Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  A loud cackling went up from the last row of seats. “Interrupt your curses? Why would anyone do that? We were so enjoying the show.”

  The house lights went up halfway, exposing the Weird Sisters. Paul glanced over at the lighting booth, but it was empty. Sally had also made her escape.

  Hecate shrieked. “Don’t think I didn’t know you were there!”

  “We wouldn’t dream such a thing,” Agatha said.

  “Hecate knows all,” Gertrude added.

  “You ruined my fries!” said Netty.

  Hecate pointed a ruler-length finger at Riordan. “Who is this man who extinguished my fire and dodged my falling lamp?”

  Riordan’s face turned pale, but he stood firm.

  Gertrude let out a wicked laugh. “Oh, my. I was wrong. Hecate doesn’t know all. That’s Simple Simon. He once had a destiny.”

  “Simon was going to be a hero,” said Agatha.

  “And today he is!” Netty said. “Who knew?”

  Hecate deflated to a slightly smaller size, but Paul could see her clench and unclench her fists and glare at the Weird Sisters. “You switched ghosts. You said you summoned Banquo’s ghost. If that’s Banquo, I read the wrong play.”

  “We had to dismiss Banquo,” Agatha said.

  Netty snorted. “He wasn’t working out.”

  “Who’s this, then?” Hecate demanded.

  “Just a dead actress,” Gertrude said.

  “Imagine our surprise,” said Agatha, “when we found her haunting this auditorium.”

  “Lucky for us,” Netty said, “that we didn’t do anything to . . . Hmm, how can I put this?”

  “Interfere,” suggested Agatha.

  “Ah, yes.” Netty showed her gap-toothed grin. “Interfere with a ghost’s haunted territory.”

  Hecate’s eyes grew round as oranges, and she shrank another two sizes. “You didn’t mention in your reports that the auditorium was haunted.”

  The witches cackled.

  “We found out yesterday,” Agatha said.

  “After you fired us,” said Gertrude.

  Hecate was now a normal-sized seventeen-year-old. She even pouted like a teenager, if they could pout while floating in mid-air. “How convenient.”

  More cackling.

  “That’s not the convenient part,” said Agatha.

  “The ghost will tell you,” added Gertrude.

  “Go ahead, young miss,” Netty said. “Tell our friend here what you were haunting.”

  Hecate narrowed her eyes. “You said she was haunting the auditorium.”

  “Not the whole auditorium,” Scarlet said, her voice hesitant. “Just the prop lamp.”

  “What prop lamp?” Hecate demanded, turning to face the ghost.

  Scarlet poked the remains of the lamp with her toe. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

  “Oh, my,” Gertrude said. “Is that your lamp?”

  “Looks like it was struck by witch’s lightning,” said Agatha.

  Netty let out a gasp. “What witch in her right mind would throw lightning at a haunted object? Isn’t there a rule against that?”

  “I didn’t throw lightning at a haunted object,” Hecate argued. “I threw lightning at the ghost.”

  Agatha let out a piercing cackle. “That technicality is sure to get you off the hook at the coven tribunal.” She then spoke in a perfect imitation of Hecate’s voice. “I wasn’t trying to destroy the haunted lamp. I was trying to destroy the ghost that haunted it.”

  Gertrude shook her crooked head. “I think there’s a rule against harming independent ghosts as well.”

  “I didn’t know the ghost was independent,” Hecate whined. “I thought you had summoned it.”

  Agatha snorted. “You could have taken a moment and asked us.”

  “We were sitting right here,” Gertrude said.

  “You even said that you knew we were sitting right here,” Netty added.

  Hecate clenched her fists and looked ready to throw another bolt of lightning.

  “Do you think they’ll ask us to testify?” Gertrude asked. “Heh. I’ve never testified at a coven tribunal before.”

  “Three eyewitnesses,” Agatha said. “Four when you include the ghost. I imagine the tribunal will be quite short. Not a lot of room for argument.”

  “Will there be tea?” asked Netty. “I hope not. I can’t abide tea.”

  Paul waited for Hecate to respond. When she didn’t, he looked up to where the goth witch had been floating in the air. There was no sign of her.

  “Is she really gone?” asked Sylvia.

  The voice next to his ear was so sudden that Paul almost leaped out of his chair. He had forgotten his wife was even there.

  “Perhaps,” said Agatha. “Either way, the young miss must be quick. You did tell her what to do?”

  “He did,” said Scarlet. “Are you certain this is going to work?”

  “So the stories go,” Gertrude said.

  “I’ve never seen it done,” said Netty.

  “Okay,” said Scarlet.

  The ghost tensed visibly in concentration, and Paul saw spots before his eyes. Then he realized that the spots were really the ashes and fragments of the prop lamp rising up off the stage. Scarlet suddenly threw wide her hands, and the fragments flew in all directions, striking the walls, floor, and ceiling of the auditorium, embedding themselves permanently into every corner of Ashcroft-Tate Auditorium.

  The witches cackled with glee.

  “It’s official,” said Agatha. “Now you do haunt the entire auditorium.”

  “We’ll make sure word spreads,” Gertrude said.

  “At Hecate’s trial,” said Netty, “if not before.”

  “What about the other part?” asked Scarlet. “Do you really think I can do that as well?”

  The witches cackled once more.

  “Dearie,” said Agatha, “ghosts have been doing the other part since Cain murdered Abel.”

  “All you’ve lacked is confidence,” said Gertrude.

  “If you want a mortal to see you,” Netty said, “all you have to do is let them see you.”

  Once again, Scarlet closed her eyes and concentrated.

  Beside Paul, Sylvia said, “Oh!”

  Then there was a thud, and Paul turned to see Simon Riordan lying across the stage.

  “Oh my,” said Gertrude. “I hope he isn’t dead. Again.”

  Scene 4: I Am Sick at Heart

  Fortunately Riordan had merely fainted. Again.

  When Sylvia roused the older man, he looked about and his eyes locked on Scarlet. “My dear, you haven’t changed a bit!”

  Scarlet’s smile was like the sun rising.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Riordan continued, “you’re even wearing the same dress.”

  “My wardrobe these days is rather limited,” Scarlet admitted.

  The old man’s face grew suddenly grey, and Paul felt he knew what was coming.

  He turned to Sylvia. “We’d better start cleaning up. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes around to investigate the tales the students must surely be telling.”

  Sylvia seemed to understand that Riordan and Scarlet needed a few moments. After all, Paul had told her all about how Riordan blamed himself for Scarlet’s death. “Perhaps the Weird Sisters can help put things back to normal,” Sylvia suggested. But the witches were gone.

  The papier-mâché cauldron was beyond salvaging, so they hauled it out to the garbage bin. Sylvia said she would make a replacement in the art room later that day.

  The light fixture was a write-off, but no record had been kept of the state of the stage lights. The fixture’s remains also found a home in the garbage bin. However, there was still a sizable dent in the hardwood floor of the stage. Sylvia retrieved a can of floor polish from Jerry the caretaker and succeeded in at least making the damage look older than it was.

  The final problem was the prop lamp, which had been all but destroyed. That damage, at least
, had been planned for. Riordan, who had bought the original lamp decades earlier, had somehow managed in the time between Paul’s phone call the previous afternoon and arriving at the school this morning, to find one very similar to it. Paul had scarce hung the new lamp on one of the scenery flats when a student he didn’t recognize was at his elbow with a note.

  The summons was expected, and Paul told himself that he still had every reason to believe that the Weird Sisters’ plan was intact. He kept telling himself that all the way to Winston’s office, right up until he saw, sitting in one of the detention seats, a girl with black hair, heavy mascara, and sixteen pounds of metal piercing her face.

  Hecate cast him an amused grin as Mrs. Kennedy knocked on Winston’s door.

  “You have some explaining to do, Mr. Samson.”

  The words were spoken by the gorgon lady rather than the principal, who sat behind his desk, sweating as usual and looking as if he might be having trouble breathing. The gorgon did have that effect on people. Paul was only thankful that Lenny wasn’t with her. Her son was in a position to add some unhelpful commentary.

  Paul tried to smile. “Perhaps you could drop me a hint regarding what’s bothering you today.”

  Mrs. Cadwell looked near apoplectic. “Your students ran screaming from your classroom.”

  Paul let out a soft laugh. “I’ll ignore the hyperbole, but, yes, that was the intent. And I did warn them in advance.”

  The gorgon stared at him.

  “It was an exercise.”

  “An exercise?”

  “In distraction.” Paul was tempted to sit, especially as Winston had opted to stay out of the confrontation, but he didn’t want to look up to Mrs. Cadwell. “I instructed my students to continue performing as best they could despite a series of distractions. Those do happen in real life, and actors need to learn to work through them.”

  The gorgon lady’s face darkened. “You call fires, falling stage lights, and whatever that light show was ‘distractions’?”

  Paul waved a hand. “Smoke and mirrors. Literally.”

  Mrs. Cadwell shook with rage, or excitement, or adrenalin, or whatever it was that powered a woman intent on making other people’s lives miserable. “You could have set fire to the school. Or injured one of the students. You scared half the kids to death. Mr. Winston, don’t you have anything to say about this?”

  Mrs. Cadwell turned toward Winston, and her expression of righteous indignation became one of astonishment. Despite the amusement the gorgon’s apoplexy was giving him, Paul turned to see what had so alarmed the woman. His stomach hit the floor. Winston was slouched in his desk chair, clutching his hand to his chest. His face had gone white, and sweat poured down as though he had just got out of a hot shower.

  Paul pushed open the door to Winston’s office and shouted to Mrs. Kennedy. “Call for a paramedic and get the school nurse. Principal Winston is having a heart attack!”

  The nurse arrived almost before Paul had reentered the office, which was a good thing, as he had no idea what to do to help a heart attack victim. Mrs. Cadwell appeared to have even less of an idea. She just stood in a corner of the office with one hand over her mouth.

  In fifteen years, Paul had never had occasion to learn the school nurse’s name, but thank God she knew what she was doing. In no time at all, Winston was breathing better, but he still looked as white as a sated vampire’s victim. A few minutes later, two young women who looked as fit as firefighters came running into the office, carrying four large red bags. They took an oxygen mask from one of the bags and placed it over Winston’s mouth. Then one of the paramedics pulled out a stethoscope and listened to the principal’s chest while the other wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and began pumping.

  The taller of the two paramedics left the office and returned a few minutes later with one of those wheeled stretchers like the one that had hauled away Kim Greyson. Together, they lifted Winston onto the bed, threw their red bags on top of his legs, and rolled him out of the office.

  Mrs. Cadwell hadn’t moved the entire time and still stood in a corner with her hand over her mouth. Paul briefly considered requesting a second ambulance for her but decided to leave that up to Mrs. Kennedy.

  Outside the office, a large number of teachers and students had gathered. Most of them stood watching the paramedics roll their principal down the hallway. One student was not watching. She walked over to Paul and spoke to him in a barely audible whisper. “Unless Macbeth is finished, this is just the beginning.” Then Hecate walked back to stand with the other students and smiled as Winston was hauled away to the hospital.

  Scene 5: Embrace the Fate of That Dark Hour

  After the four p.m. bell sent his second-year drama students running from the Ashcroft-Tate Auditorium to their after-school activities, Paul went out to the parking lot, climbed into his car, and drove to Hinton Valley Hospital.

  He had already told Sylvia, Riordan, and Scarlet what had happened to Winston as well as what Hecate had said. They’d then gone looking for the Weird Sisters at the Dairy Queen, but for the first time in six weeks, the witches’ table was unoccupied. One of the restaurant employees was scrubbing the table with strong-smelling liquid from a bucket and looking none too pleased about it.

  Regrouping at the auditorium, where Scarlet had waited for them, they’d agreed that they had saved the play from unimaginable odds but would have to cancel it anyway. They couldn’t predict what Hecate might or might not do next.

  Paul already knew from Mrs. Kennedy what room Winston was in and that visitors were allowed. That Mrs. Cadwell was already there, still complaining about events in the auditorium that morning, didn’t surprise him.

  “And here he is now,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “Care to try that smoke-and-mirrors story again now that Mr. Winston is able to comment?”

  There was a nurse in the room attempting to shush the gorgon lady, but she was getting nowhere. Paul ignored both of them and walked to Winston’s bedside. The large man was awake, looked irritable, and had a tube sticking in his arm.

  “They tell me that you’re going to be all right,” Paul said.

  Winston wagged his head toward Mrs. Cadwell. “All right is a relative term. The heart attack was a mild one, as far as heart attacks go. But the diet these doctors are putting me on is sure to finish me off.”

  That Winston could joke, in a hospital bed, with the gorgon lady ranting in his ear, was a promising sign that Winston would be okay—provided Hecate didn’t come at him again.

  “You listen when I’m talking!” Mrs. Cadwell snapped. “It’s your fault that Mr. Winston is in this hospital. You and your Satanic play.”

  Paul drew in a deep breath and turned to face the gorgon lady. “Mrs. Cadwell, I’ll make a bargain with you. If you leave this hospital right now and don’t come back and give Mr. Winston half a chance to recuperate, I will cancel the play.”

  “You’ll do no such—” Mrs. Cadwell froze. “You’ll do what?”

  “You heard me.” Paul raised his arms and waved them fervently. “It is sheer nonsense that Shakespeare writing a play about Scottish politics could turn students into Satanists or put high school principals in the hospital, but you appear to be obsessed with nonsense. For the sake of Mr. Winston’s health, if not his sanity, I am willing to ask the students to perform a different play.”

  Winston tugged at Paul’s sport coat. “You can’t. There’s less than three weeks until midterm. If you’re going to cancel, cancel. But don’t try to do a different play.”

  Paul shook his head. “These are the best students I’ve ever had. It’s bad enough that all the hard work they’ve put in so far is going out the window. Not getting to perform anything at all will totally demoralize them. We’ll have to substitute in a different play.”

  “What play?” said Mrs. Cadwell, her voice as well as her eyes filled with suspicion.

  Paul continued to wave his hands in the air, feigning deep thoughts. He’d already pre
pared what he was going to say before arriving at the hospital. Then he froze and looked up into space. “Much Ado about Nothing.” His hands began moving again. “It’s a short play. The dialogue is fairly straightforward and should be easy to learn.” He nodded his head as though mentally seeing keys click into locks. “Most of the costumes and sets will still work, if perhaps a bit odd at times.”

  “I’ve never heard of this play,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “It’s not Shakespeare, is it?”

  “A romantic comedy,” said Winston.

  That got the gorgon lady’s attention. “That sounds safe. There aren’t any witches in it, are there?”

  Paul shook his head. “It’s set in Italy, land of the pope.”

  “Well . . .” A thick smile marched across the gorgon lady’s face. “I’m glad you’ve finally seen reason. But if you go back on your word and try to trick me, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “It’s a deal, then?” Paul asked, lowering his arms. He knew better than to try to shake on it.

  The gorgon lady stared at Paul with eyes bulging with suspicion. “Deal.” She turned to leave. “My business here is done.”

  “Oh, and Mrs. Cadwell.” Paul finally allowed a smile to grace his own lips. “I will make sure that you receive full credit for Macbeth being cancelled.”

  When the gorgon lady was gone, Winston said, “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Paul sighed and sat in the visitor’s chair. “Yes, I did. Look at the trouble that woman has caused. And could continue to cause over the next three weeks.”

  “Story of her life,” said Winston. “I do appreciate you getting her out of my hospital room. Much Ado about Nothing? Not exactly Shakespeare’s most popular play.”

  Paul laughed. “We performed it when I was in high school. I was Verges.”

  Now Winston laughed. “Not the most popular role.”