by Mary Angela
Lenny nudged my leg. He wanted to go, and so did I. We needed to discuss what’d just happened, and I had to present in less than thirty minutes. We’d have to leave now if we wanted time to talk. When the next panelist turned on the projector, we slipped out of the row.
We found a roomful of keyboard instruments and ducked inside. The impressive display included an ivory organ that reached the ceiling and an ornate harpsichord. Lenny leaned against a pianoforte, a beautiful relic from the eighteenth century.
“Did you hear that Felix guy?” said Lenny. “I thought he would implode when Tanner said Shakespeare wasn’t the author of the plays.”
“Andy didn’t hold back either,” I said. “Do you think Tanner’s claim really blows Andy’s book out of the water, like he said?”
“Not directly,” said Lenny. “But think about it. Andy’s book is about the relevancy of Shakespeare in our time. How relevant is the Earl of Oxford—an aristocrat and titled gentleman?” He shook his head. “I’m no Shakespeare fan, but I’d prefer to think of him as the playwright with the grammar school education who made it big.”
“Me, too,” I said. “Everybody identifies with that story. I’d be curious to know what evidence Tanner has. If true, it would change the entire scope of the conversation.”
“And the direction of Shakespeare scholar’s lives.”
“You really think it’d change lives?” I asked. “You’d go that far?”
“I would,” said Lenny.
“Can you imagine?” I plucked a cat hair off my jacket. “Shakespeare not being written by Shakespeare?”
“Yeah, I can,” said Lenny. “They’ve been feeding us lies for years. This is probably another one.”
I stifled a laugh. Lenny was an avid conspiracy theorist. He’d like it if Tanner’s research turned out to be true, but I was less enthusiastic. Scholars like Reed would be heartbroken, and who could blame them? It would be like Lenny finding out that Walt Whitman’s works were actually written by a titled gentleman.
Lenny crossed his arms, still leaning on the delicate pianoforte. “You think I’m going all Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory, but he turned out to be right, didn’t he?”
I didn’t see how a movie from the 1990s supported his case. “Don’t lean on that piano. It looks fragile.”
He pretended to fall, moving his arms erratically.
“Stop it.” I reached for him.
That’s all it took for him to pull me into an embrace, an unexpected moment of bliss. We stood kissing for a full minute before I realized what we were doing—and where. I pulled back reluctantly, telling him I had to freshen up before my presentation, which meant reapplying the lipstick he’d kissed off.
“I’ll meet you there,” he said.
I gave him a little wave. The feel of his arms holding me lingered long after I left the room.
After a stop at the restroom, I went downstairs to set up my slideshow, a compendium of the murders in Shakespeare’s plays. It was outside my wheelhouse, if French literature was still my wheelhouse, but Reed had reviewed my research. He said it was refreshing. I just hoped it would stand up to other scholars’ work. Denton Smart, the second-year medical student sitting beside me, was almost a doctor, in the medical sense. He knew not only Shakespeare but also how to perform surgery. It was hard to compete with that degree of expertise.
I began my presentation with Hamlet because it was opening night of the school’s own production, and death and murder were important themes in the play. During the course of five acts, a whopping nine people die, not to mention the jester, who’s dead before the play begins. It would take me a while to discuss all of them. Eventually, though, I moved on to Julius Caesar and Othello. As I was speaking, I observed Tanner Sparks slipping into one of the last rows, next to Lenny. I was glad he hadn’t been tarred and feathered after his revelation. He was as charming as ever, whispering something to Lenny that made him smile.
I refocused on my last slide: the murder of Desdemona. Othello, her husband, becomes convinced she has been unfaithful after he obtains ostensible proof of her cheating. Here I brought up a picture of the fateful handkerchief. Othello kills her before discovering that his friend Iago has been feeding him lies, including the one about the handkerchief. After learning the truth, he kills himself. No mystery surrounds the murder—Othello smothers Desdemona with a pillow—but citing one of Shakespeare’s best-known tragedies was a nice way to end my presentation.
“Thank you, Professor Prather,” said Alexander Schwartz, theater director and moderator of the panel. “That was … interesting.” Shaped like a barrel, he was a visionary and a perfectionist. He was the director of Hamlet, and I was excited to see his version. “Any questions for Professor Prather before we move on to our next panelist?”
Several people had joined the audience late and stood at the entrance or lingered near the back of the room. Andy was one of them. I really hoped he didn’t ask me a question. I was still mad at him for calling Tanner stupid. I wasn’t sure my response would be calm.
“I have a question,” said Lenny.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes?”
“For an English professor, you know a lot about murder,” said Lenny. He gave me a cheeky smile. “Have you ever thought about going into law enforcement?”
“That’s a good question,” I said, returning the smile. His dimple got me every time. “Had I not spent so much time and money on my PhD, I might think about switching professions. It’s a little too late to invest in another direction.”
That got a few chuckles.
“Yes, in the blue shirt,” said Alexander to a girl with long, dark hair.
“Seriously, though, you’ve been involved in a few homicide cases,” said the girl. “What makes someone commit murder? Do they just erupt, like Othello? Or are some people incapable of killing, despite being highly motivated?”
It was a great question, one I’d already considered. Was anyone capable of murder, say, if someone they loved was threatened? I’d seen a lot of ordinary people act rashly when driven by extraordinary circumstances. “If you examine the motives behind the murders in Shakespeare’s plays, you’ll see the reasons are deeply human. It’s why we feel the tragedy of them. Othello, for instance, is fiercely jealous, an emotion we can all relate to. So, to answer your question, I think Shakespeare understood human nature all too well. Most people aren’t born to kill, and circumstances do make a difference. The same motives still compel them: jealousy, love, hate, the lust for power, the need to control. Are some people incapable of murder, no matter what? Who can say?”
“Any other questions for Professor Prather?” asked Alexander. He waited a few seconds before introducing the next speaker, Denton Smart, a short man with rimless glasses. Though I didn’t know him, I was interested in his presentation, which concerned poisons in Shakespeare’s plays and the effects produced in the characters.
Denton started with Romeo and Juliet, discussing what substance might have put Juliet into a sleep that resembled death. Knowing something about plants, I followed along easily. Many scholars believed Juliet’s coma was caused by deadly nightshade, aka belladonna, which meant “beautiful lady” in Italian. I agreed. The plant could cause not only death-like symptoms but death itself. Denton moved on to the queen’s poisoned goblet in Hamlet, speculating on its contents, and again I could follow his evidence. But when he discussed Regan’s symptoms in King Lear, he lost me and half his audience with too much medical terminology. I noticed Lenny’s head bobbing during the last five minutes. I, like Lenny, had tuned out. I was wondering about an email from my publisher and calculating the difference between time zones when Alexander asked for questions.
“Nice presentation,” said Tanner, who seemed engaged and even excited. “I like how you used the characters’ symptoms to recreate timelines. Do you do that a lot in the medical field?”
“We do,” said Denton. He gave a lengthier response, but I found myself focusing
on his glasses instead of his explanation. While he talked about the body’s reaction to certain elements, he fidgeted with his spectacles. Were they new? Were they misaligned? Was he sweating? It was beginning to irritate me. It took a great effort to focus on what he was saying.
“As you and I know,” Denton said, “modern medicine can determine cause of death, and more importantly in this case, time of death.” Denton paused. “Through DNA research, Tanner and I hope to prove Shakespeare was actually the pen name of the Earl of Oxford.”
Pleased with Denton’s revelation, Tanner stretched his legs, preening a little. While what followed didn’t amount to the ruckus of the previous panel, it was bad enough, and I had a feeling Tanner liked the attention. I could tell by the way his eyes sparkled with excitement. Denton, on the other hand, looked less comfortable. He swallowed hard, gathered up his papers from the podium, and walked back to the table without waiting for more questions.
Alexander, our moderator, wasn’t going to let Denton off the hook that easily. “I have to say, Denton, while shocking, your assertion can hardly be taken seriously. We have two men, two graves, and thus two writers. One, our beloved Shakespeare, and two, the mediocre Earl of Oxford. Modern medicine can’t refute simple math.”
“Two men but one author.” Tanner answered for Denton, flashing a smile at Alexander. “For years, much has been made of the curse on the fake Shakespeare’s grave at Stratford-upon-Avon. It was put there to keep us from learning the truth. Recently a scholar suggested Shakespeare’s ‘grave’ points us to Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, where the Earl of Oxford lies. He wasn’t moved there—as his cousin suggested—but was interred there at the real time of his death, well after 1604.”
Alexander’s mouth formed a lowercase o. “I’d love to hear more of this fascinating tale, Mr. Sparks, and if anyone appreciates your storytelling abilities, it is I, but we need to get to the last panelist. Maybe after the conference.”
“Any time, Professor,” said Tanner. He and Alexander shared a comradery from Tanner’s work in the theater, but Alexander wouldn’t let even his favorite actor make a claim like that without providing further explanation.
Our final panelist approached the podium, but I was still thinking about Tanner and his revelation. He intended to prove Edward de Vere was alive after 1604 with a DNA sample. Though DNA evidence from so long ago wouldn’t be irrefutable, it might answer the question surrounding his date of death. But I knew nothing of Poets’ corner in Westminster Abbey or how two graves could point to one man. Tanner’s research was well outside my area of interest. It was becoming an area an interest, however, after this morning’s presentations. Truth be told, this was the most excitement I’d ever witnessed during an academic conference.
After the panel, Lenny stuck around long enough to congratulate me. He had to teach class, and I’d promised Claudia Swift I would help her judge the entries from yesterday’s sonnet-writing contest. But we decided to get together later so we could discuss the debate consuming the Shakespeare Conference. Judging from the look of the crowd surrounding Tanner and Denton, the two men’s research was on everybody’s mind. As a teacher, I was happy for them. They were engaged in the kind of academic debate I always encouraged. As a member of the English Department, I was less enthusiastic, especially when I considered the feelings of scholars like Reed Williams. Outside these walls, people trampled on others’ beliefs without much care or forethought. Academia was a safe haven of sorts. People said we lived in a make-believe world. Maybe that was true. But maybe modern life needed an escape hatch.
Leaving Harmony Music Museum, I paused at a bench in the quad to check my email. While students moved, herd-like, in and out of buildings, I waited for my inbox to update. I glanced at Harriman Hall, where Claudia was waiting for me. I tapped my finger on the screen, hoping to propel it into action. It must have worked, because an email from Dewberry Press arrived, complete with attachment. I opened it and scanned the text. I needed to sign the attached contract, send a headshot, and write a short bio. Once the contract was in place, work on the book could begin. My editor’s name was Owen Parrish. Owen Parrish, I repeated. Perish the thought of him finding any significant errors. I brushed away the fear. I’d read the manuscript five times before submitting it. How could a mistake escape my notice?
The email closed by asking me to return the signed contract as soon as possible. A quick scan didn’t reveal anything that would prevent that from happening. Due dates, editorial dates, publication dates—I had no problem getting work done on time. Growing up in the Midwest, I couldn’t fathom not meeting a deadline. I put away my phone and stood. It was a done deal as far as I was concerned.
It wasn’t until I entered the second floor of Harriman Hall that I remembered the English Department potluck. The smell of casseroles and chocolate chip cookies hit me—along with a wave of guilt. I’d forgotten all about the event, which was our department’s way of celebrating the Shakespeare Festival. I was supposed to bring a dish to the Writing Center. It was the reason Claudia and I were meeting here in the first place. We could eat lunch while reading the entries.
Claudia was walking toward me, breezing down the hallway with her long purple scarf flowing behind her. Her fine brown hair was turned into a French twist, a pencil sticking out of the side of her head. She made everything look easy—raising kids, writing poems, sparring with her husband, Gene. I admired her for that. Claudia might be drama-prone, but she was a good friend, and I always looked forward to spending time with her.
“Thank you for the chips, though you signed up for a salad,” said Claudia, reaching for my arm and turning me toward the Writing Center. “Lenny dropped them off this morning, along with his … beenies and weenies.” She stuck out her tongue.
Hooray for Lenny! I loved the way he remembered that I was good at forgetting things. “You’re welcome, and really, his beenies and weenies aren’t that bad. He puts a special spice in there, you know.”
She let out a breath. “Love must make you blind and ruin your palate. The beans are dreadful.”
Maybe it did. I was also growing fond of his chili.
We entered the Writing Center, where a long table was filled with hot dishes, salads, and tableware. It was early, and many people from the department were still at Harmony Music Museum, so Claudia and I collected our plates right away.
“I heard something interesting at the festival this morning,” I said, taking a spoonful of Lenny’s dish. “Tanner Sparks said Shakespeare was really the Earl of Oxford, and Denton Smart said DNA tests could prove the earl was alive to write the late plays. Several scholars were miffed.” I put the lid on the Crock-Pot and reached for the chips.
Claudia was dishing up vegetarian lo mein. “I don’t believe a word of it, but I’ll admit Tanner’s pretty convincing. I chalk it up to years of acting classes.”
“You’ve heard it, then?” I grabbed a brownie—chocolate chocolate chip.
“Of course,” said Claudia. “I’m on Tanner’s dissertation committee.” She glanced at my brownie. “What happened to eating healthier?”
“That was January,” I said, taking a cookie bar. “This is April.”
“What a difference a few months make,” muttered Claudia, leading the way to her office. Unlike mine, her office was large enough for a small round conference table, which is where we sat. She had two bookshelves filled with poetry collections and pictures of her kids, Sylvia and Benjamin. There was also a nice picture of her and Gene in Italy, where they’d renewed their vows after a few uncertain months of fighting. As far as I knew, they were still in each other’s good graces, though no one could say for how long.
“And I have more news,” I said, placing a napkin on my lap. “I received the contract from Dewberry.” I’d told Claudia yesterday about their offer to publish. “I need to sign it and send it back ASAP.”
Claudia took a sip of her iced tea. “Let’s have Gene take a look at it first. You don’t want to s
ign anything too quickly.”
Gene was a lawyer and famously busy. I didn’t want to wait on his opinion. “I think it’s all pretty standard. I didn’t find anything unusual in it.”
“Still, he should take a look,” said Claudia. “We don’t know what’s standard and non-standard in the publishing world.”
“You do,” I said. “You’ve published poetry.”
“In academic journals,” said Claudia. “I think this is different.”
“I hope it’s different,” I said. “I’d like to get paid in money for once instead of contributors’ copies.” When academics sent articles to scholarly journals, they were rewarded with several free copies of said journal and the gratification of knowing they were moving toward tenure. Although I didn’t expect my book to be a best seller, I did hope it would earn me a few dollars, maybe enough to buy a new TV. Mine was a clunky relic from graduate school and didn’t even have a flat screen.
Claudia finished her last bite of lo mein and threw her plate in the trash. “If you’re finished getting your sugar fix, let’s start reading the sonnets.”
I washed down my brownie with a glug of coffee. “How many submissions?”
“Forty-two.”
Forty-two? I might need a refill before reading all the iambic pentameter in forty-two sonnets. I tossed my plate and napkin in the trash, and Claudia handed me a stack of poems. She said we would create three piles: “yes,” “no,” and “maybe.” Before making any final decisions, we would reread the yeses and maybes together.
I put a lot of poems into the maybe category before choosing any yeses. It was hard to know what poems stood out until I’d read several. I stopped at Allen Dunsbar’s entry, scanning the lines twice. Iambic pentameter was a pattern of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. Dunsbar’s poem didn’t adhere to the form. “Allen’s poem isn’t written in iambic pentameter. Are you granting any leeway on style?”