No Great Magic | Page 6

Just then he noticed me and hissed accusingly, "There thou art, slothy
minx! Spring to and help stuff me into this monstrous chest-kettle."
"Siddy, what is all this?" I demanded as my hands automatically
obeyed. "Are you going to play Macbeth for laughs, except maybe
leaving the Porter a serious character? You think you're Red Skelton?"
[Illustration]
"What monstrous brabble is this, you mad bitch?" he retorted, grunting
as I bear-hugged his waist, shouldering the cuirass to squeeze it home.
"The clown costumes on all you men," I told him, for now I'd noticed
that the others were in rainbow hues, Bruce a real eye-buster in yellow
tights and violet doublet as he furiously bushed out and clipped
crosswise sections of beard and slapped them on his chin gleaming
brown with spirit gum. "I haven't seen any eight-inch polka-dots yet but
I'm sure I will."
Suddenly a big grin split Siddy's face and he laughed out loud at me,
though the laugh changed to a gasp as I strapped in the cuirass three
notches too tight. When we'd got that adjusted he said, "I' faith thou
slayest me, pretty witling. Did I not tell you this production is an
experiment, a novelty? We shall but show Macbeth as it might have
been costumed at the court of King James. In the clothes of the day, but
gaudier, as was then the stage fashion. Hold, dove, I've somewhat for
thee." He fumbled his grouch bag from under his doublet and dipped
finger and thumb in it, and put in my palm a silver model of the Empire
State Building, charm bracelet size, and one of the new Kennedy
dimes.
* * * * *

As I squeezed those two and gloated my eyes on them, feeling securer
and happier and friendlier for them though I didn't at the moment want
to, I thought, Well, Siddy's right about that, at least I've read they used
to costume the plays that way, though I don't see how Shakespeare
stood it. But it was dirty of them all not to tell me beforehand.
But that's the way it is. Sometimes I'm the butt as well as the pet of the
dressing room, and considering all the breaks I get I shouldn't mind. I
smiled at Sid and went on tiptoes and necked out my head and kissed
him on a powdery cheek just above an aromatic mustache. Then I
wiped the smile off my face and said, "Okay, Siddy, play Macbeth as
Little Lord Fauntleroy or Baby Snooks if you want to. I'll never squeak
again. But the Elizabeth prologue's still an anachronism. And--this is
the thing I came to tell you, Siddy--Miss Nefer's not getting ready for
any measly prologue. She's set to play Queen Elizabeth all night and
tomorrow morning too. Whatever you think, she doesn't know we're
doing Macbeth. But who'll do Lady Mack if she doesn't? And Martin's
not dressing for Malcolm, but for the Son of the Last of the Mohicans,
I'd say. What's more--"
You know, something I said must have annoyed Sid, for he changed his
mood again in a flash. "Shut your jaw, you crook brained cat, and
begone!" he snarled at me. "Here's curtain time close upon us, and you
come like a wittol scattering your mad questions like the crazed
Ophelia her flowers. Begone, I say!"
"Yessir," I whipped out softly. I skittered off toward the door to the
stage, because that was the easiest direction. I figured I could do with a
breath of less grease-painty air. Then, "Oh, Greta," I heard Martin call
nicely.
He'd changed his levis for black tights, and was stepping into and
pulling up around him a very familiar dress, dark green and
embroidered with silver and stage-rubies. He'd safety-pinned a folded
towel around his chest--to make a bosom of sorts, I realized.
He armed into the sleeves and turned his back to me. "Hook me up,
would you?" he entreated.

Then it hit me. They had no actresses in Shakespeare's day, they used
boys. And the dark green dress was so familiar to me because--
"Martin," I said, halfway up the hooks and working fast--Miss Nefer's
costume fitted him fine. "You're going to play--?"
"Lady Macbeth, yes," he finished for me. "Wish me courage, will you
Greta? Nobody else seems to think I need it."
* * * * *
I punched him half-heartedly in the rear. Then, as I fastened the last
hooks, my eyes topped his shoulder and I looked at our faces side by
side in the mirror of his dressing table. His, in spite of the female
edging and him being at least eight years younger than me, I think,
looked wise, poised, infinitely resourceful with power in reserve, very
very real, while mine looked