All's Well(28)

“Sure, they must, they must,” the dean agrees. “Of course, some plays are more exciting than others, aren’t they? Wouldn’t you agree, Miranda? That some plays are more exciting than others? For the students in particular?”

This is it. The trap. Walk in, Miranda, go on.

“I would say that all the plays are valuable, interesting, in their own unique ways,” I counter.

The dean frowns. Bow Tie and Comb-over say nothing. Because the matter is not a light one; I see that now.

“Well, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about, Miranda.”

“So talk,” I say, smiling, though my lip is twitching wildly on one side. “I’d love to talk. I’d love to know why I found a maquette of another play in the scene shop.”

I’m shocked at myself. Bow Tie and Comb-over look at each other, then at Puffy Nips, their idiotically smiling puppet. How is he going to handle me?

“Here’s the thing, Miranda,” he begins. “We know how committed you are as a teacher. How much you care about the theater program. How much you want to restore it to its former glory, am I right?”

I look at Bow Tie and Comb-over, mouths set in straight lines. By comparison, the dean’s wide, imploring smile is obscene. He’s sweating a little, I notice.

“We all want to see that happen, by the way,” the dean adds. “But alas”—he sighs dramatically for my benefit—“for that to happen, Miranda… we need support, am I right? From the community, am I right?”

He looks helplessly at the two silent men on either side of him, his superiors.

“Bottom line,” says Comb-over at last.

“Exactly, yes, bottom line,” the dean adds, nodding wildly. “Do you understand, Miranda?”

I stare at the framed photos of him and his boring wife and their boring brats on the Cape. In all the pictures, they’re in various stages of sailing. In one of them, he’s gripping a lobster fork, about to dive into the bowels of a boiled crustacean. He’s practically leering at the creature.

“I understand,” I say. “You need money.” I picture the dean, Comb-over, and Bow Tie idling on a dark street corner, wearing spandex dresses full of holes. Thigh-high patent leather boots. Long blond wigs. Thumping the windshields of passing cars with the meaty heels of their hands.

They all frown now. I’m putting it so crudely.

“What we need, Ms. Fitch,” Bow Tie says, leaning forward, “are generous men and women in our community who are willing to support the program’s initiatives. And we’re so fortunate—you’re so fortunate—that such men and women are already in our midst.”

He’s almost misty-eyed when he says this. Such men and women. Already in our midst. Why not just say the names of Briana’s parents out loud? Why not just call the hideous thing by its name? I have a vision of a Waspy woman in capris, always capris she wears. Hair dyed to the former burnished glory that her daughter now enjoys. Beside her, an unsmiling man in a polo shirt, face reddened by a life of sailing and golf, gazing at me with the leaf-green eyes of his unholy spawn. Both of them seated in their reserved thrones in the front row on every opening night, looking like they own the theater, my soul. Which they do.

“Fortunate,” I say. “Of course we are.”

“In fact,” Comb-over adds, “such is their commitment, their dedication to theater, that they’ve reached out to us with some concern of late.”

The dean nods. Concern. Yes. Such a good way of phrasing it.

“Have they?” I say like I’m surprised. Like I’m not at all surprised. I’m gripping the armrests. I’m looking right into all of their eyes. Fucking say it already.

Comb-over and Bow Tie look at the dean. Well?

“Some complaints have been made, Miranda,” he says airily. “About the choice of play this year. Apparently, it’s not the one the students wanted to put on, is that right? They actually wanted to put on another play? And they were, in fact, quite excited about it?” Like he doesn’t already know the facts.

“Now remind me,” he continues. As if he actually forgot. What a Caliban he must have been. “Which play was it again? The one they wanted?”

“Macbeth,” Comb-over spits.

“Right. Macbeth,” Bow Tie says.

“Oops,” the dean says, and winks at me, hideously. Falsely conspiratorial smile. “Not supposed to say that name aloud, I think, am I right? Curses things, doesn’t it? Bad luck, isn’t it?”

For a second, I see his true green reptilian skin shimmering beneath his thin white mask of a face. How many pills did I dry swallow before I came in here?

“Think that’s just in the theater,” Bow Tie says. His sour mouth curls upward.

The dean tsks. “Better safe than sorry, am I right? I know how much luck means to you theater people.”

“Sure,” Comb-over offers, giving me the sledgehammer of his smile. “Need all the help you can get.”

“Absolutely.” The dean beams. “Anyway, what we’ve heard is that you’ve insisted that they go in another direction.”

“As their director,” I interject.

Their smiling, jokey faces grow grave. “Excuse me?”

“I’m the director. I led them in another direction. As their director.”