“If you’re not hiding anything, then why—”
“My mother is innocent. She knows enough English to survive, but it’s hard for her, and lonely. Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that the deportation officers have been especially vigilant the past couple of years when it comes to immigrants from a certain part of the world.”
Corinne had heard the gossip at her parents’ dinner parties, and she’d read the opinion columns in the newspapers about the foreign anarchists who were trying to dismantle the American way of life, but she’d never given the subject much thought beyond that. She said nothing.
“If they take me from her, she won’t make it,” Gabriel said. “And neither of us would make it back in Russia. We have no friends there anymore. No family.”
“I understand.” She realized her hand was still on his arm, and she dropped it. “Your mother looked upset. Is she starting to suspect that you aren’t earning your money driving a grocery truck?”
He grimaced, and his hand hovered briefly at his side, where his stitches were. The slight movement was amplified in the mirrors, spiraling into perpetuity.
“She saw my gun this afternoon, and she knows that I got hurt. She’s worried.”
“Well, I would be too, if my son the hired gunman was walking around with the words I’m armed, arrest me practically written on his forehead.” Her voice shook a little with the forced joke.
He scowled at her, but without malice. “How about you do your job and I’ll do mine,” he said.
“Only if you’ll admit that I do mine so much better than you do yours.”
He rolled his eyes and reached past her for the doorknob.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Corinne said before he turned it. “I won’t lie for you, if Ada or Johnny asks, but I won’t tell anyone.”
Her statement gave him pause, though she couldn’t decipher whether he had expected more or less from her. They were toe-to-toe, and she could practically feel the tension coiled inside him. His expression was inscrutable in the dusky light.
“Thank you,” he said at last. He opened the door, and they both went inside to wait for Saint.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Mythic Theatre was a newer theater in Boston, though it didn’t look it. On the outside it was borderline derelict, with a marquee that dropped letters during the lightest breeze and glass doors that had long since been painted over, because the Gretskys couldn’t be bothered washing them. On performance nights the crowd was inevitably thin, dissuaded by the shabby carpets and distinct smell of mildew that clung around the place. For the most part it was overlooked. The Colonial had a grander, more palatable interior, and the Orpheum put on more exciting shows. No one was very interested in plays even critics had never heard of, with titles like Darkness in a Candle Shop or Star-Crossed and Long-Lost, especially when the Colonial was running a new musical revue and the Orpheum had a brand-new cast of vaudeville girls.
The Mythic’s current production was apparently entitled Once in a Red Moon, though a recent wind had changed it to Once in a Red Moo.
“You know, I’ve never seen a show here,” Corinne said.
“Can’t imagine why not,” Gabriel said behind her.
“I’ve read this script before,” Saint said. “It’s good. You should give it a chance.”
“How have you read it?” Corinne said, casting him a suspicious glance. “I can’t even get you to read a sonnet.”
Saint ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. “James gave it to me,” he muttered.
Corinne laughed. “Well then, excuse me if I don’t exactly trust your judgment on the matter.”
The Mythic box office entailed a lockbox on the counter with a slot in the top for money, accompanied by a handwritten sign that read:
Admission: $3.50
God is watching.
There was a roll of blue tear-off tickets beside the box. Corinne stood at the window for a while, pondering whether or not God was truly interested in the financial security of the Mythic Theatre. Finally Saint made a sound of exasperation and shoved enough cash for all three of them into the slot.
“For an artist you are not very supportive of the arts,” Saint told her.
“I don’t see how pretending to be someone else on a stage is art,” Corinne said. “It’s not as if they write the plays themselves.”
“You probably shouldn’t mention that to Madeline or James,” he said.
The theater had a better audience than Corinne would have expected, which wasn’t to say that it was a particularly large turnout. They took their seats as the curtain rose—a slow, juddering affair. Madeline was alone center stage. She flung her arms open and cried toward the rafters about her woebegone state. With her eyelids painted a dramatic purple and her lips a bright red, she stood out against the dark backdrop like an exaggerated flower.