Everything You Want Me to Be(83)

My best performance, though, was the sleepwalker scene, my last scene. The crown slipped sideways in my hair and my dress was almost completely red down the front. I looked more like the murder victim than the murderer now, which was the whole point. Our treachery was killing us. I paced upstage in agony, holding my hands in front of me like I couldn’t figure out how they were connected to the rest of my body. I stared blindly into the gymnasium walls and over the space where the heads of the audience would be, where Peter sat by himself in the dark. I didn’t even realize I was crying until the room blurred. I poured my heartache into the scene. In rehearsals I had played this act just as strong as the waking scenes, shouting sleeping instructions to myself to shake off the murder.

“Wash your hands, put on your nightgown, look not so pale!”

But now my lines hinted at desperation, like I knew I was heading over the abyss into madness and could not understand the fall. My voice trembled, threatened to break.

“I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried. He cannot come out on’s grave.”

If Lady Macbeth had been frightening in her cold, murderous calculations, now her unconscious confession was shocking. From the very first read, I’d seen her as a strong villain, a Cruella de Vil with no heart or conscience. The sleepwalking scene was just a hiccup, I thought. Now, though, I saw how it revealed everything. She was as tormented as Macbeth: her desire was her undoing. After my final exit, I went directly to the greenroom and sat in a daze for the rest of the play.

I had to keep Peter in my life. I had to. New life or old life, it wouldn’t matter without him. My desire was my undoing—I knew it and I still couldn’t turn away. We wanted each other beyond all reason or caution, regardless of the consequences, just like he’d said in the power circle speech. I had to find a way to talk to him.

After the last scene, I heard everyone applauding and walked back out to the gym, my mind racing.

“Where did you go? I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Portia said, running up to me.

I looked at her and suddenly smiled from ear to ear.

“Macbeth!”

I yelled it again and again, laughing at Portia’s horrified glare, at everyone who ran desperately to the doors. They all left the gymnasium and I could hear the trample of the crowd as they made the long circle around the halls outside. A single, abandoned spotlight lit the stage and Peter stood on the opposite side of it from me. Our eyes struggled through the light and we stepped forward to the edges of the shadows.

“I still have your money.” I said the first thing that came to mind, even though it was a lie.

“Hattie, please,” he whispered.

“I want to give it back to you.”

“I don’t want it.”

The thunder of feet got louder. They were past the halfway point.

“Tomorrow night. After the play. Meet me at the barn.”

I could hardly see his face through the spotlight. He moved forward slightly, revealing only the curve of his head, the rising of his chest and the uncertainty of his stance. Mirroring him, I took a step closer, feeling the kiss of the light touch my lips. It connected us, heated us.

“I can’t,” he said.

“You have to. You have to say goodbye.”

“It’s impossible. Don’t ask me to.”

The feet stopped outside the double doors and there was a muffled chant, a sonnet they’d all memorized to banish the evil I’d invoked.

“I’ll wait all night, Peter. All night for you.” I couldn’t hide the longing in my voice. “Come get your money and say goodbye.”

The doors burst open just as Peter turned away and the noise of everyone drowned out anything he might have said in reply.





DEL / Thursday, April 17, 2008


I CHARGED Peter Lund with the murder of Henrietta Sue Hoffman at 3:02 p.m. on the day of her funeral.

It didn’t sit right with me, him confessing right after Mary Beth came to visit. She went in to see her husband, then calmly gave us a sworn deposition that she’d followed Peter to the rendezvous, seen Peter and Hattie together, dropped the knife, and left. She described the dimensions of the murder weapon perfectly.

“Why did you keep this to yourself for six days?” I pressed. “Why didn’t you say anything when I was over at the farm?”

Mary Beth smoothed one hand over her stomach. “I had a lot to come to terms with, Sheriff. I’d just found out my husband was cheating on me and our unborn child. I hadn’t thought him capable of that, let alone murder.”

“You were talking murder with Winifred Erickson that day. Don’t tell me it was about chickens.”

She nodded, dropping her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry I lied to you about that. We were talking about abortion.”

“Why did you lie?”

“I was ashamed, I guess. I didn’t know if I should have this baby, considering.”

Jake and I exchanged a glance and I leaned in, waiting for Mary Beth to raise her head and meet my eyes. When she did, I took off the gloves.

“Maybe you did some considering on Friday night when you saw the two of them together. Maybe you took some revenge on your cheating husband.”

“I didn’t.” She hardly seemed bothered by the accusation, let alone surprised. “If I was going to kill anyone that night, it would have been him, not her.”