Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  Then Simon Riordan walked quickly across the stage, through a side door, and was gone.

  Paul moved to follow, but Scarlet was suddenly in front of him. “No. Let him go. Harassing him won’t help.”

  “I’m not going to harass him,” Paul said, but he knew what she meant. Riordan was too caught up in his own anguish to abide company. “What does he mean that you died because of him?”

  Scarlet shrugged. “Survivor’s guilt?”

  Paul shook his head. “The article I read said a box of tools left in the rafters fell on you. I sincerely doubt that Riordan misplaced a box of tools up there. It would have to have been someone in building maintenance.”

  “Oh!” said Scarlet. “That’s where those tools came from. I always wondered why my corpse was surrounded by rusted hammers and saws and other things I didn’t recognize.”

  “You never knew how you died?” Paul asked.

  “Dead is dead,” said Scarlet. “It never seemed important.”

  “I think I’d want to know, especially if someone was behind it.”

  “I always assumed it was an accident,” Scarlet said. “After all, who’d want to hurt me?”

  “Who indeed,” Paul said. “Maybe that’s why Riordan is so distraught. Maybe someone else was supposed to be the victim?”

  “Someone else?” asked Scarlet. “We were just a band of actors.”

  “Riordan said it should have been him.” It occurred to Paul then that he might be looking at the whole thing the wrong way ’round. Riordan’s odd comments. His failing health. His guilt. His locking himself up in an insane asylum. Had Scarlet’s death been a botched suicide attempt? Had Riordan positioned those tools to fall on himself?

  Scene 4: Banquo’s Buried; He Cannot

  Come out on’s Grave

  Paul had never felt more exhausted. And it was only Tuesday morning. He’d spent half the night staring at the ceiling, racking his memories of those last few weeks of drama class back in high school for signs of advanced depression in Mr. Riordan’s actions.

  Back then, Paul hadn’t known what depression was. At the time, the nation had been hooked on Valium, and high school kids, like himself, saw it simply as some form of legalized LSD. It wasn’t until doctors had stopped overprescribing the drug and alternative treatments were sought that chronic depression became an everyday phrase.

  But even knowing what he knew now, Paul couldn’t recall a single sign. Mr. Riordan had been one of the most life-loving people Paul had ever met. Smiles and jokes came to his lips as easily as breath. It was one of the reasons Paul had looked up to him.

  “What scene shall we run through now?” Sylvia asked.

  Paul shook himself and realized that the students, having finished the Banquo murder scene, were looking at him. “The banquet scene is next,” Paul said. “We still don’t have the blocking down. And the guests still just stand around, looking at each other, rather than making small talk.”

  The students assigned as stagehands immediately began moving the castle wall flats into place, while Banquo and the three murderers helped to move the scenery flats depicting Scotland’s forested countryside out of the way. The murder actually took place in a park outside the castle, but using the rougher forest setting worked just as well.

  Fleance joined the banquet cast, pulling a white tunic on over his woodsman costume. He would double as one of the servants.

  When the set was ready, Paul lifted his megaphone. “Curtain rises.”

  The servants hustled out onto the stage, looking much more organized than they had in past run-throughs. In no time, they were standing against the castle walls as the guests arrived. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth smiled and laughed politely as they greeted them.

  Then Macbeth turned to the audience and spread wide his hands. “You know your own degrees; sit down: at first and last the hearty welcome.”

  The guests began finding seats while the First Murderer appeared at the edge of the stage and Macbeth quietly joined him. A few lines later, “Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scaped.”

  Dismissing the murderer, Macbeth exchanged words with his wife, Lennox, and Ross. Then Lenny proceeded to give perhaps the best performance of his life when he glanced at his supposedly empty seat. Macbeth stared then did a double take.

  “What is’t that moves your highness?” Lennox asked.

  Macbeth looked out over the guests and said, “Where the hell is Banquo?”

  “Cut! Cut! Cut!” Paul almost threw down his megaphone in despair. “You have the sentiment correct, Lenny, but your line is: Which of you have done this?”

  Lenny lifted his hands. “But there’s no Banquo. John was supposed to ghost his way through the guests and sit in my chair. He didn’t.”

  Paul was at a loss. Banquo was sitting right where he should be. Paul had watched his entrance and stumble-free passage across the crowded stage. It wasn’t John Freedman’s best effort in the scene, but it was passable.

  Lenny and the other students were looking about the stage, as if trying to find the missing student. If it was a joke on their teacher, Paul failed to see the humour. John was still sitting in Banquo’s chair, and Scarlet was talking to him. John was talking back.

  Paul felt the megaphone slip through numb fingers and clatter against the hardwood floor. Almost before he could wonder how John could talk back to Scarlet, Paul saw that Banquo wasn’t John Freedman at all but a smallish man with dark hair tending to silver. His chin showed several days’ growth, and his costume was . . . the only way Paul could describe it was that the man’s costume was more authentic than the tunic, workpants, and boots John Freedman had assembled.

  “I found him!” one of the students yelled from backstage.

  Paul forced himself to ignore Scarlet and the mystery Banquo and follow his wife and the other students to the farthest corner of backstage, where John Freedman lay curled up in a ball, snoring away.

  “Should we call the nurse?” asked Gemma.

  Paul couldn’t tell if she was worried or stifling a laugh.

  “Let’s wake him up and ask,” Paul said.

  One poke and the boy jumped awake. “What? What? What happened?” John looked around at everyone watching him then climbed quickly to his feet.

  “Are you okay?” Paul asked. “We found you sleeping back here instead of haunting the banquet scene.”

  “I’m fine,” John said. “Fine. I don’t know what came over me. One moment I was watching for my cue, and the next I was dead tired.” His face reddened. “Sorry if I ruined the scene.”

  “That’s not important,” Paul said. “As long as you’re okay.”

  The bell rang, ending class.

  Sylvia stopped John as the students began stowing their costumes. “If you feel tired or in any way odd, go see the nurse. There’s a cot in the room beside her office where you can catch a nap if you need one.”

  “I’m not tired,” John insisted. “I don’t know why I fell asleep.” He left with the rest of the students, appearing just fine, if a bit shaken.

  “Feel like an early lunch?” Sylvia asked Paul.

  But Paul hadn’t forgotten the false Banquo. “I have a lot of things to do before my first-year class,” he lied. “Rain check?”

  Sylvia smiled. “Sure. I’ll let you get to it.”

  By the time the auditorium was empty and Paul had returned to the stage, the odd little man was gone and Scarlet was sitting in Macbeth’s chair, frowning.

  Scene 5: Round about the Cauldron Go

  “You’ll never guess who that was,” Scarlet said when Paul approached.

  “Probably not, so I won’t even try.”

  Scarlet let out a short, high-pitched laugh. “That was Banquo’s ghost.”

  “Well, obviously,” Paul began.

  “No, I mean the real Banquo.”

  Paul dropped into one of the other banquet chairs. “There was a real Banquo? Macbeth is just a play.”

  “Based on real history,” Sca
rlet said. “Apparently Shakespeare took a lot of liberties with it. Banquo said that he was forced to read the play before making his appearance and that he was rather appalled by the whole thing.”

  Paul grinned. “Too much ruthless bloodshed?”

  “No,” said Scarlet. “Not enough. But that wasn’t what rankled him. It was the ghosts and witches. He says there’s no such thing.”

  “But he’s a ghost himself, isn’t he?”

  Scarlet rose up from the chair and stepped along the trestle table. “He is now. But he says he never even met Macbeth, never mind haunted his banquet. He also thought it amusing that Shakespeare drove Macbeth insane with guilt for murdering Duncan, when Macbeth was only defending himself from Duncan’s ambition. He said that Macbeth went on to have a relatively long, peaceful, and prosperous reign.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” Paul said, and it was, “but where did this ghost come from?”

  “You’re not going to like that part.” Scarlet paused a moment. “He said that a witch summoned him from his grave to haunt the play.”

  Paul swallowed. “A witch?”

  Scarlet nodded.

  “A real witch?”

  “Apparently it was the same witch who killed him almost a thousand years ago.”

  Paul wasn’t sure yet if he himself believed in ghosts, never mind witches. He could certainly feel where Banquo was coming from. “Yet he said he doesn’t believe in ghosts or witches.”

  Scarlet let out a small laugh. “That’s why he was rankled. He didn’t know that the decrepit old woman who had poisoned him was a witch until this morning, when she summoned him out of a cauldron.”

  “A cauldron?”

  Scarlet shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.”

  “Well, why wouldn’t a witch use a cauldron? Where is he now?”

  “He said he’s only allowed to appear during the banquet scene to take your Banquo’s place.” Scarlet put up a hand. “No. Allowed is the wrong word. He is forced to appear.”

  “That’s inconvenient,” Paul said. “Did he say why?”

  “I started to ask him that when he faded away. From what little he said, I gather he’s supposed to frighten you into insanity.”

  Paul flexed his hands. “He may annoy me to death, but I’ve sort of gotten comfortable with ghosts.”

  “But you should be frightened,” Scarlet said. “According to him, a witch is trying to curse the play.”

  “Oh, I will be frightened,” Paul said, knowing that he was right back to where he was a week ago. “As soon as all this sinks in, I’ll be so frightened that I won’t be able to leave my house.” A witch is trying to curse the play.

  As Scarlet’s ghost faded away, Paul still didn’t know if he could believe any of it, but he did know one thing: he could no longer ignore it.

  Scene 6: Macbeth Does Murder Sleep

  It was almost midnight, and Paul still hadn’t woken up from the nightmare he’d been living since second-period class. He lay awake with Sylvia snoring beside him, oblivious to the news that a witch was cursing his high school production of Macbeth.

  There was no such thing as witches.

  Paul had made some allowance for ghosts. He could almost believe that the play was haunted by not one but two ghosts. He had seen them with his own two eyes. He had spoken with one. And she had spoken with the other. They seemed harmless. He could almost even ignore them and life would go on.

  But the second ghost had been sent by a witch . . . to drive Paul insane. Paul couldn’t imagine what he had done to deserve such attention.

  “Are you still awake?”

  Paul hadn’t noticed when Sylvia had stopped snoring. “Restless,” he said.

  Sylvia slid herself up against the headboard and adjusted her pillow. “It’s more than that. You’ve been sleeping badly on and off since the school term started. Something’s troubling you. It’s not the gorgon lady, is it? What’s she up to now? Since Susie put the kibosh on her petition, I know she must be planning something. People like Cadwell don’t lose graciously.”

  “No doubt,” Paul said. “But I have no idea what she’s up to. Winston has demanded that I keep my distance.”

  “Not too much distance, I hope,” said Sylvia. “There’s a PTA meeting tomorrow night. Perhaps we should go.”

  Paul sputtered as he attempted to talk. “Attend a PTA meeting? They’d skin us alive.”

  “But we’re parents!” said Sylvia.

  “We’re not Cadwell’s brand of parents. We’d be as welcome as a bad rash.”

  “I supposed you’re right,” Sylvia said. “But we do need to place a spy in their ranks. Maybe one of Susie’s friends’ parents.”

  “A spy?” In all Paul’s years of teaching, he had never once thought of spying on the PTA. “That’s . . . brilliant! We can be two steps ahead of Cadwell instead of two steps behind.”

  Sylvia reached over and squeezed Paul’s shoulder. “Maybe now you can get some sleep.”

  Paul placed one of his hands over one of Sylvia’s. Planned or not, Sylvia was his partner in this play, and he had been keeping her in the dark. “The gorgon is the least of my worries,” he admitted.

  There. He had opened the door. He knew Sylvia well enough to know that she wouldn’t let him close it again or pretend that it wasn’t open. He had as good as told her everything already.

  Sylvia remained silent, and Paul decided to keep talking rather than wait for her to prod. “You must think I’m nuts since I told you I was seeing Scarlet Walker’s ghost,” he said.

  “I’ve chosen to keep an open mind,” Sylvia said. “Stranger things have happened. Like Susie enjoying drama.” His wife chuckled.

  “Then you’d better keep that mind open a little longer.”

  “Go on.”

  Paul took a deep breath. “Yesterday I introduced Scarlet to Mr. Riordan.”

  “I see,” said Sylvia. “How did that go?”

  “Of course he couldn’t see her,” Paul said, “but Scarlet was happy to see him. I sort of translated their conversation.”

  “Mr. Riordan believed you?”

  “To be honest,” Paul said, “I’m not really sure. It freaked him out and he left.”

  Sylvia was silent for a moment. “So you still have no real evidence that this ghost is real?”

  Paul could almost hear his wife’s next words. Have you seen a doctor?

  But that isn’t what she said. “You’re going to have to get proof.”

  “Proof? Why? It’s not like I have to convince anyone. Scarlet is harmless.”

  Sylvia moved her hand from beneath his and punched him in the shoulder. “So you can convince yourself, silly. So that you can sleep.”

  Paul took a deep breath. “That’s not what’s keeping me awake. A second ghost showed up today.”

  “A second ghost?” For the first time, Paul heard disbelief creep into his wife’s voice.

  “Yeah. The weird part is that this ghost claims to be Banquo. The real Banquo. From history.”

  “There was a real Banquo?”

  Paul shrugged. “So the ghost claims.”

  “The ghost told you this?”

  “He told Scarlet while we were making sure John Freedman was okay.”

  Sylvia’s hand tightened on his arm. “The ghosts were there today? Both of them? I didn’t see either.”

  “I told you. Only I can see them. And they can see each other.”

  Sylvia was silent for a moment, thinking. “So you’re saying that this ghost of Banquo took John’s place in the rehearsal?”

  “Yes!” Paul said, perhaps a little too excitedly. Did Sylvia actually believe him? “That’s why I didn’t stop the scene when John didn’t show up. I was watching the real ghost of Banquo in his place.”

  His wife nodded, causing her pillow to shift against the headboard. “It’s not actually proof, but it’s a start.”

  “It is?”

  “Of course it is. That boy didn’t just sp
ontaneously catnap in the middle of rehearsal. He was put to sleep.”

  “By the ghost? But Scarlet said that she couldn’t interfere with real life. She can only observe.”

  “Has she tried?” Sylvia asked. “I don’t know much about ghosts. But can’t they move objects and make people see things?”

  “In the movies,” Paul said. “But that’s just stories.”

  “All stories have a basis in fact. You just told me there was once a real Banquo.”

  “Nothing like Shakespeare’s Banquo.”

  Sylvia harrumphed. “Even so, this Banquo’s ghost put one of your students to sleep. No wonder you’re worried.”

  “Actually,” Paul said, “that’s not what’s worrying me.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Banquo said that he was sent by a witch to drive me insane.”

  Stunned silence. Then Sylvia said, “That ghost is out of his mind. There’s no such thing as witches.”

  Scene 7: Our Fears in Banquo Stick Deep

  Paul was both exhausted and invigorated as he and Sylvia entered the empty auditorium on Wednesday morning just before class. The exhaustion was from getting little sleep two nights in a row. The invigoration was because he was no longer alone in his potential insanity. Sylvia not only knew about both ghosts but also seemed more inclined than he was to believe they were real. And today they were on a mission: to find out more about this so-called witch behind Banquo’s ghost.

  “Is she here?” Sylvia asked.

  “Standing right in front of us,” Paul said. “Scarlet, this is my wife, Sylvia. Sylvia, this is Scarlet. She’s an actress who performed with Mr. Riordan.”

  Scarlet frowned. “I know who Sylvia is. She’s been here almost every day. And I never performed with Simon. We shared several weeks of rehearsals before I died.” Then she smiled. “Pleased to meet you.”