The Man in the Tuxedo
For the Guinaugh family
The phone call came on a Tuesday afternoon, bright sun
slanting in the window. I was folding laundry on the bed,
and the sunlight lit up the silvery blankets and the white
duvet, and I smoothed the little piles of Mac’s jeans and
Henry’s shirts.
If you’d told me five years ago—five months ago, even
—that an opportunity like this would come to me, I
wouldn’t have believed it. I was so happy on the phone. I
almost said yes, but just basically as a formality I said I
needed to talk to my husband and my agent. I hung up the
phone, and where I expected a clean burst of excitement
and adrenaline, instead I felt worried. I felt fearful, and
nervous, and like I wanted to hide. I walked around the
house for a few minutes, trying to untangle my thoughts. I
grabbed a pen and paper, starting scribbling.
For most of my life, I’ve been skating past negative
feelings, staying busy, putting a positive spin on them. I’ve
been ignoring my body’s responses—maybe I need a
coffee? A breath of fresh air? Staying in it, sitting in it,