“But they’re just good-luck wires, aren’t they?”
“Of course,” Peggy laughed, “but it’s another old superstition—like whistling in the dressing room!”
“Fifteen minutes!” Gus called, rapping a tattoo on the door.
“Where’s the music?” Chuck asked, coming by. “Get that turntable going, Gus—and better check the door buzzer again.” He came into the room. “Alison, don’t worry about the orange juice—if you’re shaky about drinking it tonight, let it go. Peggy, let’s see your make-up. Good! That’s much better! Now listen—I know it’s opening night and I know it means a lot—to all of us. And I know we’re all excited and nervous—but I know you’re going to be just fine!
“Remember—pace it! Keep it moving! It’s a terrific comedy and it ought to carry you along. It will, if you just keep it moving. I’ll be watching, but I don’t think you’ll see me until after the show unless there’s someone I can’t hear. Mary, watch that. I couldn’t hear you in the last row last night.” He paused a moment. “What else? Guess that’s it. Break a leg, everyone!”
As Chuck left, the girls heard the music begin, and Gus came by, calling, “Five minutes!”
There was a sudden silence in the dressing room as everyone felt the mounting tension. It was a different excitement, though, from their morning nerves. Peggy began to yawn while Rita took very deep breaths and Alison did a bending exercise. All these things helped their systems adjust to the impending effort.
Peggy felt that she had to move. Movement always helped and it was time, anyway. She walked backstage and took her place in the wings.
“Peggy,” a voice whispered behind her, “have a lot of fun.”
“Thanks, Michael,” Peggy replied shakily. “Do you know what kind of a house we have?”