Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  Paul knew it was now or never. After coming no closer to finding their dealmaker during class, he and Sylvia had agreed, and somehow Paul had volunteered to take the lead. He’d rather eat his own liver, but what choice did they have?

  “Did you see that weird substitute teacher at school today?” Susie asked. She was on her second helping of meatloaf with mashed potatoes. “Goth to the hilt and not a day under thirty. It was like a bad movie.”

  Paul glanced at Sylvia. “Um, no. I—uh, rather thought you might mention the PTA picket line this morning.”

  Susie didn’t look up from her plate. “Old news.”

  “Yes, well, your mother and I and are going to watch the news on TV after supper to see if there is any mention.”

  “Whatever.”

  Paul knew he was approaching the topic in the most roundabout way possible. “Aren’t you the least curious about what the PTA was up to?”

  This time Susie did look up. “They were picketing the play. As if that’s a surprise.” Before Paul could speak, she added, “And they screwed up the signs. Again, no surprise there. They didn’t even spell all the words right. I swear, the only reason the PTA is interested in high school is because they were all dropouts and they don’t want their kids to be smarter than they are.”

  Paul had never considered that. “An excellent theory. So you don’t know anything about the signs being in support of the play?”

  Susie twirled her fork, gathering up a cloud of potato. “Sorry, Dad. None of us knew about the picketing. The PTA must have planned it at the last minute and kept it hush-hush.”

  Paul glanced at Sylvia. “None of us?”

  His daughter offered a conspiratorial smile. “The drama class. Ever since we got involved putting the petition together, we’ve been watching out for other attempts to stop the play.”

  “Oh.” Paul wasn’t sure what to say. “I certainly appreciate it.”

  Susie went back to hacking up her meatloaf so she could mix each forkful to be half meatloaf and half potatoes and gravy.

  When Paul first noticed his daughter doing this several years earlier, he had suggested that Sylvia make meatloaf and mashed potato soup. Paul had found the taste and eating experience to be identical to what Susie was doing now, but his daughter refused to even try it. Sylvia had never made that particular soup again.

  Paul sighed at the realization that his navel gazing was a stall tactic. His oblique approach had gotten him nowhere, so now he would have to face Susie head on. He could lose everything. But doing nothing could be even worse.

  “Uh, Susie, on a completely different topic, I’m wondering what you can tell me about witches.”

  His daughter looked at him, and a strange smile spread across her face. “Like in the play? Gemma’s really into the role now, and so are Teresa and Camille. Gemma doesn’t hold my getting the part of Lady Macbeth against me anymore.”

  “Oh, that is good news.” Paul pushed a slice of meatloaf across his plate. “But I was thinking of real-life witches. The kind you might meet in the street. Or on a heath.”

  His daughter continued to look at him. Her smile got perhaps a bit stranger. “Real-life witches?”

  “That’s right.” Paul continued to rake his dinner with his fork, though he tried to keep his eyes on Susie.

  “Oh,” said Susie. “Those.” She put down her fork and nodded her whole upper torso. “They’re just ordinary teenagers with magical powers facing the same teenage angst as everyone else.”

  “Really?” Paul wasn’t sure what answer he had expected, but this wasn’t it.

  Susie stopped nodding and snorted. “Last time I looked, on television. There’s no such thing as real-life witches.”

  “Oh,” said Sylvia, at last joining in. “So you haven’t met any witches? Not even three witches?”

  Susie’s humour turned to concern. “Are you guys okay?”

  “We’re fine, dear,” said Sylvia. “Someone reported seeing three oddly dressed women near the school, and some of the parents are concerned.”

  Their daughter snickered. “I bet that goth substitute teacher is one of them. I hope the gorgon lady doesn’t hear about it. She’ll try to close the school.” Susie resumed murdering her meatloaf.

  Paul let out a slow sigh of relief. He had agreed with Sylvia that they would just probe for answers and see if Susie offered up any hint of guilt. Telling their teenage daughter that the play might be cursed was not on the agenda. As far as Paul was concerned, Susie had passed with flying colours.

  But they were still no closer to finding the guilty party. Paul made a mental note to ask Mrs. Kennedy about the goth substitute teacher and turned the conversation to less delicate topics.

  Scene 5: How Now, You Secret, Black,

  and Midnight Hags!

  Rehearsal Tuesday morning included the curtain. This required one of Anna’s stagehands to man the pulley without slowing down set transitions. When she’d lose two additional hands to be ushers on performance night, Anna’s reduced crew would work up a sweat moving double-time. It was an odd way to orchestrate the stagehands, but the offstage students needed to be kept busy during rehearsals, and it was good experience for them.

  Sylvia sat in the second director’s chair with a pad of ruled paper and a stopwatch. There was a line for each scene as well as lines for set changes and curtain calls. Everything would be timed, and anything that was too slow would be marked and worked on.

  Paul spoke through his megaphone. “This is the phase of production development where the technicians need to stop playing and start working. And by technicians I mean Anna, Jennifer, Sigrid, and Sally. One mistake by any of you, and the play can come to a screeching halt. Not only is there no room for error, but time is of the essence. Too long a delay during set changes or while the curtain is down, and the audience will grow restless. Who knows what a restless audience is?”

  When no one raised a hand, Lenny spoke up. “An unhappy audience.”

  “Lenny is correct. Put the audience in a foul mood, and it may last the rest of the evening, despite our best efforts. Many of you have tasks when not on stage to help the technicians. You can’t screw up either. Forgetting to move a chair can be more disastrous than forgetting your lines. Who knows why a theatre company is called a company?”

  Again no hands. Again Lenny spoke up. “Because we have to work together.”

  “Correct, but even that’s too simple. Just like in the military, our lives depend on each other. Figuratively, if not literally.

  “Okay. Everyone get in position for Act I, Scene 1. Sigrid, you’re the curtain man, well, curtain woman. Lower the curtain. I’ll give the final welcome line, concluding with, ‘Enjoy the show.’ Count five seconds and then raise the curtain.”

  Paul lowered the megaphone and, once the curtain was down, turned to Sylvia. “Ready.”

  Sylvia smiled at him. “I’ve got my finger on the trigger.”

  Paul raised the megaphone and said, “Welcome to Ashcroft Senior High’s third-year production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Enjoy the show.”

  Sylvia clicked her stopwatch, and five seconds later, the curtain rose.

  Paul took furious notes as the play progressed through to the end of Act III, Scene 5. He frequently referred to his notes of the previous week’s run-through that he had marked up on Monday’s spot rehearsal. There were still plenty of problems but fewer than the previous week.

  About the only real surprise was that Banquo’s ghost failed to show up. Sylvia had even slipped backstage to shake John awake and quickly returned to her chair when the effort wasn’t needed.

  “Very good, class,” Paul said, moments before the bell. “Even after adding the curtain, we finished two additional scenes. Does anyone know why?”

  After a pause, Lenny said, “Less dead air.”

  “Um. Yes, that’s one way to put it. In drama terms, you did a better job of stepping on each other’s lines. Remember, when people talk, they don’t
take turns. They speak as soon as possible after someone finishes and often interrupt each other. I don’t want you to interrupt each other unless the script calls for it. But you don’t want to pause before saying your lines.”

  The bell rang and the students evaporated almost before Paul had finished speaking. Sylvia handed him the notebook and the stopwatch. “Gotta run. House to show.”

  Before he had blinked three times, Paul was alone with Scarlet.

  “No Banquo.” The ghost’s smile was bitter.

  Perhaps for the first time, Paul saw Scarlet as a sad young woman rather than a vibrant, if deceased, young woman. It occurred to him that Scarlet was only a few years older than Susie. And day after day, except for the time Paul was in the auditorium rehearsing Macbeth, she was completely alone.

  “Banquo was twice your age,” Paul said. “And had bad teeth.” Only after speaking, did Paul realize he couldn’t have said anything stupider. Still, Scarlet’s smile brightened.

  “Actually,” Paul added, “you are also twice your age. You may look twenty, but you were born four decades ago. I can’t imagine what it’s like being a ghost, but I suppose Banquo could, so I understand why you miss him.

  “You know what?” Having spoken the wrong words, Paul felt he had some right words to say. “I’ve been so distracted by the play’s curse that I haven’t spent any time yet figuring out how to get you out of that lamp permanently. Or freeing you from whatever binds you to me.”

  Scarlet grinned. “So you’re an expert on ghosts now, are you?”

  Paul shrugged. “Last week I wasn’t an expert on curses. Look at me now. I’m a quick study.”

  Having promised to help the ghost, Paul regretted leaving the auditorium and consigning Scarlet back into Riordan’s lamp. But if he was going to solve anything, he had work to do.

  Mrs. Kennedy gave him a puzzled look when Paul showed up at her desk. “What did you do now?” the secretary asked. “I know Winston hasn’t sent for you.”

  Paul waggled his eyebrows. “It’s you I’ve come to see.”

  “Me?” Mrs. Kennedy batted her eyes and waved her hand like a fan to cool her face. She finished speaking in a mock Southern drawl. “No one evah comes to see li’l ol’ me.”

  Paul grinned. “Then people are missing out. Would I be correct in saying that you know everything that goes on in this school?”

  Mrs. Kennedy tilted her head, and Paul could see that she was trying to figure out his angle.

  “Let me rephrase. If an outlandish substitute teacher showed up, you would know about it?”

  All the humour left Mrs. Kennedy’s face. “You’re talking about the goth woman.”

  Paul felt a weight hit his stomach. “Oh, so there is such a teacher.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “This school may have no written dress code for teachers, but if you broke the unwritten code, you’d be sent home in a heartbeat.”

  Paul had always assumed as much, but testing his theory had never been a priority. “So this woman, then . . .”

  Mrs. Kennedy snorted. “Had a difficult time explaining herself. I’m certain she must be foreign. Eventually she claimed to be a parent investigating likely schools in which to place her daughter. If the daughter is anything like the mother, I’m certain she’s been expelled from any number of schools.”

  Paul couldn’t help but laugh. “Mrs. Kennedy, you’ve been of greater help than I possibly imagined.”

  “Uh-huh. Why the interest?”

  “My daughter mentioned seeing a strange woman in the school and thought she must be a substitute teacher.”

  The secretary pursed her lips. “If you’re looking for strange women, try the Dairy Queen.”

  “What?”

  “It’s been the talk of the school all term. Three—I hesitate to use the word hags, but that’s what the students call them—have been living in the Dairy Queen for weeks. I haven’t gone to look for myself, but apparently they’ve taken over a corner booth and haven’t budged.”

  “Three hags?” If Paul had been limber enough to kick himself, he would have done so on the spot. He noticed Mrs. Kennedy watching him in the same manner that doctors view infections or entomologists the behaviour of drunken ants. He shrugged. “I believe I’ve seen them.”

  Paul remembered the photo he had taken with his camera and printed out to show his three witches. He reached into his coat pocket and, with trembling hands, pulled out the folded photo. He handed it to Mrs. Kennedy, who looked at it with an expression of surprised horror then squinted at it closely.

  She looked up at Paul. “It’s the same woman. Has to be. But the hair is different and the face metal and eye shadow are all gone.” More slowly, the school secretary asked, “Why is she in her underwear?”

  Paul took back the photo and stared at it, mortified that he had shown Mrs. Kennedy the wrong one. “The same as who?”

  “The foreigner who was here yesterday looking at schools for her daughter.”

  Paul had no idea what to make of that and made a mental note to think about it later. Pulling the second photo from his pocket, he thrust it at Mrs. Kennedy. “The lingerie woman was at Dairy Queen standing next to these three.”

  Mrs. Kennedy examined the second photo then nodded her head. “The students are right. Hags. No doubt about it.” She handed the photo back.

  “You . . . um.” Paul fidgeted as he put the photos back in his pocket. “You won’t tell Mrs. Cadwell about these strange women, will you?”

  The school secretary gave Paul a severe look. “Mr. Samson, I make it policy to refrain from telling the gorgon lady so much as the time of day.”

  Paul nodded slowly. “That’s good to know. Mrs. Kennedy, you have been extremely helpful.”

  “Any time, Mr. Samson. Any time.”

  After retreating into the empty hallway, Paul opened his cell phone and dialed a number in his call history. When the other end answered, he said. “This is Paul Samson calling. Could you let Mr. Riordan know that there have been further developments?”

  Scene 6: Let Not Light See My Black and Deep Desires

  Wednesday morning concluded the curtain rehearsal. Sylvia worked her magic with the pad of ruled paper and the stopwatch while Paul jotted comments onto paper already crowded with notes. Everything was running smoothly until Act V, Scene 8. That’s when Paul realized he was an idiot.

  Locked in mortal combat, hacking at each other with plastic swords, Macbeth shouted at Macduff: “Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield, to one of woman born.”

  Paul knew why he had missed it. Assigning Lenny the role of Macduff had been an error on his part. Quite childishly, he had wanted to knock Lenny down a notch. Lenny should have been Macbeth, and one broken leg later, he had the part he should have had all along. So seeing Lenny as Macbeth had not seemed out of place.

  Not in a million years could Paul see his daughter, Susie, out on a heath with three witches trading gym class to play the part of Lady Macbeth in her father’s drama class. But he had no problem at all seeing Lenny, dressed in the same black clothes he wore now, standing on a windy bluff, selling his soul to play the villain instead of the hero.

  When the curtain fell at the end of the play, there were still fifteen minutes of class left.

  Once the students had finished their formal bows in front of the curtain, Paul lifted the megaphone to his lips. “Fantastic job, everyone. Tomorrow we’ll go over the notes from today and yesterday’s rehearsal. Class dismissed.”

  The students hesitated; teachers weren’t allowed to end class early. But as soon as one student moved to leave, the rest followed like lemmings.

  Paul returned the megaphone to his lips. “A word, Lenny.”

  By the time Lenny approached the directors’ chairs, his peers had vanished.

  Paul took in a deep breath. “I have a serious question for you, Lenny, and I want you to answer truthfully. You’re not in any kind of trou
ble, but I need an honest answer.”

  Lenny replied with a blank stare.

  “Are you aware of the three . . . older women who have been hanging out at the Dairy Queen?”

  Sylvia sat at Paul’s side, silent. He had told her about his conversation with Mrs. Kennedy the moment he had returned home the previous evening.

  Lenny’s stare never faltered. “What?”

  Paul removed the photo from his pocket, the correct photo, and showed it to him. “These three woman?”

  Lenny hardly glanced at the photo. “No.”

  With almost fifteen years of dealing with teenagers, including his own daughter, under his belt, Paul had picked up certain street smarts. “I’ll take that as a yes. What kind of deal did you make with them?”

  Lenny scratched his head. “Oh, those women. I might have mentioned that I was playing the part of Macbeth in the school play.”

  Paul put away the photo. “Like I said, you’re not in any kind of trouble. But it is important that I know the details of the deal you made.”

  The blank stare returned, but it carried a hint of bafflement. “Deal? We just talked.”

  Sylvia spoke up. “It may not have sounded like a deal. Perhaps they mentioned a destiny?”

  The bafflement grew and Paul could see a discussion going on behind Lenny’s eyes. Apparently the side of the boy’s brain that couldn’t see how he could get into any kind of trouble won. “Well, the witch I met first did say I was destined to have the lead in the school play, but that was before you even picked the play.”

  “Before I?” Now Paul was baffled. “You spoke with the . . . witches . . . before I chose Macbeth?”

  “Just one of them. On the Saturday before school started. I was riding my bike in the park, and all of a sudden, this homeless woman leaps out of the trees and screeches at me, ‘All hail Lenny! Lead of the autumn school play!’