The house lights go down, there's some nervous coughing, the curtains open. Floyd looks at me as if to say, not bad but not good either, though we're both pretty stern critics. The fact is my mind is on the kid, and I don't like it. Six years old. But there's big money in it, and even when it goes wrong the promoters and, presumably, the kid's parents get to pocket the admissions charges.
Polite applause dispatches the ensemble and the stage is rearranged for the kid.
I point this out to Myra. She strokes her bulge. I know the chair isn't comfortable for her. The kid comes on and he's a funny-looking thing. He's wearing a starched collar too big for his neck.