Saving Juliet

by Suzanne Selfors

  "Did those Montagues molest you?" she asked, pointing her red, bulbous nose up at me. "Did they hold you down and have their manly way with you?"

  I might let Benvolio have his manly way with me, if my dream could find him again. I stepped away, searching for sweeter air. What was up with all the odors? I couldn't remember ever smelling stuff in a dream before.

  The pile of blankets moved and a pair of bare feet popped out. Nurse shuffled over to the side of the bed. "You're supposed to be sleeping, you are."

  "I am," came a muffled reply.

  "I am, she says." Nurse adjusted her apron, then spoke again to the pile of blankets. "How can you be asleep if you just said, 'I am.'"

  "Exactly so. I must be talking in my sleep." The feet retreated back under the covers.

  "Sassy little whelp," Nurse muttered. "Well, get on in," she told me, pointing to the bed. "Lady Capulet wants you to nap as well. But watch yourself. Your bedmate's been known to bite." Nurse handed me a pillow.

  The lump moved over. I kicked off my slippers, picked up the edge of the bottom blanket, and crawled in. A hand pulled the pile over my head, trapping me in a toasty cocoon. "Shhh," Juliet whispered in my ear. I couldn't see her but she scooted over until her shoulder pressed against mine. Nurse shuffled about, then both she and the chair groaned as she sat down.

  "O, what a miserable life," Nurse complained. "Nursemaid to a terrible, thankless beastie."

  Juliet giggled and plunged her feet back out, exposing mine as well.

  "Don't think I don't know you're not asleep, because I know you're not asleep, young lady." Nurse's words began to slow. "And it'll be meself that has to listen to her ladyship when she finds that you've got bags under your eyes from not taking your nap. Not me fault..." Her voice faded, followed by loud snoring.

  Juliet giggled again and threw back the blankets. I found myself face-to-face with the character I had played for the last six months.

  Ten

  ***

  "How stands your disposition to be married?"

  Juliet Capulet had about the worst case of bedhead I had ever seen. Masses of kinky brown hair shot up in the air in a chaotic defiance of gravity. "I am not sleepy," she informed me. "Me neither." How could I be? I was already asleep. Juliet slid out of bed and tiptoed over to Nurse. As the exhausted woman breathed deeply, Juliet tied Nurse's apron strings to the chair's back rungs. She had to stop for a moment, to stifle a giggle. Nurse shifted her hips but kept sleeping. Juliet tied a front knot across Nurse's roly-poly belly.

  Juliet tiptoed back to the bed and pulled off a blanket. "Nurse is such a bother," she whispered to me. "Bosses me around all day. Do this, do that. Come hither, go thither." Her voice was somewhat boyish, the way mine sounds when I have a cold. We sat cross-legged on the floor, beneath a shuttered window. "I'm Juliet."

  "I'm Mimi."

  Cracks in the wooden shutters let in bits of daylight.

  Juliet stared at me with large brown eyes, like I was some kind of alien. She had a round face with a clump of freckles on the ridge of her nose. Not scattered like most freckles, just kind of dumped in one place. She wasn't at all like Fernando's Juliet--full-lipped and perfect. Nor was she like Hollywood's Juliet--graceful and angelic. She looked real, the way a girl is supposed to look. A real girl, cute and full of energy, like she'd be more comfortable in soccer gear than in her long nightgown that dripped with lace and bows. But what I most noticed was how young she was.

  She reached up and took a little knife from the windowsill. She started poking the wall with the blade, flaking off pieces of plaster. "Are you going to the party?"

  "If your mother can find me a dress," I told her.

  "My parents are giving this bothersome party because they want me to get married." She stabbed the wall extra hard. "I am not yet fourteen and they want me to get married. Mother had a baby by fifteen." She scrunched her nose.

  "At fifteen?" I asked, horrified, remembering the Oprah show about the girls in Africa whose insides got torn apart because they gave birth too young. I shuddered.

  Nurse snored loudly, her chin resting on her overflowing cleavage.

  Juliet leaned close. "Mother says that Paris will seek my hand tonight. He is a member of the prince's family and twice my age. I am to marry an old man!" She flicked another piece of plaster. Multiple holes covered the wall, from previous attacks. "She said that marrying her only daughter into the prince's family is an excellent route for the Capulet name. But what she really wants is his money."

  "Have you told your mother you don't want to get married?" I asked.

  Juliet frowned. "What good would that do? She does not care what I want. She only cares about the Capulet name." How painfully familiar.

  Two daughters, both alike in dignity, forced down paths of their mothers' choosing. I had never realized the similarity between Juliet's and my plight. It made perfect sense that my subconscious had selected this story for my dreamworld.

  "My mother's the same way," I confided. "She only cares ... cared about me becoming an actor. She owned a theater in Manhattan. She wanted me to follow in her footsteps."

  Juliet stopped stabbing and widened her eyes. "You are an actor? On the stage?" I nodded. "A troupe was here last month. They performed some of the Greek tragedies. It looked like so much fun. They get to travel the world. I am not allowed to leave the house except to attend church or family gatherings." She leaned closer. "Your husband allows you to act?"

  "I don't have a husband."

  Juliet narrowed her eyes. "Did your husband die?"

  I shook my head. "I've never been married. You don't have to get married in Manhattan if you don't want to."

  For a moment she sat speechless, letting the knife fall to the floor. "Amazing! I want to go there. Will you take me there?"

  "Uh, I really don't want to go back there. How about we go somewhere else? How about Paris or London?" Why not? It was a dream, after all.

  "You do not wish to go home?" She smiled. "Then we shall run away together."

  Nurse farted and momentarily woke herself up. Juliet and I froze until she had nodded back to sleep. I giggled because, by far, it was the loudest fart I had ever heard.

  Juliet stood and began to pace, her crazy hair bobbing to and fro. "What am I talking about? My mother will never let me run away. She would send her guards after me even to the far corners of the world." She stomped her foot. "And tonight I have to go to that wretched party and meet the old windbag who wants to marry me. He spied me last month when I attended a cousin's wedding and claims he fell in love with me at first sight. He said I am as beautiful as one of his roses. He is obsessed with flowers. Spends all his time in his garden. He told my father that there could be no lovelier addition to his flower collection than me. He will probably stick me in a vase." She shuddered. "I must find a way to make him not in love with me so he will withdraw his proposal."

  I considered myself the expert on making guys not in love. All those plays, all those leading men, and not one, except Troy, had ever asked me on a date--if you count kissing lessons a date. Aunt Mary said that my family name made me unapproachable and my mother, who intimidated everyone, served as a major roadblock. Aunt Mary said my lack of dates had nothing to do with who I was inside. I didn't believe her. If somebody really wanted to date me, they would have found a way. Even if it meant dealing with my mother. Even if it meant climbing an enemy's balcony.

  "Will you help me to get rid of Paris?" Juliet asked.

  Getting rid of Paris sounded like a lot of fun. He's such a butthead in the play. "Sure, but how?"

  "I am not certain. I only know that I do not wish to be his pretty little flower."

  "Then why not become an ugly weed?" I suggested.

  Her mischievous expression returned. "Brilliant!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands in glee. Nurse remained in a stupor as Juliet opened a door onto a small balcony. The balcony. Light spilled in and a warm breeze drifted through the room. I discarded th
e blanket and stood next to her as she leaned over a railing. "Boy," she called, trying to restrain her voice. The boy from the apricot orchard sat on a crate in the street below. He scrambled to his feet.

  "Yes," he answered, giving me a little wave.

  "Do you know the man named Paris who lives in the villa at the edge of town? The one with all the flowers?" The boy nodded. "I should like you to go to him. Tell him that you overheard some women in the market. Tell him that you thought he might be interested in what you overheard because it concerned Juliet Capulet. Then pretend that you are too embarrassed to continue because it concerns a delicate matter. He will urge you to speak." She snickered and looked over her shoulder. Nurse snored on. Juliet tiptoed back into the room, removed a coin from the wooden chest, then tiptoed back to the balcony.

  "What shall I tell him, my lady?" the boy asked.

  "Tell him that the women were discussing a boil, the likes of which has never before been seen. And that this boil resides on Juliet's bottom." She paused for a minute, strumming her fingers as she thought. "Tell him that it is a recurring boil that bursts forth with every full moon." She snickered again. "Tell him that Juliet is in such pain that she cannot dance, so the party has been canceled. Did you get all that?"

  The boy nodded. "Juliet has a boil on her bottom, the likes of which has never before been seen. It bursts forth with every full moon."

  "Yes, but don't forget that Juliet cannot dance so the party has been canceled."

  "Right. Canceled."

  "Remember that you overheard this at the market." Juliet tossed the coin. The boy caught it and ran off. "He is a good, loyal boy," she told me. "He will tell no one that I sent him. We shall see what Paris thinks of girls with boily bottoms."

  I decided then and there that I really liked her. She was the crazy little sister I never had. A rebel at heart. She was my alter ego.

  The bedroom door opened and Lady Capulet entered. The room's temperature instantly dropped a few degrees. "Why are you two not napping? Move away from that breeze," she hissed. "You shall both come down with fevers."

  Juliet closed the balcony door as two servants entered the bedroom, each carrying a gown. "Put those on the bed," her ladyship directed. Then she leaned over Nurse and called her name. Nurse awoke with a jolt and kicked out her legs so hard that she kicked Lady Capulet in the shins.

  "Get up, get up," Lady Capulet ordered, waving her hands as Nurse struggled to free herself from the tied apron strings. "What ever is the matter with you? Are you having some sort of fit? Go on, get out of here. I wish to speak with my daughter and our guest."

  Juliet smirked as Nurse slammed the chair against the wall a few times, finally freeing herself. "Beastie," Nurse mumbled as she and the servants fled.

  "Daughter," Lady Capulet said. "I bring wonderful news. We have concluded negotiations with Paris and it is agreed by all parties that the wedding shall take place as soon as possible--perhaps by week's end."

  Juliet's mouth hung open in disbelief. But she didn't say a word. Perhaps she had learned, as had I, that some arguments could never be won. Lady Capulet kissed her daughter's forehead. "Prepare yourself to meet your future husband." She tried to pat down Juliet's hair but it stubbornly refused to oblige. "I shall send the hairdresser."

  Juliet did not move for a very long time after her mother had left. Her arms hung limp and she stared at the floor.

  "Juliet?" I asked, touching her shoulder.

  "I am to marry a man I have not even met." She started to breathe quickly.

  "There's still hope. Remember the boil."

  "I feel strange," she said. "I feel like the room is getting smaller. I feel so trapped." She flung the balcony door open, gasping for air.

  "Calm down," I told her, as I had so often told myself. "It will be okay." But would it? If my dream followed the traditional story line, then Juliet was doomed to commit suicide in a few days' time. In that case she was trapped-- trapped in a Shakespearean tragedy. However, this was my dream, so I wouldn't let that happen.

  "My heart's beating so quickly. Why must they force me to marry?" She clung to the rail. Her hands began to shake and her jaw began to tremble. Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. She opened her mouth, taking in shallow breaths.

  Wow. It was like watching myself. "You're having a panic attack," I realized, clutching her hands.

  "Panic? Yes, I do feel a sense of panic. I cannot catch my breath."

  "Listen to my voice. We have to slow your breathing or you'll hyperventilate." I started to chant my centering mantra, over and over. "Do it with me," I insisted and she did. Om ya, om ya, om ya, until her breathing slowed and we both sank to the balcony's stone floor.

  She cried for a bit and I kept hold of her hands. Shakespeare may have created this predicament but I was the one who could change it. I wasn't going to let this girl kill herself. Even if it meant that I had to stay in this dream for a very long time. I was determined not to wake up until Juliet got her happy ending. One of us deserved a happy ending.

  "I do not wish to get married," she pleaded, squeezing my fingers.

  "We'll come up with a plan," I assured her. "I don't know what it is yet, but I'm going to help you get out of this engagement."

  Eleven

  ***

  "Why, then the world's mine oyster."

  There was no way to get around it. I had to pee.

  Juliet had burrowed beneath her blankets once again, insisting it was the best place for her to think. "If I lived in Manhattan, I would never have to get married. Are you certain that you do not wish to go back to Manhattan?"

  "Totally certain. I'm sure there are other places we can go." I looked under the bed for a chamber pot but found only dustballs and a slumbering brown mouse. What the heck did they do in the sixteenth century? I remembered reading that in the Middle Ages, people stuck their butts out holes in castle walls. No way was I doing that. Dream or no dream, I had my pride.

  "Escape will be impossible with my mother's henchmen following us. Even a nunnery could not protect me." She punched the blanket with her foot.

  "Juliet?" I squirmed like a first-grader. "Where's the bathroom?"

  "I refuse to share a bed with that old man!"

  "Juliet, I need to urinate."

  "You need to piddle? The closestool is behind the screen, in the corner."

  I hadn't noticed the screen, painted the same off-white as the walls. It concealed a stool with a hole cut in the center and a ceramic pot held beneath, like a toddler's training potty, only larger. I could deal with that.

  As the pee filled the pot, doubts trickled into my mind. The sensation felt warm and relieving--like the real thing. What if I was actually peeing? Oh my God, did that mean that I had just wet myself in the real world? How totally embarrassing, especially if Troy had witnessed the act. He had already seen me vomit. Just great. I couldn't blame wetting my pants on bad clams.

  Wait a minute. Falling in a dream feels real, but the dreamer isn't actually falling. So it's possible I wasn't actually peeing.

  But doubt lingered. Dreamers don't wonder if they're actually dreaming or not. When asleep, they accept the dream as reality. Yet there I sat, a nagging doubt tapping me on the head.

  "Oh Mimi, even if I had money, which I do not, and even if I had a horse and carriage, which I have not, two women cannot travel alone. We'd be noticed immediately."

  "Then we'll dress as boys," I suggested, grateful to have a distraction from my confusing thoughts.

  "As boys?"

  "Why not? It's a classic theme. Even Shakespeare uses it."

  "Shakespeare?"

  The room filled with voices. I straightened my dress and emerged from behind the screen. Two serving women placed bowls of water on the bedroom table while two others pulled Juliet from bed--a bit roughly, I noticed. Juliet pouted and squirmed while they washed her face with small towels and brushed her hair. Two more women began to remove her nightgown.

  "No thanks,"
I insisted as one approached me with a washcloth. "I can do it myself."

  "I never get to dress myself," Juliet pouted, standing in a sort of tank top and slip. "Never!" she yelled in a woman's face. "I suppose that the Capulets of Manhattan are allowed to dress themselves."

  Not this Capulet. At some point in my development, probably when my breasts refused to fill anything larger than an A cup, my mother decided that I should look exactly like Audrey Hepburn. "She's a classic," she had told me, filling my closet with trench coats and sleeveless dresses. "And she's dead so you can't upset her if you look exactly like her." My crisp style garnered me a few mentions on the best-dressed list but I didn't care. It wasn't my style.