The Curtain Between Us
Chapter 01 - The Curtain Between Us
My daughter pulled the velvet curtain across my path and said, “Backstage workers do not take bows.”
She said it thirty seconds before the cast of The Glass Harbor returned for their final curtain call.
I still had sawdust on one sleeve.
The stage behind her was the stage I had rebuilt.
The rolling staircase was mine.
The false balcony was mine.
The harbor railings were mine.
Even the painted moon hanging above the actors had been cut from plywood in my garage because the theater’s jigsaw died two weeks before opening.
Nora stood with one hand gripping the curtain rope.
She wore a black director’s suit and the headset I had repaired with electrical tape.
Beside her, the lead actress, Lena, stared at the floor as applause shook the old community theater.
“Move,” I said.
Nora tightened her hand on the rope.
“The investors are in the front row.”
“So?”
“They need to see a professional company.”
“I built a professional set.”
“You volunteered.”
The word landed harder than the curtain.
For eighteen years, I had built sets for that theater.
I built the kitchen where Nora acted in her first play at sixteen.
I built the courthouse where she directed her first production at twenty-eight.
When the board hired her as artistic director, I worked nights for four months so the reopening season would not fail.
I had never sent an invoice.
She had never asked me to stop.
“You put my name in the program,” I said.
“I changed it.”
“To what?”
“Scenic support.”
The applause grew louder.
The actors were waiting in formation beyond the curtain.
Lena looked at Nora.
“This is his set.”
Nora did not turn.
“This is my production.”
There it was.
Not an accident.
Not a scheduling mistake.
A decision.
My daughter had chosen a version of success that became less credible if her father stood beside it in work boots.
I looked at the curtain she held between us.
The burgundy fabric had been stored in a damp basement for six years.
I had cleaned the track, replaced the frayed carriers, and spent two Sundays teaching the stage crew how not to tear it.
Now it worked perfectly.
Against me.
“You told me I would take the bow with the design team,” I said.
“I changed the sequence.”
“Without telling me.”
“I knew you would take it personally.”
“You made it personal.”
Lena shifted closer.
“We have to go.”
Nora glanced toward the stage.
The actors needed her cue.
She looked back at me.
“Please stay behind the curtain until the audience leaves.”
“Why?”
“Because donors keep asking whether this is still a family hobby.”
I understood her fear.
The theater had nearly closed two years earlier.
The city grant was gone.
The new investors wanted ticket growth, touring potential, and a company that looked larger than three tired staff members and one retired carpenter.
Nora needed credibility.
She had decided mine was too expensive to display.
“Did they ask you to hide me?” I said.
“No.”
“Then this was your idea.”
Her face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
The stage manager called her name from the other side.
Nora raised her headset microphone.
“Stand by for curtain.”
I put my hand on the edge of the velvet.
She looked at it.
“Dad.”
I waited for daughter in her voice.
I heard director.
“Let go.”
I released the curtain.
Relief crossed her face.
Then I removed the theater key ring from my belt.
It held keys to the scene shop, loading door, paint cage, and basement storage.
I placed it on the floor between us.
Nora stared at it.
“What are you doing?”
“Making the program accurate.”
“You cannot leave before strike.”
Strike was Sunday.
The entire set had to come down safely before the next rental entered.
Nora had assumed I would lead it.
She had assumed correctly until that moment.
“You said I was scenic support,” I replied.
“Support does not hold the building together.”
The audience began stamping their feet.
Lena reached for the curtain.
Nora kept hold of the rope.
“Dad, we will discuss this tomorrow.”
“No.”
“You are emotional.”
“I am finally being specific.”
I stepped away from the stage entrance.
Nora looked from me to the keys.
“Are you refusing to strike your own set?”
I looked at the painted harbor beyond the curtain.
Then I looked at the daughter who had used my labor to prove she did not need family help.
“I am refusing to disappear and keep working.”
Lena whispered, “Nora, they are waiting.”
Nora reached toward the keys.
Before she picked them up, I said, “If you take those, you take the responsibility with them.”
May you like
The curtain-call music began.
Nora’s hand stopped inches above the floor.
