—

An old acting friend of Father’s suggests that Asia and John write a biography. “Someone is bound to do it soon,” he says, “so you must be there first. Otherwise, these ludicrous tales will be set down as real.”

Asia is instantly enthused. She’s a good writer; she enjoys it. She has a hundred memories of Father’s kindness, his generosity. She remembers how he once made her apologize to a servant for some careless words. How he forced her to sit at the bedside of a Negro woman as she lay ill, forced her to kiss the woman’s hand on leaving. How he might bring the dirtiest beggar into the house to be fed.

She begins that very evening, by writing down everything she remembers of the first time she saw her father onstage. She was a girl of ten, and one day, she was given permission to call on a schoolmate named Pearl. Pearl was beautiful. Every night, her mother wrapped her shiny brown hair around her fingers and tied it with rags to make long sausage curls. Pearl was older by months and taller by inches, the daughter of traveling actors, with a confidence and sophistication beyond her years. Asia desperately wished for her approval. She also wished for her hair.

Pearl was staying with her parents in a boardinghouse frequented by actors as it shared a wall with the Baltimore Museum, which was a museum set inside a theater or else a theater set inside a museum, depending on where one’s interests lay. The easy access between the boardinghouse and the theater meant that an actor might slip home for a cup of tea at intermission and be back when the curtain next rose. Asia was about to learn that access between the two buildings was even easier than she’d imagined.

An afternoon of dolls and tea parties came to a late end and it was already full dark before Mink, the hired man, arrived to take Asia home. “Why don’t you go see your father in Richard III instead?” Pearl suggested in a whisper.

Asia knew her father was performing that night, but hadn’t realized he’d be right next door. It made no difference. “I’m not allowed.”

“What a baby you are, Booth!” Pearl seized her hand and Asia let herself be pulled. “Asia is staying the night,” Pearl called down to Mink. “You can go.” And then, in case her mother came to her bedroom door to investigate, said loudly, “Let’s go up and kiss the dollies good-night.”

They climbed the staircase past the doorways of the rented rooms. The steps were high and hard for Asia’s short legs and by the time they reached the garrets, she was gasping. “How much further?”

“To the loft.” Pearl had already gone ahead. Asia could see her petticoats swinging above the bottoms of her buttoned shoes. At the top of the final staircase, there was a little square door, so small Asia would have to duck and wiggle her way in. Pearl slid it open and pushed from behind. Asia found herself in the dark upper gallery of the theater, up behind the cheap seats, in amongst the rough crowd.