Elizabeth the First Wife (38 page)

I was speechless. I had never been the glue before,
of anything!
Of course, the core idea was exactly what I'd been thinking about since my conversation with Duff Miller. But in my world of endless classes, limited connections, and low salaries, it would have taken me years to get it off the ground, if I ever got motivated to do anything at all. Here in this world of fruit plates, strategists, and daily polling, it took twelve hours.

I owed Soul Patch Boy a high five.

“It's a win-win for FX and Ted,” Hank continued. “FX has been looking for an opportunity to do a Brad Pitt–Rebuild–New Orleans-type deal for a while, but he thought all the good causes were taken. We did a little tsunami stuff because he loves to vacation in Thailand, but he didn't feel that connected to the material. But this, your idea, your passion, has reignited his passion for Shakespeare and for being a part of something bigger, like a cast. He wants to take it to the
next level, lead the fight for arts education, particularly theater. He's totally into this.”

Truthfully, being part of a cast wasn't really being a part of something that much bigger, but in the context of an FX-centered life, I guess it was. I nodded a lot and waited for Rafa to speak.

Rafa did, in full chief-of-staff mode. “Ted wants to support education reform and the idea of giving an underserved population of students a brighter future, but signing some of those reforms into legislation can be very difficult politically and take a long time to negotiate. With this, he can make a statement that studying the arts is an important way to expand a student's knowledge of history, politics, language, relationships, you name it. He's impressed with how Maddie seems to have matured this summer. And an alliance with someone of FX's stature is beneficial, given Ted's political aspirations. A high-profile, privately funded foundation is the perfect middle-ground solution.” Nothing had ever sounded sexier to me than the words “high-profile, privately funded foundation” coming out of Rafa's mouth. I needed some air.

“We're going Bono on this. Totally bipartisan. No rancor, just turning kids on to Shakespeare,” Hank added. Then he went on to explain that I would be onboard to help steer the “education and selection piece.” Hank and Rafa would take care of the business end of the foundation. “Our legal team sets up foundations for our clients all the time, because, like every day, some actor wants to cure something. Leave this to us.”

Clearly, the majority of the celeb foundations Hank's agency set up were in name only. It appeared that Congressman Ted and FX wanted this one to be different, to actually be a foundation serving students with an interest in the Bard. Rafa nodded in agreement, as if they'd actually had a lengthy conversation about how to convince me to do this. Convince me? Where do I sign up?!

“Think about it, Elizabeth. It will be a time commitment on your part. You'll have to be involved on a monthly, even weekly basis,
if we want this to really work. And you might have to oversee the summer portion of the program for the first few years. Of course, we can give you a salary for that. We've already talked to Gus Grant here at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, and they would love to be a part of the pilot season next year, so that may mean coming back here next year.” Hank spoke in such a serious tone for a guy wearing seersucker pants.

If they were trying to scare me off, threatening me with another summer in Ashland wasn't the way to do it. First, though, I wanted to confirm my interest and let them know they weren't the only big thinkers in town. “As a matter of fact, I was working on a similar plan. To that end, I've already had a meeting with the president of Redfield College about Summer with Shakespeare. He's very taken with the idea and interested in possibly providing dorms and staffing.” Both men murmured approval. “So it goes without saying, I'd love to be involved, at whatever level you need me.”

Hank gave me the thumbs up, a gesture that never fails to amuse me.

Thanks to the sun slanting through the hotel shades, I had to turn my head sharply and found myself staring straight at Rafa. There was admiration in his eyes. “Well done.”

The October day in 2008 when my father was awarded the Nobel Prize, my mother called a few minutes after five in the morning and simply said, “Your father won. He won.” There wasn't any doubt about exactly what he had won. It was October and it was five in the morning, which could mean only one thing: Sweden called.

The rumors that maybe, just maybe, his work was significant enough to get noticed by the Swedes had been in circulation for several years, his research having reached maturation and fulfilling the Nobel's “test of time” standard. But with the Nobel, there's no public list of finalists, just cocktail-party speculation, and then, one October morning very early if you live in the Pacific time zone, you receive a phone call from Gunnar Oquist, secretary of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. My father had gotten his call for what the Academy declared “groundbreaking experimental methods in measuring and manipulation of individual quantum systems.”

In other words, I told my fellow PCC instructors later that day
in the break room, he had figured out something nobody else had before: how to measure ultra-tiny particles without changing the basic nature of ultra-tiny particles, which normally liked to morph when measured. No follow-up questions please, I begged the room full of English majors and history geeks, because that's as deep as my understanding runs, except I can tell you that he used powerful magnets and lasers to measure those little quantum buggers.

Immediately after my mother called, I threw on some clothes, jumped in my car and stopped at Eurocafe, my dad's favorite coffee shop, for a large to-go container of Sumatra and some croissants to bring to my parents' house. Of course, I blurted out to the gracious owner, Kim, “My dad was awarded the Nobel Prize!” at which point she promptly declared the coffee and pastries on the house and told me to tell my father, one of her favorite grumpy old men, that he'd “never pay for coffee again at Eurocafe.” When I arrived, Bumble and Maddie were already there, and Sarah, Steven, and the girls tumbled in minutes later. We sat around the kitchen table, hanging on every word as my father recounted what would become his oft-told Getting the Call Story. (“I couldn't find my glasses and I was so distracted looking for them, Gunter or Gomer or Gunner Whatshisname had to repeat the news three times. I mean, I didn't really need my glasses to talk on the phone, did I?”) We celebrated with coffee and champagne, laughing and toasting, in our sweats and bathrobes.

Then I told my father the good news about coffee on the house for life and he was overcome with emotion. Honestly, tears sprung to his eyes, as if the entirety of his efforts had finally been justly rewarded with
free coffee for life!

By ten that morning, my father was whisked off by the Caltech Office of Communications, which was experienced in exactly this sort of press inundation, for a day filled with interviews by journalists who pretended to understand what my father was talking about when he described his work. By late that afternoon, he had told his
Getting the Call Story to everyone from the
New York Times
to NPR to Diane Sawyer with the charm and self-effacing humor he could turn on when he wanted, which wasn't often. Most embarrassing question? Larry King asked if his work had any relationship to the TV show
Quantum Leap
. For real. After a producer saw my father nail his Anderson Cooper segment, he was booked on
The Daily Show
for his first post-ceremony interview. Bumble was beside herself. “He'll be the new Michio Kaku.”

That never materialized, but the weeks that followed were a blur. My father was feted and honored by everyone from the President of the United States to the president of the Pasadena Rotary Club. In between accolades, he worked on his half-hour mini lecture that he was obligated to give before both accepting the prize and making the required five-minute toast to honor the King of Sweden. The lecture was easy; the toast had him in a tizzy. He asked me for help. “I need one great quote,” he begged. “That's your area.” I introduced him to YouTube, where he studied the dozen previous banquet toasts posted there. (And where he also discovered the entertaining world of unfortunate skateboard and snowboard accidents, which amused him to no end.) Then I told him to go with Yeats, because you can't go wrong with Yeats.

My mother took in every good wish as if she herself had been in a lab for thirty years, using the imperial “we” to describe the experience—and I will say, she really did deserve some credit. Her sacrifices for my father's career were well documented, particularly by her. She had put up with countless dinners alone, faculty politics, and being solely responsible for creating a childhood for us while he concentrated on his work. As a reward, she intended to put that Nobel money to immediate use. After years of “dressing like the French,” she was done with buying one or two good outfits to get though a season. She was taking a steamer trunk to Stockholm.

By the time he descended the steps of the Blue Hall in Stockholm,
looking like an elegant Alan Alda with his medal, the official diploma, a check for 1.7 million dollars, and Princess Sophia on his arm, it was clear his life would never be the same. Unlike the atoms he works with, he was fundamentally changed. (And, for the record, hats off to the Swedish royal family. There's not much going on in the frozen north these days, with Volvo and Saab gone, but they really put on a fabulous show in honor of Alfred Nobel, et al. The slate of parties, lectures, balls, and banquets was top-notch pomp and circumstance, and every member of the royal family sported a sash all week long. Bravo.)

When my father returned to his Pasadena lab, settling back into life's natural rhythms, Dependable Jane stopped by with all the newspaper clippings carefully laminated for posterity and a new needlepoint pillow that featured the phrase: Got Nobel? She wanted every detail and scooped up all the official programs for future lamination. She asked breathlessly, “What was the best part of the experience?”

Richard Lancaster, Nobel laureate, didn't hesitate a bit. “Oh, the morning I found out and Elizabeth brought the free coffee. That was great.”

Now, in the kitchen of Sage Cottage contemplating the events of the last thirty-six hours, I was having my own free-coffee moment. Except for me, it was the tuna sandwich I'd ordered from the Ashland Springs room service menu and charged to Hank's room after nailing down the details of my participation in Summer with Shakespeare. Hank offered lunch and I said, “Yes.” It had been a triumphant day, and it wasn't even over yet. Had any tuna sandwich ever tasted better? I think not.