“Does it matter? It’s Broadway!” She did jazz hands.
“Guess I’ll be surprised, then.”
“I invited your friend Poppy”—she leaned closer like she was about to discuss someone’s embarrassing illness— “but she said she didn’t like to go to the theater very often.”
“Yeah, she only goes to shows where she can buy out a box and sit by herself. It’s not that she doesn’t like company, but when you can pick up the thoughts of everyone within six feet, it’s not ideal for trying to pay attention to a show.”
“Poor girl,” my mom said, patting Georgiana’s long back. “Can we bring her something instead? Is there anything she likes to eat?”
I chuckled. “Poppy likes anything sweet. Maybe we could bring her dessert.”
My mother looked satisfied, then concerned. “Will they still be open after the show? It’ll be so late.”
“Mom, this is New York. You can get dessert twenty-four hours a day.” I picked up a rubber ball and threw it. Jester bounced after it.
“How marvelous,” she mused. “I could get used to that.”
An eight o’clock showtime left enough time to shower, change, make a sandwich, and hail a cab for the theater district—once I managed to get the actual name of the theater out of my mother.
“The Hudson,” she said, eyes bright in the streetlights. She wore heels and a pantsuit with a statement necklace, and an overcoat borrowed from me that nearly dragged the ground thanks to our height difference.
“Oh, I know that one. Isn’t that the one with the Sondheim revival?”
“That’s the one. There’ll be singing, and dancing, and that cute young man from those movies, and that other cute young man from that other movie…”
“Are we going to see a musical or cute young men?”
She nudged me playfully. “Why choose?”
The evening wind twirled fallen leaves as we got into the cab. Anticipation made the short ride feel like slow motion. The city came alive at night as if everything was electrified—not just the lights, but the people themselves, buzzing with energy that flung itself against the early darkness of the season.
We were dropped off on 44th Street a few steps from the theater itself. A marquee trimmed with gold overhung the sidewalk, and wood and glass double doors led into a small but ornate lobby. Green marble with gold veins covered the walls. Stern female statues in gold flanked each of the two ticket windows. Since we already had our tickets, we continued to the inner lobby.
Unlike the heavy green marble of the ticket lobby, the inner lobby glowed with an illuminated bar and mirrors set in arches along the walls. Overhead, three large stained glass domes shed a warm light on the crowd.
My mother excitedly grabbed my arm and pointed to the domes. “I read about those! They’reTiffany.” She whipped out her phone and snapped pictures.
She was right to be impressed. You couldn’t see the intricacy of the decorations andnotbe impressed. So I stood patiently until she’d filled her camera roll and then gently dragged her toward the theater when the showtime announcement rang out.
We settled in our seats, and in a few moments, the show began.
After the curtain rose, I’m not sure I followed the plot so much as I sat back and let it wash over me. Sitting next to my mom in the darkened theater made me even more aware of her presence—that she was really in New York, after all these years of avoidance, happily doing the tourist thing as if this trip had been planned on purpose. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her smile and laugh at all the right moments, as caught up in the show as anything I’d ever seen her do.
At times, I wanted to stop the show, to turn to her as the orchestra fell silent, and ask:Why are you here?But before she could answer, even in my imagination, the orchestra leader would strike up the music once again and the actors on stage would swing into motion like they’d never stopped.
Intermission brought another chance to meander through the lobby, and, at Mom’s insistence, a chance to push through the crowd and peek into the private lounge upstairs. By the time the second act had begun, she was bouncing in her seat with excitement. I hadn’t seen her so delighted in years—and that entertained me more than any amount of song and dance onstage.
When the curtain finally fell, my mother leaped to her feet and applauded enthusiastically. “Wonderful! Oh, my! It was justwonderful. Didn’t you think so, Zelda?” she added, as we made our way outside.
“Definitely,” I said. “But aren’t you tired, Mom? I know you said you wanted to pick up something for Poppy, but—”
“Nonsense! I’m brimming with energy.” She turned around on the sidewalk like Jester chasing his own tail pouf. “Where’s the nearest bakery?”
“The one up the street is open late,” I said.
“Lead on!” she cried, with a merry flourish.
We continued on foot, away from the bright lights of the theater district. Rarely were the streets of Manhattan not occupied by pedestrians and cars, even at a late hour, but the traffic had thinned until the closest people who shared the street were only vague silhouettes in the distance, and the cars slid by one or two at a time.
