"What country, friends, is this?"
Two figures stand on the stage in the empty theatre, one in the spotlight, one on the fringe of it.
Richard shouts, "One more for the cheap seats!"
Mama flings her arms up and her line comes forth in all its blazing glory. "What country, friends, is this?"
She reaches for his hand, but before they can take their traditional bow a man says from the wings, "This is Illyria, lady."
Will steps out onstage, sauntering and grinning and not the least bit in character. Richard frowns at the interruption, then turns back to face front and joins his mother in a sweeping bow. Mama hugs him, swings him around in her arms.
"Oof. You're getting big, kiddo."
"Going off to school soon?" says the man. Richard can tell he's trying to make a point, one that he doesn't like. He keeps hold of his mother's hand as she turns to talk to Will.
"Oh, I don't know," she replies airily. "Once this show's done...I don't have anything else lined up. Don't know where we'll be."
"Still, he's getting kinda old for kindergarten. Gonna have to go sooner or later."
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Richard speaks up clearly. He hopes Will won't be on the other side of that bridge, and he knows for sure that Mama feels the same way. She can't say anything to Will - Will knows people, and she might get kicked out of the play, and the play is what pays the bills, kiddo.
Will looks Richard in the eye and opens his mouth to speak. Mama gets in first.
"Thank you so much for thinking of us," she says. "We thespians gotta stick together, right?"
She winks at Will, who grins back. He must still think Mama likes him, even after that time she came home wobbly and giggly and she and Will wrestled on the couch and Mama almost lost. Richard was hiding behind a door, listening, and he heard Mama yell, "I said - !" and a couple of slaps and Will yelling, "owwww!" Then the front door slammed and he heard Mama shoot the bolt.
When he peeked around the door he saw her slumped on the couch, looking rumpled and tired and just staring off into space. Once her eyes closed and he knew she was asleep, Richard went on tiptoes to drag the afghan off the armchair and drape it over her. Then he switched off the light and turned to go back to bed.
But he couldn't just leave her there. She'd wake up and it'd be dark and not her bed and Richard hated when that happened to him. He pattered back over to the couch and crawled under the afghan, snuggled against her side.
This and other things made him very, very sure that Will was, as Mama said, Out Of The Running.
"Sure," says Will. "Speaking of sticking together, you wanna go for a drink? After we drop off Junior here, that is."
Junior? the boy thinks. You have to have a dad to be a Junior, and he doesn't. He's about to ask what Will means when his mother squeezes his hand and says in a less friendly voice, "Oh, no, thanks, Will. We have a prior engagement. Some other time, perhaps."
Will glances his way and Richard gives him his best blank poker face, even though he has no idea what engagement Mama is talking about. He may be only six years old, but he knows a cue when he hears one.
She gives a brisk nod and exits, stage left, her faithful sidekick hand in hand.