I pulled the fitted sheet up off the foot of the bed. There was a jagged rip in the end of the mattress, like a grinning mouth six inches long. I checked the footboard for a nail, a protuberant splinter, but didn’t find anything that could have torn through the fabric. The split gaped, laughed at me, and I didn’t realize I was leaning closer until I saw the narrow red smudge on the edge of the tear, like a dash of lipstick. I sat staring at the mattress for a moment like I’d been fused to the spot. Then I reached in through the hole.
I groped through a tangle of springs and cotton and foam until I felt something severely, indisputably solid. It didn’t come easily—something at the end kept catching—but with one good yank I wrenched it free and let it clatter to the floor. It looked alarmingly wrong lying there—anachronistic, almost Gothic, stolen out of time from a darker age. In the back of my brain I knew what it was, really: an old boat hook, curved at one end like a claw, snatched from the long-forgotten rack of tools at the back of the boathouse. The talon and pole had been hastily wiped clean, but blood still clung to the crevices, cracked and flaking away like rust.
My lungs struggled for air. I grabbed the boat hook off the floor and fled the room, one hand clapped over my mouth, afraid I might vomit my heart out onto the floor.
SCENE 4
I sprinted through the forest to the FAB like I had only a few weeks before, then with a scrap of fabric clutched in my fist. I ran with the boat hook at my side like a spear, feet churning the earth to a pulp. When the building was in sight I realized my mistake—I’d forgotten the time. People were already lining up outside to see the show, playgoers in their evening clothes, talking and laughing and clutching glossy programs. I dropped into a crouch and crept along the bottom of the hill, head bent low.
The side door to the stairwell opened with a crunch. I caught it when it tried to slam behind me, let it shut more softly, then took the stairs down to the basement so fast I almost fell. Sweat prickled on my face as I shoved my way through the mass of furniture piled up in the undercroft. After three harrowing minutes I found the room with the lockers again, the open padlock glaring at me like a single Cyclopean eye. I dragged the trestle table aside, removed the lock, and threw the door open. The mug was sitting there, untouched, that guilty bit of fabric stuffed in the bottom like a crumpled napkin. I thrust the boat hook in beside it, slammed the door and kicked it until it latched, heedless of the sound. The lock scraped as it slid back through the loop, and I pushed the shackle toe into place without hesitating. I staggered back, stared for a moment, then scrambled out to the stairwell again, panic rising from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head in a hot, delirious rush.
I ran down two backstage hallways, the clatter and murmur of the audience seeping through the walls. In the crossover, two second-years hurried past me to get to the wings, pointing and whispering as I charged by. I flung the dressing room door open, and everyone looked up at once.
“Where in the fuck have you been?” Alexander demanded.
“I’m sorry!” I said. “I just—I’ll explain later. Where’s my costume?”
“Well, Timothy’s fucking wearing it because we didn’t know where you were!”
I turned on the spot to find Timothy (a second-year who usually played Cornwall’s mutinous servant) already on his feet, looking green, a script clutched in his hand.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I said. “Tim, give me that.”
“Thank God,” he said. “Oh, thank fucking Christ, I was trying to learn your lines—”
“I’m sorry, something happened—”
I threw my clothes on as he pulled them off, struggling with my boots, sword belt, coat. The audience chatter from the overhead speaker crackled and died out. A small gasp rippled in from the house and I knew the lights had come up on Lear’s empyreal palace.
Kent: “I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.”
Gloucester: “It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for equalities are so weigh’d that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.”
Kent: “Is not this your son, my lord?”
I glanced down at Alexander, who was on his knees lacing my boots as I fumbled with the buttons on my waistcoat. “Is James already onstage?” I asked.
“Obviously.” He jerked on my laces so hard I nearly lost my balance. “Hold still, damn you.”
“And Meredith?” I reached for my cravat.
“In the wings, I assume.”
“So she’s here,” I said.
He stood and started feeding my belt through the loops. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I don’t know.” My fingers were clumsy, unsteady, unable to form the familiar knot. “She stayed out last night.”
“Worry about it later. Now’s not the time.” He buckled my belt too tight and grabbed my gloves off the counter. I glanced in the mirror. My hair was wildly disheveled, sweat glistening on my cheeks. “You look awful,” he said. “Are you sick?”
“I am sick with working of my thoughts,” I said, before I could stop myself.
“Oliver, what—”
“Never mind,” I said. “I have to go.” I slipped out into the crossover before he could speak again. The door closed heavily behind me, and I waited with my hand on the knob, forced to stand still by the enormous concentration it took—in that moment—just to breathe. I closed my eyes, mind blank but for inhale, exhale, until the last line of Scene 1 brought me back to life. Meredith’s voice, low and resolute: “We must do something.”
I made my way to the wings.
I stumbled along the line sets in the merciless dark backstage until my eyes adjusted to the cool glow of the work lamp in the prompt corner. The ASM spotted me and hissed into his headset, “Booth? We have a live Edgar. No, the original. Looks a little worse for wear, but he’s dressed and ready to go.” He cupped his hand over the microphone, muttered, “Gwendolyn’s going to have your balls, friend,” and turned his attention back to the stage. I wondered briefly what he would say if I told him that Gwendolyn was the least of my worries.