Dead Ringers Read Free Page B

and simultaneous terror of the stage. There would be no auditions for them, no performances outside of the soliloquies and scenes required within the relative safety of the classroom, but from that point on, they hit Boston’s theater district on a regular basis, scoring tickets at student discounts and waiting at stage doors to effuse over the actors together. Each had other friends, but between their history majors and the live-theater fanaticism, they enjoyed a rapport others couldn’t touch.
    They had shared the best of times, and Tess had been with Lili through the worst of times as well, after Lili had woken up in a pile of dirty laundry in the basement of a frat house with her pants around her ankles and her underwear lost forever. Lili had shown up at Tess’s dorm room that morning, numb with rage, and they had gone to the infirmary together. When Lili had reported the assault, the university’s investigation had concluded that since Lili could not identify her attackers or provide any evidence to support the idea that someone from the fraternity was responsible for whatever drugs had been in her drink, no punishment would be forthcoming. The administration had seemed relieved to have a rationale that allowed them to avoid pursuing it any further.
    In the years since they had rarely spoken of it, but Tess knew they both still shared a simmering rage at the injustice. It had taught them to rely on each other, that maybe they could rely only on each other. Tess had always admired Lili’s resilience. Years later, after the accident, the pain, the kiss, and finally her divorce, it was Lili’s example that made it easier for Tess to cope. They’d both had their lives torn apart and found a way to put them back together again.
    And they went on helping each other heal as only the best of friends ever could. Their work brought them together occasionally, as with the dig at the Clough House, a documentary about abandoned subway stations, and the bodies discovered in the renovation of the Otis Harrison House. And, of course, they kept visiting the Playwright Tavern, which they’d discovered in their college days.
    A block from the Charles Playhouse in the theater district, the Playwright was like a low-rent Sardi’s, the walls hung with photos of the famous and semi-famous and no-longer-famous people who’d come into the bar over the years, along with Playbill s that stretched back into Boston theater antiquity. They’d seen Mandy Patinkin having dinner the first time they’d gone into the Playwright and waited until he’d been walking out before stopping him to say hello. By silent agreement—that almost telepathic connection they shared—they didn’t ask for a photo or autograph, just for hugs. Mandy obliged, held them each by the hand for a moment, as kind and warm as your favorite uncle, and then went on his way.
    From that point on, the Playwright had become their favorite hangout. The quality of the food had improved, then fallen off steeply, and then improved again as the theater scene in Boston had undergone a resurgence, but for the most part, they went for the ambience and the memory. As time passed—and especially once Tess became a wife and then a mother—it had been more expedient and sometimes more desirable for them to meet at other bars or restaurants or cafés, but at least a couple of times a year, they found their way back to the Playwright.
    Tonight Tess arrived early, about a quarter after six, and sat down at the corner of the bar, putting her thin, green fall jacket on the next stool to save it for Lili. She didn’t recognize the bartender, which saddened her, reminding her how infrequently they made a point of visiting their old stomping grounds. Then she pictured Maddie’s smiling face and suddenly nostalgia faded. Instead she felt the twinge of guilt that struck her every time she did anything that required an evening