Chapter 37 #2
but a brilliant artist and deeply devoted to those he loved. “It was a short list,” he says, “really just the NS cast, his family, and that ridiculous dog, but, God, anyone lucky enough to be on that list knew. At least, Judy and I knew.
Sam knew. And I hope . . . I hope Dagny knows. Victor loved his daughter more than anything in this world—so much more than
he loved the show. He loved her so much.”
George’s voice breaks a little when he talks about Dagny, and it breaks my heart a little, too.
He goes on to talk about the show and the museum, too, and love remains the heart line of his speech. Finally, he thanks the union for inviting him and providing this opportunity to tell stories he feared would die with him.
After deafening applause—during which I am so grateful for my earplugs—Ms. Sinclair starts screening the Nuclear Seasons pilot.
The opening credits are still rolling when the doors swing open beside me. TJ’s wild, panicked eyes find me. In a whisper-shout,
he blurts, “Intruder alert!”
The scene that greets me in the lobby is surreal, like something out of a Nuclear Seasons episode—one of those nights when Rebecca and Art snuck out of the silo and into the town twenty years removed from everything
they knew.
This is a little like that. Because instead of overseeing a gala in the shadow of that very silo, Dagny Kane is here, at our
ramshackle, rapscallion counterprotest of an anniversary party.
She certainly doesn’t look like she belongs here. We may all be dressed up, but we’ve got nothing on Dagny’s vintage gala
outfit. Her ’80s royal-blue double-breasted blazer dress with military-grade brass buttons could be straight out of the NS casting closet. The finger waves in her bob are a nod to Old Hollywood, but she keeps raking her nails through the delicate
waves.
“Oh, good,” Lola says when she sees me. “Maybe you can sort out this clusterfuck, Eli. She was asking for you.”
Jaime, Blake, and Divya are leaning against the wall, ranging from confused to defensive to totally pissed, respectively.
TJ’s hanging back just behind me, using me as a human shield. I weigh my options, not relishing any of them, but the decision
is lighter knowing I don’t have to do any of this alone. Quietly, I ask TJ to go back in the theater and pull as many union
members as he can.
I take a few slow, steadying breaths to quell the anxiety storm threatening my central nervous system. There’s a pair of questions
rattling around in my head. I pick the simpler of two evils: “Dagny, how are you here?”
When she looks up at me, I notice that her mascara is smudged, her sclera tinted pink. She’s been crying. She hasn’t answered.
Maybe she doesn’t trust her voice.
I never should’ve looked at her eyes. “I mean, I assume you left the gala and drove here. But how did you get in without anyone
noticing?”
“We found her skulking inside the theater,” Blake says.
“While George was talking,” Jaime clarifies.
“I came through the side entrance,” Dagny huffs.
“You mean the fire exit that’s locked from the outside?” I ask.
“Frances let me in. She was my babysitter growing up here.”
I follow Dagny’s line of sight and gape at Ms. Sinclair, whom I hadn’t noticed leaning against the concession stand counter.
I can’t believe she betrayed us after all this.
But she’s completely unruffled. “I thought Dagny deserved to hear what people are saying about her father. Besides, the event’s open to the public, isn’t it? She’s the public.”
“She’s the one percent!” I exclaim.
Lola snorts. “Dude, I think you’re severely overestimating the value of the Kane estate.”
“Okay, but my point still stands.”
“What is your point, Eli?” Ms. Sinclair asks pointedly.
Time to ask the harder question. I turn back to Dagny, force myself to meet her eyes, and ask, “Why did you come here?”
I don’t know what I’m expecting. Some supervillain monologue explaining her dastardly plan to infiltrate and sabotage our
event?
But all she says is, “I wanted to see.”
“See what, exactly?”
“I wanted to see it the way all of you see it. I needed to understand why . . .”
“What do you mean, ‘it’?” Lola asks. “Are you talking about the museum?”
“The show?” Stanley asks from behind me. I never heard the doors open, but TJ has returned with almost everyone. Naomi, Eden,
Gwen, and Miles are all here, backing me up.
Seeing them, I understand. “It” isn’t about the museum or the show. It’s always about the people.
To Dagny, I say, “You’re talking about your father’s legacy.”
She nods sharply.
“That’s what you needed to understand. You needed to see if we would still respect Victor Kane’s memory even while we’re on
strike.”
“I didn’t realize you’d be showing the letters.”
Eden jumps in, “You should know, Winston and I went over the ethics so many times. But Victor wrote—it was one of the later
letters—he wanted to come out even if Sam didn’t want to be with him because he didn’t want anyone to feel as alone as he
had.”
“The only reason he kept putting it off was you,” a new voice interjects.
It’s George Rhodes. George Rhodes is standing three feet away from me, looking at Dagny with the softest expression on his
face. He keeps talking to Dagny, but I don’t hear him.
Because Efraín swoops in next to me, and Dan slips in beside Stanley. Efraín rests his hand on my shoulder, and I’m pretty
sure I can smell George Rhodes’s vetiver vanilla cologne.
Like I said, surreal.
But it’s also painfully real.
I look at Dagny, her cheeks wet with fresh tears, and ask, “Did you see what you needed to see? Do you understand? Your father is loved. His fans still love and respect him, not in spite of his queerness, but because of it. It was why he saw the world the way he did. And that’s why people like me found something to love in Nuclear Seasons. It’s all connected—”
“Because we’re all connected,” Lola says.
Dagny looks at me. She dabs her face with George Rhodes’s handkerchief and keeps looking at me. I don’t know whether she’s
running calculations, projecting next quarter’s ticket sales if she stops pandering to bigots, or just seeing me.
I’m still learning what it means to be seen while me.
“Okay,” Dagny says.
“Pardon?”
“I’m saying yes. If you’re still amenable to meeting with me to discuss certain issues, then I’m willing to meet with you,
Eli. I believe we have more matters to discuss.”
“Oh, right.” I almost laugh. She’s back to business as almost-usual right after a minor emotional meltdown. “I take it that
by ‘discuss’ you mean ‘bargain,’ and by ‘we’ you mean ‘the union,’ not just me personally?” I ask, my voice unwavering despite
my nerves.
Dagny frowns.
I don’t know what she was expecting. I know better now than to face her one-on-one.
A long moment passes before she agrees. “Tomorrow morning, then?”
I look around the room, studying every face in turn, from Naomi’s tentative smile to Lola’s broad grin, from Blake’s subtle up-nod to TJ’s double thumbs-up, from Stanley’s wink to Efraín’s multifaceted smolder.
Because Dagny may be looking at me, she may have asked me, but it isn’t up to me what the union does.
Solidarity is a choice we make alone to show up together.
Once my friends and fellow workers give their consent, I nod. “We’ll meet you at the bargaining table.”