—None other.
—Have you ever been to the city of New York?
—I’ve been to hundreds of cities, Billy, but I’ve been to the city of New York more than I’ve been to anywhere else.
—That’s where Professor Abernathe is. Here, look.
Turning to one of the first pages, he offered up his book.
—Small print gives me a headache, Billy. Why don’t you do the honors.
Looking down, he began reading with the help of a fingertip.
—Dearest Reader, I write to you today from my humble office on the fifty-fifth floor of the Empire State Building at the junction of Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue on the isle of Manhattan in the city of New York at the northeastern edge of our great nation—the United States of America.
Billy looked up with a certain level of expectation. I responded with a look of inquiry.
—Have you ever met Professor Abernathe? he asked.
I smiled.
—I’ve met a lot of people in our great nation and many of them from the isle of Manhattan, but to the best of my knowledge, I have never had the pleasure of meeting your professor.
—Oh, said Billy.
He was quiet for a moment, then his little brow furrowed.
—Something else? I asked.
—Why have you been to hundreds of cities, Duchess?
—My father was a thespian. Although we were generally based in New York, we spent a good part of the year traveling from town to town. We’d be in Buffalo one week and Pittsburgh the next. Then Cleveland or Kansas City. I’ve even spent some time in Nebraska, believe it or not. When I was about your age, I lived for a stretch on the outskirts of a little city called Lewis.
—I know Lewis, said Billy. It’s on the Lincoln Highway. Halfway between here and Omaha.
—No kidding.
Billy set his book aside and reached for his knapsack.
—I have a map. Would you like to see?
—I’ll take your word for it.
Billy let go of the knapsack. Then his brow furrowed again.
—When you were moving from town to town, how did you go to school?
—Not all worth knowing can be found between the covers of compendiums, my boy. Let’s simply say that my academy was the thoroughfare, my primer experience, and my instructor the fickle finger of fate.
Billy seemed to consider this for a moment, apparently unsure of whether he should be willing to accept the principle as an article of faith. Then, after nodding twice to himself, he looked up with a touch of embarrassment.
—Can I ask you something else, Duchess?
—Shoot.
—What is a thespian?
I laughed.
—A thespian is a man of the stage, Billy. An actor.
Extending a hand, I looked into the distance and intoned:
She should have died hereafter.
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. . . .
It was a pretty good delivery, if I do say so myself. Sure, the pose was a little hackneyed, but I put a world of weariness into the tomorrows, and I hit that old dusty death with an ominous flare.
Billy gave me his patented wide-eyed look.
—William Shakespeare from the Scottish play, I said. Act five, scene five.
—Was your father a Shakespearean actor?
—Very Shakespearean.
—Was he famous?
—Oh, he was known by name in every saloon from Petaluma to Poughkeepsie.
Billy looked impressed. But then his brow furrowed once again.
—I have learned a little about William Shakespeare, he said. Professor Abernathe calls him the greatest adventurer to have never set sail on the seas. But he never mentions the Scottish play. . . .
—Not surprisingly. You see, the Scottish play is how theater folk refer to Macbeth. Some centuries ago, it was determined that the play was cursed, and that to speak of it by name can only bring misfortune upon the heads of those who dare perform it.
—What sorts of misfortune?
—The worst sorts. At the very first production of the play back in the sixteen hundreds, the young actor cast as Lady Macbeth died right before going onstage. About a hundred years ago, the two greatest Shakespearean actors in the world were an American named Forrest and a Brit named Macready. Naturally, the American audience was partial to the talents of Mr. Forrest. So when Macready was cast in the role of Macbeth at the Astor Place Opera House—on the isle of Manhattan—a riot broke out in which ten thousand clashed and many were killed.