“Why not?” Hugo says. “There’s the Canny Man, that Irish pub nearby. Or is it Scottish?”
And then my bright blue sky darkens to pitchy night. I see a red-walled bar. A golden-green drink glowing with an unholy light. Three men gazing at me, tapping their black leathered feet. There, there, Ms. Fitch. Get happy.
“No,” I say. “No, no, I don’t think we should go there.”
“Well, you pick the place, then. I’m open. At your disposal. Completely.”
Impossible that Hugo is saying these words to me. But he is. He’s looking forward to it. He can’t wait.
* * *
As I walk down the hall now, I feel my feet clicking along. Briskly, more briskly than usual. Dead leg isn’t so dead, isn’t so heavy today. Hip still hurts of course. Back still aches. But my leg. I’m not dragging it. It clops along. It keeps up. So that I’m walking straighter. Taller. Not so lopsided anymore.
Something’s different about you, Miranda, Hugo said.
Is it? I said. I’m humming a little. Softly. Just to myself. A tune I heard somewhere, can’t remember where from, but it’s lovely. It comes easily to my lips, and I don’t usually sing. My lips are usually pressed together, bearing the weight of myself.
Up ahead, I see a student in the hall. Slumped against the concrete wall, gazing at his phone. My student, I realize. Jacob Fox. He’ll play Parolles, the villain, the vice-like courtier who leads Bertram astray in All’s Well. Probably I would have cast him as King Duncan if we’d done Macbeth. But we’re not doing Macbeth.
Normally when I see a student in the hall, I go the other way, pretending I forgot something in my office. I make a real show of it. I do an I forgot face and then I shake my head angrily at my own decrepit memory. Or else I stay the course, my eyes fixed forward and faraway, professorial, like I see nothing ahead but Shakespeare, the stage. But today I look right at Jacob Fox. I smile.
“Hello, Jacob,” I say. And I wave at Jacob, and he flinches. He says nothing. Maybe I’ve startled him. It’s true that I’ve never until this moment remembered his name.
“How are you?”
Jacob just looks at me. Some students don’t know how to talk to professors, it’s true. But Jacob’s never been intimidated by me before. He’s always yawning in rehearsal. His fucking mouth wide open in my face. But he looks very awake now. Looks the way they all did yesterday as I reached my hand out to see Briana’s script. Better not to mention yesterday. Better to act like all is well. Because all is well. Sure we had a rocky beginning, what with Briana attempting to overthrow me, what with my grasping hand clutching air and then seizing upon her wrist, but we ended on a high note, did we not?
“Cat got your tongue, Jacob?” I say. I try to sound playful. So he’ll relax and stop looking at me this way. I don’t bite, Jacob. Promise.
Jacob shakes his head. “No, Professor.”
“Oh, good. Looking forward to rehearsal today?”
“Yes.”
You’re a bad actor, Jacob. We’ll have to work on that.
“I’m so glad. Such wonderful news we received yesterday.” Smile. Emphasize the high note. “I’m excited for us. Especially for you, Jacob,” I lie.
Jacob just blinks. I’m excited for him? Really?
“Absolutely. Parolles is a very exciting role. Much better than Duncan, who dies so quickly.”
I attempt to beam.
He stares at me.
“And villains are far more interesting, anyway,” I continue. I’m babbling now. “Don’t you think, Jacob?”
I look at Jacob as though I’m interested, truly, in what he has to say.
Jacob says nothing. Merely blinks again. Maybe I’ve put him on the spot. It’s true I talk to no one outside of class or rehearsal. No one except Ellie, of course, and she’s the one who comes to me. Seeks me out in my office hours. Her tremulous knock, knock on the doorframe. Professor Fitch? I hope I’m not disturbing you. And her voice is an immediate balm for my mangled nerves. Sometimes she’ll just stand in the office doorway and wait for me to become aware of her presence. And I will. And I’ll scream. And she’ll look apologetic. And then I’ll smile. Oh, Ellie. It’s you. Come in, come in.
Perhaps it catches Jacob off guard, my sudden interest. Wanting to hear his, Jacob’s, thoughts about the play when probably Jacob has no thoughts.
“Such an archetypal villain, Parolles,” I continue. “A villain who outvillains villainy.” I smile. I’m quoting the play. Engaging him in a textual discussion. “Good for your CV, am I right?”