As we walked into the theater, Lenny grumbled about the purchase price. We’d missed the opportunity for rush tickets. I reminded him the faculty discount still applied. Reluctantly, he turned toward the box office, and I continued to the gallery, where I was greeted by a man in a ruffled green shirt, knee breeches, stockings, and a feathered hat.
“Welcome, my lady,” he said.
The actors must have been instructed to remain in character. “Hello, kind sir.”
“And how does this evening find you?”
“Very well,” I said, guessing he was a graduate student. Now I just had to guess what part he was playing. He wasn’t a peasant; you could tell that much from his elaborate costume. But he wasn’t royalty either. “And who are you to Hamlet?”
He gave a dramatic bow. “I am his dear friend, Horatio, scholar and confidant.”
I glanced around the room and saw no one in black. “Where is your good friend?”
“Detained by a last-minute alteration, I’m afraid,” he said. “But the Queen of Denmark is standing over there. You might ask her about her son’s wardrobe woes.” He motioned toward a woman with a red gown and a blue robe that draped over her headpiece. She was talking to a small group of people, and I took a few steps in her direction so that Horatio could greet other visitors. Claudius was at her side, and the ghost of King Hamlet, dressed in armor, looked on vengefully. The ghost of King Hamlet would know the story of his own murder; he was the one to recount it on stage. I moved to his side.
“Hello,” I said. “Am I speaking to the king of Denmark?”
“I once was that.”
The actor, a young student, was not a very convincing ghost. The makeup and wig didn’t do much to transform him from gangly schoolboy to hoary old man. He couldn’t have dragged Tanner into the garden any more than I could have.
“But my brother poured the cursed hebenon into my ear as I slept,” he continued, “and now owns that coveted title.”
Lenny entered the room, and I gave him a wave. He joined me and Hamlet’s father.
“You must be the ghost,” said Lenny. “I like your armor, though I don’t get why you wear it. Don’t ghosts usually wear white?”
“My mission is a patriotic one,” said the ghost, gripping the hilt of his sword as if ready to unsheathe it. “All of Denmark is in danger.”
“And what about our Hamlet?” I asked. “Was he in danger from anyone?”
The ghost looked from me to Lenny. Either he didn’t understand, or he didn’t want to break character.
“She means Tanner Sparks,” said Lenny. “Is there anyone here he didn’t get along with?”
“How to answer, I do not know,” said the ghost.
“Yes or no would be a good start,” said Lenny.
“I must bid you good evening,” said the ghost. “The safety of Denmark depends on my message, and time is short.”
The ghost stalked Claudius and the queen, coming up behind them unannounced. They turned their heads from side to side, pretending to sense a presence without actually seeing him. The onlookers enjoyed the performance.
“What does that mean?” asked Lenny. “They can’t respond as real people?”
I shook my head. “I think they have to stay in character.”
I noticed Martha Church, a costume designer from the Art Department, trailing a sulky man in black. She carried a needle and thread. “That must be Hamlet,” I said. “Horatio said he had a wardrobe malfunction.”
“Mystery solved,” said Lenny. “He’s big enough to haul two Tanners. Can we go now?”
I ignored Lenny. The new Hamlet was tall and fit, a runner perhaps. Lenny was right: he looked strong enough to carry Tanner to the garden or anywhere else on campus. His dark hair was partially covered by a cap, and he wore a sweeping black robe, scarf, and stockings. Claudius beckoned to him, and he joined the group, to the delight of the onlookers. I hoped the play would be as entertaining as their interactions.
“I want to talk to Martha,” I told Lenny. “I met her when Austin died, and as the dresser, she’s obviously spent some time with the cast and the new Hamlet.”
I crossed the room, and Lenny followed. Martha, a flamboyant woman with a pillow of frizzy blonde hair, wore a seamstress’s bracelet with a pin cushion and was sticking a needle into it as we approached. The long sleeve of her purple dress kept getting in the way.
“Hello, Martha,” I said. “I hope you remember me. It’s been a while.”
She looked up from her bracelet and smiled. “Of course. How are you?”
“Good,” I said. “This is Lenny Jenkins. He teaches American lit.”
They shook hands.
“The costumes look great,” I said, taking in the room with a sweeping motion. “Horatio said Hamlet needed some last-minute alterations.”
“He’s six feet four,” whispered Martha. “It wasn’t an alteration. It was a miracle.”
“Tanner Sparks was much shorter,” I said.
She nodded.
“Well, you did a very nice job.” I gave Hamlet a glance. “He looks like most of the other Hamlets I’ve seen.”
“It’s not historically accurate, you know,” she said, rearranging a pin on the cushion. “Hamlet is the last person who should be in black, as the Danes never mourned anyone—not even their closest relations. He should be in scarlet. But as you just confirmed, it’s what audiences expect.” She pulled her wide sleeve over the bracelet.
“How does he feel about taking over Tanner’s part?” Lenny asked. “That must be difficult so soon after his death.”
“It must be,” she said, “but you wouldn’t know it. It’s what understudies prepare for. The worst. They must be ready to go on at a moment’s notice. I think that’d be hard, the not knowing.”
“Did he say anything … about Tanner?” I asked.
“He has nerves of steel. He was stoic, determined that the play continue.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It could be an act. We’ll see in an hour.”
I hung on to the comment as she walked away. The room was buzzing with activity. The audience members, who appeared to be mostly students and faculty, were interacting with the characters or absorbed in reading about the costumes or scenes from placards on the wall. Two Elizabethan costumes, a man’s and a woman’s, were adorning department-store mannequins and housed in tall display cases. Another display case was devoted to Shakespeare himself—a poster of the iconic drawing of the bard surrounded by several photos and drawings from historic productions and scenes from Stratford-upon-Avon. Reed stood before that case, hands in pockets, peering in. The man always looked a little sad, but tonight he looked crestfallen. Our loss was minimal compared to his. I felt bad for him.
“Let’s go say hi,” Lenny said. He must have been thinking the same thing I was.
Reed hardly noticed us approach. He was staring at a picture of Shakespeare’s house in Stratford-upon-Avon, according to the caption.
“Hey, Reed,” said Lenny. “How’s it going?”
He acknowledged us with a nod. “Do you know this isn’t even Shakespeare’s house?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. It looked like the same white-and-brown, thatched-roof house I’d seen in books. Very English and iconic.
“The gables, the roof, the windows—all constructed between 1858-1864. The nineteenth century! The only thing original are the cellars. This little piece here, this was what was originally dubbed Shakespeare’s house. When more tourists and money needed to be accommodated, the pub to the right was bought along with the house to the left. Thus, the monstrosity we have today.”
Lenny and I exchanged glances. Reed seemed to be talking nonsense.
“Have you, uh, been there?” Lenny asked.
Reed shook his head. “I learned about it from Tanner. I’ve studied Shakespeare all my life and had no idea.”
“Tanner had a theory,” I said. “An unproven theory.”
He sighed. “A darn convincing theory, Emmeline. I can’t shake it.”
I didn’t know what hurt him more: the loss of his student or the loss of his Shakespeare. To dedicate a life to the study of someone who might not be the person you thought he was? Devastating. There was no other word for it.
“The important thing is the plays,” said Lenny. “They’re perfect. Does it really matter who wrote them?”
I admired Lenny’s restraint. He wasn’t a Shakespeare fan, far from it. He could have said anything but chose to say the right thing.
“Don’t you see?” said Reed. “It would change everything. Who we thought he was, who we thought we were. The Shakespeare I know is the quintessential underdog. A man I could root for. A man I could understand. A man I recognized in myself.” Reed threw up his hands at the display. “This here, I don’t know.”
“No one can change who you are,” I said. “You’re a distinguished scholar I’m proud to know. I mean that,” I added, when he returned the compliment with a sad smile.
Hamlet and Claudius started arguing, and our attention turned to them. They were arguing over Claudius’s marriage to Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, as the ghost looked on encouragingly. Hamlet unsheathed his sword, a metaphorical flex of his muscles, and when he did, something fell from his pocket. Laughter trickled through the crowd.
I craned my neck to see what it was.
Claudius, a large ruddy student, laughed. “Does Hamlet purpose to kill me with kindness, for it is a beautiful flower he wields instead of a sword.”
I took a step closer. A small bunch of yellow flowers lay on the floor.
Hamlet, however, was not laughing. He kneeled down to pick up the bouquet, tied with a string. A note seemed to indicate they were meant for him. Pointing the flowers at Claudius, he said, “Who did this? You?”
“Surely I do not come bearing flowers,” said Claudius. The smile on his face diminished as Hamlet glared at him.
“I mean it!” said Hamlet. “Who did this?”
The room grew silent. Though I wanted a better look at the flowers, I dared not move, lest I call attention to myself in the stillness of the room. They were yellow; that was all I could see.
Hamlet picked up the flowers and threw them at Claudius. “I’ll get you for this!”
He stormed out of the room, and a ruckus followed. The audience wasn’t sure if the scene was part of the performance. Claudius himself looked uncertain, especially when Horatio followed Hamlet.
“What’s the deal with flowers?” Lenny asked Reed. “Why’s he so upset?”
“It’s bad luck to give an actor flowers before a performance,” said Reed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that little prank throws off Hamlet’s entire night.” He wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “Students. They can be ruthless when they want to be.”
I took a step in the direction of the flowers on the floor. Everyone’s attention was now elsewhere. Just then Claudius picked up the flowers and walked over to the trash can.
“Wait!” I said. Several heads turned, including Claudius’s. My mind went blank, and I said the first thing that came into my head. “It seems a waste to throw away fresh flowers. Could I have them?”
“Knock yourself out,” he said, shoving them in my hand.
I studied the simple bouquet. Marigolds. Their pungent stink gave them away. A long black hair provided a clue as to the sender. Jacob had black hair. So did Andy. I picked up the strand. But neither had hair this long.
“That’s one way to get flowers, I suppose,” said Jane Lemort, who appeared at my elbow. She wore a navy dress with black lace that disguised its pretty color. Part of me wondered if she bought the relics at an online specialty shop for medieval aficionados. I didn’t dare ask. There was an online beret shop I was quite fond of. I could be Jane in a couple of years if I didn’t watch out.
“Jane, I’m so glad you’re here.”
She blinked, perplexed as I was by the words that had flown out of my mouth.
“These are marigolds, right?” I said. “Do you know what they symbolize, if anything?”
She leaned in and sniffed them, then jerked back. “Yes, these are definitely marigolds.”
I glanced at the card. It was addressed to Jacob Heraldson, the student playing Hamlet, but no giver was named. Turning it over, I noticed a Day of the Dead skull insignia. “Are marigolds associated with the Day of the Dead?” The Day of the Dead was November 2 or All Souls’ Day in my church. Nowhere near April.
Her pointed chin tipped upward. “Yes, they are. It’s said their bright colors lead the dead back to the living.”
That was interesting. Was someone trying to lead Tanner’s ghost to Jacob?
“But they can also symbolize jealousy, cruelty, and grief in general.”
Another interesting connotation. Could Jacob, driven by jealousy of Tanner, have gone after his part in the cruelest way possible? “How do you know so much about flowers?” I doubted that Jane could lift a man Tanner’s size—she was way too skinny—but if her muscles were as strong as her zeal for committee work, I couldn’t rule it out.
“You must encounter flowers in your classes,” she said with a tinny laugh. “I’m not the only literature teacher here.”
“A rose, a chrysanthemum, myrtle—nothing like your knowledge. Where does it come from?”
“You got me,” she said. “My mom’s a florist. I’ve known the meanings of flowers since I was ten years old and have kept up with the language.”
The information moved me, though I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the knowledge that Jane liked flowers. It made her seem more human.
“It is a language, you know,” she continued. “Just like French or any other. I’ve talked to the dean about a certificate. There’s no reason we can’t offer one here.”
Now I felt moved—toward the door. I glanced briefly at Lenny. It was all the hint he needed to follow me.