The show that night went off without a hitch. On Sunday, I flubbed a line, because I caught sight of one of my local clients in the audience. Major had my back, as always.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I’d been scripted to say as my knife grinder persona. “That’s what…” I’d had no idea what was supposed to come next. “That’s what…?”
“What the boy needs, I say,” Major offered.
“Exactly.”
Sunday was matinee day. The show started at three and ended around six. Abby’s dad was throwing his community picnic the day of our first one. It was a perfect July evening, hot, but not too humid. The smell of freshly mown grass and barbecue filled the air. The sky was blue, the trees green, with every other color in the crayon box represented through a dozen canvas awnings, a bounce house, checkered tableclot
