Come to the Edge_ A Memoir - Christina Haag [42]
When we hit the Brooklyn side, I directed him from Adams to Flatbush. We passed Borough Hall and Junior’s Deli (still open, bustling and bright), the shuttered storefronts, and the Beaux Arts façade of the Academy of Music. And when I saw the domed clock tower where Atlantic meets Flatbush, I knew it was almost over. I wanted to keep going, to take him farther into Brooklyn, all the way to Brighton and the sea.
“Here,” I said at Fourth Avenue. “Turn.”
Union Street was wide and empty, and I pointed to a brownstone identical to many on the block. He parked the bike, and I slid off, dizzy from the speed, my eyes dry, my hair tangled. We stood close but apart, under the glow of a streetlamp, and he began to rock the toe of his sneaker against the curb.
“This is where you live.”
“It is. I feel like I have sea legs.” My face was warm, and I realized that if I said anything else, it wouldn’t make sense.
But he nodded; it had been a long ride. Then I saw him look up to the door of the brownstone.
“I had a thought,” he said. “What if we leave for Peapack on Thursday night after rehearsal instead of Friday morning. You know … spend the night, have the whole day?”
On Friday, the crew would be in the theater, and we were going to New Jersey to rehearse on the hill near his mother’s house.
“I thought I’d check with you before floating it by Robin,” he continued. “Whatever you think …”
I fiddled with the bronze cuff, twisting it on my wrist. He watched.
“I think it’s a great idea,” I said slowly. “Are there horses there?”
“Yeah … there’re horses.” He looked at me as if he was trying to recall something. He’d stopped fooling with his sneaker and we were still.
“So how do you feel?” I asked. “About the play?” Although it wouldn’t be reviewed and the setting was humble, it was a big deal. His New York debut and mine, and though we didn’t know it, his swan song.
Although he’d mentioned that many of his cousins would be at the opening, as well as his mother’s friend Mr. Tempelsman, and this made him happy, I knew his mother wouldn’t be there, and neither would his sister. “They’re on the Vineyard.” I was quiet when he told me. Were the rumors true? Did his mother disapprove? But he quickly brushed it off. It was better this way, he said. If they came, it would only cause a fuss.
“How do you feel?” I asked again.
I imagined him not as he was, standing before me by a skinny tree on Union Street, but in his costume: the wool cap and leather satchel, and the striped schoolboy tie askew on the collar of his wrinkled button-down. It was hard to make John look nerdy, but onstage, in our play, he did. He’d perfected the hangdog look, and in a blue blazer sizes too small, he stooped.
He was looking up at the tree, his lips pursed. “I feel good. I feel okay. I mean, I’m nervous—with you I’m fine.” He nodded, as if trying to convince himself. “But that speech I have about Kerrigan shooting the cows, sometimes I blank. Even though I say the words, I’m out of the scene.”
I smiled. He was wonderful in the role. “Listen,” I said. “I’m going to tell you something an acting teacher once told me. If you’re in trouble—don’t just keep going. Stop, take a breath, and look into my eyes. It will ground you. It may feel like it’s forever, but it’s not, it’s just a moment. And you’ll remember. I promise. You’ll know where you are.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding again. “I’ll try. But same for you. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I reached out my hand and he took it. Our eyes locked. I wanted to hold him, to be