"Well, we've relied on The Catcher in the Rye," said Estelle. "Quite a lot. And some stories by Stephen King, they like those. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Many of them identify with that, and it's simple to read. Short sentences."
"I see," said Felix. Catcher in the bloody Rye, he thought. Pablum for prep school juveniles. It was a medium-to maximum-security facility; these were grown men, they'd lived lives that had driven them far beyond those parameters. "I'll be taking a somewhat different tack."
"I hesitate to ask what tack," said Estelle, cocking her head archly. Now that she'd accepted him for the job, she was relaxed enough to flirt. Watch your trousers, Felix, he admonished himself. She doesn't have a wedding ring, so you're fair game. Don't start anything you can't finish.
"Shakespeare," said Felix. "That's the tack."
"Shakespeare?" Estelle, who'd been leaning forward, sat back in her chair. Was she reconsidering? "But surely that's far too...there are a lot of words...They'll get discouraged; maybe you should choose things more at the level of...To be frank, some of them can barely read."
"You think Shakespeare's actors did a lot of reading?" said Felix. "They were journeymen, like"--he snatched an example from the air, possibly a bad one--"like bricklayers! They never read the whole play themselves; they only memorized their own lines, and their cues. Also they improvised a lot. The text wasn't a sacred cow."
"Well, yes, I know, but..." said Estelle. "But Shakespeare is such a classic."
Too good for them, was what she meant. "He had no intention of being a classic!" Felix said, adding a tinge of indignation to his voice. "For him, the classics were, well, Virgil, and Herodotus, and...He was simply an actor-manager trying to keep afloat. It's only due to luck that we have Shakespeare at all! Nothing was even published till he was gone! His old friends stuck the plays together out of scraps--bunch of clapped-out actors trying to remember what they'd said, after the guy was dead!" When in doubt, he told himself, just keep talking. It was an old trick for when you froze onstage: throw out a line, anything that sounded good, to give the prompter time to toss you the real one.
Estelle looked puzzled. "Well, yes, but what does that have to do with..."
"I believe in hands-on," said Felix as authoritatively as he could.
"Hands on what?" said Estelle, truly alarmed now. "You have to respect their personal space, you're not allowed to..."
"We'll be performing," said Felix. "That's what I mean. We'll be enacting the plays. That's the only way you can really get inside the parts. Oh, don't worry, I'll fulfill the official criteria, whatever they are. They'll do assignments and write essays and all of that. I'll mark those. I suppose that's what's required."
Estelle smiled. "You're very idealistic," she said. "Essays? I really..."
"Pieces of prose," said Felix. "About whichever play we're doing."
"You really think so?" said Estelle. "You could get them to do that?"
"Give me three weeks," said Felix. "If it's not working out by then, I'll do The Catcher in the Rye. Promise."
"All right, agreed," said Estelle. "Good luck with it."
--
The first few weeks were a little rough, granted. Felix and Shakespeare had needed to work their way uphill over some fairly thorny ground, and Felix discovered that he was less prepared for the conditions inside than he'd thought he would be. He'd had to assert his authority, draw a few lines in the sand. At one point he'd threatened to walk out. There'd been some quitters, but those who'd stayed had been serious, and in the event the Fletcher Correctional Shakespeare class was a hit. In its own modest way, it was cutting edge; it was also, you could say--and Felix did say it to his students, explaining the term carefully--avant-garde. It was cool. After the first season, guys lined up for it. Astonishingly, their reading and writing scores went up, on average, by fifteen percent. How was the enigmatic Mr. Duke getting these results? Heads were shaken in wonder, fraud was suspected. But no, objective testing backed him up. The effect was real.
Estelle was given much credit, out in the wide world where academics gathered and conferences were held and theories were proposed and ministries approved budgets, but Felix didn't begrudge her that. He was too busy. He was back in the theatre, but in a new way, a way he'd never anticipated in his earlier life. If anyone had told him then that he'd be doing Shakespeare with a pack of cons inside the slammer he'd have said they were hallucinating.
--
He'd been at it now for three years. He'd chosen the plays carefully. He'd begun with Julius Caesar, continued with Richard III, and followed that with Macbeth. Power struggles, treacheries, crimes: these subjects were immediately grasped by his students, since in their own ways they were experts in them.
They had their informed opinions about how the characters could have conducted their affairs better. So dumb to let Mark Antony speak at Caesar's funeral, because it gave him an opening, and then look what! Richard went too far, he shouldn't have assassinated just about everyone, it meant nobody helped him out with his battle when the time came. You want to be the kingpin, you need allies: no-brainer! As for Macbeth, he shouldn't have trusted those witches because it made him overconfident and that was a big No. A guy needed to keep an eye on his weak points, rule number one, because anything that can go wrong will go wrong. We know that, right? Nods all round.
Felix wisely assigned those opinions as writing topics.
He avoided the romantic comedies: too frivolous for this bunch and not a good idea to get into questions of sex, which could lead to uproar. And Hamlet and Lear were off the table too, for another reason: they were too depressing. There were enough attempted suicides at Fletcher as it was, and some of them had succeeded. The three plays he'd done so far were acceptable, because although each one ended with a clutch of deaths, each also provided a new beginning in the shape of whoever it was who won. Bad behavior and even stupid behavior were punished and virtue was rewarded, more or less. With Shakespeare it was always more or less, as he took pains to point out.
His teaching method was the same for each play. First, everyone read the text in advance, a text shortened by him. He also provided a summary of the plot and a set of notes, and a crib sheet for the archaic words. Those who couldn't make it through at that point would usually drop out.
Then, once he could meet with the class, he would outline the keynotes: what was the play about? There were always at least three keynotes, sometimes more, because, as he told them, Shakespeare was tricky. He had a lot of layers. He liked to hide things behind curtains, until--presto!--he'd surprise you.
His next move was important to his method: he'd limit the curse words permitted in the class. The students were allowed to choose a list of swear words, but only from the play itself. They liked that feature; also it ensured that they read the text very thoroughly. Then he'd set up a competition: points off for using the wrong swear words. You could only say "The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon" if the play was Macbeth. Transgressors lost points. At the end there was a valuable reward consisting of cigarettes, which Felix smuggled in. That aspect was very popular.
Next in the curriculum came an in-depth study of the main characters, explored in class one by one. What made them tick? What did they want? Why did they do what they did? Hot debates would take place, alternate versions would be proposed. Was Macbeth a psycho, or what? Was Lady Macbeth always bonkers, or did she go that way out of guilt? Was Richard III a stone-cold killer by nature, or was he a product of his times and his totally depraved extended family, where you had to kill or be killed?
Very interesting, Felix would say. Good point. The thing about Shakespeare, he would add, is that there's never just one answer.
Next he would cast the play, assigning a backup team for each main character: prompters, understudies, costume designers. The teams could rewrite the character's parts in their own words to make them more contemporary, but they couldn't change the plot. That was the rule.
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Their last assignment, the one they completed once the play had been performed, was the creation of an afterlife for their character, supposing that character was still alive. If not, then a piece about how the other characters viewed the dead person once he or she was underground and the play was over.
Having tweaked the text, they'd rehearse, work on the soundtrack, and finalize the props and costumes, which Felix would gather together for them outside and trundle into Fletcher. There were limits, of course: nothing sharp, nothing explosive, nothing you could smoke or inject. Potato guns were not allowed. Nor, he discovered, was fake blood: it might be mistaken for real blood, went the official reasoning, and act as an incitement.
Then they'd perform the play, scene by scene. They couldn't present it to a live audience: administration was leery of gathering the whole prison population in one place for fear of riots, and anyway there was no auditorium that was big enough. So they'd video each scene and then edit it digitally, allowing Felix to check off "acquired marketable skill" on the numerous forms where checking-off was required. Also, making a video meant that no actor need be embarrassed in case he fluffed a line: they could do retakes.
When the video was finished, complete with special effects and music, it was shown to everyone in Fletcher on the closed-circuit TVs in the cells. Felix--sitting in the Warden's office during the screening, along with the Warden and several higher-ups--was heartened by the cheers and applause and the comments he could hear coming from the cells over the surveillance intercom. The prisoners loved the fight scenes. Why not? Everyone loved the fight scenes: that's why Shakespeare put them in.
The performances were a little rough, maybe, but they were heartfelt. Felix wished he could have squeezed half that much emotion out of his professionals, back in the day. The limelight shone briefly and in an obscure corner, but it shone.
--
After the screening there would be a cast party, as in the real theatre--Felix insisted on that--with potato chips and ginger ale, and Felix would distribute the cigarettes, and there would be high-fives and fist bumps, and they might watch the last part of the video again, where the credits rolled. Everyone in the class--even the bit parts, even the understudies--got to see his stage name in lights. And, without prompting, they did what real actors did: they propped up one another's egos. "Hey Brutus--brutal!" "You aced it, Ritchie boy!" "Give us an eye of newt!" Grins, nods of thanks, shy smiles.
Watching the many faces watching their own faces as they pretended to be someone else--Felix found that strangely moving. For once in their lives, they loved themselves.
--
The course was offered from January to March, and during those months Felix ran on high octane. But in the summer and fall when he was back in his hovel full-time, he reverted to despondency. After a stellar career like his, what a descent--doing Shakespeare in the clink with a bunch of thieves, drug dealers, embezzlers, man-slaughterers, fraudsters, and con men. Was that how he would end his days, petering out in a backwater?
"Felix, Felix," he would say to himself. "Who are you fooling?" "It's a means to an end," he would reply. "There's a goal in sight. And at least it's theatre." "What goal?" he would respond.
Surely there was one. An unopened box, hidden somewhere under a rock, marked V for Vengeance. He didn't see clearly where he was going, but he had to trust that he was going somewhere.
It's now Year Four of the Fletcher Correctional Players. Today is the first class of the season. As always on first days, Felix is slightly nervous. He's done well with the program so far, but there could always be an accident, a slip-up, a rebellion. Something unforeseen. Tip of the tongue. Seashells. No slush, he admonishes his reflection. Be prepared.
Having brushed and affixed his teeth, Felix arranges his hair, which is fortunately still thick. Then he snips a few stray wisps off his beard. He's been growing it out for twelve years, and it's the right shape now: full but not bushy, eloquent but not pointed at the end. Pointed would be demonic. He's aiming for magisterial.
He dresses in his work clothes: jeans, hiking boots, the dark-green Mark's Work Wearhouse shirt, a worn tweed jacket. No tie. It's necessary to look like the version of himself that's become familiar up at Fletcher: the genial but authoritative retired teacher and theatre wonk, a little eccentric and naive but an okay guy who's generously donating his time because he believes in the possibility of betterment.
Well, not donating it exactly; he does get paid. But peanuts, so he's not doing it just for the money. His students are suspicious of ulterior motives, having so many ulterior motives themselves. They disapprove of greed in others. As for themselves, they only want what's due to them. Fair is fair, and that way many a fracas can lie, as Felix already knows.
He tries to keep out of their private arguments. Just don't bring this crap into class, he tells them. I'm not in charge of who stole your cigarettes. I'm the theatre guy. When you walk in here, you shed your daily self. You become a clean slate. Then you draw on a new face. If you're nobody, you can't be somebody unless you're somebody else, he tells them, quoting Marilyn Monroe, a name they've heard of. And in here, we all begin by being nobody. Yes, me too.
They zip it up then: they don't want to be kicked out of the class. In a world that doesn't contain much for them that they can actually choose, they're in the Shakespeare class because they chose it. It's a privilege, as they are told perhaps too often. Some folks on the outside would kill for what Felix is giving them. Felix himself never says that, but it's implied in everything he does say.
--
"I'm not doing it for the money," Felix says out loud. He turns: Miranda's sitting at the table, a little pensively because she won't be seeing much of him now that it's January and the spring semester is about to begin. "I never did," he adds. Miranda nods, because she knows that to be true: noble people don't do things for the money, they simply have money, and that's what allows them to be noble. They don't really have to think about it much; they sprout benevolent acts the way trees sprout leaves. And Felix, in the eyes of Miranda, is noble. It helps him to know that.
Miranda's fifteen now, a lovely girl. All grown up from the cherub on the swing who's still enclosed in her silver frame beside his bedside. This fifteen-year-old version is slender and kind, though a little pale. She needs to get out more, run around in the fields and woods the way she used to. Bring some roses to her cheeks. Of course it's winter, there's snow, but that never used to bother her; she could skim above the drifts, light as a bird.
Miranda doesn't like it when he's away so much, during the months when he's giving the course. Also, she frets: she doesn't want him to wear himself out. When he gets back after a heavy day they share a cup of tea together and play a game of chess, then eat some macaroni and cheese and maybe a salad. Miranda has become more health-conscious, she's insisting on greenery, she's making him eat kale. When he was growing up, no one had ever heard of kale.
If she'd lived, she would have been at the awkward teenager stage: making dismissive comments, rolling her eyes at him, dying her hair, tattooing her arms. Hanging out in bars, or worse. He's heard the stories.
But none of that has happened. She remains simple, she remains innocent. She's such a comfort.
But lately she's been brooding about something. Has she fallen in love? He certainly hopes not! Anyway, who would she fall in love with? That log-toting lout of a Walter is long gone, and there's nobody else around.
"Be good till I come back," he tells her. She smiles wanly: what else can she be but good? "You can do some embroidery." She frowns at that: he's stereotyping. "Sorry," he says. "Okay. Some higher math." That gets a laugh out of her, at any rate.
She won't stray far from the house, he knows that. She can't stray far. Something constrains her.
--
Now he'll have to brave the snow outside, plunge into the cold, face the daily test: will his car start? In winter he parks it at the top of the laneway. It's not the Mustang any more
, that car rusted out some years back. It's a blue second-hand Peugeot he bought through Craigslist once Mr. Duke was getting his paychecks from Fletcher. Even when the lane is plowed, it can be treacherous, and it's muddy in spring; so he uses it only in the dry seasons, which are summer and fall. If the snowplow has gone by on the sideroad, he'll have to dig through the windrow of ice and chunks of frozen brown guck from the undersides of passing vehicles. This road has been paved since he moved into the shack, so it's become more of a route. The propane truck uses it, for one. The FedEx van. The school bus.
The school bus, full of laughing little children. When it passes, he averts his eyes. Miranda might have been on a school bus once, if she'd ever reached that age.
--
From the hook on the back of the door Felix takes down his winter coat, with the mitts and tuque stuffed into the sleeves. He needs a scarf, and he has one; it's plaid. He's put it somewhere, but where? In the big old armoire in the bedroom, Miranda reminds him gently. Odd: he doesn't usually keep it there.
He opens the door. There's his one-time wizard's staff, the fox-head cane. His magic garment is hanging in there too, shoved to the back. The cloak of his defeat, the dead husk of his drowned self.
No, not dead, but changed. In the gloom, in the gloaming, it's been transforming itself, slowly coming alive. He pauses to consider it. There are the pelts of the plush animals, a little dusty now, striped and tawny, grizzled and black, blue and pink and green. Rich and strange. The many pearly eyes twinkle at him from the underwater darkness.
He hasn't worn his mantle since that time of treachery and rupture a dozen years ago. But he hasn't thrown it out, either. He's kept it in waiting.
He won't put it on yet: it's not the right moment. But he's almost certain it will be the right moment soon.
Felix shovels his car out from the windrow thrown by the snowplow across the top of his laneway. Keep this up and you'll rupture, he tells himself. You're not twenty-five any more. You're not even forty-five. Maybe you should stop playing at hermits, and sublet a rundown condo, and shuffle around town with a dog on a string like other old farts your age.
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