Voices from the Dark

LET NOT LIGHT SEE MY BLACK AND DEEP DESIRES

Catherine Brennan

Steve stared at the wall clock in the deserted men’s dressing room. Fifteen minutes until curtain. He knew he should join the rest of the cast, but he couldn’t make his legs work.

Brad poked his head in. Move it, Macduff.

Don’t think I can, Banquo.

You’re not still nervous? Come on. Even if you suck, there are worse things.

Name one.

If you bail now, your girlfriend will never speak to you again.

Brad had a point. Steve couldn’t embarrass Julie or himself by refusing to go on at the last minute. He stood. Where are we going?

Spirit circle.

What the hell is that?

This fruity opening night thing we always do.

Steve followed Brad out of the hot glare in the dressing room to the cool, dim backstage area. The other cast members already stood there, forming a loose oval.

About time. Carl, dressed for the part of Macbeth, narrowed his eyes at Steve and compressed his lips in a tight line. Thank God Julie waited on Carl’s right, holding her hand out. Steve grabbed it, and she squeezed her encouragement. He held his other hand out to Brad, who rolled his eyes as he took it.

The director offered a rallying cry. She was proud of her whole cast; they were going to be great. It barely registered past the dull roar in Steve’s ears. He wished he were anywhere else, waiting to do anything other than make an ass of himself on Oak College’s main stage.

He never would have auditioned if Julie hadn’t talked him into it. She explained that if she were cast as Lady Macbeth, she’d be at the theatre whenever she wasn’t in class. They’d never see each other unless he got into the show too.

He figured he’d end up standing in the background, carrying a spear. It never occurred to him that he’d get a big part like Macduff. Too late, he’d discovered the pitfalls of trying out for a play at a small college with an even smaller theatre department.

The director finished her pep talk and Brad relinquished Steve’s hand. To Steve’s left, Carl brushed Julie’s lips in a kiss. Steve must have squeezed her hand too hard, because she made a startled movement and jerked her arm away.

They’d had the jealousy discussion early in rehearsals. Julie promised she had no interest in Carl, but she had to be able to act like they were married. Steve trusted Julie. Carl was another story.

Still, he couldn’t let Carl see his insecurity. He summoned up a smile. Have a good show, Carl. But we all know you will. You’re an awesome Macbeth.

Christ! What kind of a moron are you? Carl said.

Steve stared at him, dumbfounded.

You never say that word in the same theatre where you’re doing the play. Not offstage, anyway. Ass. Carl strode off.

Did Carl really believe that old superstition? Steve sought a comeback and hit on the perfect one. Hey, Carl!

Carl turned, his dark brows furrowed. What?

Steve smirked. Good luck.

Carl took a step towards Steve, jaw clenched, and then turned away again. When he was gone, Steve turned to Julie. She gave him a rueful smile. Sorry. I should have told you.

What? That Carl’s a prick?

No, about the … she hesitated, and then went on, the ‘Scottish play’ thing.

Man! Brad shook his head.  "Everyone knows it’s bad luck to say it. It was even on The Simpsons."

Yeah, I saw that episode, Steve said. But who takes that crap seriously?

Brad shook his head, sighed, and left. Steve looked to Julie for agreement. Her eyes looked too bright, like she might be about to cry. He took her hand. What is it?

I just wish you hadn’t.

Hadn’t what?

Said the name. Especially not on opening night.

Steve groaned. Not you too?

She bit her lip. Theatre is magic, or at least as close to magic as I’m likely to get. So maybe theatrical superstition doesn’t seem so ridiculous to me.

He hadn’t meant to upset her, of all people. I’m sorry, Baby.

I guess I’m nervous, said Julie.

He tilted her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. It’s magic when you do it, but that’s because you’ve worked your ass off. You’ll be great.  

She gave him a wavering smile and pulled him close. You always know what to say, don’t you? She put her arms around him and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. Just as it got interesting, she pulled away. He tried to start another kiss, but she put a finger up to his lips. After, okay? I need to get into character.

And then she was gone. He sighed and went to the props table. Might as well get ready for his entrance.

His sword belt felt heavier than he had remembered. He must be having a delayed reaction to the argument with Carl, or maybe he was still dreading their Act Five fight. Every time they played that scene, Steve ended up bruised. Julie always sympathized, but then she’d excuse Carl, saying he was such a good actor that he’d probably lost himself in the role.

How do actors do that? Steve had asked her during one of these discussions. I watch people like Carl and you on stage and it’s like you really think you’re the characters. It’s almost scary.

Thanks, I think.

Seriously.

It’s part concentration, part memory, part imagination, she said.  I remember how I felt at certain times, like when I have to act like I love Carl, I imagine he’s you.

With that, Steve had forgotten his irritation with Carl. Remembering how Julie always made him feel better might not help Steve channel Macduff, but at least he thought he could face going on stage. He buckled the sword belt on. Surely, he’d be over the adrenaline drain by the time Act Five rolled around.

~*~

Onstage, the Porter grunted, shoving open the canvas door as if it were really as heavy as the oak timbers it was painted to

resemble. Steve entered alongside Lennox. The Porter was supposed to be a funny drunk, so Steve fed him straight lines until Macbeth entered.

Is the king awake, worthy thane? Steve asked Carl.

They continued with their lines as Carl led him up a staircase and pointed to an arch. Steve exited to stand on an offstage platform and await his next cue.

Steve stumbled over something lying on the small platform. He landed on a large, wet, wool-and-velvet-covered object. He yanked his hands back. They came away sticky, with a metallic smell. Steve dropped to his knees and felt arms and a chest. Upon finding the face, he discovered it was the guy who played King Duncan. Steve froze. Duncan was the character whose body Steve—as Macduff—was sent to find. When he could move again, he pressed his fingers to Duncan’s neck and leaned closer, listening. No breath. No pulse.

He opened his mouth to call for help. Nothing came out.

Onstage, Lennox said, My young remembrance cannot parallel a fellow to it.

That was his cue. He staggered through the door. He needed to tell them, but what came out was, O, horror, horror, horror!

His next utterances felt pulled from him against his will. He wanted to tell them what had happened, but the only words he could manage weren’t his, but Shakespeare’s. Macbeth, Lennox, and Ross went to the offstage platform. Thank God. Someone else would know what happened.

They came back on, as frantic as Steve, but all they said were their lines. Like puppets, they went through their assigned words and movements until the scene finally ended.

Offstage, Julie said, That’s the best you’ve ever done that scene.

He tried to explain, but nothing came out. She patted his shoulder. You’re in the zone. We’ll talk after.

~*~

After intermission, a newly incorporeal Brad—or rather Banquo—spent Act Three, Scene Four tormenting Carl. Once off stage, Banquo berated Steve. His voice seemed to enter Steve’s brain directly, You had to use the real title.  Steve could only avoid Banquo’s ghost by going on stage for his scenes. Backstage, Banquo hounded him from the dressing room to the green room and finally off stage left, where the actors who played Macduff’s family lay in a bloody heap. Steve dropped to his knees, searching the bodies for any signs of life, all the while knowing he would find none.

On the opposite side of the stage, someone screamed. Banquo’s ghost said, Ah, ’tis the lady.

Julie. Heart plummeting, Steve pursued the sound of screaming to a far backstage corner. Other actors stared up at Julie’s body, which swung by her neck from a catwalk. How could they just stand there? She might still be alive. Steve looked for a ladder, but his feet led him on stage for his next entrance.

After his scene, he raced backstage to find Julie’s body lying on the floor. They had taken her down, but hadn’t been quick enough to save her. And still, out under the lights, the show wore on.

Steve ran for the fire door. Screw the play. He was getting the hell out before he did the unthinkable. He threw his whole weight against the door, but it wouldn’t budge. His next cue would come soon. He tried to take off his sword belt. His fingers wouldn’t work the buckle. He wrapped his arms around a pillar, holding on tight. No way was he going back on stage.

Still, when Macbeth gave Macduff’s cue line, Steve found himself striding out to face him. His sword rang as he pulled it from its scabbard. Turn, hellhound, turn!

Of all men else have I avoided thee, said Macbeth. But get thee back. My soul is too much charged with blood of thine already.

Nice try. Macbeth caused this disaster. He started it by killing Duncan. He made it worse when he ordered Banquo’s death and the deaths of Macduff’s family. He’d finally sealed his fate when he caused Lady Macbeth to take her own life. He deserved whatever happened to him. A calm settled over Macduff. I have no words. My voice is in my sword. Thou bloodier villain than terms can give thee out!

He swung.

Macbeth’s sword clanged against his. Thou losest labor. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield to one of woman born.

Fool. Macduff smiled. Despair thy charm. Macduff was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped.

For a moment, Carl seemed to look out of Macbeth’s widened eyes, realizing his peril. Then he was once again, Macbeth Lay on, Macduff. And damned be he who first cries, hold, enough.

They parried and sliced their way off the field as the sounds of battle drew near. Macduff drew back his sword and swung it hard. Macbeth’s body crumpled, but his head seemed to hover before thudding to the ground and rolling up to Macduff’s feet. He picked it up by its blood-soaked hair and took it to show the others.

The lords of Scotland stared at Macbeth’s head, looking ready to vomit. Macduff hailed Malcolm, who by this slaying had become king. Malcolm, white-faced, gave a speech offering great rewards to all the lords and inviting them to his coronation. The lords practically tripped over each other in their hurry to follow the new king out.  Macduff couldn’t. A feeling like a thousand pinpricks paralyzed him.

When the lights came up for the curtain call, Steve stood alone, holding Carl’s dripping head to thunderous applause. Then he was no longer alone. The translucent form of Banquo ushered a phantom King Duncan ahead of him, then led Macduff’s equally ghostly family on stage. The spectral cast bowed deeply, just as they had done when practicing their curtain calls.

The audience faltered, their shouts and clapping fading. Could they see what he saw?  Steve peered out into the house, trying to make out individual expressions, but the bright stage lighting blinded him. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth entered and bowed. Carl slid front and center, taking a solo bow. Julie drifted back toward Steve, her arms outstretched. She tried to embrace him. Her hands found no purchase, instead filling him with a knife-like chill.

Steve’s fingers went slack and he dropped Carl’s head. His shaking legs collapsed under him and he sank to the floor. Unbidden, one of Macbeth’s lines filled his mind, "Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessed time."

RATS -

Edison Pongklub

Carrie, I think something’s wrong with Dad," Doug said, shrugging to adjust the backpack slung over his right shoulder.

His sister frowned and asked, Why’s that?

Doug motioned for her to come near, then drew close to her ear and whispered.

Really? Carrie asked. She played the fingers of her right hand through the hair at the nape of her neck, as she was wont to do when she was pensive about something.

Don’t tell anyone, though, he said. Not even Mom. There’s just something not right about something. We’ll talk more tonight.

My lips are sealed, Carrie said, making a zipping motion over her mouth.

Now that she thought about it, she had been getting a bit of a different vibe from Dad the last few days, but she’d been so busy getting ready for the big meet that she hadn’t had time to think about it too much.

Mom and Dad had always been pretty close, but it was like things were a little bit off between them. He couldn’t possibly be… No, that was unthinkable. Carrie shook her head furiously to clear the terrible thought from her mind.

Well, his office wasn’t too far away, so maybe she could investigate?

~*~

Carrie stepped off the bus and looked around, hoping she wouldn’t run into anyone who knew her. She pulled her cap down over her face and pushed the sunglasses up her nose. It was just a short stroll down a couple of blocks and she’d arrive at the red brick building where Dad worked. He had a ground floor office, so maybe she could peek in and well, she wasn’t sure what to expect. She probably wouldn’t see anything. After all, what were the chances? Still, nervous energy propelled her on at a brisk pace.

Finally, there was the office. She sidled in behind a tree and peeked around. There was Dad, hard at work at his desk, facing away from the window. She recognized the back of his salt-and-pepper hair and breathed a sigh of relief. Carrie watched for a few moments, feeling extremely foolish, and turned to go.

She happened to glance back and saw that a statuesque blonde was now in the office. The woman leaned down and… appeared to put her face extremely close to Dad’s. Carrie inhaled deeply and stared. Had she really seen what she thought she’d just seen? Surely not. She must’ve made some kind of mistake. Then Dad stood up, leaned over, and quite clearly kissed this strange lady, who was not Mom, since Mom was (a) shorter than Dad, even in heels, (b) not blonde, and (c) landing in three hours. That rat! Her thoughts whirling, Carrie spun around and headed home.

~*~

The car ride back from the airport seemed unusually perfect. Mom chatted to them about how amazing Philadelphia had been and how awesome it would be for them all to go there on vacation that summer and that the guys at the branch office were incredibly friendly but impossibly dim. Dad laughed good-naturedly and told them about the projects he was handling at work and Doug was missing because he was at his after-school job.

Had it all been a misunderstanding? Had she made some kind of wrong assumption? Was the blonde from the office simply a long-lost relative or old friend or something? However, you wouldn’t kiss someone like that full on the lips for five extremely long seconds, would you?

Carrie played along with the flow of conversation and no one seemed to notice anything was up. In the middle of dinner, though, she excused herself early and went to her room.

All right, a brand new diary, she said as she pulled the fresh, blank book out of her backpack. She’d picked it up on her way home and now, as she did with every new book, she immediately wrote the date on the inside cover, then her name, and her current age. She closed it decisively, satisfied with a job well done. The elegant leather cover matched nicely with her desk.

She cranked up some R&B and pulled out her chemistry homework, intending to get it done as quickly as possible. However, her thoughts kept bugging her and her eyes constantly drifted over to the round face of her alarm clock, willing Doug to get home. Finally, she heard him pull into the driveway, stroll across to the front door, and come in. Impatient to tell him what she’d seen, Carrie hurried down to meet him.

Hey, Doug, how was work? she asked.

Oh, man, he said, shrugging his shoulders. It was crazy. Like, I had to make so many pizzas today, I don’t even want to think about Italy.

Carrie laughed and said, Well, no leftovers for you, then. Mom made mostaccioli.

For real? Doug asked. Oh, well, I’m bushed anyway. I’ll probably just go to bed.

Carrie followed him into the hall, where he hung up his red pizza jacket, then poked his head around the corner and said, Hey, to Mom and Dad watching TV in the living room. She trailed behind him as he went upstairs.

Hey, Carrie asked quietly. Remember that…thing we talked about earlier?

Huh? Doug asked, yawning. What thing?

That thing, you know, Carrie said, we talked about this morning?

Oh, right, yeah, well, you know what? I think…I think I got it under control, Doug said, smiling nonchalantly, but thanks.

Oh…okay, Carrie said, and went into the bathroom. She firmly shut the door behind her so it banged closed, but didn’t let go of the knob. Then she quietly opened the door a crack and observed. Her brother looked around, then opened the hall closet and immediately closed it. He went to the next door, opened it, peeked inside, closed it, and moved on to the