Elizabeth the First Wife (32 page)

“Is that what an acid trip is really like? Maybe I should have tried drugs in the '60s instead of mastering the art of French cooking!” My
mother appeared to be hallucinating at this very moment.

She was gushing,
gushing
to FX backstage after the performance, using what I assume she thought was a stage whisper but really turned out to be just a very loud voice. Dependable Jane and Funseeker Mary Pat provided a Greek chorus of “We loved it, too!” chants in the background. What was in the intermission coffee anyway? Or had the magic of the theater finally rubbed off on my mother and her posse? One thing I knew for sure: The family surrogate for a potential Republican candidate for governor taking a pro-drug stance was not in the script. That would be a bridge too far for the electorate, so I stepped into the picture, literally.

“Let's focus here.” The photographer who Bumble had hired was snapping away, getting shots of an exuberant Anne Lancaster congratulating a dashiki-wearing FX Fahey. The kid with the camera looked like a sophomore in high school, maybe college, who must have overstated his qualifications to get the gig, and he'd brought a few friends along, one of whom was sporting a sad little soul patch and an
Icarus
T-shirt. Soul Patch Boy was using his phone to record every move FX made. They were carrying some equipment bags that looked empty but must have been useful in getting past security. I didn't like it at all.

I half-remembered Bumble's words to me, something about keeping the comments contained and getting out without any further controversy. “Okay, let's get Maddie in there with her grandmother and FX. I'll tuck in on the end. Oh, Mom, why don't you stand in the middle next to FX?”

“Listen to her, bossing us around!” My mother gave her former son-in-law a playful poke. She was transformed, giddier even than the day my divorce became final and she gave me a bright red Coach day planner as a gift. “Good planning makes for good decisions,” my mother had written on the gift card. I used that damn planner for a decade. Now here was my cautionary mother throwing caution to the wind. I know the production was the ultimate in “feel good”
theater, but really, she needed to put a little Pasadena back into her personality. FX laughed conspiratorially with her and gave me a look that indicated he had no idea what was happening. I returned the confusion. “Somebody really liked the play.”

“That's a cozy group, FX and three generations of lovely ladies.” Dressed in all black and sporting a freshly waxed pate, Taz Buchanan entered backstage left. Oh great. How did he even know the woman was my mother? Maybe FX had mentioned the situation, which made me nervous. Between Taz and Soul Patch Boy, I felt the need to get out of there as quickly as possible, so I latched onto my mother and called to the photographer to finish up.

But Anne Lancaster broke ranks and offered the director a double-handed shake with three extra pumps for the camera. “Oh, Mr. Buchanan, the play was simply wonderful. So delightful,” she cooed, starstruck. “You're a magician. Did you get that?” She turned to the college kid with the Nikon and he nodded.

“Thank you. I understand you're Maddie's grandmother. Although that's hard to believe, you look more like an aunt,” Taz purred in his exaggerated Outback accent with a wicked grin. My mother totally fell for it. “Maddie has been absolutely terrific to work with. And I'm sorry if her involvement in our little production has caused any issues.”

FX must have talked. I jumped in because I was pretty sure my mother didn't have a script for this part of the evening, and the way her eyes glazed over with every syllable from the Australian, I didn't think she had enough composure left to think on her feet. “How kind of you to say that, Taz,” I said, my voice rising in volume to drown out anything my mother might add. “My mother, my father, and our entire family, including my brother-in-law, Congressman Ted Seymour, support the arts and Maddie's participation in this production. I teach Shakespeare to students like Maddie, and what they learn is that the issues they face in their own lives aren't new, and they're not alone in struggling with them. The themes in
Midsummer
are universal and timeless, as potent today as when the play was written. Rebelling against authority. Expanding your mind-set and your world. Learning about the true nature of love. Shakespeare's work is both revered and relevant today for a reason: It speaks to all of us, no matter our background or position. We can all learn from the Immortal Bard. Ted Seymour is a great dad. He raised Maddie as a single parent for many years and she's a wonderful girl. He should be commended for letting her experience Shakespeare up close. Every student should have a summer with Shakespeare.” I concluded the speech with an earnest nod and a brief wave, as if I were a candidate for Educator of the Year.
What was that?

The Girls turned to me with stunned faces. My mother snapped back from her delirium and was clearly not pleased that I had stolen portions of her script for my speech. She gave me the same look I saw when I declared that I wouldn't be trying out for Rose Queen in 1992: slight disgust at my lack of respect for tradition mixed with a touch of envy for my nonconformity.

“Hear, hear, Professor Lancaster!” FX proclaimed, stepping up next to me and planting a big kiss on my cheek, then wrapping his arm over my shoulder. “I couldn't have said it better myself. I fully support Maddie, her father Ted Seymour, and her aunt Elizabeth Lancaster. Elizabeth taught me to love Shakespeare. And she is a woman of exceptional propriety who has uncanny radar for the moral high ground. I'm honored to have had the chance to help pass along the gift of Shakespeare to her niece Maddie. I, too, commend Congressman Ted Seymour.”

The little crowd of onlookers burst into applause. FX acknowledged his people with a wave and then grabbed my hand and kissed it in a highly theatrical gesture that gave me the willies. Did he have to make me sound like an uptight British headmistress from a PBS miniseries? A woman of “exceptional propriety”? Seriously?

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Soul Patch Boy with the cell phone camera nodding with excitement. We have got to get out
of here, I thought. “I think we're done here,” I announced to no one in particular and everyone within earshot.

I gathered up Maddie, my mother, and the Girls and tried to usher them to the door, but Taz wasn't quite finished. “I'm glad to hear you say that, Elizabeth, because that's exactly what FX and I told that reporter today. Although I think you said it much more eloquently.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, with my mother, Dependable Jane, and Funseeker Mary Pat crashing into me Keystone Cops–style. “What reporter?” I said slowly, turning my glare from Taz to FX.

“What was her name, FX? Bambi?” Taz turned to FX, who was already signing programs.

“No, Candy. Your friend Candy. From that website, candysdish. com. She gave me her card at that party, so we called her and told her what was happening. Don't worry, we said lots of nice things about Maddie and Ted. Just trying to be helpful.” FX smiled broadly, waiting for some props or perhaps a doggie treat. It took all the strength I had not to run at him brandishing my clog and beat him with it.

Taz grinned and said,
“What's done can't be undone.”

Just then my cell phone rang. I didn't even have to look at the screen to know who was on the other end of the line. But I did because, like a wreck on the road, I couldn't look away. It was Bumble.

I've only been scared for my life twice. The first was Lollapalooza 1994, when I made the mistake of thinking it would be great to be in the front row for the Beastie Boys' set, requiring hours of time on my feet in the hot August sun without food or drink. By the time Mike D launched into “Fight for Your Right to Party,” I was lightheaded, nauseous, and in danger of being trampled by the fully hydrated Beastie Boys fans rushing the stage. My friend Lila Montoya-Hidalgo picked up on my panic (maybe it was the gasping for breath and my high-pitched cry of “Help!”) and cleared a path to the edge of the crowd before I was sucked under a carpet of combat boots. “She's going to puke!” Lila warned in her British-by-way-of-Bogotá accent, as she cleared a path using her vintage Bermuda bag as a machete. I made it out alive, barely. It took me a good hour to convince the medics that there had been no drugs of any sort involved.