Chet Williamson - Reign

"He's wonderful."

Evan nodded. "Seeing what he does… it makes me feel better. About being here. Like I'm not scared."

"What about tomorrow? When the place is filled."

"I'll be one of the audience, that's all. I won't be up there. It'll be all right." All around them came sounds that would be unheard the following night with the audience in attendance – people talking, laughing backstage, Linda Oliver, the sound designer, calling from the rear of the theatre to her onstage technicians, Curt Wynn shouting down to Dex from the booth.

"You know I love him, Ann," Evan said, not looking at her.

"I know you do. And he loves you too."

"I was angry at him for so long. Half my life. But I think things are going to be better now."

"Good," she said. "That's good."

The intermission was twenty minutes long, and they sat together, not talking, not saying what they both were wondering, not until the orchestra reassembled, the heads and the tips of instruments bobbed up over the brass rail holding the red velvet curtains that hid the pit. Evan was the one to voice it.

"I wonder where he is."

Ann wondered too, but to say so, to reveal to Evan that she knew who he was talking about, would have been too much of an invitation, as though thought alone could produce him. And Ann knew that that was precisely what could happen and what had, that Dennis Hamilton's creative thought had brought him, or it, into being. "Who?" she asked. "Where who is?"

The smile he gave her was thin and hard, and told her he knew the question was unnecessary. "The Emperor," he said. "The one who calls himself the Emperor."

"I don't know," she said, and the music started, and John Steinberg returned, and she turned her attention to the stage and tried to lose herself again in the marvelous story that continued before her.

But she could not. As she watched Dennis sing and act and take on the character of the Emperor, she wondered who was on that stage, if what had been the Emperor had gone back inside of Dennis. And if so, had it gone involuntarily, weakened by Dennis's power, to stay forever? Or had it gone of its free will, because it would be safe there until…

Until the performance.

The thought gave her such a fit of trembling that both John and Evan turned to look at her. She made herself calm, gave them both smiles, and concentrated on the story unfolding so perfectly in front of her, finally drawing to a close with Frederick's discovery of Kronstein's imposture (it was remarkable, she thought, how closely Wallace Drummond resembled Dennis), the final duel in which Frederick runs Kronstein through, and Frederick's final speech to the people, telling them that if he is killed leading his army against Wohlstein, the people will be his heirs, and democracy reign.

Then came the reprise of the song, "A Private Empire." Dennis's voice, expression, movements all blended together to break Ann's heart as he sang of his lost love, and how he would soon be with her again, and the two of them would dwell forever in an empire of their own making, a realm of transcendent love. As the strings faded away on the last line, the trumpets entered, blaring martially, and Dennis straightened, blinked away tears, and marched upstage, his back to the audience, to lead his army into glory and to meet his own dearly sought for death.

The curtain fell, the music ended, and Ann thought she had never before heard such an absolute silence in an occupied theatre. Then the applause began, from the dozens of technicians and costume people who, no longer needed at the show's end, had come into the auditorium to watch the final scene. The curtain opened, the orchestra played the bows music, and the curtain call began, the chorus and dancers entering first, the secondary principals coming out in pairs or alone, and finally Dennis, striding through the great door center stage, sweeping imperially downstage, the company bursting into a tremendous ovation at the miracle they had seen occur over the last week, Dennis bowing low, accepting the applause as his due, but finding Ann's eye and smiling at her, letting her know that the imperiousness was an act, but that he could and was by God acting it.

Then he dropped the character of the Emperor like an old cloak, and beamed at the company, embracing them in turn, causing Steinberg to mutter, "I hope he remembers that the performance is tomorrow night …”

"It was hard just getting here, John," Ann said. "Let him enjoy it, can't you?"

Steinberg nodded grudgingly. "All right. But I'd rather he waited until tomorrow to congratulate himself."

Everyone got out of their costumes, then came down into the auditorium for the notes that followed every run-through. Quentin pointed out a few dance errors, and Dex cautioned the chorus about a certain vocal entrance that was less than sharp. Finally Quentin nodded and smiled. "I think we've got a very nice show here, ladies and gentlemen. But the proof of that will be tomorrow night. We'll have a full house, all paying a pretty penny. And there will be dozens of press people here as well. As we've discussed before, feel free to talk to them, but have no comment about any of the… tragedies that occurred here, or any disquieting feelings you might have about working here. I think your performances tonight proved that there's certainly no curse on this place.

"But don't relax. Stay sharp. I liked what I saw tonight, and I think we'll knock everyone's socks off tomorrow. Go home, get some rest, do something lovely and relaxing tomorrow during the day, think pleasant thoughts, and show up at… Curt?"

"Seven o'clock call," Curt said.

"Fine. Dennis? Anything you'd like to add?"

Dennis stood up and faced the company. "I'd just like to thank you all. You've done a wonderful job in a very short time. You've given up some shows that might have advanced your careers in order to do this. ..” He chuckled. “… extremely short run…”

The company laughed, and one wag called out, "You paid for it, Dennis!" making them laugh again.

"I guess I did," he said, and the look on his face ended the laughter. "But thank you all anyway. I appreciate it. I'm sure tomorrow night will be fine. Thank you all, and break a leg."

On their way to the car, Ann clutched his arm, grateful for the nearness of him, happy for his success. "You must be tired," she said.

"No. Surprisingly enough, I'm not. I feel good. I feel so good I'm almost afraid of it."

"Don't be. You were wonderful tonight, and you'll only be better tomorrow.”

“I'll try," he said, and suddenly she was afraid, hearing his own fear, and wished the next night had already come and gone.

Scene 8

Abe Kipp had found God again. He had forsaken Him in Europe, after he had seen his friends die, seen what war did to people. After the Big One, he had wanted nothing more to do with God.

But now Abe had changed his mind. He had been raised Roman Catholic, but had never been serious enough about the faith to seriously become a practitioner of the art of guilt. Only the aftermath of Harry Ruhl's death had done that for him, and he went to confession after several weeks of self-condemnation, entering the booth as though it were a euthanasia chamber.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned." He remembered the words, not from experience, but from the movies.

"How long has it been since your last confession, my son?"

That was a toughie. He quickly subtracted in his head. "Thirty-five… no, make that forty-five years, Father."

There was a short silence from the other side of the screen. "Forty-five years, my son?"

Abe thought for a moment, and gave the church the full truth. "Actually nearer fifty, Father." A half century of absolution, thought Abe. By the time I'm done, I could be dead of old age.