Chapter One 19 years later.

Christine had her baby, a little girl who she named Desiree. She gave the girl her father's last name of Destler, and not her own name of Day, in an effort to through the Phantom off their trail. Christine went on with her singing career, but visited her daughter often. Desiree lived in foster care until she graduated early from school, joined a labor union and moved to Harlem on her own.

"Life is the childhood of out immortality" -Goethe

Desiree reached into the box of Cookie Crisp for another handful, while skimming through the latest copy of Newsweek when her apartment intercom buzzed. "Damnit" she muttered. Who wanted her now? She answered.

"This better be good."

"Isn't it always?" The receptionist Maggie answered sarcastic. "There a women in the lobby for you. Says she your mom." Maggie stated in her thick Brooklyn accent.

"Well at least it's not some bum friend wanting money. I'll be right down."

A few minutes later, she was in the lobby watching her mother read the paper, sitting down in a dirty red chair, the only one in the space.

"Hey how are you?" Dessy called.

Christine looked up and smiled. "I'm glad I found you. Your work said that you lived in this building, but didn't give a room number."

Dessy was glad to see her mom again and thankful for her visit few as they were. It was last Christmas when the too had met, but Christine's career and Desiree's extra study had kept them busy. "Yes mom. Welcome to the humble lodging provided by the union." She said gesturing around her and then led Christine to the elevator and up to her apartment.

"Would you like some breakfast?" Desiree asked holding up a six-pack of Coke and the box of Cookie Crisp.

Christine glanced at the clock, which said 1:30 and shook her head. "No thanks, Dessy. How is the degree coming? Weren't you a health major at that community college in Jersey?"

"Oh yeah." Dessy went to the fridge. "Well I had to make a choice. I didn't have enough money to pay for school and I couldn't work. So I decided to just go back to work full time and save money for school later."

"Well Dessy you could have asked me for money. Especially if you needed for school." Christine said sitting down on the futon.

"Oh no, I wouldn't think about it. Besides that's your money that you earned. And I'm almost 19 now. I'm a big girl, who got to live on her own. You don't have to take care of me."

Christine sighed. She knew Desiree was trying to be good-natured, but was making her point. Since she had never been her responsibility.

"So how has your work been?" Christine asked.

"Oh so-so. Factory work mostly, but sometime we do yard work for rich folk in the suburbs. How about you?"

"I signed a new contract with the St. James, but I'm sure you wouldn't want to be bored with the details."

"Not really. I love the theater. In fact, one of the labor chiefs is trying to get me a job in one of them, working on sets and stuff like that. It's on 43rd street, the Off Broadway Opera Company, I believe." Dessy lit up a cigarette.

"Well that's good." Christine walked back to the table were Dessy sat and put a large envelope on it. "I came to give you that. It's your birth certificate." Dessy started to open it, and Christine went to the door. "I have to go, but I'll call you and we can go shopping sometime."

But before she got to the door, Dessy stopped her with a question.

"Mom, who is this?"

Christine turned to see Dessy pointing at the birth certificate.

"Erik Destler, is that my...father?"

Christine's heart skipped a beat and she swallowed hard. "Yes Desiree." she sighed

"How come you never told me is name?"

"Why is that important now?"

"I have a right to know." Dessy sounded angry. "Is he alive?"

"I'm not sure." Christine lied. "I think he died."

"How come he never visited me? How come you never.."

"Desiree!" Christine shouted. "Didn't your foster parents, Tom and Mary tell you a hundred times?"

Dessy stood up and threw down her magazine, and Christine jumped fearing her temper, which was very much like Erik's. It didn't take much to push them to the boiling point. "Yes they also told me they loved one another, that is until Tom started beating on my foster mom, when he was drunk. You think every thing just ends up like some fucking fairy tale! People tell me a lot of things. So they told me my father was a dangerous person, so what! I don't have to believe it."

Christine felt tears well up in her eyes. "How do you know? How can you know?"

"I just do!" Dessy shouted. "I have a feeling."

"A feeling?" Christine again stormed to the door, but Desiree got up and stopped her before she could open it. She turned to face her daughter. She saw so much of Erik in her; the sight of her face was ever a tortured reminder of him. In her brandy brown hair, high forehead, but most of all her eyes, full or spirit and passion, the way Erik's were.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm not angry with you, I don't think I ever could be. After all, you're still my mother."

A tear trickled down Christine. Dear God, she could even hear his voice in his daughter. Dessy slipped a bottle of lemon flavored water into Christine's hand.

"I'll call you when I have a day off. Take this for the subway."

James Spangler lit up a cigarette inside the office of Mr. Foster. He never understood why his boss kept his office so dark. Mr. Foster was in his high back chair, with his back turned to Jim.

"I've taken the liberty of hiring a young laborer from the Harlem Union to help us with the construction of sets and other work backstage." He said.

Foster remained silent.

"It's cheaper than hiring some college kid and her foreman assures me she is smart and a hard worker, so we can train her."

"She?" Foster asked, a thin hand reaching out for his whiskey bottle on the desk.

"Yes, sir. It's been my experience in the past working with laborers that women seem to work better. They don't cause trouble too much with strangers and they learn quicker." Jim let himself smile. "And they are least likely to call off work with a hangover."

"You speak of them as if they were slaves, Jim." The chair turned and Foster faced him. Though all the years he had been assistant manager under Foster, he had noticed the man never seem to age. His long angled features remained the same and only his hair seemed to thin and bald with age. This always puzzled him, but not as much as his boss's odd behavior.

Foster poured another glass of whiskey and handed it to Jim. "We shall see, Jim. We shall see."