Page 23 of Potion Sickness

“Englebert.” Vivian pinches the bridge of her nose. “I have had this conversation with you several times, including right on that stage, in front of the entire company. You cannot play Macbeth. I say this with immense professional regard. Half of Burlington is on my waiting list. They believe you are a theater cat. A charming, ordinary theater cat who was in a magazine.”

“I am aware of the constraint. I have spent the night refining the proposal accordingly, and Marigold has it in writing, though I shall summarize, since the document runs slightly long.”

“It runs three pages,” I say.

“I am nothing if not thorough.” He sits taller. “The proposal is this. Rehearsals resume tomorrow evening. The company cannot sit idle. Idleness breeds indifference, and indifference breeds actors who forget their blocking. At those rehearsals, I shall stand in as Macbeth. I know every word in order. I do not require the book. Prudence can play the scenes against a partner who gives her the correct cues at the correct tempo, the lords can rehearse the banquet against a Macbeth, and the production keeps its pulse.” He pauses. “And concurrently, we select a human understudy. He learns the role this week, at pace, with my personal coaching. If Damien wakes, no harm done. The understudy has had an education. If Damien remains unconscious, the understudy goes on, off book or nearly, and the show” —his tail settles over his feet— “goes on.”

Vivian is quiet for a moment.

“A rehearsal stand-in,” she says. “And a performance understudy.”

“The stagecraft term is ‘walking cover,’” Englebert says. “In my case, the term will require some flexibility.”

“Who?” Vivian says. “Who is the understudy? That’s the entire question. Mayor Blackwood offered, before you ask. He offered last night, in the parking lot, while spinning in circles.”

“Not the Mayor,” Englebert says, with feeling.

“Then who?”

“Gabriel Morgan.”

I turn to look at him, eyebrow raised.

“The funeral director?” Vivian asks.

“The funeral director,” Englebert confirms. “Consider this. The role of Macbeth demands, above all else, a man who can stand in front of a room in a state of catastrophe and hold it steady. Gabriel does this professionally, several times a month, for audiences experiencing genuine grief, and he has never once lost the room. He is grave, in every sense, when the text requires it, and he is in on the joke the rest of the time, which is precisely the temperament this company runs on. He is free most evenings. He is only of the few men in this town not already occupied with another role in the production, and as an added bonus, his daughter is on a first-name basis with most of the cast as well as several local woodland creatures.”

“Has he ever acted?” Vivian asks.

“He delivers a eulogy for a stranger roughly twice a month and makes the family believe he knew the man. I invite you to find better training.”

Vivian sits back.

“He does have a voice,” she says. “I’ve heard him at services. He buried my neighbor’s mother in June, and he read the twenty-third psalm beautifully.” She looks at me. “Would he do it?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “He’s a single dad with a business where the clients arrive unscheduled. It’s a lot to ask.”

“Which is why we shall not ask,” Englebert says. “Marigold shall ask. Gently. Socially. She will float the idea, in the manner of a friend — a loved one, perhaps — floating an idea, rather than presenting it in the manner of a summons.”

“You’ve clearly never seen me float an idea. Subtlety isn’t really my area of expertise.”

“I have seen you do a great many things. You’ll manage.”

“Rehearsal tomorrow at seven,” Vivian says. “Company call. I’ll tell them Damien’s condition is unchanged and the show is proceeding. Maybe both of those things can be true. Englebert will stand in. And Mari… If you could. Float it today. If Gabe says yes, I want him at table work tomorrow night with a script in his hand. If he says no, I need to know by dinner, because my next call is to a man in Brattleboro who once played Judas in Godspell and has never let anyone forget it.”

“Understood.”

“And tell Annabel—” she stops. “Tell her the company is grateful. And that if someone did this to Damien, in my theater, with my banquet, I want to know who.”

“Of course,” I say.

“Come, Marigold,” says Englebert. “You have evidence to deliver and a production to save, and I have a role to prepare.”

* * *

Dana has the boxes packed, labeled, and stacked by the lobby doors. She helps me carry them to the car.

“You’ll tell me what she finds?” Dana asks.