Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  Paul owed much of the students’ progress to Sylvia, who, with little to do yet in the way of sets and props, spent each second period helping any students who were struggling with their lines.

  Watching Sylvia reminded Paul that his students were just kids. Seventeen or eighteen years old. Younger in his other classes. Paul couldn’t remember being that young and, like the rest of the teachers at Ashcroft Senior High, followed a policy that expected the students to behave like adults. It was hardly surprising that teenagers frequently failed to meet that expectation. After fifteen years, Paul still didn’t know if the approach was good or bad.

  “Who’s ready to paint?” Sylvia asked, looking for hands.

  Five hands went up.

  Paul smiled inwardly while his wife sighed.

  “Well,” she said. “We may not finish today. We’ll start with the castle walls. They should go quickly. Painters, come with me.”

  Paul made a mental note to give each of the volunteers extra credit then watched the small band troop out of the auditorium toward the arts and crafts room, where Clyde Goodall, the art teacher, had cleared space and set out supplies. During first period, he had enlisted Jerry the caretaker to help him move the third-year scenery flats from backstage, where they had sat all summer, to the art room.

  Gemma Henderson, who was not one of the five volunteers, carried a big box over to Paul.

  “What do we have here?”

  As Gemma set the box down, Paul saw the word Macbeth written on one side in felt pen.

  “My dad told me to bring this to class. He said it’s a box of Macbeth props he got from his cousin who used to be an actress.”

  Paul poked around in the box and found a decent-looking crown, a couple of collapsible bloody daggers, a chalice, a fantastic-looking battery-operated lamp for hanging on a castle wall scenery flat, and a plastic skull.

  “I think the skull is from Hamlet,” he said.

  Gemma rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”

  “Thank your dad for me,” Paul said. “These will come in handy.” He picked up the box and took it to a shelf in the backstage storage area. The cousin must have been in amateur theatre to have such relatively inexpensive props. But they were perfect for a school play.

  “All right, students,” he said after returning downstage. “Since you’re not painting, you’re going to walk through lines.”

  Groans.

  “And I really do mean walk. Read-throughs are over. From now on, it’s time to act. Leave your script in your bag; you won’t need it. If you can’t remember your lines, approximate them. If I need to cue you, I will. Let’s put some body language behind your words.”

  “What about those who left with Mrs. Samson?” asked Trevor. “Who’s going to say their lines?”

  “That would be me, Trevor.” To the class, Paul said, “Let’s start from the top. Enter three witches.”

  Scene 9: Eye of Newt and Toe of Frog

  Second period ended and Paul made his way through the sea of students toward the arts and crafts room to inspect the painted scenery flats and to have lunch with Sylvia before his first-year class in fourth period. He had almost arrived when the students parted to reveal the gorgon lady in all her frightful glory. Paul hadn’t crossed paths with Elizabeth Cadwell since her PTA had taken over his auditorium two Tuesdays ago. It had been a blissful two weeks.

  “Mr. Samson,” the gorgon lady greeted him in dark, icy tones.

  “Mrs. Cadwell,” Paul returned brightly. “I must say that your son, Lenny, outdid himself turning out a costume for this term’s play. He’s the talk of the class.”

  Paul then braced himself for whatever bullets the gorgon planned to shoot him with. Would she accuse him of defamation by means of illiterate leaflet? Or threaten to get him arrested for attempting to murder her son with a sword? When she did neither, Paul’s good mood returned instantly.

  “Let’s cut the pleasantries,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “I ran into Gemma Henderson and two of your other students last evening.”

  “I hope no one was hurt,” Paul said.

  “What?”

  “When you ran into the girls. The last thing we need around here are more injuries.”

  “Oh no.” The gorgon lady wagged her finger at him. “You are not distracting me that easily. They were at Value Village, shopping for costumes.”

  “Really?” said Paul. “You don’t strike me as the Value Village type. What were you doing there?”

  The gorgon lady added a sneer to her finger wagging. “I won’t be distracted. They were shopping for witch costumes.”

  Paul put on his best puzzled look. “Halloween is still six weeks off. A bit early to be looking for witch costumes. I’ll have a word with them.”

  Mrs. Cadwell almost screamed. “They weren’t shopping for Halloween. They were looking for costumes for your play!”

  “Then I must have a word with them,” Paul said. “Witch costumes are entirely inappropriate. Pointy hats and warty noses won’t do.”

  “They won’t?” said the gorgon lady, looking crestfallen.

  “Of course not. Broom-riding witches have no place in Macbeth. These are hags we want. Crones. Yes, a difficult thing for seventeen-year-old girls to pull off, but that’s what acting is all about. What they want for costumes are rags and heavy makeup. They can probably find these at home. No trips to Value Village required.”

  The gorgon lady looked like something she rarely was—speechless. If only they could have had this discussion in front of the entire PTA. That would be three public embarrassments in two weeks. What a coup!

  Paul stepped around her and continued on his way.

  Scene 10: To the Amazement of Mine Eyes

  “Well,” said Sylvia. “What do you think?”

  One entire wall of the art room was lined with painted scenery flats, eight feet tall and four feet wide. Most of them were granite grey, while several were painted with fields and trees. Three of the granite walls had battlements along the top with a stormy sky peering between the stones.

  Paul was near speechless. “You finished them all in one hour?” When he had his students paint, they were lucky to finish three flats.

  Sylvia’s face glowed. “Once we got started, it went fairly quickly. I don’t know what would have happened with thirty students in here. I’m glad most weren’t prepared.”

  “Yes.” Paul was still trying to comprehend what he was seeing. “There is such a thing as too much of a good thing.”

  “What shall we do for lunch?” Sylvia asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Paul said. “I usually bring my lunch and recover from the morning in the teachers’ lounge. There’s always the Dairy Queen across the street that some of the students go to.”

  Sylvia’s face brightened even more. “I haven’t been to a Dairy Queen in years. Not since we took Susie to one for her tenth birthday. I wonder if they still have chocolate-dipped cones.”

  With third period well under way, the walk through the school was an uneventful one. The gorgon lady had made herself scarce, and they were outside and across the street without interruption.

  At the Dairy Queen, the staff were quietly preparing for the lunch hour rush. The only other customers were three odd-looking women sitting at a booth in the far corner. Paul took out his cell phone and took a picture.

  “What are you doing?” Sylvia whispered, quickly dragging him toward the order counter. “You can’t just take pictures of random strangers.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” Paul said, tucking the phone back into his sport coat pocket. “It’s just that, the gorgon lady—”

  “Who?” interrupted Sylvia.

  “Mrs. Cadwell, resident PTA president and royal pain in the neck.”

  “You call Elizabeth Cadwell the gorgon lady?”

  “Not just me. Pretty much everyone does.”

  “Continue.”

  “Anyway,” Paul said, “I ran into her in the hallway on the way to see you, a
nd she was at it again about witches—”

  “Witches?” said Sylvia. “Not swords or those leaflets?”

  Paul let out a sigh. “She didn’t mention either. Perhaps Winston talked to her. Maybe she’s calling the two sets of leaflets a draw.”

  “That doesn’t explain the sword.”

  “I can only imagine that Lenny talked her down about the sword. If he’s willing to say it was nothing, it will be difficult for his mother to claim otherwise. Anyway, she was complaining about the three witches in the cast.”

  “Four,” said Sylvia. “Don’t forget about Hecate.”

  “I don’t think she realizes there are four. The gor—Mrs. Cadwell—said that she saw our three young witches at Value Village, shopping for witch costumes.”

  “Mrs. Cadwell shops at Value Village?” Sylvia’s expression was priceless.

  “That’s what I said.” Paul couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Anyway, I told her that our witches aren’t witches; they are hags and witch costumes are completely inappropriate.”

  Sylvia nodded. “I agree with you about the costumes. Pointy hats won’t do. But they are witches.”

  Paul spoke in a hushed voice. “The gorgon lady doesn’t need to know that.”

  “I see. I’ll have the FlameThrower GrillBurger and a Diet Coke.”

  “What?” Then Paul noticed the wizened, older woman waiting patiently to take his order. “I’ll have the same.”

  “And we’ll both have chocolate-dipped cones on the way out,” Sylvia added.

  Paul paid and they found a table near the door to wait for their order.

  “None of this explains you taking that picture,” said Sylvia.

  “Oh, right. Well, those women at the booth are more like what my students should be going for. See the shawls and the haystack hair and the frumpy hat the short woman is wearing.”

  “You’re saying they look like hags?” said Sylvia.

  “I bet they’re wearing boots,” Paul said. “Those short rubber ones. And baggy pants.”

  Scene 11: Let This Habit Make Thee Blush!

  “Well, of course we wear boots,” Gertrude said. “We spend so much time on the heath.”

  “And our pants are baggy,” Netty added. “Pants aren’t comfortable unless they’re baggy. I’d hardly call my hat frumpy, though. I think it has style.”

  “Of course is does,” said Gertrude. “I’d wear a hat just like it if I could hold my head up straight.”

  “What does he mean we don’t look like witches?” Agatha ground her teeth as she spoke. “We are witches. We’re exactly what witches look like. Hags! Hags, he called us. I’ve half a mind to make him choke on his GrillBurger.”

  “Don’t do that,” cautioned Gertrude. “He’s the director. They may cancel the play if something happens to him.”

  “You’re right, of course,” said Agatha. “Curses get no respect when they happen behind the scenes.”

  “His wife, then,” suggested Netty. “Let’s give her a blast of salmonella. See how she looks with fins!”

  “Eh?” said Gertrude. “I don’t think that means what you think it means.”

  Agatha slammed a gnarled hand on the table. “But the woman hasn’t said an unkind word about us. What would you want to go curse her for?”

  “The play itself is cursed,” Gertrude said. “And who do you think is going to get all the blame? The director. Heh? Consider the man cursed and enjoy your Turtle Waffle Bowl.”

  “What? This?” Netty pointed at a chocolate-tipped waffle bowl half emptied of ice milk and caramel sauce. “There’s not a single turtle in here. False advertising, that’s what it is.”

  The three witches looked to where Netty pointed and saw a small green turtle pushing its flippers through the melting ice milk.

  “Humph,” said Netty. “That wasn’t there a moment ago.”

  Suddenly a fourth hag was sitting with them in the booth, only this hag looked like she had just stepped off the cover of a Victoria’s Secret magazine, wearing a skin-tight black outfit that revealed more than it hid and all but shouted cleavage.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Hecate. “You should never mix turtles and ice cream. It’s bad for the indigestion.”

  “You can’t dress like that here,” Agatha scolded, looking the senior witch up and down. “They’ll think you’re a hooker.”

  Hecate let out a delicate laugh. “My hooker outfit is much brassier than this. For hookers, you want sleaze. This is my bedroom-eyes look. I just dropped in on my way to a photo shoot to get a status report on your Macbeth project.”

  “A photo shoot?” Gertrude grinned. “Updating your résumé? Still seeking a change of employment, perhaps?”

  “You wish.” Hecate tossed her hair. “Why would I do that when I have the greatest job in the world?”

  “Yes,” said Netty. “Why would you?”

  “What are you up to at this photo shoot?” Agatha asked. “You going to make it a real shoot and add guns?”

  Hecate shook her head. “Bor-ring. Models are shot by ex-boyfriends all the time. No, the shoot is happening at a hotel swimming pool. I thought I’d work up a little gas line explosion on the tenth floor and rain broken windows down on our gaggle of supermodels. Nothing like a few nasty scars to ruin a young glamour girl’s career. But I’m not here to talk about me. I hope you have better news for me today than yesterday?”

  Agatha fondled her silver pendant. “We’ve been stirring up the natives.”

  Hecate stared at her. “Stirring up the natives? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Sowing discord,” Gertrude said.

  “Causing general unrest,” added Agatha.

  Hecate looked at Netty.

  “Ooooh.” Netty’s eyes bounced in their sockets. “Uh, like they said. Stirring up a cauldron of discord and sowing the natives.”

  “I see,” said Hecate. “In other words, nothing.”

  Netty’s lips sputtered. “We have big plans for next week.”

  “Next week?” Hecate’s beauty-queen face held an expression of horror. “What is wrong with right now? Why do you have to wait until next week?”

  “Drama class is over for today,” Agatha said. “School is out until Monday.”

  “We can’t do anything until Monday second period,” Gertrude added. “Heh. That’s the downside of dealing with schools.”

  “Sounds fishy to me.” Hecate’s flawless face darkened. “I think you’re all just a bit lazy. Sitting here all day, getting fat on ice cream while the world strolls merrily past the window.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll invite us to help with your broken-window caper?” Agatha suggested. “It’s been ages since I wore a bikini.”

  Netty chortled. “You’ve never worn a bikini. None of us have. Weren’t popular in the eleventh century. They wouldn’t know what to think of a woman in a bikini back then. Women wore more than that when they were in private, never mind public.”

  “I think they’re getting ready to leave,” Gertrude said.

  “Who is?” asked Hecate.

  Agatha pointed with her extensive chin. “The director and his wife. They’ve been having a spot of lunch over there.”

  Hecate rose up out of the booth and turned around to discover a forty-something couple collecting chocolate-dipped cones from the counter. The man nearly dropped his ice cream as his eyes bulged in their sockets. Hecate put on her best bedroom-eyes smile.

  The man did a double take then pulled a cell phone out of a coat pocket and took a picture. His wife whispered something nasty to him, and he put the phone away, shaking his head and obviously trying to justify his actions. They left the Dairy Queen rather more quickly than was natural.

  Hecate swept back her hair and sat down again.

  “What’d you go and do that for?” Agatha demanded. “They’re not supposed to be fighting. Not yet, anyway. You could have ruined our plan.”

  A light chuckle escaped Hecate’s lips. “Just havi
ng a bit of fun. No harm done. Husbands and wives fight all the time. Now I’m off to have more than just a bit of fun.” Her expression grew serious. “I expect next week that you’ll be highly productive.” Then she was gone.

  “‘I expect next week that you’ll be highly productive,’” Agatha repeated in an unconvincing imitation of the senior witch.

  “Speaking of next week.” Gertrude looked pointedly at Netty. “Perhaps you’d like to share with your sisters these big plans you mentioned.”

  Netty shook and waggled her fingers in the air. “Big plans? Of course I haven’t got any big plans. I couldn’t very well tell her that we’ve no idea what to do next, now could I?”

  “Well,” said Agatha. “Looks like we’ve got the weekend to come up with something. In the meantime, I think I’ll have an extra-large Cappuccino MooLatté. I could use a caffeine fix about now.”

  “Make it three,” suggested Gertrude. “Heh. Time to storm some brains.”

  Scene 12: Is This a Dagger Which I See before Me?

  Paul downloaded the photos from his phone to his Mac mini, and stared at them on his computer screen. No, he hadn’t dreamed it. Three of the haggiest hags he had ever seen. Perfect looks for the play. He would show this photo to Gemma and his other witches. But the second photo? That one he wouldn’t show to anyone. Who would believe it?

  There was no way a beautiful woman wearing nothing but lingerie could have walked into Dairy Queen without his noticing. He and Sylvia were sitting right by the door! And why would such a woman go and sit with the hags? It wasn’t because opposites attract. The woman hadn’t ordered any food, not that they would have served her, dressed as she was. But the clincher, the real thing that made this so unreal, was the smile she had flashed at him. No woman had ever looked at Paul that way.