Chapter 37
Marlowe
“I cannot believe you are forcing me to see a production of Grease,” Dallas says.
He’s hitched a ride to the show with Priscilla and me, and he casts one of his most withering stares from the back seat, holding it until I look at him in my rearview mirror.
“Thank you for being so unbelievably brave,” I say. “I don’t know how you’ve found the strength.”
“You joke, but beneath your words there is truth. Playing the role of patient audience member might be my greatest work to date.”
“If you see him clapping, that’s all character work,” Priscilla says.
“Yes,” he confirms. “I have to understand how it feels to clap for something so foul. It’s important that even in my older age, I still get new experiences like this. It’s what I came back for, isn’t it?”
Priscilla reaches over and squeezes my leg. When I glance at her, she mouths, Tell him.
No, I mouth back, returning my focus to the road.
“Tell me what?” Dallas asks.
“It’s not actually my thing to tell,” I say. “It’s Priscilla’s.”
“That’s not true,” she counters. “You’re the one who got the school to agree.”
“You’re making me nervous,” Dallas says. “I hope you didn’t sign me on for another year of running the program. I know I’ve been making a fuss about you not replacing me, but that’s all an act. I don’t want that program back, and I don’t want you to have it either.”
“It’s not that,” I assure him. “And I don’t think I could legally arrange that job for you without your involvement.”
“Don’t hide behind your pretend worry of the legalities of a fake scenario,” Priscilla says.
“I’m not hiding. I’m just thinking this isn’t the kind of thing we tell him in the car,” I say.
“My therapist says the car is actually a great place to tell big news. Because then you don’t force the receiver into any kind of eye contact.”
“I’m the one who stole the costumes my freshman year,” I blurt.
Both Priscilla and Dallas say “What?” in equally disbelieving tones.
“That’s not the news she was supposed to share,” Priscilla informs him.
“I know, but it’s been weighing on me,” I say. “I had to express that before the real news.”
“You stole the costumes?” Dallas asks. “How can that be possible?”
Priscilla relishes the opportunity to regale him with this tale, sharing it as if it’s her own lived experience.
I let her, because she is the better performer and always will be, and I like the way she paints me.
She manages to make me sound sympathetic, even when I don’t deserve it.
She’s always ready to die on my hills with me, no matter how ridiculous.
Her telling woos Dallas, too. When she gets to the part about Lana revealing that she thought the dresses were hideous, he’s in hysterics, giving his best thundering claps.
“I’m really sorry,” I say once we’ve all stopped cackling. “I was too scared to come clean.”
“I’m glad you did,” he says. “I’ve always wondered. Never in a million years would I have suspected you.”
“Always suspect Marlowe,” Priscilla says. “She smoked pot once in high school. She’s dangerous!”
“Can I hear the real news now?” Dallas asks.
“You don’t want to reprimand me?” I ask.
“It’s about twenty years too late for that. And you two are the ones who made all the fuss about the past not controlling me. So what would there be for me to say?”
“You always manage to find something,” I tell him.
“News please,” he demands.
“So…I know you don’t really want the theater to be named for you,” I start, my nerve already threatening to deny me.
“Not particularly,” he confirms. “But I was under the impression it was out of my hands now, since Ms. Cove had already placed her calls to the people who decide those things.”
“I did,” Priscilla says. “But Marlowe thought of something even better. Something you might actually like.”
“You know I love the art of expectation, but just tell me,” Dallas begs.
“We’d like to name it the Theodore Marquez Auditorium, in Teddy’s honor,” I say.
The car goes silent.
“We don’t have to, though,” I assure him, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles have turned purplish white.
He still doesn’t respond.
“If you hate it, we will scrap the entire thing,” I say.
“Consider it completely erased. We just thought that in so many ways, the stage really belongs to him. He brought you here to Garden Meadows. He encouraged your passion of the arts. And this seems like a perfect way to introduce him to all the people who weren’t lucky enough to actually know him. ”
Finally, after an age, Dallas says, “It’s perfect.”
It turns out Priscilla is right. The car is the ideal place for this. Because while I know he means it, and I can see in the rearview that he’s moved to tears, I can also tell he wants a moment for himself to look out the window and think of his Teddy.
We arrive at the community theater way ahead of my call time, but both of them understood what they got into when they asked to drive here with me. Priscilla is volunteering at the ticket booth anyway, and Dallas can always mingle with a crowd, no matter who is in it.
He hugs me in the parking lot, thanking me again.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say.
“You know me so well,” he replies.
Hearing that means the world.
The locals of Garden Meadows swarm Priscilla upon arrival, all competing for her attention.
She’s been flying back and forth between here and LA ever since she booked the movie.
We thought the long-distance thing would be a lot harder than it actually is.
We make it work because we love each other. It’s really that simple.
But the Garden Meadows townsfolk have not adjusted to having Priscilla around so much again. She will always be Cilla Cove to them, and it’s a role she slides into effortlessly, taking pictures with them and listening to their stories like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
“Priscilla!” Jaz calls out, wrapping her in a hug.
“Jazzy,” Priscilla says fondly.
Jaz is in the ensemble with me. Neither of us got a speaking role, which we’ve both found sufficiently funny. We are chorus line soldiers together, in the thick of it, side by side, finally forming the close friendship we didn’t get to have in high school.
“Hello there, Ms. Sinclair,” Dallas says.
Jaz’s jaw drops. “Dallas? What are you doing here? I thought nothing in the world could get you to come see us in Grease.”
“The world doesn’t control me anymore, dear. I’m a free agent now.”
Because of Priscilla, Jaz knows what really happened.
After a lot of convincing, she finally believes it, too.
It’s been a hell of a time explaining Dallas’s absence to the rest of the world.
The official story we’ve all agreed on is that he took a leave of absence when he found out a family member was ill, and he got so flustered he left without any of his belongings.
We’ve let the air of mystery carry the lie, reiterating that Dallas doesn’t want to talk about it.
It’s a bit like the Memory Machine itself, in that this explanation does nothing to keep people from prying for information, but Dallas commits to it all the same.
“You know, I think I’ll work on the next show here,” Dallas offers.
Priscilla, Jaz, and I all give him some version of “What?”
“You just said in the car that you didn’t want to run the drama program,” I remind him.
He shrugs, nonchalant. “Community theater is very different,” he says. “And they need me here. I’m good at finding people at their lowest. We must overcome Grease and revitalize this company. Point me toward your director so I can make some introductions.”
“She’s over there,” I say. “In the blue shirt.”
“Off I go to change her life,” he says. He does a spin, letting his cape catch some air and float.