“Please, Baby Jesus,” Betsy says.
The bell in the hallway chimes, signaling five minutes before class starts.
“I’ll check on the sub and fill you in later,” Coleman says. He motions us out with his coffee mug. “Go on, go mold young minds.”
“More like scrape the mold off of them,” I say. “I’ll bring your mug back later.” I go to the door and hold it open. “Come on, young Jedi.”
Betsy picks up her workbag. “Whatever, Yoda,” she says.
THE WHITEBOARD AT the front of my classroom has the words EVIL, TEMPTATION, and DISRUPTIVE written in red marker. I circle EVIL and then draw lines from it to each of the other two words. This is what my student Sarah Solomon has dubbed the Trinity of Terror. I turn to face my AP English students, who are all seated in a half circle before me in their school uniforms: white button-down shirts, gray flannels for the boys, plaid skirts for the girls. Their laptops are open on their desks, their copies of Macbeth balanced on their knees. “So,” I ask, “what’s Shakespeare saying about evil and Macbeth?”
Mark Mitchell stirs, his moon face rimmed by blue-black stubble. “He likes it. Being evil.”
Sarah Solomon squints behind her cat-eye glasses. “Does he?” she asks. “He freaks out after he murders the king, he keeps getting frustrated by the witches—”
“The man’s complicated,” Mark says.
I tap the whiteboard under the word TEMPTATION. “So what tempts him?”
A pause as my students reorient themselves to the class discussion. Then Mark shrugs. “He wants power and his wife’s a psycho.”
I shake my head. “True, but that’s not enough.” I start pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard. “He’s not some greedy pushover who gets bullied by his wife. He wouldn’t be a compelling character if he were. It’s not just ambition. Macbeth knows he’s doing something wrong. He murders the king of Scotland in his own home, then frames the king’s sons for it and takes the throne. He sends murderers to kill his best friend and his friend’s son. He has Macduff’s entire family slaughtered. He ends up literally alone in his castle at the end, no friends, his wife dead, facing Macduff. He never convinces himself that anything he does is the right thing to do. He knows it’s wrong, the entire time. So why does he do it?”
My students look at me, an audience awaiting a revelation. I have them hooked. I’m good at this, good enough to know that I shouldn’t do the whole sage-on-the-stage thing all the time. But there are times it works well. Like now.
I stop in the center of the horseshoe of desks. “Because he wants to,” I say. “He knows it’s wrong, and he does it anyway.”
My classroom door opens again, but I don’t look to see who’s coming in. All my students are present. It’s probably Coleman dropping by to watch me teach; he does that occasionally. Besides, I’m in the flow, onstage, before my students, and I don’t want to lose my momentum.
“The witches plant an idea in Macbeth’s head that he knows is dead wrong, and he can’t shake it loose,” I continue. “He cannot stop imagining himself as king. And he murders the king, literally has his blood all over his hands. He commits himself to evil. And he pays a high price for it—he can’t sleep, he’s shaken with fear, he isolates himself from the rest of humanity. Lady Macbeth goes mad and kills herself. But Macbeth goes on. He self-destructs, but he does it on his own terms. It’s awful and awesome in the original sense of the word—inspiring fear and wonder. Look at his last words to Macduff. He realizes all is lost, and Macduff even offers him a way to surrender, but Macbeth throws his shield forward. ‘Lay on, Macduff, / And damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!” ’ ”
I stop. My students sit unmoving, caught up in this vision of Macbeth. Even Mark looks intrigued, nodding in agreement.
I turn toward the doorway, ready with a smile or a quick retort if it’s Coleman. Coleman is there, all right, leaning against the wall and smiling. But it’s the woman with him who brings the world to a temporary stop. The last time I saw her, she was facedown on a hotel bed, naked, sleeping. Now, in a navy-blue pantsuit, Marisa Devereaux stands in my classroom, hands clasped, and gives me the smallest of smiles, applauding my performance.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Sorry to interrupt,” Coleman says in a stage whisper. He’s smiling like a man who just learned his earlier diagnosis was wrong and he doesn’t have cancer after all. “I just wanted to introduce you.”
Marisa gives me a proper smile now, professional and courteous. I stand for a moment just looking at the two of them, flummoxed. Why is she here? I’m surprised and self-conscious and also feel the pleasant buzz of attraction.
I realize I’m standing there like a schmuck, my students looking at me and Father Coleman and Marisa, so I tell my class to get started on their homework and I step out into the hallway with Coleman and Marisa. “Hi,” I say, taking Marisa’s hand. It’s soft and smooth and well manicured. I realize I don’t know whether I should refer to having already met her or introduce myself as if for the first time.
Marisa solves the problem for me. “Nice to see you again,” she says. “Did you enjoy the conference?” She continues to smile, but there’s no suggestive tone, no sly wink or quick squeeze of my hand. She lets my hand go.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yes. It was good.”
“Marisa met Byron at the conference,” Coleman says. Byron Radinger is Archer’s assistant head of school. “She’s looking for a position,” Coleman adds, raising his eyebrows at me. “Byron was impressed and invited her to visit.”
I turn back to Marisa. “You’re the sub?”
Marisa looks a little bashful. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first
