Cyclorama, p.23
Cyclorama, page 23
The more Franklin researched, the sadder he felt—for everyone in this story. For Declan, so filled with nostalgia, rage, and regret; for Trey, who thought the Annex would be a refuge, but only because he could make himself believe it was safer than his home; for Eileen, still defending her teacher, unable to see who he really was and what he helped turn her into. Franklin even felt bad for Tyrus—for the boy he must once have been, full of triumphant dreams. And he felt bad for Franklin Light—that kid grieving for his mother, in love with Carrie yet somehow already knowing they would never be together in the same place at the right time. He remembered himself as a boy in Densmore’s house, wearing just a T-shirt and underwear; he wondered how close he’d come to being a victim. He thought of that boy lying in bed at night, listening to his grandmother screaming in the next room, then in the daytime acting as if she were in a new world where none of the past had happened. Yet of course it had. No doubt his grandmother was dreaming of the war; only three and a half decades had passed since then, about the same amount of time that had passed between the end of high school and the start of the article he was writing.
On the day of the presidential inauguration, when Franklin got up from his desk to get another coffee, looked at the Big Board, and saw a dozen clickbait articles about Donald Trump, he thought that one of the most dangerous things about focusing exclusively on one immoral man was that it allowed smaller offenses to go unnoticed. Maybe that was why Densmore almost always directed plays about grave injustices: so his own might seem puny by comparison. Maybe we all needed a Trump in our lives to preserve the illusion of our own innocence.
*
Franklin was nearly done with his preliminary interviews when he called Densmore. He was still at his Tomorrow desk, long after everyone else except for the cleaning crew had gone home. Out his office window, he saw snow falling past the lights onto train tracks, rooftops, and the Harrison Park playground.
The phone picked up after the third ring. “Yes?”
“Is Tyrus Densmore available?”
“Speaking.”
The man’s voice sounded just as it had when Densmore had directed Anne Frank: the ironic flirtatiousness, the seemingly good humor that could instantly morph into malice. “Well, well,” Densmore said, “who might be calling me from the Tomorrow?”
Apparently the man had caller ID.
“An old student of yours—Frank Lichtenstein.”
“Ahh, young Mr. Van Daan,” Densmore said.
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been following your career from a distance,” said Densmore. “I even have one of your books on my shelf, though, truth be told, I haven’t gotten around to reading it. How’s life treating you? Are you still pining for your lovely Anne? You know, I always wondered what would have become of those two lovebirds had they survived. It was a gift, in a way, dying so young, before they could marry, have children, and grow sick of each other.”
Franklin forced a laugh. “I’m calling you, Mr. Densmore,” he said, “because there’s a story I’m researching, and I’m hoping you can shed some light on it.”
“ ‘Tyrus,’ please,” Densmore said.
“All right, Tyrus. Is your schedule free? Do you have some time to talk? Anywhere’s fine—your home, my office, a café.”
“Topic being?”
“We can go over all that when we meet. It’s a little complicated to discuss over the phone.”
“I have plenty of time now,” said Densmore. “You know, I’ve heard some of your stories on that radio station where they’re always begging me for money. You’ve grown into a thoughtful, articulate man; I’m sure you can explain what you want to talk about, and then, of course, we can find a time to meet.”
Franklin swiped his phone screen and tapped his voice recorder app. “I’m going to be recording this conversation. Is that all right?”
“As you wish.”
Franklin pressed RECORD. “Well,” he said—his voice quivered slightly, the hand holding the phone trembled; talking to Densmore, it was hard not to feel like he was fifteen again. “I’ve been spending a lot of time on social media; what do you think of Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and all that crap?” Try to model the mindset of the person you’re interviewing, his dad had taught him; never start with yes-or-no questions.
“I rarely indulge,” Densmore said. “Why trouble myself with a fake world when so many problems need to be solved in the real one?”
Clearly, a lie: Franklin had seen Densmore on the Tyrusfest page; only after Declan commented had the man deactivated his account. “What led you to that conclusion?” asked Franklin.
“Well, just look at our new president and his fake stories,” Densmore said. “I like my fantasies onstage and my reality in the life I lead. I have no desire to spend time in a place where people can assert anything without proof.”
“What particular assertions do you have in mind?” asked Franklin.
“I won’t dignify them by repeating them,” Densmore said. “If you want me to talk about something specific, go ahead and ask.”
“Right,” said Franklin, “I’ve been talking with some old students of yours—Declan Spengler, for example.”
Densmore snorted. “Actors. They do have such a talent for self-mythology, don’t they?”
“So you have an idea of what he’s been saying?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“Well, Declan has talked about some things you did, and a lot of people have corroborated it: groping, pornography, getting kids drunk.”
Densmore inhaled deeply; it sounded like he was dragging on a cigarette. “You don’t believe these fantasies, do you?”
“I’ve interviewed twenty-five people so far. It’s hard to believe they’re all lying about being molested.”
Densmore seized on the word. “Molested? You’re calling me a ‘molester’?”
“A lot of people have used that word.”
“Molested?” Densmore took another deep breath or drag. “Are you accusing me too? Did I ‘molest’ you as well?”
“Well, I certainly remember some inappropriate remarks you made while you were fitting me for a Peter Van Daan costume.”
“And what else do you recall?” Densmore asked. “Or is that it? A costume fitting, some dumb jokes thirty-odd years ago and a lot of baseless accusations from people with axes to grind on social media? Did you speak to anyone at North Shore? Has anybody ever accused me of anything in fifty-two years?” He cackled and imitated a girl in The Crucible: “ ‘I saw Tyrus Densmore with the devil! I saw Tyrus Densmore with the devil!’
“I am sorry,” Densmore said, “that people’s lives didn’t measure up to their dreams. I know what that can be like, and it is a bitch. I am sorry that I may have given people credit for being more talented than they turned out to be; I’m sure that sucks for them. But let’s not rewrite history. I know the people making these accusations. I know about the parents who abused them or, worse, ignored them. I know about their philandering fathers, their suicidal mothers. But my accusers—they’re not innocent either. I know the secrets they kept, the drugs they abused. I know about the anonymous fucking they did in Calvary Cemetery, what they did for money in phone booths outside Dyche Stadium; I know about the girls they got drunk and tried to rape. I gave them something to believe in. And now, for them to turn around thirty years later, forty years later, and blame me—it’s all a bit rich, isn’t it?”
“So,” said Franklin, “you never touched anyone.”
“What? Of course I touched people. Every director ‘touches people.’ Grow up; you’re better than this. Do you need your job so badly that you have to resort to this trash? I had high hopes for you, I respected your father, I lied for you so you wouldn’t get busted for living in Chicago, and this is my thanks?” He hung up.
Franklin put his phone back in his pocket. Outside, it was dark and snow was still falling past the amber lights onto the fields, the playground, and the tennis courts. When he left his office, the newsroom was empty. Violet’s office was dark. The Big Board was down to five thousand views. It listed the top twenty stories, and Franklin hadn’t written even one of them.
*
Two days after the conversation with Densmore, Franklin was trudging northwest on Milwaukee Avenue toward home with a loaf of bread and a bag of groceries when his phone vibrated. He took it out, and looked at the display: UNKNOWN CALLER.
“Hello?”
“Young Mr. Van Daan?”
“Oh, how are you, Tyrus?”
Tyrus’s tone was smoother than it had been during their previous conversation. Tyrus had once said he’d turned down an offer to be a classical music presenter on WFMT, and although most of Tyrus’s stories sounded like self-aggrandizing bullshit, this one had the ring of truth to it; he sounded like he could be introducing operas or announcing sales on prosciutto at Convito Italiano.
“Allow me to apologize,” said Tyrus. “You caught me at a bad time on the day you called. It was my son’s birthday, and ever since he took his life, that day sends me into dark, dark places.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Franklin said. “Is there something you want to talk about now?”
“There is. But you said face-to-face would be better, and I believe you’re right. I’d like to set the record straight, so you can tell a story that’s more complete, more nuanced. Would Friday evening at my house work for you?”
“I can make it work,” Franklin said.
That Friday, Franklin felt anxious. He didn’t know what he possibly had to fear from a septuagenarian drama teacher, but Franklin sensed a threatening undertone to Densmore’s invitation. Before he left work, he wrote Densmore’s name and address in big letters on a legal pad and laid that pad atop his keyboard. He texted the name and address to both his wife and eldest daughter, so that, on the off chance he didn’t come home, they’d know where to start looking.
When he got to Densmore’s house, the driveway was full. Four vehicles were in it; two were police cars. A third squad car was stalled on the streets, hazard lights flashing.
Suicide? It would have fit Densmore’s taste for drama, would have put an end to all the stories that were circulating. But Densmore was outside. He was standing on the sidewalk in the snow, in a black overcoat with the collar turned up and a black hat that looked like something he might have worn to the opera. He looked older, of course he did, but not as much as Franklin would have expected. It was almost as if, when Densmore had directed Anne Frank, he’d been too young for the role he was playing and had only recently grown into it.
“No, it’s all right,” Densmore was telling a pair of police officers. “I don’t want to press charges now that I understand the situation. I just want to make sure he gets the help he needs.” Poking the ground with his walking stick, Densmore moved past the officers and greeted Franklin with a handshake and an apologetic smile. “Your timing is either dreadful or impeccable; I can’t decide.” One of his basement windows had been smashed and there was a big muddy circle on the lawn as if someone had gotten wrestled to the ground there.
“Someone broke into your house?” Franklin asked.
“Evidently.” Tyrus pursed his lips as if he had been acting friendly on reflex but now remembered who Franklin was and why he was there.
“You were at home?”
“Upstairs. Drawing a bath.”
“And you heard the glass shattering?”
“Not the glass, a bang. I was terrified, as you might imagine. My testicles shrank to peanuts from their normal walnut size. But once the police got here, my scrotal sack loosened. It all would be funny if it wasn’t so sad.”
“Do you know who broke into your house?” Franklin asked.
“Yes, and so do you,” Tyrus said.
Across the street, lights were on in upstairs windows. People were peeping out. A kid was standing on a lawn, passing a snowball from one gloved hand to another, squinting at Densmore’s house. Franklin approached the double-parked squad car.
From the back seat, Declan looked up slowly. Then, seeing Franklin, he looked down fast before Officer Ray Tounslee drove off. Red lights streaked west through the accelerating sleet.
*
“Do you know what Declan was looking for?” The two men, Franklin and Tyrus, were standing in the den where they had met three and a half decades earlier. In 1982, Franklin had been wearing a T-shirt and underpants. Today, both men wore coats. Tyrus stood on an armchair, duct-taping a black trash bag to his broken window. Glass was strewn about the carpet.
“It’s all so pathetic that I don’t even know if I want to say,” said Densmore. “I know he came here to hurt me; even so, I can’t help but pity him.”
“Wanted to hurt you?”
“Hurt me while protecting himself, yes.”
“What was he looking for?”
“Can’t you guess?” Tyrus stepped down from the chair, carefully avoiding the glass on the carpet. He gestured to the wall of bound notebooks on his shelves.
“The character diaries,” Franklin said. He remembered finding the assignment odd—how Densmore required each cast member to keep a detailed journal to develop their characters, the more personal the better. And if it wasn’t personal enough, he’d keep needling you until it was.
“Why would Declan want diaries?” Franklin asked. “What’s so important in them?”
“Perhaps there’s a story in there he doesn’t want people to know.” Tyrus reached for a diary, then stopped. “What does it matter?” he said. “Here’s the truth. And you can quote me on this all you want. I don’t claim to be innocent. No one in the world is. Have I been the kindest, most understanding teacher? I never wanted to be. Have I made some vulgar jokes and said some things I would like to take back? Naturally. But if people are going to exaggerate stories, recontextualize them, or just plain make them up, I won’t let that go unanswered. If they want to tell tall tales about me, I’ll tell true stories about them.”
“But the students who wrote those diaries were children,” Franklin said.
“Oh, please,” said Densmore, “don’t give me a lot of bosh about the sanctity of childhood. Half were old enough to vote or join the army. I despise this society; everyone wants it both ways, to be treated like children or adults depending on what suits their purposes. And if you publish a lot of libelous nonsense from dissatisfied adults claiming to have been mistreated children, my life won’t be the one ruined. I have my house, my savings, my job, and, more than that, I have my sense of self. And no amount of shoddy, clickbait ‘journalism’ can take that away from me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to Home Depot to buy a new window, and maybe with a little luck I’ll find someone I can suck off in the men’s room. That’s a joke, by the way. I like to tell jokes, sometimes in very poor taste. And if you want to burn me at the stake for that, go ahead and try. Good luck with your ‘story.’ ”
*
Declan was waiting for Franklin when he got home. He was standing in front of Franklin’s town house door, puffy black coat and gray knit hat speckled with snow and ice. “How you doin’, Frank?”
Franklin tensed. “Yeah, what’s up?”
Declan breathed into his hands to warm them, then nodded toward Franklin’s door. “Can we go inside? Talk a little?”
“No, we can’t,” Franklin said. “I’m late; my family’s waiting for me to start dinner.”
Declan’s eyes were bloodshot and his voice was hoarse. “Okay, I’ll wait in my car. When’ll you be ready to talk?”
“You’re not hearing me,” Franklin said. “You can’t just wait around. This is my home. I’m off-duty. How’d you even get this address?”
Declan’s eyes registered wounded fury. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?”
“I think I have a vague idea, but I’m done for the day. You can call me at the office or on my cell in the morning. We’ll set up a time.”
“An appointment? What did Tyrus tell you?”
“I’m not gonna get into that.”
Something was off about Declan; he exuded desperation and entitlement, as if he hadn’t prepared for the possibility that Franklin wouldn’t do what he said, and now wasn’t sure what he might do. “Did he show you something?” Declan asked. “Did he talk to you about character diaries? Those are private; you can’t publish what’s in them. How far are you along in our story?”
“This is not ‘our’ story,” Franklin said. “If you have more to tell me, great, but whether or not I use it is up to me. If you want to talk, I’ll listen, but only after we’ve set a time. And don’t come to my house without an invitation. Ever.”
*
“So, what’s going on?” Franklin asked Declan at Chiqueolatte early the next morning. The two men were at a window table that looked out onto the gray, traffic-snarled avenue. Franklin drank black coffee; Declan, chamomile tea.
Declan eyed Franklin’s phone. “Is that on?”
“Not yet.”
“Can we make this off the record?”
Franklin grimaced. “Off the record” was okay once in a while with certain key sources, but not with people who got cold feet when they realized they didn’t get to control the narrative. “I’m not a big fan of ‘off the record,’ ” he said. “Only when lives are at stake.”
“And you don’t think I qualify, I suppose,” said Declan. “Well, okay. If I can’t say what I need to say off the record, I’ll have to withdraw my cooperation.”
“ ‘Withdraw your cooperation’? I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means pull all my quotes.”
“That’s not how this works,” Franklin said. “You don’t get to say things, then take them back. What’s this about? The diaries?”
