Much Ado about Macbeth

by Randy McCharles

  Paul sighed. “My only real regret about cancelling Macbeth is having to tell the students.”

  Scene 6: When the Battle's Lost and Won

  Paul arrived at school early Wednesday morning and hauled a near-empty box out of the trunk of his car. It contained a script and several pages of notes. A visit with Mrs. Shean in the school library and twenty minutes lingering by the photocopier produced thirty copies of the script, adding considerable weight to the box.

  He found Scarlet waiting for him in the auditorium. Since Hecate had destroyed Riordan’s lamp, the ghost no longer vanished whenever Paul was away. And now that she could make anyone see her whenever she wished, Scarlet was also free of any ties to Paul. Not that she was truly free of Paul. They would see each other every school day as long as Paul continued to teach drama.

  Paul had asked Sylvia not to join him today. Telling the students that Macbeth was cancelled was going to be difficult, and he didn’t want Sylvia to share in the blame or the pain.

  “Do you think the students will show up?” he asked Scarlet. “Yesterday’s rehearsal was pretty rough. And then Winston’s heart attack.”

  Scarlet laughed. “Most of them probably ignored the school principal’s heart attack. Winston is an adult, too far removed from the important things in teenagers’ lives. A lot of them have yet to learn how fragile life is and can’t differentiate between a heart attack and the flu. To them, Winston’s just taking a few days in bed with a box of Kleenex.”

  While a month ago Paul might have agreed with the ghost, today he’d give his students more credit. The younger generation might have a different way of expressing themselves and dealing with emotion, but Paul was pretty certain that being oblivious wasn’t one of them. After dinner last night, he’d had a brief chat with Susie about Winston, and her signature claim of old news hadn’t rung true. He could tell his daughter was shaken.

  Lenny Cadwell was the first student to arrive, dressed all in black and carrying Macbeth’s crown in his left hand. “My mother says you’re cancelling the play.”

  Paul nodded. “I do have some news I need to share with the class.”

  The boy pouted. “The witches promised me that I would be Macbeth.”

  Again, Paul nodded. “You’ve been Macbeth for almost six weeks. A fine Macbeth, if I do say so myself.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “Life isn’t always fair,” Paul said. He stopped himself from adding, Especially when your mother is involved.

  Lenny tossed his crown into a prop box and sat on the stage, his face a storm cloud.

  The second-period bell rang, and other students began arriving, some, like Lenny, in costume. Seeing Lenny’s demeanour, they all realized that something was wrong and ceased talking. Many joined Lenny on the floor. No one mentioned the distractions from yesterday’s rehearsal.

  When Paul saw that they had all arrived, he picked up the megaphone and sat in his director’s chair. “I’m afraid I have some troubling news. As all of you know, the PTA has had some concerns about Shakespeare’s Macbeth being performed at Ashcroft Senior High.” This evoked a few snickers.

  “These concerns have resulted in the PTA taking several escalating actions to suppress the play, all of which failed to achieve their goal.” This evoked several cheers.

  “The PTA’s concerns, however, have not gone away, and yesterday it was decided that it would be better for all concerned if Macbeth was cancelled.”

  Stunned silence.

  “Not better for us,” someone yelled.

  Paul looked around and saw that it was Kim Greyson. The boy had abandoned his wheelchair after his first day back but still leaned on crutches, one of which he waved like a sword in battle. Paul had smiled each and every time he had watched Kim rehearse a battle scene.

  He also saw Susie glaring at him. Feeling it unfair to inform some students before others, Paul and Sylvia had been forced to hide what had happened from their own daughter. He was not surprised that Mrs. Cadwell had felt no such compunction.

  Then he nearly fell off his director’s chair when he noticed an extra student standing against one wall: black hair, heavy mascara, a face full of metal. Hecate. He quickly arranged his thoughts and continued speaking, raising his hands to quell the complaints that had followed Kim’s objection.

  “Please, kids. You have all done a fantastic job rehearsing your parts. I have never been more impressed by any class at this school. And because I am impressed, I have every confidence that we can still put on a midterm play on the thirtieth. How many of you have read Much Ado about Nothing?”

  When no one raised a hand, Paul looked at Lenny. The boy shrugged.

  “Tomorrow we will watch the 2012 film version of the play directed by Joss Whedon. I think you will like it. It’s a comedy.”

  “Is it Shakespeare?” Gemma Henderson asked.

  Paul paused to take a breath. “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Several students echoed the sentiment.

  Paul looked over at Hecate and saw that she was no longer in the auditorium. That, too, was good. Paul didn’t know if he could stall the discussion much longer.

  “How are we supposed to learn a whole new play in two weeks?”

  “I’m glad you asked, John. Two weeks is asking a lot. Many professional actors wouldn’t be able to learn a new script in two weeks.” While he spoke, Paul searched for signs that Hecate was still lurking in the auditorium. “That’s why I spent last night modifying the original script so that it would be easier to learn. Lenny, could you hand out the scripts and the highlighters so that everyone can mark their lines.”

  “We’re not going to audition this time?” Lenny asked, his expression still dark with anger.

  “Not necessary. When you review your script, you’ll see why.” Paul could see no sign of Hecate. Either way, he was committed now.

  “Hey,” said Camille, looking at the script’s opening page. “This is my line. But Leonato is speaking it. Who’s Leonato?”

  Paul drew a deep breath. “You have all done a commendable job learning your lines for Macbeth, and we don’t have time for you to learn a whole new play. So I’ve adapted as much of the Macbeth script as I could to replace lines from Much Ado. What you will have to learn over the next two and a half weeks are new character and place names, some unavoidable changes to some of your lines, and a few new lines. Most of the blocking remains the same. Unfortunately I couldn’t keep the murders and the battles. Much Ado is, after all, a romantic comedy. Instead, we have some duels, break and enter, and a considerable amount of spying.”

  That caused some grumbling, especially from the boys.

  Paul looked at Lenny. “Macbeth, you are now Benedick, a witty, aristocratic soldier who is married to Beatrice.”

  He turned to Susie. “Lady Macbeth, you are now the pleasant-spirited, though sharp-tongued Beatrice, or Lady Benedick.

  “Duncan is Claudio, a soldier whose suspicious nature makes him quick to believe evil rumours.

  “Banquo is Don Pedro, an important nobleman.

  “Macduff, you’re Dogberry—”

  “Dogberry!” William looked scandalized. “What kind of a name is that?"

  “It has to be Dogberry. Dogberry’s the hero. He’s the constable in charge of the watch. And the witches now have names instead of numbers. You are Conrade, Borachio, and Margaret.”

  “Isn’t Conrade a boy’s name?” asked Teresa.

  “Then use Conrada when your name is spoken. Camille, use Borachia.”

  “What about me?” asked Gemma.

  Paul looked at her. “If you don’t like Margaret, use Margrata.

  “Hecate, you are Don John.”

  “But—” said Val.

  “Don John is the villain,” said Paul. “His name is too well known to change.”

  “But I should be the villain,” said Lenny. “Not this Benedict Arnold fellow.”

  Paul shook his head. “Benedick is the lead and deliv
ers Macbeth’s copious lines. Don John delivers Hecate’s two monologues. Do you really want to switch?”

  Lenny shook his head but not as furiously as Val.

  Teresa Van Pelt raised her hand.

  “Yes, Teresa.”

  “I’ve been looking at the script. I still have the same lines, only the tag says Conrade instead of First Witch.”

  Paul let out a deep breath. “Not quite the same lines, Teresa. Instead of a witch, you are now a greedy nobleman.” He consulted the script. “Camille’s first line now says: ‘When the hurlyburly’s done, when the duel is lost and won.’ And Gemma’s second line is: ‘There to meet with Benedick.’”

  A chorus of confused grumbling arose from the gathered students.

  Paul raised his megaphone. “You all know what a mash-up is.” It was a statement. He knew better than to make it a question. “We have to do a different play. One without witches and cauldrons and destinies. One that is different enough from Macbeth that it can’t be called Macbeth.” He paused. “But we don’t have time to learn new dialogue and blocking, or to make new costumes. So what do we do?”

  Seconds ticked by while Paul waited for an answer.

  Finally, Kim Greyson lifted a hand from one of his crutches. “We cheat?”

  Paul rubbed his face. He had started all this as a lesson in honesty, as a response to the cheating on exams that had occurred last June. Was this any different? Paul didn’t have time to think about it.

  “No, Kim,” he said at last. “We don’t cheat. Technically I am probably cheating. And I’m prepared to suffer the consequences should anyone take offence. But you and the rest of the class are definitely not cheating. I’m your teacher. This is the assignment I’m giving you. You’re expected to complete the assignment. Any questions?”

  Silence filled the auditorium.

  Then a hand went up. “What about me, Mr. Samson. What’s my new name?”

  Paul ran a finger down his list. “Seyton. You’re Boy.”

  “Boy?”

  “Perfect name for a servant.”

  It took several minutes to run through the remainder of the cast name changes.

  “Remember,” Paul said, “the play now takes place in sunny Italy rather than wintry Scotland. You’re not in Dunsinane; you’re in Messina. All of the place name changes are also in your new scripts.”

  Several of the students were flipping through the script and laughing.

  “Care to share the joke, Lenny?” Paul asked.

  “You’ve replaced the word murder in all of my lines,” Lenny said. “It now says marriage. ‘My thought, whose marriage yet is but fantastical.’” He flipped a few pages. “‘The curtain’d sleep; the dark night celebrates pale Don John’s offerings, and wither’d marriage.’”

  Paul nodded. “As I said at the beginning, the play is now a romantic comedy. You have two weeks to relearn your lines. Many are unchanged, but most have subtle changes. Incorporating the changes won’t be as hard as you think. We’ll still have battles, only they’ll be polite duels and no one will die. The winner gets the girl. The loser leaves the scene to go sulk with his friends. But remember, as far as everyone outside this class is concerned, the play is Much Ado about Nothing. That is the play the PTA expects, and that is the play they are going to get.”

  Scene 7: Much Ado about Macbeth

  Paul peeked between the curtains and looked out on row after row of filled theatre seats. Those who couldn’t find seats stood along the back and side walls, in blatant violation of the fire code. In his fifteen years of teaching at Ashcroft Senior High School, Paul had never seen a better turnout for a school play. His one hope was that they’d make it through to the end.

  He’d seen no sign of Hecate during the twelve days of rehearsal, and no disasters had befallen anyone in the cast or elsewhere in the school. The kids had worked hard, and he didn’t think anyone unfamiliar with Shakespeare would realize Paul had cheated.

  Yes, cheated. There was no other way to describe it. He had disguised Macbeth as a different play. And it wasn’t even a clever disguise. Anyone familiar with either play would catch him in the act, so to speak, and a wrong word to the gorgon lady could bring the house down, and not in a good way.

  But it wasn’t the gorgon lady who worried him. Mrs. Cadwell could scream and shout and collapse with epilepsy for all he cared. The days of fencing with the PTA were over. Paul didn’t need to play games or win arguments. He would do what he thought best as a teacher, and if the gorgon lady disagreed, she could choke on it.

  What worried him was Hecate. What his students were about to perform was arguably not The Scottish Play. The name Macbeth would never be used. Nor would any other character or place name from that play. There were no witches, no cauldron. Don John and his minions would enact their deceptions around a campfire outside the city of Messina. No one would be murdered in beds, in homes, or on the field of battle. The cast would not be concerned with political advancement, but instead seek flirtatious misadventure, happy marriages, and houses filled with the patter of tiny feet.

  The script was, admittedly, a poor one. Paul had never published a script, but he’d tried his hand now and then. Plagiarism aside, his liberal adaptation of Much Ado about Nothing would receive an F from any drama teacher with the stomach to read it. But that was not the point.

  The students had worked hard, and they deserved to put on a play. This was the best Paul could do for them. Whether the audience was familiar with Shakespeare or not, they should get a laugh, if for different reasons. And he hoped it was sufficient to satisfy the wicked witch; a witch too wicked for even the Weird Sisters. But Paul had no way of knowing. He didn’t think he could win an argument with Hecate no matter how right he was. But it was too late to worry about that now.

  The house lights were still up, so Paul had no trouble seeing faces in the audience. He searched for anyone recognizable from the PTA, but succeeded only in finding Mrs. Cadwell sitting near the centre of the auditorium. He swallowed as he noticed the notebook computer on her lap. He had been joking when he suggested she write a review of the play for the school newspaper, and he could only imagine what it was going to say. But at least she couldn’t say there were witches.

  In the front row, Winston sat, looking fitter than Paul had seen him in years. The school principal had been on his new diet for only a couple of weeks, but already he was a new man.

  Speaking of new men, next to Winston sat Simon Riordan, a skeleton no longer and looking ten years younger. In other words, Simon Riordan as he should look at sixty years of age. Unburdening himself of guilt over Scarlet’s death had saved Paul’s old mentor from an early grave. Helping Paul with the mash-up play the past couple of weeks had reinforced his new vitality.

  Privately Paul considered himself a new man as well. Only by witnessing the shell of a man Riordan had become had Paul realized his own shortcomings. Year by year he had steadily failed to live up to the ideals he had adopted from Riordan in high school. He had grown cynical, and that had affected not just work but his home life as well. His family had been growing apart.

  Susie had found her own solution to her father’s descent into ill-being by manoeuvring herself into his drama class. He hadn’t called her on it, but he knew it to be true. If her father wouldn’t show an interest in what she was doing, then she would show interest in his life.

  Sylvia, sitting next to Riordan with a program in her hand and a wide grin on her face, had done the same by volunteering herself as his helper at school.

  It had occurred to Paul that mother and daughter might have conspired together to use the play to save their family. Well, it was about time Paul joined the conspiracy. From now on, they’d have a weekly family night. Susie could pick an evening that fit her schedule, and as a family, they’d watch movies, go bowling, or do whatever normal families did. Perhaps they’d take in a play.

  Seeing that the seats were full and the audience was growing restless, Paul decided he could
delay no longer. He took three deep breaths then stepped out in front of the curtain to introduce Much Ado about Nothing.

  “That was a decent enough prologue,” suggested Agatha. “If brief.”

  The drama teacher had left the stage, and the curtain was rising.

  “Oh, my,” said Gertrude. “Three despotic noblemen gathered around a campfire outside a sixteenth-century Sicilian city. Heh. I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Noble?” said Netty. “They’re dressed like hags! Look at that frumpy hat. And they’re wearing boots!”

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

  “They do seem a tad underdressed for their station,” Agatha agreed. “Fallen on hard times, I imagine.”

  “Speaking of falling on hard times,” said Gertrude, “has anyone heard from Hecate?”

  “I haven’t seen her since the tribunal,” Netty said.

  “Shh!” the man repeated.

  Netty ignored him. “Heard she was transferred. Antarctica or some such place.”

  The three witches cackled, causing half the row in front of them to turn and make shushing noises.

  “Ah, well,” said Agatha. “Best we sit back and enjoy the show. I’ve never seen Much Ado about Nothing. Although it does seem very familiar.”

  –THE END–

  Acknowlegements

  I would very much like to thank my publisher, Tyche Books, and editor Andrea Howe for painstakingly massaging the pages of this book to make it as solid a work as possible. Thanks also to the many pre-readers who provided helpful feedback, including Tereasa Maillie of Gas & Light Productions for her theatre expertise; Kim Greyson, high school teacher extraordinaire; award-winning fantasy author David B. Coe; and fellow writers Howie Erickson, Monica Plamondon, and Val King. Any errors remaining in this book are solely my own and I beg forgiveness.