Maybe the Moon

made sense, I admit, even as it suggested new horrors. “What if they turn off the spot?”
    “When?”
    “When they see that it’s me.”
    “They won’t do that.”
    “Why won’t they?”
    “Because Blenheim will be onstage, for one thing.”
    “And?”
    “And…this could be some last-minute surprise he planned himself. Isn’t he kind of famous for that?”
    “Kind of.”
    “So if he’s up there reacting to you—smiling and everything—they’ll think everything’s cool.”
    “What if he’s not smiling?”
    “He will be. He thinks he’s liberal, remember?” Jeff seemed to ponder something for a moment, then asked: “Are you just gonna sing?”
    “What do you mean, just ?”
    He chuckled. “I mean…are you gonna say anything to him?”
    “I guess I’ll have to.”
    “Like what?”
    “Who knows?” I’d thought about this a lot, of course, but still hadn’t decided on anything.
    “What’s Mr. Woods’ big line?” asked Jeff. “The thing the suit says.”
    I told him to forget it.
    “Why? That might be the logical thing. It would help to connect you with the character.”
    “Why do I have to be connected?”
    “So they’ll know why you’re out there, Cadence. Besides, you want credit for the role, don’t you?”
    “I guess so.”
    “Makes sense to me.”
    I told him he was right. Again. We left shortly after that, as soon as I’d checked out the stage from the top of the tiers. My heart did a few somersaults when I imagined the tiny fleck of flotsam I’d make in that sea of celebrity, but I was basically all right about it. Getting out of the suit was obviously the biggest hurdle; the rest would be like working a birthday party—only bigger.
    Jeff dropped me off here at the house just after noon, arranging to pick me up again at six. He was bland about his goodbye—largely on my account, I think—but I could tell he was just as wired as I was. He honked a second farewell as he turned the corner out of sight, as if to assure me one more time that we were absolutely doing the right thing.
    The house was a mess, since I’ve been anything but tidy lately in my preoccupation with the tribute. I fluffed a few pillows in the living room, threw out old newspapers, raked my dirty laundry into a single pile in the closet. They say this helps order the mind, but it didn’t do shit for me. I decided to confront my demons head-on and rehearse my number one more time, using what I’d learned about the layout of the stage. Enlisting my vibrator, Big Ed, as a substitute microphone, I slinked my way across the backyard, singing at the top of my lungs, stopping when I reached the banana tree that was supposed to be Philip.
    I got through the whole song without a hitch. At the end, where the sea roar of applause should have come, I heard only the un-Zenlike sound of two hands clapping. This startled me so that I dropped Big Ed in the grass, then looked up to see Mrs. Bob Stoate grinning at me over the fence.
    “That’s really pretty,” she said.
    “Thanks.”
    “I hope I didn’t scare you.”
    “No.”
    “Is that a hobby or something?”
    “No,” I said evenly. “I do it professionally.”
    “Really? I never knew that. I mean, I know you do movies sometimes, but…well, I never knew this.”
    She was so obviously impressed that I lost my head and told her I was singing tonight.
    “Really? Where?”
    “At the Beverly Hilton. With Bette Midler and Madonna and Meryl Streep.”
    She gave me a sickly little smile that made it clear she thought I was several sandwiches short of a picnic.

25
    M Y COMING-OUT PARTY, CONT .
    Jeff returned when he said he would and drove me and Renee back to the hotel. He hadn’t expected Renee, of course, so he eye-balled me in a prim, chastising way, but didn’t say anything. I knew damn well he thought she was too drifty for the job ahead, but I really didn’t care. I’d decided at the last minute that Renee’s loyalty and cheery outlook would be good for my morale—the right instinct, clearly, considering what happened later.
    When we arrived at the hotel, I stood up in the front seat of the Civic to check out the scene. The entrance was already cordoned off against fans, and there were klieg lights slashing their way anemically through the pale winter twilight. I saw several early arrivals being disgorged from limos, but they were all gray, anonymous producer types. Renee gasped histrionically at the sight of a sequin-sheathed blonde on