Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

Agatha took in a nostril full of air and returned her gaze to the window. “After the show. Isn’t that our Samson’s car coming down the street?”

  “And there’s a TV van!” Netty crowed. “Right on time. Do we do it now?”

  “Let’s wait until the news van stops,” said Agatha. “Timing is everything.” A pause. “Or perhaps it isn’t. Now’s as good a time as any.”

  Monday morning arrived after a weekend spent wondering what to do and no conclusions reached. Paul had told Sylvia everything he had learned about the witches from Riordan, and they both admitted that the play should be cancelled but were concerned that cancelling wouldn’t solve anything. If someone had made a deal with the Weird Sisters, as Riordan had, then cancelling the play wouldn’t necessarily end the witches’ meddling. It could even make things worse.

  Paul hadn’t mentioned his worry that the dealmaker might be Susie. And Sylvia had suggested that all of the students had taken to the play like children to crayons. Any of them could have made the bargain with the witches, but she couldn’t imagine any of them doing so. Paul had agreed and that helped him breathe easier. The dealmaker could be anyone. It didn’t have to be his daughter.

  What he found when they arrived at the school sent all these thoughts fleeing.

  “The woman has gone too far,” Sylvia said. They had parked the two cars in the teachers’ lot and met at the sidewalk leading to the school’s main doors. “There must be a hundred parents blocking the door with picket signs.”

  “They can’t legally block the door,” Paul said. “The police would have to arrest them.”

  “We’re not going to go through the blockade, are we?”

  “There are other doors,” Paul said, “but using one would give points to the gorgon lady.”

  “Points?” Sylvia placed a hand on Paul’s arm. “This isn’t a game. No one is keeping score.”

  “Cadwell is. And winning only inspires her to keep it up.”

  “Is that a news van pulling up?” Sylvia said. “It is a news van. The picket line will be on TV!”

  “All the more reason to ignore it.” Paul took a deep breath and, taking Sylvia’s arm in his, began walking toward the main entrance. “Smile for the camera.”

  A man with a shoulder camera was already panning the picket line as a woman Paul recognized from the evening news powdered her nose from a compact.

  “Save Macbeth?” Sylvia said.

  “What’s that, dear?” Paul tore his eyes away from the reporter.

  “That picket sign. And there’s another one. Kids need kulture.”

  Paul had looked at some of the signs as they drove up. No Witches at Ashcroft. Macbeth Equals Murderer. And his favourite, Parents Know Best. But now the signs all had different messages. Shakespeare Forever. Save The Bard’s Play. We Love Macbeth. He frowned as he saw a sign that read, Witches Are Not Prigs!

  “There he is!” someone shouted.

  Mrs. Cadwell turned from the parent she had been speaking with and grinned at Paul.

  Paul knew he would never get past the gorgon lady without exchanging words, so he altered their course to intercept Mrs. Cadwell on the way to the main doors. From the corner of his eye, Paul saw the newswoman and her cameraman also advancing on the gorgon.

  “This is the man responsible for the play,” Mrs. Cadwell said to the reporter. “Macbeth was Mr. Samson’s idea, and he pushed it through despite objections from the principal, Mr. Winston. Paul Samson is his full name. He’s the drama teacher.”

  Paul could see that Cadwell had been going to call him a few other things as well, but she stopped herself, conscious of the camera. In the last few moments, after reading some of the picket signs, Paul had already decided what he would say. He stopped in front of the gorgon lady and ignored the camera.

  “Mrs. Cadwell. I have to say that as PTA president you have outdone yourself. Signs. Reporters. I, for one, am more surprised than I can express.”

  The gorgon grinned and let Paul continue.

  “But really, you shouldn’t have. I expect that Ashcroft Senior High School’s fall performance of Macbeth will be as well attended as any production we’ve done in the past. This extra promotion is unnecessary. Appreciated, don’t mistake me, but unnecessary.”

  He then pressed on toward the door, Sylvia following close at his side.

  Paul’s one regret was that he only caught a fleeting glimpse of the bafflement on Mrs. Cadwell’s face before she vanished behind him beneath a deluge of the reporter’s questions.

  “I think the parents have begun noticing the wording on their signs,” Sylvia said quietly into his ear.

  Paul risked glancing back and saw a number of parents arguing with each other. Then he and Sylvia were through the main doors.

  “Is what happened what I think happened?” Sylvia asked. She was unconsciously shaking her head from side to side.

  “I can’t see any other explanation,” Paul said. He shrugged. “The signs changed. Just like that. If they hadn’t, Cadwell might have succeeded in getting the play cancelled. Depending on what shows up on tonight’s news, she may now have no chance, no matter what she attempts in the future.”

  Sylvia’s face drained of blood. “The witches changed the signs? To keep the play from being cancelled?”

  Paul nodded. “And no doubt they will do something equally . . . magical, if I try to cancel it.”

  “Then what can we do?” Sylvia wrapped her arms tightly around her chest.

  “I don’t know.” Paul rested a hand on one of his wife’s arms, hoping it would reassure her. Sylvia’s skin felt cold and lifeless.

  Scene 2: Who Shall Bear the Guilt of

  Our Great Quell?

  Paul and Sylvia walked down the hallway, doing their best to ignore several students who were jabbering excitedly about the events outside. When they arrived at the school auditorium, they told Scarlet what had happened.

  “We’re going to have to find the student who made the deal with the witches,” Scarlet said. “Maybe once we know the destiny the witches have planned, we can use that to avoid any future trouble.”

  Paul could only agree and repeated the ghost’s observation to his wife.

  “What if it’s not a student?” Sylvia asked. “It could be one of the parents, trying to fast-track young Jane or Joey to stardom.”

  “That would complicate things,” Scarlet said. “I still think we need to start with the students.”

  Paul had already started that investigation two weeks earlier when Riordan had suggested the same thing. At the time, the most likely candidate had been his own daughter, walking into the female lead after her first twenty minutes in drama class, ever. Paul had agonized over the suggestion. While Susie’s sudden interest in drama surprised him, he could at least explain it. He would never be able to explain Susie’s consorting with witches. Perhaps it was time to share his fear with his wife.

  “I haven’t noticed anything overly unusual about the students,” Paul said. “They all pretty much have the roles they deserve. Even Susie, despite her inexperience and previous lack of interest in drama.”

  “Paul!” Sylvia’s voice dropped a half octave. “You’re not suggesting our Susie has done this?”

  Paul shook his head, though his heart wasn’t in it. “Susie is the last student I would suspect. But she is the one who stands out the most.”

  “It must be someone else,” Sylvia insisted. “You said that all of your students are doing better than expected.”

  “They are giving it more effort than any time in the last two years. But I’d hoped to put that down to them finally showing some maturity.”

  “I thought it was due to my influence,” Sylvia said with a crooked smile.

  For the next hour, Paul, Sylvia, and Scarlet went through the cast list, discussing each student and trying to recall any unusual behaviour, peculiar utterances, or unexplained absences. Ironically those three attributes were almost the definition of being a teenager. By the ti
me the bell rang, signalling the end of first period, they were no further ahead.

  “Let’s forget rehearsing the play and focus on the students,” Sylvia suggested as said students began flooding into the auditorium. “See if any of them are acting unusual.”

  Paul nodded and over the next hour, walked the class through the trouble spots in his notes from last week’s rehearsals. He found it more difficult than he would have thought to focus on each student’s behaviour rather than his or her acting competency. Instead of full scenes, he had them speak mispronounced lines, change specific blocking, and run through set changes that were too slow. No one displayed the cockiness or false confidence one might expect from someone who knew the fix was in. When the bell rang at the end of class, he was still unable to point to a student and say, “That one.”

  “Tomorrow we start from the top again,” he said as the students put away their props. “From now on, we’ll physically raise and lower the curtains and time everything.”

  “Mr. Samson?”

  A student Paul didn’t know passed him the note he had been expecting. He didn’t even open it but sighed at Sylvia and headed for Winston’s office.

  Mrs. Kennedy greeted him with a laughing smile. “He’s expecting you.”

  Paul walked in and was not surprised to see Mrs. Cadwell standing against one wall, fuming like a smokestack.

  “You are aware,” Winston said without greeting him, “of the fiasco on the school’s front steps this morning?”

  Paul feigned surprise. “Fiasco? I admit I was astonished. I had no idea that Mrs. Cadwell had had a change of heart, never mind a newfound desire to promote the play.”

  “I didn’t and I don’t.” Cadwell half strangled the words. “I don’t know how you did it—”

  “I?” Paul pressed a hand against his chest. “All I did was show up for work this morning. That there were people, I assume PTA parents, in front of the school holding signs in support of the play surprised no one more than it did me. It almost brought tears to my eyes. When that reporter showed up, well, I was so overwhelmed, I rushed inside.”

  “Oh, yes, tears. Tears of laughter!” Cadwell shrieked.

  Paul forced a puzzled expression onto his face. “I’m missing something here.”

  Winston let out a heavy sigh. “I think you and I both know that Mrs. Cadwell has not had a change of heart.”

  “Then why the signs?” Paul asked.

  “You changed the signs!” The gorgon stuck a finger in his face.

  Paul flinched. “I didn’t even know about the signs.”

  “Mrs. Cadwell,” said Winston, “I understand your dilemma. But you can’t go accusing one of my teachers of misbehaviour without some kind of proof. Do you have any proof?”

  The gorgon swung her finger toward the principal. “Of course I don’t have any proof. If I did, then I’d know how he did it. But who else would have done it?”

  Winston sighed again. “Who indeed? Fortunately for Mr. Samson, we live in a country where one is innocent until proven guilty, even in high school. Don’t darken my door again until you have some evidence.”

  The gorgon opened her mouth then closed it again and stormed out of the office.

  “And you,” Winston said to Paul. “I just lied to that woman. You and I both know that the mere appearance of inappropriate behaviour can lead to getting a teacher fired. With everything that’s happened in your class so far this year, I think we are well beyond a mere appearance. You’re just lucky that when I spoke with the reporter, she told me that you were the only one outside the school with a modicum of decorum.

  “But listen to me now, and listen to me good. If you or that woman embarrasses this school again, I’ll have the both of you banned from the premises. Is that understood?”

  Paul knew that “Yes, sir,” was the appropriate response.

  “Dismissed.”

  As Paul left the office, he wondered if Winston had been a drill sergeant in another life.

  He hadn’t gone ten steps before Mrs. Cadwell was blocking his way. “You think you’ve won, don’t you?” The gorgon lady had never looked less like a human being. Her eyes were twice their normal size, and Paul could swear there was drool running down the corner of her mouth.

  “Mrs. Cadwell, I can honestly tell you that I had nothing to do with your failed attempt to crucify me this morning. If someone changed your signs, they have my deepest gratitude. But you’ll have to look elsewhere. It wasn’t me.”

  The gorgon lady gave Paul a curious look and marched away. Paul had the uncanny feeling that, for once, she actually believed him.

  Scene 3: Bring Me No More Reports

  “I don’t believe I can eat another bite,” said Agatha.

  It was lunchtime and a new stack of empty pizza boxes adorned the table.

  “More crust for me,” suggested Gertrude.

  “I feel different,” Netty said. “Like chains that once hung around my neck have been released.”

  “Like I’ve lost twenty pounds,” said Agatha, who barely weighed more than twenty pounds to start with.

  “Like I’ve eaten more pizza in three days than I usually eat in three years,” said Gertrude.

  “You haven’t eaten any pizza,” Agatha said. “All you’ve had is flour, oil, and cheese.”

  “With a dash of salt,” Netty added. “Possibly more than a dash.”

  “Pizza is tomato sauce, pepperoni, green peppers, and eye of newt,” Agatha said, waving a hand dramatically above a partly eaten pie.

  “That can’t be right,” Netty said. “Green peppers? Why would you order pizza with vegetables on it?”

  “That’s why I only eat the crust,” Gertrude said. “I can’t abide vegetables.”

  “Green pepper is a fruit,” said Agatha.

  “Yes, but isn’t tomato a vegetable?” asked Netty.

  “Also a fruit,” said Agatha. “But I asked for extra garlic in the sauce because I know Gertie won’t eat it.”

  “Garlic is a vegetable,” said Gertrude, “and don’t you start calling me Gertie! It’s bad enough when Anjennette does it.”

  “It’s business as usual, I see,” said Hecate, appearing at their table, dressed all in black. Her eyes were masked with heavy eye shadow, making her look like a raccoon, and she had bits of silver metal sticking through her eyebrows, earlobes, nose, and lips. Her only colour consisted of purple highlights combed through her midnight-black hair.

  “My goddess!” Agatha croaked. “You look like one of the students.”

  Hecate picked up a slice of pizza and began nibbling on it. “I thought I’d look around the school. Since your reports are close to nonexistent, I figured it was time I wrote my own report. Is this green pepper?” She threw the unfinished slice back into the box. “Only a Weird Sister would eat pizza with vegetables on it.”

  “Pepper is a fruit,” said Agatha. “Only a moron—”

  “We’ve given you lots of reports,” Gertrude interrupted.

  “Steady progress,” added Netty.

  “Is that so?” A stack of papers appeared on the table in front of Hecate. It was a short stack. Very short. And the pages were mostly ink free. Hecate spread them around with her fingers.

  “You’ve been at this a month and so far, let’s see, a broken leg, a fallen canvas wall, and a teacher who has gone insane but is still teaching. Have I missed anything?”

  “We had a pitched battle in front of the school this morning!” Netty crowed.

  Hecate raised a pierced eyebrow. “Sounds promising. How many dead?”

  “Dead!” Netty coughed slightly and swallowed. “No one died. Lots of bumps and bruises. One man left in an ambulance. Tripped over his own picket sign.”

  “It wasn’t our intention to kill anyone,” Gertrude said.

  Hecate snorted. “Bumps and bruises? You’ve grown soft.” She picked up a fresh slice of pizza, picked off the green pepper, and bit into it.

  Agatha ground her teeth. “T
here are worse things than death.”

  Hecate spoke while chewing. “Such as?”

  “Embarrassment.”

  Hecate ceased chewing. She wagged her head, as though considering. She swallowed then nodded. “In sufficient quantity.”

  “I suggest you watch the local news this evening,” Gertrude said. “You’ll see embarrassment in spades.”

  Laughter filled the air above the booth. When Hecate ceased laughing, she said, “I never waste time watching the news. Can’t believe half of it anyway. Bunch of prigs, those newscasters. If there is anything to see, I’ll see it during my tour of the school.”

  With that, Hecate disappeared.

  “Do you think we should have told her?” Netty asked.

  “Told her what?” Agatha threw the pizza box Hecate had touched onto the floor and opened a new one.

  Netty rolled her bulbous head around on her shoulders. “That students look . . . considerably younger than adults. She had the costume down, but she still looks thirty years old.”

  The other two witches let out a loud cackle.

  “Hecate should learn for herself,” Gertrude said, “that high schools are tough nuts to crack.”

  Another cackle.

  “Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” asked Agatha.

  “Discussing whether tomatoes are a vegetable or a fruit,” Gertrude said.

  “No, before that,” said Agatha. “Ah, yes, we were feeling different.”

  Gertrude let out a deep snort. “It’s obvious. For the first time in four hundred years, we’ve cursed something besides the play.”

  “We did?” asked Netty.

  “We cursed the gorgon,” said Gertrude.

  “Not only that,” Agatha said. “We helped the play. We anticursed it. That’s a first.”

  “Anticurse?” Netty rumpled her already rumpled forehead. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

  Scene 4: Angels Are Bright Still

  It was one of those rare Monday evenings when the entire family was together for supper. Sylvia was home early enough to cook. And Susie had deigned to stay in rather than roam the mall with her friends, or whatever it was that teenage girls did these days.