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THREE: Backstage that evening, morale was low. I sat and stared at the empty makeup station next to me. When the five-minute warning was announced, it took the cast a long time to move to opening positions. The overture began; the haunting melody had always been my favorite part, foretelling the tragedy to come. Tonight that tragedy was ours. The curtain came up and being professionals, and in honor of Sally, we gave one of our best performances. Even our star remembered his lines! I stole a peek into the pit. I was curious to see if there was any noticeable difference in Milton. Other than avoiding eye contact with anyone on stage, he conducted as gracefully as ever. Outside of the theater, I didn't see much of Milton after that. I just couldn't. In Virginia, our last stop, I was eating dinner at the Greek diner across from our motel. I was only having split pea soup, thanks to complaints from my dance partner -- too many beignets I guess. As I ate, I watched the waitress behind the counter loading plates up her arm, knowing that I'd probably be doing the same thing in a couple of months. Just as I was about to spin into a mini-nervous breakdown, contemplating my future, Milton walked into the diner alone and I was relieved to see a friendly face, until I remembered New Orleans. He smiled and took a seat next to me. "So how's the soup?" "Not bad, it's what you would expect from a Greek diner." He scanned the menu. I tried so hard to stay distant, concentrating on the cakes and pies turning slowly around in their case near the counter. After he ordered a turkey sandwich to go, he put both elbows on the table and leaning toward me asked, "So what's your plan of action when you get back to New York?" "You know, auditioning again, looking for work." "Well, hang in there kid, you won't be in the chorus long, that's not where you're headed; you've got something special." He pointed his finger at me, and said, "Don't give up!" "Okay Milton, I won't." "My next job is The Music Man with Dick Van Dyke. Michael Kidd's directing that one. I'll mention you to him, you'd be perfect for that show." "You would do that for me Milton?" "Sure, why not? Just come to the audition, and we'll take it from there. I gotta run, meeting with the big boys." He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for letting me join you." "Milton?" "Yes?" "I . . .thanks" He looked me in the eyes for a moment, as if he knew what I wanted to say but couldn't, turned, and walked out the revolving doors. A week after we returned home from the road, Milton did point me out at The Music Man auditions, but Mr. Kidd wasn't interested. I don't think he cared for the size of my thighs marching across the dance floor. After that, I didn't see Milton again until I heard he'd had a heart attack, but had recovered and was conducting The Dance Theater of Harlem. I felt a strong need to see him, so I bought a ticket to see Giselle. Milton came out in his tux, faced the audience and bowed. He looked weary, but the light in his eyes was still there. After the show, I waited at the stage door. It was freezing and I was just about to leave when he came out. I went to give him a hug, but he put out his hands -- those hands -- and I gave them a squeeze instead. "I like Giselle, but I came because of you. I heard you've been ill, Milton, how are you feeling? You look a little thin." "I'm fine, but what's the matter with your voice?" How did he know? I'd strained my vocal chords teaching aerobics. "It's nothing," I lied, "I'm just getting a cold, that's all." I was embarrassed - aerobics. "Listen," he said, "it's cold out here, and I'm tired. Here's my number, call me and we'll share a bite to eat sometime. I'd like to catch up." "Okay," I said, and took his card. He helped me hail a cab, then said goodnight. I never called. I meant to. Maybe I was ashamed that I hadn't lived up to his expectations as a performer, but, in truth, I think it was my inability to admit to myself that I cared deeply about a man who could hit his wife. And then, it was too late. The man who took me under his wing, believed in me, encouraged me, told me stories, and eventually gave me my first glimpse of the dark side of a passionate heart, died of another heart attack. He died alone, I'm told, in his one room flat on 56th and Broadway.
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This
was not the Milton that took me under his wing, feeding me stories
of Broadway legends. Last night he'd laid healing hands on my roommate
Patty's belly. They were big, his hands. When he conducted, the
baton looked small and yet he held it so delicately. Sometimes he
didn't even use the baton. He'd caress the air, his right pinky
raised to coax a note from a flute or a single horn. On opening
night, he'd put both hands on my shoulders and gave me a good luck
squeeze. They were warm and reassuring even before he said, "knock
'em dead kid." Now those hands had blackened my friend Sally's
eye. How could this be the same man? What was it that filled those
hands with so much rage? What stories did you leave out, Milton?
Is this what you meant when you said it only gets worse? 
