I strode out toward the stage.
He’d teased me, but I actually was kind of miffed that my goddess mana didn’t do anything for him. Then I wondered if he’d been kidding me along to get rid of me, get me back out on stage where I belonged, get the show done. What would he do, alone on his own in there? My guys didn’t have any drugs in their dressing rooms, but he could get anything he wanted by stepping into the audience.
The audience! Only Baz could have taken my mind off them. I ran to a monitor stage left.
But I could tell how they felt even without the monitor. A sea of smiling faces turned toward the stage. The air was full of the scent of those roses—holy cow, they’d pumped out a lot of rose petals. There were piles, drifts, dunes of petals accumulating under the big urns, stirring in the breezes that blow backstage. I looked straight up at the lights in the fly loft.
That gave me an idea. “Londa,” I said to my dresser as she fussed over my costume in the wings, “can you send somebody back to cue Baz in eight minutes?” I crossed fingers on both hands and knocking on mental wood. “He’s in the dressing room. In fact, you might find him something else to wear. Those baggy shorts are horrible.”
“I’ll say.” She fiddled with my hair and looked into my eyes. “Everthing’s gonna be jes’ fine.”
I swallowed. “You know I can’t do this without you, Londa.”
She brushed tears off my eyelids with her thumbs. “Go be awesome.”
We did another twelve minutes of the regular playlist. The audience warmed right back up. I felt like I’d abused them so badly tonight, they had a right to walk out and leave me singing to empty seats. But soon the mana flowed, and the good feeling I get from a job well done returned, and I wondered how I could have been so discouraged, telling Baz all that down junk.
I felt for my edges the way he’d taught me. They reached all the way to the back of the house. That wasn’t far enough! I extended my edges a bit farther. At least as far as those poor ushers out in the lobby, who had to stand around waiting to get trampled.
The next number started and I focused on work again. I filled up like a weather balloon with high, happy energy. I shared it out to the audience—the ushers—people driving cars on the expressway nearby—joggers on the lake path outside the theater. I was still full.
Last night at the Cubby Bear, I’d forgotten all about my edges. Big mess.
I pulled it in a little. I felt like I’d eaten two birthday cakes and was digging into a third. Don’t let me hurl onstage.
We got closer and closer to the “Baby, Come Home” reprise. No Baz. The only reason I didn’t reach out into thin air and summon him to me was because I didn’t know if he’d arrive naked.
But right at two minutes, I became aware of a stir, stage left. As I danced with my troupe, I stole a look.
There he was in the wings, his arms folded, grinning.
I finished the dance—kick, bump, snarly face, hold it—for the crashing end of the number.
I walked downstage as the dancers melted away. “Ladies and gentlemen, for those of you who didn’t have a chance to see him last night, I’m thrilled to introduce a guest now to finish our show with a song from our new CD. Here he is! After long silence—Ashurbanipal of The Mesopotamians!” I pointed stage left.
Baz ambled out, waved at just the right moment, reached to shake my hand, picked up Jimmy’s bass, and assumed the position.
I signaled to the guys, one thumb down, then one finger up. Once through slow, then pick up the tempo.
The wind machines started up behind the band.
The song went great. Would they remember how depressed they were when this song started before? I cranked out my edges a notch, feeling the love and sending it back a million times louder.
We walked that song and then we jogged it, and then we kicked it up, and then we rocked it.
As we swung into a danceable tempo, Baz flung his head in that old Mesopotamian style and his dreads yanked free of their tie and flew wildly around his laughing skull face, spattering everyone in the band with droplets of water, because you can’t shower and expect dreads to dry in ten minutes.
I was so happy to see him happy, the mana in the room jumped higher. I wanted to give it all away. Everybody should feel this good.
The wind machines blew millions of rose petals past us into the audience.
I remembered my hot new idea about the rose petals.
What if the rose petals flew up? Out over the audience to land on people here and there—I blessed the petals as they blew by, throwing all the good wishes and love into them I could—and then they would fly up into the coves, into the air handlers, and out of the building.
“Baby, I’m home,” Baz sang to me, filling me up with peace and certainty.
The rose petals flew past. I coated every one with a bit of the music. I wanted everybody in Chicago to fall in love.
The audience got to their feet and stomped.
Even Aunt Maybellyne and Uncle Chester were snogging in the wings, stage right.
The rose petals swooped out over the audience, showered upward like little crimson angels, and got sucked away into ceiling vents and the vast fly loft above the stage.
We ran repeats until I was limp.
Finally Baz gave me a pointed look, and I realized I was about to fall over. I signaled for once more through the chorus and done.
All is forgiven, baby, come home!
His kiss was minty-fresh.