Paul sat in his study, wondering if waiting and watching were enough. If the curse was real, every minute’s delay put the students at risk, put Susie at risk. Scarlet had been playing Lady Macbeth when she was killed. If something happened to Susie, he would never forgive himself. And Kim Greyson had broken his leg. The curse?
But Paul didn’t believe in curses. Or ghosts. How could any of this be real? Turning on his Mac mini, Paul opened his Web browser, did a search for ghosts, and got forty-two million hits. He added Macbeth, and got one million hits, the first few pages apparent references to Banquo. He tried various other combinations of words, but not really knowing what he was looking for, he failed to find anything. About the only thing he did know for certain was that Simon Riordan had suddenly quit teaching back when Paul was in high school. And Riordan had known Scarlet.
Paul called up the article from his browser history and stared at the cast photo. It was a high-quality image, undoubtedly the promotional photo for the play. He didn’t recognize the man posing as Macbeth next to Lady Macbeth, but there was no doubt in his mind that the lady and the ghost were one and the same. The face, the smile, the clothes. The same person. Yet the photo was decades old. Simon Riordan, dressed as Macduff, could be no older than forty-something. Today he would be in his sixties.
Today.
Of course! Riordan could tell him. Was Scarlet really Scarlet? For all Paul knew, the Internet article was a fake, placed there by the gorgon lady’s high-tech minions for Paul to find. Which was, of course, absurd. But the alternative was that Scarlet was a ghost. Even more absurd.
He was always hearing stories in the teachers’ lounge about fake news on the Internet. Anyone could post anything; it was the perfect medium for propaganda and deceit. Yet people flocked to the Internet for their daily news fix. Not Paul, of course. He had no interest in news. The world continued to turn whether he paid attention or not. A good novel was Paul’s fix. Or a good play.
But Riordan could shed light on things. Did he really quit drama because The Bard’s Play was cursed? What evidence did he have that the curse was real? And would he be willing to meet with Scarlet Walker’s ghost?
It took forever to find Simon Riordan. The name was more common than Paul would have thought. And if Riordan had moved to another part of the country, Paul would have never found him. After random Web searches failed, he asked Susie to look on Facebook. No joy there. Then Susie suggested online phone books and gave him a Web address to try. There was exactly one Riordan, S. in the book.
Paul punched the number into his cell phone and prayed.
“Spring Hills Convalescent Home,” said a female voice.
“Uh,” said Paul. “I’m calling for Simon Riordan. Is he at this address?”
“I’m not allowed to give out that information. Are you a family member?”
“Well, no. But this is important.”
“I’m sure it is. But I still can’t give out any information.”
“Can I give you my name and number?” Paul asked. “Will you ask him to call me?”
“I can take your information, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
“Fine.” Paul gave her the information, thanked her for her time, and hung up. “Bureaucracies!”
But what was Simon Riordan doing in a convalescent home? He’s not that old. Was Riordan ill? Did he work there? Was Paul’s one hope of making sense of things an empty hope?
Scene 7: Out, Damned Spot! Out, I Say!
On Tuesday morning, Paul watched with rapt attention as Susie walked slowly across the stage holding an unlit candle with an outstretched arm.
On the other side of the stage, Grace Potter batted Brian MacKay on the arm three times. “Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise; and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close.”
Brian, dressed in white clothes approximating a modern doctor’s garb and nothing like what a medieval doctor would wear, scrunched his eyes. “How came she by that light?”
“Why, it stood by her,” said Grace. “She has light by her continually; ’tis her command.”
Brian nodded. “You see, her eyes are open.”
“Ay,” said Grace. “But their sense is shut.”
“What is it she does now?” Brian asked. He leaned his head forward. “Look, how she rubs her hands.”
“It is an accustomed action with her,” said Grace, “to seem thus washing her hands: I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour.”
There was a pregnant silence; then Susie spoke. “Yet here’s a spot.”
“Hark!” said Brian with much too little surprise. “She speaks.” He pulled a notebook and pencil, also anachronistic, from his lab coat pocket. “I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.”
Susie turned to face the audience and rubbed her hands as though they offended her. “Out, damned spot! Out, I say!”
It was with enormous difficulty that Paul kept a smile from his face. He had never been more proud of Susie than right now as she stood centre stage, wracked with guilt for having committed murder. The students all understood that she was brilliant. Even Gemma, who had wanted the part. But that didn’t stop them from feeling petty jealousy or claiming favouritism from the director. Paul had to be on his best behaviour to weather the storm.
He frowned as one of the students walked onto the stage and kept pace with Susie, at times almost stepping underfoot as she gave close observation to Susie’s performance. He would have yelled, “Cut!” and asked the student if she was out of her mind but stopped himself when he realized that it wasn’t a student at all, but Scarlet Walker, wearing the same costume as yesterday. Susie continued with her lines, undaunted by Scarlet’s interference, and none of the students seemed to notice. Even, Sylvia, who sported the same wide grin that Paul was forced to suppress, paid no attention to the ghost. Like Macbeth’s vision of Banquo’s ghost, Paul was the only one who could see her.
The scene ended with Susie and Scarlet having left the stage, the doctor’s brief soliloquy delivered, and Grace’s parting words. “Good night, good doctor.”
“Well done,” Paul said. “Brian, Sylvia will speak with you about your costume. Let’s continue with Act V, Scene 2. The country near Dunsinane. Anna? Your crew should already be bringing the forest scenery flats on stage.”
“Well,” said Scarlet. Though the ghost had come around to stand by his left ear, Paul kept his eyes on the students bustling about the stage. “Given your limited praise for such a grand rehearsal, that must be your daughter. She’s much better than the other students. Did you know that Simon is also a drama teacher? How he makes time for school in addition to the theatre is beyond me. It takes me forever to learn my lines. I suppose he can do it because he’s single. No family life to balance. Of course, I’m single too, but I have a busy social life. Had a busy social life. Did you know it takes almost as much time to get ready for a date as it does to go out on one? I don’t think Simon dates much. Of course . . . neither do I, now that I’m dead.”
Scarlet ceased speaking and Paul detected a loss of exuberance in her final words. He allowed his gaze to swing in her direction.
Scarlet noticed him looking, and her face turned, well, scarlet. “You’d think I would have cried myself out by now. I’ve had forever to accept that I’m dead and to count my regrets. But I’ve never been able to tell anyone. It’s like losing everything all over again. Still, I’m thankful that you helped me escape that lamp. To tell you the truth, if I had to stay in there any longer, I think I’d lose my mind.”
Paul whispered so Sylvia wouldn’t hear him. “Like I’m losing mine.”
Scarlet stopped talking, her eyes wide with astonishment.
The conclusion was obvious. Since no one else could see Scarlet, Paul really was losing his mind. Unlike Macbeth, he hadn’t murdered a king and a friend to earn insanity. He must have done something, however. Not eaten right? Allowed his family to grow too far ap
art. Chosen Macbeth for a high school play? Was insanity a curse?
Paul’s inquisition into his own demise was interrupted by the buzzing of his cell phone.
“Continue with this scene,” he said to Sylvia.
Then he left his director’s chair and answered the phone after taking a few steps into the audience seating area. “Paul Samson.”
He listened as he walked up the centre aisle to the back of the auditorium, Scarlet at his heels.
“You tried to call me?” The voice on the other end was recognizable across the years. A joyous baritone with a hint of a British lilt, the words crisply enunciated.
Paul could hardly speak. “Mr. Riordan? I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear your voice.”
A pause on the phone. “Your note says you were one of my students. I’m sorry but I had a lot of students. And it was a long time ago. I’m not really sure . . .”
Paul’s heart fell. The one teacher he’d had in high school who had made a difference didn’t remember him. How could that be? “You cast me as Verges. In Much Ado about Nothing.”
“Um,” said Riordan.
“Is that Simon?” Scarlet was now in front of Paul, leaning in to try to hear the phone.
Paul turned away and said into the phone, “That’s not important. I need your help.”
“Help?” said Riordan. His tone was lower and carried less joy. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“I’m a drama teacher now,” Paul said. “And I’ve gotten into a bind.”
Riordan’s voice went flat, any trace of an accent gone. “I gave up drama years ago. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
Afraid that Riordan would hang up, Paul said quickly, “Just one question. One only you can answer.”
Silence. Then, “Go ahead.”
“Is the curse real?”
Paul waited for his mentor’s reply. His sanity—and the safety of his students—hung on the answer. Even Scarlet knew to stop interrupting while he waited for Simon Riordan to confirm or deny what had happened to him twenty years ago.
Paul waited.
And waited.
Then he looked at his phone: disconnected.
“I’d interpret that as a yes,” said Scarlet.
Scene 8: Lay on, Macduff
“Who was that, dear?” Sylvia had joined Paul in the seating area, concern written on her face.
“Simon Riordan.”
“Really?” Sylvia sounded impressed. “What did he say when you told him about Scarlet? Does he think she could be a real ghost?”
“Of course I’m a real ghost,” Scarlet said. “I should know. I’ve been a ghost for what feels like forever.”
Paul observed that Sylvia neither heard nor saw Scarlet.
“I didn’t get that far,” he said. “Mr. Riordan hung up when I asked him about the curse.”
“Why would you ask him that?” asked Sylvia. “He’s no better at distinguishing between bad luck and a curse than you are. And speaking of bad luck, that boy with the broken leg just arrived.”
Paul returned down the aisle toward the stage. The thanes had finished the scene. It was short, after all, fewer than twenty lines. The armed boys now surrounded a wheelchair. Many of the others students had also come out on stage.
Kim Greyson was not a happy camper. This surprised Paul. Usually when high school kids were injured, they wore their bandages like badges of honour. Kim should return the conquering hero, the centre of attention, all the girls wanting to sign his cast. Instead, he sat in the wheelchair, his blond hair unkempt and his face wearing a heavy sulk. The other students stood back a ways, staring at him.
“Do they believe he’s cursed?” Paul whispered under his breath.
“What?” asked Sylvia, who walked beside him. The aisle was wide enough for two with room to spare.
“How did he break his leg?” Scarlet asked. She walked at his other side, stepping through the cloth and steel of the audience seating. There wasn’t room for three.
“Do they believe he fell down the stairs because of the curse?” Paul said to Sylvia, trying not to look like an insane monarch talking to himself.
Sylvia shrugged.
Scarlet, however, nodded. “That explains it, then. Too embarrassing an injury. If he’d broken his leg playing football or climbing a building, he’d be a hero. For falling down some stairs, he’s just a klutz.”
Of course. A klutz instead of a hero. Maybe being insane and hearing voices had its advantages. Voices could tell you things.
By now they had returned to the stage. Paul put on his best smile. “Welcome back, Kim! I hope your stint in the hospital wasn’t too . . . inconvenient.” Paul had no idea what to say.
Kim did. “They told me I’m not Macbeth anymore. I won that part, fair and square.”
“Um,” said Paul. He glanced around and saw no sign of Lenny. “I’m sorry Kim, but Macbeth is in almost every scene and does a lot of . . . walking, fighting, and winning his fights. A soldier in a wheelchair or on crutches isn’t going to win a swordfight. You’re going to have to be Thane Angus, an older general wounded in battle.”
“Isn’t that Thane Angus?” Kim was looking at Jocelynn, who had played Angus in the last scene.
“Jocelynn is your understudy,” Paul said. “It’s her job to cover for you when you’re absent. We’ll run the scene again so you can get familiar with your lines.”
Kim tried and failed to rise from his chair. “But that’s not fair!”
Sylvia stepped in. “No, Kim, it isn’t. But life is rarely fair. The best you can do is to roll with the punches. With that broken leg, I’m afraid that you’ve been punched good and hard. Sorry.”
Paul stared at Sylvia. Why couldn’t he say things like that? He’d just tell the boy to buck up, and what good would that do?
Kim also stared at her. “Um, are you another teacher? I haven’t seen you around.”
“I’m Susie’s mom,” Sylvia replied, sticking out her hand.
“Mr. Samson’s wife?” Kim said, taking her hand automatically and shaking it but looking at Paul.
“Yes, dear,” Sylvia said with a smile and stepped back again.
Kim actually shook himself, getting back his train of thought. “But I’m supposed to be the lead,” he said. “I’ve never been the lead before.”
“Instead you’ll be a wounded general,” said Sylvia. “The best wounded general this stage has ever seen.”
Kim’s expression gave a hint of appearing mollified.
Bruce Filman stepped up to Kim’s wheelchair. “I’m a thane too. We’ll both be the best thanes ever.”
“Me too,” said Mike Mitchell. “The three thanes. We’ll steal the show.”
“Hey,” said Susan Williams, who played Thane Caithness because there were more male roles than male students. “I’m a thane too.”
“You can be d’Artagnan,” Kim said.
The three boys and one faux boy cheered and yelled, “All for one and one for all!”
It was a line from a different play, but Paul couldn’t keep the grin off his face. Perhaps the day wasn’t turning out so bad after all.
Scarlet sighed into his ear. “I love the theatre.”
Right. Paul had forgotten about the ghost. Then his phone rang again.
Paul stepped away. “Paul Samson.”
“Why would you ask that?” The voice was low and serious.
“Mr. Riordan, thank you for calling back. I’m sorry, but I’m directing Macb—The Bard’s Play, and some strange things are going on.” Paul had barely remembered that the curse was supposed to be brought on by referring to the play as Macbeth instead of as The Bard’s Play or The Cursed Play.
“Stop!” said Riordan, his voice unnaturally loud on the speaker.
“What?”
“Don’t do it.”
“What? The play?”
“Has anyone died?”
“Died? No, a student broke his leg. But that isn’t the problem.”
“Thank God,” said Riordan. “But you have to stop the play.”
“I need to tell you the problem,” Paul said.
A pause. “All right. What’s the problem?”
“I think I’m going insane,” Paul whispered.
A longer pause. “That’s a new one.”
“A new what?”
“Why do you think you’re going insane?”
Paul lowered his voice. “I’m seeing ghosts.”
“Ghosts!” Riordan’s voice was loud on the phone.
“Well, just one ghost. Someone you know.”
The voice grew louder. “Someone I know?”
“Scarlet Walker.”
Silence.
Paul looked at his phone again: disconnected.
Scene 9: Ask Me What Question Thou Canst
The bell rang and the students departed, Kim Greyson smiling and being cajoled by the others. His cast even sported several signatures. Sylvia left as well, off to go shopping or show a house or something. Paul hadn’t paid attention. He had only one thing on his mind: a ghost.
Paul sat in his director’s chair as Scarlet Walker danced across the empty stage, the folds of her long, red dress twirling as she spun. It took him a moment to realize he was mesmerized. The ghost pranced and flew through the air with the grace of a ballerina. Finally she stopped and laughed and shook out her waist-length hair, tucking the cloth it had been tied with into a hidden pocket in her sleeve.
“Dancing is so much easier when you don’t weigh anything,” she said. “I feel so free on the stage. There’s no room to even move inside the lamp. It’s like being bound and gagged. I hate having to go back in there.”
Paul started. “I thought you were free now. Why would you have to go back?”
Scarlet gazed at the lamp where it still hung on a castle wall, despite having a broken bulb. “Well, I’m haunting it, of course. It’s not much but it’s mine.”
“You’re haunting a prop lamp?”
Scarlet let out a deep breath. “Don’t ask me how it works. Being a ghost doesn’t come with an instruction manual. All I know is that I can only come out when you’re nearby and producing Macbeth. It kinda sucks.”
Much Ado about Macbeth Page 11