The Juliet Spell. Douglas Rees

“Juliet.”

      “You are kidding me,” I said.

      “I am what?”

      “You actually played Juliet?”

      “The first time anyone ever did. Since my voice changed, I’ve done some of the servants, and the Count Paris. Last time I did the Chorus, as well.”

      “Ever play Romeo?” I asked.

      “Ha! As if Dick Burbage would let anyone else play him,” he snorted. “Will did it once when Burbage was sick, and Burbage still hasn’t forgiven him. Not that Will gives a fart. But little a chance has any hired actor of playing such a role as that. Not unless the play be done a good long way from London where the Lord Chamberlain’s Men will never hear of it until ’tis too late.”

      I knew some of what he was talking about. Gillinger had made us study some background material on Shakespeare’s times. Richard Burbage was the leading actor in the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, which was also the acting company Shakespeare belonged to. The plays he wrote were their property, but other acting companies would steal a popular play if they could get away with it. And Romeo and Juliet had been very popular.

      “You know,” I said, “I just read for Juliet this afternoon.”

      Edmund shook his head. “Ye did what for her?”

      “I read for the part. We’re doing it here, in town.”

      “But girls cannot appear on stage. ’Twould be filthy.”

      “No it isn’t. I know you guys used guys to play girls all the time. But we think that’s weird. There’s nothing wrong with having girls play girls.”

      “Women on the stage. ’Tis something too French,” Edmund said.

      “Well, maybe the French are just smarter than you English,” I said. “Anyway, there’s a lot of great English actresses now.”

      “Even in England they do this?” Edmund said.

      “Yep. That version of Romeo and Juliet I tried to show you has women playing all the women’s parts. Juliet, the Nurse, Lady Capulet, Romeo’s mother. And I’ll tell you something else. In our production some of the servants will probably be played by girls playing guys. ’Cause guys don’t come out for drama much.”

      Edmund shook his head again. “’Tis strange. ’Tis mickle strange. Me best role ever, played by—a woman.”

      “You know,” I said, “we’ve been talking a long time. Would you like dinner?”

      “I do not feel hungry,” he said. “But perhaps I should eat.”

      “Let me introduce you to the great American hamburger.”

      Edmund followed me out to the kitchen. He followed every move I made with the attention of a hawk. The whole cooking thing fascinated him.

      “’Tis all familiar and yet not,” he said. “This, more than yon television makes it seem as though I am a stranger in a strange land.”

      I made us each two hamburgers with buns and all the agricultural trimmings. I didn’t want to trust the broken table with food on it, so we went into the living room again and sat down at the coffee table with our plates and glasses of milk.

      Edmund watched everything I did, and copied it.

      “Meat’s fresh,” he said chewing his first bite of burger. “Who does your slaughtering?”

      “The store. We buy all our food at the store. I’ve never killed an animal in my life. Except flies and stuff. Have you?”

      Edmund laughed. “My family are glovers,” he began. “There’s not a calf in Stratford safe from us. My brother Gilbert’s the best of us, though. Fast and neat, that’s Gilbert’s way. Will, for his part, would often make a speech in high style to the poor beast before he did the deed. ’Tis said he was hoping to bore the little fellow to death and spare them the knife thereby.” He tried the milk and smacked his lips. “Fresh, though it lacks body. Ye say ye have no cow of your own?”

      “No cow, no calves, no garden, either,” I said. “Most people today buy their food.”

      “’Tis as if ye’re waited on by spirits…. Invisible spirits.”

      “Not really,” I said.

      When dinner was over, I checked on Edmund’s laundry. I put everything on air dry. I was pretty sure heat would shrink those tights of his.

      And of course he was fascinated by the washing machine and the dryer.

      “Have all of ye such things?” he asked.

      “Pretty much. If people don’t, they go to a laundromat and get their stuff done there.”

      “Next ye’ll be telling me ye can all fly!”

      Right on cue, I heard the heavy thumping of a helicopter passing overhead.

      “Come on outside,” I said. “Got something to show you.”

      We went and stood in our front yard.

      At first, Edmund didn’t seem to understand what he was seeing. He crossed his arms, cocked his head and watched as though his eyes couldn’t quite focus on it. Then the copter curved around heading back the way it had come, and Edmund ducked back under our tree.

      “Is it perilous?” he asked. “D’ye think it saw us?”

      “It’s just a TV station’s news helicopter. It’s not interested in us. It’s probably out doing traffic reports.”

      “Do men ride such things?” Edmund asked, mouth in a perfect O.

      “And women, too,” I said.

      Then a car went by, too fast, like most of the cars that use our street. It was a sports car of some kind and made a hell of a racket.

      Edmund yelped, and ducked behind the tree. “And what was that?”

      “A car,” I said. “And yes, most people have them. Sometimes more than one.”

      “A car. Damned bland name for a demon thing like that. Have ye such a device?”

      “We do, but it’s at work. My mom drives it. I know how, but I’m too young yet. I mean, I’m old enough, sixteen. But the insurance is so high for a young driver that we can’t afford it.”

      “What makes it go?” Edmund asked.

      “Gasoline.”

      “Another word I never heard…” He came out from behind the tree and looked up and down the street. There were cars in driveways, cars at the curb. He studied them for a few minutes, then bent down and touched the pavement. “Hard.”

      The street seemed to interest him more than the cars. He kept rubbing his hands across the asphalt, picking up bits of gravel and studying them. When he was done, he turned around and faced the house.

      “A house I know,” he said. “And grass I know. And a tree, though ’tis a kind I’ve never seen before. Windows with glass, but such great panes of it. And flowers, though I know not their names. But all else is like an enchantment. I understand none of it.”

      “Maybe you’d like to take a walk,” I said. “Get a little more oriented.”

      “Oriented,” Edmund said slowly.

      “Sorry. Is that another word you don’t know?”

      “Doctor Dee do have some old maps,” Edmund said. “He turns them to the east, toward Jerusalem. He calls that orienting.”

      “Well Malpaso Row is east of us. So I guess it’s the same thing,” I said.

      “Aye,” Edmund said after a moment of silence. “Come then, Miranda Hoberman, and orient me.”