Shortest Day Read Online Free Page A

came the Morris men, clumping onstage.
    â€œNot yet,” shouted Tom Cobb. “Come on again. Wait for the music.”
    The Morris dancers clattered off. A guy with a concertina struck up a tiddly tune, and they tramped in a second time.
    â€œHold it,” said Tom. “Wait for me.” He jumped up on the stage and joined them as they began to dance.
    Homer slumped back on the bench and scowled as the six men stamped their feet and clashed their sticks together. Then he sat up and stopped scowling. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that they were very good. Thump went the stamping feet, crash went the sticks.
    The dance was finished. The Morris men stopped leaping up and down and looked at Tom uncertainly as he backed away to become a stage director again. “Okay, that’s it, go off in procession.” Then Tom raised his voice and shouted, “Chorus? You’ve got to come on as they go off. Chorus, where are you?”
    They filed onstage from the left, ten men in tunics and long hose, ten women in bright gowns. Homer looked for Mary, but she was the last because she was the tallest. In spite of his disbelief in the whole thing, Homer beamed at his wife and shook his clasped hands over his head.
    Mary turned to her neighbor and grinned artificially, pretending to be part of a jolly Christmas festival. At once there was an interruption. Tom Cobb said, “Wait, here’s Sarah.”
    There was a hush. Everyone stared offstage as Sarah came breezing in, and then, to their embarrassment, her husband appeared behind her. Morgan Bailey was a stranger to Homer Kelly, but everyone else recognized Sarah’s husband, the driver responsible for the death of her star performer, Henry Shady.
    But the two Baileys were boldly grasping the nettle. Morgan followed Sarah up the steps to the stage and made a little speech about what had happened. His hours of weeping were over. His voice was clear, his words were sensible. “Of course the accident was my fault, but Henry appeared so suddenly, right in front of my car. I swerved to avoid him, but in trying to get out of my way he jumped in the same direction. Sarah has told me how much you all loved Henry Shady. I will bear the scar for the rest of my life.”
    Well, good for you, thought Homer, giving him credit.
    Then Sarah talked about the fund they were organizing in Henry’s memory, money to be collected for his family. “His mother,” whispered one of the technicians to Homer, “down there in West Virginia.”
    There was loud applause from the Morris men and the members of the chorus, and from the technicians sitting beside Homer and the musicians clustered in the wings. Someone flourished a checkbook. Someone else tossed green bills in the air.
    But of course it wasn’t funny. Gravely Sarah Bailey waved her arm, urging the performers to carry on, and hurried down the steps again. Her husband followed. Then Morgan Bailey walked solemnly to the back of the hall and sat down by himself on a darkened bench, silhouetted against the light of the encircling aisle.
    But Morgan wasn’t really feeling solemn at all. Instead he was oddly exhilarated. It was so strange, after all that weeping and mortification, he had awakened yesterday morning feeling buoyant and lighthearted. A weight had been lifted from his chest. Smiling, Morgan filled his lungs with the glowing air of Sanders Theatre and held it a moment, then let it go.
    Seventeen rows in front of Morgan Bailey, Homer Kelly glowered as the chorus began to sing. They were all pretending to frolic as if it were the jolliest party anybody ever saw—like a cocktail party on Fayerweather Street, thought Homer sardonically.
    â€œOkay,” shouted Sarah, “time for the boar’s head. Boar’s head, where are you?”
    In spite of himself, Homer was charmed as four girls in bright tunics carried onstage a giant tray on which lay a huge papier-mâché