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“Is your sister here?” Elizabeth asked.
“No. I think Izzy’s going to visit later this afternoon.”
His mother nodded wearily. “She came last night with Norman.” Elizabeth sighed. “What a production.”
“What are you talking about?” Albert asked, although he had a pretty good idea.
“She got up here first while Norman parked the car, and when he arrived she quizzed him about where he parked it. In the lot, he says. They charge too much for parking, she tells him. He should have found a free spot on a nearby street, she says. I looked, he says, and couldn’t find one. You must not have looked very hard, she says. I can always find a spot. It went on forever.”
“I guess you can get a replay if she comes in this afternoon.”
Another sigh. “How’s the new play coming?” she asked.
Albert’s face fell. “We’re so far behind. Opening night’s less than two weeks away and no one’s got their lines nailed down and the set construction is behind and the ticket sales are slow.”
“You’ll be okay,” she said, reaching out a withered hand and patting his. “Things always come together at the last minute. That’s community theater for you. They’re not professionals. Everyone’s got regular jobs, their own lives, just like you do at the bank, you know? They’re all volunteers. The important thing is everyone loves what they’re doing. And ticket buyers, lots of them wait till the last minute. There’ll be lots of walk-ins, you just wait.”
“I hope you’re right, Mother,” Albert said, sounding more like a little boy than a grown man. He almost always called her Mother instead of Mom. Sounded more respectful, more formal. More devotional. “I don’t even know anymore if the play’s any good.”
“It is, it is,” she assured him. “I read it and liked it very much. It’s very funny in places.”
“It’s supposed to be funny all the way through.”
“Oh, it is. You know what the word for it is? Madcap. It’s very madcap.”
Albert smiled gratefully, letting his mother’s opinion rule. “Thank you.”
“How … are Dierdre and the children?”
“Okay,” he said, somewhat glumly. “Dierdre and I are talking now about a trial separation.”
Sorrow overtook Elizabeth’s face. “It’s a terrible thing to go out of this world knowing there’s this to be sad about, too.”
“Maybe … maybe we can work it out,” he said.
“Oh please. I may be on my last legs but I’m still pretty hard to fool.”
“Yeah,” Albert said. “I know.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “She’s a good woman, Dierdre. She’s a wonderful mom to the kids. But there’s just … the spark is gone. And she … she doesn’t understand that I have dreams, you know? She resents all the theater stuff. It’s not my fault she doesn’t have something of her own that gives her joy. I’ve tried to get her involved. With costumes, or handling ticket sales. Anyway. But I’m there for Randy. I take him to practice. Same with Lyla, anything she needs. She’s on the soccer team now.” He paused, looked away. “Is it wrong that I have a dream?”
Elizabeth could think of nothing helpful to say.
“One day, some theater person, some producer from New York, will see my work and I’ll be on my way. It could happen. What I’d give to walk out of the bank and never go back, never have to approve another mortgage.”
“You have a dream,” Elizabeth said, almost dismissively. “And so do I.”
Albert smiled pityingly. “I know.”
Elizabeth broke eye contact.
“The important thing,” Albert said, “is you have to get better so you can get out of here, come home.”
“Albert, don’t,” she said. “The cancer’s eating me up. If it weren’t for all the damn painkillers they give me I wouldn’t be able to have this conversation.”
“You never know,” Albert said. “It could go into remission. You’d have more time. More time to be with all of us.”
“Not all of you,” Elizabeth said.
She closed her eyes for several seconds, as though the conversation, barely under way, had already exhausted her.
