Chapter 22
Damien comes back into the world asking questions.
It’s Friday morning, opening day. Annabel had come back alone last night and spooned the purge into him a little at a time while Skye held his head. She called shortly after I woke up to say he was surfacing.
When Englebert and I arrive, the hall mirror is gone and there’s a bright rectangle on the wallpaper where it hung.
“What day is it?” Damien asks, his voice shaky.
“Friday,” Skye says.
“Which Friday?” His hand comes off the blanket an inch and drops back. “Did I miss it? Did I miss opening?”
“It’s tonight.”
“Tonight.” He closes his eyes. “How do I look?”
Skye looks away. Annabel looks at the ceiling. Ms. Carter smooths a corner of the blanket, averting her eyes.
“That bad, eh?”
“You’ve been asleep for weeks,” Annabel says.
“I’ve played men who were asleep for weeks. They looked — I looked fantastic. Bring me a mirror.”
“Damien, honey–” Ms. Carter starts.
“Mother. A mirror.”
She goes and gets a hand mirror and holds it up, because he doesn’t have the strength to lift it yet.
He takes his time, turning his head one way and then the other, checking the angles. The face in the mirror is older than his actual forty-something years, folded soft at the throat and pleated at the eyes. He examines every inch without flinching.
“Well,” he says, to the mirror. “There he is.”
He settles back into the pillows and studies the ceiling for a while.
“You know what’s ridiculous? I feel wonderful. That was the best rest I’ve had in years. Are you the doctor?” he asks, looking toward Annabel.
“Sort of,” Annabel says.
“How much do I owe you?”
“We can discuss that later,” she says.
“Fair enough,” he nods. “Could you tell me, by chance, what happened?”
Annabel glances to Skye, who is still holding his hand.
“I can tell you what happened,” Skye says, fidgeting. “I’ve told you before. Every night, actually. I was hoping you could hear me, like how on TV people in comas can hear everything everyone says to them, but I guess it doesn’t work that way. I guess this will be the first time that it counts.”
“Should we—” Ms. Carter begins, rising.
“Stay,” Skye says. “Please.”
So we stay, and she tells him. She doesn’t cry until the end.
“I did it because I loved the way you look at me and I was scared you’d stop looking at me,” she says.
“And it turns out it wasn’t even working.
Not like I wanted it to. Annabel says a philter can’t make a real feeling, it can only fake one, and you—” She stops, and wipes her face with the back of her wrist.
“A heart philter,” he says at last. “In the greens.”
“Yeah.”
“I hated the greens,” he says, gently. “Two years of green juice, angel, and I drank every one, because you made them, and you wanted me to.”
Skye makes a sound that’s mostly a sob and partly a laugh.
“I’m not… I’m going to need some time to think. About all of it. I don’t often need time to think, you know, I’ve always just said the line, so you’ll have to bear with me, because I don’t know how long it takes.”
“Okay,” Skye whispers.
Annabel examines him while Ms. Carter finally gets to distribute more banana bread. The verdict, delivered with two fingers on his wrist, is that his heart is strong, his system is clearing, but that he still couldn’t stand upright on the stage, even if the fate of Scotland actually depended on it.
“How long?” Damien asks.
“On your feet in three days or so. On a stage in two weeks, maybe, if you behave, which I doubt.”
“Oh, dear,” he says, burying his face into his pillow. “Somebody tell me who’s going on tonight. And don’t say that man Vivian knows in Brattleboro. She kept prattling on about some man in Brattleboro.”
“The man from Brattleboro remains in Brattleboro,” Englebert says, from atop the dresser. “The role has been prepared by one Gabriel Morgan.”
“The funeral director?”
“Indeed.”
“Is he an actor?”
“No,” Englebert says. “But he has benefited immensely from personal coaching.”
“By who?”
“Myself, of course.”
“Then it’s handled,” Damien says. “You’d have made something out of me too, maestro, if I’d come to you at thirty.”
“I made something of you as is,” Englebert nods. “We were getting so close.”
“I want to meet him. My replacement. Before tonight. Can that be arranged?”
It turns out it can.
Gabe happens to be nearby, dropping Addie off with his mother, which puts him less than ten minutes away.
He stops just inside the door with his script rolled in one hand, and the two Macbeths look at each other.
“Mr. Morgan,” Damien says. “I hear you’ve been learning my part.”
“Somebody had to hold it for you.”
“Ha.” Damien points at him, and turns to Englebert. “He’s quick. You didn’t tell me he was quick.” He shifts himself as upright as he can get and smooths the blanket across his lap.
“Years ago,” he says, “I was the understudy for the lead in a play at the Lyceum. Eleven weeks, eight shows a week. I stood backstage every night, warmed up, dressed, off book, at the ready. Do you know how many times I went on, Mr. Morgan?”
“How many?”
“None. The man never missed a performance. I’ve hated him faithfully for a decade. I used to stand in that hallway and think, all I need is one night. One dropped ceiling tile. One bad oyster. And here I am, after all these years…. I’m the bad oyster.”
“The theatre has a long memory and a vicious sense of humor,” Englebert says. “I would advise you never to want anything out loud in a dressing room.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Gabe says.
“The role is yours,” Damien says. “Tonight, this weekend, as long as the show goes on. And I’m not handing it over through gritted teeth, you know. I’m simply handing it over.”
“I’m not sure you have much of a choice,” I say.
“Whatever the cat tells you, do that. He’s the best director I’ve ever worked with, and I’ve worked with men who have Tonys and assistants to carry them.
Remember the room is full of people who are on your side.
That’s the secret. The audience is on your side until you apologize to them.
So don’t apologize.” He pauses. “And take the cape. It’s from an antiquities dealer in Queens. It fits any man willing to wear it.”
Englebert’s ears come forward, but Gabe responds before he can speak.
“After the coronation,” Gabe says, “and not one scene before.”
“He’ll do,” Damien says with a nod. “He’ll more than do.”
We’re at the door when Damien calls Englebert back.
“Maestro,” Damien says. “Give me a note. For when I come back.”
“You had finally begun to project,” he says. “See that the man who returns can still do it. He’ll be working with an older instrument, but I’ve found the older instruments are frequently the finer ones.”
* * *
In the car, Englebert faces the windshield and takes up his opening-day agenda.
“Item eight. Prudence must eat something before call, she performs poorly on an empty stomach. She always says she’s eaten before rehearsal, but we can all tell when she’s lying about it.
Item nine. The child Cody is to be reminded that the blackout at the end of Act Five is a blackout and not a dimmer exercise. Item ten—”
“How many items are there, Englebert?”
“Fourteen, as of right now. Tonight, Marigold, there are as many items as I say there are. You will listen, and you will drive, and you will not touch the emergency brake.”