Thursday evening, November 19
From the stage, the empty seats looked darker than they had that morning. The work lights had been lowered. Someone was testing the wash that would bring Willa out of the wings, and for a moment she could no longer see the place she'd left her coat.
“That's it,” Denise said. “Remember the light doesn't move because you decide to.”
“I'll negotiate.”
“With the floor.”
Willa found the mark. Jo stood several feet away, looking at the room. She had changed back into the red sweater. The necklace remained at her throat.
Mae sat three rows back with her notebook closed.
“Just run it,” she said. “We know where the problem is. Don't stop at every line to admire it.”
“We never admire,” Jo said. “We assess.”
“Then assess afterward.”
They began.
Willa missed an entrance. Jo didn't rescue her at once. She let the absence exist. Willa found her own way back, later than she'd meant, and the next line improved.
“There,” Jo said.
“Don't stop.”
Her mother smiled and kept going.
“You can't say I did nothing for you,” Jo said.
“I've never said nothing.”
“You've implied a very empty schedule.”
“I've been on your schedule since I was nine.”
“I was proud of you.”
“You had an unusual way of putting it.”
“I did the best I could,” Jo said.
“Did you? Or did you stop when they laughed?”
Her mother looked at her.
“Sometimes those were the same thing.”
“That's why I'm out here,” Willa answered.
Jo waited, not smoothing her skirt.
“Whatever else, when you called, I came.”
“You did.”
“I'd come again.”
Willa looked at her mother. The room had gone very still around the two of them. She could feel the microphone in her hand, the slight warmth from her palm.
“I know.”
Jo took a breath.
“Can you forgive me?”
Willa had agreed to it in the dressing room. Mae had suggested they keep the pilot's answer and make the last turn shorter.
“Of course,” Willa said. “Beth's color-coded it for us.”
Jo's smile arrived on the right word.
“What next?”
“We put the kettle on and read the instructions.”
“One sugar.”
“And constant reassurance.”
Jo turned a little toward the room, then back to Willa.
“I'll try.”
“You've been saying that for thirty-nine years.”
“Is it working?”
Willa looked at her for a beat.
“You keep getting renewed.”
Jo laughed and held the last look.
They held the last position until Denise said they could go. Jo put an arm behind Willa, not quite around her. Willa stayed.
Mae came down the aisle.
“That's it.”
Willa breathed out.
“The last line?” Jo asked.
“The whole last turn. Don't add anything.”
“We never add,” Jo said.
Mae looked at her. Jo put up both hands, surrendering.
Willa went to get water. Jo came beside her before she'd finished drinking.
“All right?”
“Yes.”
“Mean it?”
Willa looked at her.
“Yes.”
Her mother studied her for a second, then accepted the answer. Willa could have withdrawn it. She wanted the night they had just rehearsed. She wanted the laughter before the soft part, the hand waiting beside her, the last turn that made the two of them a thing people would want again.
Mae called them back to look at the entrances. Jo would finish the main act, leave for a short reset, then return with Willa. No announcement explaining the family problem. The introduction could be simple. Mother and daughter.
Denise walked them through the path. Willa had to wait far enough back that she wouldn't be seen before the cue. There was a narrow place by a piece of set where the two of them couldn't stand side by side.
“You first,” Jo said.
“You're introducing me.”
“Then me first.”
“Breakthrough.”
Denise waited for them to finish. They went through it without adding a joke to the route.
At the end, Willa practiced putting her microphone back where it belonged and leaving with Jo. They were not going to hold hands, Jo said, they were not seven. Then she took Willa's hand anyway for three steps, just to see how it looked. Willa laughed and pulled free. Mae said either way worked if they didn't make it a decision in front of people.
They went again without the hand. Willa stayed by her mother's shoulder all the way to the wing.
Afterward, Mae asked her to stay a moment while Jo went to change.
“The pilot's good,” she said.
“I thought so.”
“It is. I don't have a commission. I want you clear on that.”
“I am.”
“I won't ask you to promise what you can't promise,” Mae said.
“I'm doing it.”
“Good.”
She asked what time Willa would be there tomorrow, confirmed that Denise had the correct contact number, and went to answer a call.
Willa stood in the aisle. Her mother's light was still on in the dressing room. In the theater, a man was moving along a row, checking the back of each seat with the same small movement. The room would be full of strangers tomorrow, each with a body, a journey, some private thing they didn't have to leave at home.
She went backstage.
Jo had put the necklace in its case. She was standing in stockings, holding the soft shoes.
“I want a bath,” she said.
“Then have one.”
“I want it here.”
“Put a request in.”
Jo smiled. Willa picked up the bag her mother was trying to fit the shoes into and held it open. They went in easily with two hands instead of one.
“Beth tomorrow,” Jo said.
“Yes.”
“You're coming?”
“Yes.”
“Don't bring the notebook.”
Willa looked at her.
“I wasn't going to.”
“I know. I'm saying it to both of us.”
They went out through the stage door. It was cold enough for their breath to show. A car waited for Jo; Willa had her bus stop around the corner.
Her mother paused with one foot toward the car.
“I am glad it's you.”
Willa had no joke. She didn't search for one.
“So am I.”
Jo touched her cheek, brief and warm, then got in.
On the bus Willa took out the notebook. She looked at the last page only long enough to check that she'd written the final line correctly. You keep getting renewed.
She did not write another answer. She closed the book and held it on her lap until her stop.