In Harmony(12)

“Can’t they get a grant or something? Some kind of endowment?”

“I’m sure Mr. Ford’s doing whatever he can,” Jocelyn said.

Caroline nodded. “He loves this place. He’s not just an owner but he directs all the shows.”

“Our citizenry is where he gets most of his actors,” Angie said. “He wants to keep it organic.” She pointed at my program. “He acts in the shows, too.”

I looked down at the cast list and found the name Martin Ford playing Tieresias, a blind prophet.

“So he’s the one who keeps giving Isaac all his roles?”

“More than that,” Angie said. “He chooses plays he knows can showcase Isaac’s talents. Isaac is his protégé.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘meal ticket,’” Nash said, absently and affectionately wrapping Angie’s curls around his finger.

“That’s two words.” She leaned in to me. “Nash is jealous because he doesn’t look as good in a toga.” The house lights dimmed. “Speak of the devil.”

The lights faded to pitch and when they came up again, the curtains had opened on a black, empty stage. Large white cubes and pillars framed out a room. A white backdrop of Thebes was sketched in rough, black strokes. A minimalist set to let the words capture the audience’s attention.

A priest stepped onto the stage, surrounded by a crowd of men and women in white togas who pantomimed being afraid or confused or despairing.

Then Isaac Pearce strode onstage and a little buzz went through the audience; a surge of crackling anticipation.

There he is.

His beautiful face was partially covered by a fake beard, transforming him from a nineteen-year-old guy in 21st century America into a powerful and omniscient king. I’d never had a religious experience in my life, but at that moment, I’d swear the light pouring down on him came from the Greek gods. He was divine. Otherworldly.

Untouchable.

He raised his arms as he spoke, his booming voice demanding—no, commanding—our attention.



“Sons and daughters of old Cadmus,

The town is heavy with a mingled burdens of groans and hymns and incense;

I did not think it fit that I should hear of this from messengers but came myself—

I, Oedipus, whom all men call the Great.”



I stared, slack-jawed.

Oedipus the Great.

“Holy fucking shit,” I whispered.

Out the corner of my eye I could see Angie grin, though her gaze stayed riveted to the stage. “Told you so…”

We didn’t speak another word until final curtain. Even with a cushion spring digging into my ass, I barely moved. A fire alarm wouldn’t have stolen an ounce of my attention from the action onstage.

Like every other high school student, I’d read Oedipus in English with Spark Notes at my side and yawning, because who gave a shit about a dude who slept with his mother?

That night, I gave a shit. About everything. I lived it. With Isaac at center stage, I was there, in Thebes, watching it unfold, unable to look away. I held my breath as Oedipus hurled himself at his horrifying fate, seeking to unravel the mystery shared by every single person sitting in that theater. A mystery I was desperate to know.

Identity. Purpose. Self.

The truth, a voice whispered in my endless dark. What’s left of me?

When Oedipus learned the traveler he had murdered years ago was his father, and the woman he married was his mother, the anguish was raw and powerful. Almost destructive. His tortured denial reverberated through the theater as if it could shake the foundations. Bring the whole building crashing down with him as he collapsed to his knees.

When Jocasta—his wife and mother—hung herself, the king’s grief and pain sucked the audience in, uncomfortably close.

When he tore the golden brooches off her dress and used them to claw his own eyes out, the stage blood spurting from under his palms was as real as the horrified blood thundering in our veins. His agony saturated every scream, every syllable, every weeping gasp of breath. And we had no choice but to feel it too.

I was vaguely aware of sniffles from the seats around me, people passing tissues and exhaling ragged sighs. But it wasn’t until Oedipus, purged of the terrible weight of the prophecy, was exiled from his home that tears broke free and streamed down my cheeks. The fallen king cast adrift in the dark, forced to wander alone.

The curtain fell and we all bolted to our feet in a thunderous standing ovation. The crowd roared louder when Isaac took his bow. Behind the beard and the streaks of blood, his expression was exhausted. Then he smiled. A brilliant, breathtaking, triumphant smile of someone who’d taken a dark journey and come out the other side.

I slammed my hands together over and over, tears streaming unchecked as the dwindling, flicker of a fire in me stretched taller and reached for the stage.





Isaac



The post-performance crush was always surreal for me. The congratulatory hugs and back pats from the cast seemed to fall on someone else’s body while I looked on from a corner, still lost in and connected to Oedipus. Some actors called it being in the zone, but Martin called it the flow. A current of creativity where performance stopped being performance and became real.

The flow was my drug. I craved it as soon as I left the theater. Like a junkie, I’d sell off everything I owned to live in that place where painful emotions trapped inside me were set free. It let me be exposed and raw, yet kept me protected under costumes and shielded by sets.