I remembered.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER

“Oh, what will we do? There’s no money. We will lose our farm!”

I lunge out from the side fully formed as Desmond De’Orsay Decalcomania. The audience is vaguely there as I slink around the stage delivering my lines and gesturing broadly. I’m throwing my own heat.

At one point, I grab Anne’s wrist. She pulls to free herself but I have a firm grip.

“Now, Penelope, let me tell you of my proposition.” Her perfume reaches my nose and it smells great.

She covers her forehead with the back of her other hand. “I’ll do anything. Anything that will save Ma and Pa’s farm!” She turns her head away.

I grab her elbow with my free hand. I start at her wrist and kiss her skin. She starts and looks at me quickly, then turns away. I move my hand from her elbow to her upper arm which moves her sleeve up further. I kiss the next bare spot above her wrist. Her skin is moist and soft.

“If you consent to marry me…” I kiss further up her arm onto the sleeve. “…I will let your dear parents…” I’m past her elbow and get a heady dose of her perfume and body scent, “…keep the farm!”

“Oh, no, no! I will never marry you! My heart belongs to Derek!” She pulls out of my grip and moves toward her parents.

“Curses!” I say.

I hear Derek enter from behind me. He grabs my shoulder and spins me around.

“Unhand her, you cur!”

I wrench my shoulder from his hand. I’m actually angry at Peter for interfering even though we’re all pretending.

“How dare you interfere with this, a most solemn moment. I’m about to propose marriage to this lovely creature and I will not let anything stand in the way. She will make a most comely bride, won’t you, my dear?” I look over at Penelope. “But, first, there is a little matter of your beloved.”

I pull out the cap gun from my inside jacket pocket and with an outstretched arm, point it at Derek. As I look over at Penelope, I say, “Say good-bye, my pretty!” Derek takes this moment to grab for the gun but I pull it away. He grabs my wrist with his other hand and twists my arm. I drop the gun. We both make a leap for it but Derek gets to it first.

“Now, Mr. Desmond De’Orsay Delcomania, prepare to meet your Maker!”

He fires the gun.

I stumble backwards clutching my chest. I fall to the stage, hitting my head and losing my top hat. I slide to Penelope’s feet and die.

The play wraps up. Ma and Pa’s Farm is safely in their hands, Derek and Penelope are together, and Desmond lies in a black heap on the stage floor.

I still have my eyes closed when I smell and feel a warm perfumed presence.

“Hey, Dezzy, it’s curtain call.”

I open my eyes and turn to look. Anne’s mouth is inches from mine.  She kisses me quickly.

“Okay,” I say in a panic and get up quickly.

With curtain call over, we have notes from Miss O’Donnell. Notes means she will tell us what we did right and wrong. With that over with, I head to the edge of the stage. I look out at the crowd, searching for Mom, Dad, and Gramma. Gramma is dressed up in grey. Her hair is a light grey and her dress is medium grey with a dark grey coat over it. She looks like a lesson out of Mr. Ernst’s art class.

I see them coming down one of the center aisles. I jump off the stage apron and walk cautiously toward them.

“What did you think?” I ask as they meet me part way up the aisle.

“Land sakes, I didn’t know who was up there,” Gramma says. “What happened to your hair?”

“They dyed it for my part,” I say, scratching my head.

“It isn’t permanent, is it?”

“No, Gramma, it’s not. It’ll wash out.”

“Well, I hope to god it does,” Mom breaks in. “It makes you look like your awful Uncle Jake. We’ll wash it out when we get home.”

I stare at her. “No, it doesn’t”

Is that all she can say?

I look at Dad. He says nothing.

Thanks for defending me and Uncle Jake, Daddy-o.

“Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. Joyce.” Miss O’Donnell comes over. “Didn’t he do a marvelous job? You wouldn’t even know it was Francis up there.” She puts her hand lightly on my shoulder. “A real method actor.”

Gramma looks blankly at Miss O’Donnell. So does Mom. Dad looks at his shoes.

Miss O’Donnell pats my shoulder. “See you tomorrow night.” She smiles at me, “Don’t forget to take that make-up off and get your glasses.” She turns back to others. ”Good night, all.”

“Well, let’s go home and wash that hair,” commands Mom. We begin follow her out of the auditorium.

“Wait,” I say. “My stuff. Be right back.” I dash through the auditorium door and down the stairs. I weave between people as I go. I go up the stage stairs and slip behind the curtain. I pull the mustache off and slather cold cream all over my face. I use a dozen or so Kleenix to wipe off the cream and make-up. I find my clothes just as I left them. I pluck my glasses out of the shirt pocket and put them on. Then I tuck everything under my arm and find my way through the crowd back to my parents and Gramma.

“That was quick,” comments Dad.

I smile weakly.

Mom turns and heads out the door. We all follow her through the cool October night to the car. I sit in back with Gramma. No one talks on the way.

Eventually we pull up to Gramma’s house. Mom gets out and opens the back car door. Gramma turns to get out then turns back to me. “I did not even know you up there.” She turns to Mom and, with Mom’s help, gets out. They both traipse over to the porch steps. Gramma clutches the railing and walks stiffly up the stairs guided by Mom. From my vantage point, they look like two versions of the same person. I hear their voices and Gramma gingerly steps over the threshold and slowly closes the heavy oak door with a light click. Mom waves and briskly but stiffly climbs down the stairs. She enters the car as Dad takes a last puff of his cigarette and flicks it out the car window. Blowing smoke out the window, he says, “Off we go.”

Another silent ride home.

We pull into the driveway next to the house. I can see the den window and notice the flickering light of the tv. We pile out of the car.

“Why don’t you stay in the car and I’ll send Marilyn out,” says Mom to Dad.

“You have money?”

“Yes.”

He nods and gets back into the driver’s side again.

Mom and I go into the house. Marilyn is sitting on the couch with her long legs tucked under her short skirt. She turns from the tv. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Joyce.”

“How were the kids?”

“Fine. Hi, Francis. They weren’t any trouble. They got to bed on time.”

“Good.” Mom fishes in her pocketbook for her wallet.

I find myself looking, no, staring at Marilyn. Her long curly brown hair falls over her face as she gets up from the couch. She has hair like Anne.

“How was the play? Did you have fun?” she asks as she crosses in front of me. She opens the closet door and lifts her coat off the hanger. When she does, I notice the curve of her breast under her sheer blouse.

“It was good. It was fun,” I whisper.

“That black hair is quite something,” she smiles.

“It’s not permanent.”

“Here you go, dear. Thank you.” Mom hands Marilyn a small wad of cash, interrupting us.

“Thank you. Anytime.” She places the money in her front shirt pocket as I watch. She looks fleetingly at me and purses her lips.

“Mr. Joyce is waiting outside to take you home,” Mom says.

“Okay, great, well, good-bye.” She lightly steps through the front door and down the steps.

“That girl should learn to dress more properly,” mumbles Mom.

Turning her attention to me, Mom says, “Where you supposed to come home with your costume still on?”

“Ah, no, I guess not.” I look down at my shirt and suit.

“Well, why don’t you go upstairs and get into your pajamas and we’ll wash that hair.”

I nod. I walk through the house to the stairs. As I walk up, I turn on the light and am careful to tread quietly. At the top of the stairs, I turn right into my and Harry’s bedroom. He’s sound asleep. His curly hair is sticking up all over his head. He snores. Not like my grandfather, but little kid snores. If kittens snored he would sound like that. I throw my own clothes in a pile on the floor. I carefully undress and place my costume on spare hangers. I fold the pants carefully and drape them onto the hanger. I place the dress shirt, button the top button, and then the jacket over the same hanger.  Quickly, I get into my pajamas.

I cross the hall to the bathroom. Mom is already there. She has attached the shower hose to the tub faucet. The water is running, throwing steam and spray.

“Come on,” she says impatiently, “I don’t know why I let you do that play. If I knew it involved this dyeing business, I would have said no. You have beautiful blond hair. It’s a sin to cover it up. Besides, it makes you look too much like your Uncle Jake.”

Maybe you let me because I liked being in plays and I beat out eight other guys in the entire nineth grade. Did you ever think of that?

I kneel and bend over the tub near the faucet. Mom douses my hair with the water. She reaches for the shampoo on the toilet tank lid and a small puddle of shampoo burbles out into her hand. She smears  the shampoo on the crown of my head. She works the shampoo in and rinses my hair, I see a dark gray and blue waterfall cascade off my head.

“I hope this does not stain the tub.” Mom says irritably.

She repeats the routine and creates a lighter gray waterfall.

Why am I submitting to this? I could wash my own hair. My knees hurt and I shuffle around to find a comfortable spot.

“Stay still. You’re like a little kid. I can’t believe this will take a third treatment.”

The last waterfall is almost clear. Mom turns the water off and straightens up. She walks more stiffly than earlier to retrieve a towel. She begins to massage my head roughly; impatient to dry my hair.

“Let me…” I start.

“I have the towel now. I’ll do it.”

“Sure, because we both know I’m just a little kid and can’t do anything as complicated as washing my hair!”

“Oh, get up,” she grumbles, “and don’t talk to me that way.”

I get up off my slightly sore knees and sit on the toilet lid.

She straightens up with a groan and continues drying my hair.

“Well, I’ll be so glad when this play is over.”

So will I.