Ready to Fall

by Marcella Pixley

  Smitty and The Monk have been watching Second City do improv comedy on YouTube. They start to imitate the act they liked the best, newscasters reporting a national disaster. What’s funny is Smitty pretends to be narcoleptic and he keeps falling asleep in the middle of sentences and toppling out of his chair just in time to wake himself up and start all over again. The Monk is obsessed with opera and can only sing his sentences. The two of them are amazing. Between the snoring and the singing, they have the rest of us in stitches, especially Fish, who is laughing so hard she has tears streaming down her face.

  The director strides onto the stage in the midst of all this hilarity. She’s a tall white-haired woman, much older than Dr. Austerlitz. She smiles at us with her entire face and suddenly the whole space seems to light up. She wears black pants and a black tank top and a long purple jacket that flows behind her, so when she strides onto the stage, it looks as though she’s riding the wind.

  She grabs an empty chair, turns it backward, and straddles it.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” she says. “Welcome to auditions for Shakespeare’s wonderful tragedy Hamlet. For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Donna Pruitt, and I’ll be your director. Today I want to see who you are. I want to watch you use your wits, your imagination, and your instincts. I want to find out how well you think on your feet. Here’s our first exercise. For every action there must be a reaction. Please stand in a circle so I can demonstrate…”

  We rise and form a circle. She reaches into the pocket of her jacket and takes out an apple. She gazes at it for a moment and all our eyes are drawn to the apple through the force of her gaze and her breath.

  Oh apple. Oh lovely apple.

  The redness of it. The perfect shape.

  Suddenly, Donna Pruitt hauls back and throws the apple to The Monk.

  He catches it without blinking and throws it back.

  Action.

  Reaction.

  “Not bad,” says Donna Pruitt.

  She shines the apple on her jacket. Then she takes an enormous bite and shows with her entire face that this is the best apple she has ever eaten in her life.

  She passes the apple to Fish, who kisses it and takes a bite. Fish passes it to Ravi, who passes it to The Monk, who passes it to Griswald, each of them taking a bite. When it gets to Smitty, he takes a gigantic bite, chews with his mouth open, and then belches, widemouthed, much to everyone’s pleasure, before passing it on to the next person.

  I am the last one to receive the apple.

  I don’t take a bite.

  I hold it by the stem and hand it, gingerly, back to Donna Pruitt, who raises an eyebrow at me and pitches it overhand toward a wastepaper basket on the other side of the stage.

  It goes in.

  “That was amazing,” says Fish.

  “Yes it was,” says Donna Pruitt. “It’s good to be able to take a risk every now and then. Accept what another person gives you. Say yes to the moment.”

  “Yes…,” says Fish emotionally, like she has just received a marriage proposal.

  “That’s right,” says Donna Pruitt. “Yes. A three-letter word. A simple word. But it’s the most important word in the world. You know why? Because without yes, none of us would exist. Yes is creation and procreation.”

  She rises from her chair and starts striding around. She has very long legs for an old woman.

  “Ever say yes to a stranger before? Ever say it to someone you love? Good acting can only happen when everyone onstage says yes with their body and their voice. Risk is what makes theater delicious. Someone throws you an apple. You catch it. You take a bite. Are you ready to do it?”

  “Yes!” Fish shouts. She leaps from her seat and pumps her fist.

  “Oh yes,” intones Ravi. He is looking sideways at The Monk.

  Everyone else goes around the circle and says their golden line.

  When Griswald says it he hunches up his shoulders like a spy and holds on to the sssss so it sounds like hissing. When Smitty says it, he shouts Yayes and waves his arms like a Holy Roller. When The Monk says yes, he strikes a pose like a constipated guy sitting on a toilet, and he squats and flexes and curls so the word comes out like a grunting bark that resonates across the stage, and everyone applauds because it is so funny and inspired.

  When it is my turn, I do not say yes.

  Instead, I say hamburger.

  Donna Pruitt winks at me.

  Next, she hands out slips of paper. Each one has a line from Hamlet’s famous soliloquy. We are going to stand in a circle and take turns jumping into the middle and reciting our line with some kind of grand gesture. Everyone else will watch and listen and then imitate what they see in the center.

  The Monk, of course, goes first. He runs into the center of the circle, goes down on his knees, raises his face and his arms to the ceiling, and shouts, “To be or not to be: that is the question!” Then he pretends to stab himself in the heart and falls to the floor. Everyone laughs, especially Ravi, who laughs the loudest.

  The Monk is so easy to watch. His motions are so fluid. He’ll get the part hands down. David Moniker as Hamlet. I can already see it.

  But there’s no time to think because now it’s our turn to fall to our knees and shout the line and die.

  Then Smitty staggers in like he’s a drunk in an alley. He hiccups, takes a swig of something in a bottle, and slurs his words: “Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles.” He doubles over and pretends to vomit. Then he pulls his Green Day T-shirt over his belly, wipes his mouth, takes another swig of his bottle, and exits.

  We do it too.

  Fish twirls to the center. She skips around, flashing us the peace sign and handing each of us invisible flowers. Then she stops as though she has been struck by an arrow.

  She clutches her heart and kneels on the stage. “To die,” she moans, “to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end the heartache.”

  Then she falls.

  She is beautiful lying on the stage crumpled like that. A broken dove.

  Instead of imitating her, I stand back, shaken, while the others come forward and die together, as though around a mass grave, a terrifying action. They think it’s funny. I know this because they make faces while they die. They stick out their tongues and twitch and make strangled noises. I envy them. They have not yet learned that there is nothing funny about death.

  Now it’s my turn.

  I walk into the center of the circle with my slip of paper.

  I take a shaky breath.

  I don’t do anything momentous. I just stand there and think about my mother.

  I tell them, without telling, how it was.

  I tell them, without telling, how hard it is to be on this earth without her.

  “To die,” I whisper, “to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come.”

  None. I tell them with my silence. No dreams. Nothing.

  When my line is over, people are staring at me.

  Fish wipes her eyes.

  Donna Pruitt is smiling.

  Then the rest of them do what I did.

  Donna Pruitt puts her hand on my shoulder when I come back to the circle.

  After the last one in the circle says their line, Donna Pruitt brings us down into the pit and arranges us in two parallel lines facing each other, perpendicular to the stage. She puts me and Fish across from each other closest to the stage and she puts Smitty and The Monk on the ends. She tells us to extend our arms and clasp the wrists of the person across from us. Fish grabs my wrists and smiles.

  I see the scar, but pretend I don’t. There is something beautiful about it. The way it snakes across her wrist like a white bracelet.

  I hold her wrists.

  Suddenly I want to hold more of her.

  I look into her eyes.

  “Hi,” she says, smiling.

 
; “Hi,” I say. “Nice day.”

  And now I’m blushing like a moron.

  Donna Pruitt climbs back onto the stage and faces us.

  “I am going to fall into your arms,” she says. “I weigh a hundred sixty pounds. Do you think you can catch me and keep me safe? I’m a tall woman. If you drop me, I’ll break my neck. But I trust you. I know you can do this. I’m going to turn my back to you. Then I’ll compose myself, get myself ready to take the risk. When I’m ready, my line is Ready to fall. You all check your grasp. Make sure you have each other’s wrists and you’re spread out just enough so that my weight will be evenly distributed. My head and shoulders weigh the most, so those of you on the far end need to be most careful. When you are ready, make eye contact with each other. Nod your head to each other and your line is Fall away. Then I’ll say Falling. I’ll cross my hands over my chest like this. I’ll keep my body as rigid as possible and I’ll fall into your arms. Sound good?”

  Everyone nods.

  She’s completely crazy. We’re going to drop her and she’s going to die.

  She turns her back to us.

  She breathes in and out. I watch her breathe. We all watch her breathe.

  “Ready to fall,” she says.

  We tighten our grip and position our bodies so we’re strong on our feet.

  We make eye contact all up and down the line.

  “Fall away,” we say.

  She takes another deep breath and squares her shoulders.

  “Falling,” says Donna Pruitt.

  She crosses her arms against her chest like a corpse and makes herself rigid like a corpse and just as I begin to be distracted by a bad thought about my mother in the open casket, Donna Pruitt falls backward.

  We catch her.

  Smitty and The Monk get her shoulders and the rest of us lower her down, real easy, until she’s standing in front of us grinning, and the rest of us are hooting and cheering, and everyone’s heart is going quicker.

  People take turns going onstage and falling backward. Each time, we catch them, and it is triumphant. Each time I almost get swallowed up by the image of my mom in the coffin, but the person falls before I drown completely and it’s like my brain snaps, like a lasso, into the moment and out of the image.

  It’s Fish’s turn to fall. She climbs onstage and faces us.

  “This is scary,” she says.

  “I know it’s scary,” says Donna Pruitt. “Everything important is scary.”

  Fish breathes in and out. She is smiling at us, but her eyes are filling with tears. “I’m not the kind of person who trusts other people very easily. There are reasons…”

  “There are always reasons,” says Donna Pruitt. “Everyone has scars.”

  “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “That’s good,” says Donna Pruitt. “You’ll feel strong when it’s over.”

  “You guys seem like pretty nice people,” she says, still smiling and teary.

  “We are nice people,” says Ravi, wiggling his eyebrows.

  The Monk elbows Ravi in the ribs.

  “Fish,” says The Monk, “I’ll catch you.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Okay. I’m gonna do it.”

  Fish turns her back.

  She has narrow shoulders and a narrow back and her pink hair goes down almost to her waist. It’s such pretty hair.

  “Ready to fall,” she says.

  We tighten our grasp and move closer together because she is small and we know this will be easy. When Smitty and The Monk fell, they were so heavy they left red marks on our wrists, but catching Fish won’t be like that. “Fall away,” we say.

  She breathes in and out a few times. Then she puts her arms across her chest.

  I don’t know why they arrange some bodies that way in the coffin.

  It’s not as though people sleep with their arms that way.

  It must be the desire of the living to gaze on those hands one last time.

  “Falling,” says Fish in a voice that is really a whisper.

  She falls backward.

  We catch her. I lower her feet down.

  She is crying and smiling and triumphant.

  She hugs every single one of us.

  When she comes to me, she puts her face up to my ear and whispers, “You should try it, Max.”

  I reach out and pet her hair. I don’t think about it, I just do it.

  Fish smiles.

  The Monk glares at me.

  “Max is going next,” says The Monk menacingly.

  “He needs to make that choice,” says Donna Pruitt. “Max, are you ready?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Max! Max! Max!” says Fish. She is clapping her hands and soon they are all clapping their hands and chanting my name.

  “Okay,” I say. “Okay, I’m going to do it.”

  Fish is jumping up and down.

  I climb the stairs onto the stage.

  I stand at the edge and look down at them. It seems like a long way down.

  They arrange themselves, clasping each other’s wrists.

  “I don’t know about this,” I say.

  “You can do it,” says Fish. “I was scared too.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Stop talking about it and do it already,” says The Monk. “Ready to fall. Say it.”

  I turn my back on them and close my eyes.

  I feel them get quiet. I feel them watching me and waiting.

  “Ready to fall,” I whisper.

  I feel them getting ready for me.

  “Fall away,” they say.

  I put my hands across my chest.

  I close my eyes.

  This is how I will look in my coffin.

  Dad will stand beside me. He will look down at my face.

  I will not look like a human being.

  I will look like a wax sculpture.

  With a bulge behind my left eye.

  What does it feel like to be lowered into a grave?

  “Fall away,” says Donna Pruitt.

  Fall away, says the tumor. Six feet is not such a long way down.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t.”

  “Are you sure?” asks Donna Pruitt.

  “I’m sure,” I say.

  “Next time,” says Donna Pruitt. “Next time we’ll try again.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  But it’s not okay.

  I am silent when Donna Pruitt brings us back together onstage and tells how proud of us she is and how she will post the cast list after winter break, and how no matter what part we get, we are about to become part of something wonderful. I stay still when everyone bursts into applause. At the end, when everyone is hugging each other and congratulating each other, and telling each other about their plans for winter break, and theorizing about who will get what role, I find my backpack and leave the auditorium without saying goodbye. I walk down the aisle and out the door and I rush as fast as I can into the boys’ bathroom where I lock myself into an empty stall.

  I sit down on a closed toilet.

  I pull the Blue Willow shard out of my back pocket and hold it in my hand. Then I put it in my mouth and run my tongue across the smooth surface.

  People come in and people leave.

  Someone flushes a toilet in another stall.

  Someone washes his hands.

  I sit on the toilet and close my eyes until I can breathe again.

  * * *

  When I finally leave the boys’ bathroom, the hallways are strangely quiet. I spit the shard into my palm and tuck it back into my pocket. If I move fast, I can catch the six o’clock bus. I zip my jacket and shoulder my backpack.

  I pass a janitor with thinning white hair and a baseball cap who is whistling “Silent Night.” He’s walking down the hall with a broom, pushing papers and milk cartons as he goes. He smiles at me and I try to smile back but I just can’t do it. He shrugs and continues down the corridor, “Silent Night�
�� and the sound of the broom and his footsteps getting fainter and fainter, and makes his way toward the classrooms on the other side of the building, pushing our garbage and whistling to himself, the strange, empty echo of wind and a failed attempt at goodwill. The most lonesome sound in the world.

  TO BE OR NOT

  Winter break passes uneventfully. It’s cold but it never quite snows. Lydie stops by with homemade gluten-free gingerbread cookies. We thank her profusely and take polite bites, but once she leaves, I throw mine in the garbage. It tastes like cardboard. Outside, the sky is full of heavy clouds and we can see our breath rising from our lips like ghosts so I spend the break in my room, on the Internet, googling cancer statistics and reading the PDF of Hamlet on my computer. I dream about Fish. I obsess over the possibility that she and The Monk are seeing each other over the break, doing whatever they do without me. His family lives an hour out of town, so it’s not out of the realm of possibility. I imagine them laughing together, their arms around each other. I count down the days.

  * * *

  Finally Monday comes. First thing in the morning, the stage manager hangs the cast list on the auditorium door. We all rush over to see who we are. I look for my name at the bottom, expecting to find myself among the throng of Lords, Soldiers, Attendants, or Guards. I find Griswald, but my name is not there. I move my eye up the page, part by part. I am also, as it turns out, not Fortinbras or Lucianus or the First Ambassador, or the Priest or First Sailor or Captain. My stomach sinks. I wasn’t cast. It’s because I said hamburger instead of yes. It’s because Donna Pruitt looked in my soul and could see that I am dying.

  Masochist that I am, I keep looking up the cast list to see who got the good parts. I try not to allow myself to feel the sting of defeat, but for some reason I care a lot more than I expected to. It’s not as though this disappointment will kill me. I am already dying, for God’s sake. I was dying before I knew about the auditions. I’ll be dying after it’s over. My path is set one way or another.

  The Monk, of course, is Hamlet.

  Ravi is Laertes.

  Smitty is Polonius.

  Fish is Ophelia.