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triangular facade, where the comedy/tragedy masks substituted for the Old Vic’s royal crest.
    We went in through the middle of three wood and glass double doors, and there the New Vic’s similarity to the original ceased.
    A marbled foyer with a small glassed-in ticket station was to the left, a concession counter to the right. Ahead were doors to the auditorium, curving staircases on either side leading up to the balcony. With the exception of one large ceiling fixture, a relatively recent addition, the only other lighting source was a few wall sconces.
    Mother, whispering as if in church, said, “I wonder where we can find Millicent Marlowe?”
    â€œHere I am, Mrs. Borne,” said a woman’s thin voice, so close it startled us.
    The owner of the voice—and the theater—had come up behind Mother, whose stature had hidden her. She was a tiny thing, rather frail looking, knocking on eighty’s door at least, with white hair cut short in a curly perm. She wore a red sweater, navy slacks, and the kind of sensible shoes Mother puts on when her bunions are particularly bothersome.
    The woman extended a bony hand to Mother. “Please,” she said, “call me Millie . . . all my friends do.”
    Mother shook Millie’s hand a little too gregariously and a bone or two made tiny cracks.
    â€œMy dear,” Mother gushed, “what a divine theater you have here.”
    I was holding off on my opinion until after seeing the stage.
    â€œYes,” Millie bubbled, “you may have noticed that it’s a replica of the Old Victoria.”
    Told you.
    She went on. “A bit smaller, of course. There have even been rumors of ancient tunnels, but that’s probably an old wives’ tale.”
    â€œMerry ones, no doubt!” Mother said. “From Windsor!”
    â€œNo doubt!” Our hostess’s eyes, which had been flitting nervously, settled on me like friendly insects. “And you must be Brandy.”
    I didn’t shake her hand, mine being full of Sushi. “Pleased to meet you,” I said with a smile and a nod, adding, “I’ll be assisting Mother.”
    â€œMy daughter,” Mother said grandly, “is in charge of wardrobe and props.”
    The wardrobe was props, but never mind.
    â€œHow delightful!” Millie said, clasping her hands. “A family affair. I can’t believe you’ve never visited us before, Vivian!”
    â€œOh, well, it’s always been something I meant to do. So many conflicts with my own acting schedule.”
    I knew darn well why we’d never been here before—Vivian Borne wasn’t going to support an area theater that didn’t involve her.
    Millie was saying, “I do appreciate you coming at such late notice, as do the trustees who put on the fete. They will be receiving the proceeds—after your payment, of course—the money going to help better the town.”
    â€œHow nice,” Mother said perfunctorily.
    â€œYes. I have a contract in the office for you to sign, but we can do that later. Right now I’d like to show you around. Unfortunately, you’ll only have a few days to rehearse.”
    â€œNot to worry,” Mother chortled. “I’m an old pro.”
    That was the only context in which you will ever hear Mother refer to herself as an “old” anything. I preferred to think of her as a well-aged ham.
    â€œOh, I know you are a wonderful , creative actor,” Millie said to Mother. “I saw you perform once, at the Iowa State Fair.”
    Mother’s eyes got larger than even those lenses could handle. “You did? Why, I wish you had come backstage and spoken to me afterward!”
    â€œWell, there was no backstage, really. And there was quite a crowd.”
    Mother beamed. “Ah yes, I recall. I pulled quite an audience that afternoon.”
    I was frowning. “When did you perform at the Iowa State