Illyria by Elizabeth Hand

or indigo. I put my arm out and whirled, the folds rippling around me like waves.
    "Holy Batcape, Batman," said Rogan.
    I turned to him. "What do you think? Am I glamorous?"
    "It looks fantastic. Can I try it on?"
    "No," said Aunt Kate. "We need to go, the train's in twenty minutes. Come on--"
    Rosoff's, the restaurant where we ate, was warm and wood paneled, crowded with theatergoers and filled with Broadway memorabilia--ancient photographs, old etchings, framed faded Playbills.
    "It's like eating in my house," said Rogan. I couldn't tell if this was a complaint or not. "Better food, though."
    He'd ordered the chicken.
    After dinner we walked to the St. James Theatre. Our seats were Orchestra, Row E, Center.
    "This is where the drama critics always sit," Aunt Kate explained. "Best seats in the house. You're close enough to see the actors sweat and spit when they talk."
    Rogan laughed. "Hey, that's glamorous."
    "It's work, Rogan." Aunt Kate delicately balanced her Playbill on a velvet-clad knee. "If the actors are good enough, you don't mind seeing their sweat."
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    "What about their spit?" asked Rogan. "Do I have to like their spit, too?"
    Aunt Kate frowned and began to read her program. Rogan and I did the same.
    "Hey." He jabbed a finger at the cast list. "The guy who wrote this is the same guy who wrote Hair! Maybe they'll take their clothes off."
    We looked at Aunt Kate with renewed admiration.
    The play was perfect. How could it have been otherwise? It was the first one either of us had ever seen, barring school productions at Christmas and St. Patrick's Day. The script was bowdlerized Shakespeare, the music cheerful and relentlessly contemporary. There were black people in the cast, and Puerto Ricans--an astonishing revelation--also sexual innuendos that seemed to be inherent to the original play.
    Our admiration for Aunt Kate, and Shakespeare, became immeasurable.
    After the play, we spilled onto the street with throngs of happily chattering people. I felt not just exhilarated but exalted, the way I did when Rogan sang. He sang now, a tune from the show he'd already memorized, walking along Broadway and turning on his heels, his voice rising above the crowd in a charmed, eerie falsetto. People looked at him in wonder and delight, his beautiful face and long hair, eyes closed as he walked backward, certain somehow that he wouldn't fall.
    We talked about the play the whole way back on the train, then in Aunt Kate's car.
    "I don't want it to stop," said Rogan as we walked out of the
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    garage beneath her carriage house. He didn't sound disappointed, but anguished. "Why does it have to end?"
    Aunt Kate dropped her keys into her purse. "Well, it doesn't. I got tickets next week for Butley'
    Rogan and I looked at each other, then burst out laughing.
    "Thank you!"
    "Jesus, Aunt Kate, really?"
    "Shhh!" She cut us off sternly. "Hush. I haven't spoken to them yet. But yes. Good night, Rogan."
    She kissed him, then beckoned at me. "Come upstairs, Maddy. That cape stays here."
    I waved good-bye at Rogan. His voice echoed through the chill air until he entered Fairview, and the autumn night grew silent.
    Inside I took off the cape and gave it back to my aunt, who folded it carefully then went upstairs. I stood in the living room, alone, and looked at the framed photographs of my great-great-grandmother on the wall. Madeline as Rosalind, her hair cropped short so she resembled a sly boy; Madeline as Gwendolen in The Importance of Being Earnest, a wicked glint in her eye as she pretended to read her diary. Madeline as Anya in The Cherry Orchard; as Mrs. Pinchwife, Cordelia, and Cleopatra, and the title character in Major Barbara.
    She looked different in each picture. Recognizably herself yet somehow, remarkably, older or younger or cunning or heartbroken by turns. Her adult career had been prolific but short-lived. The pictures displayed an eternal ingenue, an eternal boy-girl: Rosalind and Viola but never Hedda Gabler; never