My Name Is Will

by Jess Winfield

  None were more human than Cardinal Wolsey. The Archbishop of York and Henry’s advisor was portrayed as crafty and corrupt, until his fall, after which he found self-awareness and a sort of redemption . . . and spoke of Sir Thomas More.

  He’s a Learned man. May he continue

  Long in his Highnesse favour, and do Iustice

  For Truths-sake, and his Conscience; that his bones,

  When he has run his course, and sleepes in Blessings, May have a

  Tombe of Orphants teares wept on him.

  Outright praise and honor for Sir Thomas More! Why, Willie thought, would Shakespeare bother to bury his admiration for More in a bit of syntactical code in a sonnet, then boldly praise him to the skies here?

  It just didn’t make sense.

  I’m so fucked.

  Willie left the Folio facsimile sitting on the cubicle desk. He took his notebook with its one, lonely note (Hamlet, I.v.9), walked back to his father’s Audi, flung open the door, and threw himself into the driver’s seat. He tore into his backpack and rummaged around to find his pipe.

  Crap . . . did I leave it at Robin’s?

  No matter. He found a matchbook with a small roach — a couple of hits worth — tucked behind the matchsticks. Perfect. He had to drive, anyway. He smoked it and felt instantly better. He tossed the roach butt out the window, looked at his watch: 6:00. It would be getting dark soon; he should get to the Faire, and try to find his contact tonight.

  Okay, he thought, maybe he was never meant to be a Shakespeare scholar, much less the next William Shakespeare.

  He at least wouldn’t fuck up at being a drug runner.

  Willie had crossed the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge and was on a deserted transition road that ran past San Quentin State Prison when he saw the red and blue flashing light in his mirror, followed by a single BRAWR from a siren.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  In 1582, William Shakespeare entered adulthood juggling a pregnant fiancée and a financially struggling family. Such an experience was surely more influential in his development as an artist and human being than whatever sect of Christianity he might have professed.

  It was dark and pouring when William returned home, having walked the mile from Shottery where he said an unfond farewell to Bartholomew Hathaway’s mare. Saddle-sore and soaking, he made his way grumbling past the Shakespeare family dunghill, which was coursing with rivulets from the rain.

  Back in Worcester, Sandells and Richardson had made William — the only one present who could write — forge the requisite permission documents for the wedding. Then they’d gone before the court and posted the surety. The clerk got Anne Hathaway’s name right the second time around.

  William Shakespeare was now duly licensed to be married.

  When William straggled into the house, Gilbert was at the table declining puella on a wax tablet and John was half asleep on the best bed by the fire, with Joan cuddled up next to him darning a pair of black hose. “William’s home!” she exclaimed, set aside her mending, and ran to embrace him. There came a soft shuffle of feet from upstairs, and Mary hid her relief behind a sardonic smile as she asked, “And where has the young master been these three nights past? Sowing the family seed?”

  William stripped off his filthy, dripping clothes and stood warming himself by the fire in nothing but his undershirt as the family watched. “Mother, Father, I would speak with you in confidence.”

  “Gilbert, Joan, go to bed,” said Mary gently.

  “But Mother — ” Joan protested.

  “Ah! To bed hie thee. Edmund is already asleep, and bears watching.”

  “Ay, Mother,” said Gilbert, and taking up his candle and tablet, nudged Joan as he passed. “Come on.”

  Joan trudged upstairs reluctantly after him, muttering, “Unto our resting place we go. To be stifled in the chamber, whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, to sleep, to dream, perchance to die . . .” and trailed away into silence upstairs.

  “What is it, William?” said John. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  “That I have,” said William. “The shade, forsooth, of mine own future.”

  Mary sat at the table, hands in her lap as William told the tale.

  “Know you that I have been, of late, much free of my affections with the local maidenry.”

  “As young men are wont to be,” said John from the corner, “and nothing wrong with that. Youth is like a sparrow, quick and ever-changing in its flight, and its beak in many flowers — ”

  “John,” interrupted Mary, “let him speak.” She turned back to William. “Naught good ever came of unbridled dalliance.”

  “You speak what I have learnt too late,” said William.

  Mary waited patiently, and William continued.

  “There is a maid of Shottery who lives but a mile without Stratford. As I passed her house one day upon a walk, a path I frequented much this summer past, she hailed me from her garden. A corner of the garden fence had buckled, and she, trying to lift it back in place, had caught her skirts upon it. I helped the maid out of need, and she thanked me, then burst into unprovoked tears and sat heavily upon the cottage stair.

  “ ‘What cause,’ said I, ‘taps so deep a font of tears?’

  “ ‘Begging your pardon. I thank you for your aid,’ said she. ‘By my troth, I am much in need of aid in these dark days. My father died two months past, and I am unwed. My brother is master here, but he is oft abroad about his business, and I am left alone to act as mistress and master to house, garden, and field. I am no frail flower, and am used to the labor of a farm, but it is much to bear when compounded by my grief.’

  “She dabbed her tears, and thanked me again for my pains, and went inside. She is not an old maid, not yet, though the first bloom of her youth is touched by the first light frost of winter.

  “Thereafter I made it a point, upon my journeys near Shottery, to knock at the maid’s door, and see that she were well, and enquire if there were posts to be lifted or holes to be patched. Upon my fourth such visit, I found her dressed as though for a fair, with flowers in her hair and a touch of paint upon her cheek, and she bade me enter for she had both a post to be lifted and a hole to be patched, she said.

  “I was until that day chaste with the innocence of youth, but the maid, in her loneliness and her loss, sought comfort, and I gave it her. In return, she taught me much that day, and though I ne’er returned, from shame, I guess, or fear, a world of women, a feast of women, oped itself to mine eye.”

  “If I may put it in brief,” said Mary, “you preyed upon the grief of her father’s passing to win an old maid and lose your virginity, and then abandoned her.”

  William looked deeply into the fire for a long moment, then he spoke softly. “I know not who was the prey nor who the predator. Yet I have not abandoned her quite; for I left the most eternal part of me within her, and there it grows.”

  There was a long silence as his words sank in. Then Mary put her head in a trembling hand upon the table.

  “Oh, fie,” she whispered quietly to herself.

  John stood up from his chair and his face flushed red. “What, you got a girl with CHILD!?! Od’s teeth!” he yelled. Vessels in his nose swelled and burst as he towered over the half-naked William. “See you not our circumstance, how our house is filled and o’erfilled, our shop empty, and now you who are to be the might and muscle of my old age are to be tied afore your time to apron strings and swaddling cloth! By Jesu, though your name contains a Will, your will contains not your willy — ”

  “John,” Mary interrupted. “Pay him no mind, William, he plays his part too well. Who is the maid?”

  “Anne Hathaway, daughter of — ”

  “Daughter of Richard Hathaway,” said John. “I know him well, we’ve done business! Oh, I can hear his rumbling at the Guild Hall now — ”

  “You don’t go to the Guild Hall,” said Mary.

  “And you won’t be hearing Master Hathaway’s ru
mble anytime soon,” said William. “He shuffled off the mortal coil this past July — leaving Anne a dowry.”

  John wheeled around. “How much, lad?”

  “Six pounds, I am told.”

  “Bah!” said John, waving his hand in front of his face as if chasing away a gnat. “A farmer’s dowry.”

  Mary asked William, “Does the maid wish to marry?”

  “For her part, I know not. Her brother and two largest neighbors wish it, that is certain. They escorted me to Worcester to gain a license. It required a surety, for which they stood, and your signatures, which I perforce provided.”

  William fished the damp wedding certificate from his pouch and spread it out on the table. John turned away toward the fire; he couldn’t read. Mary looked it over quickly, silently. “Well,” Mary said, “it appears our oldest son is going to marry.” She set the paper down and looked at William. “Anne Shakespeare,” she said appraisingly. “You’re going to be with her for a very long time.” She shrugged then added, “I hope she was good.”

  Mary rose and headed back upstairs, and William heard the hushed bumpings of Gilbert and Joan retreating from their eavesdropping spots. William was left alone with his thoughts for a moment. What, he wondered, would life — an entire life — with Anne Hathaway as his wife be like? She had been good in bed, to be sure, and gentle with his awkwardness; though there was, later on, also a desperation and ravenousness in her that had taken him aback. But then it was his first time, and he would have been taken aback in any case. In the months since, he had become a connoisseur of the experience. His encounter with Rosaline was surely the gem of his collection. He doubted he could find one more precious. Yet he was also devastated to think the collection complete, the pursuit over.

  “William, there is still hope.” William started from his chair — he had forgotten his father was still in the room, and apparently reading his thoughts.

  John continued in a low voice, “You need not be tied to the service of child rearing yet — ah, though it is a joy, son, a joy in your case,” he added unconvincingly. “Do you, in sooth, desire to be both married and a father, three years before you are even come of age?”

  “Would any man of wit and ambition wish it so?” answered William.

  “Then remember, what man has planted by God’s grace also may man uproot, and God provides the means to do so. If Anne Hathaway be of like mind, there be remedies. Speak to our apothecary good and true. See what hope Philip Rogers may offer; the cause which led the parties to this contract” — and here he held up the marriage certificate — “may yet be void.” John winked at his son, squeezed his shoulder, and lumbered upstairs to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  DOGBERRY: You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince’s name.

  SECOND WATCHMAN: How if a’ will not stand?

  DOGBERRY: Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together and thank God you are rid of a knave.

  — Much Ado About Nothing, III.iii.22

  Willie pulled the Audi carefully off the highway onto the shoulder, taking care to signal well in advance.

  Stay calm. Everything is in the trunk. No way will they open the trunk, unless you really blow it. Stay calm.

  As he heard the crunch of the CHP officer’s boots approaching, he activated the driver’s side window. Then he placed both hands atop the steering wheel. “Is there a problem, officer?”

  This was a cliché, but he used it instinctively. It’s a code, like saying whassup when passing a youth gang on the street, or howdy when entering a cowboy bar. It’s a small act of submission, and if nothing else it tells the cop, it’s cool, I know how this is supposed to go, I’m not insane on PCP, I’m not going to be trouble, please keep that gun in its holster.

  The cop — OFFICER ANTHONY, his name tag proclaimed — bent down, took a quick glance around the car, looked Willie in the eye for a second, then stood erect.

  “License and registration, please.” Good. We’re still on the script.

  Willie handed over his license.

  “It’s my dad’s car,” he said to the cop. “Registration’s probably in the glove box.” Moving slowly, he leaned over, opened it, and — SHIT! MY PIPE. SHIT! OH, SHIT. Don’t panic. Stay cool.

  The pipe was sitting, visible to Willie but probably too deep inside for the cop to see, on top of the registration, the car’s owner’s manual, and a map. Pretending to look under the pile, Willie lifted up the entire contents of the glove box from the front edge so that the pipe slid all the way to the back, then “found” the registration slip on top and pulled it out, simultaneously nudging the map toward the back to cover the pipe.

  Willie had quick hands.

  “Here it is,” he said, closing the glove box and handing the registration to the officer.

  The cop said, “Please remain in the vehicle,” and headed back to his car.

  Willie breathed out a calming breath, but his mind raced. What was on his record? No warrants that he knew of. Parking tickets? Maybe. There was one he’d contested that he’d never heard anything more about. What if it had gone to warrant? Had his sudden disappearance from Santa Cruz aroused any suspicion? It shouldn’t have. All his roommates and friends knew he often spent weekends in Berkeley — then, oh, well, fuck, he’d just been arrested that morning! By the Berkeley campus police. Do they share info with the CHP? What about the Drug Enforcement Agency? They must have some sort of central information-sharing database, right? Was he already in the computer? “William Shakespeare Greenberg, Berkeley radical, arrested at anti-DEA events. Known associate of Dr. Timothy Leary. Intellectual. Jew.” What the hell was he thinking, attending a political rally in support of drug use when he was packing more than a pound of contraband? He thought of how conveniently close San Quentin was — he could see its dead yellow lights in his side-view mirror — and wondered without optimism how it would compare to the UC Berkeley Campus Police holding cell.

  The cop returned. “Okay, Mr. Greenberg. You have a clean record, but I do detect what smells to me like marijuana either on your breath or in the car. Would you step out of the vehicle, please?”

  With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Willie got out. “Stand hands on the roof, legs apart, please.” Willie complied as the cop put his hands on his shoulder and knocked his legs apart with a firm kick. He made a quick pat-down search, then said, “Okay, just stand right over here, please.” He guided Willie to a spot on the passenger side of the car, on the shoulder and out of the way of traffic. Willie noticed that the cop had a partner, still sitting in the passenger seat of the patrol car.

  Willie watched with growing panic as Officer Anthony began a methodical search of the car. He opened the rear passenger door and searched the back seat; under the floor mat; deep in the seat itself. He felt the seat pocket on the back of the front seat. Then he closed the door and moved to the driver’s side rear seat, repeating the motions. He closed the rear door and moved to the front. He checked under the steering wheel, under the seat, under the dashboard.

  Fuck, this guy is fucking thorough!

  From the squad car behind there was the cackle of police radio traffic as Officer Anthony checked the sun visors, the headliner. He opened the armrest console.

  Then he leaned over from the driver’s side and popped open the glove box.

  I’m FUCKED! I’m fucking totally fucking fucked. No way does he not find the pipe. And once he finds the pipe, he’ll search the trunk. Maybe he searches the trunk, anyway. Holy, holy crap.

  Officer Anthony stopped, realizing that he didn’t have a good angle to look into the glove box. He crawled back out the driver’s side door, closed it, came around the front of the car, opened the front passenger door.

  This is it. “Mandatory minimum sentences for firs
t-time offenders.”

  Now the full meaning of it hit him in the solar plexus.

  I’m going to jail. I wonder if I’ll get raped? Of course I’ll get raped. I deserve to get raped, for being such a fucking moron. . . .

  Officer Anthony reached toward the glove box. Willie heard a car door open. It was Officer Anthony’s partner. He stood with one foot in the door, on the radio. With a nod of his head, he gestured that he needed to speak to Anthony.

  Slightly annoyed, Officer Anthony climbed out of the Audi and walked past Willie. “Stay here.”

  Willie stood there trying to look innocent, with the door and glove box to his dad’s car hanging open, the glove-box light illuminated, and Anthony talking in low tones with his partner about some call that had just come over the radio. After a few eternal seconds of consultation, Officer Anthony gave Willie’s ID to his partner, along with a quick, clipped instruction.

  Officer Anthony got into the CHP vehicle and picked up the radio while Officer Monday passed by Willie. As he did, he glanced at Willie’s ID. He looked up, surprised. “William Shakespeare, huh? Written any masterpieces lately?” He laughed, then caught himself. “Sorry, I bet you get that all the time. I love Shakespeare.” He leaned into the car, with its glove box still open.

  A Shakespeare fan. Willie thought fast. What quote, for a cop?

  “First thing, let’s kill all the lawyers,” Willie said.

  The cop turned and grinned. “That’s my favorite line. How’d you know?”

  Of course it’s your favorite, it’s the one most often taken out of context.

  But it had the right effect.

  Officer Monday leaned into the car, still chuckling about all those murdered lawyers. He looked around casually. He closed the open glove box. As an afterthought, he searched under the passenger’s seat cushion, pulled out a quarter and a dime. Then he closed the door and gave Willie the thirty-five cents.