Those Weekends In New England

Epilogue

Does the music make the man, or does the man make the music?

"I'm lookin' for the lady,

The lady who sees.

I'm lookin' for the lady,

The lady who sees

What I really am

And what I could really mean

... To her."

Hannah couldn't get the song out of her mind. She loved this one, but there was more. This was her song. Literally her song.

The words seemed to ring over and over in her head, playing with her, softly embracing her. She was twiddling, drumming her fingers on the nearest surface. Would everything be okay? So many things had changed.

" ... She would be ... all worlds to me...." The words wouldn't leave her, even when she tried to think of something else. Not that she wanted to think of anything else. These words were so comforting for her to hear.

Hannah, sitting between Thelma and Denny's mother, was amidst a crowd of people kept waiting twenty-five minutes beyond scheduled show time to see Denny Lorenzo perform. Seemed to be a habit of his to be late. A tradition even. Flickers of matches, foot stomping, whistling, chants of "WE WANT DENNY!" and "WE STILL LOVE YOU, DENNY!" filled Hannah's ears until, with a wince, she pushed herself up to the edge of her seat.

"You okay?" Rachel Heinemann sat to her left. "Denny oughta be out soon. Do I see a tear?" She turned to face Hannah straight-on. "Why should you cry when everything's so wonderful now?"

"I don't know. Maybe because I can't believe this, I'm so nervous. I don't know. He'll do okay? I mean, it's been awhile since he's been onstage, and with everything that has gone on—"

"He'll do fine, dear. My son's a survivor; then again, he is my son."

Hannah laughed.

"You can't let him see you cry," Rachel went on. "You know how he worries over you." She took a tissue from her pocket. "Here, use this and dry up. He'll judge his whole performance on what he sees in these first few rows. He always does. You want he should think he's bad when he spots your wet face?"

Hannah cracked another smile. "Of course not. Why would he only pay attention to the front rows?"

"They're the only rows he can see. Those lights blind him if he tries to look any distance into the audience."

"But the signs!" Hannah protested. She had surveyed the audience earlier, getting chills from the sight of so many signs proclaiming ever-present loyalty to Denny Lorenzo. They were scattered throughout the arena.

"Unless the lights go on, he won't see them, Hannah."

"We'll fix that, then." Hannah dug into her purse and pulled out a little pad of paper. Then she wrote:

HAVE THE STAGE LIGHTS TURNED DOWN FOR A FEW MINUTES. THERE IS SOMETHING OUT THERE YOU MUST SEE!!

"When he.... Oh, the lights are dimming now."

As if she had willed him to appear then and there, the crowd's clamor died to a hushed whisper, and a floating voice announced Denny's arrival.

Limping perceptibly, he stopped at the edge of the stage, beside his microphone. So much had changed since he had last been seen in concert. His mouth slightly parted, eyes wide and wondering. He waited a few minutes, and the crowd waited with him. Finally, he raised his fingers in a "V". Only then did the crowd let go. And Hannah felt their relief mirrored inside her own.