by James Comins
Kyū
Act V
The sun is rising.
Color returns with the light. The stage is empty. No—no, it isn't. As you yawn and wake and look around, you find two other figures rising too, sleep departing from the three of you like butterflies from an empty flower. Sprawled, stretching, wearing your ragged costumes, you and the Understudy and Quinn sit back to back on the stage. The bell hangs precariously above. The Understudy smiles, and his head nods, and he can't seem to open his eyes. Quinn looks much worse, as if she got down from the control booth by sleepwalking, and maybe she did.
Your body feels like you just ran a marathon forward and returned the same way backward and then did jumping jacks. Yet beneath the exhaustion is a sense of renewal. A sense that you are older than you were yesterday. A sense that rich plush life flows through you once again.
Japanese warblers perch in small flocks on the arches above you, whistling and chirping. A faint bee-buzzing drifts through the grass as wildflowers open. There is no audience; no one is watching. You pull your legs up under you—no, they feel tingly, stretch them out. Quinn stares up at the raised bell, and at the sky. The Understudy finally opens his eyes.
"I had the strangest dream,"
he says.
"I dreamed that everyone was in trouble,
And that Punchinoni was going to get everyone.
And—"
Quinn interrupts:
"And eat their hearts out?"
she asks.
The Understudy nods thoughtfully.
They both had the same dream as you.
"Did Punch,"
you say,
"Go through everyone you know and say
That they had faults, failings, defects,
And so did you?"
The Understudy nods. Quinn says:
"Everybody has those things. Everybody.
Talk about stating the obvious. I mean,
Perfect people have gone extinct. Or they're just pretend.
I think it's enough to be pretty good and getting better."
There's something on your mind—
"Quinn? Where did you go at the beginning of the show?
I thought you'd been murdered.
Why did the real Punch show up at all?
And why was there blood on your mask?"
She smiles.
"I was tired of acting. I wanted to direct.
So I built Punch a stage and asked him to cover for me.
Wasn't his acting good?
I directed Pierrot and Columbia and El Daishou.
I put ketchup on the nose mask so you'd start an investigation.
But it was all supposed to end with the big 'Murder Mystery.'
That was my show. That was my script.
The real monsters were a total surprise.
So was Punch getting mad and trying to take over.
I guess sometimes I don't plan far enough ahead."
You still wish she'd told you.
Hang your legs off the end of the stage. The seats and risers look forlorn and empty. Show's over. Everyone is gone—all of Pierrot's watching people, the cardboard audience members. The ones who got transformed. Most of all, the Punches. Gone. Even the applause track and the coughs are gone. And you realize: No one was ever watching you. Just Quinn. Only your friends ever mattered.
No one else was even there.
The Understudy sneezes and stretches his arms.
"What do we do now?"
he asks.
"The play is over. I'm not sure I like acting, either.
I'd like to make movies, or maybe design architecture.
How about you? What will you do?"
Quinn picks up the mop handle, hanging like a damsel in distress off the edge of the stage, sniffs at it, and throws it over the edge.
"I'm going to direct the greatest show ever on Broadway.
Better than Noises Off, The Fantasticks, and . . .
I dunno, Cats, combined. I don't know what it will be yet.
But it's going to be the best ever."
She thumps the stage excitedly.
Both of them turn to you.
"And you?"
they ask together.
And you? What will you do, now that the show is over? What choices will you make? What adventures will you have?
"Me?"
you say.
"What am I going to do?"
What are you going to do?
"I'm going to live."
And the sun and the moon rise together, and the days wheel past with skies filled with blue and nights filled with stars, and you change, and you grow, and the world surrounds you with good and bad, and it's true. It was always true.
You're going to live.