by Anthony Rapp
“I can’t walk that far,” she said.
“Well, we’ll go just a couple blocks away to a diner,” I said, eager to keep things light and easy and fun.
At the diner, Chris pulled out a copy of The Advocate. I glanced over to see Mom’s reaction, but she remained pokerfaced. It had been so long since she and I had talked about my sexuality, and I wasn’t sure what her current feelings on the subject were. I felt my cheeks redden.
“This was a very nice article,” Chris said. “A great picture.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Yes,” Mom said, “it’s a wonderful picture.”
Bonnie chuckled. “Just don’t let your Grandma see it.” Everyone, including me, laughed, although I was eager to change the subject.
“Tonight,” I said, “there are supposed to be a lot of stars coming.”
Phyllis perked up. “Oh, really? Like who?”
“Well, the list they gave us had Michelle Pfeiffer on it, and Isabella Rossellini, and George Clooney, and Kevin Bacon, and some other people. We don’t know if they’ll all show up, though.”
“Well,” Phyllis said, “that’s exciting.”
“Maybe I’ll just have to go up to George Clooney and ask him out on a date,” Roberta said, and everybody laughed. I was glad we’d gotten onto another topic, but I was still afraid that Mom was tense over The Advocate. I let it go as best I could, and tried to give myself over to the generally lighthearted, easy mood. Mom was sitting among people she adored and enjoyed, and I loved watching her take us all in as we laughed at Roberta’s joke. I was happy that she was still well enough to be there with us.
I left everybody at the diner so I could make my last-minute arrangements for the performance that night, which consisted mostly of writing cards to everyone in the cast, band, and creative staff. It was my ritual, and I made every effort to say everything I’d been storing up to tell my friends: about how much I loved them, and how much I loved their work in the show. By the time I was done it was already time to meet everybody again for dinner. We assembled at the theatre, where barricades were being set up to keep the paparazzi away from the stars, and I showed everyone the backstage area. Our attitudes were exceedingly midwestern; no one was overtly excited, including myself, but the sense of anticipation was palpable. Phyllis expressed the most excitement in her quiet way, her eyes glinting as she giggled and snapped lots of pictures.
Jonathan’s friend Eddie was putting together a video documentary about Rent, and I asked him if he wanted to shoot us at dinner and if he would interview Mom for my purposes. He agreed, and I asked Mom if she would mind participating.
“Oh, no,” she said. “That’s fine with me.”
As we all sat through our pasta dinners at the Italian restaurant down the street from the theatre, we chatted amiably enough, but didn’t talk about the significance of Mom being there. I wanted to tell her and make her feel how absolutely excited and thrilled I was, but since our family had never been inclined to express ourselves so openly, I didn’t bring it up.
As a result of the weight of all that was unsaid between us, I was relieved when it was time for me to head back over to the theatre.
Mom was to return to the hotel now, change into her evening clothes, and then meet Eddie back at the theatre so he could interview her. I double- and triple-checked that she and Eddie were both still willing to do it, so desperately did I want a record of her on that night. I knew that it was probably going to be the last opening night of mine that she would ever witness.
She arrived at the theatre right on time for her interview, decked out in the same outfit (but not the same Elizabeth Taylor hairdo) she’d worn to Anne’s wedding. I could tell right away that she had shrunk more than I’d realized; her clothes looked baggier on her now. She sat in the house with Eddie, and the cast gathered onstage with Michael. I tried not to cast my eye toward Mom, to see if I could tell what she was saying to Eddie, as all of us onstage joined hands in a circle.
“I just want to say how enormously proud I am of all of you,” Michael said, radiant in his elegant dark suit, “and how proud of you and of his show I think Jonathan would be, and is, wherever he is.” I nodded to myself, closing my eyes, freezing this moment, trying to feel Jonathan’s presence, thinking that I could feel it, hoping that he knew what was happening.
By the time we were done with our onstage circle, Mom was done with her interview, and I brought Michael down off the stage to meet her. She looked tiny in her seat, her cane slung over the back of the chair in front of her. She didn’t get up as she shook Michael’s hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Michael said. He and the rest of the cast and crew knew that Mom was ill, and he’d asked me to introduce him to her.
“Oh, nice to meet you, too,” Mom said, her voice mild as ever.
“We’re very glad you could be here,” Michael said.
“Oh, I’m very glad, too. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She smiled, glancing up at me, and it was the first time all day that I’d really felt her pride and excitement.
“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” Michael said.
“Oh, I’m sure I will. I’ve read such wonderful things about the show. And I always love watching Anthony onstage.” Embarrassed and happy to be hearing this from Mom, I put my head down slightly and grabbed her hands in mine.
“It was great to meet you,” Michael said.
“You too,” Mom replied, and Michael shook her hand again and left.
I looked up at her, wanting to tell her how excited and sad and proud I was, but all I said was, “Well, I’ve got to get going backstage.”
“Okay, Tonio,” Mom said. “Break a leg.”
“I will, Momma,” I said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And I gave her a hug and a kiss and left her sitting there in the audience.
Pandemonium ruled backstage as everyone ran around to everyone else’s dressing rooms with gifts and cards and flowers. We were already a hit, so all there was to do now was enjoy ourselves, and go out there and give a kick-ass performance.
Michael pulled me aside while I was getting ready and said, “I think tonight we have to start things off with a dedication to Jonathan.” I nodded, glad that he’d brought it up. I’d been thinking the same thing.
When we all stepped out onstage, the entire audience leaped to their feet, cheering us for a long, long time. I drank it in, trying to calm the shaking in my knees. I scanned the crowd, finding Cy, who blew exuberant kisses to us (she’d already seen the show several times, becoming one of our first “Rentheads”); the Larsons, who clapped with their hands raised high, seeming so happy and sad; and my mom, up in the front mezzanine, looking small and lovely in her turquoise suit, slightly dwarfed by my brother Adam’s hulking frame in the seat next to her. The vivacious, joyful, explosive cheering went on and on, and then finally, everyone took their seats.
I centered myself with a breath and said, “We dedicate this performance, and every performance of Rent, to our friend Jonathan Larson,” and the audience immediately leaped to their feet once again, clapping long and hard, cheering, sending their love and respect up and out to us and him.
And then they sat once again, and we began.
I had never felt more focused and alive onstage, knowing that this would probably be the only time Mom would ever see this show that I loved so much. I sang to her as much as I could, wondering how she was feeling through it, wondering if the emotional intensity of some of the songs was too much for her to take. Some of them were almost too much for me to take—in Act Two, when we sang, “How do you measure a last year on earth?” and I looked right at her up in her seat, her glasses reflecting light back at me, I had to struggle through the knot in my throat. By that time, the show had zoomed by so quickly that I was wishing it would just continue on and on. I imprinted the night on my brain, telling myself, Remember this. Remember this.
In the reprise of
“I’ll Cover You” and then “Halloween” and “Goodbye Love,” I battled with myself to keep it together, alternately stuffing down and channeling the swarm of grief and joy that had tangled itself up in my gut. Lines like “Mimi’s gotten thin / Mimi’s running out of time” kept doubling back on me, and it took everything I had to stay in the play.
I made it through all of it, though, as I had so many nights before, and, all too quickly, there I was at the end of the show, assembled onstage with my dear friends—my new family—holding on to them, singing “No day but today” with them, our hearts and voices unified, showering our friends and family with love and joy and grief. And as the lights faded on us on our final note, the audience exploded in a tidal wave of roaring, whistling, cheering applause.
During the curtain call, I finally started to let go, and tears streamed down my face, my chest heaving, as we bowed, and bowed again, and bowed again. I looked up and saw Mom joining the standing ovation and my heart burst open, and more tears sprang to my eyes. When we were finally done bowing I stepped back, sent my customary four strong claps up to Jonathan, blew kisses up to Mom, and walked off.
We all spent many, many minutes hugging each other tightly backstage, all of us spent and jubilant and alive, saying to each other, “I love you” over and over again. As I walked upstairs to my dressing room, a fresh blast of emotion hit me, and I braced myself on the banister, putting my head down, trying not to sob out loud as my cast mates passed by. Gilles stopped next to me, gently resting his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said through my tears. “It’s just…I don’t know, I’m so happy. My mom was here tonight. I’m so happy she was here.” My chin trembled as I spoke.
“Yeah,” Gilles said. “I understand.”
“Thanks,” I said, and pulled myself together and went into my dressing room.
After I had glammed myself up for the party, I went back downstairs into the house so I could say good night to Mom; she’d already decided that she would skip the party and get some rest. When I found her she gave me a hug and said, “It was wonderful.” Her face glowed.
“Did you really like it?”
“Oh, I loved it.” She nodded emphatically, her eyes wide and bright. “It was very, very moving.”
“I’m glad,” I said. “I thought you would like it.”
She grabbed my hands. “Tonio, you were great. I’m so proud of you.”
I squeezed her hands, stuffing down my tears that were threatening to come at any moment. “Thank you.”
“Now go have fun at your party.”
“I will, Momma. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And I walked away from her again, feeling for a few moments like I was almost weightless, trying once again to imprint everything about this night onto my mind, my heart fuller than it had ever been. It was already the greatest night of my life.
Falling
and Spinning
The next time I saw Mom was two months later, on July 1st. I only had one day off a week, but now that I could afford it with my Broadway salary, I planned to visit her as often as I could; I didn’t know how much longer she would be around, so I wanted to make the most of the time she and I had left. I booked myself on an early-morning flight on Monday, with my return scheduled for Tuesday morning, getting me back into New York just in time for that evening’s performance.
In the preceding two months, the show had continued its meteoric rise. We were nominated for ten Tony Awards and won four, including two for Jonathan. We won three OBIE Awards, including one for Michael Greif’s direction and one that the entire cast shared for Outstanding Ensemble. Jonathan and the show won Best Musical from the New York Drama Critics Circle, the Outer Critics Circle, the Drama League, and the Drama Desk. We consistently sold out every seat and every standing room ticket at every performance. We sang “Seasons of Love” on The Rosie O’Donnell Show, The Late Show with David Letterman, and the Today show. Jonathan and our show were the subjects of segments on Primetime Live, CBS News Sunday Morning, and 48 Hours. And in May we went into the Right Track Studios to record the cast album for DreamWorks Records, which had won the rights to our show after what was reportedly an intense bidding war among several labels. During the first month of our Broadway run, we didn’t have one full day or night off, and yet no one in the cast had missed any performances.
And, as if that wasn’t enough to keep my head from spinning off its axis, I had fallen in love. His name was Todd. When I met him, the day after opening night, he was just finishing up his senior year in NYU’s Dramatic Writing Program where he was taking a playwrighting class with John Guare, the writer of Six Degrees of Separation. John had discussed Rent with his class (he was a big fan, having written about us in Vogue) and had encouraged Todd to get in touch with me, thinking we’d hit it off. I don’t know if John was trying to set us up romantically, but midway through my first conversation with Todd, which began on AOL, moved to the phone, and lasted for hours, I was already smitten. His fierce intellect, his barbed sense of humor, his self-deprecating sweetness all came through loud and clear on the computer, and even more so on the phone. I just hoped he was cute. The next night I was going to find out; we’d arranged a date for after the show. Coincidentally, we lived a block and a half from each other in the East Village, so our rendezvous point was on the corner of Second Avenue and Tenth Street. He obviously knew what I looked like, but the only thing I had to go on for him was his description of himself in his Instant Message: “Some people say I look like Robert Downey Jr with short hair, others say a little George Clooney, but skinnier. I hate the latter. And the former is a bit too uppity for my tastes. He looks like a fop, too.” Neither man particularly interested me, but I was charmed and intrigued enough to see how accurately he’d described himself.
Even before he came up to me and shook my hand, I knew it was him walking toward me as I leaned against the brick wall of the Second Avenue Deli. I was relieved to see that he was adorable, with big brown puppy dog eyes, a boyish face, short dark hair, and just the right amount of scruff on his cheeks. My crush was cemented.
We enjoyed a fast and furious courtship, even though I tried to make myself slow it down; with all that was going on in my life, with all of the pressures of the show and Mom’s illness, I didn’t think it was the best time to get involved. But we shared an unusually intense passion for music and film and theatre and books, and he was a night owl like I am, so our schedules were copacetic. And he loved lying in bed with me after I got back downtown after a performance, as we listened to the latest Superchunk CD or watched Fearless on laserdisc or as I read the most recent draft of his latest play or screenplay. And he made me laugh often, even when his humor was sliced through with meanness (his cynicism was a nice contrast to my generally genial outlook). And I soon found myself spending almost all of my time away from the theatre with him, hardly ever going home to my own apartment except to shower and change clothes. And I didn’t care that Todd smoked, because he was conscientious about not smoking around me, and he did his best not to smell or taste like smoke when we got together. And even though the first time he took me home to his apartment, he wouldn’t let me open the door to his bedroom (because, as I found out later, the floor was buried underneath an incomprehensibly chaotic pile of detritus—magazines and Starbucks cups and ashtrays and screenplays); even though I was wary of his intensity which bordered on mania (his thoughts seemed to charge forward ahead of him, like lightning, carrying his mouth along with them, but always full of keen observations and sharp witticisms); even though I wished that at times he wasn’t so cagey about his family life or his romantic or sexual history (he alluded to making a habit of seducing straight boys in high school, but refused to go into detail as to how he went about doing so); even though there were times I felt pressured by him to come over when I was exhausted from the show and might have preferred a night off to myself; even though all of
this was, on some level, perhaps a little too much too soon for me to take, the truth was: I loved sharing my success with someone who wasn’t intimidated by it (he’d sweetly brought me consolation flowers when I didn’t get nominated for a Tony), someone who appreciated the show and the impact it was having, someone who enjoyed my company for my sake and not because I was becoming a mini celebrity, someone who was genuinely attracted to me, whose body fit with mine, who enjoyed sex as much as I did, and, perhaps most important, someone who enjoyed long, meandering conversations in bed after sex as much as I did. And so I couldn’t stop myself from saying to Todd one night as I lay next to him, “I think I’m falling.” And even though he didn’t say the same thing back to me, when he shyly gazed into my eyes and put my hand on his heart, I knew that he was falling, too.
So by July 1st, when I went home to see Mom, I wanted to tell her about him, but I didn’t know how to bring up the subject; I didn’t know how she’d feel about my having a new boyfriend. And as I was traveling home and thinking about what I wanted to tell her, dreading a probably uncomfortable, and possibly ugly, confrontation, I thought through all of our past conversations about my relationships with boys. I was reminded of the first time my queerness had come up between us: it had been in the fall of 1986, when I was fourteen, in the full, wild throes of puberty, and I was hanging out with an older kid from my high school named Ricky.
“Let’s play Spin the Bottle,” Ricky said.
Ricky was the ringleader of our group’s little gatherings. He was dark-haired and olive-skinned, Italian (judging by his last name, D’Angelo), and older-looking than his eighteen years. Maybe it was his eyes: they were dark brown, and they seemed to hold some kind of secret. Whatever secret it was lit them up, giving him a sort of illicit authority when he talked, making me think of conspiracies or back rooms or money-laundering schemes, stuff that people got involved in when they were well out of high school. There was an energy about him that wasn’t just gossipy or teenager-goofy; it was naughty. He was slim and quick and effeminate, which he made no effort to hide. In fact, he had, at one point the previous school year, dyed his hair a shocking pink, an unheard-of act for a guy to do in 1985, especially in Joliet.