“Let’s make sure AJ has a ride to the cast party,” my father said. We went backstage and clapped him on the back, told him he was wonderful and that we would see him at the party.
The Sunday afternoon cast party was an attempt to start a new tradition while thwarting an old one. The year before when the county musical had been South Pacific—AJ and his friends had skipped this, in order to perform in the anniversary gala—there had been a notorious cast party after the Saturday night performance, which had resulted in a disastrous Sunday matinee. Nellie Forbush could not muster any perkiness; Lieutenant Cable had to leave the stage to vomit in a bucket. The director was adamant that this could never happen again; he would cancel the matinee rather than allow hungover students to perform. It was Davey’s parents who stepped forward and offered an alternative: they would have the cast party at their home, after the matinee, and the cast’s family members could attend as well if they so desired. It would be a catered affair and the students would even be allowed beer and wine—if their parents were there to grant permission. People did that then, allowed underage kids to drink a little, and no one thought much of it.
I was disappointed by my first sight of the Robinsons’ house, which AJ had described as luxurious and modern. From the front, it was a boxy one-story cedar bungalow, flat and pugnacious as a bulldog’s face. But when you entered, it was as if you were walking into the sky. The builder had taken advantage of the fact that the lot was on a steep slope that backed up to a thickly wooded area, providing optimal privacy even when the trees were bare. With the exception of the walk-out “basement,” the rear of the house was almost entirely glass. We were told the architect had been a student of Mies van der Rohe, although perhaps not his best one. Five years ago, the Robinson house, which they unloaded in 1980, was sold as a teardown. A few people protested halfheartedly that it was a historic structure, but the new owner had no problem getting permission to raze it. The replacement is surprisingly modest, a soft-green cottage that also blends into the landscape. I drove past there not long ago, trying to jog my memory of this particular day.
The May afternoon was perfect, the kind of weather that late spring was meant to have. And used to have more often then, I think. The weather was better when I was a child, I swear it, with unbroken strings of these amazing May days—temperatures in the seventies, breezes laden with complicated fragrances. The Robinsons had set out croquet wickets on the tiny level patch of lawn behind the house, and there was a Ping-Pong table inside the rec room. It quickly became apparent that the cast party was, in effect, two parties. The adults remained inside, on the upper floors, while the teenagers chose the rec room at the bottom of the house as their base of operations.