My Life: The Musical (23 page)

No doubt about it: thirteen-year-old Emily Pearl had made out like a bandit at her bat mitzvah.

She stared at the pile of checks on the dining room table, at the piece of ruled paper in front of her, at the nubby chewed-upon pencil next to the free solar-powered calculator she’d received as a promotional gift with one of her magazine subscriptions.

“How’s it going, Em?” Mrs. Pearl was still wearing the diaphanous peach-colored dress she’d purchased just for today.

She looked kind of nice, but Emily wished her mother would change so the bat mitzvah day could officially be over. It had definitely been fun, but now she was tired and her head hurt from all the music and attention and too many sweets.

“Oh my!” Mrs. Pearl was looking over Emily’s shoulder. “Are you sure? That’s an awful lot.”

Emily had never been a straight-A math student, but she’d been extracareful and had used the calculator. “I’m sure, Mom,” she said. “I did it twice.”

“You forgot this one,” Mrs. Pearl murmured, stroking her daughter’s hair. “See?”

Mrs. Pearl was right. A small envelope had slipped away from the pile, and was now half hidden under the pretty lace table runner the Pearls used only on holidays and special family occasions, like today.

Emily picked up the envelope and opened it carefully. “It’s from Uncle David,” she said.

Crazy Uncle David, of the implausible business schemes and erratic fortunes. He’d had a fabulous time at the party, kicking off his shoes and sock surfing with abandon all over the slippery dance floor of the temple’s reception hall, much to the delight of Emily’s friends.

Emily read the note.

I’m so proud of you, Emily! Here’s a present I think you’ll enjoy. My gut tells me it’s gonna be a hit.

Love,
Your Crazy Uncle David

In her hands, courtesy of her crazy uncle, Emily held two tickets to the first preview of a brand-new Broadway show, which started performances the following Tuesday and was scheduled to open at the end of the month. Emily skimmed the Arts and Leisure section of the Sunday
Times
every week, but she had never heard of this show.

It was called
Aurora
.

“So this show—
Aurora
—it’s very special to you?”

Emily slumped in her chair and stared at the carpet. Rabbi Levin toyed with the end of his ballpoint pen. What a far cry from the joyful meetings they’d had in preparation for her bat mitzvah! All that talk of service to others, the dawn of self-knowledge, a spiritual journey about to begin. Three years later and here she was: selfish, deceitful, and hopelessly unrepentant. She said nothing, and the silence sat heavily between them.

“Emily,” Rabbi Levin finally said. “You know what attorney-client privilege is?”

“Yes,” she said. Philip had told her about it. It meant that lawyers with guilty clients couldn’t rat on them and had to defend them even though they knew what really happened.

“You and I, we have Rabbi-Emily privilege,” he said, smiling. “What you say here, stays here. You understand?”

“Didn’t my parents tell you what I did?” Emily asked.

Rabbi Levin glanced at an index card on his desk. “You spent, let’s see, a little over five thousand dollars on tickets to a show,” he said, as if this were perfectly normal. “A Broadway musical?”

“Yes,” said Emily. “A musical called
Aurora
.”

“I’ve heard of it,” said the Rabbi. “Tell me about it.”

So Emily told him, much more than she intended to, in fact. She told him how seeing a performance of
Aurora
filled her with a kind of joy that she could never, ever get enough of—the music, the dancing, the familiar yet always thrilling story of a disadvantaged young woman’s journey to stardom, love, heartbreak, and redemption.

She told him how sometimes the waves of love that flowed between the audience and the actors were so strong, Emily believed they were on the verge of becoming visible.

She told him how seeing
Aurora
always happened in a crowd, but was strangely private as well, as if everyone in the theatre—the actors, the musicians, the stagehands, the ushers, the 1,545 audience members whom the Rialto could seat when the show was sold out—all of them were there just for Emily, to help create the magic feelings that filled her insides the moment the music began to play.

She told him how during and immediately after the show she felt—no, in those
Aurora
fied moments she
knew
down to the bone that she, Emily Pearl, was a unique and spectacular individual, destined for a life of joy and achievement, and yet she was also an inextricable and beloved part of something much, much larger than herself.

It was, without question, the best feeling she’d ever had. But then the feeling would fade, and she needed to see the show again to recapture it. And with the help of some creative financing and a little harmless deception, she had seen it, again and again.

And tonight it would be gone, forever.

She finished talking, and Rabbi Levin sat quietly, nodding. When he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate.

“So, for you,” said the Rabbi, “this musical was, in fact, a religious experience. It evoked in you a holy bliss—transcendence, some call it.”

“It’s a really good show,” said Emily.

“Somehow, this musical—
Aurora,
you said the name was?—caused you to see yourself as sacred, irreplaceable, and uniquely loved by God, yet also inextricably bound together with all your brothers and sisters in the human family.”

“I guess,” Emily said. “It won the Tony.”

“It taught you that life is ephemeral—the moments happen and are gone, and we have to cherish each one as it passes.” Rabbi Levin’s eyes were sparkling. He was on a roll. “It’s what we do, who we are
right now
that defines us. Not our memories, not our fantasies—but
this moment,
now.”

“Sure,” said Emily. Rabbi Levin had lost her. “I get that.”

“And lastly,” said the Rabbi, his voice starting to resonate the way it did when he was speaking in the temple, “you learned that one taste of spiritual bliss is not enough. You have to keep going back, again and again, to drink from the well of holiness. It’s a life’s work, Emily. The Hindus say it takes more than one life—one life could never be enough to achieve nirvana, as they call it.”

“I thought Nirvana was a band,” said Emily.

“It was. And they rocked, let me tell you!” Rabbi Levin looked like he might jump up and start playing air guitar, but then he composed himself. “You know, Emily, everything you learned from
Aurora
—you can get all of that right here, in the synagogue. Every weekend. No ticket required.”

“If I come to temple every week, do you think my parents would forgive me for what I did?” Emily asked. “Do you think they’ll ever trust me again?”

“Your parents are good people, but forgiveness and trust can be hard,” said Rabbi Levin kindly. “That can be their spiritual work, okay? You worry about your own. Emily, Emily, Emily,” he said, tapping his head with the pen. “There’s a play you would like, I just thought of it. It’s called
Our Town
. The girl in it is named Emily, just like you.”

Rabbi Levin went on talking about
Our Town,
but Emily was not really paying attention—

“. . . after the character of Emily dies she gets to visit the world of the living once more, and it’s terribly sad because she can’t change anything . . .”

Something was going on outside the window to Rabbi Levin’s study, but he had his back to it, so only Emily could see, as he droned on about the play—

“. . . and she comes to appreciate that the beauty of life is precisely because of how fleeting it is, how each moment is precious . . .”

It was Philip outside the window, waving and jumping. His head bobbed up and down over the thick hedge. He was holding—what? A sign, it looked like.

“. . . of course it’s all very New England, very Protestant, in fact; in some ways it’s the least Jewish play ever written! . . .”

Emily could almost read the sign, but she didn’t want the Rabbi to notice her gawking out the window. She kept taking quick, furtive glances.

I KNOW

it said.

I KNOW WHO

I KNOW WHO WROTE

I KNOW WHO WROTE
AURORA

was what the sign said.

“Rabbi Levin!” Emily said, interrupting. “I am so sorry. I have to use your bathroom, may I be excused?”

Philip only had to wait a minute before he saw Emily’s head craning out the bathroom window, scanning the yard, looking for him. He scurried behind the bushes, keeping low to the ground, until he reached the shrubs outside the bathroom.

Philip was tall and Emily was not, but now, with her hanging half out the bathroom window and him standing on the dirt, they could see eye to eye.

“Philip! Grandma Rose and Stan got arrested, and Stan had a fake driver’s license and it’s a big mess!” she whispered, all in a rush. “And my parents found out about us seeing the show, and the money we borrowed, and—”

“I know,” he said. “I e-mailed you last night and left messages on your phone and this morning I went by your house and no one was there, so finally I called the hospital. Grandma Rose told me where to find you.”

“I tried not to say anything about Mark, but they’re going to see the lawyer today and I’m sure it’ll all come out. Oh, I don’t want you to get in trouble, Philip, I’m so sorry—”

“Emily,” he said, practically laughing. “I know who wrote
Aurora
. His name is Smeave. And look.”

He was digging around in his pocket as he spoke and produced a slim, rectangular piece of stiff paper, which he handed to Emily.

“Oh! Oh!” said Emily, almost falling off her perch. “That’s an
Aurora
ticket!” Her face crumpled. “For last night.”

“I know,” said Philip. “Read what’s on the back.”

It was a string of words, written in Philip’s own neat handwriting, marching like a column of numbers down the back of the ticket.

SMEAVE

SMAEVE

SAMEVE

SAEMVE

SAEVME

SAVEME

“SAVEME? Dear God!” It wasn’t the kind of thing Emily often said, but there had been a lot of talk of religion today. “SAVEMEFROMAURORA
wrote the show?
SAVEME
is
Aurora?”

“Yes.”

Emily felt faint. “And he’s not Mr. Henderson?”
Not
Aurora
the show, not Aurora the person.
Mr. Henderson’s voice reverberated inside her head.
I don’t want you write about the aurora borealis. . . .

Philip put the ticket back in his pocket and smiled. “No, he’s not. Though sometimes he works at a high school.”

The most obnoxious automotive honk Emily had ever heard blasted from the street. Philip glanced over his shoulder. “That’s our ride. Come on.”

“Our ride?” Without protest, Emily let Philip lift her out of the bathroom window and place her on the ground.

“Stan let Mark hold the keys to the Winnebago.” Philip shrugged. “Beats walking, right?”

25

“MIRACLE OF MIRACLES”

Fiddler on the Roof

1964. Music by Jerry Bock, lyrics by Sheldon Harnick,
book by Joseph Stein

BwayPhil
: Attention, Aurorafans! The countdown to the final performance of Aurora has begun!

AURORAROX
: today, at 8 PM
at the Rialto Theatre
we are now at—

BwayPhil
: Six.

AURORAROX
: thanx BwayPhil!

AURORAROX
: six hours and counting!

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Well, hello there.

AURORAROX
: well, howdy, saveme!

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: You two seem rather jolly. I thought you’d be down in the dumps.

BwayPhil
: Why?

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Because ye olde show of shows is biting the dust.

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: You know: so long, Aurora ol’ pal, we hardly knew ye.

BwayPhil
: It’s just a show, SAVEME.

AURORAROX
: exactly.

AURORAROX
: but YOU sound a bit glum.

AURORAROX
: we would have guessed you’d throw a party

SAVEMEFROMAURORA
: Yeah well, it’s always sad when something ends.