Broadway Revival by Laura Frankos

Author:Laura Frankos [Frankos, Laura]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Swallow's End Publishing
Published: 2021-11-28T00:00:00+00:00

March 17, 2080

As Nate expected, the facial-recognition program didn’t find David in the Cradle audience. The Yale Drama Department and University Library, however, were thrilled with the footage of the historic opening. It also helped bring Rose out of a bad case of the blues. Nothing was going right. Her pants didn’t fit—she’d been eating too much deli food. Some asshole stole her backpack. She missed her family. She’d signed up for an extracurricular project, a concert-style musical for a children’s charity. It sounded great, but it ate into her regular classes and she loathed the material: the moronic Brick Wall Brandy, adapted from the equally idiotic (but popular) movie. She played endless Sondheim, Estévez and Pappadakis, and Johnson to wash the dreck out of her head. She had a fight with Zanzi (“Why aren’t you happy? You’re playing Brandy!” “I’d rather play a chorus member in something decent than the lead in garbage!”).

So the Cradle recording made a good diversion. Rose had never seen the show in person, but she’d seen filmed versions of stage productions, including Patti LuPone in 1986, Santiago Alvarez and Jessica Mayehoff in 2037, and a very young David Greenbaum in a bootleg of a regional mounting. She also recalled a terrific evening with her uncle watching Tim Robbins’ film based on Cradle’s improbable history. David kept pointing out where Robbins fudged for dramatic effect.

After Nate had got a few good nights’ sleep to recover from his trip to the 1930s, the whole family enjoyed the recording. “Listen to that,” Nate said after the first astonishing number. “That’s the flashbulbs popping.”

“What are flashbulbs?” Bertie asked. “Exploding tulips?”

Her mom and siblings judged the show weird, but interesting, but for Rose it was thrilling, miles away from Brick Wall Brandy.

She was watching it for the third time when Bertie came home from Little League practice. He tossed his gear in the closet and stopped, staring. “The Cradle thingy—again? You’re obsessed, ace.”

But Rose had noticed something odd, right near the end. She paused the recording. “Come here, Bertie. Listen to the part when the chorus joins in. Most of them are on that side of the house. See? Dad got a good shot of them and the m.d.”

“You need an M.D., ace.”

“Shut up. And stop calling me ‘ace.’ Listen to the singers as Dad pans to his right … “ Rose hit the remote and the scene played again.

“What? You’re rancid, ace.” Bertie clattered into the kitchen for a sandwich as Rose played the segment over and over, now with headphones. Bertie made faces at her while he munched a pickle. She ignored him; she had practice. After running the clip a fifth time, she took off the headphones and walked over to the stairs.

“Dad?” she yelled.

“Rosie, I’m trying to work.”

“Come down, please. It’s important. Two minutes—literally.”

Bertie bounced on the arm of the couch. “Ooh, literally. I’m gonna time you, ace. Literally. Mwah-hah-hah.”

Nate bit off his grumbles when saw the unsettled look in his eldest child’s eyes. “This is … weird,” she said.

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