Gertrude cocked an eye at the mess of fries, burgers, and soda cups cluttering the table and shrugged her misshapen shoulders.
“Hecate wouldn’t see it,” Agatha said. “It’s too sophisticated. The irony would be lost on her.”
“When you’re right, you’re right,” said Gertrude.
“Oh,” said Agatha. “Simple Simon is leaving. But Samson’s stopping him. He’s demanding that Simon tell him what to do. Simon’s telling him to cancel the play.”
“The suspense is killing me,” Netty said.
“Oh, the humanity,” Gertrude added.
Again, the three hags burst into cackling glee and at once ducked beneath the table, banging their knobby knees into each other’s elbows.
After two minutes, Agatha poked her head up to see if the coast was clear, only to find someone sitting in the space next to Netty’s generous backside.
“I assume,” said Hecate, “that you have an excellent explanation for why you are all hiding under the table.”
Scene 12: Or Have We Eaten on the Insane Root
Paul sat at his desk in his study, contemplating suicide. Not literally. But he couldn’t see how asking Susie if she had made a deal with the Devil was any different. She would judge him insane, unworthy of being her father, and would never speak to him again. Sylvia would have no choice but to side with their daughter. And it wouldn’t be long before the entire school knew. The gorgon lady would be in her glory, adding deals with the Devil to her list of reasons to cancel the play. And Winston would save face by firing him. Paul would likely never work again, his reputation following him wherever he went as the teacher who accused his students of devil worship.
And that was the good scenario.
The bad scenario was if Susie said yes, she had made a bargain with Hell. Paul had no idea how you undid a deal with the Devil. Would the Devil own his daughter’s soul?
Through the wall, he could hear Susie listening to music in her room. It didn’t sound like devil music. It was more a bubbly dance number. Paul let out a silent groan. Who was he kidding? He had no idea what devil music sounded like. Or if there even was devil music. Perhaps he should consult a priest.
After meeting with Simon Riordan, Paul had sleepwalked through the remainder of the day. Scarlet would be furious with him for not bringing Riordan back to the school, and he had no idea what he would tell her in the morning when she demanded to know why Riordan wouldn’t see her. Should he tell her that Mr. Riordan was ill? Or would that only upset her more? He shook his head. Riordan and Scarlet were the least of Paul’s worries.
He had skipped supper with Sylvia and Susie. Besides having no appetite, despite having only a soda for lunch, he didn’t know how he could have sat at the table with Susie and not stared at her like an idiot. Had his beautiful daughter made a deal with the Devil?
Sylvia had cornered him in the living room and asked about Mr. Riordan’s calling during rehearsal. Paul told her about their meeting after class. He described Riordan’s reluctance to see Scarlet and purposefully left out any mention of deals with the Devil. Paul still had no idea if Scarlet was the real thing or just a tool of that other devil, Mrs. Cadwell. If only Riordan had been able to confirm that Scarlet was a real ghost. Then maybe Paul would know what to do. Or at least where to start.
Had Susie made a deal with the Devil?
Paul turned on his computer and entered Devil. Google returned more than three hundred million results. He added deal, which reduced the count to one hundred million. His fingers shook as he added curse. Google’s responses plunged to seventeen million hits, enough to keep Paul busy for the rest of his life. He added Macbeth and hit Enter. Zero results.
Zero? How was that possible? Riordan had been adamant.
Paul shut off his computer and stared at his overflowing bookshelves.
Was he betting too heavily on Simon Riordan? The man was, after all, ill. Perhaps even delusional. He had quit acting and teaching and disappeared for twenty years. Paul had found him in a hospital.
He turned his computer back on and entered Spring Hills Convalescent Home. The first hit was the company Web site. Paul read through the politically correct description that danced around what the place really was, a home for the mentally unstable.
Paul couldn’t help but laugh. For the past week, he’d been thinking himself insane, and he had turned for help to the one person who was no better off than he was. Perhaps worse off, given Riordan’s physical state. Simon Riordan’s demons, his devil, were eating him alive. Could the man even be trusted?
There was a tapping sound, and Paul looked down to find his hands trembling, his wedding ring striking a tattoo against his desk. He stilled his fingers. He had come so close to confronting his daughter.
Even cancelling the play, as Mr. Riordan had suggested, would be an error. Two weeks ago, the students would have rejoiced at Shakespeare being cancelled. But now they were genuinely into it. Paul had never seen students work harder at learning their lines and understanding their roles. And the costumes they were assembling! Everyone had looked at Lenny’s costume and tried to outdo him or at least keep up. Even the witches had put away their broomsticks and their warts and had gone with gothic gypsy.
Witches. Paul turned back to his computer and printed off the photo of the three hags he had taken on his phone at the Dairy Queen. He must have done something wrong, however, as both photos printed. He shook his head at the lingerie model who had stood near the hags’ table and smiled at him. He went to crumple up the printout but folded it into his pocket instead. He couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. No one had ever smiled at him like that.
Again Paul laughed. It was all too much. Curses. Ghosts. Devils. Enigmatic women. He had to be losing his mind. And there was sweet nothing he could do about it.
Scene 13: I Pray You, Deliver Him This Petition
Half a week later, it was Friday, and Paul was no closer to recovering his sanity. Fortunately he could take refuge in his work.
Paul sat on his director’s chair, enjoying the march of Birnam Wood as Malcolm’s army approached Dunsinane. The students’ lines were coming along. They even had most of the stage blocking down. He had never been more proud. Even the ushers and stagehands had created bit parts for themselves to get a few moments on stage, even if those parts wouldn’t be part of the final performance.
Several members of the class had asked Sylvia if they could paint additional scenery flats to allow the set to fill more of the stage. Macbeth would be the best performance in Ashcroft High history!
Paul had to admit that his decision Tuesday night to ignore the curse had been the correct one. Wednesday and Thursday had proceeded without incident, and Friday, so far, had been perfect. For the first time in days, Paul had slept soundly. To be honest, the only problems the so-called curse had caused were in his own head. He could kick himself for having gotten so worked up about it. There had been nothing to worry about.
“Not bad for high school kids,” said Scarlet, who stood next to his chair, also watching the Birnam Wood scene.
Well, there was the ghost.
Paul had yet to decide if Scarlet was a real ghost, a spy for the gorgon, or just a figment of his own imagination, perhaps brought on by his fixation with the curse. Was that what had happened to Simon Riordan? Had he so convinced himself that The Tragedy of Macbeth was cursed that he had lost his mind?
Even Scarlet wasn’t convinced about the curse, and she was the one who had died. Neither was she happy with Paul’s explanation that Simon wasn’t yet ready to see her. A day didn’t go by without her asking him, repeatedly, when Simon would be coming back.
“I think you could use some additional leaves on the papier-mâché branches,” Scarlet said. “Some in the audience won’t know the story and may think Malcolm’s army is attacking with clubs.”
Paul passed this advice on to Sylvia, who sat in a second director’s chair on his other side. “Good idea,” his wife said and jotted it down.
“Five weeks to show time?” Sylvia asked.
Paul nodded.
“The play will be more than ready,” Scarlet said. The ghost clapped her hands as the scene ended with Macduff’s cry: “Make all our trumpets speak; give them all breath, those clamorous harbingers of blood and death.”
“Mr. Samson?”
A girl who was not one of Paul’s students approached and handed him a slip of paper. There were two words on it: Principal’s Office. Now what? The past few days had been so quiet. Paul couldn’t imagine why Winston would want to see him.
He turned to Sylvia. “Run the class through scenes five and six again. The scenery flats need to change quicker. And ask Malcolm and his soldiers to cross the stage more slowly. The army was at the gates before Macbeth finished his speech. I have to go see Winston.”
Sylvia frowned but knew better than to ask what it might be about. Winston wasn’t one to give warning.
Scarlet, however, swept in front of Paul, her expression serious. “Take your daughter with you.”
Paul almost asked her why but held his tongue. He couldn’t afford to be seen talking to himself, and not doing so was an increasing challenge. No wonder insane people ended up in institutions.
“Susie?” Paul called. “Come with me for a moment?”
Act V, Scene 5 was where Lady Macbeth dies, but as Susie had already plaintively pointed out, it happens offstage, so she wasn’t in the scene.
“What’s up?” Susie asked.
“Winston’s summoned me to his office. I may need reinforcements.”
To Paul’s surprise, Susie simply nodded rather than attempting to bow out.
When they reached the principal’s office, Mrs. Kennedy appeared scandalized when Paul insisted that Susie go in with him.
“You can’t take a student with you,” the school secretary insisted.
“I’m not,” Paul said. “I’m taking my daughter with me.” He opened Winston’s door and ushered Susie inside before Mrs. Kennedy could respond.
“Samson, I—oh, hello, Susie.” The principal frowned then narrowed his eyes at Paul. “You can’t bring a student in here. I asked you here alone.”
Paul shrugged. “She’s not here as a student. She’s here as my daughter. Susie was helping me with some errands when your page handed me your message.”
The school administrator raised his brows. “My what?”
Paul let out a sigh. “Your page? Messenger? Good grief, Winston. Even Susie knows what a page is. You’re supposed to be the principal.”
The red in the heavy man’s face told Paul that he had crossed a line. Oh, well. Conversations with Winston were never pleasant anyway.
“I know what a page is,” Winston bellowed. “I just didn’t expect to hear it in the context of summoning one of my teachers to my office. My education is in administration, not dead languages! And good luck, young lady, finding a job with I know what page meant twelve hundred years ago written on your résumé. Why we even teach liberal arts anymore is beyond me. There’s not a job to be had within a thousand miles.”
Winston clamped his mouth shut, perhaps realizing that he, too, had crossed a line.
Paul opted to eschew defending the liberal arts—again—and call it a draw. “You summoned me to your office?”
“We’re just waiting on Mrs. Cadwell.” Winston began shuffling some papers on his desk.
“Cadwell? You told me to stay away from her and I have. I haven’t seen her in days.” Another reason the week had been so quiet. “What can Cadwell possibly have to complain about now?”
Paul had begun to believe that the gorgon lady had given up her crusade against the play. Her own son was the lead, after all. And her attempts at intimidation had failed, especially the leaflet fiasco. She’d been scarce and Paul had counted it a blessing. None of that meant that she had given up her crusade against him personally. They had crossed swords too often for her to simply walk away.
There was a tap at the door, and Mrs. Kennedy peeked in. “Mrs. Cadwell is here.”
Then the door swung all the way open, and Mrs. Cadwell strode in as if she owned the place. “Thank you, Mrs. Kennedy,” the gorgon said without once looking at the woman.
The PTA president lost her grin when she saw Susie. “Oh? I thought this would be a private meeting.”
“And I thought I’d even up the odds,” Paul said. “Two against two.”
“No one is against anyone,” said Winston. “Something has come to Mrs. Cadwell’s attention, and we’ve agreed to bring it to yours.”
Susie was doing the smart thing and had kept quiet all this time. Paul decided to follow her lead. “Okay. Let’s hear it.”
The gorgon lady resumed smiling as she pulled a sheaf of papers from her purse. “Apparently there’s been a petition going around.”
Paul had forgotten about the petition Sylvia had mentioned on Monday. He also had forgotten deciding just moments earlier his resolve to keep quiet. “Going around? I was led to believe that this was your petition.”
“My name does appear near the top,” Mrs. Cadwell said, skirting the question. “There are three hundred and fifty names on this petition.”
“Really?” said Paul. “Congratulations! You’ve expanded your reach beyond the PTA. I’ll give you an A for effort.”
“Sadly,” said Mrs. Cadwell, her expression inadequately conveying said sadness, “not all of Ashcroft Senior High’s parents take a proper interest in their children’s education.”
“Or more accurately,” Paul said, “not all of the parents agree with your rather narrow view of their children’s education.”
“You—!” began the gorgon lady.
Winston rose from his desk and waved his hands. “Enough! We’re here to talk about the petition. I’m not going to referee your differences of opinion.”
“But that’s exactly what you are going to do,” Paul said. “That’s all that petition is. Mrs. Cadwell’s opinion. Sure, she’s gone and brainwashed and browbeat other parents into agreeing with her. But it’s still just an opinion. There is no law against Macbeth in high schools. On the contrary, Macbeth is the law. It’s been read in practically every high school in the world. And schools with drama departments have been producing it for decades. Macbeth is a classic even among classics. A bunch of names on a piece of paper doesn’t change that.”
“It’s more than a bunch,” said Mrs. Cadwell. “It is three hundred and fifty parents who feel that Macbeth has no place in this school.”
“She has a point,” said Winston. The heavyset man was sitting again. “I told you there’d be trouble when you first picked this play. You wouldn’t listen to me. Now I have to answer to three hundred and fifty parents. What do you want me to tell them? That their concerns don’t count?”
Paul had no response for that. He stood there, silent. She had won. The gorgon lady had won. And she knew it too. There she stood, sheaf of papers in her fist, a gleaming smile covering half her face. And her eyes, her eyes were mocking him.
“Excuse me,” said Susie. “But I have six hundred names.”
The gorgon lady waved her hand. “Thank you, dear. But we don’t need any more names. I think we all know what has to happen now.”
“Susie?” Paul said. “You have names?”
Susie pulled a notebook out of her backpack and began flipping through the pages. “Almost six hundred. I’ve only had three days to collect them. I can get more.”
“Your daughter’s an angel,” the gorgon lady said. “You see? No one wants Macbeth in this school.”
Susie walked over to Mrs. Cadwell and glared at her, eye to eye. “My list is a petition for kee
ping the play.”
“What?” Winston choked on the word, and his face turned red. Perspiration broke out on his forehead.
“Let me see that list!” Mrs. Cadwell ripped the notebook from Susie’s hands and began flipping through it. “But . . . these are students’ names.”
“Mostly students,” said Susie. “We were afraid the parents would let you know what we were up to, so we didn’t ask many.”
“But . . . but . . .” Mrs. Cadwell continued to flip through the pages. “Students don’t count.”
“Students don’t count!” Paul felt heat flow out from his stomach into his face, his hands, his feet, and everywhere in between. He was a volcano about to erupt. His tongue felt thick like a sponge, and he wasn’t even sure he could speak coherently. But speak he did. “Students don’t count! Of course they count! Mrs. Cadwell, as much as you want to believe that this school exists for the parents, that view is flawed. This school exists for the students. Without the students, the doors would be closed and barred. Principal Winston, myself, and all of the other teachers at this school are here to serve the students. The parents only get in the way. Just as you, right this moment, are getting in the way. I should be in class right now, teaching my students. Instead I’m here, debating William bloody Shakespeare with one of the parents. You have some nerve. The students don’t count!”
“I didn’t mean . . .” the gorgon lady whined. “Of course the school is for the students. Don’t be absurd. I simply meant that the students’ opinions don’t count when it comes to determining what is good for them. They don’t get a vote. This petition”—she thrust the notebook back into Susie’s hands—“is worthless.”
Paul sputtered, trying to speak, but his tongue kept getting in the way. He felt a hand touch his arm, and he turned to see the principal’s pudgy fingers. The stocky man was shaking his head. Winston then let go of Paul’s arm and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped his face and looked at the gorgon lady.
“No,” he said. “The petition is not worthless.”
Much Ado about Macbeth Page 13
