When the house lights finally dimmed, August’s heartbeat quickened as the audience hushed. He’d yet to develop a critical eye and believed all the plays at the Scarsenguard to be holy offerings, and he watched the play unfold, an ardent wide-eyed disciple.
* * *
The Scarsenguard and its productions kept August occupied those first few years of his life. There was so much to see, so much coming and going, that he never wanted for more.
But one evening as Miss Butler was packing up her handbag and preparing to leave, August stopped her with a question.
“Who is my mother?”
Miss Butler truthfully had no answer. She’d always guessed that the boy’s birth mother was Vivian Fair, but in reality, he could’ve been born of anyone. Vivian had many enemies, and seeing her embroiled in a scandal involving an illegitimate child would have brought many of her adversaries great pleasure. Hell, even Eugenia would’ve had a laugh.
“I suppose I’m your mother,” Miss Butler finally answered.
August eyed her skeptically. “No offense meant, my good woman, but I find it difficult to believe—”
“August. You’re doing it again.”
The boy had basically learned to talk from watching plays, so his style of speaking was often florid and long-winded. Eugenia was all for a lush vocabulary, but occasionally she just wanted to smack the child. Talk in sentences, not soliloquies!
“Sorry,” August said before correcting himself with, “Aren’t you too old to be my—”
“Careful, child,” Eugenia interrupted. She scooped August up (god, he was getting heavy) into her lap and told him, “Your mother isn’t necessarily the person who grew you in her belly. She’s the person who’s always there for you, even when she doesn’t want to be. Blood isn’t family. Families are the people, whoever they are, that are in your corner. And I’m in your corner, August. Understand?”
He was digesting her speech, and Eugenia thought the conversation over when he suddenly asked, “Where do you go at night?”
“Why, to my house,” she replied.
“Can I come?”
Miss Butler sucked her teeth.
“But you live here. At the Scarsenguard.”
August smiled. The Scarsenguard was his, and he was its proud owner. But though he undoubtedly had the best home in all the world, what was outside it?
Miss Butler dashed out before the boy could come up with any more awkward questions. She loved August dearly, but to share her apartment? With a child? Motherhood was fulfilling, but there were limits.
August didn’t begrudge Eugenia her hasty retreat, for he had formulated a plan. Tonight, August was going to take a stroll. The first of his life.
The lobby doors were locked, as August knew they would be, but he wasn’t deterred. Just as he expected, the women’s room on the first floor had a cracked window. After climbing a toilet, it was a cinch to shimmy through.
And just like that, August March was outside. The drop was farther than he thought, but after dusting off his knees, he set to exploring. It was late, so the city had less than its usual bustle, but there were still quite a few citizens out and about. Excited to be himself and not his ghostly alter ego, August plucked up a pinch of courage and more than a dash of precociousness and introduced himself to a man leaning against a building.
“Good evening, kind sir,” he said, extending his small hand. “August March is my name. What’s yours?”
“You got any money?” was the gruff reply.
August thought responding to a question with a question was a bad bit of dialogue, but then he reminded himself that this was an actual person, not an actor, and their scene was entirely unscripted, and not a scene at all, in fact, but real life. Best to press on.
“No money on my person or any to my name, in fact,” August cheerily informed him. “You might try a bank?” He’d just learned of the existence of moneylending from the character Shylock, and felt himself rather adult for suggesting it.
August’s new acquaintance was less than charmed, however.
“You making fun of me, kid?”
Taken aback, August quickly replied, “I most certainly am not!”
“Seems to me like you got a silver spoon up your ass.”
The man shoved August, and it was not a stage combat shove, where the victim was always in control. This shove was rough and meant to hurt.
August tumbled off the sidewalk and into the street, where a car had to swerve to avoid hitting him.
“Get the hell out of the road, dumb-ass!” the motorist shouted before driving off into the night.
August was shaken. His pleasurable stroll had not gone as intended. He scurried back to the Scarsenguard’s bathroom window, but to his horror, he found that it was far too high to reach, even if he jumped. In desperation, he tried the lobby doors, but they were locked tight. Tears welled in his eyes. Never in his life had he spent a night outside the Scarsenguard. He was just a boy. What was he to do?
Rain started to fall, and August ducked under the Scarsenguard’s awning, clinging to the theater’s side as if it were his mother, shivering and terrified. The hours passed, and August eventually fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning, the box office clerk arrived at nine. August knew the man’s routine: right after he unlocked the lobby, he set down his bag and then went to the bathroom. As soon as the man jiggled the handle of the bathroom door, August slinked in through the lobby doors, sprinted all the way up to the abandoned green room, fell onto the musty old couch, and wept with relief.
When Miss Butler arrived that evening, she was greeted by a viselike hug.
“What’s gotten into you, child?” she said, laughing.
August released her before answering, “The outside world is a terrible place.”
“Indeed it is,” she replied, slipping August a piece of chocolate. “Full of hooligans, murderers, and tourists. You’re much better off here, in the Scarsenguard.”
August couldn’t have agreed more.
* * *
A smash production of King Lear was playing at the Scarsenguard and had been extended for two more months. August adored the play. Storms, swordfights, betrayals, murder, secret identities, that part where the old guy gets his eyes squished out; it was all too wonderful!
Though August idolized all the actors in the production, he was especially enraptured by the old man playing Lear, a legendary star of the English stage by the name of Sir Reginald Percyfoot. August had been dying to meet the lead of his favorite play, but Miss Butler had strictly forbidden it.
“Old men hate young boys,” she said, cutting an apple into slices for August. She found he was far more receptive to her demands when he was well fed. “They chop them up and hide them under floorboards!”
“That’s not true,” August protested through a mouthful of fruit.
“Yes it is! It’s as true as anything I’ve ever said!”
“You told everyone I’m a ghost,” August pointed out.
Miss Butler stared at August from behind her glasses. “You’re getting far too clever for your own good. How old are you?”
“I don’t know,” August answered, truthfully. He was almost six.
“What year is it? We’ll count from the year you were born until the year it is now and find out how old you are. That’s called addition. You should know addition, love; write it down.”
August had no pencil, and if he did, it wouldn’t have done him any good; he had no idea how to write. Besides, even if he could write, he doubted scribbling down the word addition would help him comprehend the subject.
“I don’t know what year it is,” he said, again in complete honesty, “nor do I know what year I was born.”
“For heaven’s sake, child! How can you not know the year you were born?”
“What year were you born?” August asked.
Once again he received a pointed stare from Miss Butler. She soon realized, however, that her p
ointed stare was not going to win this argument. The boy was dead set on meeting Sir Reginald, though she could hardly understand why; at least the old windbag playing Gloucester had some of his looks left.
“Fine.” She sighed, handing over the last of the apple. “You can meet him. But wear your ghost costume,” she ordered over August’s celebratory cries.
* * *
The curtain fell, and after what felt like a lifetime, the audience cleared. August could hardly restrain himself. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet and babbling so much nonsense that Eugenia was forced to dump an entire bag of flour on his head to shut him up.
“Now remember,” she said, evening out the flour to make him appear more spectral, “if Sir Reginald threatens you or tries to strike you, swear that he’ll be cursed with bad reviews until the end of his days. That ought to do the trick.”
August couldn’t say anything; he was too busy hacking, having inhaled a large amount of the flour in which he’d been doused. Eugenia Butler didn’t seem to notice. She draped a length of chain across his shoulders and, with tears in her eyes, addressed the boy. “I suppose this day had to come,” she whispered, mopping up her tears. “Look how big you’ve gotten, August!” she cried, fiddling with the boy’s shirtsleeves, which were indeed too short. She’d have to let them out. It seemed she’d done it only yesterday. “Now, go!”
Approaching Sir Reginald’s dressing room, August was nervous. Perhaps he should just forgo this meeting altogether and instead admire Sir Reginald from afar, clinging to corners and curtains, a reverent shadow.
No. This couldn’t go on any longer. How was he supposed to get on in the world if no one knew he existed? Though the boy thought Miss Butler bewitching, she couldn’t remain his only acquaintance. Even the kidnapped changeling child in Midsummer led a more active social life. It was time for change.
With newfound conviction, August threw open the dressing room door, and cried out, “Sir Reginald Percyfoot, I have come to make your acquaintance!”
Sir Reginald was taken aback by such a forceful declaration, and when he saw the pale form of the Scarsenguard Spirit wreathed in the doorway, he knew his time had come. And just when his good-for-nothing agent had almost certainly gotten him a five-picture contract with Warner Brothers, too.
Reginald Percyfoot had played hundreds of death scenes in his career. He’d died bravely, nobly, pathetically, beautifully. He’d been shot, drowned, stabbed, strangled. He’d given speeches as he perished, or sometimes slipped away quietly, silent as a butterfly’s wings.
Facing his actual death, he found there was a lot more screaming involved.
August tried to mollify his idol with nonthreatening gestures, but that only seemed to make matters worse. Sir Reginald was shrieking in a high-pitched whistle that was actually quite impressive, considering that he was known for his soothing baritone.
“I’m not a ghost!” August screamed over the commotion. “I’m not a ghost! I’m a boy, and I think your Lear is the most nuanced performance any actor has given in a generation!”
Without knowing it, August had uttered the only phrase that interested Sir Reginald more than his certain death.
“Really?” asked Percyfoot, screams completely forgotten. “You don’t think I overdo act four? The scene with the flowers?”
“Oh no,” answered August truthfully. “I find that to be one of the production’s highlights.”
Reginald was still unnerved by the presence of an apparition, but he couldn’t refuse an opportunity to talk about himself. He offered August tea, and the two sat down for a lengthy chat, dissecting each and every moment of Percyfoot’s performance. For August, it was the most stimulating conversation he’d ever had. Miss Butler’s discussions of the theatre mostly centered on the merits of muslin and the fact that there was no such thing as a ruined stocking. To delve into the craft of acting, to examine Shakespeare’s language—how the boy had longed to speak of such things! And to do so with an unparalleled champion of the stage? Nirvana!
For his part, Sir Reginald had never met a more charming child, or one with such a breadth of knowledge of the theatre. When they’d combed over the finer details of his performance for the third or fourth time, Sir Reginald suddenly remembered to whom he was speaking.
“But, my fine young lad, you’re a ghost!”
August explained that he was not a ghost but an orphan, being raised in the Scarsenguard by the laundress.
This both fascinated and repulsed Sir Reginald. A boy growing up in the Scarsenguard was certainly a romantic idea. After all, a life in the theatre was the truest and noblest of all callings, and the boy certainly had a head start on his peers. But what of making chums in his age group? What of his education? What of life?
Percyfoot demanded to see Eugenia Butler, and August, unaware of the legal complexities surrounding his situation, led him to her, oblivious that the introduction he was about to make would very likely take him away from the Scarsenguard and life as he knew it.
The pair found Eugenia still in her chair, snoring lightly and drooling heavily. After August had shaken her awake and introduced his elders, Eugenia, completely aware of the legal complexities surrounding August’s situation, instantly understood what Sir Reginald’s stern expression entailed.
“Did you need some washing done, sir?” Eugenia asked, and, employing her keen knowledge of actors, added, “Such a marvelous performance tonight. I managed to catch all your really moving scenes, and believe me when I say I was . . . moved.” It had been years since Eugenia Butler had seen King Lear, and she couldn’t quite recall what it was about. She surmised that there was a king in it, but she’d been wrong before, so best to keep the details vague.
“Miss Butler,” Percyfoot blustered, bravely ignoring her compliments, though desperate to get into specifics, “it has come to my attention that this delightful child is your ward, though if I understand it correctly, the arrangement is hardly . . . legitimate.”
Eugenia paled but refused to be beaten. Quick as her bones could manage, she dashed off to the dressing room that belonged to the actress playing Cordelia, borrowed a bottle of champagne, and poured two glasses.
“I never discuss business without a spot of bubbly.” She winked.
Two and a half bottles later, Sir Reginald had a new take on the very notion of custody. Could one really own a child? Are people properties to be bandied about? And the boy was happy here! He was looked after, and the American educational system was in shambles at any rate.
“Actually, I’d quite like to go to school,” said the boy, bored senseless by all the dull adult talk.
“Have a glass of champagne, August,” said Miss Butler, still nursing her first fluteful.
August, never one to turn down any form of nourishment, obliged. In two minutes he was drunk, and in two more, unconscious.
“A lovely lad,” hiccuped Percyfoot, “though his theories on Ibsen are positively mad.”
“Does this mean you won’t inform the police about August?” asked Eugenia, tipping the last of the third bottle into his glass.
“My dear, the secret’s safe with me,” slurred the celebrated performer before joining August in unconsciousness.
Miss Butler finished up the wash and then caught a cab home, content in the knowledge that August and Sir Reginald were now fast friends and that she’d be nowhere nearby when they awoke to nurse their respective hangovers.
* * *
Lear had a limited engagement at the Scarsenguard, but while it played, Sir Reginald and August were inseparable. Because August’s existence had to remain hidden, most of their meetings took place after the show ended each night. The boy had never kept a regular sleep schedule, and Sir Reginald operated on an actor’s clock, so neither party minded the late evenings.
Due to the actor’s deft portrayal of the senile Lear, August had always assumed Percyfoot to be ancient, older than Miss Butler even. During their midnight meetings, however, August realize
d the man was somewhere closer to sixty. Though this made him considerably younger than Miss Butler, August still saw him as quite elderly. After all, to a person not yet ten, a thirty-year-old was helplessly old-fashioned; at sixty, Sir Reginald might as well have been Methuselah.
Long, rambling debates about the theatre, playwriting, directing, and acting could be heard from behind the doors of Sir Reginald’s dressing room night after night. But art wasn’t all they discussed. Sir Reginald, through subtle probing, was able to infer what lacked in August’s admittedly slipshod education.
“What do you know of history, my boy?”
August was eager to prove himself. “Miss Butler started working at the Scarsenguard she can’t remember when and has been here ever since, thank you very much.”
Sir Reginald suppressed a shudder. “And tell me what you know of mathematics?”
“Most shirts have six buttons, but you can get away with five if the pants are high-waisted enough, though of course that all depends on when the play takes place. Also, you can stretch detergent for weeks if you splash in a bit of water.”
At least that had some numbers in it. “Science?” Sir Reginald asked.
“What’s science?”
Sir Reginald, initially aghast, realized that he didn’t have a firm grasp on the subject himself. “It’s when . . . people mix things together in beakers and use Bunsen burners.”
“Like the witches in Macbeth?” August asked, excited.
Upon hearing that most accursed of names, Sir Reginald Percyfoot screeched, spit into his left hand, turned in a circle three times, and then said fourteen Hail Marys backward. Afterward, he was breathless and out of sorts.
The Astonishing Life of August March Page 2
