The panicked phones calls started about twenty-four hours later. Hardly enough time for those of us in Ashland to come down off the standing-ovation high, the afterglow of the party, and the gushing review on the New York Times website. We’d barely recovered from the morning rehash at Noble Coffee and #midsummer trending on Twitter. The first message came in at 5:43 in the afternoon, while I was at Vitality Yoga, attempting to prolong my vigor with mindful breath and deep-core awareness, or at least that’s what the brochure promised. I might have stayed for the restorative class afterward if I’d known there’d be ten frantic messages to listen to on my short walk home. Message number one was a simple “call me” from Bumble. But it was clear by message number three, a classic clip-toned hanging tease from my mother, that something was horribly wrong and I was to blame. “Elizabeth, I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the situation. It’s been decided and I’ll be the first one there, boots on the ground, to quell the insurgence. Expect me and the Girls in thirty-six hours.”
My mother using military jargon was never a good sign.
I didn’t even bother listening to the next seven messages. I called Bumble, who answered on the first ring, a rare occurrence. She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Where have you been?”
“Yoga. What’s happening? Is everyone okay?”
“Gee, I don’t know Elizabeth. By ‘okay,’ do you mean ‘Will Ted survive if his gubernatorial campaign goes down the drain before it’s even started?’ Is that what you mean by okay?” Her tone was Full Bumble: the sarcastic rhetorical question followed by a dramatic silence. I was in trouble.
“Bumble, what are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the X-rated romp in the woods that you’ve let my stepdaughter participate in. Thanks for letting us know that Maddie was interning for what’s essentially an Elizabethan adult film. But with better dialogue.”
My head was spinning, “Who called it that? There’s a touch of nudity. And Maddie has not been even close to naked people at any point during the production. She’s making coffee and getting bottled water, not romping onstage.” I was clearly behind in the News According to Bumble. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that pictures of FX and Maddie are all over the Internet. There she is, the congressman’s young daughter, canoodling with FX Fahey, star of the most titillating, and I do mean titillating, production of Midsummer ever. And those asshats Ron and Ben have connected the dots!”
“First off, there was no canoodling. Really. I was there. FX treats her like his niece. He put his arm around her in paternal affection at the cast party, so let’s not mischaracterize what happened.” I tried to slow down the speeding bullet that was Bumble.
“Oh! Am I supposed to be thankful for that? Should I send a fruit basket?” The Sarcastic Rhetorical hits just kept coming. Bumble went on to explain how the conservative talk-show hosts, who already have Ted on their Do Not Support list because of his stance on “lenient” gun control and gay marriage, devoted two hours of their show to taking him down as a horrible parent for letting Maddie participate in “a public pornographic display of nudity and inappropriate behavior.” Congressman Ted, in their eyes, was tantamount to a pimp. And imagine what he would do to the education system in California if he were governor. Birth control for all! Sex ed in kindergarten! Callers were whipped into such a frenzy that they were calling for his resignation from Congress.
It was shocking and awful and I thought I was going to throw up. I picked up my pace to get back to Sage Cottage as quickly as I could. “Oh my god, poor Maddie. Have you spoken to her? Bumble, I had no idea anything like this could happen.”
Bumble ceased hyperventilating and took a moment to compose herself. I imagined it involved a swig of diet soda. “Fortunately, the current talking point is that Ted is a terrible parent, not that Maddie is the next Lindsay Lohan. But honestly, why didn’t you tell us about the production, Elizabeth?”
I hated to remind her that the bulk of our communication over the last month had been about the status of her Sexapalooza. What was a little nudity onstage compared to daily updates about her basal body temperatures and cervical fluid? Plus, I assumed Maddie was filling them in on the details. It hadn’t registered with me how the outside world might construe Maddie’s participation. Was that my job? “It’s so innocent onstage. The whole thing is played for laughs. A quick butt shot, fumbling with the blankets to cover some, um, breasts. I mean, nice ones, but quick, very quick. And the lighting is totally discreet.” The truth was that most of the really sexy scenes involve characters that are fully clothed.
“Super. Radio-talk-show hosts are very sensitive to discreet lighting. I’m sure once Ron and Ben are alerted to the nuanced use of theatrical gels, or whatever you call the lights, they’ll back off their attacks.”
With every remark, I felt worse and worse for Maddie, even for me. “We’re kind of in our own world here in Ashland. It’s not like Pasadena. We’re removed from, you know, the media and you all.”
“Well, you’re not now.”
“Is Ted furious?” Poor Ted. He’d been so generous and kind to me, a wonderful brother-in-law. I never would have done anything to knowingly sink his campaign, or more importantly, his personal reputation. I hoped he knew that.
“I don’t know who’s more furious: Ted or Rafa.”
Oh, damn. Rafa.
“Are you okay?”
Maddie was more than okay; she was defiant. “I am not going home. I turn eighteen next month. They can’t make me go home.”
Well, technically “they” could, but I didn’t want to muddy the argument by pointing out the obvious—that she wasn’t a legal adult just yet. But I was hugely relieved that she wasn’t a puddle of tears on the couch. She was striding around the tiny living room, gesticulating for dramatic effect. Puck was equally worked up on her behalf. I tried to calm them both down, feigning the sort of wisdom that comes with being an adult and in charge, even though I felt about fifteen and out of control. “I’ll back you up on that, but, unfortunately, this may be out of my jurisdiction.” Really, I had no idea what might happen next.
I filled her in on the plan, or more correctly, Bumble’s plan. (It’s incredible what Bumble could pull together over the course of a ninety-minute yoga class.) Team Ted assumed that the brouhaha would subside in a day or two at most. The Ron and Ben Show was local to L.A., and, although FX Fahey was a national media figure, Ted Seymour wasn’t yet, so the chances of the national media picking up the story were small. In the meantime, Bumble and Ted would issue a statement supporting Maddie and the concept of exploring the arts, a new position for Ted, thank you very much. Prior to this afternoon, he’d been cool on public funding of the arts and art instruction in classrooms.
The carefully crafted response would also clarify Maddie’s role, a lowly intern to her aunt, who happened to be FX Fahey’s ex-wife, far away from the action onstage. Then, as icing on the approval cake, Anne Lancaster, a well-respected step-grandmother and education advocate, would arrive in Ashland and act as a Seymour surrogate, attending the play and issuing a statement that declared the play to be a perfectly suitable endeavor for Maddie. Bumble’s carefully chosen media outlets were limited to a Ted-friendly non-political talk-radio host and the socially connected and friendly Look Out Pasadena! My mother was to issue a discreet statement, do the one radio interview, and pose for a multigenerational photo with Maddie and me backstage after the show. According to Bumble, It Was All Good.
Maddie looked worried. “I hope Dylan doesn’t think something’s actually going on between me and FX.”
Ah, the insulation of being a teenager. And, finally, confirmation that the “just friends” relationship was certainly more than that. An entire political firestorm was brewing around her and she was worried about her boyfriend’s reaction to some photos that he himself had taken.
I hope it stayed that way.
A hastily arranged conference call was my first chance to talk to Rafa, a conversation I dreaded but knew I had to face. Bumble presided. “Okay, are we all here? I think so. I heard Rafa, Elizabeth, Suki, and Rob. Suki’s the new director of communications for the campaign, Elizabeth, and Rob is the assistant in that office. So what we’re clarifying here is Maddie’s role. We want to be absolutely clear in our statement. Rafa, go.”
So this is how Bumble sounded at work, I thought. Not really that much different than how Bumble sounded planning Thanksgiving.
Rafa jumped in and my heart pounded. I already felt physically nauseous; now I felt emotionally nauseous. “Right, Elizabeth, why don’t you talk us through Maddie’s day-to-day work?” I certainly wouldn’t put his voice in the warm-and-fuzzy category. Or even the slightly cool category. It was glacial. “Elizabeth, are you there?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I gushed, stalling for time. “Um, technically, Maddie is my intern, but she was pretty much co-opted by the production team to handle lots of menial tasks over the course of the last few weeks. She’s been working closely with the director Taz Buchanan and with FX Fahey on everything from basic gofer stuff to launching their social media campaign. During the actual performance, she’s nowhere near the action, if you know what I mean.” I was hoping to lighten the tone. No such luck.
“But under your direct supervision at all times, correct?” Rafa asked.
“Well. …” There was no getting around it. I was now going to have to publicly announce that I’d been banned from the set, that Maddie was not only operating completely independently, but also supplying me with information. It was humiliating, deeply humiliating. “Not exactly under my supervision. At all times. In fact, never really. I mean, we text a lot.”
I could sense the phone line freeze and break.
“Knock, knock!” In a celebratory mood, FX showed up at the door, pizza and beer in hand. He’d been sending me links all day of positive press from various sources. (Hollywood Reporter. Taz, FX Midsummer “Dream” Team. New York Times: Midsummer Magic in Ashland.) Clearly he wanted to share the buzz with his entourage—or any entourage. Allowing for the jam-packed schedule of a repertory company, Midsummer would run only two nights a week and one weekend matinee, leaving FX plenty of time to wander the streets of Ashland in search of dinner partners while the other actors in the company, including the lovely Sabrina, did other shows. I don’t want to say we were his second or third choice, but I’m certain we weren’t his first.
While the camera may have caught FX and Maddie together on opening night, it was Sabrina who actually snuck off to the private poolhouse later that night with FX after I shot him down. Well, at least I hadn’t made that mistake, I thought as I opened the screen door and let the pizza in. FX followed. “Who wants dinner? No meat in sight! Got a Slammy from Creekside. Our favorite, Maddie.”
I marveled at how a guy who’d lived in New York City for the last fifteen years could eat a pizza that featured yams and caramelized onions and still maintain his self-respect. But FX had no shame when it came to his newfound love, the Slammy.
“What does meat matter? I’m probably going to be sent home to the beef capital of America tomorrow anyway!” Maddie said dramatically and erroneously, as Pasadena is not particularly known for its beef consumption.
FX looked confused, so I filled him in on the situation as succinctly as I could, using phrases like “blip on the screen” and “bump in the road”—anything to underscore the small scale of the disaster. He was appalled and right away offered to call his press agent, Heather, who, unbelievably, I hadn’t even heard of yet. But I begged off, “Please, this is a nothing thing. And, it’s totally Ted’s nothing thing. I think the less we say, do, and care, the better. And Bumble warned me, no cross-messaging.”
“What does that mean?” Maddie asked.
“It means, let Bumble do the talking. On the conference call, she kept repeating, ‘Contain the story. Keep it local.’ You’re not local news, FX.”
“Why are people afraid of pushing the boundaries?” he asked, missing the point entirely. “That is the point of art. And art is life. There’s pain, misery, happiness, sex, birth, death, weddings, nudity, emotional vulnerability—it’s all in there. Why do people have such a hang-up about digging in and examining the truth?”
Spoken like the Boy in the Plastic Bubble. I used my Professor Lancaster tone to keep the discussion on track. “I’m not sure it’s art anyone’s afraid of, but there is a certain crowd that seems scared of nudity or anything that slightly resembles sex. Plus, I repeat, this is really about politics. This is about Ted and his stance on immigration or gun control or any of the other issues in which he doesn’t toe the party line.” I grabbed a beer and a slice. “That being said, it probably wasn’t the best idea to have a minor working on the show. The audience had to be over eighteen, and I guess the interns should have been, too. That was my fault.”
Maddie looked put out. “I’m only a minor as far as the law is concerned.”
FX and I both laughed. I switched back to Aunt Elizabeth. “Actually, as far as everyone’s concerned, Maddie. But again, I’ve been instructed by your father’s people to carry on like nothing has happened. You’ll be backstage tomorrow night and guess what? Your grandmother arrives tomorrow. So gird your loins, people.”
Once again, it was me versus Skype. I stared at the screen and considered calling Rafa. Was it worth it to try to explain to him how I could have possibly left out such a critical piece of information in our many conversations? Or should I assume that we’d gone back to an “on-demand” relationship and not even bother? Oh, what the hell. I was a grownup, and I really had nothing to hide. I clicked “call” and pinched my cheeks for color.
He didn’t pick up the first time, so I tried again three minutes later, guessing that he must have been indisposed. I imagined him out in my garden, pondering his feelings for me and watering the Swiss chard. Still, no answer. A third time was desperate, right? Well, that was a fitting description of my state. Just then, my phone pinged. It was a text from Rafa: Thanks for your time today. Will call if I have questions re: situation.
Apparently he wasn’t watering the chard, just ignoring my calls. That was that, I supposed. Right on cue, Puck wandered into my bedroom and rested his head on my lap. “Good dog.”