The Juliet Spell

by Rees, Douglas

  “All I’m saying is, it’s time to get back on the horse, Drew. The beautiful white pony. It’s been four years.”

  “And all I’m saying is, you’re wrong. It’s not that I’m scared. Scarred for life, definitely. But not scared. I’m just not interested.”

  “Miri,” Bobby said. “Explain to him why he’s interested.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “But, Drew. Cast parties.”

  “I come to those anyway,” Drew said.

  Which was true. Whenever there was a cast party and Bobby showed up, Drew was with him. This was whether Bobby had a girl on his arm or not.

  “They’re more fun when you’ve just finished a show,” I said hopefully.

  “I have all the fun I can stand at them now,” Drew said. “Any more fun, I’d die from sheer pleasure.”

  “Please,” I said. “We need people.”

  “No.”

  Edmund picked up Drew’s script. “I see ye have marked Mercutio’s speeches,” he said. “Friar Lawrence’s, too. Why have ye done so if ye are not interested?”

  “I’ve been helping him,” Drew said. “We’ve been run.ning lines for weeks.”

  “I could see ye as Mercutio,” Edmund said. “Friar Law.rence, too, though ye be something too young. ’Twould depend on who else was in the company.”

  “Ed’s an actor,” I said. “A real one.”

  “Hey,” Bobby said. “You ever play in this thing?”

  “Yes. Okay. I have,” Edmund said.

  “What part?” Bobby asked.

  “Different ones. I’ve played in it more than once. But tell me, what part do ye fancy for yourself?”

  “Romeo,” Bobby said like there was no question about it.

  “Romeo,” Edmund mused. “It would not be my first thought for ye.”

  “Oh? Who would you cast me as?”

  “Tybalt, mayhap, if ye can fence well,” Edmund said.

  “Tybalt’s not a very big part,” Bobby said.

  “Thirty-five lines,” Drew said. “But he’s on a lot.”

  “Not a long part,” Edmund agreed. “But a large one. He tries to kill Romeo at old Capulet’s party. Later, he kills Mercutio. Thus Romeo slays him, and must flee Verona. If there were no Tybalt, ye’d have no tragedy and Romeo and Juliet would live to ripe old ages.”

  “Well, anyway, I’m up for Romeo.”

  Edmund turned to Drew. “Tell me, fellow. When ye went dry onstage when ye were a lad, what happened next?”

  “What do you mean, what happened next?” Drew said. “Nothing happened.”

  “What nothing?” Edmund persisted.

  “I just stood there until I started crying. Then they pulled the curtain.”

  “Horrible. D’ye mean no one came to your aid?” Edmund asked. “No fellow-actor came and said, aught like, ‘Will you not give us a song?’ or somewhat like that?”

  “We were just kids. Nobody thought to do anything.”

  “Would that happen now, d’ye think?” Edmund asked.

  “Never,” Bobby said.

  “No way,” I said. “We’d be there for each other.”

  Drew shrugged. “Look, I’m not being neurotic about something that happened when I was twelve. I’m just not interested anymore. Walking on stage, reciting lines. The same lines every night. It gets old real fast.”

  “Is that what ye think acting is?” Edmund said.

  “It’s all I know about it,” Drew said. “If you even call it acting.”

  “Then ye do well to stay away from it—for ’tis nothing of the kind.”

  “I’m always finding new stuff to do,” Bobby said.

  “And ye, cousin Miranda,” Edmund said. “What is acting to you?”

  “It’s hard to say,” I said. “But it’s the most important thing in my life.”

  Edmund scratched his beard and looked up. “For me,” he began, “acting is queen, mother and mistress all in one. And more than a bit of a bitch. But I love her as I love no other thing. But, no. That does not speak to what acting is. Acting is—is finding the truth in the most artificial thing there is. For theater is a metaphor for all of life and all that is truest in it. Acting an endless race through a hall of mirrors seeking the one that shows, not yourself, but the truth of the character you’re playing. The truth in the shadow. And then reflects it, not to yourself, but to the audience at your feet. And when it works, there is nothing finer.”

  “Man,” Bobby said. “I mean, word, dude.”

  “I do not take your meanin’, friend.”

  “He means you really told the truth about it,” I said.

  Drew picked up the script and pondered the cover. It showed a balcony with the doors behind it open and light streaming through them. Romeo was in silhouette below, but the balcony was empty. No Juliet. We all had the same copy of the play. I thought it was a really stupid picture. Ju.liet was supposed to already be on the balcony when Romeo showed up. This cover looked like whoever’d done it hadn’t even read the play.

  But now Drew was staring at it like it meant something to him. “I wonder if I could do that,” he said. “You do make a guy want to try.”

  “What part do ye favor?” Edmund asked.

  “I don’t think it matters,” Drew replied. “As long as I could have some of that feeling you were talking about.”

  “’Tis hard to do. ’Tis not to be counted upon. But may.hap I could help ye toward it if ye would like.”

  “Yeah. I would.”

  Bobby burst into the conversation, excited. “Cool. Drew reads tomorrow, he scores a part, and Ed coaches him. Rus.poli and Jenkins together again, live on stage. Thanks, Ed!”

  “Listening to meself, I wish—Cousin Miranda, may I not read tomorrow?”

  “Do it, man,” Bobby said. “It’d be so cool to have a real English dude in the play.”

  I felt a whoosh of panic. No, no, no, Edmund must not read. Edmund must not be cast. Edmund must be hidden away. But then

  I thought how stupid that was, and, really, how impossible. For better or worse, Edmund Shakeshaft was living in Cali.fornia, in this century, in my house, and he’d have to find a way to fit in. And maybe being part of the one thing he’d learned how to do in his own time that we were still doing in this time would help him to adjust.

  “Yeah,” I said, though still a little weakly. “Tryouts are two-thirty tomorrow after school.”

  “I will come then.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking that in one way at least this could end up being the most accurate Romeo and Juliet anybody had done in more than four hundred years.

  Bobby and Drew started asking Edmund all kinds of ques.tions about what it was like to be an actor in England. And I was really impressed with how he managed to answer them without giving anything away.

  “How long have you been acting?”

  “Oh, since I left school.”

  “How many shows have you done?”

  “I don’t recall for certain. About fifty, I think.”

  “Have you done much TV?”

  “Television? Nay. I do not think I would like to do it.” I kept thinking I ought to drag him away, but he seemed to be enjoying playing with the guys, and they were definitely interested in what he had to say. Finally, Edmund solved my dilemma for me.

  “Cuz,” he said. “I am weary. Can we not go home?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Would you like a lift?” Drew asked.

  “We’re close,” I said.

  “Come on,” Bobby said. “Drew’s got a new ride.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll just walk,” I said.

  But Edmund was suddenly alert. “This ride ye speak of, friend Drew. Is it a car?”

  “Sure,” Drew said.

  “I would like to ride in it.”

  I think he was trembling just a little.

  “I call shotgun,” Bobby said.

  Drew’s new car was an old car. A bug-eyed little thing that looked like clowns might
burst out of it at any minute. I’d never seen anything like it.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  Drew smiled. “A Citroën 2CV. The most flawless meld of engineering requirements ever designed to run on gas. Intended to take French farmers out of the age of the horse and put them behind the wheel. Totally simple, modular construction. If you dent a fender, you unbolt it and slap on a new one. The backseat lifts out for cargo. The same cable that runs the speedometer runs the windshield wiper. And you can carry a bushel of eggs across a plowed field with.out cracking one. That was part of the design requirement. I love that about it.”

  “And it can hit forty-five without even trying,” Bobby said.

  “Actually, this is the last model. It’s capable of sixty-two.”

  It also had a canvas top that slid along the roofline. Not really a convertible, but the same effect.

  “Drop that top!” Bobby demanded, and he and Drew un.latched the canvas and pushed it back.

  The little coffee-grinder engine started up and we bounced out of the parking lot and onto the street.

  I could sense Edmund tensing up beside me. Being so small ourselves made all the SUVs and vans seem even big.ger than they really were, and having the top down made

  them very, very close. But it was the speed that seemed to bother him most.

  Not that Drew was speeding. We were doing thirty-five, which was totally legal on that street, but it did feel faster than it would have in a regular car with the wind in our faces, plus Edmund’s long hair was whipping around.

  Edmund was pushing himself back into the seat the way he had when he was watching television, and his face was set like he was a sea captain on an old-time ship staring into the storm. He looked handsome as hell and vulnerable as a little kid all at the same time.

  Then his hand grabbed mine and held it like he was never letting go.

  “Ah!” I went, because it hurt and I was surprised.

  “What?” Bobby said, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Nothing. I just like Drew’s ride, that’s all,” I said, and I squeezed Edmund’s hand back.

  That squeeze ran all the way up my arm and into my heart.

  Uh-oh. This should not be happening, I thought. Must not happen.

  But I couldn’t just let go of his hand. I held on to it all the way home.

  Chapter Six

  Drew pulled into our driveway. Bobby got out and opened the door for us. I crawled out of the back seat, but Edmund unfolded himself and climbed over the side of the car. Then he leaned on it casually, but I was pretty sure his legs were trembling and he needed the support. I walked around and took his arm.

  “I thank ye, friend,” he said to Drew. “A most excellent ride.”

  “Any time.”

  “Well, good night,” I broke in. “See you at tryouts.”

  “Cool,” Bobby said, and got back in with Drew.

  Edmund and I waved as they took off down our dark street.

  When we couldn’t hear the engine of the Citroën any.more, Edmund barfed all over the lawn. Then he allowed himself to collapse onto the driveway.

  “Dear God, do ye do that all the time?” he asked, looking up at me. “’Twas like being on a mad horse with no reins. Or

  a plunging ship with a gale blowing. How d’ye stand such a thing?”

  “Edmund, it’s okay,” I said, sitting down beside him. “Really. Drew’s a good driver. There was nothing wrong. Cars are the best way anybody’s ever come up with for getting from one place to another.”

  “How fast were we going?”

  “About thirty-five.”

  “Thirty-five what?”

  “Miles an hour.”

  “Thirty-five miles an hour?” Edmund said. “How is it we’re still alive?”

  “Maybe you’ll like riding in our car better,” I said. “It’s bigger and safer.”

  “My car riding days are over!”

  “They can’t be,” I said. “Everyone takes cars everywhere. You’ll get over being afraid. And I’ll tell you something else. Sooner or later, you’re going to be driving.”

  “No! Such a thing…d’ye think I could learn the manage of a car?” Edmund asked.

  “I think you could do anything you wanted to.” I said it just to cheer him up. But when I said it, I realized that I meant it.

  “I, do such a thing,” Edmund said. “It must be easier than it looks.”

  “We’d better go in.”

  It was still early, only a little after nine o’clock, but tuck.ing Edmund into bed in the extra room seemed like the best thing to do with him at this point. I needed some private time to sort out a couple of things. Such as how I was going to explain to Mom that we had a new, permanent house-guest. And why my heart was still going thumpity thump.

  And Edmund really was tired. “Saint Mary and Joseph, I am weary and ’tis late for a night with no ranging to be done,” he said. “Miranda, where may a poor player lay his head?”

  I showed him the bedroom. But then there was another little problem.

  “Edmund,” I said. “What do you sleep in?”

  He thumped the bed and looked surprised at how much it bounced. “Oh. On such a warm night as this, I’ll need nothing. Thank you, Miranda.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But if you have to—go to the jakes in the middle of the night—”

  “I will cover myself up. I do have a proper sense of shame.”

  “Well, good, then. Good night.”

  “Miranda, before we say good-night, will ye pray with me?” Edmund asked.

  “Uh…yeah. Okay, I guess,” I said. “What religion are you?”

  “Church of England, of course,” he said. “Inclining more toward the old faith than some, as I expect ye’ve noted. What are ye?”

  Dad was Jewish, and Mom wasn’t anything. My six-week stint in Sunday school had been because I was curious where some of my friends went on Sunday morning back in the second grade. My curiosity had been satisfied and I hadn’t been back since.

  “Sort of nothing,” I said. “But I’ll pray with you if you want me to.”

  “Were ye never baptized, then?”

  “Nope.”

  “Kneel down with me, Miranda Hoberman,” Edmund said. “And do as I do.”

  And just like a little kid he knelt down beside his bed, crossed himself, folded his hands and bowed his head.

  “Dear God, ’tis Edmund Shakeshaft, a sinner. I am heart.ily sorry for taking part in Doctor Dee’s necromantic ex.periment today. And I am justly punished by being ripped away from all that I have known. But Ye have shown me great mercy, Dear Lord, in sending me to this place so full of wonders and granting me this marvelous girl as my help and companion. I know not what tomorrow may bring, or even what may hap tonight. But I confide in Your mercy to see me safely through. And if it be Your will that stranger things may yet befall, yet will I repose my hope in Ye. Bless Miranda Hoberman, and grant her the desire of her heart, as ye granted mine, that she may play Juliet. Bless Drew Jen.kins and Bobby Ruspoli and grant them safe passage home in yon car. Bless all at home, Mother, Father, Joan, Gilbert, Richard, Anne and her young ones Susannah, Hamlet and Judith. And even my brother Will, whom Ye know to be a horse’s ass.” He looked over at me and whispered, “Is there aught else ye’d like to add?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “Wrap it up.”

  “Your meaning?” Edmund whispered again.

  “Finish whenever you’re ready,” I said, realizing that I was whispering, too.

  “Then in the name of Your Son, our Savior Jesus Christ who lives and reigns with Ye and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  “Amen, too.” I got up. “Good night,” I said.

  “Give ye good rest, Miranda,” Edmund said.

  I closed the door behind me and went out into the living room.

  I thought about watching something or listening to some.thing, but I realized that what I really wanted was quiet. No, not wanted. Needed. All in all, t
his had been a pretty un.usual Tuesday, and I had a lot to process.

  So I sat in the big armchair that had been Dad’s and would be again if he ever came back, and closed my eyes and tried to meditate.

  The thing is, I can’t meditate. Either I start thinking about random stuff, or I fall asleep. I don’t know how the Dalai Lama does it.

  So I just sat there, and when I couldn’t meditate, I went to bed and thought.

  First of all, how could I make my mom believe any of this? I couldn’t, I realized. But Edmund could. As soon as she’d been around him for ten minutes, she’d see that I was telling the truth. Once she knew that, her nurse self would kick in, and she’d do whatever she could to help him.

  Second, why was my hand still tingling a little?

  I worked on that one until I fell asleep.

  Chapter Seven

  There were three things Mom insisted on for me before I started classes: breakfast, bath and the value of an invigo.rating walk to school. And she always made sure that I was clean, fed and out the door on time no matter how many shifts she’d pulled the day before. My life was as orderly as she could make it. I feared I was about to mess with that big time.

  When Mom strode in the door at seven-thirty the next morning, I was waiting for her. “Hi, honey. Look at this. Actually crossing paths with you. I could get used to it.”

  “Mom, sit down. I’ve got something to tell you,” I replied.

  “Don’t you have school?”

  “I do. But this is important,” I said.

  “Can I get my shower first, at least?” Mom asked.

  “Good idea,” I said. “In fact, great idea.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said. “If you think a shower is going to help that much, I’d better hear this now.”

  “Good thinking,” I said.

  Mom put her chin in her hand and listened to me, leaning on our broken table, while I told her the whole story, includ.ing hanging out with Bobby and Drew, and Edmund barfing on our lawn. Even in scrubs, after sixteen hours of work, my fifty-year-old mother was beautiful. Her long straight nose and her big gray eyes comforted me in a way nothing else could have. And I knew I was wrong; Mom did believe me. I could tell it from her face.

  When I was done, she studied me long and hard. “You know, I saw a UFO once,” she said.

  “You never told me that.”