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By Root 857 0

Arthur isn’t that suspicious after all.) At the end of As You Like It, Jaques the cynic has, by his own choice and errors, removed himself from the party and the dancing circle. And that, I was hoping, was how we could end, me on the outside, but still not far away, still not utterly banished, their anger at me softening by their love for each other. That would be fair, while everyone else joined hands in celebration of life so far, inhaling together for whatever comes next—births, weddings, deaths. This would be a good time for the curtain to fall: the god Shakespeare descending deus ex machina to bless us one and all, even his faithless priest, me. Dana and Petra back together, eventually my mother forgives me, then cashes the first of many giant checks left to her by her devoted first husband, his shade in peace at last because he’s made everything right. Meanwhile, Uncle Arthur lives quietly and alone, visited occasionally by his mother, sister, estranged sons, baby niece. Dana and Petra raise a child that, with only sixteenth-century technology, resembles both of them, a twenty-first-century crowd-pleaser. We pray our little comedy has not offended. Good night.

“No, I don’t think so,” Dana said. “You’re no Jaques. Try again.”

“I don’t know, Dana. I really am so sorry. This just got all confused—”

“You and I are way past that now. We need something definitive. Action. Proof. Something we can trust is a real change. A new footing for all of us. A baby’s on the way now, and everyone needs to know who you are in this.”

“So tell me who I am. What do you want me to do?”

My mother finally spoke, though she didn’t look at me, only at Dana, who was firmly in charge of this scene. There was no fun in my mother’s voice when she spoke, just the starkest disappointment in another Arthur: “Isn’t there one where the lech is tied to a tree and pinched and frightened by little children with torches or something until he gets the point?”

“Merry Wives of Windsor,” Dana sighed. “Yeah, funny but not very conclusive. You get the sense that Falstaff isn’t really going to change.” She looked me up and down, my incessant shaking, my weak effort at a smile, my increasingly obvious intestinal discomfort. “We could force the villain to marry the girl he’s wronged. Measure for Measure. All’s Well That Ends Well. What do you say, Petra? That’s really your call.”

“No, no, no, I’ll pass,” said Petra, waving one hand in front of her nose, her other resting on Dana’s hand on her still-flat stomach.

“Hmm. Running out of canon, Artie. How do you feel about the end of Love’s Labour’s Lost?”

“I could never read that one,” I admitted.

“Too bad. It’s worth the trouble—you should go read it. Because it’s the one for us. To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“I suppose you don’t. You’re the guy who doesn’t even know Shakespeare when you read it. Pick up your coat.”

“What?”

“Get your coat. I see you had time to take it on your way out the door to view my corpse. Wouldn’t want to catch cold doing that.”

“It was already—I was already wearing—I had it on me—already on,” I stumbled. The truth.

“A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Whatever. Fine. Get your coat.” I picked up my dripping coat. “Put it on. Zip up. It’s cold out there. Now take out your car key. Good. Here’s your ending: This shall you do for me / Your oath I will not trust. For a twelvemonth, probably more, depending on publishing, you will not see any of us, or call, or email, or anything. Not one word. Right, Mom? Just nod, Mom. Not one word. None of us. And if in that period you can prove something to us, then you will be welcomed back, and we will be right joyful of your reformation. You will publish The Tragedy of Arthur. Yes, you will. Don’t talk. Listen. And you will divest yourself of your precious reputation and self-love, which has led us to so many unfortunate dead ends these long years. And you will prove to us that we matter more to you. And you will publish our story, but mostly your story. You will tell the truth. You