Elizabeth the First Wife

by Lian Dolan

  June in Oregon meant long days and lovely evenings, like this one, with its pinkish sunset glow on the mountains, moderate temperature, and night-blooming jasmine just beginning to burst. Now that it appeared the rehearsal period would be, umm, less intense than I’d anticipated, and my evenings might be free, I’d make plans to take in the other OSF shows already up. But there’d be time enough to get tickets and immerse myself in culture later. After the stress of the day, I was happy to jump into my cozy clothes, pour a glass of wine, and study the Food Co-op event calendar. (Yes! A mixer at the end of the month!)

  My cell phone rang and Rafa’s name popped up on the screen. More questions about laundry! I took a deep breath, waited another ring, and answered, trying to simulate a “just picking this up and not knowing who’s on the other end” quality in my voice. “Hello. This is Elizabeth.”

  “Hey, it’s Rafa. Sorry to bother you. Is this a bad time?”

  “No, I’m just cooking dinner.” Too domestic?Too domestic.

  Or maybe not. Surprisingly Rafa responded, “Me, too. It’s just that I can’t turn on the stove. I keep turning the knobs and nothing happens. And I checked your manual. Nothing in there at all about the stove.”

  I defended myself. “I thought you weren’t ever going to turn on my old stove.”

  “Yeah, well, that was before I discovered that no restaurant in Pasadena delivers, except Dominos. You live one mile from civilization, but restaurants act like it’s Timbuktu.”

  The shock in his voice made me laugh. “That’s true. It’s not New York or DC. There aren’t sesame noodles a phone call away.” I relaxed into the conversation. “You can go pick up food. You’re in California. We drive.”

  I could tell he was wandering around the kitchen, getting out pots and putting away dishes.

  “Here’s the thing, I don’t really feel like getting in my car at the end of the day and standing in line somewhere. Why engage with people when I can just stay here?”

  A chill ran through me. That’s exactly the sort of thing I say. Once I’m home in my casita, I never feel like leaving. “Then you’re going to have to learn to turn on my stove. Do you want me to talk you through it?” I pictured him in his gleaming white shirt approaching my 1952 four-burner-plus-griddle O’Keefe & Merritt range like it was a bucking bronco. But this was no bronco—it needed a gentle touch. “Approach with caution,” I said.

  “Can I just ask, what’s the deal? Why can’t I just turn the knobs and see the flames, like every other stove in America?” Oh, Mr. Type A was a little impatient.

  “It has a double pilot system. That’s what my grandmother always told me. One pilot is lit all the time, so you don’t smell gas. But to fire up the burners, you need to hand light the second pilot. Not exactly professional grade.”

  “Or really that safe.”

  “That’s true. And don’t get me started on the fact that the oven doesn’t hold heat. Do not attempt Christmas cookies; you’ll be disappointed. When I re-do the kitchen, the stove goes. Somebody will want it to restore, but I need to move on. Our relationship is too unstable.” Maybe I should write a relationship book about appliances instead of Shakespeare? I was definitely more skilled at working with inanimate objects. But I kept that to myself as I gave the instructions. “Okay, find the long-handled lighter in the drawer on the left next to the stove. Grab it and take a big step back.”

  “That sounds ominous.” It was. I didn’t want singed eyebrows or other disfiguring accidents on my conscience.

  I guided Rafa through the procedure, carefully describing the secret opening of the mysterious second pilot. He managed just fine, thanking me for the excellent verbal directions. He sounded as if he was about to sign off, but I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye. “So what’s for dinner?”

  He balked a second, then admitted, “I picked some of your tomatoes and the basil. I’m making a simple uncooked sauce for pasta. And one of your eggplants looked ready, so I thought I’d sauté it up in some olive oil. Want to see the eggplant? It’s a beauty.”

  I thought he was kidding, about his cooking skills and my vegetables, so I played along. “Oh, yeah, what a gorgeous eggplant! And is that Kraft Mac & Cheese for dessert?”

  Rafa wasn’t kidding. “You don’t believe me? I’ll show you the eggplant and my skills. I never said I couldn’t cook, I said I didn’t cook. Big difference. What’s your Skype handle?”

  Total panic shot through me on every level. First of all, I had the lamest Skype name of all times, created during an academic conference when it seemed charming and quaint. And second, I was wearing a very unflattering mock turtleneck and a scrunchie from the mid-’90s that was not for public consumption. But I didn’t want the guy to think I was intimidated by a little video chatting. “Okay, give me five minutes while I…” Apply lipstick. Throw on camisole and V-neck sweater. Switch to white wine to prevent teeth staining. Secure flattering lighting in kitchen. Ditch scrunchie for good. “… log onto my laptop. I do need to check out your eggplant. I mean, my eggplant.”

  Then I confessed my Skype name: Elizabeth.The.First.

  “That is huge.” I was, of course, talking about the eggplant, but I could have been talking about any aspect of the evening: I was video chatting with an attractive single man, who was in his trademark white dress shirt but had rolled up the sleeves to expose some fine-looking forearms. I sprayed on a shot of Coco perfume, an oldie but goodie, for my own sort of courage liquide, as the French would say. And I used dry shampoo for the first time in twenty years and it worked like crazy. My hair looked fantastic. Mental note: Get more Pssssst. But even in stop-motion Skype, I could tell Rafa had a curious look on his face, so I tried to make it clear I was talking about eggplant. “The eggplant. It’s so purple and ripe. You’ve been there less than a week and already the vegetables are growing bigger for you than for me. What’s your secret?”

  “I sing to them at night when the moon is full,” he said in a fake Euro accent, as he picked up my large knife and prepared to slice the eggplant. He had positioned his laptop on the counter, allowing me a wide-angle shot of the kitchen, his haul from my garden, and his workstation. I wish I had a slightly closer view of him, but I took what I could get. “Actually, I wander around the garden talking on my cell phone to potential supporters. I think the plants think I’m talking to them. They like the attention. Did you have any final thoughts for the eggplant before it meets its demise?”

  “Just make it quick. I don’t want him to feel any pain.” And Rafa did just that, proving he had some knife skills to go along with those forearms. He salted the slices to draw out the water and fired up the olive oil and garlic. I liked watching him cook in my kitchen. Really. “How’s your work going?”

  “It’s early, but I think your brother-in-law is going to be the next governor of California. A lot of influential people on both sides of the aisle respect him. That’s a good sign.” He blotted the eggplant slices with a paper towel and laid them in the pan to brown. I could hear the sizzle. He opened a bottle of red wine, no fear of teeth staining, and looked into the screen again. “How are things there?”

  I almost punted with a pat answer but decided to take advantage of a political strategist as long as I had one on the line. I figured if Rafa could manage a ravenous press, a hostile environment in Washington, and my sister Bumble, he could help me manage Taz. So, emboldened by distance and Viognier, I asked, “In politics, when you have to win over somebody, what do you do?”

  “Identify what you have to offer them first.” He didn’t ask for details, just went straight for results. I appreciated that, but I didn’t quite understand his point.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m assuming you want to win them over because you need something from them, like an agreement or information or access. You’re not trying to win them over because you want to be liked or get votes to be prom queen, right?” He expertly turned the eggplant slices in the pan and moved on to testing his
pasta while I thought about his question. He stared into the screen, waiting for my answer.

  Well, yes, I did want to be liked and I would have enjoyed being prom queen, but those weren’t my immediate needs. Rafa was right. I needed access to do my job. “So, you’re suggesting I figure out what I have to offer before I can get what I need out of the, let’s call him, unwilling, party?”

  “Yes. What can you provide that nobody else can? So the unwilling party wants to work with you. Trust is a two-way street, and sometimes you have to be the one in the crosswalk first.”

  “Wow, listen to you, Mr. Political Pundit!” What did I have to offer Taz? Not much, frankly. Except a good relationship with FX and a seventeen-year-old niece willing to run errands. That was a start, I guess. I could head into the crosswalk with that.

  Rafa was plating his dinner like a Top Chef winner: a mound of spaghetti topped with fresh tomato sauce and a side of sautéed eggplant finished with a drizzle of olive oil, a handful of Parmesan, and a touch of fresh parsley. “Is that my parsley?”

  Rafa nodded. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not. It’s there to be eaten.”

  He sat down on the stool, with his wine and his full plate, taking a bite. “I wish you could taste everything. Delicious.”

  Believe me, Rafa, so do I. So do I. I was just about to dish up my sad little serving of summer squash when I heard footsteps on the front porch. Puck let out a couple of barks and Maddie burst through the door, laughing as if she’d just heard a really great joke. FX followed behind, announcing loudly for everyone in a half-mile radius to hear. “Hi honey, we’re home. Dinner smells good!”

  Time to say goodbye to my digital dinner date before FX and Maddie caught me. “I have company. I have to. …”

  “Of course. Thanks for lighting my fire,” he said, knowing how goofy it sounded but eliciting a laugh from me anyway.

  “You’re welcome. Thanks for the advice.”

  “Anytime. I mean it.” And by the look in his eyes, I’d say he really did mean it.

  I was closing my laptop when FX and Maddie found me in the kitchen. Maddie was glowing, her eyes shining, as if the last few hours had changed her life. Clearly being in that creative hot pot meant she could never go back to her little life in Pasadena. I’d felt like that before.

  “Guess what?” she asked dramatically.

  “What?” I responded, playing along.

  “FX is going to be naked!”

  “What?” I turned to FX for confirmation that this was a hilarious practical joke the two of them were playing on prim Aunt Elizabeth to make her squirm.

  But his sheepish grin told me otherwise. “Yup. Full frontal.”

  Relationship

  Red Flags

  THEN

  Always at War

  Beheads Rivals

  Primogeniture Rage

  Bloodthirsty

  Cross-dressing

  Easily Manipulated

  Talks to Spirits

  Eavesdrops behind Curtains

  Slanderous Tongue

  Oedipus Complex

  NOW

  Always Playing World of Warcraft

  Bad Bedhead

  Facebook Envy

  Enjoys Vampire Lifestyle

  Meggings

  Enjoys Manicures

  Talks to Fake Girlfriends

  Installs GPS Tracker

  Pierced Face

  Oedipus Complex

  CHAPTER 14

  “Really? Totally naked?”

  FX and I had moved to the front porch of Sage Cottage to discuss the matter without Maddie listening. I did manage to warn her under my breath as we walked outside, “Don’t put this on Facebook. Remember that nondisclosure agreement we signed.” I was deadly serious and she could tell. She nodded and went upstairs with Puck. Daughter of a congressman—she can keep her mouth shut.

  Now I was turning my attention to the other child in my care. I started softly, so I didn’t force him into a corner defending his position. But as an advocate of the Bard, I had a difficult time dialing back my disdain. “Please explain. Because at first hearing, it sounds so…unnecessary. Although of course I don’t want to be accused of pre-judging a creative genius like Taz Buchanan.”

  FX sat back into the dark all-weather wicker furniture like he hadn’t a care in the world, but I sensed a simmering panic underneath his cool demeanor. Full frontal onstage! Get the Xanax, stat! Still, he remained calm as he elaborated, because after all, he was an actor. “You know in Act 4, Scene 1, when all the young lovers are running around the forest in a spell thanks to Puck? Then they fall for all the wrong people. That scene? Then Oberon wakes up Titania after she’s been drugged and has mistakenly fallen in love with an ass.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said curtly. I believe I was the one who interpreted the play for him, not vice versa. I made the international sign for “let’s go” by rolling my hands, hoping he would dispense with Remedial Theater 101.

  “Right, of course you do. Oberon has that line near the end, ‘Sound music! Come, queen, and take hands with me. Rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.’ That line?”

  “Yup.” Again, I get it. I’m familiar with the play.

  “Well, Taz thinks we should really rock the ground. Like rock the ground. So after we exit on Titania’s line, there’s a break. He’s adding a musical interlude. And he thinks Oberon should seduce Titania onstage. With a dance thing.” Oh, he was so nervous, so unsure of this whole idea that he was practically sweating now.

  “Like a dance thing? Like a striptease?”

  FX nodded.

  I needed a moment to collect myself, not wanting to respond too soon, because my instinct was too blurt out, Holy cow! Midsummer Night’s Dream is a middle school staple! Ya think getting busy with the fairy queen onstage is going to solidify your support for an Oscar? More likely it will secure you a place in the Creepy Guy Hall of Fame. “Is there anything else I need to know? Any other details that might impact my opinion of this interpretation?”

  FX reached for something, anything. “The music is great. It’s Sly and the Family Stone’s ‘M’Lady.’ They actually played that at Woodstock. You know that one?” He did a few bars and some mouth guitar, but it really didn’t matter. The song choice was not going to influence my opinion.

  I leaned forward, using my Professor Lancaster voice. “FX, you know this is a very risky idea, don’t you? Being naked onstage for no apparent reason except shock value could really backfire.”

  “Well, everybody else is going to be naked.”

  Oh my God, no wonder Taz didn’t want me at the production meeting. Professor Lancaster having a conniption in front of everyone. “What do you mean everyone else is going to be naked?”

  He took a deep breath, clearly hoping I would follow suit before my head exploded. “The idea is that the night in the forest is one long Woodstockian dream sequence-slash-drug trip. And he’s thinking that, naturally, the young lovers—Hippolyta, Demetrius, Helena, and Lysander—will slowly lose items of clothing as they cavort through the woods. Getting less and less dressed until eventually, bam, they’re discovered the next morning by the King and Dad, in the buff. Like busted college kids.”

  That actually made me howl. See, I’m not a total prude. “Okay, that is hilarious! Funny, fun, implied in the text. I love that idea,” I said, genuinely delighted by the image in my head of young hippies playing a kind of spell-induced strip poker. Then I got serious. “But you’re a famous movie star who wants to be taken seriously as an actor. You’re talking about a trumped-up scene whose sole purpose is to get you naked. It’s not in the play, it’s not implicit in the lines. It’s not necessary. Trust me, keep your clothes on.”

  “You really think it’s that bad of an idea?”

  “Yes, career suicide. It’s one thing if you’re Daniel Radcliffe and you’re trying to make everyone forget you’ve played a boy wizard for ten years, so you take your clothes off in Equus. But you
don’t need to take your clothes off in front of an audience of Bus Tour Bettys.” Just then, the image of my mother, Dependable Jane, and Funseeker Mary Pat in the front row rushed to mind. The horror, the horror if they saw my ex-husband au natural ! Imagine the lunch afterward with the cast! The shocking e-mails and texts that would be sent back to Pasadena, to the Showcase Sustainers and Caltech wives. The hanging teases I’d have to endure for the rest of my life. That’s not an inside joke I wanted to share with my mother.

  FX tried to reassure me. “Actually, only I’m going to strip. Titania will stay clothed. It’s supposed to be this sexy offering of myself to, you know, milady.”

  Even worse. “You’re FX Fahey. You’re plenty sexy fully dressed.” I blurted out the deep dark truth before I could overthink the implications.

  “Really?” He closed the distance between us and looked down into my eyes expectantly. He breathed in deeply again and I remembered the perfume I’d put on earlier. Did he recognize the scent? I stepped back.

  Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize. A dishwasher at long last. “Don’t. This is what you’re paying me for. Don’t confuse good judgment with…longing.” I paused and squared my shoulders. FX looked disappointed, so I conceded, “But yes, you are plenty sexy fully dressed.”

  We stood quietly for a moment, letting the statement and the situation sink in. Had I been too harsh? What did I really know about acting? Nothing, really. Doing scenes in class wasn’t anything like what real actors did. I’d never lost myself in a character, so maybe, in context, this scene would work. It could be the bold gesture that would single out FX as a fearless performer. But it just felt cheesy and more male-stripper-at-a-birthday-bash than brave. So I asked, “Does it strike you as the right choice in that moment?”