Cyclorama, page 27
“Mr. Densmore will be out of town that evening and his alarm is broken; now’s your chance,” William Nicholson had written. And right on cue, Declan had smashed a downstairs window, tripped the alarm, then all but run into the arms of the cops. That should have been enough to silence Declan forever, but alas, not. Franklin’s article had been published in the Tomorrow with Declan’s quotes all over it, so Tyrus had sent copies of Declan’s diary entries and Eileen’s photographs to Declan’s wife, his son, his silly little girlfriend, Patricia, and Frank Lichtenstein.
He would have liked to have seen Declan’s face when he realized what he had set into motion. But that was one of the most beautiful yet vexing things about drama: you never got to see everything. And some of the most important moments in theater—Lady Macbeth killing herself; the Franks and Van Daans leaving the Annex at gunpoint; Shelly Levene breaking into his office and stealing the Glengarry leads; Declan Spengler’s relationships falling apart—happened offstage and were left to your imagination.
Tyrus didn’t regret that he was probably ruining Declan’s life, nor did he feel particularly proud, only satisfied that justice was being done. He didn’t know who would be next; Calvin Dawes and Franklin were the most obvious choices. Trey Newson had been a kind, lost boy, but the rest of his family was another story. Eventually, though, he would take care of all of them. He knew their secrets and their weaknesses, so there was no question of whether he would succeed; it was only a matter of time.
Tyrus checked his dresser drawers, made sure they were empty. The boxes were already downstairs in the living room, carefully labeled and stacked. He picked up the first of the suitcases, lugged it to the hallway at the top of the stairs. Then he went back for the next. After Susan had died, he had removed all evidence of her infirmities: the stair lift, the three-pronged canes, the walkers. He briefly felt sorry that he’d had the Stair-Glide taken away. It would have helped with the luggage, but that was okay: when he got to New York, he would have to rely on himself.
There had been a time—not long ago, actually—when he had perceived the future as one long moment of waiting to die. Even though he had spent so much of his life anticipating Tom’s death, when the call had come from the night nurse, he felt as if someone had clubbed him in the gut—not just once but again and again and again. He would drink himself to sleep, then wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air. By then Susan was pretty far gone: How many times did she forget their son had finally succeeded in hanging himself, and how many times did Tyrus have to remind her and watch her face dissolve all over again? All that kept him going were the classes he taught at the high school and the plays he directed there, each darker than the next. How he had gotten the administration to agree to a season of shows by Edward Bond, Sarah Kane, and Tracy Letts, he had no idea. No doubt they were afraid of him and knew he was grieving and eager to die.
But he did not fade away the way he thought he would. He had read and seen so many stories about husbands and wives—together for decades, then dying within hours of each other; yet, after his wife died, his strength returned in subtle ways. He stopped waking up at night; he started going out again, seeing theater, flirting at bars. He returned to directing the plays he’d always loved: A View from the Bridge, To Kill a Mockingbird—classic dramas about justice with lots of good parts for strapping young men and a few cute girls to keep the boys interested.
Still, even before people had started airing their old grievances, he knew he was living on borrowed time. The culture was changing. People hated their new government and what it was doing, but they felt powerless to change it, so they lashed out at easier enemies. You couldn’t stop the president, but you could try to stop Tyrus.
He could have occupied the next months or years by defending his good name, but that seemed a rather dull pastime: challenging accusations all day long, admitting he had done this, asserting he hadn’t done that, pointing out that what he had done was nothing compared to what sports coaches and other “inspirational leaders” did every day. How many times would he have to listen to sanctimonious hypocrites berate him for behaving in a way that had been perfectly acceptable at the time? What had he done? Had he driven drunk off a bridge at Chappaquiddick and left his girlfriend to drown? Was he separating parents from their children and locking them all up? He had given his actors hope, a purpose; if he was guilty of anything, it was caring too much for them. He was so weary of the cliché of innocent youth, of people pretending that adulthood was a real thing and not just an artificial construct, as if the word teenager wasn’t just something someone made up. Did any adult remember what it was really like to be a teenager? Had they ever listened to teenagers’ conversations or read their diaries?
He had always liked the separation between theater and reality—had sought out his career for that very reason—but so often he wished that real life could be more like the stage. A play was life compressed into a few hours at most. You played a role for some weeks; if you were lucky and the play was a hit, maybe you’d do it for a year. But then it was over: you tore down the set, brought the costumes back to the shop, lugged the marked-up scripts to the recycling center, then onto the next character. Yet, in life, you played the same role assigned to you on the day you were born, and this was called a good, respectable existence. For too long he had been Tyrus Densmore, lord of the Annex, flawed hero, misunderstood villain, star in a tiny, insular universe. To stick around awaiting the reckoning was to admit he had reached his tragedy’s final act and from now on would be only a minor character in other people’s dramas. But he refused to accept that his story was nearing its finale. At worst, this was the end of Act II, which would set the stage for an astounding Act III reveal.
Tyrus checked the wallet app on his phone, made sure the ticket and boarding pass were there. He put the phone back in his suit jacket. He would be on the last flight to LaGuardia, where he would become William Nicholson, seventy-seven-year-old first-time actor. How remarkable it would seem for there to be a novice actor of his age—mind still sharp, legs in reasonable working order, talents undiminished.
William Nicholson would arrive fresh in New York with the enthusiasm of a recent Juilliard grad but the experience of a three-time Oscar nominee. Days after his arrival, he would check out of his hotel, get an apartment, an agent. He would hire a videographer to produce his actor’s reel, an engineer to record his voice-overs. He would show up at open calls at six A.M., charm every actor there. He would frequent industry bars, buy drinks for youngsters who would view him as a delightful oddity—this handsome old duffer with dreams of making it on Broadway. They’d take him under their wing. He would amass stage credits, get guest spots on cop shows and sitcoms where he’d dispense grandfatherly advice. He’d amaze his younger counterparts with his stamina. And if none of that worked out, he would rent a theater, hire actors and a publicist, produce his favorite plays, and perform nude scenes in each of them.
Tyrus checked his phone. Soon the car would be here. The driver would help him with his bags and boxes. They’d drive to the UPS store and send the boxes to the storage unit he’d rented in Queens. Then on to North Shore, where a ticket for AF would be waiting for William Nicholson. He’d watch the show and leave either at intermission or the moment the lights went out at the end of Act II. He despised curtain calls; the only one who did it right was Nijinsky, who didn’t bow, just mimed masturbating, which was all curtain calls were good for. His driver would speed him to Tyrusfest, where, one last time, he’d play the role of Tyrus: drink too much, tell filthy jokes, cup someone’s balls, wouldn’t care if little Frankie Lichtenstein or any reporter saw him. Then he’d excuse himself, say he needed to make a quick call and that he’d be right back to offer a toast.
By the time they realized he wasn’t coming back, he’d be at O’Hare. They’d call him; his phone would be dead. He’d never answer it again. The next time they’d see him would be onstage, on TV, or on the big screen. They’d check the credits, look for his name, but they wouldn’t find it—and then they’d wonder: Were William Nicholson and Tyrus Densmore different people, or were they one and the same? Eventually, someone would figure it out, but by then it wouldn’t matter. He would be part of the inner circle, where each protected his own—that sordid world of casting couches, sex rings, and underage massages. His secrets were nowhere near as scandalous as those of other show people; keeping them would be easy. As a performer and director, he was an unparalleled professional; when it came to depravity, he was strictly amateur.
Suitcase in one hand, walking stick in the other, he took the first step down. He felt strangely unbalanced. Too much weight on one side, not enough on the other. He gripped the stick harder, placed the tip on the step below. He hefted the suitcase and heard a crack—so subtle he didn’t immediately understand, and by time the meaning registered, there was another snap, then a crunch. The stick splintered underneath him and he fell face-first. The suitcase fell out of his hands, fell faster than he did, slid down to the floor as his face slammed into the marble stairs, a spark of pain igniting first in his chin, then his skull, radiating throughout his entire body.
It occurred to him—not in any logical sense but in a fragmentary way—that he was falling inelegantly, so unlike any way he had fallen onstage: clutching his chest then tumbling to the ground as Tybalt in Romeo and Juliet; arms thrown back as the final blow was thrust home into Cyrano. As he fell, he sensed that every part of his body was in the wrong place—legs above, head below. When he looked upward, all he saw was a juddering, pale brown water splotch on the white ceiling, tiny dots of colored light floating upon it.
He still held the walking stick—the top third of it, anyway. He tried pushing it into a step, then the wall—useless. He flung it behind him. Sweat poured down his cheeks. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and saw it was blood. He felt dizzy, the ceiling spun, the pain so intense he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where he’d been hurt. He tried to right himself, pushed his hands down hard, but they didn’t work the way they were supposed to. He thought he might inch downward, but something was wrong with his legs. Blood kept spilling—onto the stairs, his hands, his cheeks. It filled his mouth. He spat it out, a big red spray on the white wall.
A horn honked outside—maybe the driver. He made as if to call out, but too much blood was in his mouth. He spat again, made a gurgling noise, then his mouth was full again and he had to spit once more, as if he were drowning in blood. He reached into his pockets for his phone with the one hand that seemed to still work. Both pockets were empty; the phone must have fallen out. He could hear it vibrating a short distance away. He thrust out his arms; one hit the banister, the other grazed the wall, but he could barely move as he feebly gargled out another bloody yell. His thoughts back-and-forthed between the profound and the mundane. He wondered how much his house would sell for; he wondered how his life might have been different had his son been healthy; and he wondered if, when he managed to stand, he would be able to get to the theater on time.
He held a distended hand up to his face: blood was smeared over the palm and fingertips. He was conscious of the theatricality of the gesture, yet did it anyway. He didn’t doubt that he could find a way out; he would not die here; he understood how death worked: you fell to the ground, you moaned, your eyes fluttered, the stage went dark, but then the lights came back up. He would look back at this moment with a wry smile, tell the story to his new admirers in New York—the time he cheated death. Yet, his breaths were wheezy, his vision blurred, and he felt moved to write something on the wall in his blood, something that would make this moment seem important, not just pathetic. He could draw a swastika, make them think some Nazi had thrown him down the stairs; he could write someone’s name—Declan, maybe, or Calvin or Franklin; fuck with them one more time. He could apologize for everything, or he could write that he’d done everything he’d been accused of and more, and he didn’t regret any of it.
He spat again; the blood on the wall was darker this time. Everything looked dimmer, as if a bulb had blown. He had to keep trying to get to the bottom of the stairs, get to the phone. First, though, he’d write something on the wall, the word he loved to say more than any other. He heard the word in his mind before he started to trace it out with a finger; he imagined himself raising his hand high, then making a tight fist as he fiercely whispered: “Blackout!”
*
The party at Prairie Moon had been going for a half hour when Eileen decided to check up on Tyrus. It would have been completely in character for him to show up late, but she didn’t like that his phone number was no longer in service. And besides, everything about Tyrusfest without Tyrus seemed lonely and lame—the WELCOME TO TYRUSFEST! banner and blue-and-white bunting; the gold and pink streamers; the bar; the buffet; the DJ table where “Eileen’s Kick-Ass Playlist” was currently fading from “I’m Still Standing” to “I Will Survive.”
The only people Eileen knew here were ones she couldn’t stand. Declan was pacing the room, hands in the pockets of his salt-stained black overcoat. What was he doing here? Hadn’t he said he would never come? Some of Tyrus’s colleagues from the high school were on the scene, even though she was sure they would have fired Ty-Ty if he hadn’t resigned. Franklin, all 145 pounds of weaseliness, was circulating, digging for dirt. She wanted to go all Sonny Corleone on him—call out, “Hey, c’mere,” then spit on him, break his phone, and tell him to keep away from her fuckin’ family. But Tyrus had told her not to turn anyone away—he had his own plans for all of them—so when Franklin tried to make phony small talk, she just told him she didn’t speak to the “fake news media” and walked away.
The rest of the crowd consisted of theater-y people whom Eileen didn’t recognize and didn’t care to know: heavyset women and gay guys who weren’t even cute or well dressed; kids who looked like they were just out of college, here only for the open bar and free snacks. And there was only so long she could talk to Sammy, watch him pump the air in front of his crotch and say “Pfft, pfft, pfft” and then show off pictures of his Maserati and his gorgeous kids and his hot Black wife.
“I’m gonna head to Ty-Ty’s. Maybe he needs a ride,” Eileen told Sammy.
Sammy leered at Eileen. “Pfft, pfft, pfft,” he said.
In her car, Eileen tried Tyrus again, got the out-of-service message, steered into traffic, and followed the path to the house she had visited so many times before. He always seemed annoyed to see her, but that was his charm. Tonight, when he opened the door, he would glare and ask why she was checking up on him, and she would say it was because Irish whores always made house calls, and he would laugh and let her hug him.
Tyrus’s car wasn’t in his driveway; his garage doors were shut, but there was a lot of light on in his hallway and front room. She rang his doorbell. When no one answered, she knocked. She texted Sammy: Ty there yet?
Nope, Sammy texted back. But the strippers are!
Eileen leaned hard on the doorbell, cupped her hands, looked in the door’s window. There was a dark red splatter on the wall, a black shoe on the stairs that seemed attached to an ankle. She slapped the door with her palm, pressed the doorbell again. “Ty-Ty! Tice-A-Roni! Come on, it’s Tyrusfest time!” She fumbled in her bag, got out her keys. So often they had joked about it. “I’ll see you on Thanksgiving,” she’d say. “You’re not invited,” Tyrus would respond. “I’ve got the key,” she’d tell him. “I’m changing the locks,” he’d say.
Eileen opened the door and started to yell “Tyrus!” but she couldn’t even finish saying his name before she saw his body. It looked fake, like a scarecrow stuffed into a black overcoat, black shoes, gray socks. She wouldn’t have thought it was real if it hadn’t been for all the blood: splattered and smeared on the wall, where it looked like someone had started writing a B; dripping from the pale, gray hand frozen in the act of reaching for a suitcase. Why all these suitcases? Why so many boxes? The bottom part of a splintered walking stick lay in a puddle of blood. Her stomach heaved. Her hands and feet felt cold. “Tyrus!” Her voice trembled; her body shook. She didn’t want to check for a pulse, didn’t want to know for sure he was dead. “Ty-Ty!” She could see only the side of his face—so pale, as if whatever had made Tyrus had already bled out of him. She tried yanking him down the rest of the stairs, could barely budge him. She called 911. The dispatcher had an accent. “Christ,” she said, “do you even speak English?”
She paced as she waited for the paramedics. She couldn’t stay in the hallway with all the blood. There was no furniture in the living room; there were shelves in the den but nothing in them. She wanted a drink, but there was no more liquor cart, no more wine rack; the refrigerator and freezer were empty.
Sirens were approaching. An ambulance, two squad cars, and a fire truck drove up. Scarcely two minutes had passed since she had made the call, and she couldn’t help but think how efficient the fire department was when it didn’t matter. When Tim had collapsed in his office and she had called, it had taken fifteen minutes for those bastards to get there.
Across the street, she could see faces in windows, gawking. Disgusting. She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them while she answered the police officers’ questions and the paramedics went about their business with rote efficiency. They didn’t even perform CPR. Two firefighters rolled a gurney to the front door and brought it inside.
An officer—TOUNSLEE on his nameplate—led her to the kitchen. No, she told him, she wasn’t the wife, wasn’t the daughter, just a friend. “It was supposed to be his night,” she said. “It was supposed to be a party, not a wake.” Tounslee gave her a Kleenex. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s their fault,” she said.
“Whose?” Tounslee asked.
