“What?” Mrs. Cadwell looked ready to explode.
Winston glowered at her. “Mrs. Cadwell, you assured me that no one wanted this play. Not the parents and not the students. Susie Samson here has proven that assurance to be false.”
“But students hate Shakespeare!” The gorgon lady snatched the notebook back from Susie and flipped a few pages. “Here. Look. The girls’ soccer team. Jocks don’t read Shakespeare. And they certainly don’t go to see Shakespeare plays. This list is just an agenda. No one even knew what they were signing.”
“The same—” began Paul, finally able to speak again, at the same time Susie said, “But—”
“I’ll take this,” said Winston, cutting them both off. “The same can be said about your list, Mrs. Cadwell. Most parents don’t really care what the play is, especially those who don’t have kids in drama class.”
The gorgon lady ground her teeth. “The fact remains that I have more parents on my petition than this student has on hers.”
Winston’s eyes went wide. “Are we reduced to that, now? My dad is bigger than your dad?”
“The will of the parents—” Mrs. Cadwell began.
“Is in question,” said Winston.
The gorgon lady actually pouted. “Are you going to ignore my petition?”
Winston sighed. “I have two petitions. What they tell me is that opinion is split. So what else is new?”
“What shall I tell the PTA?”
Winston wiped his face again. “Tell the PTA that I appreciate their concern but that there is significant opposition to their petition.”
“But—”
“Tell them that other parents and what appears to be the majority of the students disagree.”
“But—”
“And tell them that I would appreciate it if they would expend their considerable energy on something more constructive than demonizing classic literature.”
“But—”
“And if I see another damn leaflet, I’m going to kill somebody.”
“But—”
“That is all.”
“But—”
“I said, that is all.”
On her way out, Mrs. Cadwell slammed the door.
“And wipe that smile from your face, Samson.”
Paul tried his best but knew the smile was still there. Susie sported the same smile, so it was unclear which Samson Winston was speaking to. Perhaps both. “I had no idea you were on my side,” he said.
The principal harrumphed. “I don’t take sides. Today I just happen to like Cadwell less than I like you. The only one who has impressed me in all this is you, Ms. Samson.” A smile spread across the beefy principal’s face. “You showed real initiative collecting your own petition. That kind of forethought and effort should be rewarded, don’t you think?”
“I just thought that Mrs. Cadwell should be stopped,” Susie said. “Who is she to tell everyone else what to do?”
Winston laughed. “Who indeed. That’s my job. Damned if I’m going to let a parent tell me how to run my school. Now back to class, the both you.”
Scene 14: Consort with Me in Loud and Dear Petition
“I never put much stock in petitions,” said Agatha. “More often than not, they just encourage the other position.”
Gertrude nodded. “I remember the Olive Branch Petition of 1775. King George summarily disregarded the quite valid concerns in the petition and declared war on the colonies instead. Served him right that he lost.”
“Which George was that?” asked Netty. “The mental one? I can never keep my kings straight.”
“King George III,” Gertrude said. “And yes, the mental one. Heh. Not that any of them had enough sense to fill a thimble.”
“Don’t forget the Hawaiian Patriotic League,” said Agatha. “They petitioned Congress to block a perfectly legitimate treaty from President Benjamin Harrison to make Hawaii the fiftieth state.”
Gertrude frowned. “Didn’t the Hawaiian Patriotic League win that petition?”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Agatha admitted.
“What’s the other way?” Gertrude asked.
Agatha smiled. “A few months later, Congress used the Spanish-American War as an excuse to annex Hawaii anyway, making the petition moot. Even a winning petition can lose.”
“But some petitions are worthwhile,” Netty argued while poking a finger at a piece of popcorn shrimp stuck in her teeth. “Look at the 1674 Women’s Petition against Coffee.”
The two witches stared at their sister.
Netty gave them her best gap-toothed smile. “To this day England remains a tea-drinking nation.”
Gertrude wagged her misshapen head. “That petition wasn’t about coffee. It was about coffeehouses. The petitioners wanted their husbands to drink coffee at home.”
Netty lost her smile. “Are you sure? I don’t much like coffee.”
“The nerve of that woman, anyway,” said Agatha, bringing the discussion back on track. “Trying to cancel our play.”
“That would put us right out of a job, wouldn’t it?” Gertrude said.
“No one puts a stop to the play but us,” said Netty. “That’s the way it’s always been.”
“You could have told us.” Gertrude gave Netty a cold eye.
“Told you what?” asked Netty.
“About the girl’s counterpetition. If you hadn’t made her run around collecting names for half the week, this could have ended badly. For us, I mean.”
“It wasn’t me.” Netty’s head rolled fiercely on her shoulders. “I thought it was Agatha.”
Agatha nearly choked on her GrillBurger. “I didn’t do it. I was waiting for Netty to come up with more of those big plans she was so proud of last Friday. And here it is, Friday again.”
“I never had any plans,” Netty said. “You know that was just to get Hecate off our backs. It’s your turn to come up with the plans.”
“Oh, so were taking turns now, are we?” said Agatha. “I thought we were supposed to be a team. Three heads are better than one and all that.”
“Sisters!” said Gertrude. “Even with three heads, none of us saw this petition thing coming. I’m beginning to think that Hecate is right and that we are being just a little bit lazy this time around.”
“Lazy?” asked Agatha. “I’ll have you know that I won an award for being the busiest witch. Mind you, that was back in eleven hundred and something. But I haven’t slowed down— What?”
Both of the other witches were chortling.
“What are you two on about?” the tall witch demanded.
“You never read that certificate, did you?” asked Gertrude.
“Of course I read it,” said Agatha. “Well, I looked at it. Couldn’t find any reading glasses to see the fine print.”
“Blind as a—” began Gertrude.
“It didn’t say busy,” Netty said. “It said busybody.”
“That’s what I said,” snapped Agatha. “The busiest witch.”
“Busybody doesn’t mean busy,” Gertrude said. “It means sticking your nose into other people’s business.”
“Your nose got an award,” said Netty. “And believe me, it deserves one.”
“Well.” Agatha sniffed. “I’m a witch. I’m supposed know what’s going on.”
“Not when it involves other witches,” Gertrude said. “We’re private people, we witches are. Keep ourselves to ourselves. Intruding noses are not welcome.”
“Who’s not welcome?” Hecate asked. She was sitting on a section of bench beside Netty that a moment before had been unoccupied.
Gertrude didn’t drop a beat. “The gorgon over at the school. She almost succeeded in stopping the play.”
Hecate’s eyes brightened with interest. “The school has a gorgon? Why am I only hearing this now?”
“Not a real gorgon,” said Agatha. “Just a parent who acts like one. She collected a petition to cancel the play.”
“We stopped
her, though.” Netty’s grin widened with pride. “We arranged for one of the students to collect a counterpetition.” The rotund witch tapped her head. “Part of our big plan.”
“I see,” said Hecate. “Perhaps you should have let that parent’s petition stand. Seems to me that this gorgon is doing a better job of cursing the play than you are.”
Agatha coughed around the last bite of her GrillBurger. “A petition isn’t even in the same country as a curse.”
Hecate rolled her eyes. “This big plan of yours is taking too long. It’s been three weeks and all you have to show for it is a broken leg and some collapsed canvas. Oh, yes. I know the castle wall was canvas.”
“That’s not all we have to show,” said Agatha. “Our drama teacher is questioning his sanity. We have him believing that his own daughter has struck a deal with the Devil.”
“We do?” asked Gertrude. “Heh. I mean, we do.”
“Hmm,” said Hecate. “Insanity is a slow and tedious process. I’m not sure I have the patience for it.”
“We still have five weeks until the public performance,” Netty said.
“One way or another,” said Agatha, “the show will not go on. If our teacher hasn’t cracked by then, we’ll take more direct action.”
Hecate stared at them each in turn. “You want five more weeks? That’s two months! Two months to curse a simple play? I’m in and out with my curses. Right now I’m off to Washington, where I’ll curse a Tea Party petition so that the tea baggers get exactly what they don’t want, and I’ll be back in Hell before the kettle even begins whistling. And you want two months!”
Gertrude stared back, just as hard. “We are talking about the production of plays here. You can’t just kill a play in day one. There’s been no investment. Everyone would just shrug and do something else. There’s no stakes.”
“Gertie is right,” said Netty. “No one eats steak until all the hard work is done and the show is ready to go on.”
Hecate blinked her eyes in incomprehension.
“What Netty means,” said Agatha, “is that the more blood, sweat, and tears that are invested, the greater the loss when it all comes crashing down.”
“I see,” said Hecate. “Then you’d better give me buckets of blood, rivers of sweat, and enough tears to drown an elephant, or you’ll learn what loss really is.” And she was gone.
“Someone’s in a foul mood,” Netty said.
“If you want to see a real foul mood,” Gertrude told her, “just call me Gertie one more time. You’ll learn what foul really is.”
Then they all burst out laughing.
–Act IV–
Scene 1: Wicked Dreams Abuse the Curtain’d Sleep
Another weekend went by, giving Paul an inadequate two restful days to recover from five hectic days of school. As he often did on Monday mornings, Paul wondered what it would be like if it were the other way around, with five-day weekends and the school week lasting two days.
This was a common discussion in the teachers’ lounge, with most teachers arguing that students would learn more with two solid days of classroom instruction and five days of homework. Paul sat on the fence of the issue, and when he spoke, it was usually just to say that Winston and the school board would never try it, even as a test. Bureaucrats lived in fear of change, and Paul couldn’t think of any change larger. Still, it would be a grand experiment.
“No, no, no!” Paul shouted into the megaphone. “Lennox can’t stab Macbeth. How is Macbeth going to have his argument with Macduff, concluded by Macduff taking his life? Macbeth is unbeatable! He defeats everyone in battle, until Macduff.”
“But he’s just standing there!” Bruce Filman waved his plastic sword in the air. “How am I supposed to not stab Macbeth?”
Lenny took no part in the conversation. He just stood with his arms folded across his chest and a look of staunch disinterest on his face.
“How?” Paul asked. “By stabbing someone else, anyone else. In this part of the scene, Macbeth stands alone at centre stage while the battle whirls around him. He can’t be killed by any man of woman born, so he knows no fear. Lennox senses that confidence and looks for easier prey.”
“But there’s only ten of us on stage,” Bruce said. “Not much of a whirling battle.”
Paul had to give him points for that.
“Put the girls in the battle,” said Scarlet.
“What?” Paul said, forgetting himself and responding to the ghost’s suggestion.
“Especially,” said the boy, misinterpreting Paul’s response, “if none of us are allowed to fight Macbeth. It’s the most boring battle ever.”
“He’s right,” Sylvia said. “I’m barely able to stay awake during this battle. It’s just a lot of standing around with the occasional clack of swords. Ooh! I know. We could let the girls fill out the numbers.”
“But the women never fought,” Paul said, stubborn even in the face of both his female advisers independently making the same suggestion. “Men fought from the age of six on, but girls and women stayed home and kept the hearth. That’s how Scotland was back then.”
“Then dress them up as soldiers,” Sylvia suggested. “Turn them into men.”
“Make them English soldiers,” said Scarlet. “The boys can be the Scots.”
Paul rubbed his jaw. “I suppose the girls can be English soldiers,” he said.
“Good idea.” Sylvia jotted down some notes. “We won’t have to get carried away with costumes. Jeans, dark shirts, and baseball caps. The Scots don’t respect the English anyway. Let’s give them something to not respect.”
“We’ll need to find more swords,” Paul said.
“Who’s that man sitting in the back row?” Scarlet asked.
Paul turned and saw a shadowed figure sitting in the dark at the back of the auditorium. “I can barely make him out.”
“Who, dear?” asked Sylvia.
“There’s someone sitting at the back of the auditorium. Don’t you see him?” Paul prayed that it wasn’t another ghost, making it two people no one but he could see.
“Of course I see him,” Sylvia said. “But I don’t recognize him.”
The man stood and a rich, British baritone boomed across the auditorium. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Simon!” Scarlet cried. The ghost leaped off the stage, flew up the aisle, and came to a skidding halt in front of her old friend.
Simon Riordan didn’t notice the ghost. He stepped through her into the aisle and hobbled slowly past the rows of theatre seats toward the stage. If anything, he looked worse than he had a week earlier. His face was drawn; his hair a nest; and, impossible though it seemed, he looked even more skeletal.
“I’m sorry,” the old man said, “but I couldn’t stay away.” His drooping eyes searched the stage as he approached Paul’s and Sylvia’s director chairs.
Paul jumped down out of his chair. “Sylvia, this is Simon Riordan, my drama teacher from when I was in high school. I’ve told you about him.”
Sylvia stretched out her hand and smiled. “Of course. Pleased to meet you.”
“Simon, this is my wife, Sylvia.”
Riordan took Sylvia’s hand in a loose grip and leaned forward for a brief peck on the back of her wrist. “Pleased to meet you, my lady.”
Then he looked at Paul. “I was hoping you would . . . make that introduction we discussed.” His eyes left Paul’s face to roam about the stage.
The students, having finished the final battle scene, were milling around, many of them watching Simon Riordan with curious looks.
“An introduction?” asked Sylvia. “With one of the students?” Her expression was one of puzzlement and concern.
Paul didn’t know what to say. How could he explain Riordan’s interest in any of the students? In Winston, maybe. But even that was a stretch. He shook his head. Sylvia would never buy it. Gemma? Riordan’s props had wound up in her parents’ basement. But Paul had no idea how. Then it hit him.
Susie put down the plastic sword she had been swinging, apparently having overheard the decision to enlist the girls in the English army, and walked to the edge of the stage.
Riordan stared at her as though she were from another planet.
“This is our daughter,” Paul said, speaking slowly. “An overnight convert to drama, just like I was, although I can’t credit her teacher. While it was you who turned me on to drama, Susie came to it on her own.”
Riordan must have taken the hint. He smiled and nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, my dear. I am only saddened that I didn’t get to see you perform this morning. Your father has spoken nothing but praise in that regard. Perhaps another time.”
Susie smiled in return, but Paul could also see a hint of unease. Through no fault of his own, Riordan had just embarrassed her in front of the entire class and fed the deep-seated feelings of favouritism that Susie had worked so hard to extinguish.
Paul searched for a way to rescue the moment and was saved by the bell, literally. The students hustled to put away their props and stack the scenery flats in the backstage storage area, no one moving faster than Susie.
“I have a home to show,” Sylvia said. “You boys should go have an early lunch.”
In less than two minutes, the auditorium was empty save for Paul, Simon Riordan, and a ghost.
“What’s wrong with him?” Scarlet demanded, apprising Riordan up and down.
“I am truly sorry to intrude,” Riordan said, “but since we spoke last week, I haven’t been able to eat or sleep.” He lowered his voice. “I told you that I didn’t want to meet with Scarlet . . . and I don’t. But how else am I to know if she is real or just some delusion that you’re suffering from? I—I have to know.”
Riordan’s accusation took Paul by surprise. It was one thing for him to question his own sanity, but for someone else to suggest he was delusional? Especially someone who’d spent the past twenty years inside a thinly disguised insane asylum.
Paul spoke through a clenched jaw. “You’re familiar with delusions, are you?”
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