Page 77 of Potion Sickness

“Ha.” Damien points at him, and turns to Englebert. “He’s quick. You didn’t tell me he was quick.” He shifts himself as upright as he can get and smooths the blanket across his lap.

“Years ago,” he says, “I was the understudy for the lead in a play at the Lyceum. Eleven weeks, eight shows a week. I stood backstage every night, warmed up, dressed, off book, at the ready. Do you know how many times I went on, Mr. Morgan?”

“How many?”

“None. The man never missed a performance. I’ve hated him faithfully for a decade. I used to stand in that hallway and think, all I need is one night. One dropped ceiling tile. One bad oyster. And here I am, after all these years…. I’m the bad oyster.”

“The theatre has a long memory and a vicious sense of humor,” Englebert says. “I would advise you never to want anything out loud in a dressing room.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Gabe says.

“The role is yours,” Damien says. “Tonight, this weekend, as long as the show goes on. And I’m not handing it over through gritted teeth, you know. I’m simply handing it over.”

“I’m not sure you have much of a choice,” I say.

“Whatever the cat tells you, do that. He’s the best director I’ve ever worked with, and I’ve worked with men who have Tonys and assistants to carry them. Remember the room is full of people who are on your side. That’s the secret. The audience is on your side until you apologize to them. So don’t apologize.” He pauses. “And take the cape. It’s from an antiquities dealer in Queens. It fits any man willing to wear it.”

Englebert’s ears come forward, but Gabe responds before he can speak.

“After the coronation,” Gabe says, “and not one scene before.”

“He’ll do,” Damien says with a nod. “He’ll more than do.”

We’re at the door when Damien calls Englebert back.

“Maestro,” Damien says. “Give me a note. For when I come back.”

“You had finally begun to project,” he says. “See that the man who returns can still do it. He’ll be working with an older instrument, but I’ve found the older instruments are frequently the finer ones.”

* * *

In the car, Englebert faces the windshield and takes up his opening-day agenda.

“Item eight. Prudence must eat something before call, she performs poorly on an empty stomach. She always says she’s eaten before rehearsal, but we can all tell when she’s lying about it. Item nine. The child Cody is to be reminded that the blackout at the end of Act Five is a blackout and not a dimmer exercise. Item ten⁠—”

“How many items are there, Englebert?”

“Fourteen, as of right now. Tonight, Marigold, there are as many items as I say there are. You will listen, and you will drive, and you will not touch the emergency brake.”

CHAPTER 23

Gabe arrives on my porch, sits down on the stoop with the script in front of him unopened, and doesn’t touch the coffee I put in his hand.

“How’re you feeling?” Hannah asks.

“Embalmed,” he says. Nobody laughs, because we all know he isn’t joking.

“You must channel your energy, Gabriel,” Englebert says. “Tonight. This is the apex of our efforts. This is what we’ve all been working for.”

“I’m fried,” Gabe says. “I had a noon service today. I’ve been on my feet all day. At this point I couldn’t even tell you the name of the play.”

“Perhaps that’s for the best⁠—”

“Macb—” says Bandit, from the bushes.

“DON’T SAY IT,” says Englebert. “Circle the bush, you fool. Circle the bush thrice.”

“I didn’t even finish the name,” Bandit says. “And we’re not even in the theater.”