I said I was not the only one to notice how perfect Dad was as the lead, how—I truly believe this—the fortunes of that show might have been otherwise if he’d been properly cast, if they’d given him his one shot. That night, during Dad’s last performance of “Getting Away with It,” I felt someone touch my shoulder. Then I noticed Fountain’s white-gloved hand there, the cotton fabric dotted with tiny sequins. His touch, which had startled me, briefly turning my body to ice. He gave me a warm squeeze. “Finally,” he whispered, “I can hear my lyrics.”
