Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  “Thank you,” Paul said before walking toward the auditorium. He wasn’t sure if bold was a compliment or a criticism.

  Then he smiled. If Winston had had any plan at all to pull Susie out of drama, it would never happen now. Susie was in for the long haul, exactly what she said she wanted.

  Scene 12: Let Not Your Ears Despise My Tongue

  When Paul arrived at the Ashcroft-Tate Auditorium, several of his students were already there. He had expected Lenny to be waiting, but so too were Kim Greyson and Gemma Henderson. The three of them were arguing over a copy of the cast list one of them had printed out. When they saw Paul, all three began shouting at him at once.

  “And so it begins,” Paul whispered and raised a hand for silence. Eventually he received it. “I’m guessing that you are unhappy with your assigned roles.”

  They all started shouting again, but Paul looked at Kim Greyson, and the three fell silent.

  “Kim,” Paul said, “you auditioned for the role of Macbeth and got it. I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “But I shouldn’t have got it,” the boy answered. “Lenny did much better than me during the audition. He deserves the role.”

  Lenny remained silent but nodded in a cool, I-told-you-so manner.

  Paul smiled. “Yes, he did. But I need Lenny to play Macduff.”

  “I didn’t audition for Macduff!” Lenny’s voice and manner were the perfect rendition of a petulant child. “Macduff is boring.”

  “Macduff is the hero,” Paul said. “He cuts off Macbeth’s head.”

  “He’s still boring,” Lenny said.

  Paul sighed. “The issue is that no one auditioned for the role of Macduff, and it is a major role. Three students auditioned for Macbeth and only one can have that role, so one of the remaining two has to play Macduff. You”—he pointed at Lenny—“are that student. I’ve made you Kim’s understudy, so you still get to learn and practice the Macbeth role. You just won’t be performing it on stage.”

  “What’s the point in that?” Lenny demanded.

  “What about me?” Gemma interrupted. “I’m supposed to be Lady Macbeth. Instead I’m a witch!”

  “I’m sorry, Gemma.” Paul cringed at what he had to say next. “But Susie’s audition for the role was much better than yours.”

  “It was, you know,” said Kim.

  Gemma bared her teeth at him. “Even if that’s true, don’t you need Susie to play Lady Macduff? She’s the hero’s wife who comes to a tragic end!”

  “No,” Paul said. “I need Susie to play Lady Macbeth and I need you to play Witch Number Three.”

  By now the bell had rung and the rest of the class was wandering in. Paul could tell from their conversation that many of them had not checked the school Web site and were only now learning of their assignments. He motioned them all to take seats in the folding chairs on the stage and pulled his director’s chair close in front of them. There would be no megaphone today.

  “You’ve all received your assignments for the play. Some of you are happier about them than others.”

  “Favouritism,” someone whispered from the group. If Gemma thought she had fooled him, she was only fooling herself.

  “Welcome to real life,” Paul said. “Most actors who audition for a role do not get it. Sometimes they are offered a chance to try out for a different role, but usually they get no role at all. This is where the phrase ‘out-of-work actor’ comes from. You may be still be working, waiting tables in a restaurant or washing dishes, but you are not acting.”

  Low grumbling sounds emanated from the students.

  “Fortunately for you, the school requires that not only do I have to fill all the acting and support roles from this classroom—I can’t look for better actors and stagehands elsewhere—but I also have to give all of you jobs. So none of you will have to wash dishes until you can find another play to audition for.”

  Paul gave each student his best piercing gaze. “This is the easiest audition you will ever win.”

  “But you have me down as an usher,” said one of the students.

  A heavy sigh left Paul’s lips. “Tell me, Trevor, what roles did you audition for?”

  Trevor shrugged. “I didn’t try out for any. I thought you’d assign me something.”

  “Exactly. No one is going to offer you a role in a play unless you try out.”

  “I could be an assassin.”

  “Your classmates auditioned to be assassins,” Paul said. “And they got the parts. You—” Paul looked down at his printed copy of the cast list. “—are the understudy for Assassin Number Three. You will learn and rehearse that part, but on the night of the performance, you will be an usher.”

  “If I’m just going to usher, why should I learn the part?”

  “Because you never know,” Paul said. “That’s the whole point of understudies. Come performance night, Allan may be home sick and you will be called upon to take his place.” To the whole class, Paul said, “What’s our motto?”

  Thirty voices recited without enthusiasm, “The show must go on.”

  Paul let it slide. “Okay. For today’s class, we’ll do another read-through of the play. Only instead of taking random turns, you will each read your assigned part and get more comfortable with it. I want to hear you read with passion, just as if you’re reciting the lines on the stage. Tomorrow we’ll do it again with the understudies reading. Let’s begin.”

  Scene 13: Something Wicked This Way Comes

  Agatha let out a heavy sigh. “I miss my cats.”

  Gertrude let out a softer sigh. “I miss my hedgehogs.”

  Netty let out a loud burp. “I’m ordering more fries.”

  “Oh, my,” said Gertrude. “We’ve been eating junk food for four days straight. You can’t want more.”

  Netty’s eyes chased each other around their sockets then stopped as if reaching a conclusion. “I like Dairy Queen fries. And you’re one to talk. You seem pretty fond of the Dilly Bars yourself.”

  “That’s different,” Gertrude said. “Ice cream and chocolate never get old.”

  “Perhaps we should just go home,” Agatha said. “I never signed up for a life of burgers and ice cream.”

  “I suppose you’d rather be dining on gall of goat and slips of yew,” suggested Gertrude.

  “And nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,” Netty added.

  Gertrude ran a gnarled finger down one side of the laminated card. “I think I saw Tartar’s lips on the menu.”

  “O well done!” said an apparition standing beside their table. It was possible that she was one of the Dairy Queen staff come to take their twelfth food order of the day, except that Dairy Queen didn’t wait on tables. Neither did their uniforms consist of dragon skin and iron spikes.

  The apparition continued. “I commend your pains; and every one shall share i’ the gains. Yada yada yada.” Then she swung herself onto the plastic bench next to Netty, and now there were four witches sitting at the window-side booth.

  “By the pricking of my thumbs,” said Gertrude. “If it isn’t Hecate, come to share in the glory of our work without actually doing any of it.”

  For a witch, Hecate was rather pleasing to the eye, with the shapeliness, bone structure, and milky complexion of a supermodel. None of the three hags believed it was her true appearance, but that she had stolen it from a magazine, or possibly a comic book titled Wonder Woman.

  Hecate’s grin displayed perfect teeth and ruby lips. “It is good to be the boss. Word in the underworld is that someone is putting on The Bard’s Play. I assume that is why you three are slumming it in this dump.”

  “You should try the fries,” Netty suggested.

  Hecate sniffed the air. “I think not. Hell smells better. What stage is your venture at?”

  Agatha rubbed her skinny hands together. “The thespian has acknowledged his destiny.”

  Gertrude wagged her gnarled chin. “And now we await the inevitable claim that we haven’t lived up
to our side of the bargain.”

  Hecate snorted, her delicate nostrils flaring. “Mortals are so eager to latch on to destiny, yet they always fail to understand it.” Then she stood. “I’m off to Hell to ensure a suitable place awaits your thespian. Keep up the good work.” Then she was gone.

  “She really should have tried the fries,” Netty said.

  “Who?” asked Lenny Cadwell, sliding into the seat Hecate had just vacated.

  “Our bo—” Agatha began.

  “A coworker,” Gertrude said, cutting off the tall witch.

  “Another witch, then.” Lenny flicked his hair out of his eyes and tried to appear disinterested.

  “Arguably,” admitted Netty.

  “What is it you wish from us this time?” Agatha asked. “Is the starring role in your school play not enough?”

  Lenny slammed the table with his hand. “It is enough. And it’s what you promised.”

  “Then what is your complaint?” asked Gertrude.

  “My complaint? I have no compliant. I just dropped in for a burger.”

  “I recommend the FlameThrower GrillBurger,” suggested Netty. “It’s got zing.”

  Gertrude snorted. “She’s eaten three since breakfast.”

  “Are you sure you don’t have a complaint?” insisted Agatha.

  “Well,” said Lenny. “Since you ask. You said I would get the starring role.”

  “Yes?” chorused all three witches.

  Lenny stood up, awkwardly as he was still sitting in the booth and it wasn’t designed so people could stand. “I didn’t get the starring role. He made me the freaking hero!”

  “In truth?” Agatha waved for Lenny to sit back down, which he did. “Usually the starring role is the hero.”

  “Or heroine,” said Gertrude. She twisted her deformed neck to look up at Lenny. “Did you wish to be the heroine?” She cast him a gruesome smile. “That can be arranged.”

  Lenny blinked a few times, uncomprehending. “No. No! In this play, the starring role belongs to the villain. I want to be the villain.”

  Netty laughed. “Well, they do say that villains have more fun.”

  The other two witches joined in the laughter, and it quickly degraded into cackling.

  Lenny sat through this, frowning.

  “Oh, go on,” Agatha said at last. “Go on home and do your homework, or whatever it is you kids do these days when they let you out of school.”

  “You wish to be the villain,” Gertrude said. “The villain you shall be.”

  “Just like that?” Lenny asked.

  Agatha glared at him “Yes. Just like that.”

  “We’re witches!” Netty crowed. “It’s what we do.”

  Lenny left the table, looked back at them once, then headed toward the door.

  “Now,” said Gertrude. “Where were we?”

  Agatha scratched a wart on her nose. “I believe we were plotting magical illusions and dark destructions.”

  Gertrude wagged her misshapen head. “No, that wasn’t it. Ah! Ice cream and chocolate. Time for a Dilly Bar.”

  Scene 14: Out, Out, Brief Candle!

  Paul couldn’t remember the last time the family had sat together for supper two nights in a row. Neither could he remember the last time he had seen Susie so happy. He smiled and helped himself to more carrots while Susie recounted to her mother how she had waxed elegant, yet manic, as she read Lady Macbeth’s lines in class. She went so far as to begin acting at the dinner table.

  In mid stanza Susie broke off and demanded, “How come I have to die offstage?”

  Paul looked up from his carrots and saw his daughter staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”

  “I die offstage. That ponce of an errand boy marches out and announces that I’m dead. Can a death be more boring?”

  “Where did you learn a word like ponce?” Sylvia asked. “I’m not certain what it means, but I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be using it.”

  “Seyton is not a ponce,” Paul said. “He’s Macbeth’s servant. He’s supposed to act subservient.”

  “Whatever,” Susie said. “He doesn’t even say how I die. Do I poison myself? Does someone kill me? Maybe Seyton kills me. Perhaps he’s secretly in love with Macbeth—”

  “Seyton is not in love with Macbeth,” Paul said firmly, cutting into his pork chop with perhaps more gusto than was warranted. “It’s not that kind of play. The truth is that it doesn’t matter how Lady Macbeth dies. What’s important is Macbeth’s soliloquy regarding death. His realization that life is fleetingly short and, in the grand scheme of things, quite meaningless.”

  Sylvia looked confused. “That can’t be what he means. In the next scene, Macbeth is outnumbered and fighting for his life.” Sylvia nodded. “Oh yes, I’ve read Macbeth. Who hasn’t?”

  Paul and Sylvia both turned to look at Susie.

  Their daughter turned her face back and forth between them. “What? I’ve read Macbeth. Just this morning.”

  “Well,” said Sylvia. “You’re taking drama at school. Most of your schoolmates will never read the book.”

  “But they will see the play,” Susie said, grinning. “And I’m Lady Macbeth!”

  Paul returned to his supper as mother and daughter continued discussing acting. Never in his wildest dreams had he envisioned such a scene playing out in his dining room. It was music to his ears. Even the part where Susie tried to explain what a ponce was in terms that her mother wouldn’t get on her case for.

  Scene 15: A Thing Most Strange and Certain

  Friday morning and the school corridors were silent and empty as Paul made his way toward the Ashcroft-Tate Auditorium. He loved it when class was in session. Students busily learning facts and methods that seemed to them as utter uselessness but which, in later years, would serve them well. After twenty years of teaching high school, it still amazed Paul that the less students knew, the more they felt they had nothing to learn. He supposed that applied to teachers as well. And to the PTA—especially to the PTA. Human nature, then. Just the way people are wired. An idiot has no desire to learn anything, while a genius has an unquenchable hunger for additional knowledge.

  The bell rang, sounding much like a fire alarm in the empty hallway, and Paul frowned. He had dawdled and now would have to fight his way through a sea of students the rest of the way to the auditorium. Sure enough, doors erupted all along the hallway, and students came pouring out, racing to visit a washroom before their next class started or outside off school property for a few puffs on a cigarette. Most of them simply wanted to get out of the classroom and feel the freedom of the hallways for a few minutes before finding a desk in their next class.

  Paul raised his briefcase over his head as students rushed past him on every side, and he slowed his pace to prevent getting his feet tangled as students dodged in front of him, as though he were just an obstacle to barely avoid running into. As he neared a stairwell, he somehow heard, above the talking, the laughter, and the rush of passing students, a thump, thump, thump, aghh! The river of fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds suddenly froze. All heads turned toward the bottom of the stairs, and a hush settled its heavy cloak over the hallway.

  Paul lowered his briefcase and held it like a shield. “Make way! Make way!” As quickly as he could, he forced his way toward what everyone was looking at. When he at last reached the bottom of the stairs, he found, lying on the floor, rocking back and forth and holding his right knee, his would-be Macbeth, Kim Greyson.

  In an older, simpler time, Paul would have looked around at the gawking students and shouted, “Someone go get the nurse!” But in today’s modern world, he simply pulled his cell phone from his sport coat pocket and called the school secretary.

  “Mrs. Kennedy, it’s Paul Samson. A student has hurt himself. . . . Yes, it looks serious. Better call for an ambulance. . . . Kim Greyson. . . . Yes. . . . Main floor. South stairwell. . . . Yes. Thank you.”

  He put the phone away and shook his head. “Everyone go to
class. Nothing more to see. Kim is in good hands.”

  The sea of students began moving again, much gentler than before, respectfully giving the injured student a little space but still rubbernecking as they went by. The bell indicating the start of class rang, and the remaining onlookers drifted off so they wouldn’t be too late.

  “Well, Kim,” Paul said.

  Kim looked up at him with large, moist eyes and grimaced.

  “How did you manage to fall down a flight of stairs that was packed shoulder to shoulder with students?”

  “No idea.” Kim rocked gently on the hard floor and grunted. “I think my leg is broken.”

  Paul nodded. “Hopefully it is just your leg. Knees are much more difficult.”

  “It hurts,” Kim said. The boy’s eyes shimmered, but no tears appeared.

  “Yes,” Paul said. “I’m sure it does.” But he wasn’t thinking about the injury. He was thinking that a student with a broken leg couldn’t play a main character, especially not an army general. He’d have to make Kim one of the thanes. Perhaps Angus. Thane Angus has two lines and doesn’t move much. The role of Macbeth would have to go to Lenny.

  Scene 16: The Shot of Accident nor Dart of Chance

  By the time the paramedics arrived, examined Kim, conversed with the school nurse, then packed the boy onto a wheeled stretcher and carted him away, Paul arrived late to a class of chattering students who immediately quieted as he walked across the stage and sat in an empty director’s chair.

  “How’s Kim?” Lenny asked. Rather than the worry or boredom that exuded from his classmates, the boy’s expression carried only hopeful expectation.

  “Doesn’t look good,” Paul said, quoting the paramedics. “Broken fibula. Possible patella damage as well.”

  His announcement was met with blank stares. Paul sighed. “He broke his leg and may have damaged his knee.”