The Silver Screen

(Originally published - The Shine Journal September 2008)


Sophie huddled close and grabbed my hand with her small mitten-covered fingers. The sun had risen only an hour ago and it had yet to warm up. Winter was being stubborn, refusing to let go. I bent down and fixed her hat which was coming off.

"Is this where grandpa is?" she asked.

"Maybe," I said. "We'll find out."

I stared up at the blank marquee of the Mason Theatre, closed for five years now, although it probably should have been shut down sooner. The one-screen building opened up its doors in the 1960s, bringing Hollywood movies to the average man, woman, and child in this small coastal town. It stood now, a ghost of a landmark, creaking in chilled ocean wind.

"Come on." I grabbed her hand and we walked past the empty ticket seller's booth.

The heavy wooden doors at the entrance were ajar and groaned when I pushed on them. They had never changed the locks; he must have used his old key. Inside, the lobby was unchanged for the most part from when the theater first opened. It was just as I remembered from many years ago, before I grew up, before I moved away and started a family of my own. An old, matted auburn carpet welcomed us and the concession stand that used to house sweets under its glass case lay bare. Everything was like it was--with a layer of dust.

"Dad?" I called out.

"Grandpa?" Sophie tried to be helpful.

There was no response. I walked up to the swinging saloon type doors that led into the theater and gave them a shove. Sunlight sneaked its way through the high windows in the lobby and filtered into the aisles as the doors swayed open and shut.

"Dad?"

"Quiet," said a familiar voice in the darkness. "The movie is about to begin."

Sophie clung to me and grabbed at the folds in my jacket as we felt our way around in the dark. Ten rows of seats were illuminated for a couple of seconds each time the swinging doors opened and let in some light. At last, I saw a bald head peering inches above a headrest in a middle row.

We walked over and sat next to the sole audience member.

"Dad, it's time to go home."

"After the movie," he replied.

I didn't know what to say, so I didn't. The Alzheimer's was worse, even more than when we had come for Christmas. His memory came and went, like the unpredictability of this spring chill. He was seventy seven, to the day.

My father worked at the Mason for thirty eight years and had loved every year of it. He loved giving people a good night of entertainment, the sound of laughter in a crowded theater, and watching movie stars come to life up on the screen. Being his son, it was a love I had come to share with him.

"Up there on that silver screen," he said to no one in particular, "the greats honed their craft. Using nothing more, they made people laugh, cry, gasp, and even love. It's the beauty of cinema."

I looked up at the front of the theater, and of course, there was no screen, only darkness.

"What screen, grandpa?" asked Sophie.

And just like that--whether it was from his granddaughter's voice or the realization that there was indeed no screen--the switch in his head clicked back on.

"Oh Sophie! It's so good to see you, my little sugarplum. How are you Daniel?"

"Good, Dad," I said. "How about we get going, huh?"

"Oh, yes."

I gave him my coat because he had forgotten his. He held it close to his body and took one last look at an imaginary screen before I placed my hand on his shoulder and led him out.

As we walked out with Sophie skipping along behind us, my father turned and looked at the ticket seller's booth. "Your mother used to work in there you know, selling tickets. They were fifty cents."

"Wow, that's really something," I said, pretending I was hearing it for the first time. "Let's head home. Mom's waiting."

"I made you a card Grandpa!" Sophie said.

"Well isn't that nice," remarked the old man.