Archive of Our Own

2004

“Thank you for everything,” says Jack.  “This has been the most incredible experience of my life.  I wish I could stay.”

“Why don’t you?” Geoffrey asks.

“I can’t, I’d be sued.”

Geoffrey is honestly sad to see Jack go.  He isn’t one of the world’s great Shakespearian actors, but he made a fine Hamlet in the end.  An honest Hamlet, which is more than a lot of actors ever manage.  Film hasn’t done the boy any favors, that much is obvious.  But Jack turned out to have the spark and the common sense that might let him become a great actor one day, if he keeps using them.  He has the hunger for honest work, too.  With any luck, he’ll manage to shake some out of Hollywood—because horror stories and cheap jokes aside, it’s obvious to Geoffrey that there are real acting opportunities to be found in film if one knows how.

Draining the dregs of his beer, he raises the bottle to Jack’s disappearing back and silently wishes him luck.

He can’t even be too pissed off at Jack, the next day, when it turns out he’s absconded with Geoffrey’s Juliet.  A dirty trick, professionally speaking, but Geoffrey always did have a soft spot for young love.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

2006

Geoffrey’s resting his head on his desk, taking a breather from the disaster that is his life—Charles going to pieces, the show going to pieces, Ellen gone, Oliver all too frustratingly present, although not right this second, at least—when the phone rings in his ear.  He jumps like he’s been given a jolt with a defibrillator.

“What?” he demands into the reciever, still panting with shock.

“Geoffrey?  Uh, is this a bad time?”  It takes Geoffrey a second to recognize Jack Crew’s voice, not because it’s changed, but because Hamlet is so long ago and Hollywood is so far away and Jack sounds so young and normal and not angry at Geoffrey.

“Jack!  No; no, no, no, it’s a fine time, I was just. . .thinking about something.  What can I do for you?”

“Well, actually, I was kind of hoping I could talk to you for a minute.  If you’re not too busy?”

His Lear is not merely dying of cancer but also going off the deep end and terrorizing the cast, he’s short a Regan, and the play opens in less than a week with blocking completely re-done as of the day before yesterday.  Not to mention that his own mental state, if judged objectively. . .well, he’s not in a position to judge it objectively, is he?

“Sure, I’ve got some time,” he says reassuringly.  “What’s on your mind?”

“I just signed a contract for a new movie.  It’s a really great part.  I mean, a character with a real personality and real problems and shit, you know?”

“Sounds like a nice change,” says Geoffrey.  “Not to disparage Countdown, but I don’t imagine you found it much of an acting challenge.”

“You saw Countdown?” Jack sounds astonished and pleased.

“I rented it last year.  I was curious.”

“Jeez.  That one sucked rocks.  I wish you’d gone for Roses and Guns.  The action sequences are much better.  Plus, I got to kiss Liv Tyler.”

“I’ll put it on my list,” says Geoffrey, although he’s already forgotten the title.  “Anyway, it’s great to hear that you’ve got something a little more nuanced on the horizon.”

“Yeah.”  Jack doesn’t sound like it’s great.  “It’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for.  This is, like, my big chance to prove I can do something besides action flicks.  If I do well, and if the movie does well, I might start getting offered more dramatic parts.  It’s just. . .”

Geoffrey often finds that silence is an effective way to get people to articulate what’s on their minds.  The trick works this time.

“It’s just, how the hell am I going to do it?” sighs Jack.  “I mean, it took me weeks to get to the point where I had any idea what I was doing with Hamlet, and then we had like a million performances, and even by the end, I felt like I was just maybe starting to get what was really going on in his head.”

“Yeah, that’s how it goes.  I haven’t acted in over eight years and I still wake up in the middle of the night with blinding revelations about how I should have reacted to Mercutio’s Queen Mab speech.”  Geoffrey is rather surprised to find himself smiling fondly while thinking about his acting days. 

Jack chuckles, but it’s a tense chuckle.  “Yeah, but so, in the movies you don’t get weeks. You barely have time to learn the lines and then you film it all out of order, thirty seconds at a time.  And yeah, you get to do another take if you screw it up, but how the hell am I supposed to get into the character’s head like that?”

“I have no idea, I’ve never worked in film,” says Geoffrey.  “But listen, even on the stage, it’s stop and go, every time you make an entrance, right?  Just treat every scene, every shot, whatever that little chunk is, as a performance.  Don’t worry about the whole show at once, just worry about that one particular moment.  Live that moment as the character.  Remember: you don’t want perfect, you want real.”

“Real,” Jack echoes.  “You say that like it’s easy.”

“If it were easy, everybody would be an actor.  Study the script as much as you possibly can, get the shape of the story engrained in your mind.  Run through the emotional arc in the shower or any time you have a few minutes.  If you know that in your heart, then it’s much easier to drop into the middle of the story and know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah,” says Jack, starting to sound more thoughtful and less panicked.

“And I don’t know how much opportunity you have to rehearse with the other actors, or just talk to them, but use whatever you can get.”

“Yeah,” says Jack again.  “I don’t know. . .actors have different ideas about whether they want to talk about work when they’re not on the set, and I’m kind of the new kid on the block for this one, but. . .I hear Sally Field is really friendly and kind of geeky about acting, so. . .Yeah, she might talk to me.”

“Good, good, that sounds like a start.”

“Hey, thanks, man.  I feel dumb whining at you like this, but. . .”

“Anytime,” says Geoffrey.  “Seriously.  If nothing else, your troubles make a nice change from my own.”

“What’s wrong?” asks Jack.

“Oh. . .the usual.  My Lear is falling apart, the cast hates him, they hate me, Richard’s thrown us out of the Rose so he can put on a fucking musical—”

“Fuck, seriously?  That’s—Shakespeare is what you guys do.”

“Apparently someone forgot to let Richard in on the secret.  But hey, it wouldn’t be live theatre without the perpetual drama.”  Geoffrey can hear his voice getting bright and brittle, edging towards mania, which neither he nor Jack needs to deal with.  “Listen, I’m probably keeping you from something, and for that matter, someone’s going to stick their head in here any minute screaming about the crisis of the hour.  So, give my best to Kate—how is Kate, by the way?”

“She’s fine,” says Jack. 

Geoffrey covers the mouthpiece to sigh in relief, because two years is a long time, and he does realize that asking someone to marry you doesn’t actually guarantee you’ll still be together two years later.  Really, the odds seem to be against it.

“Well. . .not totally fine, I guess,” Jack goes on.  “She’s kind of going through a shitty time because she can’t get work.  Except for some commercials, which her agent keeps pushing at her, but she really doesn’t want to do them.  It just makes me so mad.  She’s good, but she can’t even get in the door to do a reading.  And I don’t know, I feel like I ought to be able to help her somehow.  But she doesn’t want my help.”

“What, she’s afraid you’ll pull strings for her and she’ll get roles she doesn’t deserve?”

“Yeah, I think so. She doesn’t—doesn’t want to be famous as Jack Crew’s Girlfriend.”

“Well, that makes sense.  Unfortunately, if Hollywood works anything like live theatre, getting roles is about equal parts talent and having the right friends.  For the real actors almost as much as the horrible people.  And it's not fair to give the horrible people too much of an advantage.  So tell Kate I said it’s her duty to give the Claires of Hollywood some competition.”

“Okay.  I just. . .I don’t know.  She gave up everything to come out here with me, you know?  And I just don’t seem to know how to make her happy.”

“You can’t really make someone happy,” says Geoffrey, managing not to add, But you sure can make them miserable if you try.  “Have you tried asking her what she needs?  And really listening to what she says?”

“Most of the time she doesn’t seem to feel like talking,” Jack mumbles.

“Well. . .maybe you should talk to her, then.  Tell her what’s on your mind.  Tell her—not to be too clichéd about it—how you feel about her.”

“But she knows how I—” Jack starts to protest, then breaks off.  “No.  I guess I haven’t told her that recently.  It’s just. . .it’s hard to say it when I don’t know, I can’t tell. . .how she feels about me, anymore.”

“She’s probably been feeling the same way,” says Geoffrey.  “If neither of you has been talking, she’s probably wondering what’s going on in your head, too.  Hell, she might be afraid that you’re not talking because you’ve lost interest or don’t trust her or have some terrible secret—” 

At this point he starts actually hearing the words that have been coming out of his mouth and is astonished to discover just how monumental an idiot he is.

It’s me, isn’t it?

All we’re asking for is a little common respect.

Are you okay?  Can I help?

You won’t tell me what’s going on, you won’t tell me anything, actually, so I’m just going on blind faith. . .I have no power in this situation.

Do you?  Need to come back?

What happened to us, Geoffrey?  I thought at least we were friends.

I’m not happy.

“Oh, shit,” Geoffrey mutters.

Jack, who is in the middle of saying Geoffrey has no idea what, breaks off in confusion.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, I just realized there’s something very, very important that I need to do before it’s too late.”  And he just hopes to God he’s not already too late, because he’s lost eight years of his life already, he can’t lose the rest of it, can’t lose Ellen again, can’t keep fucking this up, damn it.

“Listen, Jack, I’ve got to go, but really, I honestly think that if you just talk to Kate and really listen to what she has to say. . .She did move out there with you, and she’s still there.  I think that says something, don’t you?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll try.  I will.  Thanks, Geoffrey, I—just, thank you.”

The poor fool, taking advice from a blinking idiot.  At least Geoffrey’s always talked a better game than he played.

“Good luck to you,” he says.

“You, too,” says Jack. 

It’s a fifteen-minute drive to Ellen’s if you don’t break the law.  That might almost be enough time for him to figure out what he’s going to say to her when he gets there.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

2006

The church is packed.  Okay, it’s a small space, but still, Geoffrey is stunned by the number of people who came to see him and Ellen get married and who are apparently dead set on partying with them until the sun comes up.  He wanders through the crowd in a daze, grinning and saying random things when people talk to him and clutching Ellen’s hand because he isn’t 100% sure she won’t evaporate if he lets go.  Occasionally someone shoves food or drink into his free hand.  Occasionally a flash bulb goes off in his face.  There’s a lot of hugging and laughing and a little crying and somewhere across the room there’s quite a bit of singing. 

Every now and then he looks over his shoulder, but the only faces he sees are people who are actually physically present.  Which is definitely a relief, but a little part of him can’t help wishing that Oliver were here, along with Geoffrey’s mother, and Mae, and Charles. . .A veritable retinue of ghosts.  Most people have one by his age, he supposes; it’s just that most people’s are more. . .purely metaphorical.

Oliver would be pleased, he tells himself.  In spite of everything, he’d be happy for Geoffrey.  Or at least he’d put on a good show.

“Congratulations, you guys!”

Geoffrey finds himself embracing Jack—tall, gangling, more closely shaven than Geoffrey recalls ever having seen him, shy grin splitting his face.  Then he’s got his arms around Kate—small, warm, blinking back tears and favoring him with a smile that could kill a man at twenty paces.  Meanwhile, Jack grabs Ellen by the shoulders, plants a solid kiss on her mouth, and says, “Congratulations, Mom.”

For a dizzy moment, Geoffrey waits to be overtaken by the urge to pull Jack away from Ellen, to punch his handsome young face—but nothing happens.  No jealousy; no panic.  Just a friend teasing Geoffrey’s wife—his wife!  He grins as much out of relief as amusement at Jack’s antics.

Ellen splutters and swats Jack on the shoulder, but she can’t contain her smile.  “It’s too late for your Oedipus complex, Hamlet.”

Kate turns to Ellen, and there’s a beat of hesitation between the two women that speaks volumes about some kind of backstory Geoffrey must have missed when it was going on.  Then Kate embraces Ellen, Ellen’s arms come up around the younger woman, and yes, Geoffrey’s director’s eye can see that something just happened there.  A good something: reconciliation or resolution.  The details don’t matter, though maybe Ellen will tell him later.

He leaves them to it, turning his attention back to Jack.  “Good to see you.  You’re looking happy.  Things going well?”

“Yeah.”  Jack nods, and good God, he really does look happy, like he might achieve lift-off if life got any better.  “The movie went well—The Other Road, you know, the one I told you about?  Where I play the guy whose mom has Alzheimer’s.  It’s in post-production now.  It’ll be out in March.”

“Is it worth seeing?”

“Yeah.”  Jack smiles shyly.  “It’s really good.  At least, I think so.  And I think I did a good job.  Although I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking about stuff I should’ve differently.” 

Geoffrey grins.  “Just wait ‘till I see it and give you my notes.”

Out of one ear he can hear Kate excitedly telling Ellen something about a film offer.  He glances over at her, then raises inquiring eyebrows at Jack.

“Sounds like things are looking up for Kate, too?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack says.  “She got this great offer—just signed the contract before we flew out here.  It’s only a supporting role, but it’s a good one, and there are a couple of big names in the movie.  It’s totally going to be her breakthrough.”

“Good for her.”

Kate looks radiant.  She’s practically bouncing off the walls as she explains something to Ellen, who seems delighted to hear it.

“So, I take it things are going better for the two of you these days?” Geoffrey asks quietly.

“Yeah.”  Jack’s smile as he glances over at Kate is almost as beautiful as hers.  Jesus, young love, thinks Geoffrey, but for once the thought doesn’t hurt.

“Actually. . .”  Jack leans in confidingly.  “I think we’re finally going to set a date for the wedding.  We’ve been holding off because—well, for a bunch of reasons.  But I think we’re really going to do it now.  I hope so.  I want to.  And I think. . .I think she does too, now.”

“That’s great,” says Geoffrey.  “I guess this is my cue to give you all sorts of insufferably patronizing advice about marriage, but unfortunately, I haven’t been married long enough myself to have any.  Give me a couple of months, I’ll see what I can come up with.”

Jack grins.  “I’ll let you know when we decide on a date.  It might not be for a while.  But hey, listen, you want to come to the opening night gala for The Other Road?  I could get you and Ellen passes.  It’ll be crazy and stupid, you should totally come.”

Geoffrey blinks at the unexpected offer.  “You know, as much fun as it might be to get a peek at this Hollywood place I keep hearing about, I don’t think we can.  We’re moving to Montréal in a couple of weeks, as soon as we finish up with the red tape about Ellen’s house.  And then we’re going to be trying to get our new company off the ground, finding a performance space, making it habitable.  If we’re lucky, by December we’ll have some of our clothes unpacked.  Not to mention, I don’t know how we’d afford the plane fare.”

“I could spring for the plane tickets if you’re—if that would help,” Jack offers.

Geoffrey knows Jack isn’t the sort of person who cares about polite duels over who picks up the check, and also that he makes enough money that the offer is probably exactly as little a deal for him as he’s making it sound like.  The invite, on the other hand. . .

“All right.  I’ll put it in my calendar.  Though I’ll have to get a calendar first.”

Jack laughs.  “Awesome.  You’ll hate Hollywood, it’ll be great.”

“Geoffrey,” Ellen taps him on the elbow.  “Pictures.”  She gestures at her sister and brother-in-law, who are huddled defensively together a few paces away like they’re afraid the actors might pick their pockets.

“Duty calls,” Geoffrey tells Jack.

“Hey, yeah, no problem.”

“Hopefully we’ll have a chance to talk more, later, but. . .”  He waves a hand at the general madness as he turns to follow Ellen.

Jack stops him with a hand on his shoulder.  “Hey, Geoffrey?”

“Hm?”

“Are you guys—I don’t want to be rude, but are you having problems with money?”

“Well, if you call being flat broke a problem,” Geoffrey jokes, but Jack looks honestly worried, so Geoffrey hastens to reassure him.  “No, seriously, don’t worry about us, we’re not going to starve.  We’ll be living the bohemian artist life, subsisting on ramen noodles and box wine while trying to keep an independent theatre from going under.  Which is pretty much what I was doing a year before you met me.”

“No shit?”  Jack still looks kind of skeptical.  On the other hand, Geoffrey’s not sure Jack would know ramen noodles if they bit him on the ass.

“Actually, the lifestyle has a lot to recommend it.  Simplicity. Romance.  The little edge of terror that makes great art happen.”  He flashes Jack the grin that makes people wonder whether Geoffrey Tennant is an artistic genius or a raving nutter.

Jack isn’t even a little bit alarmed.  “Cool.  Break a leg.”

                                    *                                    *                                    *

2007

“Holy shit!” yells Ellen.  “Geoffrey!”

Geoffrey’s used to ignoring both noise and profanity, since they’re pretty much a constant part of the working environment here at the Theatre Sans Argent (under construction), but he looks up at the sound of his name.

“What’s broken now?” he asks.

She waves an envelope under his nose.  “Holy shit.”

She doesn’t seem ready to move on to coherent speech, so he examines the contents of the envelope.  It’s a greeting card with a Shakespeare-head on the front.  The scrawl on the inside reads:

Congratulations again.  Kate says there’s a rule that you have a year from the time of the wedding to give presents, so this is still in time to count.  She also says you should totally build a removable thrust for the stage, and now she’s telling me to say that she’s right here telling me what to write and this card is really from both of us.  The present is, too.  By the way, we’re planning our own wedding and Jesus, how does anyone ever make it as far as getting married without jumping off a cliff?  Kate says maybe the real reason Juliet took poison was she couldn’t deal with the wedding industry plus her mother, but at least Romeo and Juliet didn’t have to worry about their agents or the press.  Anyway, good luck with everything.  You guys are the best.  Love, Jack & Kate.  P.S. If we decide to just say fuck ‘em all and elope, can we come hide under your bed?

The enclosed check is for an amount of money that isn’t even plausible.

“Jesus Christ,” Geoffrey mutters.

“What did you do to that boy?” asks Ellen, easing herself into Geoffrey’s lap.

“Made him play Hamlet,” says Geoffrey, dazedly.

“Oh, well.  That explains it.”

They look at each other and crack up. 

When they finally catch their breath, Ellen leans back in Geoffrey’s arms, turning the check over in her hands.

“Well,” she says, “At least now we know what to give them for a wedding present that won’t make us look like total cheapskates.”

                                    *                                    *                                    *

2008

“I present for the first time as husband and wife: Jack Crew and Kate McNab.” 

There are barely enough guests in the theatre to make up a passable matinee audience, just the families and a few select friends, but they cheer and applaud loudly enough for three times that number.  Grinning like the lovestruck young idiots they are, Jack and Kate step off the newly-built thrust to be hugged and congratulated.  Maria switches the music on; Geoffrey and Ellen supervise the rolling on from the wings of carts of booze and snacks and the wedding cake. 

By the time it’s Geoffrey’s turn to kiss the bride and hug the groom, the party’s getting going in earnest.  Kate’s three sisters have managed to get a surprising percentage of the guests up onto the stage to do some sort of ritualized group dance to—good Lord, YMCA, which was popular years before the bride, the groom, and half their guests were even born.

“Thank you,” Kate tells him.  “This is wonderful.  It’s such a relief to just be able to get married, without a big circus.”

“Yeah, thanks, man,” says Jack.

“Glad we could help,” Geoffrey tells them.  “Looks like you managed to keep under the radar all right?”

“So far, so good.  Someone might still jump us with cameras on our way out, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

Someone presses champagne into all their hands; they clink their glasses.

“How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?” Geoffrey asks Jack, although chances are he won’t get the reference.

Kate does, of course; she swats Geoffrey on the elbow.  “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself that Shakespeare didn’t say first?”

(Never mind Juliet: he devoutly hopes the girl gets a chance to play Beatrice one of these days.  He makes a mental note to see if he can come up with a tempting enough plan to lure her onto his stage—Hell, both of them, that would be interesting to see, though Jack is hardly anyone’s typecast for Benedick.)

“Hey, you should be grateful,” he tells her, “I haven’t made one Taming of the Shrew reference, bonny Kate.”

She rolls her eyes.  “That’s all right, my father’s beaten you to it.  Nothing but jokes about getting his daughter off his hands since he got here.”  There’s more fondness than exasperation in her expression, though.

At this point one of her sisters drags her, laughing and pretending to protest, onto the dance floor.  “Ask Geoffrey about the thing!” she calls back over her shoulder to Jack.

“The thing?” Geoffrey asks.

“Oh, well.”  Jack fiddles with his glass.  “It’s not really a thing, I just kind of wanted to see what you thought.”

“About what?”

“Paramount wants to sign me for a three-film contract.  A series, and it’s the kind of thing that they’re probably hoping will keep going for longer.”

“What kind of series?” asks Geoffrey.

“A spy-action thing.  Kind of like James Bond, only with Al Qaeda as the main bad guys, and not as goofy.  The first script looks pretty good, actually.  I mean, for what it is.  It’s a smart action movie.”

“But you don’t want to do it,” Geoffrey guesses.

Jack shrugs.  “If it were just one. . .it’d be kind of fun.  But three, that would really pin me down.  And then if it turned into a longer series, it would be hard to say, sorry, I’m done now.”

“What’s the other option?”

“Nothing, right now.  But my agent says maybe if I’m willing to work on smaller indie films. . .they wouldn’t pay as well, of course, and most of them, nobody goes to see, but. . .”

Smiling ruefully, Geoffrey gestures at his crepe-paper-festooned shoebox of a theatre.  “I’m not really impartial on this one, I’m afraid.”

“You think I should tell them no?” Jack asks.

“Well. . .look at it this way.  Polonius is about the most tiresome old blowhard there is, but most of his advice is actually quite sensible, if easier said than done.  So, from the list of the top ten most fucking over-quoted lines of all time, what does Polonius have to say about this decision?”

“To thine own self be true?”

Geoffrey nods.  “And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.  Of course, it doesn’t follow that you’ll have fame and fortune or even happiness.  But it’s damned hard to be happy any other way.”

He’s quoting Oliver as well as Polonius; he can hear that plummy voice in his ear as he says the words.  But they’re as true now as they were when Geoffrey was twenty-four, or when Shakespeare was alive.

“You think I can make it as a serious actor?” asks Jack.

“I have no idea.  But I’ll tell you one thing; if you can’t find what you’re looking for in Hollywood, you’re always welcome to come to Montréal and do Shakespeare for peanuts.”

“Thanks,” says Jack, looking far more surprised than he has any right to be.

Geoffrey claps him on the shoulder.  “Now get on up there and dance with your wife.”

                        *                                    *                                    *

2010

Geoffrey stares at the computer screen, which is giving him a headache.  He’s not sure whether to blame the glare, the small font, or the bureaucratic bullshit of the grant proposal he’s attempting to wade through.  Or the fact that he’s lost his reading glasses again.  When the phone rings, it’s a welcome distraction.

“Hey, Geoffrey?  It’s Jack Crew.”

“Jack, hi, how’s it going?”

“Good.  It’s going good.  Kate says to tell you hello.”

“Well, hello to her too.  She keeping busy?”

“Yeah, actually, we’re going to be in a movie together,” says Jack.  “It’s this Canadian indie film, directed by Sarah Polley, who I hadn’t heard of before, but Kate says she’s pretty well known in Canada.  We’re not actually in any of the same scenes, but at least we’ll be on location together.  It’s filming on some island in Nova Scotia.”

“Well, pack a sweater.”

“We’re shooting in August.”

“Pack a sweater anyway.”

“You know, that’s what Kate said, too.”

“It’s a Canadian thing, don’t worry about it.  Just pack the sweater, or you’ll be sorry.”

“Okay, okay,” Jack laughs.  “Listen, Geoff, I actually called to talk to you about this movie.”

Geoffrey reaches for his coffee, puts his feet up on his desk, and prepares to settle in for a long conversation.  Talking Jack down from his usual pre-project anxiety is more fun than writing grant proposals any day.

“Tough role?”

“No, it’s not that,” says Jack.  “Well, okay, I’d like to talk with you about that too, sometime.  But that’s not what I’m calling about.”

“No?  What’s up?”

“Well, see, there’s this character, Kate’s character’s dad, actually.  It’s not a big part, basically a cameo, but he’s got some of the best lines, it’s a fun role, really.  And you’d probably only have to be on the set for a week; two weeks, max.”

“I’m sorry, wait a second.  Are you asking me to, what, consult or something?” asks Geoffrey.

“No, no, I want you to play Kate’s dad.  Well, I mean, Sarah does, the director.  She wants to offer you the part.”

“Good Lord, why?”

“Probably ‘cause she thinks you’d do a good job?” Jack suggests.

Geoffrey contemplates his office ceiling while he waits for any words at all to occur to him.

“Are you still there?” Jack asks.

“Yeah, sorry.  Listen, I’m flattered by the offer, but I don’t act any more.  I haven’t acted since dinosaurs roamed the earth.”

“I thought you were in that King Lear you did right after you left New Burbage.  Kate said Ellen said—”

“Well, yes, technically, but that was an emergency, and it was also just one performance,” says Geoffrey.

“And weren’t you in Measure for Measure last year?”

“That was an experiment,” says Geoffrey firmly.  “And a cost-saving measure. Anyway, I’ve never done film, I don’t know how to do film.”

“That’s all right,” says Jack.  Geoffrey can hear him smiling, the bastard.  “I’ll talk you through it.  Mostly you just have to be prepared to do everything in one-minute chunks, ten times in a row and out of order.”

“Right, nothing to it,” mutters Geoffrey.

“Seriously, Geoffrey, you have to do this.  I told Sarah I’d get you to say yes.  This is like, my word of honor at stake here.”

Geoffrey sighs, because it’s a more mature response than gibbering.  “Jack, I’m flattered, but what on earth possessed you to pitch me to this woman?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” Jack replies.  “She was the one who wanted you, she just asked me to talk to you about it because I mentioned we were friends.  She was a big fan of yours when you were at New Burbage.”

“When I was acting at New Burbage?  Fifteen years ago?”

“I guess she was a really big fan.  I think you caught her at an impressionable age.  Like Kate.”

“Good God,” Geoffrey groans.  “She saw me when she was twelve and now she wants me to play somebody’s father?”

“Yeah,” says Jack.  “Isn’t that awesome?”  He sounds like a fucking teenager.  Geoffrey feels ancient just listening to him.

“Look, Jack, I can’t.  I really, really can’t.”

“Why not?” Jack asks.

Geoffrey could give an hour-long monologue on the subject of why he doesn’t act any more.  There are so many reasons he doesn’t even know where to start (although, a treacherous voice in his head whispers, some of them don’t really apply any more, isn’t that exactly what healing means?).  

“I just can’t,” he says.

"That’s bullshit,” says Jack.  “You would never have let me get away with saying something like that when we were doing Hamlet.”

“Yes, well, kicking people in the ass is part of the director’s job,” Geoffrey replies.

“And whose job is it to kick your ass?”

“Usually Ellen gets that dubious honor.”  Ellen, of course, knows exactly why she can’t push Geoffrey on this issue.  The idea of Geoffrey on stage probably scares her at least as much as it scares him.

“Well, no disrespect to her,” says Jack, “But you sound like you’re overdue.  So listen: do you have a real reason you don’t want to do it, or are you just scared?”

“That’s not a minor impediment, you know,” mutters Geoffrey.

“No shit,” says Jack.  “I’m like a freak-out expert, here.  But, you know what?  I think that’s how you know what’s really important to do: whatever scares the shit out of you, you probably should do that.  I do my best work when I’m scared out of my mind.  What about you?”

“. . .Just before the thread snaps,” says Geoffrey under his breath.

“What?”

Geoffrey sighs.  “I’ll think about it.” 

“Kate’s going to be pissed off if you say no,” Jack wheedles.  “She’s going to blame me for not talking you into it.  Come on, man, you can’t throw me in front of the bus like this.”

“I’m sure you’ll take it like an action hero,” Geoffrey tells him.  “I’ll talk to you later.”

“You better believe it."

Geoffrey hangs up the phone and looks up to see Ellen leaning against the doorframe.  She’s watching him with a fond look that makes him want to call it a day early and take her home to bed, or maybe just lay his head in her lap and wait for the world to go away.

“Jack,” he tells her, gesturing vaguely at the phone.

She nods.

“He wants me to act.  In a movie.”

Ellen comes over and fusses with his hair.  “You’ll hate it.  You’ll love it.  You’re going to do it.”

If there’s one thing he’s finally learned from fourteen years with Ellen (one way and another and not counting the seven-year hiatus, although really he probably should count it), it’s not to argue with her when she’s right.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

2010

This was a crazy idea.  Geoffrey’s done plenty of stupid, crazy things in his time, but this, this is utter lunacy.  What the hell was Jack thinking, dragging him up here?  What was Geoffrey thinking, to let Jack talk him into it?  What, for God’s sake, did Sarah Polley think she was doing, bringing in a certified madman to bring her sweet little film crashing down in flames?

The cameras and all the bits and pieces of machinery that support them—scaffolding, boom mics, trolleys, wires and wires and wires—are like robots from one of those Japanese cartoons, ready to devour him the moment he’s foolish enough to step into their line of sight.  And that’s nothing compared to what all these people will do to him when he. . .when he. . .

“What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her?” he mutters under his breath as he paces in a tight, ever-accelerating circle behind the cameras.  He knows he must look deranged, all but sticking straws in his hair in full view of a couple dozen assorted actors and tech hands and people whose function on this project he hasn’t figured out, but that knowledge does absolutely zero to calm his racing heart.  At least he’s not carrying on a conversation with a ghost—the thought makes him glance around in alarm, but no, no sign of Oliver, thank God.

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us, no, no, we’re not going there. . .What would he do had he the motive and the passion—I can’t do this, this is crazy, what the hell am I doing here?”

“You’re going to be fine,” says Jack in his ear.  Geoffrey nearly jumps out of his skin.  Suddenly, he’s not moving any more; Jack’s hands are on Geoffrey’s shoulders, anchoring him.  “Just try to remember to breathe, okay?”

Geoffrey’s not sure he remembers how, right this minute.  He’s gasping for air, but it feels like he isn’t getting any; he’s dizzy, sweating and chilly at the same time.  He feels Jack take a slow, deep breath behind him; hold it; let it out (warm on the back of Geoffrey’s neck).  On Jack’s second inhale, Geoffrey joins him, ignoring the feeling that he’s going to suffocate at any second.  Inhale, hold, exhale.

“Six soliloquies, right?” says Jack.  “Only, not really, because this is a tiny little story.  Just a guy trying to find some way to connect with his daughter.  Two speeches and a little bit of filler.  Plus some brooding in a fishing boat.”

“Not running screaming into the night?” Geoffrey manages to say.

“Nowhere to go,” Jack replies.  “Island, remember?  Unless you’re a real good swimmer.”

Geoffrey shudders at the thought of ocean water, Gulf Stream be damned.

“They’re going to want you in a second,” says Jack.  “Just do what they tell you, find your mark, and, you know.  Live the moment.”

Closing his eyes, Geoffrey swallows.

“If you’re going to puke you’d better be quick,” says Jack.  Geoffrey can’t tell if he’s serious or teasing; maybe both.

He shakes his head.  “That’s not the problem.”

“Good,” says Jack.  They’re walking now, Jack gently steering Geoffrey with his eyes still closed towards the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns. . .or anyway, to that damned fishing boat.

“Where are you?” asks Jack.  His hands are reassuringly solid on Geoffrey’s back.

“I’m. . .I’m on the shore, in front of my house.”  He can see it in his mind: the shore, grey rock against grey sky and grey water.  The boat, only slightly less grey than everything else, familiar and safe.  “Going to my boat, but not to put out to sea, just to get away.  From people, from their problems I don’t want to deal with.  From myself.  From my failure.  From Carrie, who hates me because of what I let happen to her.  How I failed her.”

“Good man.  Hold that thought.”  Jack squeezes his shoulders.  “Break a leg.”

There’s a sudden outbreak of movement and voices all around.  Someone’s calling his name—telling him to get in place—giving instructions he obeys without really hearing, because most of his attention is focused on worrying about the fight that sent his daughter slamming out of the house last night, and the gossip he knows is circulating about her even though of course no one talks about it if they think he can hear.

Glancing over his shoulder as he clambers into the boat, Geoffrey sees Jack giving him a thumbs-up.

He’s engulfed in a sudden wash of light and heat—no wonder Jack had no idea how to find his light, there’s no way to lose it here—and then he forgets the light and the cameras and the people scurrying around with their headsets and sandwiches.  Forgets everything but the feel of the old wood under his jeans and his hands, and the expression on Kate’s—his daughter’s—Carrie’s tear-streaked face as she steps into the boat with him.

                        *                                    *                                    *

2013

Geoffrey picks Jack up at the airport in the official Theatre Sans Argent junker-but-it-mostly-still-runs van.

“Sorry I couldn’t swing you a limo,” he jokes.

Jack slings his bags into the back with a grin.  “Hey, I had to take a bus to get to New Burbage.  This is a step up for me.”

“How’s Kate?” asks Geoffrey as they hit the highway.

“She’s good.  She’s still pissed off that we’re doing As You Like It without her.”

“Hey, if she’d wanted Rosalind. . .”

“Oh, she wanted it, that’s why she’s so mad.  I mean, she’s not mad at you, she’s just disappointed that the timing didn’t work out.  But the movie she’s doing now is super-cool.  It’s kind of this modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet—no, I know, I know,” he says in response to Geoffrey’s groan, “But the script is actually really good.  And it’s not exactly a retelling.  See, Kate plays this mental patient who had some kind of bad experience with a guy, except you never find out exactly what happened, because the movie’s all from her point of view, so you can’t tell what’s true and what’s her imagination.  But in her head, it was a true love, Romeo and Juliet thing, and so she keeps slipping in and out of these fantasies.”

“Well, it sounds like an interesting project,” says Geoffrey, trying to suspend judgment.  Kate's taste is pretty damn good, so the film probably isn't complete drivel.  “Though I have to say, I’ve always hoped Kate would get a chance to play Juliet for real.”

“Jeez, neither of you is ever going to forgive me for that, are you?”

“Actors are famous for their ability to hold grudges.”  Geoffrey grins at him.

“Speaking of which, you know what?  Kate got a call from New Burbage the other day.  They wanted to talk about maybe having her go out there and do a show with them.  I guess now since she’s a famous Canadian actress, they think it would be, like, good for publicity or something.”

“She going to take them up on it?”

“Probably.  It depends on the deal, and on her schedule, of course.  You think she should?”

“I think she should do what she wants,” says Geoffrey.  “But there’s no reason she shouldn’t.  Just because the Festival’s being run by soulless idiots doesn’t mean there isn’t still some good work being done there.  No, I mean it,” he protests when Jack snorts.  “I think Kate’s in a great position to get the best out of the Festival.  You too, for that matter.  It’s a nice place to visit, it’s living there that’ll kill you.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” says Jack.

“What about you?” asks Geoffrey.

“Me?”

“How are you doing for projects?  Because it’s great for me that you had the time to come out here and spend a summer playing Orlando in a converted warehouse, but it does suggest you. . .have some time on your hands?”

“Well, yeah, kind of,” Jack admits.  “It’s been harder to get roles since I switched over from action movies.  I’ve kind of had to start all over—well, not totally from scratch, thank God.  But it’s been hard to convince people to consider me for dramatic parts, and when I do get offers, they’re smaller parts in smaller movies.  Nobody wants your autograph for playing James Allodi’s alcoholic little brother.  But I’m glad I did it.  And Honorable Intentions, that was the best.  Almost like doing live theatre.”

“Except a lot colder and wetter,” Geoffrey reminds him.  “I’ve done shows in unheated theatres, but that was the first time I’ve had to perform in the rain.”

“You were right about the sweater thing,” Jack agrees cheerfully.

“But you’re doing all right for yourself?” Geoffrey presses.  “No regrets?”

“No regrets,” Jack affirms.  “I want to be doing the good stuff.  If that means smaller parts, or moving into Canadian indie films like Kate’s doing, I’m okay with that.”

“Good man.”  Geoffrey smiles at him.

“Anyway, I’ve got this project coming up—well, maybe coming up.  They might not cast me, I haven’t even read for it yet, but I’ve got this really good feeling about it.  I don’t want to say anything in case I jinx it, but, yeah.”

“Well, I hope you get it.  In the meantime, we’ve got work to do.  You’ve had a chance to read through the script?”

“Yeah.  Hey, so what are we going to be doing for the wrestling scene?  I know the characters think Orlando’s the underdog, but when he actually gets out there, does he just put the guy down, no problem?  Or is it actually kind of a miracle he pulls it off?  ‘Cause I was thinking, I had to do a fight scene in Last Train Out of Moscow that was basically that second thing, and I remember a couple of really cool moves that we could swipe. . .”

                                    *                                    *                                    *

2014

Geoffrey struggles up out of a dream of Oliver is sitting by his bedside giving him notes in a language Geoffrey can’t understand.  Blinking blearily, he discovers that there really is someone sitting there.  Not Oliver (thank God) nor Ellen, but, implausibly, Jack Crew.

“Hey,” says Jack.  “How’re you feeling?”

“Good God,” Geoffrey mutters, his breath rasping painfully in his chest.  “They dragged you all the way out here?  Am I dying?”

“No, of course not.  Ellen told me the doctors say you’re getting better now.  But the bad news is you’re still going to feel like shit for a while.”

“Why aren’t you in Hollywood?”

“I am,” says Jack.  “I’m filming with Aronofsky—who is really great to work with, by the way, I’d love to get the two of you in a room together and just let you argue.  But my next scene gets shot on Wednesday, so I had a couple of days to kill.  I figured I’d drop by, see how you were doing.”

“’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve—”  It’s a lazy quotation, not especially appropriate, since Geoffrey isn’t actually injured (at least, he doesn’t think he is), and he can’t even get through it without coughing.  Once he starts, he can’t stop; his lungs burn even as he’s choking on his own soggy breath.

Jack helps him struggle into a sitting position, gets a glass of water into his hands, and holds it steady so Geoffrey can drink.

“Hey, you really don’t sound too good,” says Jack.

“Yes, well,” Geoffrey gasps, with his best try at sounding casual, which is maybe not all that convincing under the circumstances.  “Piece of advice.  Avoid getting pneumonia.”

“Good idea,” says Jack.  “Hey, listen, Kate gave me this to give to you.” 

Jack starts to move, but Geoffrey grips his hand tightly to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.  “Do you love her?” he asks, urgently.

“Kate?  Of course I do.”

“I was in love with an actress,” Geoffrey tells him.  The words seem familiar, but then, this is the story of his life, the only story, the one he’s been telling inside his head since. . .since. . . ?  “A beautiful, talented actress, and when we were together on the stage, it was like having sex in public.  And I have never felt as close to anyone.  And I—I miss—”

“I know.”  Jack looks worried as he pats Geoffrey’s shoulder.  “But it all came out okay in the end, right?”

“It wasn’t about sex.  It was about power, and revenge, and fear, and I should have known better, we all should have known better.  Oliver—”  He stares up at Jack’s face, so fucking young, so trusting, he should know better.  And Geoffrey needs to tell him. . .something important, what was it?  “I never even looked at her. . .wouldn’t do that to either of you. . .”

“Of course not,” says Jack, soothingly.

“I’m not him.  I’ll never be him.”

Jack eases Geoffrey back against the pillows, holding him down as he tries to struggle upright again.  “Geoffrey, don’t worry, it’s all right, it’s all right now.  See, Ellen’s right here.” 

And there she is, a lovely phantom with frightened eyes, hovering beside Jack, just out of reach.

“She’s your wife, remember?” says Jack.  “You have a theatre company together, you’ve been married for years.  Me and Kate are married, too.  It’s all okay.”

Ellen’s ghost replaces Jack, taking Geoffrey’s hand between her own, which are small and cold but strong.  He reaches up his other hand to touch her miraculous face. 

“This, this: no more, you gods!" he whispers.  "Your present kindness makes my past miseries sports: you shall do well, that on the touching of her lips I may melt and no more be seen.  O, come, be buried a second time within these arms.”

“As long as you’re not planning to make us suffer through Pericles next season.”  Ellen smiles, but her eyes can’t fool him: she’s upset.  Why is she upset?  What has he done this time?

“I just told Richard that to get him off my back, I’ll straighten it out, I promise,” he tells her, but that doesn’t seem to cheer her up.  Doesn’t she believe he’ll do it? 

“It’s just the drugs,” she says over her shoulder, and then to him, briskly, “Geoffrey, stop rambling, it’s freaking Jack out and you’re not old enough to play Lear yet.”

Geoffrey looks past her and sees Jack Crew—yes, that’s right, Jack was here visiting, and what Geoffrey has been babbling at him, he has no idea.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” says Jack cheerfully as Geoffrey tries to pull together some words to apologize with.  “You’re stoned, roll with it.”

Geoffrey laughs, and Jesus, he must really be stoned, because he can’t seem to stop, except that the laughing quickly turns into coughing and then he has to lie very still and concentrate on remembering how to breathe before he drowns.

“Listen, Jack?” he says, when he can speak again, because he still has something urgent to tell him.

“Yeah?”

“The closet scene.  Hamlet stabs Polonius because he thinks he’s the King.  All right, so far so good, but why does he do it in front of Gertrude?  When you hear that noise behind the arras, are you acting out of pure reflex, or do you actually have a second to think it through and make the decision: I’m going to kill him, right here, right now?”

“Geoffrey, Hamlet was ten years ago.  It’s too late to give me notes.”  Jack shakes his head, laughing.

“I want this to be the best production we can make it, why is it so hard for people to understand that?  I thought you, at least—”

“Okay, okay, don’t get worked up, I’m listening.”

"Okay."  Geoffrey takes a couple of deep breaths to ward off another bout of coughing while he retrieves his train of thought.  “Now, when the ghost shows up, Hamlet thinks it’s to give him a kick in the ass because he’s dithering, which. . .suggests that Hamlet. . .at least thinks he’s been dithering. . .even though he did just kill Polonius.  If so, it was probably more impulse than. . .premeditated.  He still isn’t really ready to. . .kill Claudius in cold blood and all that stuff about. . .not sending him to heaven was just an excuse.”

He can’t see Jack any more, but after a moment he figures out that that’s because his eyes are closed. 

“But here’s an interesting point. . .The ghost says he’s here to whet Hamlet’s blunted purpose. . .but in fact he seems more interested in Gertrude.  And look at when he shows up.  Right when Hamlet’s got her. . .feeling guilty about moving on to her new husband.  If Ellen were here, we could ask her—”

“I’m right here, Geoffrey, I’m listening.”  Ellen’s voice is very far away, but he can hear that she’s upset, even though she's trying to hide it.  He hopes she won’t let whatever it is interfere with the rehearsal.  If they can just get through this and make it home without a fight, then he can sit down with her, maybe a glass of wine, get her to talk about it. . .What was he talking about?  Gertrude and her ghost-husband who she can’t even see. . .

“. . .watching her fall to pieces, unable to touch her, speak to her. . .” Geoffrey mumbles.

“Sorry?” Jack asks.

“But look, amazement on thy mother sits: O, step between her and her fighting soul: Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works: Speak to her, Hamlet. . .what I never had a chance to tell her and now it’s too late. . .”

Hands pressing his—Ellen’s hands, unmistakable—and another hand, larger and warm and reassuring on his shoulder, though it doesn’t seem to be enough to keep him tethered.  He’s floating off into space, a soap-bubble, a spirit of the air. . .

“How is it with you, lady?” he hears Jack say, and good, yes, there’s a new note of sympathy in his delivery, he’s made his mother cry but that doesn’t mean it’s not a horrible thing for a son to see. . .

“Alas, how is’t with you,” Ellen answers, “That you do bend your eye on vacancy, and with the incorporeal air do hold discourse?”

It’s horrible and terrifying and irritating and also weirdly reassuring and I just want to lay my head in your lap and know that you love me can we go home now?

Her hands are in his hair, comforting, as her voice continues the familiar speech.  “. . .O gentle son, upon the heat and flame of thy distemper, sprinkle cool patience.  Whereon do you look?”

“On him, on him!” says Jack, so Geoffrey doesn’t have to say anything, he can just lie back and listen to Hamlet and Gertrude having their same old timeless argument without him as he floats off into sleep.

                                    *                                    *                                    *

2015

“. . .I’d like to thank everyone who worked on the film, especially Darren Aronofsky, who is one of the best directors I’ve ever worked with and a seriously cool dude.  And my wife, Kate McNab, for more reasons than I have time to say, so I’ll just say the first one, which is that she was the first person I ever met who honestly believed that I could act for real.  She never doubted it for a second and never gave up on me, even when I was being a total doofus.  I love you, honey.  And now pretty much everyone in the world knows it. 

“So, anyway.  The other person I want to thank is my friend and mentor, Geoffrey Tennant.  Probably most of you haven’t heard of him, unless you’re really into Shakespeare.  And that’s too bad, because he’s the very best director I’ve had the privilege to work with.  Geoffrey directed me in Hamlet at the New Burbage Shakespeare Festival.  At the time, pretty much everybody thought the idea of me playing Hamlet was a joke or a stunt.  But Geoffrey took me seriously, and he expected me to take myself seriously, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that I’m here today because of him.

So, Geoffrey, thanks.  I hope that someday I have the chance to make a difference in someone’s life like you did for me.”

“Good God,” mutters Geoffrey as the applause starts up.

Clapping, Ellen smiles at him.  “That was sweet.”

“That was fucking. . .devastating, is what that was.”

“Well, if you want to pretend you’re not crying, just think about the effect that speech is going to have on our ticket sales.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Geoffrey half-laughs, half-groans.  “He’s ruined us.  We’re going to be overrun with thrill-seeking tourists.”

“Stop whining,” she says tartly.  “Just put on Richard II, that’ll make them stop coming soon enough.”

“Timon of Athens,” he counter-offers absently, pondering what sort of production might keep celebrity-seekers in their seats, capture their attention and touch their hearts and maybe even make them use their minds just a little. . .

Somebody else is talking up on the stage now.  Geoffrey leans over to whisper to Ellen, “I wish Oliver were here to see this.”

“He isn’t?”  There’s just a touch of anxiety in her eyes as she looks up at him.

He shakes his head.  “Haven’t seen him for years.  I’d tell you, you know.”

“I know,” she says.  “I was just checking.”

“I think he would have been proud. . .of Jack.” 

Ellen gives his hand a squeeze.  He looks over to see her rolling her eyes at him with a fond smile.  He slips his arm around her as she rests her head on his shoulder.

“I think so too,” she says.