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"Everyone take the afternoon off," he said, at last. "Go on, get out. Be back here at eight sharp."
No one dallied. There were a few murmured conversations as cast members grabbed scripts and purses and bags and thermos bottles, and even that was stilled when Valentine, still facing the back wall, raised his voice.
"Except Ke
John Valentine walked slowly along the rear of the stage, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He glanced at his son, sighed, and strode into the wings. When he came back he had a pair of sabers. He tossed one to his son. Ke
"Do you want a mask?"
"Not if you're not wearing one."
"En garde," Valentine said, and assumed that position with easy grace. He tapped the blade of Ke
Clang, clang, clang, and the sharp tip of the saber rested solidly on Ke
"Again," he said quietly.
It went no better for Ke
"You expect problems," he said, at last. "You expect obstacles and setbacks. You are ready to deal with incompetence—it's always around somewhere. You expect these things, and you think you are prepared for anything. So when the disaster strikes, you think you are prepared for it." He looked up at last. "But from my own son? This... this I wasn't prepared for."
Ke
"My Romeo can't handle a saber." He looked into the wings, then back to his son. "Tell me it's because you're used to the foil."
Ke
"Then tell me how it was done. No, wait, let me guess. Your fencing instructor... needed a little extra cash."
"A lot of extra cash," Ke
"Well, thank god he didn't come cheaply. He was highly recommended, and his reports to me couldn't have been more glowing. I should have suspected; the man didn't have the imagination to write that well. You write well."
"My staff writes even better."
"Of course." Valentine laughed. "Honing their skills on Sparky. I should have detected the flavor of fantasy." He sighed. "I blame myself, son. I never should have absented myself so long." Then he pointed to Ke
It seemed best not to answer. But as the silence stretched, Ke
"I... I just didn't enjoy it, I guess," he said.
"Speak up, son!" Valentine thundered. He stamped his foot on the stage. "On top of everything else, I will not have you whimpering while you tread these honored boards. Take your puling and squeaking elsewhere, back into your boardroom, perhaps, as it seems that is where you have spent the period of my absence. Surely, your skills there have purchased this theater, I'll not take that away from you... but do you think I care about that? Do you not realize I'd sooner present Shakespeare on a barren patch of sand than to cast as Romeo a boy who ca
"Have you seen Tybalt's swordplay? Have you watched the man rehearse? The man is better than me, my poor, poor son. So what shall I do? Have Tybalt fight left-handed? He would destroy you. Break his arms? He would kick you to death. Blind him? Hamstring him? Hire a new Tybalt, a straw man for my son to knock down?"
Valentine threw his weapon clattering into the wings.
"No. No, I must instead create my Romeo from these pitiful makings. I must wrench this wretch—clawing and screaming, if necessary—from his pathetic cocoon, from this Sparky buffoon, and into a man's estate. Assistant stage manager!"
The timid but bright drama student with the misfortune to hold that job peeked from the wings where she had been hiding. Valentine had never learned her name (it was Rose), but had impressed on her from the first day that she was never, never to be beyond the reach of his voice. So when he had cleared the theater, she had found a hole to hide in, but not one so remote as to spare her Ke
"Yes, Mr. Valentine?"
"Bring me my sword. Contact everyone. Rehearsals are suspended for a period of... make it two weeks. My son needs to attend drama school."
"Yes, sir."
"This is not to be taken as license to loaf. Upon their return to the stage, all cast members will be expected to know their lines. Cold."
"Yes, sir." Rose handed him his sword.
"Come, Ke
"Yes, Father."
"En garde!" Valentine shouted, and slashed at his son's face.
Henry Wauk was not precisely asleep when the knock came at his door.
In West Texas, everybody had a siesta during the hottest hours of the day. At three in the afternoon you could fire a ca
"Doctor" Wauk took his daily siesta in the office that co
Henry never sweated during these naps, though the temperature in his office often reached well over one hundred degrees in the Fahrenheit scale used in Texas. He loosened his string tie and he took off his boots, but made no other concession to the heat. He often bragged to his friends that he was half gila monster and half prairie dog, and that's why he stayed dry. They responded that it was because there was very little water in his system, and he said yeah, that, too. Henry Wauk was an alcoholic.
He counted himself lucky to live in a society that didn't give a damn what he put into his body or what he did with his life. No busybodies had ever tried to reform him. He was a happy drunk. He was also happy to have found, many years ago, the perfect job, which was to be "Dr. Wauk." That was not his real name, but merely the one some wag had written on the shingle outside the doctors' offices in West Texas when the disneyland was built. Wauk and Wohl, get it? He hadn't, actually, but it had been explained to him, and he was content to be Henry Wauk now. Actually, if you had asked him what his name had been, originally, he would have been unable to tell you. "I'm sure it's written down here somewhere. Library card, or something."