Thespian Madness
Thespian Madness
Silhouetted in the light of an early summer moon which washed lines from faces long past the bloom of youth, the three sisters waited. Like chaperones at a cotillion, they lingered slightly removed from squealing stage-door fan-girls whose enthusiastic outbursts caused the middle sister to cover her ears and cluck in disapproval. With a gesture born of habit and long practice, the eldest gentled her sister with a touch.
“Patience,” she admonished.
“Oh! Here he comes!” The youngest emulated the excited exclamations of the juvenile fans, and her sisters chided in unison.
“Oh, dear,” the middle sister sighed in dreamy reminiscence, and the youngest sister turned to her.
“Isn’t he handsome, sister?” The younger sister whispered.
“’Whether hideous or handsome depends on the judge,” the eldest warned.
As the youth approached, the sisters clapped in unison. He dropped an artful bow before the trio and tossed back his dark bangs with a studied gesture. Long of limb and graceful despite his lankiness, Trevor McKenzie had earned a standing ovation as a last-minute replacement: an understudy who’d stolen the show and the hearts of the audience members in his debut.
“Please.” He held his hand to his heart. “You embarrass me.”
“Bravo!” the sisters exclaimed in varying degrees. Only the most observant witness would notice the skepticism which remained in the eldest’s expression.
“I am but a lowly understudy. Tonight, my one night of glory.” The young man protested. “Fame, as they say, is fleeting.”
“Do not discredit yourself, young man,” the middle sister advised.
The youth smiled sadly and ducked his head like a scolded child. “ I’ll be back in the chorus tomorrow.”
“ “’Be not afraid of greatness.’” the youngest sister began.
“Some are born great,” the middle sister added.
“Some achieve greatness,” the youngest continued.
“And some have greatness thrust upon them.” The eldest finished.
“Macbeth, am I right?” The actor grinned, and the three ladies breathed a disappointed sigh in wheezy unison.
“Ladies.” A second actor joined the youth. A veteran of the company at twenty-six, Jackson Heyworth had once been heralded in such a manner by the very same ladies. At the time he had feigned superficial embarrassment at their acclaim but had harbored a secret arrogance which informed his interactions and guided his decisions. His anointment at their ancient hands seemed purloined from some Shakespearean tragedy, and he was willing to screw his courage to the sticking point if it meant his star’s ascendency. Time and several summers played in the background holding a spear had made him finally cynical and openly dismissive of their benediction. Whatever credit he’d earned with the company was his own doing, he told himself, and not the supernatural work of three weird and ancient sisters who’d heralded him as a star on the rise.
Jackson threw an arm across his friend’s shoulder. “You’ll give him a big head if you keep this up. See you at Fogarty’s?” When the youth nodded, his friend leaned close and whispered. “Give ‘em your autograph and get out while you can.”
“Oh, dear,” the youngest frowned, overhearing Jackson’s admonition. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Jackson has no appreciation for the true esthete.” His kissed each antique hand with ready aplomb.
“Seize the laurel wreath, young man,” the middle sister advised as the youth’s lips touched her hand.
“And Thespis damn the consequences!” the youngest proclaimed.
The youth started and color waned from his blooming cheeks. His expression darkened and his demeanor, once sweet and boyish, distorted as if the lady had uttered a curse. Crowding the space between his devotee and himself, he whispered, “What did you say?” in a voice that caused the eldest sister to step between her sibling and the youth.
“McKenzie, come on!” another actor hailed the actor from across courtyard which had been crowded with cheerful fans mere moments ago. The young man shook off his violent mood and gazed around himself like one waking from a dream. He waved at his friend across the courtyard and ducked his head in unspoken apology to the assembled ladies.
The sisters stepped back carefully to let the young man pass. “Nice meeting you, ladies,” Trevor McKenzie said and chuckled nervously. He kissed his fingers to the sisters and ran to meet his friend.
“Oh, dear.” The youngest turned to her sisters, a disappointed frown settled across her soft features.
“We may have been mistaken,” the middle sister concurred.
“’Was ever book containing such vile matter so fairly bound?’” the eldest whispered to the wind, gathered her wraps more closely around thin shoulders, and the three ladies melted into the shadows of the enveloping night.
Applause greeted Trevor McKenzie when Jackson opened the door to Fogarty’s and bowed him into the crowded pub. A heady mix of actors, techies, and locales looked on with equal parts admiration and envy as the youth offered a humble obeisance for the acknowledgement.
“Beautiful performance, kid.”
“Huzzah!”
“Bravo!”
“Drink’s on me, tonight.” Trevor held up his wallet, and the crowd cheered again.
“Are you sure you can afford that?” The established matron of the company gave the bartender a discreet nod. “You’re still bringing in intern’s wages, aren’t you?”
“Not to worry, Maggie, my love.” Jackson handed his friend an opened bottle of Guinness. “He’s already been anointed by the Weird Sisters.” With a wry salute, Jackson clinked the neck of his bottle against his friend’s and smirked at the woman.
“Jackson! You will not talk crap about those sweet old ladies.” Maggie glared at Trevor who swallowed his guffaw around a gulp of beer.
“Come on.” Jackson shrugged. “You know it happens every year.” He caught the younger man’s face and pinched his cheeks. “Some sweet young thing comes through, and they descend on him like three doily-clad vultures.”
.
Maggie shook her head, but laughed despite herself. “You should be ashamed of yourself. It wasn’t so long ago you were the favored one.”
“Ah, for the days of my youth,” Jackson sighed.
“Trevor.”
As if on cue, the rowdy crowd stilled and a frisson of anticipation built in a climactic beat. A glance in the mirror over the bar confirmed Trevor’s suspicions. Annabelle Simpson, the girlfriend of the man he’d replaced, stood behind him. Her face flushed with tears, her mismatched clothing and messy hair further evidence of her distraction. Trevor worked to mask the grimace on his face before turning towards her.
“Annbelle. How’s Ryan?” he asked, and modulated his voice to a sympathetic murmur that only she could hear.
Fresh tears filled the girl’s eyes. “Trevor, when did Ryan call you to take his place tonight?”
“Um.” He took a step toward her, mindful of the crowded room full of his colleagues; mindful that he must play the next minutes carefully. “Can we go outside?”
“No.” She jerked her arm away when he attempted to take her hand and lead her away. “I want to know when Ryan called you.”
“Ryan didn’t call in, Annabelle. And he didn’t call me,” Trevor said, quietly, and leaned closer to the distraught girl. “Nobody’s heard from him since last night.”
“Ryan would never miss a show. Never. He’d never do that!” Annabelle’s voice had risen to a hysterical shriek. “I’ve been phoning and phoning, and he doesn’t pick up.”
Maggie put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulder. “I’m sure he’s all right, sweetheart. He’s probably just taking a little time to deal with what happened.”
“Going up is one thing.” Jackson moved closer, mindful that a protracted scene would not strengthen his friend’s new status in the theatre community. “Completely losing your shit on stage is something else.”
“That’s not what happened!” Annabelle darted a look at Trevor which made him stumble back onto the bar stool. “I want to know what you did to him.”
Trevor let out an exasperated laugh. “Come on, Annabelle. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I don’t believe you!” Annabelle lashed out with her hands and Trevor caught her forearms and held her.
“I could never hurt Ryan. Why would I do that?” He released the girl and shook his head. “I’ve been at the theatre all day. Jackson can vouch for me.”
“Annabelle, it’s true. Trevor’s been rehearsing all day.” Jackson agreed.
Maggie squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “Sweetheart, Trevor didn’t have anything to do with it. Ryan just…he had a breakdown on stage. Come on, Annabelle. I’ll drive you home.”
Jackson reached around and handed Maggie her jacket and purse. The older woman mouthed a final congratulations to Trevor and lead the sobbing girl from the pub.
“Whew!” Jackson saluted the departing Annabelle. “Quite the little scene stealer, huh?”
Trevor turned back to the bar and picked up his own drink. The sudden chill in the room made him want to get drunk very fast.
“Poor kid.” Jackson sat beside him. “I wonder if she needs some company tonight.”
“Let it go, Jackson,” Trevor muttered.
“You know, it’s too bad Ryan didn’t crack up during The Scottish Play. All that screaming about ghosts would have made for some very effective theatre.” The edge of cruelty in Jackson’s voice made Trevor shiver, and he turned to his friend in protest.
Ryan Womack stood behind Jackson, diaphanous and gibbering. Like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, he raised his arm and pointed with a hand stained crimson. The hair on the nape of Trevor’s neck prickled, and he spun around certain everyone could see the vision, but the pub full of revelers was oblivious.
“What’s going on, Trevor?” Jackson questioned with a laugh. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“A ghost. That’s ridiculous.” Trevor responded too quickly and laughed a little too long. Jackson pinned him with a glance that made him turn away and find himself once again confronted by a phantasm.
“I know what you did,” Ryan whispered, and the specter vanished with a breathy exhalation.
“Hey. Are you all right, buddy?” Jackson caught at his friend’s arm and pulled him from his reverie.
“Yes. Yes,” Trevor nodded. “I’m fantastic.” He turned with a stilted laugh. “’I would give all my fame for a pot of ale.’“ He chugged the dregs of his Guinness and pounded the bar. “Keep ‘em coming!”
Chapter 1