Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  “When I’m producing Macbeth?”

  Scarlet spun on her heels. “I can hear you working with other students sometimes, but I can’t leave the lamp.”

  “That would be my other two classes,” Paul said. “But you suggested that I stop Macbeth. Won’t that mean that you’ll be stuck back in the lamp permanently?”

  Scarlet stopped spinning. “Better that than endangering your students. Like I said, it kinda sucks.”

  Paul walked over to the lamp and looked at it. It was just a cheap lamp. “So when I go to lunch, you go back in the lamp? Like a genie?”

  Scarlet laughed. “Sorry. If you’re looking for three wishes, you’re out of luck. All you get is what you see.” The young woman sobered. “I guess ghosts aren’t worth much.”

  “No,” Paul said. “You’re terrific. Really. I might be going insane, but if insanity means having you around, I’ll take it.” It was a cheesy thing to say, and Paul wasn’t even sure he meant it, but he couldn’t deny how his words lit up the young woman’s face.

  Just then his phone rang. Paul looked at the display then hit the answer button. “Hello! Mr. Riordan!”

  “Scarlet Walker?”

  “I’m speaking with her right now.”

  A pause. “Put her on.”

  It was Paul’s turn to pause. “I don’t think that will work. I’m the only one who can see and hear her.”

  He looked at the phone: disconnected.

  “Are you tormenting Simon?” Scarlet asked.

  Paul shook his head. “Unless you can speak with him on the phone, I don’t know what else to do.”

  Scarlet bit her lip in thought then shook her head.

  The phone rang again.

  “You’re having me on,” said Simon Riordan. “Who are you? You’re not one of my students.”

  “I am,” Paul said. “Was. Ask me a question only Scarlet could answer.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Really. Any question.”

  “What role was I originally cast for in Macb—The Bard’s Play?”

  “Just a minute,” Paul said.

  Scarlet must have heard the question. “Banquo. But then Mrs. Ascott had to shuffle some parts when John and Elizabeth Moore dropped out the third week of rehearsal.”

  Paul repeated the answer to Riordan.

  “Did you just look that up somewhere?” Riordan sounded angry. “Do you have Ascott’s notes?”

  “Ask me something else,” Paul suggested. “Something Mrs. Ascott wouldn’t have written down.”

  A pause. “What line did I totally mess up in rehearsal?”

  “That sounds a little vague,” Paul said, but Scarlet had an answer.

  “‘Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will.’ Scarlet says you said ‘poisons’ instead of ‘foisons.’”

  “A slip of the tongue,” Riordan muttered. A longer pause. “We need to meet.”

  Paul knew just the place. “The Dairy Queen across from Ashcroft Senior High School?”

  “What about me?” Scarlet demanded. “I can’t go there!”

  Paul cast the ghost an uncomfortable glance. “The way he keeps hanging up the phone, I think I need to set him at ease first. We’ll come back here when he’s ready to meet you.”

  “What was that?” asked Riordan.

  “Just speaking with Scarlet,” Paul said.

  “You’d better be straight with this,” said Riordan. “If you’re putting me on, I’ll have you arrested. Dairy Queen, you say? I’ll get a day pass and meet you in an hour.”

  Then Riordan hung up.

  “Day pass?” Paul said aloud.

  “Oh, dear,” said Scarlet. “Poor Simon.”

  Scene 10: Let Us Call Thee Devil

  There was no sign of Simon Riordan when Paul stepped inside the Dairy Queen, but that didn’t surprise him; hardly thirty minutes had passed since their last conversation. Apart from the three hags in the far corner booth, the exact same booth where he and Sylvia had seen them last week, the place was deserted. Paul knew that would change when the bell ending third period rang.

  He chose a booth by the door and sat so he could keep an eye on the hags. Not that he expected them to cause trouble. He could think of worse places where three lonely, old women could spend their time. Paul rubbed his face, wondering where he would be in thirty years. Retired, bored, possibly idling away the hours at Dairy Queen, recounting the good old days with a couple of other gaffers. He shook his head. Denny’s was more his style.

  Paul wondered if he should order some lunch or wait for Mr. Riordan. He had no idea if Riordan was interested in eating. The man was getting a day pass. Like he never left the convalescent home. They must feed him there. Three meals a day. Like in a hospital. Or a prison. Had Mr. Riordan been institutionalized?

  He noticed that the staff behind the counter were giving him dirty looks, so he ordered a soda.

  Kids began flying in through the doors, ordering burgers and shakes and filling up the other tables. Paul glanced at his watch. It was the right time, but there was still no sign of Riordan.

  Paul kept his eyes glued to the space just inside door and stood when a grey-haired skeleton of a man crept inside and glanced about uncertainly. The man looked nothing like Simon Riordan, but Paul recognized him anyway. Riordan’s once broad back and shoulders curved forward in a slouch that took inches off his formerly impressive height. His gut was gone, but not in a good way. He still had narrow hips and legs and tiny feet. Paul felt sure that a stiff breeze would blow him away. Simon Riordan was ill. If Paul were a doctor, he would have never authorized a day pass.

  “Mr. Riordan!” Paul waved and the walking skeleton navigated his way through some students and fell onto the bench seat across from him.

  “You’re Paul Samson?” The British accent was back.

  “I am,” Paul said. “I can’t express how glad I am that you agreed to meet me.”

  “You’re old,” said Riordan.

  “What?”

  “You said you were one of my students. You’re as old as I was when I taught.”

  Paul’s mouth hung open for a moment. “Right. It’s been twenty years. I’m a teacher now. I mentioned that on the phone.”

  The older man glared at him. “Of course you did. I’m not an idiot. I never see my old students. You took me by surprise. Students never grow up. They just get replaced.”

  Paul nodded and offered a nervous smile. “Sometimes it seems that way.” Was the man ill mentally as well as physically? He wondered if he should ask. Would it be too brash?

  “You said—” Riordan faltered. He took a breath and lowered his voice. “You said that you saw Scarlet.”

  Paul nodded again. “She’s across the street at the school. Apparently she’s haunting the lamp from your prop box.”

  “Lamp?”

  “The one with the flickering bulb made to look like a sconce. I found it in a box of props one of the students brought in. A note in the box said property of Simon Riordan.”

  Riordan blinked and turned his head slightly as the cackling of the hags on the far side of the seating area penetrated the mass of noisy students to reach their table. Riordan shook himself and waved his hand. “That’s not important. You’re sure it’s Scarlet?”

  Paul nodded a third time.

  “How—?” Riordan paused and took a slow, trembling breath. “How is she?”

  Another round of cackles was followed by a loud shhh, but the old man seemed not to hear.

  Paul pushed the distraction from his mind. How to answer Riordan’s question? She’s fine. She’s dead. She’s a freaking ghost. How should I know? I’ve only just met her. But Paul could see that the question was important. Simon Riordan, sick as he obviously was, had left his hospital bed to come across town and ask Paul this question. Paul’s answer had better be worth it.

  “She’s in good spirits,” Paul said. “She’d talk my ear off if I let her. And just this morning she was dancing.” Paul
couldn’t help but smile as he spoke.

  Riordan also smiled. And a tear began to work its way down one cheek.

  “I’ll take you to see her,” Paul said. “Well, so she can see you, anyway.” Paul felt himself growing almost giddy with excitement. Riordan could prove if Scarlet was a real ghost or just a delusion brought on by insanity. “I’m happy to act as a go-between,” Paul said. “Or a medium. I never thought I’d hear myself say that.”

  He stopped speaking as he saw that Riordan was no longer smiling. His old mentor shook his head. “No. I don’t want her to see me.”

  “Oh,” Paul said. “But she was so looking forward—”

  “She was?” The old man shook his head again. “No. I can’t. It would be too painful.”

  “But then why did you come here?”

  Again, Riordan lowered his voice, so low that Paul could barely hear him. “The curse.”

  “What?”

  Riordan leaned forward and whispered. “It wasn’t you, was it?”

  “Me what?”

  “Who struck the bargain?”

  “What bargain?”

  Riordan abruptly straightened. “Then it must have been someone else.”

  “Someone else what?”

  The old man, who looked far older than his years, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Gods. It must be one of the students.”

  “Um,” said Paul. “I’m not quite sure what you’re saying.”

  “Look,” said Riordan. “Curses don’t just happen. Someone has to strike a deal. Who among your students is doing better than expected?”

  It was a simple question. And Paul realized it had a simple answer. There was only one student who had surprised him: Susie. What Riordan was suggesting, however, was anything but simple.

  “There is,” Paul said slowly, “a student who comes to mind. But tell me, strike a deal with who?”

  Riordan grimaced. “With Hell, that’s who. This student of yours has struck a deal with the Devil!”

  More cackling from the hags, but this time Paul scarcely heard it. His heart had stopped in his chest. Susie? Made a deal with the Devil? So that she could play the part of Lady Macbeth in her father’s drama class? A month ago Paul would have laughed out loud. Any deal Susie made would have been to avoid such a fate. But today? Susie had never been happier. Did he know his own daughter that badly?

  “That is,” said Riordan, “if you really have a curse.”

  Paul remembered to breathe. “How do I tell?”

  Riordan shrugged his thin shoulders. “You could ask your students if any of them have made such a deal. Ha! Like they’d ever admit it. Or you can wait until someone falls off a ladder and breaks their neck. Or until the school burns to the ground.”

  “But—”

  Paul lurched back against the bench seat as Riordan stabbed at him with a bony finger. “The deal’s a lie. Hell promises something the supplicant already has, and in return, the play gets cursed, usually to the point where the supplicant loses what they asked for.” The old man lowered his voice. “And then some. Tell that to your students.”

  Suddenly Riordan was on his feet. Paul also stood and grabbed the old man’s arm. “But what should I do?”

  Riordan stared at Paul’s clutching fingers until he let go. “Don’t be an idiot. Cancel the damn play. Continuing is not worth the risk.”

  Again, the hags burst out in a chorus of loud cackling, so shrill that even the students at other tables paused in their lively chatter. Paul watched, stunned, as Simon Riordan spun around and nearly injured himself, caught as he was in the tight confines between the bench seat and the table. Then Paul looked past his old mentor’s contorted form to the booth where the three hags sat. Or had sat, for the booth was now empty.

  Riordan turned around, his blanched face three shades paler and his greying hair perhaps that much whiter. “I must go now,” he whispered. And Simon Riordan extricated himself from the booth and shambled out the door.

  Scene 11: Give the Devil His Due

  “Oh, look,” said Agatha. “Here comes our brash director.”

  “Perhaps he’ll join us,” suggested Gertrude. “Might be nice to enjoy some male conversation.”

  Agatha stared down her boney nose at the misshapen witch. “Really? What would we discuss? Sports? Cars? Argue about which brand of beer is the best?” The tall witch turned her head to eye the slight, balding drama teacher. “I don’t think he’ll have much to offer on any of those topics.”

  “He’s sitting by himself,” Netty mumbled around a mouthful of fries. “Do you suppose that wife of his will be joining him?”

  “We haven’t done anything to spoil their relationship yet,” Gertrude said. “Perhaps this will be our chance.”

  Agatha curled one lip. “Perhaps you could make her jealous by smiling at him wearing nothing but your skivvies. Oh, wait. Hecate already did that. And you saw how well that worked.”

  Gertrude smirked. “Perhaps Hecate was just the wrong witch. You haven’t seen me in skivvies.”

  All three witches burst out laughing.

  “Look,” said Gertrude. “He’s got himself a drink. Perhaps he is going solo. I had no idea this was a pick-up diner.”

  “We’ve been here for days,” said Netty. “No one’s tried to pick us up.”

  “Just as well,” said Agatha. “I can’t stand dating. All the primping and preening, and remembering to smile. The awkward conversation. And at the end of it all, will he or won’t he? It’s just not worth it.”

  The other two witches stared at her.

  “You’ve been on a date?” asked Netty.

  “Well, of course,” Agatha said.

  Gertrude peered up at Agatha through beady eyes. “Truly?”

  “Yes,” said Agatha. “I mean, no. Of course not. I’ve thought about it, though. Gives me the willies.”

  “Dating is for ponces,” Gertrude agreed.

  “Damn straight,” said Netty. A pause. “Do you really think this is a pick-up diner?”

  “Now he’s got a guest,” said Agatha.

  “Male or female?” asked Netty. The rotund witch had left off the fries and was chewing on a Crispy Chicken Sandwich, no mayo. “I’m not turning around and craning my neck unless you tell me it’s worth the trouble.”

  Agatha’s eyes went wide. “It’s well worth the trouble, dearie.”

  Netty put down the sandwich and craned her neck, several vertebrae grinding loudly in the process. “Oh! It’s Simple Simon.”

  Gertrude tsked. “It hasn’t been that many years since we last saw Simon. What’s happened to the poor fellow? He’s but a shadow of himself.”

  “Less than a shadow, I’d say,” said Agatha. “The man’s aged fifty years if he’s aged a day.”

  “Cadaverous,” Netty said. “That’s the word I’d use. There’s nothing left but skin and bones . . . and regrets.”

  “Yes,” Gertrude agreed then chuckled. “It’s a sight to warm the heart.”

  “Where is Hecate when you need her?” Agatha asked. “I’d love to rub that pompous crone’s pert, upturned nose in this shining example of our handiwork. Twenty years later and the man’s still a ruin. Curses don’t get much better than that.”

  “Oh, my,” said Gertrude. “Did you hear that? They’re talking about that Scarlet Walker woman.”

  “The one who died?” asked Netty. “After all these years, he still feels responsible?”

  “He is responsible,” said Agatha. Then she cackled, the other two joining in.

  “Such a promising career,” Gertrude mused. “I actually admired the woman. She lived life to the fullest, that one.”

  Netty nodded, her cheeks flapping. “Which is why she was the one who had to die!”

  Again, the witches cackled, louder this time. Then Gertrude pressed a finger to her lips. “Shhh! Let’s not ruin it for them. There’s some serious man talk going on over there.”

  “Sports, cars, or beer,” said Agatha. “I mis
sed the big one. Women. Men do love to talk about women.”

  “Twenty years dead,” said Gertrude, “and they’re still talking about Scarlet Walker. I guess I’m not the only one who admired her.”

  “What are they saying about her?” asked Netty. “I’m having a bad case of earwax today. All I hear is students spewing nonsense.”

  Agatha snorted. “There’s no such thing as a case of earwax. And the students are spewing nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with your ears.”

  “I bought a case of earwax once,” Gertrude said. “Never found a use for it. The box is still sitting in my attic. All eight pounds.”

  “Have you tried candles?” suggested Agatha. “I hear earwax burns tolerably well.”

  “Sisters!” said Netty. “The conversation. Please. And my ears are full of wax, thank you very much.”

  “Oh, my,” said Gertrude. “Now they’re talking about the curse.”

  “Not comparing notes, I hope.” Agatha wrinkled her already contorted nose. “I detest cheaters.”

  “The nerve,” said Gertrude, suddenly angry. “Simple Simon is suggesting that one of Samson’s students has made a deal with the Devil.”

  “He didn’t!” cried Netty. “I mean, he didn’t. He made a deal with us. The Dark One wouldn’t be caught dead wasting his time on anything as paltry as a cursed play.”

  Again the witches cackled.

  “But why?” asked Agatha. “Why is Simple Simon giving the Devil our due?”

  “He hasn’t told him,” Netty suggested.

  “Of course he hasn’t,” Gertrude agreed. “Simon can’t talk about us. Samson would ask him how he knows. And then he’d be outed.”

  “This is rich!” Agatha said, her thin lips spreading in a horrific grin. “Samson manages to somehow find Simon to learn about the curse, and Simon won’t tell him!”

  “If only Hecate were here to witness,” said Netty. “Then she’d know we aren’t just sitting on our behinds, eating fries and guzzling sodas.”