Felix is in his shanty, packing; not that there’s much to pack. Some odds and ends. A few elderly clothes; he folds them neatly, lays them in his black wheeled suitcase. It’s officially spring; outside, the ice is melting, the birds are already tuning up. Sunlight streams through the opened door, which is just as well because Felix’s electricity has been cut off.
When he’d trudged over to the farmhouse through the damp snow to ask about that, he’d found it deserted: the Maude family had decamped, leaving— presumably—a stack of unpaid bills. They’d made a clean sweep. It was as if they’d never been there at all; as if they’d manifested themselves only as long as Felix had needed them, then turned to mist and blended into the fields and woodlots. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves, he murmurs to himself. But most likely they’re in Bert’s truck, heading west to better pickings.
He got his revenge, such as it was. His enemies had suffered, which had been a pleasure. Then Felix had strewn forgiveness around while listening to the clenching of Tony’s teeth, which had been a greater pleasure. And as long as he keeps that video footage in the cloud where he’s stowed it, Tony won’t be able to cross him any time soon, much though the conniving asshole would like to.
But he’s resigned from his position, so he’s lost his credibility. He has no leverage, no power platform; he’s no longer among those who matter. Tony is out and Felix is back in, which is as it should be.
Specifically, Felix has his old job back: Artistic Director of the Makeshiweg Theatre Festival. He can stage his long-lost Tempest of twelve years ago, if that is his pleasure.
Strangely enough, he no longer wants to. The Fletcher Correctional Players version is his real Tempest: he could never better that one. Having pulled it off so spectacularly, why would he bother with a lesser attempt?
As for Artistic Director, he’s accepted the position but in name only. He’ll be
an éminence grise, he’ll work behind the scenes. He’ll break his staff, he’ll drown his book, because it’s time for the younger people to take over.
He’s hired Freddie as Assistant Director: let him learn by doing. Felix will help him out for a while, though in essence he’ll be handing over the keys, a process he’s already begun. The boy’s a fast learner. Freddie can’t thank him enough, and that too is a pleasurable feeling: never to be thanked enough.
Anne-Marie has been taken on as the chief choreographer for the musicals Freddie wants to add to the Makeshiweg repertoire. Crazy for You is the first one they’re doing: it’s got enough dance numbers to stretch Anne-Marie’s talent. She can go to town on it, raise the roof, and he has no doubts that she will.
They’re working beautifully together, those two. It’s as if they were made for each other, like a pair of ice-dance champions. Watching them as they pore over the costume sketches and solemnly discuss their aesthetics and mess around onscreen with their digital set designs, Felix finds himself choking up, as if at a wedding: that strange mixture of nostalgia for the past mixed with joy for the future; the joy of others. He himself is only a bystander now, a well-wisher, a flinger of virtual rice. Their path won’t be easy because theatre has never been easy, but at least he’s given them a start. His life has had this one good result, however ephemeral that result may prove to be.
But everything is ephemeral, he reminds himself. All gorgeous palaces, all cloud-capped towers. Who should know that better than he?
—
He’d thought Sal O’Nally would kick up about Freddie: his adored firstborn son snatched out from under his nose by Felix, whisked away from the world of lawyerdom and politics in which Sal had wanted to encase him and matched up with a hoyden like Anne-Marie. But if anything, Sal seemed relieved: the boy’s future had a direction, he was happy, and, best of all, he wasn’t dead! All plusses for such a doting father. But even doting fathers have to let go sooner or later.
From now on the boy will be working out his own destiny, as much as anyone can.
—
Felix pauses in his packing to take stock. Shabby is hardly the word for his wardrobe, and for himself, come to think of it. He’ll get a haircut and eventually
some better teeth; very soon he’ll go shopping. He needs fresh garments, because he’s embarking on a cruise.
Estelle has fixed it up for him. Among the many people she knows are some who run cruise companies. Seize the moment! she’d said. Grasp Fortune by the forelock, because after the strenuous time he’d been having, wouldn’t it be a fine idea for him to take a relaxing break? Lie back in a deck chair in the sun? Be restored by the salt air?
No cost to him: all he’d have to do is give a couple of lectures about his wonderful theatre experiments at Fletcher Correctional. He could even show the videos, if he thought it appropriate; people would be fascinated, his approach was so novel! Or if he couldn’t show them due to privacy issues concerning the actors, then at least he could discuss his methods. And the Caribbean would be lovely at this time of year, she said. She herself would be going on the cruise too. They could do some line-dancing and other things together. It would be fun!
At first Felix balked. A cruise ship filled with old people, people even older than himself, snoozing in deck chairs and doing line-dancing—that was his idea, if not of hell exactly, then at least of limbo. A state of suspension somewhere on the road to death. But on second thought, what did he have to lose? The road to death is after all the road he’s on, so why not eat well during the journey?
So he’d said yes, but with one condition. 8Handz had been granted early parole, and Felix could not find it in his conscience—he tells Estelle—to leave the young fellow at loose ends. From what he’s heard, the day after getting sprung from prison is even more terrifying than the day after getting locked up in the first place. So 8Handz must come on the cruise as well. He could recite some of his Ariel speeches during Felix’s presentations; he’s got them down pat, he’s a born performer. And on such a cruise, the boy might well meet some influential businessman—someone in digital tech—who would recognize his extensive talents and give him the creative scope he needed. The lad deserved a break, considering all the hard work he’d done for Felix.
Estelle’s bangles jingled as she gave his arm a squeeze: they were now on definite arm-squeezing terms. No problem at all, she said, beaming full upon him. She would pull the necessary strings. It sounded to her as if young 8Handz deserved some good fortune, and the sea air would be so liberating for him.
—
Felix folds up his stuffed-animal garment: take it or throw it out? On a whim he
packs it into the suitcase. He’ll bring it on the cruise with him, where it will add a colorful and authentic note to his presentations. The aura it once held for him is dimming, like holiday lights at noon. Soon it will be nothing but a souvenir. And there’s his fox-head cane as well. It’s no longer a magic staff, it’s only a wooden stick. Broken. Should he bury it certain fathoms in the earth? That would be histrionic. Anyway, who’d be the audience?
“Farewell,” he says to it. “My so potent art.”
It comes over him in a wave: he’s been wrong about his Tempest, wrong for twelve years. The endgame of his obsession wasn’t to bring his Miranda back to life. The endgame was something quite different.
He picks up the silver-framed photo of Miranda, laughing happily on her swing. There she is, three years old, lost in the past. But not so, for she’s also here, watching him as he prepares to leave the full poor cell where she’s been trapped with him. Already she’s fading, losing substance: he can barely sense her. She’s asking him a question. Is he compelling her to accompany him on the rest of his journey?
What has he been thinking—keeping her tethered to him all this time? Forcing her to do his bidding? How selfish he has been! Yes, he loves her: his dear one, his only child. But he knows what she truly wants, and what he owes her.
“To the elements be free,” he says to her.
And, finally, she is.
