I was absorbed myself, at least at first. No matter how many times I saw him rehearsing, I was still surprised at how much better it seemed when he took the stage. Was it the lights and the theater setting? Or did he take the energy most people would fret away in stage fright and channel it into his performance? I marveled at how different he made his voice for each character, at how I almost could see what he was describing come alive.
And then he came to the part of the story where Scrooge goes home to his gloomy lodgings and, after the shock of briefly seeing Marley’s face where the door knocker should have been, gives way to an uncharacteristic fit of nerves and searches his rooms.
“Nobody under the bed; nobody in the closet; nobody in his dressing gown, which was hanging up in a suspicious attitude against the wall.”
There were chuckles at that, and I remembered my own brief moment of fright when I’d been searching the Trinity church basement and had been startled by the coat tree, with its own suspicious attitude.
Thinking of the coat tree reminded me of the whole mass of clutter currently infesting Trinity—in the furnace room, the classrooms, the storage closets, and the office that would soon cease to be mine. Strangely, the clutter no longer oppressed me, perhaps because I knew it would be leaving soon. As Michael acted out the confrontation between Scrooge and Marley’s ghost, part of my mind was following him, and the other half was happily making lists. Things we’d need for the church clean-out. Things Michael and I could donate to swell the estate sale. Places where we should publicize the sale.
I felt wonderfully content. I had my family all around me. The boys seemed happy. And I was simultaneously doing two of my favorite things: watching Michael perform and making mental plans for organizing a project.
I glanced over at Mother, who was sitting proudly upright in her Victorian finery and following the performance with the keen appreciation she bestowed on anything belonging to a more genteel bygone era. But she didn’t look as content as I felt. Clearly she was still concerned about Mrs. Thornefield’s estate. I hoped it turned out that some of the larger boxes held the furniture Mother remembered so fondly.
And if they didn’t—well, I remembered hearing that Mrs. Thornefield’s house had been rather run-down by the time it had come into Trinity’s hands. What if she hadn’t been quite as well off as she’d led everyone to believe? What she’d had a cash-flow problem and had solved it by selling a few of her nicest pieces?
Mother would be so disappointed. Maybe I should try to postpone our box-opening visit until after Christmas?
No. It would only prey on her mind. If the Sheraton and Hepplewhite furniture had been sold, best find out as soon as possible.
Jamie woke up after half an hour’s nap, and from that point both boys remained wide awake to the end, following Michael’s every word, and laughing when the audience did, though I suspected they were laughing not because they understood the funny lines but out of delight, because so many people were laughing at Daddy’s jokes.
Michael took ten curtain calls. Afterward we took the boys backstage to see everyone congratulating Daddy in his dressing room. They were incredibly impressed.
And also starting to show signs of impending crash and burn, in spite of the preemptive extra napping earlier in the day.
“Rose Noire and I are going to take them home,” I told Michael. “Before they ruin everyone’s impression of them as little angels.”
Michael’s face fell.
“You mean you’re not coming to the cast party?” Dad asked. “Your mother and I will be there.”
“Your father will,” Mother said. “I am worn out and planning to go home to bed.”
“Besides,” I said. “With a cast of one, how big can it be?”
“Okay, it’s also the unofficial departmental Christmas party,” Michael said. “And all of my family are invited! And it doesn’t start till midnight, after we finish cleaning up the theater, so you could run the boys home and come back for it—if that’s okay with Rose Noire.”
She had no objection, so after making our good-byes to everyone, we led the boys out to the parking lot. We had to carry them the second half of the way.
“Let’s just put them in my car,” Rose Noire said. “I’m giving Rob a ride home—he can help me carry them in and you can head to the cast party a little sooner.”
By the time we strapped them into their car seats, both boys were fast asleep. So I applied my best good night kisses to their unconscious foreheads and waved as Rose Noire and Rob drove off.
“Does this mean you’re coming to the cast party after all?” I turned to see Robyn picking her way across one of the parking lot’s many patches of ice. “It sounds like fun.”