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  THE OLD CRONE

  Leo imagines what the old crone might have been like when she was young. Maybe she was always a little pinched, a little suspicious, or maybe she was something else entirely. Maybe she was a happy girl, like Rosaria was, and maybe something happened—or maybe many things happened—to make her shrivel up and become the old crone.

  During a rehearsal break:

  OLD CRONE:

  I wish that when Mr. Beeber wrote this play he’d put in more about the old crone when she was young, that he had told us her whole story.

  LUCIA:

  What? That’s ridiculous. Who cares about the old crone?

  DONKEY:

  I wish Beeber had told us more about the donkey. Like how did the donkey learn to talk?

  LUCIA:

  Are you joking? If we should know more about anyone in this play, it’s Lucia and her brother. I mean, what happened to their parents? How come we never know that?

  In the play, the old crone and the villagers are suspicious of Rumpopo and the children. They don’t trust anything that is new or different. By the end of the play, though, the old crone has heard Rumpopo’s stories and seen the plays, and she seems changed by them, for the better.

  But still, Leo thinks, there is a lot that is unexplained in this play. Maybe you can’t tell it all in a play, or it would take days to perform, or weeks, or months. Maybe when you write a play you can only choose one very small part of one or two lives, but how do you choose which part, which lives? And maybe, even if you know someone really well—or think you do—you can never really know everything about them.

  Leo is glad that the old crone seems happier by the end. She also gets the last line of the play, which makes Leo wonder if she is more important in the play than he had first thought. She is kind of like Rumpopo, who is old and grouchy at the beginning, but who is changed by the children and the stories.

  Ruby says, “Maybe Rumpopo and the old crone should get married.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Leo says.

  “No. I’m not. Think about it. They’re both old and alone. They both like plays—”

  “Huh.”

  Leo, the writer, is huddled in an attic garret in Paris. Cold air streams through cracks in the walls and roof. He is bent over a small table, writing feverishly by the light of a single candle rapidly burning its way to its molten end. Beside him, on the desk, is a stack of finished pages. On the floor are mounds of crumpled papers, the castoffs from earlier drafts. At last, he writes The curtain closes. The end.

  He stacks the completed pages and turns to the beginning of The Old Crone’s Porch.

  WORRIES

  Home almost-alone. Besides Leo, only Pietro is there, in his room playing his music full blast. Papa’s still at work, Contento is at a friend’s, and Mom has taken Nunzio to the doctor for a checkup.

  Nunzio is much better. They are spoiling him rotten, so relieved that he seems his same old self, except for a reddened scar on his forehead. But sometimes at night, Leo wakes, anxious, and has to look into everyone’s room to see if they are safe, and especially he has to kneel by Nunzio’s bed to be sure he is breathing. Leo has a thousand new fears that something unexpected will happen, something bad, and he’d better stay alert.

  Leo has been thinking a lot about Rosaria. How could Grandma and Grandpa Navy and Papa and all his brothers and sisters bear it when Rosaria left, and now, when they don’t see her or hear from her? How often do they think about her? Why haven’t they talked about her? Is it too painful? Is that why Ruby doesn’t like to talk about her brother?

  And Rumpopo, in the play. Leo knows it is just a play, but he often thinks about Rumpopo and his sister. She, too, leaves. Rumpopo’s sister just grows up and moves away, and it’s as if when she goes, she takes part of Rumpopo with her. He doesn’t find that part again until the children come, when he tells them stories about himself and his sister.

  Maybe Ruby would feel better if she told stories about her brother. Maybe Papa and Grandma and Grandpa would feel better if they told stories about Rosaria.

  Another thing on Leo’s mind: two important play rehearsals coming up and then the play, the real play. Up until now, it seemed they had so much time, and there was so much hopeful possibility—that their play would be perfect, that Leo would not utter a glurt—but now, such a short time to make it right, and a thousand things could go wrong, and what if it is a disaster? And only one night—one—for the real play. How can that be? All this time of preparation for only one night? And then it will be over?

  And another thing stirring up Leo’s brain: he has just finished reading his father’s Autobiography, Age of Thirteen. It ends like this:

  That is my life so far. Who knows what the future will bring?

  Beneath these words is a black-and-white photograph of Leo’s father standing on his porch, a huge smile on his face, and his arms spread, as if he is welcoming whatever might come along. Leo stares at the photo a long time, looking for himself in his father, and then he closes the book. Leo opens the book again to the beginning and to the photo of Papa’s whole family, including Rosaria, seated on the blanket. Close the book. Open the book. Close it. Open it. Each time, Rosaria is still there, and Leo’s father is still standing there at the end, welcoming his future.

  Leo remembers the photo of Ruby and her brother, Johnny. In the photo, they will always be hugging each other.

  Leo takes the book up to the attic and returns it to the box of his father’s things. He puts on the tap shoes, and off he goes, tapping like crazy, leaping over boxes, sliding and tapping, as if he could keep his whole life spinning safely there in the attic.

  REHEARSALS

  The final two rehearsals are crucial, Mr. Beeber says. “These are your last chances to get it right before the final night.” He knows the cast is nervous, so maybe that is why he makes the first rehearsal special.

  MR. BEEBER:

  It will be a banana rehearsal.

  DONKEY:

  A what?

  MR. BEEBER:

  A banana rehearsal. Here is how it works: each character will substitute the word banana for one of his “real” words.

  LUCIA:

  Banana? Did I hear you correctly?

  MR. BEEBER:

  Yes, you did.

  DONKEY:

  Every character does that? Even the donkey?

  MR. BEEBER:

  Yes, even the donkey.

  OLD CRONE:

  And that’s it? All we have to remember is to use the word banana once?

  MR. BEEBER:

  Yes.

  LUCIA:

  Excuse me, Mr. Beeber, but exactly why are we doing this?

  MR. BEEBER:

  To keep you on your toes, to force you to concentrate and to stay in character. One stipulation, though: you must not laugh. This will not be as easy as you might think.

  Already Leo is laughing, merely contemplating all those bananas flying around. He can’t wait to do this rehearsal. He begins plotting exactly when he will slip in the word, imagining who he might trip up and how he might make someone else laugh.

  And so they have the banana rehearsal. Mr. Beeber is right: it is not nearly as easy as it might sound. It is hard not to laugh and not to forget your lines when you hear the word banana instead of the word you expected.

  Some highlights of the rehearsal:

  RUMPOPO:

  I am going to the porch now.

  LUCIA:

  Will you tell us about the green banana again?

  And:

  VILLAGER ONE:

  We need to find out more about this old banana.

  And:

  DONKEY:

  Trust me. Follow banana.

  Leo saves the use of his banana until the very end of the play, to the last line, the last word, and at the end finally they all can laugh, and they laugh hard and long, remembering all those bananas and the odd expressions on people’s faces when they were surprised by the
bananas. It is a brilliant rehearsal.

  The next day: the final rehearsal, a dress rehearsal. “No bananas allowed,” Mr. Beeber cautions. “Complete and total seriousness. Everyone in costume, everyone stays in character. You must feel as if this is the real play.”

  They all wish it will go smoothly, but it does not. Everyone makes at least one error, and some people bumble all over the place, and it all feels clunky and rough and stale. At the end, several people are sobbing, Ruby-the-donkey has broken out in a rash from her costume, the girl who has played the rear end of the donkey faints because she has not been able to breathe, the dog pees on the donkey, and one of the villagers throws up on Rumpopo’s porch.

  When it is all over:

  LUCIA:

  Mr. Beeber, you have got to postpone the play!

  MR. BEEBER:

  No-can-do.

  LUCIA:

  But you must! This is too terribly awful.

  Leo expects Mr. Beeber to pull out both his collar and his hair, but surprisingly, he remains extremely calm. He is even smiling.

  MR. BEEBER:

  Cast, the show must go on, and go on it will! See you tomorrow evening! You will be fine, fine, fine.

  LUCIA:

  But—

  DONKEY:

  But—

  OLD CRONE:

  But—

  JITTERS

  Saturday. The play is tonight. Leo feels sick, as if he might die. Should he phone Mr. Beeber and tell him to find another old crone?

  His family is no help. They expect Leo to do his chores, as usual. They do not understand the extreme agony he is feeling. He will probably have a heart attack, and then they will be sorry they made him clean the toilet on the day of the play.

  At noon, Pietro calls, “Sardine! Fog boy!”

  Leo is curled in his bed, a pillow over his head. “Leave me alone. I’m sick. I may be dying.”

  “Someone’s at the door for you.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Seriously.”

  “You should not joke with a maybe-dying person.”

  Pietro throws his own pillow at Leo. “Ser-i-ous-ly. Someone’s at the door for you. A girl.”

  Leo sits up. “Who?”

  “Well, not a girl exactly—”

  “Then what exactly?”

  “She says to tell you it’s the donkey.”

  Ruby is standing on the porch. She looks awful. Hair all messed up. Pale. Red rash on her arms. “Leo!”

  “Ruby?”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “The play?”

  Ruby clutches her stomach. “I’m sick.”

  Leo pats his own stomach. “Me, too.”

  Ruby leans toward Leo, staring into his eyes. “No—you don’t look sick.”

  “Well, I feel sick.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You said that already. You can’t be sick. Who’s going to play the donkey?”

  “Maybe we don’t need the donkey.”

  “We need the donkey, Ruby.”

  They sit on the porch. Leo looks up and down the street. People are carrying on as usual, cars going in and out of driveways, kids playing in their yards.

  “Maybe we’re just nervous,” Leo suggests.

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. Maybe it’ll all be fine, just like Mr. Beeber says.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ruby sits there, wringing her hands. “Leo? You want to hear about my brother?”

  “What? Now?”

  “Well, if you don’t want to—”

  “No, no, I want to, but are you sure you feel up to it? I mean, you said you were feeling so sick and all—”

  Ruby leans against Leo. “He was only four. He had the flu. We’d all had it—my mom and dad and me—but we got better. Johnny just got sicker and sicker, and one night he couldn’t breathe, and his temperature went up to a hundred and five, and we took him to the emergency room—”

  Leo takes Ruby’s hand. She lets it rest there in his own.

  “—and they admitted him, and my father took me home while my mother stayed with him, and in the middle of the night we get this call—”

  “From your mom?”

  “From my mom. He died, Leo, just like that. He died. He never got better. He never came home.”

  “Come on, let’s go for a walk. It’s okay, come on.” Leo is quiet until they turn toward Ruby’s house. “I wish that hadn’t happened, Ruby. I wish your brother was still here.”

  Ruby sniffles. “Me, too.”

  As they turn the next corner, Ruby says, “Hey, you know what I just remembered? Johnny had this one book that he wanted me to read to him, over and over and over. I must’ve read it a million times. Green Eggs and Ham.”

  “Oh yeah,” Leo says. “I bet I read that to Nunzio a million times, too.”

  “I wonder why I remembered that right now. Johnny kept telling my mom that he wanted green eggs and ham for breakfast—”

  “Eww—”

  “And he insisted and insisted. It was driving us crazy. So one day Mom gets some green food coloring and adds it to the eggs and ham—I mean it was truly disgusting looking—it looked like the eggs and ham were moldy—but Johnny was so excited.”

  “He ate them?”

  “Yes! And all day long he went around saying, ‘I like green eggs and ham. I do so like them, Ruby-I-am!’”

  “Huh.”

  “Funny, the things you remember.”

  “Yeah.”

  THE PLAY

  It is beginning to snow as the family piles in the car to go to the play.

  LEO:

  Hurry up! I’m going to be late. Mr. Beeber is going to kill me.

  MOM:

  Contento! Pietro! Nunzio! Hurry!

  NUNZIO:

  My thoothe—

  PAPA:

  I am going to glue those shoes to your feet.

  At school, Leo dashes past Grandma and Grandpa Navy (“They don’t reserve seats for grandparents?”) and some of the aunties, uncles, and cousins, and Leo is wishing none of them had come, what a horrible idea to invite them, because now they will all see what a terrible actor he is, and they will never let him forget it. Leo tears down the hallway and backstage, where Mr. Beeber is ready to kill him.

  Leo scrambles into his costume, and everything is noise and confusion, and everyone is excited and nervous, and Mr. Beeber keeps telling them to be quiet, that the audience will hear them, and Lucia/Melanie is pacing back and forth, moaning:

  LUCIA:

  I forgot my lines! What’s my first line? Help me, somebody help me. Old crone, what’s my first line?

  OLD CRONE:

  I have no idea. What’s my first line?

  RUMPOPO:

  Where’s my wig?

  DONKEY:

  Where’s my back end?

  Leo peers around the curtain. Terrible thing to do! So many people! Hundreds of people, filling all the rows. He sees his papa with the rest of the family midway down the right side. He will definitely not look there when the play starts. It will make him too nervous. What is my first line? When do I enter? What if I glurt?

  And then there is music, and they take their places, and the lights come up, and the curtain opens, and the play—the real play!—begins. There is no time to think of other things. They are in the play, and the play moves forward, and there is Rumpopo standing on his porch, and there are Lucia and her brother and the little dog, and the dog is behaving very well, and the audience is silent, and then they laugh (when they are supposed to laugh)! It’s as if all the characters become more aware and more alive, hearing that audience, as if they needed to hear them. Leo is astounded by the audience. He is in love with the audience.

  Leo’s turn. He is with the villagers. He says, “Ah, the wicked children,” and the audience laughs, and Leo is surprised, because he did not know his line was funny, and he has to restrain himself from thanking the audience for their wond
erful laughter. They zoom along, and halfway through the play, they are giddy backstage.

  DONKEY:

  They like it! The audience likes the play!

  LUCIA:

  They love the play!

  RUMPOPO:

  And we’re doing great! No one is messing up!

  It is an incredible feeling, but they should not have congratulated themselves so soon. The next scene goes terribly. Lucia misses a line, her brother gets confused and tries to help her, and then it is all messy, and the audience is puzzled. They probably do not know whether to laugh or be embarrassed for the actors.

  And then the donkey and Leo enter, and the donkey’s back end trips, and the audience laughs, and the Ruby part of the donkey is mad, and she misses her line, and Leo tries to help, but he goofs and jumps to the next scene. It looks hopeless, and Leo is praying that Mr. Beeber will rescue them and let them begin again, but he does not rescue them. Instead, one of the villagers rescues them by whispering Leo’s line to him, and the back end of the donkey gets herself together, and then the play moves on again, more smoothly, but they are all jittery now.