then,” replied Abby seriously. “The first question is about the ghost. Who is it? Or who was it when it was alive? And why did it come here?” Abby was fascinated. She was talking to someone who actually knew a ghost. She wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass her by.
“You’re still asking more than one question at a time, but I’ll answer anyway,” said Mr. Wick with a smile. “His name is Ambrose Brown and he was a real person. He was an actor who for some reason preferred this theatre to any other. He was absolutely wonderful on stage. He had a commanding presence and played an amazing range of characters.”
“Did you know Ambrose Brown?”
“Sure did. He worked here for twenty years, as often as there was a part for him. He loved this stage. Said he wanted to be buried here.”
Abby’s eyes grew large. “And is he?”
“No. His family has plots in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. They buried him there.”
“Is that why he haunts this theatre? Because he wants to be buried here?”
“Could be. I’ve wondered that myself. But you can’t just dig up a body and move it. There’s a lot of paperwork involved and his next of kin won’t even consider it.”
“That’s too bad, but it might not help, anyway.”
“That’s the thing. How are we to know why he’s haunting us?” Mr. Wick’s brow furrowed. “He was devastated when we had to close the theatre down. It may have been the saddest thing that ever happened to him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he died on closing night, after the final show.”
“Really? Can people die of sadness?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Mr. Wick looked so sad himself that Abby changed the subject. “Why did you have to close the theatre?”
“It wasn’t making enough money to sustain itself. I’m not a rich man and I couldn’t afford to subsidize it.”
“When was it closed down?” Abby asked, absorbed by the story.
Mr. Wick scratched his head under his hat. “Must be fifteen years or more. Maybe close to twenty.”
“And you said the theatre ran for twenty years?”
“Yup, about that. Those were the days, Abby. I wanted to go into show business myself, you know, when I was a boy.”
“You?” Abby realized after she spoke how that must have sounded. “I mean, I always thought of you as Farmer Wick, not really showbiz, you know?”
Mr. Wick laughed, stopped, then laughed again. He laughed so hard, he started to scare Abby. Tears rolled down his face, which had grown quite red. Abby began to worry.
“Don’t look so, so, so alarmed!” he managed to sputter. “I can’t stop. Oh! Oh! I haven’t had such a good laugh in years. In the theatre days, people who came here were so refreshing, so jolly. We laughed like this all the time. I love actors. They’re mimics, they’re monkeys, they never grow old and cynical. They’re always hoping for the big break, and it’s always coming tomorrow. It’s always Christmas Eve, with big presents ready to open the next day. Oh, Abby, how I miss those days.”
Abby now feared that the old man would start to cry. She wanted to avoid that altogether. “Tell me why you built this place, forty years ago,” she said.
“That’s a long story.” Mr. Wick’s eyes misted over and a lovely smile crossed his face. “Gladys always said it was nuts to do it. She was my wife. But since I was a child, I had dreamed of acting in theatre.
“My father thought I was weird because I was interested in the arts, and tried to beat it out of me. He was a tough old goat, my dad. I gave up to keep the peace in the family. Became a farmer just like Dad.
“He was suspicious of me all his life, just because I wanted to bring life to the written word. He never understood why I wanted to create magic for people. Lights and illusion. I read about famous actors in England, who were honoured and knighted. Why couldn’t I get just a little respect at home?
“Anyway, with the money he left me when he died, I converted the barn into this theatre. Call it my own form of revenge, if you like.”
Watching Mr. Wick as he spoke, Abby saw the young man under the old farmer’s face. She felt his hurt, his turmoil over his father, and his great love for the theatre.
“Why did you laugh so hard just now?” Abby gently asked. She didn’t want him to laugh again, or to cry, but she wanted to know.
He paused before he answered. “Because I have become my disguise. We all wear disguises, Abby, in one way or another. You made me see myself as you see me, and that’s not what I am underneath.”
“That wouldn’t make me laugh, Mr. Wick. It sounds kind of sad.” Abby examined her dirty, chipped fingernails. “And anyway, now that you’ve revealed your true self to me, I’ll always see you differently.”
“Will you? Good. You should always look for the person under the disguise, Abby.”
Abby nodded, wondering how many people had disguises. “Can we get back to the ghost? Is he friendly?”
“Absolutely. He keeps me company when I’m here and I always know where to find him. If he wants to be found, that is.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Abby, excitedly. “Second row from the back, second seat in, on the right side of the theatre when you stand on the stage looking into the seats.”
Mr. Wick stared. “You’ve met him? He showed himself to you?”
“Yes! Well, I didn’t see a person, really, only a sort of a light.”
“Then you have a special quality, Abby. Ghosts know.” His eyes reassessed her as he spoke. “And it’s called stage right.”
“What is?”
“The right side of the theatre. When you stand on the stage and look out into the house—that’s what you call where the audience sits—what’s on your right is called stage right, and what’s on your left is called stage left. And when you’re in the middle of the stage, you are standing at centre stage.”
Mr. Wick walked up to the stage and climbed the stairs. He stood in the exact middle of the stage. “You see? I’m at centre stage. If I go back a step or two, I’ve gone upstage. If I step forward, like this, I’ve moved downstage.” Mr. Wick stepped as he spoke, illustrating with his actions. He swung his right arm out.
“Stage right.” He swung out his left arm. “Stage left. Upstage, downstage, centre stage.”
Abby was transfixed. As she watched, Mr. Wick turned from a farmer into an actor. Not a sloppy actor, either. His motions were economical, his voice was clear and well-modulated, and his bearing made even this rudimentary lesson in stage direction fascinating. His farmer’s
