by Emma Scott
I walked over to Benny and took the script out of his hand to shut it.
“Benjamin, if you were ever my friend, you will stay in school. For me and for your mother. You have to take care of yourself because no one’s going to do it for you. Your mom is going to try her best but it’s up to you, in the end.”
“Where you going?” Benny asked, blinking back tears.
“I’m going to go stay at a friend’s house for a while and after Hamlet closes, I’m leaving Harmony.”
“Will I see you again?” His voice trembled now.
“Yeah, of course. You’ll see me around. And I’ll come say goodbye before I go.”
Benny sniffed and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. “Sucks, man,” he said. “But I’m glad for you. I’ll miss you.”
I reached out, ran my hand over his close-cropped hair. “Come on. I’m taking you to school.”
I dropped Benny off at Elizabeth Mason Middle School, then drove my truck back to the trailer, my thoughts still full of Willow and a page covered in little black X’s.
I would ask nothing of her. She owed me nothing. But I’d give her the play as best as I could. I’d help her get through to the end, to tell her story and find the relief she kept asking me about. And when it was done, I would go.
Pops was in his room with the door shut when I came back. I went directly to my own small room and packed up a bag of my things. It wasn’t much. Everything I owned fit in one small suitcase.
Outside my dad’s bedroom door, I paused. I raised my hand to knock and then let it fall again. Instead I tore out a sheet from my script and wrote on the back:
I’ll pay the bills and send you money. You don’t have to worry about anything.
--Isaac
I set the note on the coffee table that was now free of debris except for one ashtray and a pack of Winstons. Just to be safe, I propped the paper against the smokes so he wouldn’t miss it.
Then I left.
I drove across town to the neighborhood beyond the amphitheater. Streets of large, comfortable homes, most dating back to the Civil War. I knocked on the front door of the Fords’ red brick house with the wrought iron fence. Brenda Ford opened the door, her hair and smock smudged with paint, a big smile at the ready. Her expression morphed into shocked concern as she took in my bloodied clothes and swollen cheek.
Her eyes dropped to the bag in my hand and the suitcase behind me. A myriad of emotions splashed across her face: sorrow, concern and finally, relief.
“Come in, Isaac,” she said, opening the door wider for me. “Come right in.”
Willow
Wednesday afternoon, Angie and I went to Roxy’s, a women’s dress shop in the Braxton shopping mall.
“Your mission,” Angie said, “should you choose to accept it, is to find me a dress that doesn’t make me look like I’m trying too hard.”
“It might be hard to find a dress with a smart-ass quote on the front,” I said with a nod at her T-shirt. It was gray with black lettering that read, Sorry I’m late, I didn’t want to come.
“If I had my way, I’d wear this little baby,” Angie said, plucking at the hem. “But I gotta pretty myself up for Nash. He deserves it. Although I try not to give him my full glory too often as it tends to overwhelm him.”
I grinned. “I can only imagine.”
“What’s your style?” She held up a long, full-skirted yellow dress in shimmery satin. “With your hair, you can go full-princess easy, though you’re more of a Rapunzel than a Belle.”
“No princess dresses,” I said. “I want simple. I don’t want Justin to think I’m trying too hard either.”
“Maybe you should give the guy a chance.”
I held up a red floor-length with a low neckline and put it back immediately. “Give him a chance at what, pray tell?”
“Oh, pray tell,” she said. “Someone’s all Shakespearean up in here.”
“Methinks thou art a nutjob.”
“That’s going on my next shirt,” she said. “But for real. Justin is super cute. He’s nice. Or seems to be.”
“I’m not interested in anyone,” I said. “Even if I were, it wouldn’t be Justin. Yes, he’s nice and his Laertes doesn’t suck, but there’s no…”
“Spark?” Angie asked.
I nodded. “I just want to go to the dance and have a good time and that’s it. I don’t want it to mean anything.”
“Fair enough.” Angie held out a simple black dress. “Oh my God, I love this. It’s like something an ice skater would wear.”
The jersey bodice was cut like a T-shirt only tighter-fitting and lower in the neck. From the fitted waist, a taffeta skirt flared out to just above her knees when she held the hanger under her chin.
“It’s kind of plain now,” she said, meeting my skeptical look. “But when I accessorize, like you know how I do, it’ll be perfect.”
“You’ll look beautiful.” I held up a navy blue halter dress. It also flared out in a full skirt above the knee. The bodice was intricate beadwork and sequins. “And this does not suck.”
“Are you kidding?” Angie said. “This is going to be gorgeous on you. Come. Let us try.”
We tried on our selections, posing in the mirror with silly faces and laughing. Dresses chosen, we each tried on hideously frou-frou gowns with bows and lace for the hell of it, and took selfies to text to Jocelyn and Caroline. And the whole time, I felt that feeling I’d been searching for. A little hint of excitement that comes from shopping with your girlfriend for a dance. But not enough. No spark. My thoughts kept wandering to Isaac. I wondered if he’d been telling the truth when he said missing a dance wouldn’t bother him.
I wondered if he cared that I was going with Justin.
It doesn’t matter, I thought. I couldn’t have gone with him, even if he asked me. Dad would ruin everything.
Besides, I wasn’t sure I could handle the dance at all. The thought of a guy’s body pressed to mine, whether it was Justin or Isaac… A guy getting in my space. The potential to be alone in a darkened room and out of control…
I went cold all over and quickly pulled my street clothes back on.
“You okay?” Angie said. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine. I just need to eat something.”
We sat at the food court with our dress bags on our laps, eating pretzel bites from Wetzels and drinking lemonade. We took more selfies. We people-watched. We laughed. I remembered what it was to have female company again. The trust and safety. I’d cut it out of my life, X’d it out, but now, with Angie, I had it back and it felt good. I had a real friend.
“You sure you’re okay?” Angie asked. “You’re looking at me like you’re in love with me. Which is cool, I get that a lot.”
“Yes, Angie. You found me out. I love you.”
We laughed and made jokes, but it was the truth.
Wednesday night, the good vibes of my shopping trip with Angie stuck with me, straight into rehearsal, I stepped into a theater that was only half-full with the cast. Justin and some of the others with smaller roles weren’t called that night. I felt lighter somehow…until I saw Isaac.
The right side of his face was swollen and bruised. A white butterfly bandage covered a gash on his cheekbone. Covered most of it—the edges peeked out, dark red with congealed blood.
My heart ached. Until that moment, the abuse he suffered from his father had been only rumors to me. That and one single comment Isaac made during our outing on Saturday. It was vague and abstract and happened somewhere else. Now it was a raw, wincing wound and vivid, purple and blue bruising under his eye.
It’s real.
This happens to him.
And no one is talking about it.
I supposed the veteran HCT actors all knew the score by now. They’d known Isaac much longer than I had. But their silence still angered me.
Doesn’t anyone care?
But then again, Isaac wasn’t exactly inviting questions. He stood alo
ne, wearing his leather jacket like armor. His bruised face a stone wall, the gates locked tight. He probably didn’t want anyone talking about it.
But what if he does?
I marked myself with black X’s, my version of the Scarlet Letter, only no one knew what they meant. Maybe it was me crying out for someone to ask, even if I would never tell them. Isaac had asked. Now he wore the marks of the abuse he suffered full on his face where he could not hide it.
I moved to stand next to him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
He hardly moved his mouth, his voice soft. And grateful.
“The Fords are letting me stay with them,” he said. “I moved into their spare bedroom.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m glad.”
“It’s just for a little while.”
“Of course.”
A silence, then, “I can’t sleep. The bed is soft, the house is warm and I have a hot dinner every night, but I can’t fucking sleep. I lie awake and think of my dad, alone in that shitty trailer…”
I nodded. “I know what you mean,” I said, and then more words followed without my permission. A little piece of my secret. “I can’t sleep either.”
Slowly Isaac’s head turned. His gaze dropped down to my wrist, its black X concealed under a long-sleeved shirt. Then he looked me in the eye and his voice was like a hand held out to me, asking me to trust him. “Why can’t you sleep?”
Staring back, I wondered what it would be like to actually tell someone. To smash the icy block once and for all, and let the words out into the world.
I turned toward Isaac, and he turned toward me so that we leaned against the wall, on our sides, like how a couple might, lying in bed. He bent his head to me, ready to hear me, and I tilted my chin up to him, the words climbing up my throat.
Martin clapped his hands together, slicing the moment apart.
“Act Two, Scene One,” he called. “Ophelia? Daughter of mine?”
“Go on,” Isaac said. “Maybe later?”
“Yeah.” I said softly. “Maybe.”
Martin set the other actors to work with Rebecca, the assistant director, then pulled me aside. “Come, daughter. T’is time you and I worked out Act Two, Scene One.”
In Act Two, Scene One, Ophelia runs to Polonius, explaining that Hamlet came to visit her and was acting crazy. Instead of reacting to others onstage, I had to fly in, already terrorized, with a veteran actor and director as my scene partner and no motivation but what I created for myself.
This is going to suck…
“Whenever you’re ready,” Martins said from our corner of the stage.
Feeling like an idiot, I stepped backstage, took a deep breath, then flew back on.
“O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”
Martin whirled around with the perfect mix of shock and worry. “With what, i' th' name of God?”
“My lord, as I was sewing in my closet…”
I broke character with an unladylike snort of laughter. “I’m sorry, but sewing in the closet?”
“Closet merely means room,” Martin said with a mild smile.
“I know, but it just sounds so…”
“Archaic?”
“Yes,” I said. “I picture her locked away in an actual closet with hardly any light, sewing like a dutiful little woman. I’m just not feeling it. Hamlet came to visit her and she’s explaining what happened? Why not just show what happened?”
“Without dialogue?” Martin shot me a grin. “Shakespeare doesn’t ever not use words. Words are kind of his thing.”
I pursed my lips in a smile.
“Ophelia is explaining how Hamlet scared her, but Polonius takes it as a sign that Hamlet’s so in love with his daughter, he’s losing his mind.”
My cheeks flamed. “Okay, well, I’m having a hard time with this. Finding the emotion. The pretty words make it hard to get into that mindset, you know?”
Ugh, actor fail.
Getting into Ophelia’s mindset was exactly my job, but Martin smiled patiently.
“Why don’t we try making it real?” he asked. “Perhaps if we acted it out first, the lines would make more sense when you describe them to Polonius. You’ll have a physical memory to draw from.”
“Anything to help.”
He scanned the theater and found Isaac running lines with Mel Thompson, who played Horatio.
“Isaac,” Martin called. “Can I borrow you for a minute?”
My heart started pounding in my chest as Isaac came up the stage steps. Or came anywhere near me, I suddenly realized.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“In this scene, Ophelia is describing to yours truly how Hamlet barged into her room with his clothes a mess, acting strange enough to frighten her.”
Isaac nodded. “Okay.”
“Willow’s having trouble finding her motivation. So why don’t we do this?” Martin turned to me. “Willow, I’ll read your lines. Isaac, you act them out. It’ll give Willow an idea of the severity of the situation.”
Isaac looked at me as he answered, “If you think it would help?”
I nodded. “I want to get this right.”
He looked reluctant, but we took our spots, me sitting in a chair pretending to sew.
“Very well,” Martin said. “Hamlet has flown into your room, looking pale and disheveled, his knees knocking, et cetera.”
Isaac took one step and somehow made it seem he’d rushed onto the stage. His eyes were wild in his bruised face. His breath came in short hard gasps, his fists clenching and unclenching.
As Martin read Ophelia’s description of Hamlet’s behavior, Isaac performed them.
He flew at me and grabbed my wrist, hard, hauling me out of the chair. I barely found my feet when he pushed me away, holding me at arms’ length but his fingers still dug into my wrist. The wild intensity of his gaze flew over my face again and again, as if he were trying to memorize me. My heart began to pound, this time with a hard, panicked clanging that made me want to tear my arm out of his grasp. He moved close to me, bent his head toward mine, his nose in my hair, inhaling me. Then he exhaled and let it out on a soft groan of regret as he let me go.
I pulled my wrist to my thudding chest. Isaac backed away, his eyes locked on mine. He turned and walked off stage, all the while watching me over his shoulder, heedless of anything in his way. He melted into the curtains and I stared after, trembling, my legs weak.
Martin dropped the script to the floor, jerking my wild gaze to him. He was Polonius now, and he grabbed me by the shoulders, seizing the moment while I was still trapped in it.
“Come, go with me. I will go seek the king. This is the very ecstasy of love.” He gave me a slight shake. “What, have you given him any hard words of late?”
I stared at him, my eyes wide and unblinking, my mind translating the question.
What did you do to him to make him act that way?
My words emerged on a whisper. “No, my good lord. But as you did command.”
Polonius held me for half a second more. When he let go, it was Martin’s face breaking into a jubilant smile. “You got it,” he said and pulled me in for a hug. “You’re a natural, Willow. Raw talent. I’m so grateful you found my theater.”
“Thanks,” I managed. “Can I use the restroom?”
I didn’t wait for an answer, but hurried out of the theater to the ladies’ room in the lobby, where I splashed cold water on my face a half-dozen times.
“You’re okay,” I told the girl in the mirror. “You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.”
When rehearsal ended, I surveyed the remaining actors, wondering who I could ask for a ride home. I decided I could be a big girl and call an Uber. I booked the ride, then went outside into the chilly air. The days were getting warmer now, but the nights still held a little bite of winter.
“Hey.”
I looked around and saw Isaac leaning against the wall, one foot flat agains
t the bricks, a cigarette tucked between his lips. Hulking and battered in his black leather jacket, he’d look dark and dangerous to everyone. But not to me.
“Hey,” I said. “Thanks for helping out tonight.”
He looked away for a moment, his jaw hard, then back to me. “You were scared.”
I tucked my hair behind my ear, shrugged. “You were intense. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?”
“So it was all an act.”
“They don’t call it acting for nothing.”
He snorted smoke out of his nose. “I didn’t like scaring you like that.”
“Why?”
“It felt real.”
I crossed my arms. “You think we don’t feel the same when we watch you? In Oedipus I was scared you’d actually gouged your damn eyes out.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.” I tilted my chin up in mock arrogance and flipped a lock of hair over my shoulder. “And maybe I’m just that good.”
He nodded, not smiling at the joke. “I know you are but…”
“But what?”
He thought for a minute, took a drag off his smoke. “When I get really into a scene, it’s because I’m connecting to some real emotion or memory within it.”
“I’m familiar with Method acting, yes,” I said, clinging to snark to keep the conversation from where Isaac was taking it.
He glanced at me, then looked away. “I don’t want to get all up in your business, but tonight when I got close to you, when I grabbed you…” He ground his teeth. “The fear I saw in your eyes…”
And then it came again, Isaac’s hand out to me, strong and sure, offering to be there while I crossed the great black chasm.
“I drew it out, but I didn’t put it there to begin with,” he asked. “Did I?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Who did?”
I swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Matters to me,” he said, his voice gruff. “It fucking matters to me, Willow.”
I felt myself moving closer to him. He looked so strong and brave and unafraid of anything. And I felt so small and tired. I wanted to give up pretending I wasn’t exhausted down to my soul and fall into his arms. Let him hold me up for a little bit, even if it was a cowardly thing to do.
