Since we had spent so much time getting to know the Phantom, it seemed only fitting that we meet him in person. (We had learned late in the year that the musical was coming to a nearby city the following spring.) With tickets in hand, my son and I made the two-hour trek in the rain to the theatre, conveniently located in the middle of a bustling and unfamiliar downtown. We drove around in circles trying to find an empty parking spot. We raced in the freezing rain to the crowded hall where we were to finally meet the man who had become our friend. We made it to our seats with only seconds to spare, due in part to my son's excitement, which required two trips to the bathroom.
With a nod from the conductor, the curtain rose, the chandelier crackled, and the show came alive. Jonathan and I huddled together, whispering our impressions. We peered through binoculars to look at costumes, then closed our eyes to fully absorb the musical splendor of it all. Much too quickly we were transported to the final scene, where the Phantom stood alone in his underground labyrinth, forsaken by his true love and hounded by a mob thirsty for retribution. As he softly sang what had become his life's sad anthem, "Masquerade, paper faces on parade; Masquerade, hide your face so the world can never find you," a single tear streamed down my son's face. In that moment I knew that no child is ever too young to tap into the emotions of complex individuals, to be drawn into and completely lost within a world of music and mystery. I also knew that none of my careful planning could have engendered such a response. In an attempt to satisfy my son's curiosity, we had unmasked the Phantom, and in the process, the scales had fallen from my eyes as well.