All's Well(52)

“Miranda!”

I stop shaking. All of them, I see, have long stopped shaking. They’re all just looking at me in quiet awe. Out of breath. A sea of red, damp, panting faces. Gripping each other’s shoulders, clutching their own chests. A few are doubled over, coughing.

“Wonderful,” I whisper. “Now why don’t we play a game?”

“A game?” Grace says.

“Just to round things off, shall we? A little Zip-Zap-Zop?”

Grace shakes her head.

“A wonderful game. An energy-exchange game. Which is what theater is all about, really. Energy exchange. Am I right? All right, let’s begin. Why so hesitant, everyone? Come on now, you know the rules. You gather in a circle just like this, just like this, that’s it. You look at someone in the circle, could be anyone, anyone. You reach your hand out toward them. You look them right in the eye. You say zip. Or you say zap. Or you say zop. And just like that, you’re sending them energy. And they’re receiving it, aren’t they? And then once they have it, it’s their turn, isn’t it, to point? To zip or to zap or to zop someone else of their choosing. Sound fun? Oh it really is. I’ll get us started, shall I?”

I look at them all in the circle. All watching me with wide eyes. My gaze alights upon Trevor. Looking cold and sullen, his arms crossed. Really the only one who hesitates in rehearsal. Who seems to question me with his eyes though he rarely questions out loud. It’s more of a pause, really. More of a look he gives me before he does what I say. Like the other day, when I told him to kiss Ellie, go on. Ellie who is currently playing Helen. Just until Briana gets back, of course. Whenever that may be.

But it doesn’t say to kiss her in the script, Trevor protested.

Up to us, Trevor, I said, isn’t it, to interpret the white spaces? The spaces between the lines?

Now I point my finger right at Trevor’s face and he flinches slightly.

“Zip,” I say.

Trevor ducks. He actually ducks as if to dodge a thrown stone. Stumbles backward. Falls into the slush. I look at Trevor lying in the muddy snow and laugh. Clap my hands.

“Oh, Trevor! You’re not supposed to duck. You’re supposed to catch it, catch the energy! Have you never played this game? Why don’t we—”

“Miranda,” Grace says touching my shoulder, pulling me down to earth. “We want to get started on rehearsal, don’t we? Before it gets dark out here.”

Dark? I look around and realize the sun is already setting. A great ball of red, sinking fire. The sky is deep blue, the trees black. The students appear to be shivering violently now.

“Right. Right, of course. Of course we do. Grace, always keeping me grounded. Reminding me of the time, ticktock, ticktock! Am I right? Why don’t we go back inside to finish up? Since we’ve taken what we can from the sun, hmm?”



* * *



Back in the theater, I make Ellie and Trevor do the final scene again and again. Let’s do it again, shall we? Act Five, Scene Three. In which Helen returns from the dead. In which everyone who thought she was dead, killed off by grief, by the indignities she has thus far suffered at the hands of Bertram, at the hands of fate, is in for a very big fucking surprise. Because she was never dead, not really, of course not. “Were you, Helen?” I say gently, turning to Ellie.

Ellie shakes her head. “No, Professor.”

“That’s only what everyone thought, wasn’t it? Including stupid Bertram,” I say, waving a hand at Trevor. His pants are still wet from the fall in the slush. I hear his inaudible sigh.

“But they were all fools, obviously. You, Helen,” I say, placing my hand on her shoulder, “are far too resilient for death. Aren’t you?”

Ellie smiles uncertainly. “Yes, Professor Fitch.”

Grace ahems in the audience. “Resilient? Try cunning.”

I ignore Grace. I continue, my hand on Ellie’s shoulder: “Helen reveals all she has endured to the French court, all the indignities she has suffered.”

“All her schemes and tricks,” Grace interjects loudly.

“All she has withstood,” I correct, “in order to survive. In order to navigate the cruel world in which she finds herself heartlessly thrown. She must reclaim what is merely, rightfully hers. Her husband. Her home. Her life! All she has suffered is laid before Bertram,” I say, looking meaningfully at Trevor. “And he is mystified—Trevor, look mystified. He is enchanted. He is won over. He agrees to love her dearly, ever dearly. He kisses her—Trevor, kiss her.”

“Kiss her?” Trevor repeats. He’s still just standing there a few feet from Ellie. Looking bewildered. Looking infuriating. Really, unintentionally a perfect Bertram.

“Yes, go on, please.”

He hesitates but only slightly. I watch him reach forward and peck her pathetically on the cheek. Ellie goes red.

“Not a peck, Trevor, a kiss. On the lips. She’s your wife back from the dead. She’s wearing your ring. She’s bearing your child.” With my hand on her back, I steer Ellie closer to his face. She stands there, literally shivering at her physical proximity to this idiot. She lowers her gaze to the floor.

“The very least you could do is kiss her on the lips, am I right? Again, please.”

I ask them to kiss again as I stand in the middle row center. As I stand in the back row. As I stand in the left and then the right wings. I want to see this moment from all angles. I want to see it from afar, I want to see it up close. I hop back onto the stage, to where Ellie and Trevor are crouched down, turned toward each other, their faces close as per my direction. His hands are gathered in her hands, her left hand bearing his ring (my old ring, which I lent them for the scene). I crouch down, the better to see their faces turned toward each other in this pivotal moment, in which all becomes well. Fall to your knees with the knowledge of it, that’s it, good. I fall to my knees too. All this woman has endured. All her pain. Her many trials by fire.