Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  Winston echoed Paul’s grin, adding a hint of mockery. “So excited they’re falling asleep.”

  “Which is why I was understandably concerned.”

  Winston stared at him.

  “I’m glad John was just tired and not sick,” Paul said.

  The principal dropped his faux grin. “You are aware that there is a PTA meeting tonight?”

  “I don’t pay attention to PTA meetings,” Paul said.

  Winston suppressed a chuckle. “Perhaps you should. Your play is sure to be on the agenda.”

  “I’m not going to let Mrs. Cadwell’s agenda run my life.”

  “I hear you.” Winston waved a hand in the air. “You can be sure her petition last week wasn’t the end of it.” The principal leaned forward over his desk. “Next time I may have to decide in her favour. Cadwell may be a bigger thorn in my side than you are, but I can’t ignore half the school’s parents.”

  “I’m just trying to do my job,” Paul said.

  “As am I,” said Winston, leaning back in his chair. “You can go now.”

  Paul left the principal’s office kicking himself. He had forgotten all about the PTA meeting.

  Scene 10: Friends, Romans, Countrymen

  “Welcome,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “to Ashcroft Senior High’s second PTA meeting of the school year. I am overjoyed to see that so many of you made the time to come out tonight.”

  “I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Agatha said from where she and her sisters sat in the back row of chairs. About three hundred chairs had been set up in the school’s smaller gymnasium.

  “Bunch of people in a room listening to a prig,” Gertrude agreed.

  “I gave up listening to prigs centuries ago,” Netty said. “Why are we here?”

  “To see this woman talk,” said Agatha.

  “She’s been doing a better job of cursing the play than we have,” added Gertrude.

  Netty grumbled. “Says Hecate. You’re not putting any stock into what she says, are you?”

  “Says me,” said Agatha. “Hecate can go disembowel herself.”

  Gertrude erupted with laughter. “I’d like to see that.”

  “Shhh!” said a man with psoriasis and a bad toupee who was sitting in front of them.

  “As you know,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “our petition to halt the Macbeth play didn’t go as planned. Apparently Mr. Samson made his students round up a counterpetition.”

  “Can a teacher do that?” someone asked.

  “Oh, poo,” Netty spit in a whisper. “Samson didn’t even know about the petition. Either petition.”

  “You can’t be a prig without lying to your constituents,” Agatha said.

  “Should we let the people know she’s lying?” Netty asked. “I can’t abide a liar. Well, when it’s not me doing the lying.”

  “Because calling a prig a liar has worked so well before?” suggested Gertrude. “She’s only telling them what they want to hear. Prigs have been doing that for longer than there have been witches.”

  “And so,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “we’ll move on to plan B.”

  A hand went up. “Ah, Mrs. Cadwell. Wasn’t the petition plan B. I thought plan A was the meeting in the auditorium where your son stabbed us in the back.”

  The entire gymnasium sucked in its breath.

  “Demonstrating,” said Mrs. Cadwell through clenched teeth, “what a terrible influence Mr. Samson, with his outlandish methods, is on our children.”

  The air in the enclosed room actually stirred when its occupants resumed breathing.

  “Moving on to plan C,” said Mrs. Cadwell.

  “Did you hear that?” said Agatha. “Our Mr. Samson has outlandish ways.”

  “Man after my own heart, then, he is,” Gertrude said.

  “Shhh!” repeated the man in front of them.

  “Monday morning,” said Mrs. Cadwell, “we’ll blockade the main entrance to the school. We’ll have picket signs with appropriate slogans, like No Macbeth Here and No Witches in Our School.”

  “How about Macbeth Must Die!” a woman with multicoloured hair shouted, followed by laughter.

  “Or Shakespeare Is for Pussies,” shouted someone else. More laughter.

  “But I have to be at work Monday,” an angry male voice grumbled. “Can’t we do this on Saturday?”

  “Please, everyone,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “This is serious. If our slogans are a joke, we’ll be a joke as well. And no, Mr. Stewart, we can’t do this on the weekend. The school is empty on weekends. No one will see us.”

  “We can call in the newspapers and television,” someone suggested.

  Mrs. Cadwell nodded. “Yes, we’ll do that anyway. But it will be for eight-thirty Monday morning, when the teachers and students are trying to get into the school.”

  “What about the other doors?” someone asked. It was the woman with the multicoloured hair again. “Shouldn’t we block those as well?”

  Mrs. Cadwell tapped her microphone for order. “We can’t block all the doors. We’d be spread too thin. And if no one can get into the school, Principal Winston will have no choice but to call the police. Our goal isn’t to get arrested, but to inconvenience everyone and to let the world outside the school know that there is a problem.” A rictus grin marred the gorgon’s face. “If Winston won’t listen to the parents, let’s see how well he listens when the community at large speaks up.”

  “Oh, she’s good,” said Agatha.

  Gertrude nodded. “Clever. Doesn’t lose control. Has an answer for everything. Heh. She’d make a good witch.”

  “So,” said Netty. “You admire the woman now?”

  “She reminds me of Hecate,” said Agatha.

  Netty pursed her lips. “I’ll take that as a no.”

  “She’s a grade-A shit disturber,” Gertrude said.

  Agatha nodded. “But it’s our shit she’s disturbing.”

  “Shhh!” the toupee’d man said a third time. He turned completely around in his seat to glare at them.

  Agatha glared right back, glowering down her long, crooked nose.

  The man dropped his gaze and turned back around.

  “It’s settled, then,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “We’ll meet in the Dairy Queen parking lot at eight a.m. Monday. Keep your signs in the trunks of your cars until I give the signal. Then we’ll cross the street to the school and form up in front of the main entrance. I’ll let the press know to be there at eight-thirty sharp. Any last questions? No? Then let’s adjourn for punch and cookies.”

  “There’s cookies?” crowed Netty. “Then this evening wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

  Scene 11: All Goes Worse than I Have Power to Tell

  After a third night with little sleep, Paul arrived at the school Thursday morning well before his second-period class started.

  “I wish I knew what went on at the PTA meeting last night,” Sylvia said.

  Paul’s wife looked as tired as he felt. She had asked a few friends with kids at the school to attend and let her know what Cadwell was up to, but they unanimously declined, saying they wouldn’t be caught dead at one of the gorgon’s meetings. All of them had called her the gorgon lady. Seems the moniker was ubiquitous.

  “Nothing good went on,” Paul said. “Count on it. Cadwell’s PTA is the worst thing that ever happened to this school.”

  The PTA meeting was half the reason Paul had slept poorly. The question of the witch was the other half.

  Even though class hadn’t started yet, Scarlet greeted them as soon as they stepped through the Ashcroft-Tate Auditorium’s east entrance. The ghost knew they would be rehearsing before the students arrived, and that seemed sufficient to let her leave the confines of the lamp. “Do you really think this will work?” Scarlet asked.

  “If it doesn’t,” Paul said, “then Banquo isn’t much good to us.”

  “What?” Sylvia said. “Oh, she’s here, isn’t she? Hello, Scarlet.”

  Paul and Sylvia busied themselve
s arranging the set for the banquet scene while Scarlet paced nervously across the stage. Paul knew they couldn’t keep rehearsing the same scene over and over again, especially with John Freedman falling asleep each time. Paul wouldn’t be surprised if John stayed home sick today.

  When the set was ready, Paul and Sylvia stood near Macbeth’s chair and began reading the scene, Paul delivering Macbeth’s lines while Sylvia delivered all the others. Scarlet stood at Paul’s elbow, waiting to let him know when, or if, Banquo’s ghost arrived.

  Paul didn’t know the lines well enough to go off book, but whenever Macbeth wasn’t speaking, he looked up, hoping to see the ghost.

  “He’s here,” Scarlet said even as Paul saw the diminutive once-man enter from stage right.

  As much as Paul wanted to interrogate the ghost directly, he knew that Banquo would vanish once the scene stopped. So he continued reading as Scarlet played her part and paced the ghost, asking him questions.

  When the ghost reached Macbeth’s empty chair, Scarlet gave Paul a thumbs-up. He immediately set down the script.

  The small man cast Paul a roguish grin and said, “Thank you.” Then he promptly vanished.

  “It’s worse than we thought,” Scarlet said.

  Those weren’t the words Paul wanted to hear.

  “Banquo says there are three witches.”

  “Three?” said Paul.

  “And they expect his haunting the play to drive you insane.”

  “Me?”

  “Paul, dear,” said Sylvia. “Could you be a little more coherent? I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  Paul relayed what Scarlet had told him.

  “Anything else?” he asked the young ghost.

  Scarlet shook her head. “He only spoke with the witches for a moment. But he’s agreed to help us. He said he doesn’t much like the witches.”

  “So I guess they aren’t good witches,” Paul said.

  “What?” asked Scarlet. “How could they be? They’ve summoned a ghost to drive you insane.”

  Paul laughed. “I wish them luck. If Cadwell and Winston haven’t succeeded, why would a silent ghost?”

  “Three witches and Banquo’s ghost,” said Sylvia. “That’s straight out of the play.”

  “Not straight,” Paul said. “You yourself reminded me that there are four witches in the play. Though Hecate only speaks twice, she seems to be the stronger, more dangerous witch. And Macbeth is already mostly insane from guilt. As is Lady Macbeth. Murdering Duncan had already done the job. Banquo’s murder merely hastens Macbeth’s fall.”

  “And you’re not Macbeth,” said Scarlet. “Lenny Cadwell is.”

  “I’m the director,” Paul agreed, frowning. “Yet I’m the one who can see the ghost, not Lenny.”

  Paul hadn’t forgotten Simon Riordan’s suggestion that his daughter, Susie, might have made a deal with the Devil. Perhaps Riordan had it wrong. Was it a deal with the witches? Just as Macbeth had communed with the witches? But in Shakespeare’s tale, no actual deal had been struck. The witches merely told Macbeth his destiny, and Macbeth hastened to follow it.

  Then he reminded himself that, despite the similarities, he was not reliving the tragedy of Macbeth. It was more of a mash-up, a term he had heard his students use. Elements of Shakespeare’s story were intersecting his production of the play, creating something different from both.

  Banquo had been instructed to drive Paul insane. Did Susie somehow hate him? Was that the deal she had made? But he didn’t believe it. Like most teenagers, Susie had struck out on her own, seeking independence, in a sense, rebelling against her parents, but more for self-discovery than for anything he and Sylvia may have done or not done. His daughter’s sudden appreciation for drama was a surprise, but Paul preferred to see it as a step in finding herself rather than a convoluted plot to get back at a parent she had been ignoring for the past two years.

  “What are you thinking?” Sylvia asked.

  Paul hadn’t shared with Sylvia Riordan’s comments or his own concerns about the Devil, and he wasn’t about to now. So he said, “I’m thinking it’s time to have another talk with Simon Riordan.”

  Scene 12: Our Fears Do Make Us Traitors

  The students arrived and rehearsals went smoothly. Paul started at the top, Act I, Scene 1, making notes of places that needed more work. The bell sounded before they reached the banquet scene, and Paul sleepwalked through the rest of Thursday, his thoughts distracted by Banquo’s ghost, witches, and the prospect that his daughter had made a deal with the Devil. Never mind that the apparent purpose behind all three was to drive Paul insane.

  On Friday they resumed rehearsal, beginning at Act III, Scene 3. They quickly reached the banquet scene, and the students, especially John Freedman, grew suddenly apprehensive.

  Paul continued anyway, making as though nothing were amiss. Sylvia, however, went backstage and, shortly after Banquo’s ghost began making his slow way among the seated guests, John stumbled out from behind the curtain and staggered his way through the scene. Paul noted ruffled clothing from where Sylvia had shaken him awake, and he worried that John would fall back asleep the moment he sat down in Macbeth’s chair. As it was, when he did sit down, directly in the lap of Banquo’s ghost, the ghost disappeared and John was suddenly wide awake.

  For a moment, Paul feared the ghost might have possessed the boy. With everything else that had happened, why not? But John was obviously himself, and he left the stage with greater haste than when he had arrived.

  Paul hated to put anyone, never mind one of his students, through that experience but saw no way to avoid it. Skipping the scene would have raised questions. Questions that no doubt would have made their way to the gorgon lady, who would have used them in ways Paul couldn’t even begin to contemplate. Surviving the scene accomplished the opposite. The students were reassured, and no ammunition was provided to Mrs. Cadwell.

  The rehearsal ended with the close of Act V, Scene 8, just minutes before the bell.

  “That was great, class,” Paul said. He looked down at his many pages of scribbled notes. “There are still a number of things we need to work on, but four weeks is plenty of time. Most of our scene changes are still too slow, but you’re all off book now and more or less know your lines. The fewer mistakes, the better, so keep running them through your heads. Class dismissed.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Paul was seated at a booth in the Dairy Queen across from a foul-tempered Simon Riordan.

  Riordan had returned his call late the previous evening. He hadn’t wanted to talk and was about to hang up when Paul said, “There have been some developments.”

  “So,” said Riordan, cradling a plastic cup of DQ water in his hands. “What are these developments?”

  Paul had no idea where to begin. “For one thing, we have a second ghost.”

  “A second . . . ?” The skeletal man made a face as if he had eaten sour grapes. “Who?”

  “Banquo,” Paul said.

  “Banquo? From the play?”

  “No,” Paul said. “From real life. Or so he says. He claims he lived a thousand years ago in the days of the real Macbeth.”

  Riordan waved a hand. “Ridiculous. Someone is putting you on.”

  “But that’s not the interesting part,” Paul said. “Banquo said he was sent to haunt the play by three witches.”

  At this, Riordan’s face paled.

  “He said he’s supposed to drive me insane. How’s that for developments?”

  Riordan raised his cup of water to his lips and drained all six ounces. Then he put the cup down.

  “Cancel the play,” Riordan said. “Walk away and don’t look back. Forget you ever heard of William bloody Shakespeare and don’t even think about ghosts or witches.”

  “I’m not worried about Banquo,” Paul said. “He’s actually a pretty nice guy.”

  Riordan slammed his fist on the table. “Forget Banquo. He’s not your problem!”

  “What do you know?”
Paul asked.

  “You don’t want to know what I know.”

  “Yes, I do. I can’t fight this thing if I don’t know what I’m dealing with.”

  “Fight? You can’t fight. You can’t win. All you can do is run. And hope they don’t give chase.”

  “They?” Paul asked.

  Riordan glared at him.

  “They?” Paul repeated.

  “The witches! All right? There. I said it. The witches, damn you.” Riordan picked up his cup, saw it was empty, and threw it across the seating area. The cup bounced off an empty table, hit the floor, and rolled to a stop against a wall.

  “What do you know about the witches?” Paul asked.

  “What do I need to know?” Riordan said. He clenched and unclenched his hands. “They’re witches. That should be enough.”

  “So there is no Devil?” Paul said, remembering his first meeting with Riordan.

  “I’m sure there must be a Devil,” the old man said, “but what I saw were witches.”

  “You saw them?”

  Riordan twisted his head back and rubbed his face with his hands. “I made a deal with them, damn you! Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  Paul sat stunned. Mr. Riordan—his Mr. Riordan, from back when he was in high school—had made a deal with witches. Paul couldn’t imagine it. “What kind of deal?”

  One of the restaurant staff, an older woman with a net shrouding poufy hair, set a new cup of water on the table. Dairy Queen didn’t wait tables, but Paul guessed that the staff had noticed when Riordan threw his cup. They also noticed that he was old, ill, and having some kind of fit. Paul supposed it was a blessing that they brought him water rather than call the paramedics. Or the police.

  Riordan thanked the woman and took a small sip. “What kind of deal?” The skeleton snorted. “No deal at all.” He shook his head. “I suppose it’s about time I told someone. My doctors tell me I don’t have much time left. And someone should know. It may as well be you.” He took a deep breath, and life seemed to flow into him. Colour came to his cheeks, and he looked somehow more firm that he had a moment before.