Maybe the Moon

defeated tone as I agreed to crawl back into rubber one last time for the sake of friendship. He was so elated that he promised me my own dressing room the moment I requested it, a clear indicator that I should have asked for more. There will be a preliminary fitting next week at Icon, in case “adjustments” are required, which I took to be another reference to my weight. Mr. Woods will have only one line of dialogue (no prize for guessing which), which will emanate—prerecorded—from a tiny speaker in his head. He will make his entrance all alone, Leonard assured me.

22
    F IVE DAYS TO GO .
    Maybe it was a mistake, but yesterday I told Renee about my coming-out party. It was just too hellish keeping the secret any longer, seeing as much of her as I do, and frankly, I needed a fashion consultant for the big night. When I explained the plan, she screamed even louder than she had when I told her I’d decided to wear the suit. What’s more, she thinks it’s a brilliant idea—absolutely foolproof—which some people might regard as reason enough to be worried.
    This morning she took me to The Fabric Barn so we could select the material for my debutante gown. We settled on green bugle beads, very dark and shimmery, in a sort of half-assed nod to Mr. Woods. (Also, as you know, it’s a color that looks great with my hair and eyes.) We bought Velcro too, so the gown can be breakaway, capable of being donned in seconds. I’ll be in the rubber suit for an hour or more, so there’s no way I could wear the gown underneath. And, as Renee keeps reminding me, my hair and makeup will need attention after confinement in that sweatbox. This will take a pro, she says, someone who can work fast—someone like her, for instance.
    It’s true that her pageant skills might come in handy for this, but I’ve got my doubts about her ability to stay cool in the midst of all those stars. She was ditzy enough around Callum. On the other hand, the more henchmen I have, the easier it’ll be to pull off the switch. I’ll just have to play it by ear, I guess.
    Meanwhile, I’ve got a brilliant idea for the song I’ll sing to Philip on stage: “After All These Years,” from The Rink . It’s Kander & Ebb—frisky and up-tempo enough—yet the lyrics have a definite edge of sarcasm, especially when applied to me and Philip:
    Gee, it’s good to see you
    After all these years
    Gee, you’ve really lifted my morale
    Kept it all together
    After all these years
    What’s your secret, old pal ?
    I can see that fortune has been kind to you
    Guess you’ve had no obstacles to climb
    Gee, you look terrific
    After all these years
    Completely unchanged by time !
    That line about “obstacles to climb” just might get a laugh, which would be all right with me. Anything to keep the audience loose. In any event, the message won’t be lost on Philip.

    Jeff drove me to Icon early this week for the fitting. Seeing that suit again was like viewing the embalmed remains of an old and bitter enemy. It was arrayed on a table in its own room—Lenin in his tomb came to mind—while technicians glued and snipped and soldered with offhanded, clinical calm, bringing the creature back to life. There was new, lighter-weight circuitry attached to his eye and facial muscles, which allowed more breathing space, but notenough to make a real difference. His insides, having been recently overhauled, were gaseous with epoxy, though one of the technicians assured me the smell would be gone by Saturday night.
    For a terrible minute or two—just as I staggered, arms forward like a sleepwalker, into the breach again—I considered the possibility that the motherfucker might not fit. When I made it all the way in and they snapped me shut, my ass and waist were a little snug, but the rest felt fine. I was so relieved I made a nervous joke about my weight to the technician, who laughed and said not to worry, they’d already enlarged the suit, at Philip’s request, in the event of just such an emergency. This was not what I needed to hear.
    I’d halfway expected Philip to make an appearance that day, but he didn’t. According to the technician, Philip keeps in close contact with the shop but has expressly asked not to see Mr. Woods before the tribute, to keep from diluting the impact of the experience. “Like the bride before the wedding,” said the technician, chuckling, as if this were the very sort of quirky, unpredictable thing that makes Philip so darned