All's Well(27)

The fires that had quieted are now ablaze again. I’m unable to stand on my right leg. I lift it off the ground. I turn to Hugo. Unseeing Hugo. Unfeeling Hugo. “I mean, why did you make this?”

“I’m sorry, Miranda, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“About the change?”

“Change? What change?”

“Well, Fauve came in here this morning and told me the play would be changing to Mackers and that you’d be in touch. She said the dean told her.”

I picture her glossy mouth at Hugo’s ear, red hair brushing against his neck. Loving her proximity to his wood-scented flesh as she leans in ever closer, her breath hot with the scandal of my dethronement.

I look back at the three tiny hags. One of them has red hair, I see. Eyes like little slits. Mouth a cruel black line, curving on one side.

“I’m sorry, Miranda. I’m really surprised that you don’t know about this,” Hugo says. “It’s bullshit, if you ask me. Not that anyone would. But I figured you’d be the first to know. I mean you’re the director, aren’t you?”

“I’m the director,” I whisper. And then I remember the empty theater. No one there except Ellie. Practicing Helen on the lip of the stage alone, under the lights.

“I have to go.”

“Miranda, wait, are you okay?”

I walk hurriedly away, trying not to limp, trying to walk with grace. But I can’t help but hobble. Probably he’s not even watching anyway.





CHAPTER 7


WHEN I ENTER the dean’s office, I encounter not one but three. Three men. All in suits the same shade of gray. All sitting behind an executive desk. The dean in the middle. Flanked by the president on one side, the vice president on the other. Varying degrees of hair loss. Varying degrees of compensatory combing. Three pairs of watery eyes regarding me with neutral expressions. Three pairs of hairy hands clasped. A golden ring gleaming on each of their left hands.

Just a friendly chat, Miranda.

But I smell aftershave. I smell brine. I smell a witch hunt.

After my encounter with Hugo, I went back to the theater. It was empty, of course. My cell phone rang then. The dean again.

Come on by my office on your way out, Miranda.

“Come in, come in,” the dean says to me now with dogged sunniness.

The president and vice president smile coldly. I call them Bow Tie and Comb-over, respectively. Bow Tie is of course wearing a bow tie. Patterned today with little winged pigs. Comb-over’s pate shines beneath the lights. Between them grins the dean. Who is the fool. Not even Shakespearean. A fool without the wit. Grace and I secretly call him Puffy Nips because of his propensity to wear a certain kind of thin turtleneck that leaves little to the imagination.

Puffy Nips smiles at me reassuringly. This is not a trial, Miranda. You are not being burned at the stake, no no. Just a friendly chat is all, am I right? He looks to the other two men, who glare at me.

“Come in, come in. Whoa! Got quite a bit of a limp there! What happened. Knee sprain?”

“My back. My hip and my back actually.”

“Ouch.” He smiles. “Well. Come in, come in. Have a seat.”

I gaze at the flimsy plastic chair the dean is pointing to, which may as well be an iron maiden. If I sit in that ridiculous chair, I’ll pay for it dearly. I may not be able to get back up. But I imagine asking these men if I can remain standing. I picture myself standing, casting my crooked shadow over them. All of them gazing up at my body, lump of foul deformity. They’d think it was some dramatic strategy. The drama teacher’s histrionics. My inherent need to make theater wherever I go.

“Miranda, everything okay?”

No. My body is a black sky filled with bright stars of pain.

“Fine.” I sit. My leg cries out. Do they hear it? No. They’re still gazing at me like all is well. Just a chat, Miranda. Just a chat.

The dean loves to remind me that he did some community theater in his time. Shakespeare, believe it or not. Oh yes, The Tempest. Have I read that one? He was Caliban! How he enjoyed being the monster. Best time of his life. And talk about a learning experience! In other words, Miranda, I’m an ally. Here to help you.

So why don’t I trust Puffy Nips, his blue eyes twinkling with cataracts, his office full of photos of himself in the mundane throes of familial New England life? Because he always gives me this speech whenever he’s about to propose a cut.

“Been trying to get a hold of you. You’re not an easy one to reach.”

“I was teaching. I am a teacher,” I remind them. “I had a class. Then office hours. Then another class. Then rehearsal. But no one showed up.”

Silence. I accuse him with my gaze.

The dean looks uncomfortable now.

“And how are your classes going?” he asks me.

After I respond, he says, “Good, good. That Shakespeare.” He shakes his head. “Timeless stuff, am I right?”

“Absolutely,” Comb-over says, unsmiling.

“Yes sir,” Bow Tie says, knocking on the desk like a door.

“Makes you think, am I right?” the dean adds. “Maybe too much.” He grins like a fool. “Which is good! Thinking is good, don’t get me wrong.”

“The students like it,” I say. I sound defensive. I sound useless.