-town scene with the stage set to look like a church basement, complete with folding metal chairs and flickering overhead lighting. A ragtag group of a dozen or so people was rehearsing a Christmas carol. It was one I didn’t recognize, a bit like “O Holy Night” but different, and as they sang it they kept going off key. The whole thing was the opposite of spectacular.
Then Carrie Miller stormed in with a loud “No, no, no!” and brought the singing to a halt. She grabbed the sides of a music stand and turned out to us with a corny, exasperated shake of her head. There was some laughter and a smattering of applause, but not much. It was clearly meant to be a star’s entrance, but she wasn’t a star. Even from the rear mezzanine I could tell she was an awkward giant of a woman, and nothing like the tiny bundle of energy that was Penny Sharpe.
She rapped the podium with a stick and gave notes to the various singers. “Shonda, you’re flat. Get your head off the mortgage payment. Ashley, stop rubbing your belly. We all know you’re pregnant. Tom, you know I love you, but if you show up here drunk one more time, then gosh almighty, I will call your wife.” The gist was clear. She was the mother of them all, the tough-love glue holding the entire community together.
As they started up again they all sang beautifully, and with subtle magic the stage changed too: the lighting became brighter and warmer, and risers lifted up from the floor until the whole choir was standing perfectly spaced in tiers.
But then a teenage girl in the front row went rogue during her solo. She sang it like a crude country song, with her voice low and husky. The organist, a heavyset woman in a floral dress, got comically into it and started pounding the keys in a honky-tonk style to match. The audience got into it too. The girl was good.
Carrie Miller rapped her stick again—“That’s enough!”—and without explanation she ended the rehearsal.
As the other choir members put on their jackets and scarves and filed off the stage, the girl hung back. “You never let me sing it my way,” she said. “You don’t like my music.”
Carrie Miller’s shoulders rose and then fell. They had had this fight before. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“You think your way is the only way,” the girl said, “but it’s not. People like how I sing. And I think God likes it too, or else He wouldn’t have given me this voice.”
Before Carrie Miller could respond, the girl ran off the stage in the same direction as the others.
She was her daughter! Maybe everyone else had already gotten that, but I hadn’t because they looked so unalike. The girl was tiny, and she had clearly been cast because she resembled Penny Sharpe, not Carrie Miller. Yet it was Carrie Miller who now stood alone in the empty room and sang out to us as if the girl were still there, as if we were the girl. She worried we were growing up too fast. And she worried about our dream of going to Nashville, that we’d get hurt there, or worse, that it’d change us. That we’d lose touch with everything and everyone back home.
Even as Carrie Miller plodded through the song, I recognized it as a quintessential Penny Sharpe number. It started slow and subdued, but you could tell a burst of pure passion was coming. “Why can’t you see how much I love you?” she suddenly belted. I snuck a glance at Kevin to see if he was into it, to see if he was at least nodding along, but he just sat there stiffly, with the same worried and fearful expression on his face that he wore all the time now.
At the end of the number, everyone applauded, including the two of us, but our applause wasn’t the applause we had saved for Penny Sharpe. And although it feels horrible to say so, I took satisfaction in knowing that Carrie Miller could feel it. Because for the next two and a half hours I was going to have to sit in silence beside my son as she destroyed the memory we were supposed to be building of his first Broadway show. And for the love of Christ, what was I going to tell Sarah?
It was a small-town scene with the stage set to look like a church basement, complete with folding metal chairs and flickering overhead lighting. A ragtag group of a dozen or so people was rehearsing a Christmas carol. It was one I didn’t recognize, a bit like “O Holy Night” but different, and as they sang it they kept going off key. The whole thing was the opposite of spectacular.
Then Carrie Miller stormed in with a loud “No, no, no!” and brought the singing to a halt. She grabbed the sides of a music stand and turned out to us with a corny, exasperated shake of her head. There was some laughter and a smattering of applause, but not much. It was clearly meant to be a star’s entrance, but she wasn’t a star. Even from the rear mezzanine I could tell she was an awkward giant of a woman, and nothing like the tiny bundle of energy that was Penny Sharpe.
She rapped the podium with a stick and gave notes to the various singers. “Shonda, you’re flat. Get your head off the mortgage payment. Ashley, stop rubbing your belly. We all know you’re pregnant. Tom, you know I love you, but if you show up here drunk one more time, then gosh almighty, I will call your wife.” The gist was clear. She was the mother of them all, the tough-love glue holding the entire community together.
As they started up again they all sang beautifully, and with subtle magic the stage changed too: the lighting became brighter and warmer, and risers lifted up from the floor until the whole choir was standing perfectly spaced in tiers.
But then a teenage girl in the front row went rogue during her solo. She sang it like a crude country song, with her voice low and husky. The organist, a heavyset woman in a floral dress, got comically into it and started pounding the keys in a honky-tonk style to match. The audience got into it too. The girl was good.
Carrie Miller rapped her stick again—“That’s enough!”—and without explanation she ended the rehearsal.
As the other choir members put on their jackets and scarves and filed off the stage, the girl hung back. “You never let me sing it my way,” she said. “You don’t like my music.”
Carrie Miller’s shoulders rose and then fell. They had had this fight before. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“You think your way is the only way,” the girl said, “but it’s not. People like how I sing. And I think God likes it too, or else He wouldn’t have given me this voice.”
Before Carrie Miller could respond, the girl ran off the stage in the same direction as the others.
She was her daughter! Maybe everyone else had already gotten that, but I hadn’t because they looked so unalike. The girl was tiny, and she had clearly been cast because she resembled Penny Sharpe, not Carrie Miller. Yet it was Carrie Miller who now stood alone in the empty room and sang out to us as if the girl were still there, as if we were the girl. She worried we were growing up too fast. And she worried about our dream of going to Nashville, that we’d get hurt there, or worse, that it’d change us. That we’d lose touch with everything and everyone back home.
Even as Carrie Miller plodded through the song, I recognized it as a quintessential Penny Sharpe number. It started slow and subdued, but you could tell a burst of pure passion was coming. “Why can’t you see how much I love you?” she suddenly belted. I snuck a glance at Kevin to see if he was into it, to see if he was at least nodding along, but he just sat there stiffly, with the same worried and fearful expression on his face that he wore all the time now.
At the end of the number, everyone applauded, including the two of us, but our applause wasn’t the applause we had saved for Penny Sharpe. And although it feels horrible to say so, I took satisfaction in knowing that Carrie Miller could feel it. Because for the next two and a half hours I was going to have to sit in silence beside my son as she destroyed the memory we were supposed to be building of his first Broadway show. And for the love of Christ, what was I going to tell Sarah?
*
From that opening scene, I felt pretty confident what the story would be. After some fights with her daughter and a lot of soul searching, the mother was going to realize that her little girl was still her little girl, and still a child of God, even if she sang the devil’s music. And by being willing to bend, she would show her daughter how much she loved her before it was too late and before any real damage was done.
But I was surprised when Carrie Miller did all that within the first thirty minutes. In a hokey scene involving some sort of over-the-top cookie sale, where the mothers and daughters of the church paired up to compete with each other behind tables so done up with tinsel and ribbons and wreaths that they resembled parade floats, the two of them sang a tense duet that only seemed to be about the cookies. The daughter accused her mother again of always needing to have things her way, but this time she also accused her of being ashamed of her.
Carrie Miller froze as if she’d been slapped. Then, after a big dramatic pause, she changed how she sang her half of the duet into an over-the-top country style. She was so awkward, both in voice and manner, bending her knees low and swinging big Oklahoma!-style punches in the air, that at first it seemed like she was making fun of her daughter. But as she kept going, it became clear what she was trying to do: she was embarrassing herself in front of the whole town in order to show her daughter how much she loved her. At that moment I started to root for Carrie Miller. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe she could actually turn the day around. I stole another glance at Kevin and saw that he was moving around in his seat. I hoped it meant he was settling in and beginning to enjoy himself.
The end of the number met with much warmer applause than the previous one had. The daughter seemed moved too: all the fight had gone out of her, and she went back to the table to sell cookies peaceably beside her mom. A couple of scenes later, at the Christmas pageant inside the main part of the church, where late-afternoon light streamed in through huge stained-glass windows and finally justified the cost of the tickets, she sang her solo perfectly, just like an angel. Carrie Miller ran up to her afterwards and the two of them embraced. They held the moment for so long that I expected the curtain to fall marking the end of act one.
But there was one more scene. It was set back at home that same night in the girl’s bedroom. Alone with us now, she went back to singing as she had before, a Broadway spin on the deep country blues, and it was clear that something was terribly wrong. All of her anger was gone, it was true, but so was her hope. She had given up on her mother. “And I love you,” she sang, “but you ain’t never gonna change.”
As she shoved clothes in her backpack, I imagined Carrie Miller in a room down the hall drifting off to sleep with a stupid smile on her face. I wanted to grab the girl and shake her. I wanted to explain to her how love worked, but all I could do was listen as she explained it to me. Not a sound came from the audience, no clearing of throats or rustling of fabrics, as she circled around to the chorus again. “And you love me,” she sang, “but I ain’t never gonna change.” She slipped on the backpack and climbed out the window. She was off, running away in the middle of the night, to Nashville.
But I was surprised when Carrie Miller did all that within the first thirty minutes. In a hokey scene involving some sort of over-the-top cookie sale, where the mothers and daughters of the church paired up to compete with each other behind tables so done up with tinsel and ribbons and wreaths that they resembled parade floats, the two of them sang a tense duet that only seemed to be about the cookies. The daughter accused her mother again of always needing to have things her way, but this time she also accused her of being ashamed of her.
Carrie Miller froze as if she’d been slapped. Then, after a big dramatic pause, she changed how she sang her half of the duet into an over-the-top country style. She was so awkward, both in voice and manner, bending her knees low and swinging big Oklahoma!-style punches in the air, that at first it seemed like she was making fun of her daughter. But as she kept going, it became clear what she was trying to do: she was embarrassing herself in front of the whole town in order to show her daughter how much she loved her. At that moment I started to root for Carrie Miller. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe she could actually turn the day around. I stole another glance at Kevin and saw that he was moving around in his seat. I hoped it meant he was settling in and beginning to enjoy himself.
The end of the number met with much warmer applause than the previous one had. The daughter seemed moved too: all the fight had gone out of her, and she went back to the table to sell cookies peaceably beside her mom. A couple of scenes later, at the Christmas pageant inside the main part of the church, where late-afternoon light streamed in through huge stained-glass windows and finally justified the cost of the tickets, she sang her solo perfectly, just like an angel. Carrie Miller ran up to her afterwards and the two of them embraced. They held the moment for so long that I expected the curtain to fall marking the end of act one.
But there was one more scene. It was set back at home that same night in the girl’s bedroom. Alone with us now, she went back to singing as she had before, a Broadway spin on the deep country blues, and it was clear that something was terribly wrong. All of her anger was gone, it was true, but so was her hope. She had given up on her mother. “And I love you,” she sang, “but you ain’t never gonna change.”
As she shoved clothes in her backpack, I imagined Carrie Miller in a room down the hall drifting off to sleep with a stupid smile on her face. I wanted to grab the girl and shake her. I wanted to explain to her how love worked, but all I could do was listen as she explained it to me. Not a sound came from the audience, no clearing of throats or rustling of fabrics, as she circled around to the chorus again. “And you love me,” she sang, “but I ain’t never gonna change.” She slipped on the backpack and climbed out the window. She was off, running away in the middle of the night, to Nashville.
*
When the lights in the theater came on, I was surprised to find myself leaning forward in my chair. As I blinked and straightened up, I thought about what we’d just seen. How could love not be enough? It was the only thing I was good at: being a lighthouse for all the fragile people in my life when they got lost in the storm. I looked over at Kevin, but he was avoiding my eyes. I wondered what message he was taking from the show. Had Sarah been aware of the plot when she asked me to buy the tickets, or just that Penny Sharpe was in it?
I let him lead me to the lobby. He was so listless that I was tempted to take him by the shoulders and guide him, but I held back. When we got there, he didn’t seem to want anything to drink or to need to use the bathroom, so I motioned to a spot along the wall where we lined up side by side and stared out at the crowd.
“Are you enjoying the show?” I asked him.
He nodded but didn’t look at me.
I waited a moment and tried again. “That girl’s a really good singer, huh? She’s got some of your energy when you sing.”
This earned a half-turn in my direction and a soft “mm-hm.”
I left him alone.
After a little while, his eyes floated up to my chin. “Did mom text?”
“Not yet, buddy. But she’s probably just taking a nap. She will.”
No nod this time and no murmured response. His eyes drifted down to the floor.
No doubt Sarah was sleeping, but things had long since moved past any notion of a nap. She wouldn’t be with us much longer, and I could already feel her absence. I knew Kevin could too. It wasn’t like a ghost, as if her spirit were hovering there beside us. It was like a hole had been ripped open in the space around us, and a cold wind was coming through.
As we stood there, the two guys who had seats in front of us walked up. At first I didn’t recognize them, because from the front they didn’t look quite like I thought they did. The Black guy was broader in the chest and arms than I realized. Only the other guy was truly delicate. He wasn’t tall but he was slight of frame, which made him look taller, and his face, for lack of a better word, was beautiful, with high cheekbones and thick, long eyelashes.
He stepped right in front of my son. I tensed up for a moment, almost instinctively, and I hate that I did that. The other guy hung back, and after a few seconds I followed his lead, shuffling a few steps to the side so that a charmed circle could form around the two of them.
In a gentle voice, the beautiful man asked Kevin the same question I had, “Are you enjoying the show?”
At first he had no better luck than I did. Kevin lifted his eyes to the man’s face but seemed too intimidated, or perhaps wonderstruck, to speak.
“You know,” the man said, “I was pretty sad when I found out Penny Sharpe wasn’t going to be here today. I’ve been following her career since I was your age.”
“Really?” my son asked. It was barely a word, more of a breath.
“Yes, but I didn’t get to see her perform till a long time later. I didn’t have a dad like you do who would take me to shows.”
The man smiled in my direction, and I felt my face flush with gratitude.
I noticed Kevin was looking at me too, except that his face was strained. It struck me that he might be afraid to talk about Penny Sharpe after seeing how I blew up at Owen. Poor Owen who had politely declined when we asked him if he wanted to accompany us to the lobby.
“Kevin’s a huge fan of Penny Sharpe,” I said. “Aren’t you, Kev?”
His eyes passed from mine to the beautiful man’s and then down to the ground. “Me and my mom love her,” he whispered.
For a moment I thought the man was going to ask about Sarah, but he didn’t. He seemed to know enough about families not to pry. Or perhaps he already suspected what was going on. “You know,” he said, “if Penny Sharpe’s not here then she must really be sick. She’d never blow off her fans like that.”
Kevin didn’t say anything but I saw that he was trembling.
The man noticed it too. He looked at me again, doubtful now, not sure if he was helping. I mouthed a thank you so that he’d know that he was.
“Well, we’ll leave you two alone,” he finally said. “It was nice to meet you, Kevin.”
But just as they were turning to go, my son stammered, “I— I like the other woman too though.”
The man looked back at him and then over at me. It was clear he didn’t know what to say. I didn’t either, so I did what I usually did, which was to chuckle to lighten the mood, even though I’d been learning that that approach didn’t work anymore.
“It’s okay if you like Penny Sharpe better, Kev,” I said. “It’s okay if you’re disappointed.”
But he was full-on shaking now. “No, I really do like her! I think she’s doing a good job.” And then with no more warning than that, he spun toward me, buried his little penguin head in my gut, and started to cry.
Like a big penguin, I stood there dazed with my arms at my side. Something had broken in me too. I wanted desperately to take him in my arms and comfort him like I used to, but I didn’t know if that’s what he wanted, and I couldn’t bear the idea of him pulling away from me again.
The chime sounded calling us back to our seats. The two men flashed us a final look of sympathy and vanished into the crowd.
My son and I stayed behind, until the lobby had cleared out and there were just a few ushers picking up the last plates and glasses. When he had finally cried himself out and looked up at me with those eyes that reminded me so much of Sarah’s, I knelt down, wrapped my arms around him, and held on to him tight for as long as he’d let me.
I let him lead me to the lobby. He was so listless that I was tempted to take him by the shoulders and guide him, but I held back. When we got there, he didn’t seem to want anything to drink or to need to use the bathroom, so I motioned to a spot along the wall where we lined up side by side and stared out at the crowd.
“Are you enjoying the show?” I asked him.
He nodded but didn’t look at me.
I waited a moment and tried again. “That girl’s a really good singer, huh? She’s got some of your energy when you sing.”
This earned a half-turn in my direction and a soft “mm-hm.”
I left him alone.
After a little while, his eyes floated up to my chin. “Did mom text?”
“Not yet, buddy. But she’s probably just taking a nap. She will.”
No nod this time and no murmured response. His eyes drifted down to the floor.
No doubt Sarah was sleeping, but things had long since moved past any notion of a nap. She wouldn’t be with us much longer, and I could already feel her absence. I knew Kevin could too. It wasn’t like a ghost, as if her spirit were hovering there beside us. It was like a hole had been ripped open in the space around us, and a cold wind was coming through.
As we stood there, the two guys who had seats in front of us walked up. At first I didn’t recognize them, because from the front they didn’t look quite like I thought they did. The Black guy was broader in the chest and arms than I realized. Only the other guy was truly delicate. He wasn’t tall but he was slight of frame, which made him look taller, and his face, for lack of a better word, was beautiful, with high cheekbones and thick, long eyelashes.
He stepped right in front of my son. I tensed up for a moment, almost instinctively, and I hate that I did that. The other guy hung back, and after a few seconds I followed his lead, shuffling a few steps to the side so that a charmed circle could form around the two of them.
In a gentle voice, the beautiful man asked Kevin the same question I had, “Are you enjoying the show?”
At first he had no better luck than I did. Kevin lifted his eyes to the man’s face but seemed too intimidated, or perhaps wonderstruck, to speak.
“You know,” the man said, “I was pretty sad when I found out Penny Sharpe wasn’t going to be here today. I’ve been following her career since I was your age.”
“Really?” my son asked. It was barely a word, more of a breath.
“Yes, but I didn’t get to see her perform till a long time later. I didn’t have a dad like you do who would take me to shows.”
The man smiled in my direction, and I felt my face flush with gratitude.
I noticed Kevin was looking at me too, except that his face was strained. It struck me that he might be afraid to talk about Penny Sharpe after seeing how I blew up at Owen. Poor Owen who had politely declined when we asked him if he wanted to accompany us to the lobby.
“Kevin’s a huge fan of Penny Sharpe,” I said. “Aren’t you, Kev?”
His eyes passed from mine to the beautiful man’s and then down to the ground. “Me and my mom love her,” he whispered.
For a moment I thought the man was going to ask about Sarah, but he didn’t. He seemed to know enough about families not to pry. Or perhaps he already suspected what was going on. “You know,” he said, “if Penny Sharpe’s not here then she must really be sick. She’d never blow off her fans like that.”
Kevin didn’t say anything but I saw that he was trembling.
The man noticed it too. He looked at me again, doubtful now, not sure if he was helping. I mouthed a thank you so that he’d know that he was.
“Well, we’ll leave you two alone,” he finally said. “It was nice to meet you, Kevin.”
But just as they were turning to go, my son stammered, “I— I like the other woman too though.”
The man looked back at him and then over at me. It was clear he didn’t know what to say. I didn’t either, so I did what I usually did, which was to chuckle to lighten the mood, even though I’d been learning that that approach didn’t work anymore.
“It’s okay if you like Penny Sharpe better, Kev,” I said. “It’s okay if you’re disappointed.”
But he was full-on shaking now. “No, I really do like her! I think she’s doing a good job.” And then with no more warning than that, he spun toward me, buried his little penguin head in my gut, and started to cry.
Like a big penguin, I stood there dazed with my arms at my side. Something had broken in me too. I wanted desperately to take him in my arms and comfort him like I used to, but I didn’t know if that’s what he wanted, and I couldn’t bear the idea of him pulling away from me again.
The chime sounded calling us back to our seats. The two men flashed us a final look of sympathy and vanished into the crowd.
My son and I stayed behind, until the lobby had cleared out and there were just a few ushers picking up the last plates and glasses. When he had finally cried himself out and looked up at me with those eyes that reminded me so much of Sarah’s, I knelt down, wrapped my arms around him, and held on to him tight for as long as he’d let me.