"Bird, you've lost weight," Beverly said.

Twain looked up from the cash register and at Lee.

"Bird?" he said. "As in Charlie Parker?"

"No," Lee said to Twain, then turned back to Beverly, his damp shirt now forgotten. "What the hell are you doing here?" Then he turned back to Twain. "Wait. You know Charlie Parker?"

"You look awful," Beverly said. "Like you haven't slept."

"Of course I look awful, Beverly. You wiped me out. I don't have money to eat. I stretched an avocado for a week. I'm sleeping on a fucking couch. What the hell are you doing here?"

"You didn't sign the papers," Beverly said. She seemed to be looking him over in a very thorough way that made Lee more uncomfortable than the thought of opening night, the damp shirt and the strange rumbling that happened in his solar plexis every time he thought about opening night and his damp shirt.

"I can't talk now," he said, peeling his clammy shirt from his chest. "I have to go get ready for the play."

He turned and left. Beverly watched after him for a moment, then turned to look at Twain. "I'm Beverly," she said, almost putting her hand out to shake. She stopped when the full measure of his odd hygiene struck all five of her senses. "You must be Twain."

Twain nodded. "Can I get you a Tang?"

Beverly asked Twain what Lee had meant by "play," and when he explained, pointing to the small stack of flyers by the register, she turned and studied Lee through the window as he got into his car and drove off. She was intrigued. He had proven to her in the last month or so that he could actually surprise her. That was something she hadn't suspected. Ever. She pulled a strand of her reddish-brown hair and absent-mindedly twirled it with her index finger. Twain handed her a glass of water and a Tang packet.

"Seventy-five cents," he said. When she looked at him in a state of bafflement or perplexity, he added, "on the house."

When Lee arrived at the theatre, Peter and Stella were just getting ready to leave the office, the box office volunteers were just setting up the box office, Bear was in the house making a few final adjustments to the lighting instruments and absolutely no one was in either dressing room. I wonder when they all get here, Lee wondered. They had said call time was six-thirty. I would have thought everyone would want to get here with time to spare, he thought. He went to the men's dressing room to sit and wait. The late afternoon sun shone through the window and painted bright yellow streaks on the blue-gray walls of the room, reminding Lee of the large apparition he had thought he'd seen the first time he'd seen the room. Something creaked, and he jumped a little in his chair, then laughed. It was an old building, and old buildings creaked with the least provocation. Nothing to jump about. It creaked again, and Lee was sure it was coming from Roger's Room. He cautiously stood and carefully walked toward the doorway, the whole time thinking about how he always hated horror movies where the heroes and heroines always went to investigate strange noises in order to move the plot forward. Just as he got to the doorway, the curtain to backstage was pulled back, Lee jumped again, and actually squeaked. It was Bear.

"Oh, hi, Lee," Bear said. "You're early. Nervous?"

"Whadaya mean? I was just looking into Roger's Room."

Bear cocked his head. "I mean about opening night."

"Oh. Yeah. No. I don't know. Should I be?"

"I'd be. Your first play. Opening night. Didn't they give you a call time?"

"Yeah. Six-thirty. I wanted to make sure I got here on time. I was nervous."

Bear shook his head and left out the back door of the dressing room to get to the scene shop. Lee sat waiting, looking at his face in the long, irregular, chipped mirror that went the length of the room under the window and over the long counter that acted as the makeup table. The counter was held up by small chains at regular intervals that hooked to the counter's front edge and the wall above the mirror. There was a slight musty scent in the room, like the air of a vintage clothing store mixed with the dusty aroma of a cosmetics counter and lentil soup. He got bored looking at himself, and stared behind his reflection at the reflection of the rack of costumes against the back wall. He got bored with that and stood, but the movement woke the creaking in Roger's Room, so he sat back down. He wondered if someone had committed suicide in there. Or had been murdered. Or gotten stuck.

Then he heard voices coming from the stage, and saw lights going on and off under the curtain. That couldn't possibly be haunts, he thought, and went through the curtain to the backstage area. A young woman was setting things on a table. Lee asked her what she was doing.

"Setting the hand props for the play," she said.

He asked if he could help, but she said she had it under control. He went out on the stage. A guy was standing in the center looking up at the lights on the bars on the ceiling. A pair of lights would turn on and a voice would float down from the light booth saying, "number eight?" and the guy on the stage would say, "fine," and those lights would go off and another pair would go on. Lee asked what they were doing, and the guy on the stage said they were checking the lamps to make sure none were burned out. This theatre stuff is fun, Lee thought. When he asked if they needed help, the guy told him they were fine, thanks.

Lee turned to see the young woman from backstage and another guy starting to set the stage and when he asked if he could help, the guy told him to be a good chap and go back into the dressing room.

He got there just as the back door opened. Andrew stood in the doorway. An umber cat rubbed against Andrew's pant leg and he leaned down to pet its head and scratch it behind one ear. It purred, then walked away with its tail in the air, and Andrew came in.

"Hi, Lee," he said. "You're early."

"Yeah, I was nervous."

"You'll be fine," Andrew said, and set what looked like a small tackle box on the counter and sat in the chair next to where Lee had been sitting.

Lee sat back down. Andrew opened the tackle box and carefully removed makeup pots from it. Lee watched, fascinated, as Andrew opened the foundation cream and began to apply his makeup. There was a roll of toilet paper on the counter, and Andrew unwound some to wipe his hands with.

"Theatrical Tissue," Andrew said with a laugh.

Lee smiled, uncertain. Andrew noticed Lee wasn't putting on any makeup. He also noticed Lee had no makeup to put on. He took a new makeup sponge from his own box, rubbed it into the foundation, and handed it to Lee. When Lee still didn't apply the makeup, Andrew demonstrated on his own face, and Lee hesitantly daubed at his skin with the sponge. He felt a flicker of something that felt like being let in on a tradition in his chest, almost like he had felt when his father had first shown him how to shave. He was certain, however, that the makeup sponge wouldn't cut him.

"Ow," he said, and dabbed at the blood with some toilet paper. "Hey, this stuff smells like shit."

Andrew sniffed at the tissue. "That's not foundation," he said.

(Editor's note: The ghost writers have been fired. Geoff and Steve have been called back from the Faust Festival in Gary.)

"This stuff smells like shit," Lee said. (Editor's note: I quit.)

As the other actors began filing into the dressing room, and the conversations filled and flowed around the room in an excited buzz intermingling with each other, Lee began to feel an excitement he had never experienced. Except, perhaps, on that Sunday morning all those years before, when his father had taught him how to shave. He found that he couldn't stop smiling. He tried to force his face to frown, looking at the effect in the long, chipped mirror. As soon as he looked away, the smile crept back. (Steve! What? I didn't do anything. You will.) The evening sky out the window in front of him turned from deep blue to off, and the excitement in Lee's chest tightened a bit. The stage manager came in through the curtain and announced, "half hour." Lee's chest squeezed the excitement into a rare gem.

"Lee," a voice said, and Lee turned to see Peter come in the back door. "Break a leg."

"Oh," Lee said. "Thanks, Peter."

Peter waved. "Break a leg, everyone," he said, and stepped back out.

"You and Peter are good friends," Andrew said as he pulled his costume off the rack.

"Yeah, he's a nice guy," Lee said, bending over to tie the laces on the scuffed black shoes. He was already in his faded trousers. Weren't costumes great?

Andrew took off his pants and took the striped trousers from the hanger.

"Be careful," he said as he slipped them on.

Lee stood, and took the shirt from his hanger, but stopped to looked at Andrew before he put it on.

"Careful?"

"He likes you a lot," Andrew said as he buttoned his fly.

"I like him, too," Lee said and put the shirt on and buttoned it.

"No," Andrew said, looking intently at Lee who was slipping the suspenders over his shoulders. "He likes you a lot."

Lee was puzzled. He was about to reach for the tattered vest, but stopped mid reach.

"He's a nice guy," Andrew said. "I don't want to see him get hurt."

Lee was really confused. Then his eyes widened, and his mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "Wait a minute," he said. "You think Peter likes me?"

"Yeah," Andrew said as he buttoned his shirt. "I assumed you knew."

"Wait, Peter's gay?" Lee asked again, sort of stupidly.

(Wait, Peter's gay? Yes, Steve, didn't you know? We do exist outside of Nineties sitcoms. Wait, YOU'RE gay? Steve, we've talked about this. I have to go outside for a minute to breathe...)

One sixtieth of the sand dropped to the lower chamber of the hourglass while Lee unbuttoned and rebuttoned his shirt correctly, then put on his vest and derby.

(I'm better, now. Good. Um, Geoff? Yes, Steve. We haven't had anything burn or explode in a long time. That's fine, Steve. And rebuttoned isn't a word. And don't give me that "spell check likes it" crap.)

There was a slight lull in the conversation in the dressing room, and the sound of pre-show music and the conversations from the audience filtered in. The stage manager came and announced "five minutes," and that they had a full house. Lee was startled. What happened to fifteen and ten, he thought. In the movies about plays, they always announce fifteen and ten.

"What happened to fifteen and ten?" he asked Andrew, who patiently explained to him that they had been announced while Steve was out getting his breath. Lee stood and paced. It's a full house, he thought, and sat down. Then he stood and paced some more. Then Andrew told him to sit down, so he did.

The house lights dimmed, the audience quieted, the play started, and Lee's excitement finally told the truth and admitted to being unmitigated terror. This was so different from watching the house lights dim from the audience. Life changing, but not in a pleasant way. He was afraid he needed to pee.

After the second scene change, long after Lee's entrance and exit, Lee sat in his chair at the makeup counter, miserable, thinking about how badly he had done. He had been so nervous backstage that when he, Andrew, the guy playing the doctor, and the guy playing Will stood waiting for their cue to go on, he was sure he had soaked through their costumes as well as his own. All he could hear was his own heart, which he was sure the audience could also hear, until Andrew started to bellow his offstage lines, and the doctor led them in. Andrew became dead weight in his arms and he had to concentrate so hard on not falling and killing them both that he was at his place on the boarding house steps without knowing how he had gotten there. His range of vision collapsed into a tunnel that only included what was directly in front of him, and all he could hear was the squishing liquid sound of the blood racing past his ears. When he sat on the step, below the intense brightness of the lights, he could almost make out the figures of many, many, many, many people beyond the edge of the stage. All seated. All with their legs crossed in the most judgmental of ways. He quickly turned his head away, and realized someone was talking to him. He opened his mouth, said something, wasn't sure what it was, and, before he knew what was happening, was running, stumbling off the stage, then stumbling back into the dressing room.

He would have to apologize to Andrew for ruining his entrance. At least Andrew had the rest of the play to recover from the damage he had caused. He was so devastated at how poorly he had done that he concentrated especially hard to make sure he didn't screw anything up during either of the scene changes. At least the angel didn't fall, or anything. After the second one, which lasted an interminable thirteen seconds, he sat, miserable, waiting for the intermission at the end of Act II so he could apologize. To everyone. For everything. Ever.

He heard loud applause, and knew Act II was over. He steeled himself for the moment of groveling. He liked his new friendship with Andrew, and would be sorry to have to give it up. The actors began filing into the dressing room, talking animatedly and excitedly. They seemed so happy. His part was so small it hadn't ruined much, thank God. Andrew finally entered the room. Lee stood, breathed in and approached him.

"Hey, Lee," Andrew said happily. "You were great! Congrats on your first opening night."

Lee was nonplused.

That intermission was a blur because Lee was so confused. Several people told him how well he had done. He sat through the third act in a pleasant daze and when it was time for the curtain call, he floated out onto the stage with the first line of people. I can do this, Lee thought. I can act. I can be in plays. In front of people. I may get to be as good as Andrew some day. When Andrew finally came out to take his bow, Lee applauded vigorously, and his eyes actually moistened.

The house lights came up and the actors all went back to the dressing rooms, thrilled at a job well done, and started removing makeup and costumes. Someone popped the cork on a bottle of cheap Champagne and Lee joyfully partook. Peter came in, rushed over to Lee, shook his hand, pounded him on the back and congratulated him enthusiastically. Lee accepted the praise with a pleasant numb happiness, and thought that he would wait until another time to let Peter know he knew he was gay.

A man and a woman came into the dressing room. Lee looked up at them briefly, then looked back when he realized that the stocky, incredibly well dressed gentleman was Twain. Twain shaved. Twain bathed. Twain combed. Twain spotted him, left the woman in the doorway, walked over and handed Lee a single, huge red rose surrounded by baby's breath nestled in soft, pastel ochre colored paper tissue.

"Congratulations," Twain said and turned to leave.

"Thanks," Lee said. "Wait. Whose minding the diner?"

"I closed it."

Lee's reaction to Twain was manifold. The image of a clean shaven, bathed, combed, well dressed Twain would have been enough to process, but he was with a woman. One Lee had never seen. The rose and the closing of the diner would have to wait for another time. As Twain left, he passed Officer Bacon who was just coming in, humming the theme song from a Sixties™ sitcom.

"Lee," the officer said while shaking Lee's hand. "I didn't know you were going to be in this. You were really good. Your performance was so visceral."

Lee thanked him, and he turned to introduce his wife, who smiled and shook his hand.

"How did you act the sweat?" she asked.

My first opening night, Lee thought, as he hung the last of his costume on the rack. I lived through it. I actually didn't stink. He and Andrew left the dressing room together.

"Oh, my God," Lee said as they walked across the stage on the way out of the theatre. "She's here."

"Who?"

"Beverly. I'll, um...," Lee said. "Catch up to you."

"You sure?" Andrew asked, concerned.

Lee assured him he was, and Andrew walked up the aisle and out to the lobby.

"Hello, Bird," she said. "You were really good."

"What are you doing here, Beverly?" he asked.

"Twain told me about your little play so I came to see it," she answered. "That's a pretty rose. Can we go somewhere for a cup of coffee to talk?"

"No, Beverly. I have an opening night party to go to."

"Lee," she said. "I drove a long way to talk to you."

"That's not my fault. I had no idea you'd be here. I have a party to go to. I'll see you at the diner tomorrow after the breakfast rush. About eleven."

The young woman who played Laura came out of the women's dressing room and crossed the stage. She was attractive, but not beautiful, wearing a loose fitting shift that draped nicely over all her parts, and holding her jacket in the crook of her arm. When she saw Lee in the aisle talking to Beverly, she called out to him. He turned, and she ran down the steps at the side of the stage and up the aisle and threw her arms around him in a full bodied, theatrical embrace. It was completely unlike the hug two straight friends who hadn't seen each other in a long time would engage in. Peter's gay, Lee thought, as he hugged her back.

"You did great!" she said, and planted a sloppy kiss on his cheek. "I'll see you at the party."

She turned and skipped up the aisle. Lee turned back to Beverly and was pleased to see a spark of jealousy burning in her eyes.

"Who's that?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"You saw the play," Lee said, and turned and walked away. His smile was broad, toothy, and completely unseen by Beverly. "I'll see you in the morning," he added, and tripped on the edge of the next stair.

The next morning, when Twain came in and sat at the counter, Lee was surprised to see he had what appeared to be several days growth of beard, and that his hair was greasy. How does he do that, Lee thought.

At ten forty-seven, Beverly came in, looked around, saw Lee in the back and waved to get his attention. He nodded at her and she went over and sat at a booth. She slowly fingered one of the little silver upholstery tacks that held the impossibly red leather or leatherette vinyl in place as she waited. Twain brought a menu over to her, but she smiled and shook her head, telling him she was just waiting for Lee.

A few minutes later, she stood, went to the counter, got Lee's attention again and asked if he was ready, yet.

"I'll be there in a minute," he said. "When I'm done. I have to work for a living."

Beverly had never heard Lee be bitchy. What's the matter with him, she thought as she sat back at the booth. She took a napkin out of the napkin holder and polished other people's greasy fingerprints off the salt and pepper shakers.

Lee came around the counter drying his hands. Beverly watched him, fascinated. He poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the booth.

"How's Excalibur?" he asked as he sat.

"Fine," she said. "How are you?"

Lee just looked at her. It had only been a little over a month, but he had forgotten how her reddish-brown hair framed her long, slim face, and how her lips seemed to pout just before she smiled. It made something in him stir.

"How do you think I am?" he said, and stirred his coffee.

"I don't know, Lee. I didn't know someone could change so much. You work in a diner. You live in a diner. You're acting in a play. In front of people. You've lost weight. You've been in jail, for God's sake."

"Jesus, they know about that in Chicago?"

"No, Lee," Beverly said, and tried to polish a worn spot in the Formica tabletop with a fresh napkin. "The investigator company told me."

"Okay, about that," Lee said, just as Peter came into the diner.

Peter looked around and spotted Lee and Beverly. There was an awkward moment while he tried to decide whether to interrupt them or not. Lee saw him standing there. Normally, he would just wave hello indifferently and continue with his own conversation, but he didn't want to hurt Peter, poor guy. He was having a rather intense and personal conversation. But he noticed Peter's indecision, and, in his own moment of indecision, waved him over.

"Hi, Peter," Lee said awkwardly. "This is my, um... This is Beverly."

"Oh, hi," Peter said, awkwardly. "Beverly. Yeah. Lee's mentioned you."

"Pleased to meet you," she said, shaking his hand, then there was a moment of awkward silence. Beverly twirled a lock of hair on her index finger.

"Peter got me the role in the play," Lee said, trying to get past the awkwardness.

"Oh. Good," Beverly said, and awkwardly wondered why this strange gay man who looked like a young Santa Claus kept staring at her nose.

"Well," Peter said, hoping to make the best of an awkward situation. "Um, okay. I'm going to go back to... over there." He pointed to the counter. "Breakfast beckons. Nice meeting you."

"Nice meeting you, Peter," Beverly said and the awkwardness of the moment faded as Peter retreated to the counter.

Lee turned back to Beverly trying to figure out what to say to this woman who, a lifetime ago, he'd had a life with. Alfred Hitchcock walked by the front door of the diner walking two small poodles, but cameos have nothing to do with this story. Beverly absent-mindedly folded the napkin she had used to clean the salt and pepper shakers, then the one she had used to polish the worn spot. She stacked them neatly on top of one another, perfectly perpendicular to the edge of the table. Lee smiled and shook his head.

"So where's the Jerk?" he asked.

Beverly's head snapped up, and she held her breath for a moment.

"He has a name, Lee."

"I'm sure he does. Did you bring him with you?"

"He's at the motel," she said with a scowl. "We're staying just out of town at a place called the Casa de something or other. Just across from the House of Flapjacks™ out by the interstate. I didn't come here to talk about him."

"Good," Lee said as he absent-mindedly tore little pieces off of a napkin and made a small uneven pile with them. "What did you come here to talk about?"

"The house, Lee."

Twain came out from behind the counter and stood behind the microphone on the little platform. Oh, no, Lee thought. Not now.

"The light from yonder window breaks," Twain said into the microphone, "but it is not the east, and Juliette is not the sun. It is a promise, and Juliette is just a pretty girl with bad self esteem and a silly boyfriend. I swear I did not break that window."

Beverly slowly turned until she was staring fully at Twain, then slowly turned back to Lee, her eyes wide with demand for explanation. Lee just shrugged and smiled a noncommital smile. Beverly started tearing neat little pieces from her napkins, and Lee started stacking his little pieces into neat, symmetrical rows.

"Why are you here, Beverly?" he said.

"Why didn't you sign the papers?"

"You're talking about the house we lived in for years."

"You left it," Beverly said, and was about to expand on why she needed to sell it when a strange, tall, solid policeman with incredible posture approached the table and tapped Lee on the shoulder. Beverly wasn't sure how one was supposed to act when your estranged husband was being arrested right in front of you in a diner over coffee.

"I really enjoyed your performance last night," the policeman said.

"Oh," Lee said. "Thanks again."

"Really," the officer said, slapped Lee on the shoulder, and went to sit at the counter. Beverly asked who the hell that was, and, while Lee was explaining that he was the officer who booked him and taught him how to make tuna spread, Twain finished his poem. When he walked by their booth, Twain asked if they were going to eat. They shook their heads emphatically, and Twain went away.

"Isn't there someplace else to go?" Beverly asked Lee.

"This is it," Lee said.

"Don't you have a room?"

"I said this is it," Lee said again. "How could you fall in love with him?"

"What?" Beverly said, taken completely off guard. "He took me dancing."

"You slept with him."

"No I didn't," Beverly said, not sure at all how the conversation had turned. "What makes you think I did?"

"I just know," Lee said, as he started to twirl the little pieces of napkin into balls with his fingertips. "I saw it in your eyes."

Beverly's mind raced down several different roadways at once, colliding with itself at all the intersections. She looked up and noticed that strange Peter guy stealing surreptitious glances their way. An old woman dressed in a strangely alluring outfit came into the diner and waved at Peter. Beverly turned her attention back to Lee.

"Okay, you know best," she said, shaking her head, annoyed, then noticed the old woman out of the corner of her eye coming toward them.

"Lee," the old woman said. Her voice was more sexual than the voice of a woman her age had any right being. "I heard you were exceptional in your moment on the stage last night. And who is this lovely young woman?"

"Oh, Agnes," Lee said, and Beverly was sure she noticed him blush. "Um, this is my... This is Beverly."

Agnes told Beverly how charmed she was to meet her and they shook hands. There was a sensuality about the gesture that made Beverly distinctly uncomfortable. Agnes asked Lee what he would next conquer now that he had been bitten by the bug, and when Lee shrugged, she moved to an empty booth. Peter got up from the counter and joined her.

"Well, you've slept with him since, haven't you?" Lee asked before Beverly had a chance to process Agnes. She turned back to Lee to process his last question instead. What is it about this town, she thought, that makes it so necessary to process stuff?

"You left, Lee," she said, once her mind settled down a bit. A young man came out from around the counter and walked toward them. Beverly hadn't noticed him before, but he had two menus in his hands. God, she thought, is every person in this whole provincial town going to stop at our booth and interrupt us? Lee has made more quaint acquaintances than would be possible in a lifetime in Chicago.

"Hi, Matt," Lee said, through gritted teeth. He breathed in and forcibly relaxed his jaw. "We're not going to have anything. You don't want something to eat, do you, Beverly?"

She shook her head. Matt, the young man, was surreptitiously looking at her in a completely different way than Peter had. There was an adolescently sexual curiosity about the stare that made her want to preen. She resisted the impulse.

"We're not going to eat anything," Lee said, very controlled, "thanks," then sighed and quickly added with a halfhearted wave of his hand, "Matt, Beverly, Beverly, Matt."

Matt turned and left very quickly, carrying the menus in front of his left pant pocket.

"Lee," Beverly said with a definite note of annoyance in her voice. "I need you to sign these papers."

"Leave them with me and I'll look them over," he said. "Go back home."

"We need to sell the house." Beverly sounded frightened, like a small girl who was used to not having to worry about having to sell houses and stuff. "The mortgage is coming due and I don't have the money to pay it. And neither do you."

Lee pounded the table with one fist and everything on it jumped a half inch up except the pile of napkin balls which just rolled around a little. Everyone in the diner stopped what they were doing to see if another toaster had exploded. When they realized it was just Lee having a tantrum, they went back to their mundane concerns. That's how jailbirds act, they thought in unison. Lee, who, for once, was unaware of the town folk's reaction to him, actually sputtered when he tried to answer. Several conflicting complete sentences and a few stray words mingled with the spittle that escaped his lips and landed on his napkin balls and on Beverly's now scattered pile of napkin strips.

"You," he said, trying not to shout. He found himself shouting in public all too often. "Wiped," he continued, keeping a tight lid on the volume. "Me," he added, a vein pulsing in his left temple from the effort. "Out," he shouted.

Nobody turned to look. They knew about Lee. Beverly, however, who hadn't ever experienced Lee explode, looked like she was sitting in a wind tunnel. This, somehow, satisfied Lee in a small sort of way.

"Okay," he said, gaining control with a monumental effort. "First of all, even if I do sign the papers, the house won't sell by the time the mortgage is due. It could takes months to go through escrow even if we do find a buyer. Second, they don't foreclose on a house because of one late payment. You have to be in serious arrears for them to do that. You're already fucking up my credit, Beverly. I can only imagine what you're doing to your own. One late payment can't hurt me now. My skin has thickened. I lived for a week on a fucking avocado. Leave the papers with me and I'll look them over. Go back home."

"Lee," Beverly started.

"Go."

"Bird," she said.

"The Jerk is waiting," he said, and held out his hand.

Beverly really wanted to say something but it slowly dawned on her that, even though no one was looking at them, the focus in the room was directly on them, and the energy in the room was directly on Lee. She really, really wanted to say something, but reached into her purse, pulled out a legal sized envelope and plopped it in between the two piles of torn paper, sending them into the air. The balls and shreds co-mingled and gently fell like cherry blossoms in a Kurosawa movie. She stood, and with quiet dignity, walked toward the door.

"It was nice meeting you," Twain called after her.

She dropped all pretense of dignity, and bolted.

"She's a dish, all right," Twain added as he walked back to the kitchen. Matt privately agreed.

Lee got to the theatre that night at a much more reasonable hour, but was still the first actor to arrive. When Andrew got there, the first thing he said was that Lee looked really happy.

"Yeah," Lee said while lighting Ohio Blue Tip wooden© matches and throwing them at the spider in the corner (Steve! I have a credit. Had.) "I told my wife off this morning, and everyone seems to think I did a good job last night. Life is good."

Andrew opened his makeup kit, handed Lee his sponge and the foundation pot. The spider caught one of the matches and threw it back.

"Ow," Lee said. (Now I have a credit. Oops.)

Lee was self-assured that night. He didn't sweat once. Backstage, he and Andrew put their arms around each other, Andrew bellowed his offstage line, and they propelled themselves onto the stage behind the doctor. Lee proclaimed his lines confidently, sang his song with Andrew with a self-possessed air. He sat back stage waiting for the scene changes, almost glowing with pride.

During the second intermission, he buzzed around the dressing room. He slapped the other actors on the back, and asked them how they thought it was going. He had finally found his niche in life, something he was as good at as he was at accounting. Something he could be proud of. Something he could pursue with abandon. The other actors seemed a little reserved. Lee sat down next to Andrew, figuring that intermission wasn't the time for enthusiasm. He had heard you weren't supposed to whistle or mention Macbeth, that is, the Scottish play, backstage, and you said "break a leg" instead of "good luck" because saying "good luck" was bad. There was a lot he still needed to learn about the conventions of theatre, but the adventure had begun.

Andrew smiled and nodded at him, reached out and put his hand on Lee's shoulder.

"You did a really good job last night," Andrew said, and suddenly Lee's stomach churned. "You were a little over enthusiastic tonight."

Lee's stomach started swirling.

"Don't worry," Andrew said in a comforting tone. "Acting takes a while to make sense."

All through the third act, as Lee sat backstage, the churning swirl in his stomach burned. By curtain call he had soaked through his entire costume and had needed to wipe his makeup off because it had become blotchy and smeared. The play got a partial standing ovation, and Lee felt that the ones who remained seated did so solely because of him. Afterwards, in the dressing room, he couldn't look anyone in the eye, which seemed to be fine with them. He apologized to Andrew.

"Don't worry so much, son," Andrew said. "It's your first play. It's a small scene and you'll do better tomorrow. Anyways, this is the place to learn. It's River Bend, not Hollywood or anything."

This did not reassure Lee. He felt like he wanted to cry, which just wouldn't do, being a guy and all. He sensed someone enter the dressing room, and turned to see Stella standing in front of the curtain.

"Good job, Lee," she said with an odd smile, and the sound of her voice drove the spike in his chest home. Her perfume laughed.

The next morning, Lee stumbled through setting up the diner. The burning churn in his stomach hadn't settled since the night before, and he blindly went through his routine tasks, performing them by rote. When Twain first saw him, he said he looked terrible, and Lee told him he hadn't slept all night. He was certain, as he took orders during breakfast, that everyone there had seen him make a fool of himself the night before. I know what you're thinking, he thought as he poured coffee for the man in the John Deere hat at lunch. You're thinking that I should just stop trying to be an actor in a little play, and stick to pouring coffee. You're thinking I not only made a fool of myself, but I let the whole cast down. You're thinking that I should just admit what a failure I am and just leave this town with my head hung in shame. That' s what you're thinking, I can tell.

I wonder if I flushed the toilet, the man in the John Deere hat thought as he bit into his sausage patty.

Oh, sorry, Lee thought, and put the coffee pot back on the burner.

As the day progressed, the thought of going back to the theatre became harder and harder to think. I can't, Lee thought. I can't be River Bend's clown my entire life. I gotta gas up my car and get the hell out of Dodge. I gotta talk to Andrew. He picked up the phone and realized he didn't have Andrew's number. He dialed Peter. While the phone was ringing, Lee felt a strange twinge in his chest. He didn't know many gay people in Chicago, and he didn't know what to do, here. All right, he didn't know any gay people in Chicago. He didn't think there were any gay people in Chicago. Maybe in Highland Park. Or Soldier Field. He realized that he could probably get Andrew's number from information, and was about to hang up just as Peter answered.

"Oh, hi," he said, then stammered, "I need to talk to someone."

"Come over," Peter said, concern thick in his voice.

"Thanks," Lee said. "As soon as I'm done cleaning up after lunch."

"See you then."

As Lee was driving to Peter's house, he saw a bolt of lightning on the horizon, so far away that it was several seconds before he heard the slightest rumbling of thunder. The sky above him was clear, but felt thick. He wished he was riding the Stingray so he could feel the crisp, moist wind rush past his skin, and the electric, stormy air could numb his brain. A distant train whistle sounded, and he wished it was midnight. He also wished that he didn't have to tell Peter he knew he was gay. But he would. Sometime. Maybe not today, though. Probably not today.

Peter was frantic waiting for Lee to arrive. What's the matter, he thought. Is he going back with Beverly? Does he hate me? Does he like me? Has he been arrested again? I'm going to have to tell him I'm gay sometime, but if he's in trouble, maybe I should wait. Maybe he wants to tell me he's gay. Yeah, and maybe I'm Martha Stewart. Maybe he got someone pregnant. Maybe he and Stella are in love. Maybe he got Stella pregnant. There was a knock at the door. I wonder if I flushed the toilet, Peter thought, and went to the door.

"What's the matter?" He asked as soon as he opened it.

"I'm leaving town," Lee said and he stormed in, moved a pile of magazines from the couch and sat. Cliche, who had been sitting on the pile, left the room indignantly.

"Oh, my," Peter said. "Um, sorry about the mess. Can I get you some coffee? Water?"

Lee absent-mindedly played with the ochre colored Lite-Brite pin on the coffee table. He told Peter he didn't need anything.

"I don't know what to do about last night," he said, and Peter sat on the couch next to him, making sure no part of his body touched any part of Lee's.

"What about last night?" Peter said, and Lee looked at him for the longest time.

"You mean you haven't heard?" Lee asked. Peter shook his head no, not wanting to speak, wondering who had died.

"I'm surprised it's not in the paper," Lee said, and Peter shut his eyes, envisioning Lee's SUV running over Agnes. Or Stella. Or a small child. Or Beverly. Or the theatre lying in smoldering ruins. Or maybe he served enchiladas.

"I was awful last night," Lee shouted, then, when Peter looked confused, added loudly, "in the play."

Peter was startled. Then he processed what Lee had actually said. Then he laughed. Lee looked at him, hurt, and Peter realized he was serious.

"I'm sorry," he said, gently touching Lee's arm consolingly, then jerking his hand back, horrified at the errant appendage. "I thought you ran over Agnes. Or Stella. Or a small child. Or Beverly. Or burned the theatre down. Or served enchiladas."

Lee noticed the sudden removal of the hand from his arm and realized that sometime, he really was going to have to tell Peter he knew he was gay. He moved a little away from Peter on the couch. Peter felt a little stab in his chest. I did sit too close to him, Peter thought.

"I stunk," Lee said. "I thought I was so good. I was so proud of myself. I just don't get acting. I can't go back tonight. I'm going to leave town."

Peter thought about this for a moment, moving an inch away from Lee.

"You can't quit," he said.

Lee thought about that for a moment, and noticed Peter moving away from him and wondered if gay people needed more personal space than straight people. He moved an inch farther.

"No, I can't quit," he said.

"The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry," Peter said, and slid to the far end of the couch. He looked around the room to see if there were any obvious gay tip-offs anywhere. He didn't think so, he wasn't really fond of Judy or Barbara. He did have a soft spot for Bette. Midler, not Davis. Although Davis wasn't bad, either. Okay, he was really gay.

"Schemes. Gang aft agley," Lee said, sliding to the other end of the couch. He didn't want to lead Peter on. Of course he also didn't want Peter to think he was homophobic.

"Gang aft agley?"

"The best-laid schemes o' mice and men gang aft agley. Robert Burns," Lee said offhandedly, thinking that Peter didn't even know he knew he was gay, yet, so he wouldn't think he was homophobic. Yet. "What the hell am I going to do?"

"I always thought that was William Blake," Peter said, and wondered if he should sit in a chair, and if he could do it without offending Lee. Straight men are so defensive. "You'll be fine."

"No, he played Beretta.," Lee said and sighed deeply, wondering if he should sit in a chair. He didn't want to offend Peter. Gay men are so sensitive. "I can't keep making a fool of myself in this town."

"That was Robert Blake," Peter said, leaning out over the arm of the couch, wondering why Lee was moving so far away from him. Maybe Lee's homophobic, he thought. But he doesn't know I'm gay, yet. "From Our Gang. Just relax. Acting isn't that tough. Don't try to do anything. Just talk. You can't possibly have been as bad as the doctor. You should have seen him as Charlie in Death of a Salesman. It still makes me shudder."

"It was The Little Rascals, not Our Gang," Lee said, leaning his elbow on the arm of the couch, and crossing his legs with one ankle on the other knee. You know, the way straight men do. He wondered why Peter was moving so far away from him. Maybe Andrew had been having a joke on him. He is sly, he might be a mixer. Maybe Peter isn't gay and thinks I am. I wonder if Peter's homophobic. "Okay, I'm going to finish the run of the show and then leave this stupid town. Let's see Beverly find me in Minsk."

"I thought Little Rascals and Our Gang were the same thing," Peter said, then got quiet, and crossed his own legs at the ankles, then slowly pulled the top leg up until that ankle was on the other knee. The way overweight straight men do. "I'll really miss you if you go." He glanced at his bookshelf and noticed Dancer From the Dance. Oh, my God, he thought, then realized Lee had probably never heard of it.

"Hal Roach changed the name because of a copyright© issue. By the time Robert Burns got there it was The Little Rascals. I'll miss you, too," Lee said, then wondered what Peter would make of that. It's okay to admit missing your first car, or Barney Miller, but not a male friend. "I guess I should get to the theatre."

"Robert Blake, not Burns. I never knew why there had been two names," Peter said, wondering if William Blake had been gay. Then he noticed the Capote Reader on his shelf. That would be a dead give away. Of course, straight people read Capote. He did write In Cold Blood, for heaven's sake. And William Blake had been in that. I mean Robert. And, anyway, there's Hunt for Red October, which balances everything out. "Hey, just have a good time, tonight. Have fun. Break a leg. No one's gonna die. Look on the bright side, look at Meg Ryan, she has a whole career."

Lee sighed. "Yeah," he said, wondering if Spanky had been gay. "But she's perky and has breasts."

As Peter walked Lee to the door, he wished he could give Lee some sort of encouragement, but the only thing that occurred to him was a hug, and that would just never do.

The play that night was uneventful. Lee dutifully said his lines, moved to where he was supposed to move, and didn't embarrass himself or any one else very much. The second scene change took eleven seconds. Peter stayed home and ate cheese.

The week went by like the pages flying off a calendar. As Lee picked up the pages and threw them in the trash, he thought about how he was going to start again in another place. He had three weeks until closing night, and then he was going to take out a map, drop a dime on it, then start driving and stop on the dime. With my luck, he thought, it'll land on Lake Michigan. Or River Bend. Or Butte.

The pickup rehearsal was to be on Thursday night. On Thursday morning, Lee did his shift with Bear in the scene shop, then went back to the diner. He was starting the lunch dishes when Twain came into the back.

"You got a call," he said. "From some guy named José Washington."

"Who's that?"

"Said he was the dish's lawyer," Twain said as he went back out front.

"Beverly?" Lee asked. Why the hell would Beverly get a lawyer, he thought. How the hell could Beverly afford a lawyer?

"Beverly!" he said.