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Authors: Mary Daheim
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over tables and chairs, and evoking screams from Clea and Rita. Everyone else looked appropriately horrified—except Dodo, who was piddling on the floor. Ed actually stopped eating and turned around.
Nat fired two shots. Hans fell to the ground, motionless. Acrid smoke filtered out into the first few rows of the auditorium. I heard someone cough loudly and dramatically. Maybe it was Thyra Rasmussen, doing some acting of her own.
“Violence!” Clea exclaimed, a hand to her cheek. “Guns!” She whirled on Nat. “See what you’ve done? You’ve killed an innocent man! He was only trying to help!”
Nat, doing his best to look dismayed, tossed the gun aside. Dodo scampered over to sniff at the barrel.
Then everyone got into it, denouncing firearms, prejudice, hunger, famine, war, plague, locusts, and whatever else was screwing up the human race. Rip repented, embracing Rey. The Reverend Poole descended once more, offering a blessing. Ed finally spoke:
“Amen!” he shouted. And belched.
Mercifully, the curtain descended. I felt stiff as a board. The rest of the audience seemed enthusiastic, however, and applauded with gusto, finally erupting into a standing ovation.
I stood up, too, if only to stretch. Milo apparently had woken up, since he, too, was on his feet. Vida was applauding madly and shouting, “Roger! Roger! Roger!”
The curtain stayed down. There was no sign of the actors eagerly taking their curtain calls. The applause and cheers began to fade. Finally, as curious voices started to fill the theater, Spence came out from behind the curtain.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his usually mellifluous voice uncertain, “there’s been an accident. Would you please remain inside the auditorium?”
FOUR
Some of the audience members had already made their exit, but those who remained were stunned into silence. Spence disappeared into the wings as the houselights came up. Worried voices began to hum all over the auditorium. Suddenly I saw Dustin Fong, still costumed as an attorney in a three-piece suit, hurry past me and lean toward Milo.
“We need you, sir,” Dustin said softly but urgently. “Will you come backstage?” He leaned closer to his boss, saying something I couldn’t hear.
Wordlessly if clumsily, Milo edged past the Hibberts. Vida was already in the aisle, grasping Dustin by the lapels of his dark suit coat.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. “Who had an accident? Is it Roger? Has something happened to my darling?”
“Roger’s fine,” Dustin replied.
Milo attempted to elbow Vida out of the way. “We have to do our job. Let go, Vida.”
She obeyed but followed the sheriff and his deputy down the aisle. “Press!” she cried. “Coming through!”
Naturally, I had to follow her. Vida was right: We were indeed the press. And our rival was already behind-the-scenes, gathering the story for his sign-off newscast at midnight.
I couldn’t see Scott anywhere, but Thyra Rasmussen was easy to spot. She was standing in the middle of the far aisle clinging to her canes and shouting at her son, Harold, to take her backstage. Harold seemed reluctant. His wife, Gladys, dithered at his side.
The area near the stage had become clogged with curious patrons. Milo exerted his authority, both professional and physical:
“Step aside. Move. Break it up here.”
I felt like a running back, moving quickly in the wake of a hard-hitting blocker. Two blockers if I included Vida, whose pushing and shoving were almost as effective as the sheriff’s less vigorous efforts.
We went through a side door, then up some concrete steps. From there I could see the stage from the wings. It appeared that the entire cast, along with Destiny Parsons and some young people who were probably stagehands and lighting techs, had assembled amid the shambles that was now the café set.
I moved closer, still behind Milo, Vida, and Dustin. I could see stricken looks on the faces of several people, especially
Nat fired two shots. Hans fell to the ground, motionless. Acrid smoke filtered out into the first few rows of the auditorium. I heard someone cough loudly and dramatically. Maybe it was Thyra Rasmussen, doing some acting of her own.
“Violence!” Clea exclaimed, a hand to her cheek. “Guns!” She whirled on Nat. “See what you’ve done? You’ve killed an innocent man! He was only trying to help!”
Nat, doing his best to look dismayed, tossed the gun aside. Dodo scampered over to sniff at the barrel.
Then everyone got into it, denouncing firearms, prejudice, hunger, famine, war, plague, locusts, and whatever else was screwing up the human race. Rip repented, embracing Rey. The Reverend Poole descended once more, offering a blessing. Ed finally spoke:
“Amen!” he shouted. And belched.
Mercifully, the curtain descended. I felt stiff as a board. The rest of the audience seemed enthusiastic, however, and applauded with gusto, finally erupting into a standing ovation.
I stood up, too, if only to stretch. Milo apparently had woken up, since he, too, was on his feet. Vida was applauding madly and shouting, “Roger! Roger! Roger!”
The curtain stayed down. There was no sign of the actors eagerly taking their curtain calls. The applause and cheers began to fade. Finally, as curious voices started to fill the theater, Spence came out from behind the curtain.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his usually mellifluous voice uncertain, “there’s been an accident. Would you please remain inside the auditorium?”
FOUR
Some of the audience members had already made their exit, but those who remained were stunned into silence. Spence disappeared into the wings as the houselights came up. Worried voices began to hum all over the auditorium. Suddenly I saw Dustin Fong, still costumed as an attorney in a three-piece suit, hurry past me and lean toward Milo.
“We need you, sir,” Dustin said softly but urgently. “Will you come backstage?” He leaned closer to his boss, saying something I couldn’t hear.
Wordlessly if clumsily, Milo edged past the Hibberts. Vida was already in the aisle, grasping Dustin by the lapels of his dark suit coat.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. “Who had an accident? Is it Roger? Has something happened to my darling?”
“Roger’s fine,” Dustin replied.
Milo attempted to elbow Vida out of the way. “We have to do our job. Let go, Vida.”
She obeyed but followed the sheriff and his deputy down the aisle. “Press!” she cried. “Coming through!”
Naturally, I had to follow her. Vida was right: We were indeed the press. And our rival was already behind-the-scenes, gathering the story for his sign-off newscast at midnight.
I couldn’t see Scott anywhere, but Thyra Rasmussen was easy to spot. She was standing in the middle of the far aisle clinging to her canes and shouting at her son, Harold, to take her backstage. Harold seemed reluctant. His wife, Gladys, dithered at his side.
The area near the stage had become clogged with curious patrons. Milo exerted his authority, both professional and physical:
“Step aside. Move. Break it up here.”
I felt like a running back, moving quickly in the wake of a hard-hitting blocker. Two blockers if I included Vida, whose pushing and shoving were almost as effective as the sheriff’s less vigorous efforts.
We went through a side door, then up some concrete steps. From there I could see the stage from the wings. It appeared that the entire cast, along with Destiny Parsons and some young people who were probably stagehands and lighting techs, had assembled amid the shambles that was now the café set.
I moved closer, still behind Milo, Vida, and Dustin. I could see stricken looks on the faces of several people, especially
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