Part 5 (1/2)

William drew a deep, weary breath. He jogged his memory as he looked at Willow's autograph and ran his fingertips across her signature, which was written in Chinese. He recognized the characters: Liu Song.

Greenroom.

(1934).

William and Charlotte sat in the alley long after the crowds of fans and reporters had drifted away, slowly, like cotton in the air. To William, it seemed as though everyone else had someplace to go, someone to be with, some duty to attend to. He, on the other hand, couldn't move, couldn't leave. He sat on the dirty, broken pavement, his shoulders against the stage door, waiting. I have no place else to go.

”She'll come back,” Charlotte said. ”There's another show tonight, and another tomorrow and the next day. We could leave and return an hour before the evening performance. That would give us plenty of time ...”

”I'm not leaving,” William said, crossing his hands in front of his chest. He had tried banging on the door, hoping that some stagehand might hear and let them inside. William hoped that he'd be able to sneak into his ah-ma's dressing room and wait for her arrival. But they only attracted the attention of an angry old custodian, who told them to scram-shooing them off with his mop. Eventually the rumblings from inside the belly of the theater quieted, matching the soundlessness of the vacant alley.

”We can't wait forever,” Charlotte argued politely. ”What if we get arrested for truancy or, worse, vagrancy? They'd split us up for sure.”

William listened as he noticed the wending cracks in the concrete, covered with moss and tufts of long-dead crabgra.s.s. He followed the cracks to the garbage-strewn mouth of the alley and watched a group of old men shamble by with hand-painted picket signs resting on their shoulders. William's English was spotty at times, but even he noticed the misspellings on the placards. And the men, they looked like they'd worn the same clothes for weeks, and their unshaven faces and windburned skin revealed the relentless sorrow of their days. No one will even notice us, William realized. We're invisible-no value, no trouble to anyone.

As the minutes became hours, William and Charlotte huddled together and pa.s.sed the time talking about food and songs, about family and unfulfilled wishes. She even held his hand, tucked her hair behind her ear, and rested her head on his shoulder as William watched the long afternoon shadows creep down the red-brick walls and wrought-iron fire escape that had been painted yellow. Eventually the colors of the alley faded and darkened, like a bruise on a piece of rotting fruit. Occasionally they'd doze off, one or the other, sometimes both, napping amid the unkind smells left behind by roving animals and stray humans, their respites interrupted by the wails of sirens or the clanging of a trolley, and finally the slamming of a car door.

William squinted down the alley toward the sunlit street as the yellow blur of a taxi pulled away. He nudged Charlotte, then realized she was already wide awake.

A man in an overcoat stalked toward them, his face hidden beneath the brim of his fedora. He tipped the hat as he stopped in front of them, but William's tired eyes were slow to adjust to the shade of the alley and he couldn't see the man's face clearly.

”What do we have here?” the man said as he waved his hand in front of Charlotte's vacant eyes. ”Lemme guess, you're a new act-c.h.i.n.ky and Blinky.”

It's the comedian. William recalled the voice. Asa-something ...

”Is that you, Mr. Berger?” Charlotte asked, timidly.

”Slow down, honey. My father is Mr. Berger. My friends call me Asa. You can call me ... Sir Handsome Bloodworth the Third, Lord of the Alley, Sultan of Sloth, and the Patron Saint of Blind Runaways and Lost Celestials-no offense, kid.”

The man spoke so fast that William had a hard time understanding. He helped Charlotte to her feet as they dusted themselves off. William b.u.t.toned his jacket and straightened his bow tie. ”Is it showtime already? What time-”

”Why, you kids looking for work?” Asa interrupted. ”Or just taking a napping tour of Seattle's finest alleys?” The man paused, hands out as though waiting for laughter or applause, but the only sound they heard was from a fat tomcat that mewed from atop an overflowing garbage can. The comedian shook his head and mumbled something toward the sky in a language William didn't understand.

”We're waiting for Willow,” Charlotte blurted as she held on to William's arm.

”She's my mother. That's why she cried when she saw me,” William stated with all the vigor of a deflating party balloon. I think that's why, at least. He found the autograph and showed it to the comedian.

”Wow.” Asa snorted. ”Conclusive proof. Except for all I know this says, 'Free Chow Mein on Sundays.' What else you got? After all, kid, Willow's an actress-the tears are part of her shtick; she cries at the drop of a hat, any hat.”

William couldn't answer.

”C'mon, kid, we get stuff like this all the time. I mean, you know Stepin has a way with the ladies, and Yours Truly is no slouch when it comes to affairs of the ... uh, affairs of the ... ah, screw it-just affairs. I mean, we're the ones looking over our shoulders for angry fathers and cuckold husbands, but Willow Frosty with kids-that's rich. Um, let me ask you this in all seriousness-are you two kids related? What I mean to ask is, does Little Orphan Optic here know she's not from the Far East? And I'm not talking about Long Island.”

William shrugged through another awkward pause.

”We're both from around here ...” Charlotte corrected. ”From Sacred Heart ...”

”I'm from Chinatown. My mother was Liu Song Eng-her name means Willow. We lived at the Bush Hotel on South Jackson. My mother was taken away five years ago and I was sent to an orphanage ...”

William watched as Asa stretched into an exaggerated yawn. ”Yeah, yeah, I'm a sucker for a sob story. You want in for free, c'mon in. You wanna tell fairy tales, save it for the rubes. You can wander around backstage until showtime-then off you go, my little Irish twins. Don't tell anyone, though, or they'll start these crazy rumors that I'm some kind of a nice guy.” He handed them each a ticket from his billfold and then banged on the door, first with his fist, then he kicked it several more times for good measure.

A large man in a ratty black sweater opened the door, looked at his watch, and grunted ”Good evening” to Asa. William watched as the man in black propped the door open with a chair and sat upon it, looking them up and down.

”That's Chuckles the doorman-Mr. Personality, that guy,” Asa said as he led them inside and down the hallway. ”That's the stairway to the voms that will take you out to your seats. Stay out of the way of anyone in black-those are stagehands and union guys. That's the greenroom. I suggest you wait in there, and don't steal the silver. I'll be in my office taking my medicine.”

Medicine, William thought. He watched as Asa walked into a dressing room across the hall. The comedian looked out of place against the gold-flecked wallpaper, sitting beneath a crystal chandelier. Asa found a bottle of whiskey with a ribbon around the neck, poured a mug of cold coffee into a trash can, and opened the bottle, hands shaking as he poured. William could see the man's Adam's apple rise and fall with each gulp. Then he set the mug down, looked into the mirror, turned and met William's gaze with sad, bloodshot eyes, and slammed the door.

William and Charlotte sat in the greenroom-which wasn't green at all-surrounded by bouquets of flowers, baskets of fruit and hard rolls, and a silver tea service steaming with fresh coffee. They were afraid to touch anything, certain that someone would see them and kick them out at any moment. But when a stagehand popped in with a clipboard and asked who they were with, they held up the tickets Asa had given them. The stagehand's suspicious eyes softened when he saw Charlotte's white cane, and he shrugged and walked on. Thank you, Charlotte, William thought. No one doubts the intentions of a blind girl. Charlotte suggested he read something to her, but the only thing he could find was an old newspaper. The headline was about a high school girl named Frances Farmer who won a trip to Russia with an essay ent.i.tled ”G.o.d Dies.” William spared his blind friend the article but nodded in agreement.

He sat back and watched a small parade of theater workers and performers breeze in and out of the greenroom. Some he recognized from earlier in the day. Others were new, like a ventriloquist with a dummy that played the bagpipes, and an old man who arrived with a chimpanzee in a tuxedo. And each time he heard a commotion in the hallway he expected to see his ah-ma and each time he was disappointed. Eventually he heard the musicians in the concert hall tuning up for their performance and began to worry that Willow might never show up. Then he heard flashbulbs popping and laughing from the alley. He peeked down the hallway, expecting Willow, but instead it was a black man in a finely tailored suit.

William hesitated. At first he thought the man was an usher. Then William recognized him. ”You're Mr. Fetchit, aren't you?” William noticed the man had a daily racing form from Longacres tucked beneath his arm, along with a copy of Ulysses.

”Call me Lincoln.” He shook William's hand. ”Lincoln Perry. You know there's a place here in town called the c.o.o.n Chicken Inn? I thought everyone in the Great Northwest was better than all that.” He turned his head and cursed. ”Say, are you an acrobat or something? Man, I hope you're not performing tonight-kids always steal the show. Bad enough I have to share the stage with that d.a.m.n monkey ...”

”We're here for Willow,” Charlotte said, waving her cane.

William watched as Stepin looked at them quizzically. ”That so?” the man said. ”Well, she's here. Though I don't think she'll be hanging out in the greenroom. She's in one of her blue moods. When she's down like that, we all just leave her be. She's in her dressing room.” Stepin pointed. ”But if I were you, I'd enter at your own risk.”

”She's here?” William blurted.

”She's been here for thirty minutes-down in the bas.e.m.e.nt. That's where all the ladies' dressing rooms are, in case you were wondering.”

”But Asa told us to wait here ...”

Stepin waved his hand. ”That man don't know his last name half the time. He came home from the war all sh.e.l.l-shocked-went from receiving the Croix de Guerre for heroism in the trenches to years in a funny farm. Now he's Mr. One-liner and all that. Somehow it makes sense, I guess.”

Charlotte interrupted. ”Go, William. Just go.”

William thanked the man and promised Charlotte that he'd be right back. He thought about what he could possibly say as he ran downstairs, going against the flow of glittering dancers and corseted showgirls, who barely noticed him. He found there was no carpeting in the bas.e.m.e.nt, and the cement floor seemed to radiate cold. At the end of the cluttered hallway, past racks of clothing, props, and set pieces, he saw a star painted on a door. Written in chalk was the word Willow. William straightened his jacket and drew a deep breath, tasting talc.u.m and tobacco in the air as he gently knocked. No answer. He knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. He looked around the hallway and then opened the door, which creaked on rusty hinges, announcing his arrival. He peeked inside and saw the actress sitting in the windowless room, perched before a mirrored vanity, staring at her reflection through a haze of smoke. The cigarette in her hand had nearly turned to ash. He spied the ashtray, which was overflowing.

”Sorry, Asa dear, I can't go out there tonight,” he heard Willow say. ”I don't care what they're paying me. Please tell them to take it up with the Screen Actors Guild. I can't play this town-the rain is bad for my voice.”

But your voice sounds perfectly fine. William stood in the doorway staring. He noticed that she wore a different dress from earlier in the day but sat barefoot. Up close, her glittering jewelry looked like painted gla.s.s and her sable wrap looked dead, a lifeless slice of brown carpet. She sat staring at the lighted mirror, which was broken and splintered. Her glamorous composure seemed wrinkled and faded, discarded and stained, like the photo he kept in his coat.

”Who are you?” she said as she caught his silhouette in the mirror.

I didn't have a reason to stay. He heard her words from the radio interview all over again. ”I'm ...” Scared to know why you left me behind.

William heard the din of footsteps upstairs on the worn wooden floor, and the skittering of high heels, the clicking of tap shoes. He watched as she stubbed out her cigarette and slowly turned around. When her eyes met his, it was as though they were both staring at the ruins of a broken promise. Her grace had vanished along with her glamour. The dark circles of her eye makeup stood out against her pale skin. This woman-his mother, who was barely thirty-seemed a million years old and weary beyond reckoning. She gazed at him unblinking, while a single black tear wandered down the hollow of her cheek, coming to rest at the confluence of her lips, which trembled.

”It's really you,” Willow said, ”isn't it?” She took a deep breath and then another, struggling to collect herself. ”You've grown so much ...”

”It's William,” he said, nodding, ”William Eng.”