by Lian Dolan
FX didn’t hesitate. “Have you seen the guy playing Lysander? He’s ripped! I don’t want to be compared to him.” Of course. This was more about his abs than his art.
Well, at least we were both on the same page, even if it was for different reasons. But something about how it all went down was bothering me. I didn’t trust that Taz. “So let me get this straight. Did Taz just drop this bombshell on you today?”
“Yeah. I mean, he’s been hinting at some form of skin, making the whole production really hot. But I didn’t think he meant this.”
It was almost like Taz was practicing some kind of directorial hazing, testing the mettle of his actors in a sinister way. I knew FX didn’t want to look weak in the director’s eyes. “Well, can you play along and then a few days before opening, tell him you just can’t do it? It’s just not working for you?”
“We have this press conference on Monday, announcing the show and the special ticket sales and the unusual nature of the production. So I don’t really want this announced to the public if I have no intention of going through with it.” Tick-tock, the clock was running. I wasn’t Bumble but I could hear her voice in my head: This could be a PR fiasco. It had the potential to be Coriolanus 2: The Undoing of FX Fahey before the show even opened.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
Didn’t he mean I? “You can’t just say no? I mean, at this point, Taz won’t bail, will he? Or have your agent call him. Hank can tell him you don’t want to do nudity.”
FX cocked his head and shrugged his shoulders, but not in a puppy-dog way, more in a pit-bull way. “I’d rather it didn’t come from me. Or Hank. I’d rather it came from you, so it seems like more of an artistic decision, not a personal decision I’m making for the benefit of my career. Just convince Taz like you convinced me. It’s not authentic to the text. End of story.”
Ah yes, it was time for the FX Fahey Industrial Complex to spring into action. If I wanted that Caesarstone countertop, I was going to have to get him out of this.
Back inside, I contemplated my situation and reheated my squash for the third time. The fried capers looked more like limp capers, but I was starving so it would have to do. While the oven did its thing, I checked in on Maddie. She was tucked into bed, fully engrossed in multiple electronic devices when I knocked and entered. She glanced up from her laptop to greet me. I explained my earlier panic. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to lecture you about the nondisclosure agreement. It’s just really important to FX that this play goes off well. I know you won’t say anything.”
“I won’t. I like FX. And I kinda get it, you know, having to be careful about revealing what goes on behind the scenes.” Of course, she was talking about her own mini-fishbowl-life in Pasadena.
Her phone buzzed. “One of the Emmas?” I asked.
“No, it’s Dylan. The other intern who’s working for Taz?” Of course, the pale hipster in the glasses who was also sent to fetch dinner. “He’s cool. He grew up in Klamath Falls, doesn’t that sound magical? He’s in college here in Ashland at Southern Oregon. You know what he’s majoring in?”
I shook my head, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer: freshfaced, sheltered high school girls from California. But maybe I was being too protective.
“History with a minor in Shakespeare Studies, how cool is that? Have you ever heard of that minor?”
“No. That sounds fantastic.” Goodbye, Swarthmore, hello Southern Oregon. Her father would have a field day with that educational trade. On the downside, Maddie was a goner. But on the upside, I had an inside source. “Like a dream. Makes me want to be an undergrad all over again. So are you going to rehearsal tomorrow? With FX and everybody?”
She hesitated, “If it’s okay with you. I think Taz thinks I’m working for FX. And FX seems to kind of think that, too. But I know you wanted me to put together a list of Shakespearean breakup lines, so I can do that before the ten o’clock call time.”
I feigned understanding when I really felt elation. “Don’t worry about the book for now. This is an incredible opportunity to see a show come together in a really short time. Do what you need to do to be helpful to FX and the production. Once the show’s up and running, we’ll have plenty of time to work on the book stuff.”
The phone buzzed again. Apparently, Mr. Minoring in Shakespeare was getting impatient. “Maddie, do you tell people right off the bat that your dad is a congressman?”
“Not usually. I used to in the beginning because I thought it was awesome. But then people would say things like, ‘All politicians are crooks.’ Or ‘Republicans are facists.’ It really upsets me when people say stuff like that. So now I wait to see if it’s even worth it. You have to pick your moments.”
So true.
I was supposed to be the Shakespearean scholar, so I asked myself: What would Iago do?
I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, eating my dried-out dinner and contemplating my next move. I had to think like Othello’s villain if I was to outwit Taz. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an Iago bone in my body. My only thought was to go to Taz and beg for mercy, which didn’t exactly fall in the master manipulator category. I thought about calling my sister Sarah for advice, but it was too late to call a doctor and not have the reason be life-threatening. She barely got to sleep as it was without me interrupting her for my petty problems. And I thought about calling Bumble but feared the resulting Pandora’s box of recriminations. And forget calling my parents. The fake Redfield resume was gnawing away at the piece of my soul still affected by Guilt Generated by my Mother, and my father simply didn’t operate on this plane. I looked at Puck and he wagged his tail. He believed in me.
Just then, my phone beeped; it was my dad. His text said: Did you watch Wimbledon tune-up. New American kid looks good.
I texted back: Missed him. Will check out tomorrow.
When another ping sounded, I expected another tennis-related text. But it was from Rafa: Thanks for dinner “date.”
His quotation marks, not mine. Oh well. The day wasn’t a total washout.
Regan &
Goneril
FROM KING LEAR
WHO THEY ARE: The two baddest sisters in all of literature: scheming she-wolves who lie, cheat, and plot their way through life. The game is on after their father, King Lear, sets up a nowin competition called “Who loves Daddy the most?” These wicked daughters declare their filial love to secure their half of his kingdom, then humiliate dear ol’ dad. Also included in their relationship bag o’ tricks: philandering, emasculating, and murdering. In the end, they both die horrible deaths.
WHY THEY ARE RIGHTEOUS: They are utterly shameless. And in a world in which we are constantly exposed to manufactured shamelessness—like those fake housewives or those fake sisters from Calabasas—Regan and Goneril are the real deal, driven by their desire for power and ambitious for their own sake. They are females who are unafraid of being feared. You have to appreciate their commitment.
WHAT TO STEAL FROM THEM:
Their extreme self-love. Low self-esteem is not an issue for the Lear girls.
Their support of each other. Until they don’t and both end up dead.
A No Guts, No Glory attitude. And by guts, I mean actual guts on the ground.
Their intolerance of houseguests. No knights for multiple nights, Dad.
WHAT TO SKIP: Going after your married sister’s hot boyfriend is never a good idea. Neither is poisoning her.
WHO THEY REMIND YOU OF: Cinderella’s tormentors, Drizella and Anastasia, on steroids.
WHERE THE MODERN-DAY SISTERS WOULD HAVE WORKED: Lehman Brothers.
CHAPTER 15
Operation Seeds of Doubt was in motion. Hiking through Lithia Park with Puck, I thought some more about Rafa’s advice and what exactly I had to offer that no one else could provide: history. I had a history with FX, and I could use that to my advantage. I didn’t have to convince Taz to change his mind on the gratuitous nude scene; I just had to plant seeds of doubt s
o he would question his own judgment. About an hour into our trek, I had two additional realizations: Puck doesn’t like pugs (a bad puppyhood memory, no doubt), and you can get a lot of thinking done while walking a dog. By the time we passed the duck pond, the swimming hole, and finally the playground, I’d formulated my line of attack. Puck was exhausted, but I was ready to jump into the crosswalk, as Rafa had said. I should have gotten a dog years ago; I could have accomplished so much more by now.
I was lying in wait at Paddy’s, an Irish pub just off Main Street. A text from my asset Maddie had tipped me off that the production team and some of the cast were headed over for a beer or two after a long day of rehearsal. I embraced a “no time like the present” attitude and got thirsty. My plan was to strike up a conversation with Taz about the added elements of the play, tossing out my concern casually, as if we were just two people talking at a pub. I was hoping to get in a little one-on-one time with him before the karaoke started, then head home on the off chance that Rafa needed my assistance. The more I thought about my plan, the more I realized that my de-maturation process was still going on. Sitting there, in my blue jeans and peasant blouse with a completely pre-scripted conversation in my head, I was in high school again. Except now I could legally drink.
The pub was lively, filled with theatergoers, local college kids, and gray-haired ceramists all taking advantage of the happy-hour pints. Four outdoorsy types in their twenties, sporting baseball caps and Keens, were throwing darts after a day of leading tourists down the Rogue River. What looked to be a few actors were playing backgammon at a corner table. I’d seen several alarming flyers at the Food Co-op about the death of Ashland thanks to the intolerance of the recently arrived baby boomers and the rising real estate prices that were choking out “real” Ashlanders. But despite those accusations and the rancor over a recent city ordinance outlawing public drumming, the mix of locals and tourists, new money and old hippies had clearly reached a happy détente at Paddy’s. There was Celtic music in the background and laughter and conversation in the foreground. I nursed my pint of Ten Barrel IPA and soaked in the atmosphere.
In Pasadena, I was usually on high alert at bars, as if any moment a former Eastmont classmate was going to bust me for being “still divorced.” Or some former neighbor of my parents, now a downsized condo dweller, might insist that I join them and their cronies for a “lovely evening” at Symphony in the Park. But here, anonymous in Ashland, I felt at home.
I almost forgot why I’d come to Paddy’s in the first place until Taz walked in.
“So, did FX tell you about the booty call scene with Oberon and Titania?”
Taz was well into his third beer by now, and happy hour had long since ended. (I believe the term is “hollow leg.”) Unfortunately, it had taken me this long to position myself next to him at the bar. The group that piled in from rehearsal originally numbered seven or eight but had slowly dwindled. FX, camouflaged in a Mariners’ cap, had wandered over to the darts board with his attentive co-star, Sabrina, leaving me stuck with stage manager Lulu. She made several passes at me, which I pretended not to understand. (Actually, Lulu, I look nothing like Tegan or Sara, but I appreciate their music.) My patience had paid off, because now I was shoulder to shoulder with Taz. He opened up the conversation with a challenging edge in his voice. It was all I could have hoped for in the moment.
“He did.” And then, in a risky move, I tried to pull off a look that implied that I was concerned but reluctant to say anything—risky because unlike half the patrons in Paddy’s, I wasn’t an actor. The director stared back quizzically. I must have sold it, so I continued as planned. “There are a million reasons why that’s not my cup of tea. But I’m sure you know what’s right for the production.”
“What’s one reason?”
“You’ve already pegged me as a stickler when it comes to interpretation. I’m not a big fan of adding scenes to the original work. Certain plays can take editing, for sure. But I can’t think of a single instance where a new scene has enhanced the dramatic arc of a play, not when it comes to Shakespeare’s work. Sorry.”
Taz was amused that I dared question him. I think after all the beer he was beginning to warm up to me. “Don’t be sorry, Lizzie. You’re entitled to have strong opinions. I disagree with you, but you’re entitled.”
“Give me some credit. I like what you’re doing with the young lovers. Their wild night sounds perfectly in keeping with the play’s themes.”
“Thank you.” He lifted his glass in a toast, but I couldn’t really reciprocate, as mine was empty. So I signaled to the bartender and ordered another beer I had no intention of drinking.
I lowered my voice and leaned in. “You know what surprises me most? FX. I guess he’s more comfortable with that sort of thing now. Certainly wasn’t when we were together.”
Now Taz was really interested. “What do you mean?”
“You know we were married, right?” My beer arrived and I took a little sip, just to give that information some time to sink in.
He looked surprised. “No, I didn’t know you were married. I mean, FX said you were an ex. I thought he meant an ex-girlfriend.”
“Oh, much more than that. Ex-wife. I was Mrs. Fahey. So I know him pretty well.” I stepped back, taking in all of Taz for effect. My eyes drifted below his belt buckle, and I nodded my head in what some might call “a knowing fashion.” I hoped my meaning was clear, because I was so far out of my comfort zone that I couldn’t possibly be more specific. He appeared to get my drift, so I went in for the kill with a whisper. “I’m surprised he’d want to, um, go public with his private parts. He must really, really trust you.”
I felt my face burn with shame as I simultaneously smeared FX and saved him. Please let this work. Or I was going to be the one exposed.
“What do you mean?”
I shrugged my shoulders and said sweetly. “Maybe he’s had surgery. Or therapy. But obviously the issues he had when we were married are no longer there. Although, I don’t know? Do they have testicle replacement surgery?”
Taz went white as I lifted my glass to my lips. Money! Just call me the Gardener, because I’m planting the seeds. The look on Taz’s face told me that he wasn’t ready to go there with his production. Exploited nudity was once thing; freak of nature another. FX was safe and so was my built-in microwave. As Iago would say, but for my sport and profit, I think I’ll drink this beer after all.
From across the bar, FX caught my eye. He’d obviously been keeping one eye on the dartboard and one eye on Taz and me. He flashed me a peace sign, our safe signal. Do I tell him a half-truth or reveal that I outed him (falsely) as half man? I opted for the half-truth.
I texted him: I think you’ll be able to keep your clothes on.
After reading it, he blew me a kiss. And then blew me off to resume his game with Sabrina.
Maddie texted me as I walked home, triumphant: With Dylan. Home by?
I panicked. Home by what? I didn’t know. Was this simply a curfew question or the opportunity for me to pass along a life lesson? My only experience with young romance was Romeo & Juliet and FX & Elizabeth, and neither ended well. How about “Home before you commit to a double suicide pact”? Or “Home before you fall in love with a guy over Shakespeare and lose your head and heart”? Maybe, more succinctly, “Home before you marry him”?
I called Bumble. I’d been avoiding actual conversation with her to spare myself any further details on her summer project. But she’d managed to send texts that crossed the Too Much Information barrier, the least cringeworthy being: Think we made that baby today. Twice! Twins? Ugh.
But on the topic of Maddie, Dylan, and curfew, I needed her input. “Hey. Is this a bad time? No details, please. Just a simple yes or no.”
Bumble laughed, “It’s fine. Ted’s out and I’m home alone. With my feet up on the wall.”
“Seriously, I don’t want to know about your baby-making voodoo. But I do have a question about Maddie.” Bu
mble was already aware of Dylan, as I’d sent her a few photos in an e-mail with the subject line, “Hermione meets her Ron.” I explained the current dilemma. “She swears they’re just friends. But they look really friendly. And he is in college. Is there stuff I need to tell her?”
“Like birds and bees stuff? God no. Her ‘get in touch with your sexuality’ mother gave her a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves when she was like eight. She probably knows more about sex than you do,” Bumble said, not without a hint of truth. “Seriously, that woman calls her when there’s a full moon and asks about her hormone levels and if she’s drinking her purity tea or whatever. Never once has she asked Maddie about Algebra 2 or her SATs, only tides-of-the-moon sort of things.”
No wonder Maddie drank specific teas on specific nights! When she bought five different kids of tea, she informed me it was for balance. She never said hormonal balance. Maybe I should try her tea regimen? “Okay, so my role is to monitor from afar and make sure she’s home by midnight?”
“Say 11:30. Midnight sounds dangerous. She’s a sensible girl, like you.” I’m pretty sure that was a compliment. “Oh, and I think you were wrong about Rafa.”
My mind did a quick inventory of the statements I might have made to Bumble about Rafa. I hadn’t let on about anything more than the most perfunctory conversations with him, so I was stumped. “What do you mean?”
“I think he does want to water your plants.”
“Huh?”
“Ted and I stopped by there the other day and we found him in your garden, all sweaty and dirty in a T-shirt and shorts. He was weeding. Like he cared.”
I didn’t respond immediately, distracted by the mental image of a sweaty and dirty Rafa. And other parts of my body. (I definitely needed to get a hormonal-tea recommendation tonight.) Then I recovered. “That’s nice of him. Well, I have to answer Maddie. Talk soon.”