At last she was backstage at the Elgin Theater. All around her, coils of wire and rope snaked across the floor. Above her, high over the stage, she could see rows of heavy sandbags used as counterweights whenever scenery was “flown.” Behind her, by the electrician’s board, a heavy-set stagehand was tipped back in a chair, reading the morning paper. He didn’t even bother to give her a glance.
“All right,” came Claiborne’s voice. “Any time.”
Peggy forced herself to relax. She drew a deep breath and expelled every drop of air from her lungs. Then she took a second breath and pushed open the door.
It’s night, Peggy thought to herself. The room is probably dark except for the glow of the fire. She moved quietly, tentatively, and closed the door softly. She stood for a moment, as if she were listening for something, then walked quickly over to the big double window. Very gently, she pulled back a curtain. New York was supposed to be stretched out there in front of her, and Peggy tried to remember what it was like to see the lights of New York in real life. She conjured them up and sighed. The lights of New York....
“‘Why did you come in so quietly? You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’”
The line was totally unexpected. Of course, Peggy knew the words would be spoken, but they still came as a surprise. She turned in genuine astonishment. “‘Oh!’” she exclaimed. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’”
“‘I’ll go if you like.’”
Peggy moved down to the wing chair, trying to envision an old man sitting there. A kind old man with a strong, salty sense of humor, whom she didn’t know too well.
“‘Oh, no! Please don’t,’” Peggy read. There was real conviction in her voice. “‘There’s—there’s something I want to talk to you about.’”
Suddenly Peggy knew how the girl in the play would feel. She would be a little afraid of her grandfather, even though she recognized all his good qualities. The girl would be unsure of how to start the conversation.