All Right

Count, the memory echoed in his head, and if you miss a stroke we'll start over.

"Maestro? Are you alright?"

The concern in her tone startled him out of the memories. It was like a foreign language; he struggled to process her meaning. There was no one else, so she must be speaking to him, but that made no sense. It mattered to no one whether he was "alright."

"Maestro?"

Footsteps on the stage warned him that she was coming closer.

"There is no cause for concern," he whispered and turned toward her, lifting a hand to ward off her approach. She ought not be near it…him.

"I'm sorry if I upset you. I only meant…" Christine stopped just beyond arm's reach.

"All is well. You should go. Practice." But he looked at her more closely than he had done before; at her face, her eyes. What he saw there sent cracks running along his rigid shell. Kindness pierced him. "Come back tomorrow. Bring your materials. Go home, Christine, you're tired."

Christine stood for a moment, wavering on the edge of decision. He sounded fine, as though nothing had happened at all. His rigid posture and hunched shoulders told a different story. It was one more piece to the intriguing puzzle that was the theater and its strange inhabitant. But he was right. She was tired; today had jerked her this way and that. All she wanted right now was to go visit Meg and eat some spaghetti. To do something simple that made sense.

"If you say so." She descended the steps, took a long last look around the auditorium. Tomorrow she would start a panoramic sketch, she decided. Then, gradually, she would focus on smaller and smaller sections – a slow motion close-up.

The maestro followed her up the aisle and to the front door. He opened it for her, standing slightly behind it, out of view of the street.

Christine faced him and smiled. "Thank you. For letting me in here. For the lessons. I don't know what happened, but take care of yourself, ok? I'll be back tomorrow. G'night!" And she was gone.

The Phantom closed the door and sank down with his back to it. The blessed quiet had returned; his sanctuary was a sanctuary once again. He returned to his small, dim quarters and removed the trappings of humanity: hat, mask, gloves. She was mistaken in her concern, of course. It was the "man" character she worried for, not him. She'd never have asked the monster if it were "alright." She'd never look at it kindly with those soft brown eyes. She would never have called the thing "maestro."

But that fracturing, piercing feeling had also been…warm. For just a moment, there was warmth. He would give her music and all the time she wished to create her art. There were materials for creating backdrops; he could give her canvas to work on. He would give her her voice. Would it be so wrong, he wondered, to let her think him human until the charade could no longer stand? To be warm, if only for a season…

.

.

.

Christine arrived at Meg's house with bags full of ingredients and a brain full of unanswerable questions. Meg greeted her cheerfully, and helped carry everything to the kitchen. As they chopped onions and waited for the sauce to simmer, Christine mulled the enigma that was her teacher.

"You're such a chatterbox today, Christine. Really, I can hardly get a word in edgewise." Meg's voice was wry.

"Sorry…sorry. I was just trying to figure something out." The water for the pasta was taking forever to boil. Christine abstractedly broke a stick of spaghetti into smaller and smaller pieces.

"Raw mushroom for your thoughts," Meg offered.

"Well, I was trying to figure out what could make a person want to be a hermit."

"A hermit? Like, 'medieval religious dude in a cave in the woods' hermit?" the question was a good one, Meg thought, if apropos of nothing.

"No. More like 'modern person withdrawing from the entire world and hiding somewhere alone' hermit."

Meg frowned. "Are you thinking of running off and joining some artists' collective again? Because we've talked about this. Remember, you hate sharing a bathroom."

"Nono, not me. Just, someone I've met. I don't get it. I really don't." It wasn't telling Meg anything that would break her promise to her maestro – not really.

Meg dumped the dry spaghetti into the boiling water and thought. "Didn't Ted Kaczynski go live in a cabin before he bombed that building? I think a lot of people who drop out of society are, like, super-cult-religious or schizophrenic or something."

"I hardly think it's like that. I mean, he's weird, but he seems all there." The sauce needed stirring. She avoided Meg's stare and added a little pepper before stirring.

"Who is this person, and if he's such a hermit how did you meet him? You are so not telling the whole story." Christine might have an eye for a picturesque drawing, but Meg had an ear for a juicy story.

"I can't, Meg. I kind of promised."

"So this is about the new series? The ones I haven't seen any of?"

"Yeah. Give me some time, ok? I can't tell you much, but I can tell you it's a really exciting opportunity. What I've done so far is my best work ever, but if I even showed you, you'd know where I'm working and that would break my promise." Christine was almost pleading. She could not stand to keep all of this excitement to herself. She needed to be able to talk some of it out, but if Meg were going to be pushy she would have to clam up.

"Ok. Why don't we go eat and watch a movie or something instead? You know I'm all ears when you're ready," Meg saw the color rising in Christine's cheeks. Whatever it was, when it finally came out, it would be more than worth the wait.