Sir Reginald Montague’s Final Performance
A young theatrical manager struggles to persuade an old Shakespearean actor to perform one more time.
I peeked between the curtains that hung from the ceiling in a corner of the Dead End Saloon. Actually, they weren’t curtains. They were bed sheets that Max the bartender had taken from one of Madam Munroe’s rooms upstairs. But they served the purpose of separating us from the cowboys, the farmers, the townsfolk, and the travelers who sat at the tables and stood against the walls, drinking, smoking, and growing restless.
“Archie,” I heard someone say behind me.
I turned and saw Sir Reginald Montague slumped in a chair next to a barrel of whiskey, his hair wild, his face flushed, his eyes bloodshot, and his once-fashionable frock coat soiled and rumpled.
“I can’t perform tonight,” he said. “I simply can’t. Tell them I’m infirm. Tell them I’m in extremis.” He drank from the glass he held. “Tell them anything, Archie — anything! But I simply can’t perform tonight.”
“Sir Reginald,” I said, “they’re waiting for you.”
“Tell them I’ll perform tomorrow.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
