Anything Is Possible(58)

So Abel was inside. But it was dark and he did not know exactly where he was, as the door he had entered was a side door and seemingly led backstage. Tentatively he touched the wall for a light switch and found none as he stepped forward slowly. But then—ha! He flipped it, but saw only a dim light respond from the distance, enough to illuminate the narrow hallway before him. Yellow-painted brick walls marked with graffiti were on each side of him. He knocked on the first door he saw, and found it to be locked. “Hello?” He called the word out cheerfully, but there was no answer. The place smelled familiar and unmistakably theatrical.

His hunger caused the hallway to seem very long. Abel saw, between two black curtains, what must be the stage. Above him were dark rows of stage lights, unlit, like enormous beetles, waiting. “Hello,” he called again, and again there was no answer, though he sensed now the presence of someone. “Hello? I’m trying to find the stage manager, hello? My granddaughter left her—”

Turning right, he saw above him the pony hanging from a small noose of clothesline that was looped over a bare unlit bulb in the hallway. Snowball, her plastic feet pointing in front of her, her pink hair sticking out from her head, was caught in a look of eternal dismay; her eyes were wide open, their long dark lashes coquettishly splayed.

Behind him was the sudden sound of a door opening, and he turned. There was Linck McKenzie, Scrooge, with his wig off but his makeup still on, which made him look half-crazed. “Hello,” said Abel, holding forth his hand. “My granddaughter left her pony here—” He nodded at it hanging from the lightbulb. “I imagine some student was having a bit of fun, but I need to bring it home or I’ll lose the child’s respect, I’m afraid.”

Scrooge returned the handshake. His hand was bony and strong and very dry. “Come in,” Scrooge said, as though it were an office he was occupying, but it was, Abel saw as he entered, a small square room that must have been used for storage; it had dropcloths and old lamps and a table missing a leg.

Abel said, “I’m afraid I need a stepladder or a chair. Oh, there—” In the corner was an old-fashioned-looking chair with a curved armrest.

Scrooge shut the door behind him and said, “Well, there’s only that one chair, so why don’t you sit.”

“Oh no, no, I hardly need to—”

Scrooge jerked his head in the direction of the chair. “I want you to sit.”

Abel understood then that he was in the presence of instability, but oddly this only caused an increase in his enervation, and after a moment he said politely, “I think I’ll stand, thank you. Is there something I can help you with?” He smiled benignly at Scrooge, who remained leaning against the door. Abel wanted to say, How long do you think this will take? Realizing this was his thought, he understood that he was removed from himself in a way distinct and strange.

Scrooge said, “I’d like to say some things, you see. Then when I’m done, you can go. You’ll manage. You strike me as the kind of old man who thinks he’s in good shape because so far you’ve not had a heart attack.” A mirthless smile came to Scrooge as he studied Abel. “Your clothes are expensive.” He nodded. “A devoted secretary organizes your days. Nothing is really expected of you anymore, you’re a figurehead. A few leadership qualities left. But physical strength, I doubt you have much. So please. Sit.”

Abel stayed exactly where he was, but he felt winded. Everything this wretched man had said was essentially—except for the part about not having had a heart attack yet—true. The heart attack had been only a year ago and had scared Abel severely. He took two steps toward the chair and sat down; the chair swiveled backward, surprising him.

“Weak in the knees,” Scrooge said. “Well, I’m strong as wire. I’m also at the end of my rope. No one should be in a room with a man who’s at the end of his rope.” He laughed, showing his fillings, and Abel now felt a true bolt of alarm. He wondered how long he would have to be gone before his wife—or perhaps Zoe—would drive to the theater, God in heaven.

“That pony belongs to your grandchild?”

“It does,” Abel said. “She’s very attached to it.”

“I hate children,” Scrooge said. He slid down the wall and sat on the floor cross-legged. He was not a young man; Abel was surprised at his suppleness. “They’re little, they move quickly, they’re very judgmental. You look surprised.”

“This whole thing is surprising.” Abel tried to smile, but Scrooge did not smile. Abel continued, his mouth dry, “Look, I’m awfully sorry, but can we—”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Well, I suppose—”

“You’re stuck in a room with a lunatic and you apologize?”

“I see what you mean. Well, I would like to go, if you think—”

“I think I would like to say a few things. I told you that. The first thing I’d like to say is that I’m deeply, deeply tired of the theater. I only went into it because it takes everyone, especially if you were born queer back when I was, it scoops you up and gives you a sense of belonging—which is false, phony, silliness. And the second thing I would like to say is that I caused the lights to go out tonight. I did it with a cellphone inside my nightshirt. It’s all on the Internet, you know, pretty soon you’ll be able to blow up a whole country with a cellphone. But I followed the directions and I was quite surprised. I wanted to cause chaos and I did. Anyway, I had no one to tell. I was quite pleased with myself, and now find it to be a hollow victory.”