by Glenn Dixon
I took the envelope inside, impressed that it had traveled six thousand miles to find me. For some time, I held it in my hand like an emcee about to announce the winner at an awards show. I’d been waiting for this for months and now it was here, the answer to my question.
The answer was short, but it was thoughtful and practical, not unlike something I might have written myself.
“Dear Glenn,” it read.
Love coming out of long friendship is the most genuine kind of love. If you have known this woman for a long time, you also know what she likes. Take her out to her favorite place and confess her your feelings. Maybe she is just waiting for you. Wishing you the best luck.
Juliet
I was thrilled. I couldn’t tell who had written the letter—maybe someone I knew—but it didn’t matter.
It meant something to get a letter. It meant hope.
Certainly there wasn’t any earth-shattering advice there—nothing I hadn’t thought of before—it was more that I hoped the letter itself could be a catalyst. In the months since I’d left Verona, I’d thought a lot about this, and I’d come up with a plan. I would show the letter to Claire.
She knew about my trip to Verona, of course, but I’d tell her the whole story. I’d tell her about the boxes of letters. I’d tell her about all the broken hearts. Then I’d confess to her that I’d written my own letter. I would tell her that I’d posted it in the red letter box in the courtyard at Juliet’s house; then I’d pull out Juliet’s answer and it would astonish her. Suddenly, she’d realize how much I loved her. And then, of course, she’d tell me how much she loved me back. And not just as a friend. Then I’d take Claire back to Italy, to revisit the Gates of Paradise, properly this time. Maybe I’d have the plane tickets all ready. It would bowl her over. I would actually learn to speak some Italian and maybe we would go to Verona, where we would stand on the balcony and blow kisses to the adoring crowds.
That was the plan. That’s what I imagined would happen.
* * *
The school furnace kicked in with a dusty thump and my students, their arms full of books, slouched into the classroom. There is always a point in the school year when things have become so mundane and so routine that everyone, teachers included, are going only through the motions, effectively numb.
Outside, the athletic fields were covered in snow. A gray sky hung over the city. Andy walked in with Allison. I’d seen them at her locker, chatting and leaning in to each other. They’d been walking between classes together for a few weeks now, and Andy grinned at me when he came in. I nodded back, then signaled for him to take his seat.
“All right,” I began. “Today is the wedding scene, one of the shortest scenes in the whole play.” I paused for effect. “You’d think Shakespeare would have spent a little more time on it.”
Devin mumbled something and kicked errantly at the metal leg of his chair.
“Why do you think it’s so short?” I asked. “Could it be a lie?”
Sadia’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That maybe the wedding was a sham. Act 2, scene 5. It’s only two pages long.”
A rustle of pages swept down the rows. Sadia stared at me. She was trying to puzzle out where I was going with this.
“Certain scholars have suggested that Friar Lawrence botched the wedding on purpose, that he left some part of it out, you know, that it wasn’t legal.”
“Why?”
“The two families are at war. It’s been going on for so long that I don’t think anyone even remembers how it started. Maybe Friar Lawrence is starting to realize how hard it will be to break that cycle. And things have heated up again. Tybalt is on the warpath. Tybalt has sent a letter to Romeo asking for a duel.”
Devin was still kicking at the metal leg of his chair—clack, clack, clack. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep their interest today.
“Senza indirizzo,” I said.
“What?” said Sadia.
“It literally means ‘without an address,’ and all through the play, there are letters that don’t get to where they’re supposed to be. They mess everything up. But let’s go back a bit,” I said. “Who actually proposed here?”
Sadia tilted her head to one side. “The balcony scene,” she said. “Juliet asks Romeo to marry her.”
Devin stopped his tapping.
“But don’t you think that’s weird?” I asked. “The girl asking the boy?”
“You already said Romeo is a bit of a wimp,” Devin said.
“I didn’t say he was a wimp. I said he was naïve. But think, why would Juliet ask Romeo, rather than the other way around?”
At least everyone was looking at me, trying to puzzle it out. “It’s because,” I said, “she’s already in an arranged marriage and she needs to get out of it. This is her ticket out.”
Sadia went instantly pale. Her hand was trembling. She reached up and pulled her hijab lower over her forehead. She didn’t say anything for the rest of the class.
Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong.
The next day, Sadia was even more distant. She opened her textbook but would not raise her eyes from the book.
“Today,” I said, “let’s begin with Mercutio. He’s Romeo’s friend. He’s a hothead and a loudmouth.”
“Sounds familiar,” said Allison under her breath. A few of the kids tittered and glanced over at Devin.
“Mercutio,” I pushed on, “is spoiling for a fight. He’s just come into the square and he has a few other guys with him.”
“Like a gang?” Andy asked. Andy still wore his rugby jacket, though the season was long over.
“Yes,” I said, “like a gang. For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.”
Andy’s neck muscles tightened and he edged forward, eager for the action to begin.
“And then the Capulet boys enter from the other end of the square. Tybalt is strutting like a rooster.”
“They’re going to fight,” said Devin. He balled his hands into fists on his desk.
“But Romeo is nowhere to be seen. He’s still at the church, getting married.”
“Oh man,” said Andy.
“So Mercutio steps up but Tybalt’s still asking for Romeo. He’d sent a letter asking for a duel, remember? But Mercutio taunts him and says, ‘Any man that can write may answer a letter.’ ”
Andy looked confused. “Mercutio’s going to answer the letter?”
“It means he’s going to fight him,” said Devin. “That’s his answer.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So, let’s do this. Devin,” I said, “how’s about you come up here?”
Devin hoisted himself up gamely.
“And Andy.” Andy startled and then shuffled up beside me, and I handed him the yardstick. Devin stood on my other side and I handed him an old black umbrella I’d found in the staff room.
“Are you serious?” Devin asked, giving the umbrella a twirl.
“Now,” I said, gazing across the sea of faces. “I need a third. I need a Romeo. Sadia?”
Her eyes were lowered and her mouth was taut. “Um, Mr. Dixon,” she said, “maybe can I not do this today?”
“Okay,” I said. I searched the classroom again. Most of the students tucked their heads down to avoid eye contact with me. “Minh,” I said. “How about you?”
Minh was an English as a Second Language student from Vietnam. The counselors had put him in my class because they couldn’t fill his time block with anything else. The principal knew Minh wasn’t ready for my English class, but there weren’t many other options. Poor Minh. He was a good kid—unassuming—and when I addressed him in class he usually had a goofy grin on his face that meant he didn’t understand a damn thing I was saying. He understood his name, though, and he gaped at me, terrified. “C’mon up,” I said. “I’ll show you what to do.”
His slow march to the front of class was excruciating. Some of the other kids were snickering, but I shot t
hem a don’t-you-dare look and they quickly shut up. Minh hunched between the other two boys, and I handed him a wooden ruler.
“Okay. Devin, you’re Tybalt, and Andy, you’re going to be Mercutio. You guys are fighting but not that seriously. More like sparring, you understand?”
Devin raised his umbrella and gave it a swoosh through the air.
“Good,” I said. “Now Andy—I mean Mercutio—have a go at him.”
I let them parry through a few thrusts and deflections. Both had seen enough movies to perform a pretty decent mock sword fight.
“Okay, Minh. Now, it’s your turn.”
Minh looked at me helplessly, gripping the ruler in both hands like a bouquet of flowers.
Devin glared at Minh. “Doesn’t he want to fight?”
“No, Romeo doesn’t. In fact, he tries to talk Tybalt down.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s slow this way down.” I turned to the class. “Watch closely. This part is important.”
Devin swung his umbrella in a slow motion through the air. Andy, at a quarter speed, raised the yardstick to deflect it.
“Great,” I said. “Now Romeo steps forward,” I gave Minh a little push. “Romeo tries to stop the fight,” I said, steering Minh around so that he was facing Mercutio. “He says, Gentlemen, for shame . . .”
“Shame,” Minh tried.
“Right, and then he raises his sword to stop them, but he only blocks Mercutio’s sword.” I worked all three of them like puppets. “Tybalt is expecting Mercutio to block his next thrust, you see, but Romeo gets in the way.”
“And Tybalt skewers Mercutio,” Devin said, pushing his sword forward between Andy’s arm and torso—sideways to the class—so that it appeared as if he really were stabbing Andy.
“Do you see?” I said. “Romeo blocked Mercutio, and Tybalt’s sword kept going, right through Mercutio.”
Andy fell to the ground, flailing. Minh stared at him, then back at me. I gave him a wink.
“And now Tybalt runs off.” I gestured to Devin, who looked a bit disappointed that his part was over. “And Mercutio dies uttering the famous curse.”
“A plague on both your houses,” said Andy from the floor.
“Excellent.”
“Houses?” said Minh.
“It means a curse on both the families.”
Minh nodded and for once, I think he actually understood.
I turned to Sadia. This was the most important scene in the book, a real turning point, but I seemed to have lost her. There was a distance in her eyes and her lower lip was on the verge of trembling.
“You guys can sit down now,” I said. “And Minh?”
Minh turned.
“You did great,” I said. “Good job.”
The bell went just then, jangling through the silence. I wanted to speak to Sadia, to ask her what was wrong, but she scooped up her books, tucked her head down, and barged out the door at almost a run.
* * *
Sadia wasn’t in class the following day. It was a Wednesday, a Wednesday morning, and they were the worst. No one was really awake. I had a big mug of coffee sitting near me on the table at the front of class. On days like these, I sat on the table, not even bothering to stand.
The students were quiet. The light slanting through the windows was tender, almost fragile. At the back of the class, some teacher had put up posters. They’d been there for a long time. One of them was that one with Garfield the cat, where he’s clinging with two paws to a tree branch. HANG IN THERE, it read.
Devin sat slumped, his eyes heavy with sleep. I don’t think he’d quite clued in to the fact that the day had started.
“This is the part,” I began, “where everything changes. This is where everything goes off the rails.”
Devin propped himself up. “What goes off the rails?”
“Absolutely everything. Mercutio is dead and Romeo goes berserk.”
“Berserk?” Devin perked up even more.
“Romeo,” I went on, “chases down Tybalt. He’s almost insane with rage and he stabs Tybalt through the heart. He kills him.”
Devin nodded, impressed.
“And then,” I said, “Romeo looks down at Tybalt’s dead body and suddenly realizes what he’s done. He realizes he’s just lost everything—Juliet, Verona, everything. But it’s too late. It’s done. It’s happened, and he says one of the greatest lines in the whole play.”
I waited a beat, then boomed out the line in my best theatrical voice. “O, I am fortune’s fool.”
“Jeez,” said Devin. “That’s pretty good.”
“Romeo flees.” I shook my head. “It’s a mess. The cobblestones are spattered with blood. And Prince Escalus emerges from his palace to—”
Andy put up his hand.
“Yes, Andy?”
“Where’s Sadia?” he asked.
A few heads swiveled, looking for her.
“Sadia’s not here today.”
“But Sadia is always the Prince,” Andy said. “Is she sick?”
“I don’t know where she—” I saw the eyes questioning me. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon.”
“So,” I started again, “who wants to play the Prince?”
“We should wait for Sadia,” Andy insisted.
“Look,” I said, “I’ll be the Prince until she gets back.” I stared them down and continued. “Prince Escalus rushes out into the square. People are bustling in from all sides. In the movie version, they carry in the bodies of Mercutio and Tybalt and lay them out, right there on the bloody cobblestones.”
I could feel their attention turn toward the story again.
“You have to remember,” I plowed on, “the Montagues and Capulets have been fighting for so long that no one even remembers how it all started. The hate is ingrained in their thinking; it’s not rational, and now . . . and now there’s this.”
Allison looked up from her text. “Nobody meant for this to happen,” she said.
“That’s right. But it did happen. Two people are dead and Romeo makes a run for it.”
“Oh shit,” said Devin.
“Devin!” I cast him a warning look.
“Mr. Dixon. C’mon. This is intense.”
“Yes, it is. This is where the disaster begins.”
* * *
I recommended a guy to Claire. Someone who could do some renovations on her house. A teacher friend of mine had a husband who did all sorts of handyman work. Let’s call him Rick. He came by with his tape measures and toolboxes, wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie, and in no time at all, he was over at Claire’s place daily, tearing out floorboards, replacing the patio doors, painting and sawing and nailing. What started out as a couple of odd jobs turned into a major enterprise and weeks became months.
I went over one evening and the stairs and floors were draped in canvas sheets, duct-taped down, paint-spattered and dusty. I heard the sound of a table saw ripping through wood in the garage. The blade was screaming.
Claire sat alone in her kitchen. She looked pale.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Not really. I went in to work this morning and I started feeling horrible. Finally, I just came home.”
“You don’t look so good.”
“I feel a little better now.” She held a hand on her stomach. “I haven’t done anything all day.
“Twenty-four-hour flu?”
“Yeah, maybe. It came on really quickly.”
“Well,” I said, taking a mock step backward, “I hope it’s not catching.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
The saw started again in the garage. “How long is he going to be here?” I asked. The clock on her stove said it was already after eight o’clock at night.
“I guess until he’s finished,” she said. “I don’t know.”
* * *
When Sadia didn’t turn up to class for the second day in a row, I called the main office. I was transferred
through to one of the guidance counselors, Jane. “Can I trust you to be discreet?” she asked me.
“Of course. What’s happened?”
“Well,” she said, “apparently Sadia went to Mrs. Bell, her biology teacher. I think Sadia was more comfortable talking with a female teacher.”
“More comfortable about what? What’s going on?”
“Sadia’s father has arranged a marriage for her.”
I was struck silent for a moment.
“Glenn, I have to ask that you not speak with the other students about this. We are dealing with it.”
“But is she okay?”
“Mrs. Bell said she was pretty distraught.”
“We’ve been reading Romeo and Juliet,” I said.
There was a silence on the other end.
“Juliet is in a forced marriage.” I said, explaining. “Sadia freaked out a little when we came to that scene. God, I didn’t know.”
I heard her exhale, almost a sigh, on the other end of the line. “Oh.”
“Have you spoken with Sadia?” I asked. “Is she agreeing to this marriage?”
“Glenn,” said Jane, “we’re dealing with it. I’ve put in a call to our cultural liaison worker. He’s going over there to see the family.”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“It’s a delicate situation. I hope you can appreciate that.”
“Of course.”
“We’re doing what we can. You just hang tight and I’ll let you know what happens.”
I hung up and wondered if there was anything else I could do. It wasn’t the first time arranged marriages had come up in my teaching career. A few years before, I’d dealt with the same thing, only in that case, the student was quite happy about the arrangement. That particular student had told me that no one on earth loved her more than her father and that she trusted him to make a good match for her. Maybe you’ve heard the statistics. Often arranged marriages are more successful—or more long-lasting at least—than those in the West. Often, they last longer than marriages predicated on what we think is love.
