Authors: Suzanne Selfors
Saving Juliet (7 page)
***
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
B
eing carried like a sack of potatoes was fun at age five. I would pretend to fall asleep on the couch, and my father would scoop me up and whisk me off to bed. But it was a miserable mode of transportation at seventeen because my hip bones and boobs kept getting pinched. My head pounded with each step.
"Put me down. I can walk." My
driver
ignored me, jogging past countless people who also ignored my protests. "Someone tell this gorilla to put me down." The gorilla tightened his grip on my thigh.
What's a girl to do when she finds herself upside down? I pushed my elbows into the guard's lower back and tried to hold my head upright, taking in my dreamworld as we charged down
winding street
after winding street. We passed velveteen rich people and tatteted poor people, merchants calling out their wares, and customers arguing over prices. A fat woman herded swine and a group of skinny boys chased a dog. My neck started to spasm so I gave the gorilla another thump on the back, just for good measure.
The ride continued, swerving left, then right. This was my warped version of the yellow brick road. I hummed a few lines and pictured Dorothy's kick-step choreography.
Follow, follow, follow, follow,
follow
the yellow brick road.
Finally the trip ended and the hulk deposited me in front of a huge door, upon which he pounded. I swayed as blood rushed from my head. A little panel in the door opened and a bloodshot eye peered out. "Who goes there?"
"Gregory. I found one of our women wandering the street."
The door opened immediately and a knotted hand reached out and clutched my arm. "Oh dear, we had best get her inside before her ladyship hears about this.
Can't have Capulet women wandering the streets."
Gregory stomped off, muttering about a "damn thirst." The knotted hand belonged to an ancient man. He pulled me inside, then locked the door with a brass key and hung the key on a hook. He clutched my arm with his bony fingers, guiding me down a hallway. Gold-framed portraits hung on either side of the hall. The largest caught my eye. It was an oil painting of a woman covered in jewels. The painter had positioned her irises so that they stared directly at the onlooker. Her thin lips were curved into an expression that is best described as miffed.
"Who's that?" I asked.
The old man squinted at the portrait. "She was the matron of this prestigious family, her most esteemed and virtuous Adelaide Medici Capulet. Are you certain that you are Capulet?"
"Yes." I had hesitated. He tapped his boot and pursed his lips.
"Then why did you not recognize this portrait?"
I should have recognized it. She looked exactly like my own Adelaide, after a session with a sixteenth-century stylist. "Silly me, of course I recognize it."
He stood on tiptoe, examining my face. "Yes, I do see a family resemblance. You and Juliet have the same chin."
How strange, I realized, that I hadn't cast myself as the leading role in my own dream. Sure, I was sick of the part and I hadn't done it justice on stage with my stage fright and all, but shouldn't we all be the stars of our own dreams? The face that launches a thousand ships, the hero who kills the dragon, or the girl who finds true love on a balcony.
But I had cast myself as a Capulet cousin
--
a lesser role.
And that was my state of mind one year ago. You see, my deeper truth was far more toxic than stage fright or resentment of my mother. Somewhere along the path of my childhood, in my dutiful fulfillment of the Wallingford role, I had lost myself. I had been taught that the family always came first. Somewhere along the way, I had come to believe that I was secondary.
The old man picked a black seed from his teeth. "Her ladyship's in a wretched mood. You are the thirty-third guest to arrive today. Been arriving all week, they have. Problem is
,
we've run out of guest beds. I must find out where to put you." He guided me to a bench. "Stay here." Then he scurried off.
During his absence, the hallway came alive with traffic. Cleaning women ran to and fro, carrying buckets of water and scrub brushes. Men in aprons hauled barrels and crates. A boy passed by with an enormous round of cheese balanced on his head. Everyone was talking about the party.
The Capulet party takes place in the first act of Shakespeare's play, a lavish shindig arranged to introduce Juliet to her suitor, a man named Paris. It was my favorite scene in the play because we wore masks, which helped ease my stage fright, and we danced, which I loved, even if it had to be with Troy. Sometimes he held me closer than necessary, so close that our thighs touched. Sometimes he spread his palm wide against my lower spine. I shivered thinking about it.
Even in a dreamworld I couldn't deny my feelings. I still liked the big braggart. I still sighed each and every time he walked into the room and I still wondered what it might be like to hold our stage kiss just a bit longer. But I didn't want to feel that way. I didn't want to love someone who didn't love me back. At least Troy wasn't
in
my dream. That was a good sign.
The old man returned. "Her ladyship wants to see you. Follow me." We made out way up a grand marble staircase. "Have you traveled far?" he inquired.
"Yes. I'm from Manhattan."
"Don't know it. Where are your traveling cases?"
I looked around, wondering if my subconscious would provide some. "I don't seem to have any."
"Were you robbed?"
That sounded believable. "Yes.
Robbed."
"God forbid!" We had reached the top of the staircase. "Those Montagues were behind the robbery. I'd wager a day's pay on it." We stopped outside a narrow door.
"Your name, please?"
"Mimi."
He knocked three times,
then
opened the door, motioning to me to enter. I stepped into a room thick with the smell of floral perfume. "Introducing Mimi of Manhattan," the old man announced. "Just arrived for the party and newly robbed." He bowed and exited, closing the door.
Crates of flowers lined the far wall where a group of women were busy weaving garlands. I stayed by the door, unsure of what to do. Voices whispered from behind a screen to my right. "Your ladyship, I must collect the debt," a man insisted.
"You know I cannot pay you today. You must persuade your superiors to extend my credit just a few more weeks," a woman insisted.
"My lady, perhaps your husband
...
"
"My husband has no mind for money." She raised her voice for an instant,
then
lowered it again. "I run this house. My husband might as well be dead for all the help he gives me. He wanted to wait and see if Juliet would agree to the marriage. Can you imagine? Asking a child? Thankfully, I convinced him that we must proceed." She paused.
"Just a few more weeks.
Once my daughter's marriage is secured, I will receive a substantial payment from her husband, more than enough to cover our debts."
"Plus interest, your ladyship?"
"Yes. Now be gone. I have to prepare for the party."
A man emerged from behind the screen. He tucked a bundle of papers under his arm, nodded at me,
then
left the room. A tall woman stepped out and clapped her hands.
"Hurry, hurry, ladies.
We must get those garlands hung." She raised her eyebrows, creasing a superhigh forehead
--
an effect created by a plucked hairline. "Who are you?"
"Mimi, from Manhattan."
Her stare was hypnotic. You might not know this but Lady Capulet is the villain in Shakespeare's tragedy. She doesn't have a big speaking part in the play but she's at work behind the scenes. It's her hatred that fuels the war between the two households. It's her hatred that ultimately kills the young lovers, in my opinion. But I'm not very objective when it comes to mothers.
"What happened to you?"
"I was robbed."
She narrowed her eyes. "Is that why your gown is torn and muddied? Did the robbers molest you? Is your virginity still intact?"
My virginity was not a subject I wanted to focus on. Look, it's not that I was embarrassed by my virginity. Given the choice, I would choose to wait until someone loved me and I loved him back and we made a commitment to each other and all that good stuff. Then I'd have a decision to make about my virginity. But I hadn't even come close to having to make a decision. You see the difference?
"They didn't molest me," I answered nervously. She made me feel uneasy, standing so close, her bony frame towering over me. "But they took my traveling cases."
"Those clay-brained Montagues shall be punished for robbing you. I shall speak to my husband when he returns. I think hand-severing and eye-gouging are in order."
Gouging Benvolio's beautiful eyes? "Oh, that's not necessary."
"Not necessary?" She frowned. "Even though you come from Manhattan, you are required to loathe the Montagues to the same degree that every other member of this family loathes them. We shall have our revenge against the Montagues. Mark my words. We shall have our revenge."
I nodded. I didn't want to argue with her. It would be so nice if I could keep this a happy dream.
She curled her upper lip as she inspected my costume. "I cannot allow you to be seen in that dress. Every Capulet woman holds the family's reputation on her shoulders. Those shoulders should always be clean and stylish." She drummed her fingertips together. "I have ordered all the women to nap before the party, but I have been informed that we are out of beds. Therefore, you shall nap in Juliet's room."
***
"Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under
'
t."
L
ady Capulet glided down the hallway. My subconscious had formed her well.
A bit of the Wicked Witch of the West in her long, pointy face.
A bit of Cruella de Ville in her bleached hair with roots so dark it looked like someone had dumped coal on her head. And a bit of my own mother in the topic of conversation
--
the family name.
"Above all, the Capulet reputation must be kept intact," she said with pronounced seriousness. "Our appearances, our manners, and our goals must be cohesive. The Capulet name must stand above all others as it always has. We are Capulets. We are Verona."
We are Wallingfords. We are theater.
Lady Capulet walked with long, exaggerated strides and I followed like a bridesmaid keeping time to a painfully slow rendition of Troy Summer's hit ballad "Girl, You Are My World." Drifts of powder had accumulated along the nape of her neck. I couldn't remember having experienced such minute details in a dream before. Like the way the coldness of the stone floor made my feet ache, even though I wore slippers. Or the way my frayed hem tickled my ankles. Who dreams, like that? And who dreams in real time, because it certainly seemed that way? I felt hungry and I needed to pee, which couldn't be good because when you need to pee in a dream, you either wake up or you wet the bed. I didn't want to do either. I wanted to stay in my dreamworld, at least until Clarissa finished the performance.
Maybe longer.
If I fell into a coma, say for a week, maybe Reginald Dwill would find someone else for his DVD.
Lady Capulet pointed to a tapestry as we glided past. "Have you ever seen such a magnificent Capulet crest?
My daughter's work.
So loyal and obedient is my daughter, Juliet. She is so dear to me."
So dear that you sold her to the highest bidder.
She wrenched her neck and cast me a suspicious look. "Where is your mother? Why did she not come with you?"
Oh no. I didn't want Veronica Wallingford turning up in this dream
--
turning it, most assuredly, into a nightmare. "She's dead."
Lady Capulet pursed her painted lips. "Pray tell, did she die of plague? We lost so many in the last outbreak."
"Yes." That sounded good.
"Plague."
Lady Capulet pressed her fingertips together. "When your mother lived, did you obey her in the manner that a beloved daughter should?" She raised an eyebrow and, honest to God, a shiver ran down my spine. When a fly passed by, I half expected a forked tongue to dart out of her mouth.
"Oh, I obeyed. Believe me, I obeyed," I said. "But now she's gone so I must take care of myself."
Lady Capulet grimaced. "Young ladies are incapable of taking care of themselves. Young ladies must be directed. There is only one thing to be done. Since your mother is dead, I shall take her place. While you are here I shall act as your new mother." She placed an ice-cold hand on my shoulder.
Oh, no thank you.
Because you scare the crap out of me.
You really do.
"I don't think I need
..
."
"Do not presume to tell me what you need. I have decided to become your guardian in matters both moral and physical. Once I make a decision, it stands."
Here was my chance to finally break free of parental handcuffs, even if it was just a fantasy.
But lo and behold, another mother from hell to
direct
me.
It appeared that my subconscious wasn't going to let me off the hook so easily.