“I thought it might be…unsettling.”
“No shit, Sherlock!”
When Rowan’s hand settled on his shoulder again, Daddy leaped up with such violence that his chair toppled over. “Stop calming me! Just for once, let me feel!”
He backed into the file cabinet. Then the anger left his face and he slowly slid down its smooth wooden side and sank onto the floor.
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Reinhard and I had gone through the theatre, taking down wall calendars, dated notices, anything that might set Daddy off. The rest of the staff had been warned to keep their organizers and datebooks under wraps. But I had been so eager to prove how knowledgeable I was that I’d forgotten the fucking date popped up when you passed the arrow over the time.
Daddy’s shoulders began to shake. Only when he looked up did I realize he was laughing. A hoarse croak of a laugh, but not the tears I had expected.
“Twenty years. And except for that…” He nodded at the laptop. “…everything looks the same.”
“Communications technology changes very quickly,” explained Rowan, who didn’t even have a phone in his apartment.
“What else has changed?”
This time, Rowan deferred to me. “There are mobile phones now that fit into the palm of your hand. And flat screen TVs. And something called the Internet. It’s this big global network…thing. You can send messages and watch movies and order stuff from stores and play interactive games and—”
“Show me.”
I spent the next hour teaching him the basics and conducting a whirlwind tour of the last twenty years. Daddy hurled questions at me and I fumbled for answers, painfully aware that I knew more about Tony Award winners than the events that had shaped and shaken my world.
“A black dude?” he exclaimed. “Was elected President?”
“Mixed race, but—”
“Next you’ll be telling me Arnold Schwarzenegger is Secretary of Defense.”
“No. But he was Governor of California. And Jesse Ventura—the wrestler? He was Governor of Minnesota.”
Daddy burst out laughing. Real laughter this time—the same exuberant bellow I’d heard last night.
“Jeez, when it comes to crazy, this world has the Borderlands beat by a mile.”
At some point, Rowan left. I suppressed my guilt at ignoring him and vowed to make up for it at dinner.
With only minutes before rehearsal began, I said, “You know, you can find other things on the Internet. Old TV shows, old friends…family…”
My heart pounded like a rabbit’s as he scrutinized the screen. Then his face lit up and he began to type.
“Over two million results!” he crowed.
He was so absorbed in his findings that he never even noticed when I walked out.
I’d hoped—no, I’d expected him to search for me or Mom. But after so many years apart from us, so many years without even knowing if we were alive, what was he most eager to find?
Ms. fucking Pac-Man.
The best part about working with magical people is that you never have to tell them you’re upset. It’s also the worst part because you can’t hide anything. My little ups and downs generally passed unnoticed, but any major emotional roller coaster drew them like bears to honey.
So naturally, just when I needed to ride out this roller coaster, Rowan, Reinhard, and Alex all converged on me in the stage right wings. And naturally, I took one look at my three bears and burst into tears.
They clustered around me, offering masculine comfort and soothing magic. When I explained what had happened, Alex suggested Daddy might have needed some sort of distraction after the shock of finding out how much time had passed. Reinhard observed that he was unready to deal with the guilt of deserting his family.
Rowan demanded, “So he searches for some woman instead?”
I had to laugh. Alex joined me. Even Reinhard’s lips twitched as he enlightened Rowan about arcade games and the true identity of Ms. Pac-Man.
The unexpected laughter eased the pain a little. Blocking Scene 4 forced me to focus on something else. By the time our staff meeting rolled around, I was able to turn the whole incident into an amusing anecdote. I didn’t fool anyone, of course. Maybe that was why they agreed to invite Daddy to perform in the Follies.
After the meeting, I pulled the box containing Rowan’s keepsakes out of my bedroom closet. It was the first time I had opened it in more than a year.
I set aside his script of By Iron, Bound, his battered copy of the 1836 edition of the McGuffey Reader, and the equally battered diary in which he’d recorded his first thoughts and feelings. Then I unearthed the slim leather-bound journal he had kept during my season at the Crossroads. I flipped through the pages until I found the passage I was seeking.
“Jack Sinclair. Now there’s a pathetic imitation of a man. Charming, yes. And clever. About everything except himself. But completely self-absorbed. And arrogant and superior. Always making excuses for his failures.”
Those bitter words filled my mind as I trudged up to Rowan’s apartment after rehearsal. Daddy’s enthusiastic greeting surprised me. I was even more surprised when he asked about my day.
I glanced at Rowan, wondering if he’d coached him. But Daddy seemed genuinely interested so I started talking about the show. He loved the idea of the magical garden and nodded thoughtfully when I explained its themes of healing and transformation. But he was more interested in the characters. At one point, he exclaimed, “I’d be great for Archibald!” And immediately began reminiscing about some of the roles he had played.
Rowan was very quiet during dinner. But as he walked me to my evening rehearsal, he said, “Be patient, Maggie. And don’t expect more than he can give.”
I nodded wearily. “Did you tell him to ask about my day?”
Rowan hesitated. “I told him he should have thanked you for teaching him. And that he should think more about other people’s feelings.”
“So should I.”
“What do you mean?”
“I ignored you to show Daddy how to use the Internet. Like father, like daughter.”
“Hush.”
“I’m sorry.”
This time, he hushed me with a kiss. Then he asked, “Did you ever read my journals?”
Surprised by the sudden shift in the conversation, I said, “The one from my year. And the early ones. But once people I knew began showing up…it just made me uncomfortable.”
“Then you never read about your father’s season here?”
I shook my head.
“Maybe you should.”
I’d deliberately avoided reading that journal. I’d come to terms with my past—and my father—and saw little benefit in picking at those wounds. Daddy’s return had pretty much ripped off the Band-Aid. So instead of going straight to my bedroom, I climbed the stairs to the attic.
Each spring, Hal and I sorted through the costumes and set pieces we might want to use during the upcoming season. The only other time I’d ventured there was when I’d helped Reinhard carry up the five boxes containing the rest of Rowan’s journals.
I opened the door and groped for the light switch. A single naked bulb blazed to life over my head. I made out the shadowy forms of sheet-draped furniture. Garment bags hung like corpses from the rows of clothes racks. It looked much spookier at night than it had during the day and I was glad I didn’t have to rummage around to find Rowan’s journals; the boxes were only a few feet from the door, as carefully labeled as the boxes of props nestled under the eaves.
I opened the one on top and easily found the journal from Daddy’s season, its first page inscribed with the year in Rowan’s neat handwriting. As I straightened, I bashed my head against a slanting roof beam and got a faceful of cobweb.
Not an auspicious beginning.
I retreated to my bedroom, clutching the journal in my left hand and massaging the top of my head with my right. I sank into Helen’s rocking chair and turned on the light
, wishing for some of her calming energy. Then I took a deep breath and opened the journal.
I knew Daddy had arrived only days before Midsummer to begin rehearsals for the second show. Oddly, neither Rowan nor my mother had ever mentioned that it was Camelot. Now, I learned that he had played one of the knights defeated by Lancelot in the joust.
I skimmed the pages, seeking other references to Daddy, and winced when I found them.
“Jack was quite good at the read-through, but clearly disdainful of his cast mates.”
“Jack took me aside to suggest that he take over the role of Arthur. The man has ballocks the size of basketballs and an ego to match. Yet underneath it all, his insecurity throbs like a heartbeat. He is so eager for me to like and respect him, but fails to see that his behavior accomplishes just the opposite. Still, these are early days. And my perceptions are always suspect at Midsummer.”
I turned the page and braced myself for a description of Daddy’s encounter with Rowan’s clan. Instead, there was only a hastily scrawled word: “Disaster.”
Ragged edges were all that remained of the next three pages. Perhaps Rowan had decided it was too dangerous to leave a record of the incident. The next entry—dated three days after Midsummer—said only: “It is done. And if we watch him carefully, all may yet be well.”
Every entry for the rest of the season contained some snippet about my father. Reading between the lines of Rowan’s cryptic entries, I pieced together his transformation from the dazed man who had rejoined the company to the hard-working one who enjoyed the fellowship of his cast mates and put so much of himself into the character of Billy Bigelow: the fear beneath the bravado; the doubts beneath the swagger; the desire to make amends to his wife and child.
Rowan’s last entry for the season read:
“Met Jack’s wife. I had hoped that seeing the show—and seeing how it has changed Jack—might reconcile her to his long absence. But she eyes both of us with suspicion, unable to accept his transformation and unwilling to exonerate me for luring him away.
Perhaps she’s seen Jack’s chameleon act too often to trust his latest incarnation. And perhaps she is wise. Whatever else I accomplished, I did not change Jack’s nature. Once he leaves, his dissatisfaction with himself and his life might resurface.
I hope I’m wrong. Mostly for the child’s sake. Such a pretty little thing, with that shining cap of bright red hair. And clearly her father’s daughter. She was practically falling over from exhaustion until he appeared. Then her face lit up and she cried, “Daddy!” And from the look on his face and the way he swept her into his arms and spun around and around with her…yes, I think I’m right to hope.
If anyone can save Jack Sinclair from himself, his daughter can.”
Fat chance. It was Rowan’s magic that had brought him back from the brink of madness; Rowan’s coaching that had helped him create a new persona. So far, all I’d done was reintroduce him to Ms. Pac-Man and promise him an evening of fireworks.
My father was as much a stranger as ever. He was my indulgent, imaginative playmate and the haunted, unpredictable stranger locked away in the basement. The “lost boy” my mother had loved and the restless, unhappy one that Rowan had known. In the last few days, I’d added new pieces to the puzzle: the terrified Rip Van Winkle; the impatient, demanding child; the charming Aqua Velva man.
How could I help my father find his place in this world when I didn’t even know who he was?
I undressed and crawled into bed. Tired as I was, sleep eluded me. I tossed restlessly, beat my pillow into submission, and tossed some more.
I was reaching for the bedside lamp when warmth enfolded me. And with it, the fleeting sensation I’d experienced in Rowan’s apartment of something caressing my cheek.
I breathed in the faint scent of lavender.
“Helen?” I whispered to the darkness.
The only reply was a deep peace that banished my anxiety and eased me gently into sleep.
CHAPTER 19
WHAT WOULD WE DO WITHOUT YOU?
A DAY OF LACKLUSTER REHEARSALS—during which Daddy remained glued to the laptop—eroded that peace. So did the prospect of our Act One run-through, which ranked about as high on the “Can’t Wait!” meter as a Pap smear.
The kids would be fine. They’d been strong from the beginning and had only grown in confidence. Gregory had cornered the market on inner torment, Michaela on sweetness. But the chorus was having a tough time with the vocals, and in spite of Mei-Yin’s hectoring, their scenes looked more like a bunch of lost travelers wandering through Grand Central than restless spirits wafting through Misselthwaite Manor.
And then there was Roger.
“He’s turning Neville into an incestuous gay stalker,” I complained to Hal and Lee as we bolted pizza in the green room before the run-through.
Lee grinned. “Not what you were going for?”
“Not so much.”
“That’s a relief. I thought it was some radical reinterpretation of the character.”
“Too bad about ‘Lily’s Eyes,’” Hal said, nibbling a slice of pepperoni.
“The song is the one moment that works!”
“Yes, but if Neville didn’t come right out and say he’d been in love with Lily, the incestuous gay love angle might work.”
“But it would still be icky.”
“True.”
Lee tossed aside his pizza crust and picked up another slice. “Have you told him Neville is too repressed for public displays of affection?”
“Yes.”
“That everyone in the show is too repressed to—?”
“Yes, yes, yes! The weird thing is, he seems to get it. But once he’s onstage, it’s like he can’t help himself. And now Gregory’s started.”
“Started what?” Hal asked.
“Touching Roger almost as much as Roger’s touching him!”
Hal’s face lit up. “Maybe Gregory’s coming out of the closet!”
“Great. My father went home after his season, obsessed with faeries. Now Gregory’s becoming obsessed with the theatrical kind.”
“We have to be supportive,” Hal chided. “This is a very difficult and confusing time for him. Oh, I hope he won’t get his heart broken. Roger can be such a bitch.”
“He’s not coming out,” Lee said. “I didn’t get any of the usual signals.”
“Gaydar or Faedar?” I asked.
“Either. There’s something else going on.”
“As long as it goes on offstage.”
“And you call yourself a helping professional,” Hal scolded.
“Right now, I’m calling myself a director. If Roger doesn’t butch up soon, I’ll have to have him play Lily.”
“If only,” Hal muttered.
“Don’t you dare start on Michaela!” I exclaimed.
“I’m not! She’s a sweetheart. It’s just…” Hal sighed.
“I thought you of all people would be more sensitive.”
Hal slowly lowered his glass of diet soda. “Why? Because I’m fat, too?”
“You’re not—”
“I may have gained a few pounds over the winter—”
“You’re not fat!”
“Then why did you say—?”
“Because you know what it’s like to get bullied for being different. And you love dressing up in pretty things like she does. Only when she looks in the mirror, she doesn’t see a beautiful woman with sexy curves. She sees a fat chick.” I grabbed Hal’s arm. “Could you push up her costume fittings? Maybe when she puts on one of those lovely dresses…”
“She’ll see a fat chick in a lovely dress,” Lee said.
“Not if I’m her mirror!” Hal declared. “She’ll see in my eyes that she’s beautiful. Who wouldn’t be in a lavender silk ball gown with silver lace and sequin embroidery?”
Emboldened by his dreamy expression, I threw caution to the wind. “Maybe if she wore it tonight…”
“Absolutely not!” Hal excla
imed. “It’s the most beautiful costume I’ve ever made and I’m not having it ruined before opening night.”
“The more beautiful she feels, the more ethereal she’ll look. Please?”
Hal heaved a dramatic sigh. “It’ll have to be the coral chiffon garden dress. That’s already been fitted. Or the white cotton-and-lace afternoon dress. No, that’ll get filthy.”
Still mulling possibilities, he hurried down the stairs to the costume shop. Lee snatched the last slice of pizza and headed for the lighting booth. I played housewife and cleaned up. Fortunately, that just meant rinsing our glasses and tossing out the pizza box.
I wound my way through the maze of Annie set pieces in the wings and dodged the first wave of actors hurrying toward the Dungeon to don character shoes, rehearsal skirts, and the few costume pieces Hal permitted them to wear before dress rehearsal. Reinhard—ever unwilling to trust them to sign in—stood guard by the stage left steps, checking off names on the call sheet attached to his clipboard.
His head came up, and he stared past me into the stage right wings. A moment later, I heard Rowan greeting Javier. The butterflies dancing in my stomach morphed into pterodactyls performing loop-de-loops. Of course, I wanted him and Daddy to see my work; I just wished their first exposure to it was a polished performance of Annie.
Reinhard gave me a reassuring nod, but the tension in his body betrayed his anxiety. No one on staff had objected to Rowan attending the run-through, but I wondered if they were as nervous as I was about his reaction.
Daddy walked out of the wings and glanced around warily, but if Rowan felt any discomfort at the prospect of seeing Maggie Graham, Director, it was well hidden behind his easy smile.
“We just wanted to wish you good luck,” Rowan said.
Daddy stared at him, aghast. “It’s bad luck to wish her good luck.”
“That only applies to actors.”
“No, it doesn’t!”
“Just don’t let Reinhard hear you,” I said. “He’ll want to perform a cleansing ritual.”
“Hear what?” Reinhard called from across the stage. How he could detect my whispers and fail to hear Rowan speaking in normal tones was beyond me.
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