The Show Goes On, page 11
“We’re ready to start thinking about outreach,” she said at one of the Thursday management meetings in Ron Carroll’s workshop. “Ron? That’s your expertise.”
Ron nodded. “I’ve talked to some of the presidents of the veterans’ associations,” he said. “They’re intrigued. They would like Jake to come talk to one of their meetings. There are four main groups. VFW meets at 5 p.m. next Thursday. American Legion has lunch on the first Tuesday. Rotary, by the way, is the first Monday, and they want a speaker. And the Vietnam Vets want a speaker as well. And the same groups in Pullman.”
“You think I’m going to go talk to all these people?” Jake demanded. He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why?” Ron asked. “You’re articulate, well-spoken. You don’t have a problem talking to us. Why not them?”
He opened his mouth, shut it and just shook his head. “I don’t know what to say,” he mumbled finally.
“I’ll help you draft a speech,” Becca said. “You can practice it on me. I think you and Chris should do a couple of talks together. Chris said they get a lot of propaganda from the military about what community service the men are doing over there. But Chris’s brother came home last Christmas, and he was irritable and jumpy. If they were doing community service, why was Chris’s brother so angry? He said the play helped him understand more about what his brother was going through than any of the stuff the military sends home.”
Jake snorted and nodded. “Hear that a lot from families. But the military keeps doing it. I think the old newsreels of the fighting on the front probably better prepared families for the return of their men,” he admitted. “The way the public relations office handles it you’d think we were all in the Peace Corps.”
“So talk about that then,” Ron said. “And you’ve made a good impression on the ROTC commanders. They want to bring all of their students to the play one night.”
“Are we still going to invite the veterans to one of the dress rehearsals?” Gail asked.
Ron nodded. “The men I’ve talked to like the idea,” he said.
“So if I have to talk to these groups, are you?” Jake asked Ron Carroll.
Ron blinked. “I...,” he stopped. Gail looked at him amused.
“You said this play not only spoke to you, but for you,” she said gently.
“I did,” he admitted. “And it does. Fine. I’ll share the podium with you a couple of times.”
“Any word from University Information?” Becca asked.
Gail shook her head. “They’re developing the printed pieces,” she said. “The stuff they usually do. But this extra stuff? They’re swamped. But they’ll bring over the mockups for everything next week.”
Everyone nodded. University Information did good work for them each year. They’d be at the first dress rehearsal for photos as well.
“What about the news media?” Richard Raven asked. “Are they going to handle that? Or do we have to?”
Gail grimaced. “I’ll ask again,” she promised. “This is touchy. At the very least they can do a media relations workshop for everyone.”
They were past midterms now, and Gail held her breath every afternoon when she went to rehearsals. She kept expecting something to happen. Protests. Something.
But Andrew Blake was silent. Bill Call was avoiding her, and that was just fine. Still she held her breath anyway.
Ironically, when protesters showed up on campus they weren’t coming at Gail and Afghanistan.
They were aimed at Angie Gregory.
“No good deed goes unpunished,” Gail teased her that Friday night at Pete’s. The four of them had come to the rescue of Angie’s ex-fiancé the week before. He’d gotten drunk after his wife left him and took his five-year-old twin sons with her. Things snowballed from there. Angie had welcomed Michael back into her life and bed — something everyone, including Angie, knew was a mistake. Then when someone killed his wife in Seattle, and Michael was arrested for it, it was Angie who stepped up to take responsibility for the boys. So on top of a heavy teaching load, she was picking up one of Michael’s classes, and caring for five-year-olds. Marilee had them all out at the ranch.
And then the smear campaign started. Turned out Jennifer Brewster had made friends with one of the local churches that was almost fanatical. They started calling and leaving messages blaming her for the pending divorce and therefore the woman’s death. The logic of that escaped Gail, but the next thing they knew there were pickets.
Pickets outside Angie’s classroom. Outside her apartment downtown.
Gail felt for her. And Michael was being an ass all of a sudden, which didn’t help.
But the good news was that University Information hired Angie to run the publicity for the play.
“Well, look at it this way,” Gail said, “You already know how to deal with picketers. And our protesters — if we have them — won’t think they’re ordained by God to punish you for adultery.”
“No, they’re just trained to carry weapons,” Angie muttered.
But she was excited about the opportunity, and Gail was delighted to have her. Angie might be drowning her problems with work, but well, there was nothing wrong with that.
Gail was too, wasn’t she?
Gail signed her contract with Aisha per the university’s instructions. And suddenly it felt real — Pivotal was going to be produced on Broadway. She made good on her promise. All the faculty were invited to celebrate it on the patio at Nectar’s. And everyone came. Even the part-time lecturers. They got tipsy, and laughed a lot.
Her play was going to Broadway, she thought jubilantly.
One person was missing. Bill Call had sent his regrets. A prior commitment, he claimed.
Gail chewed on her lip. No great loss to a party, but it was a nasty harbinger of her tenure review process in January. She shrugged it off.
No, the person she really missed was the former Marine who had once told her the play was what he needed to hear — that an event could be so pivotal you were changed forever. But that looking back, you didn’t recognize the person before the event at all. And you liked the person you became just fine.
She really wished that she’d be going home to that man. They could open a bottle of wine and drink it together and celebrate.
Student, she reminded herself. It didn’t matter. Her heart mourned.
When the restaurant finally tossed them all out, Gail walked home. No way was she going to risk driving after that much alcohol! And it was only eight blocks. A nice fall night for a walk.
As she rounded the corner to her street however, a voice called her name softly. She stopped, and peered around, looking for the person. She smiled when she saw him. A man her height wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt. And that damned circle beard.
“I wanted to tell you congratulations,” Jake said as he fell into step with her. “The play deserves it. I still think about it.”
Gail grinned. She knew she should say thanks and send him on his way, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her play was going to Broadway. “Earlier, I thought of you and your comment at Talon’s that night we did the reading,” she confided. “It gave me the courage to send the play to Aisha.”
“Only fair,” he said, smiling at her. “The play gave me the courage to decide to be a college student instead of a plumber.”
That made her giggle. “Well you’d make more money being a plumber than a playwright,” she said.
Jake laughed. “And you, my friend, are drunk.”
“I am,” she agreed. “If I wasn’t? I’d invite you in for a celebration glass of wine. But since I’m not sober enough to be sensible,” she stumbled over the words with too many ‘S’ sounds. “I’ll say goodnight at the door.”
He smiled. “You said goodnight at the door once before,” he reminded her. The first night they’d met at Pete’s and they’d walked here, only discovering on the way that he was a playwright with a submission to the Other Voices competition and she was director who would decide. And she’d left him standing on the doorstep with only a peck on the cheek.
“I did,” she agreed. And she kissed him on the cheek again. “Good night, Jake.”
She went upstairs, stripping off her clothes as she went, and got into the shower. And she stood there, tears streaming down her face, until the water turned cold.
Chapter 20
The play was scheduled for its dress rehearsal for the first Friday in November. It would open the next week on Thursday. Then the schedule was Thursday, Friday, and Saturday until Thanksgiving break. Two Saturday matinees were also on the calendar. All of that had been on the calendar for two years. In fact, little had changed since Gail began teaching at the university. The scheduling gods of the university liked things that repeated themselves.
The Thursday before dress rehearsal, Gail was drinking her morning coffee, and going over her checklist. They were on track, she thought. There was going to be quite the audience for this dress rehearsal. So far. they had RSVPs from nearly 100 veterans across the Palouse who would attend and then discuss the play with the cast and crew afterwards. She was excited for that.
And then her phone rang. It was 7 a.m. She glared at it, because to her knowledge no good thing came by phone at 7 a.m. She grabbed it glanced at the number and frowned. Richard Raven?
“Hi,” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Have you seen the newspaper this morning?” he asked with no preamble. He sounded stressed.
“No,” she said, glancing at the time. “It should be getting here any minute. Why?”
“Look at the entertainment guide and call me back.” He hung up.
Gail closed her eyes. Here it comes, she thought. No, now it starts, she amended.
She went out and got the newspaper. The carrier never got it all the way up to her front porch, so she had to pad down to the street barefoot to get it. She picked up a couple she hadn’t bothered to go after. She got it delivered, but truthfully, she usually read the department’s copy when she got to the office. And in November it was dang frosty to be headed out for the newspaper in her sweats and bare feet.
She opened it up and glanced inside as she walked back to the house. There, taking up the full front of the tabloid-sized entertainment section pullout, was a photo of Andrew Blake. He was talking about something, gesturing wildly. He was a photogenic, charismatic man, exactly the kind of man you’d cast for New York playwright, she acknowledged. She read the headline: “Visiting New York Playwright says UI’s New Show Shouldn’t Go On.”
She straightened her shoulders, folded the paper back together, and went inside. Reading this would require more coffee. She sent a text to Ron Carroll and Angie Gregory. And then she settled in to read the piece. Angie was pounding on her door while she was reading it a second time.
“Cook breakfast,” Angie ordered. “I called in the team.”
Obediently, Gail assembled the ingredients for omelets. She heard vehicles pull in. First Ron Carroll, his solid gruff presence was comforting. Then a car of students: Richard Raven, the lanky young man who would be a name one day if this play didn’t haunt him forever. Becca Stanford, who was quieter than Gail had ever seen her. And Jake Abbott, whose wounded expression made her heart hurt.
“Well, glad you could join me for breakfast,” she joked when her kitchen seemed to be full of silent, somber bodies. “Who wants to fry the bacon?” She put them to work chopping peppers, onions and mushrooms. Angie was grating the cheese. Ron had taken on the bacon, amusement showing in his eyes.
“And there’s coffee,” she said, nodding toward the pot. “Becca, you’re in charge of keeping the coffee coming. We’re going to need it.”
Angie had picked up copies of the newspaper. “Read it while you eat,” she ordered.
“I think we’ve all read it,” Richard said grimly. “Did they contact any of us for comment on this?”
Everyone shook their heads.
“It’s a Q&A,” Angie said. “Usually they don’t ask for comment. But in this case, I think they did call Bill Call and ask him if the guy was legit. Blake probably told them to — and didn’t mention that Call is no longer chair, of course.”
Ron nodded. “That makes sense. So, someone needs to call the editor. And say what?”
“I’ll make the call,” Angie said. “That’s what I’m getting paid to do. What outcome do we want?”
“A retraction!” Richard was furious. Gail had never seen him like this. He was usually tightly controlled — he practiced being sardonic and slightly amused at the world. This was a passionate, angry young man — and, if she read him right, it was not about him and his future, but about the play. Good, she thought with satisfaction.
Angie shook her head no. “A retraction will be one paragraph buried somewhere,” she said. “I plan to make the paper feel guilty as hell. So, what do we ask for?”
People were mulling that over as they ate. Becca poured more coffee.
“We want publicity,” Gail said finally. “We want to dominate next week’s issue before opening night. They can bring a photog to dress rehearsal if they want. Or use University Information photos.”
Angie pulled out a notebook and started jotting things down.
“I think they should do a similar Q&A with Jake,” Becca said firmly, and she glared at Jake when he started to protest. “Your story is important, Jake. Who you are? What you went through? Why you wrote this? The story of Imama? All of those things. And damn it, you’re going to tell it.”
There was silence. “Yes, ma’am,” Jake said meekly. He grinned at her.
Becca nodded once, her point made. Angie wrote it down.
“And I think they should do a news piece about the veteran involvement,” Ron contributed. “Not just an entertainment piece. And for God’s sake, they need to know that the man they just featured is awaiting trial for assault with a deadly weapon! He has restraining orders against him.”
“And he’s being sued for plagiarism in New York,” Gail added, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “That may not seem like a big deal to a local reporter, but it will infuriate Blake to see it in print.”
“OK? Other ideas?”
“I think we should get them to do a piece about Deborah,” Richard said slowly. “A woman of faith played by a woman of a different faith.”
“Did she invite her community to a performance? Where are we at on that?” Angie asked.
“Good question,” Gail said. “And I don’t know. Someone remember to ask today at rehearsal.”
“Speaking of, people are going to be pissed,” Richard pointed out.
“That’s your job,” Gail told him. “Let them vent, then calm them down. And by then Angie should have something to tell us all. Right?”
Angie nodded.
“And what about the powers that be?” Ron asked. “Who gives them a heads up?”
“Well, the chance for a heads up has passed,” Gail said dryly. “But we should send out an email to all of them that Angie is developing a response plan, and we’ll keep them updated.”
“And ask if anyone knew it was coming,” Ron said thoughtfully. “I’ll check around in the department.”
“I’m pretty sure Bill Call did,” Gail repeated her earlier thought. “Something about how some of the questions are phrased. I think he may have suggested it to them.”
“Would he do that?” Becca asked. “Sabotage his own play?”
“He doesn’t see it as his play, unfortunately,” Gail said. She didn’t answer her real question. She looked at Ron. He chewed his lip and nodded. He’d find that out.
“So, who sends out the email to the powers?” Angie asked, getting them back on track. She looked at Gail with one eyebrow raised.
Gail nodded and sighed. “Yeah, that would be me.”
Jake was rereading the piece. He pulled out a pen and underlined a few things. He handed it to Angie. “Ask them about these questions,” he said.
“Which ones?” Gail asked, trying to see the page he handed to her friend.
“Blake is implying I’m an imposter,” Jake said levelly, but there wasn’t a doubt in anyone’s mind that he was angry. “That either I didn’t write the play, or that I’m not really a Marine. That’s pretty snobbish, isn’t it? That a Marine is some kind of Neanderthal who can’t put words on a page? That only someone like him can write plays?”
Gail reread the questions and answers he had highlighted. She considered it. “How well do you know the ROTC commander?” she asked Ron Carroll. “Would he write a guest editorial/letter to the editor about that?”
Ron smiled. It wasn’t friendly. “I’m sure he’d be glad to,” he said. “Angie? That OK with you? I can call him this morning.”
Angie considered it. “I think so,” she said slowly. “Thoughtful, not angry. Pointing out the role veterans play in our society. All those good things. A strong undercurrent of who does Blake think he is? Any great playwrights who served?”
“Norman Mailer would like to have a word,” Jake said with a laugh. “There are actually a lot of writers right now. That’s what got me started. My therapist thought it would be therapeutic if I wrote about being a Marine. I started with a journal, then decided I wanted to write a short story about that day. About Imama and why did she do what she did. But a short story wasn’t right. It needed to be a play, I thought. I could see it in my mind. So, I researched playwriting, because what the hell else did I have to do to fill the hours? A doctor saw me writing and encouraged me. When, she saw the contest announcement somewhere, she nagged me to submit.”
“And did it help?” Becca asked.
Jake thought about it a moment. “Yes, although maybe not in the way that my therapist thought it would. It gave me a future to push toward. And then the contest. You have to realize, my family? We’re Marines. My Dad, my Granddad. My brothers. I planned a career in it. And then suddenly it was done. And I was 28 and had no clue what came next.”
He smiled at Gail. “It was Pivotal,” he said. She laughed.
