Will anyone find it?

I have this sneaking suspicion that no one is coming to this site but me. Here it is, at last, however. This is the beginning of “In Shakespeare’s Steps”. If anyone gets here and reads it, let me know what you think.

IN SHAKESPEARE'S STEPS

Introduction

The first time Emily saw Roxanne Dane she was three years old and engaged in the first
illegal act of her life. There was a tasteful, but very specific sign under the ivy arch
detailing, tastefully, but very specifically, a list of illegal actions. No cameras or
recording devices. No Smoking. No Children Under the Age of Six. The fact that Emily,
at three, could read the sign, and anything else for that matter, was of no interest
whatsoever to the powers that be. The sign said very clearly, in lovely curley black and
white letters: No Children Under the Age of Six.

In the free floating time warp of the very young, it had seemed to Emily that they
stood in the line outside the ivy arch for a very long time. Long enough for her to read the
sign, and especially that one pertinent line, over and over until she figured it was tattooed
backwards in her forehead. Emily had not quite assimilated the fact that her mind went a
lot faster than the mundane running of the rest of the world. That was something she
would come to understand gradually. She would come slowly to accept how different she
was and to savor and cherish those others she found who were different as well; those
whose divergence and acceptance allowed her to be same.

Em hadn’t really been scared, during that long, long wait, she knew that the butterfly
wings that were beating blue rainbows in her throat were excitement, not fright. She had
been wearing her Juliet Dress, a strange satin concoction of her mother’s that was more
empire than Elizabethan, with a weight in the hem which made it drag splendidly along
the ground. Emily had very carefully stood all the way up on her toes underneath the
trailing skirt, making herself a good two inches taller. She was already tall for her age and
also completely confident that the tasteful sign underneath the ivy arch did not apply to
her. At three, there were various things that Emily was not confident about, but she was
confident about this. The rule had been made to keep out children who would fuss and
wiggle and make noise, distracting from the magic. None of those things applied to her,
she neither fussed nor wiggled and she understood magic to the clear, singing center of
her bones. And so she had broken the written rules gracefully, with a fair amount of
natural balance and complete self-possession, handing the tall man with the red vest her
ticket and smiling slightly, she had walked on her toes underneath the arching ivy and
into another world.

The last time that Emily saw Roxanne Dane she was wandering deep in that other world,
but rather than being enchanted and entranced, she was immersed in the prosaic and
pedestrian up to her ears. She was going through script notes meticulously and
scrupulously checking the copy on her computer against both the Folio and the Arden
editions of Romeo and Juliet. With a sharp scalpel of ink, she dissected and carved
Shakespeare’s beautiful words, period by comma by dash by semicolon. Painstakingly
polished and perfected. Dull. Drab. Dry. The pen clamped between her teeth
occasionally fell with a dead thud on the keyboard when she yawned, feeling like her jaw
was going to crack or come unhinged. ‘Why does anyone care if there are four dots in an
ellipse rather than three?’ she thought wearily. And if it is such a big deal, why did
someone type four dots all the way through the entire script? If all of her education and
training had taught her anything, it had taught her that ‘somebody’ did care how many
dots there were in a ellipse. Seymore’s ‘Fat Lady,’ Emily thought distractedly,
remembering Salinger’s “Franny and Zoey,” I’m correcting the punctuation for the Fat
Lady. It was warm and airless and the hours from four to six p.m. seemed like a life
sentence.

Roxanne had appeared in the doorway of Emily’s small office, bringing a metaphorical
and literal breath of fresh air with her. Emily looked up, actually smelling the bright,
fresh, winter sunshine that was quickly disappearing somewhere out there, outside the
confines of her small, book lined cell. Roxanne smiled at Emily sitting hunched over her
script, her mobile, eloquent face full of expression.
“Hey, Toots,” she sang out as she sailed into the room, “any chance of springing you for
fifteen minutes for a quick cup of coffee?”
“Boythscottingkawfee,” said Emily around the pen in her mouth.
“Oh, that’s right,” Roxanne said with an tolerant smile. “You gave it up for . . . something
that wasn’t Lent.”
“We are sending the money we normally spend on coffee to an organization that supports
Fair Trade,” said Emily with a note of chagrin in her voice. “I know, I know, how
terrifically Ashland.” She shrugged, one eyebrow lifting sightly. “It seemed like a good
idea at the time. Too bad all the money we usually spend on coffee isn’t enough to buy
anybody anything but a cup of coffee.”
“It is a typically generous, and very good idea,” said Roxanne firmly. “Who is ‘we?’ Is
everyone in on this one?”
Emily’s forehead folded. “I think so . . . at one point. Maybe. Basically, it’s just Ivy and I
not going to Starbucks. Not really a revolutionary movement, Ivy doesn’t drink coffee
anyway.”
“I went looking for Ivkins,” said Roxanne. “She is on break, but she is sitting on The
Bricks in the sunshine with a notebook on her lap and her mouth slightly open, staring
across Pioneer street at the roof of The New Theater like she has seen god. I figured she
was writing and decided not to rouse her.”
Emily smiled. “You’re probably right. She gets intoxicated by the Muse, or possibly the
afternoon sunshine. I hope she remembers to go back to work.”
“Well, if not, we can always roll her down to Martino’s at Happy Hour.”
“What a good idea,” said Emily with sudden expression. She stared at the neutral wall for
a moment. “Beer,” she said reverently.
Roxanne gazed at Emily’s blank face and her smile softened. “You miss England,” she
said. Roxanne . . . so perceptive, as always, so perceptive that it was almost spooky.
Emily’s eyes snapped back to the present, focusing on Roxanne’s intriguing, always
changing face. “You are a bloody psychic, Roxy,” she said pensively. “How do you
always manage to read our minds so exactly?” She managed a tired smile. “Shrewd,” she
said, “Incisive. Probing. Roxannish.”
“Hunh,” Roxanne snorted, “it’s my Gypsy blood. And, of course, the fact that you are all
so simple minded.”
Emily laughed out loud. “That’s the truth! At least I am. At four p.m. when the oxygen in
here totally runs out.”
“Come and get some tea. Mocha. Yerba Mate. Ice Water. All work and no play . . .”
“Get’s the script notes out on time,” said Emily woefully.
“You are right,” said Roxanne, smiling. She stood up and stretched her back like a cat,
rolling her shoulders. “And it saves you from dealing with bitchy actors like me who want
their script notes the week before last yesterday.”
“Uh hu. You are always so bitchy.” said Emily sarcastically. “And I know just how
simple minded you think we all are.”
There was a long, unaccustomed silence. “I’m very proud of you Toots,” said Roxanne
softly. “ . . . all of you.” Her smile was suddenly gone, leaving her face unnaturally
motionless. For the first time in her life, the thought strayed through Emily’s mind that
Roxanne was getting old. Her hands hung strangely still and heavy at her sides. She
seemed to be looking past the Renaissance print on the wall, past the wall, past the past.

She looked back at Emily and swallowed visibly. The lost, haunted look had been
replaced by one of purpose. It was the look that Roxanne got when she was about to say,
“Alright! Enough fooling around. Let’s DO this!” This particular look didn’t happen very
often and it had been a long time since Emily had seen it. She blinked, a little startled.
“Emily,” said Roxanne forcefully, “come here.” Emily put down her pen, stood up
and crossed the small office slowly. Roxanne reached out and took both of her hands.
“You do know, don’t you how important what you are doing is?”
Emily smiled. “Yes, Roxanne, I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t be doing it. I only bitch in the
late afternoon when I’m tired.”
“I’m not worrying about you bitching. Bitch all you want. I want to be sure you
understand, very deeply, the importance of your work. All of the actors in the whole
world could go down the drain, and take all of the directors and light Tech’s and scene
designers and . . . every one else with them and there would still be Shakespeare. Without
you guarding the integrity of the work, being sure that what is being said is true, is
constant, is authentic to the man’s vision; in twenty years they would have pulled him to
pieces like a lion on a gazelle. ‘It wouldn’t matter if one comma was wrong’, ‘so what if
we change this word or the whole line, it will fit with out concept better.’ ‘Lets just cut
that character, who cares if the plot hangs on him, we’ll just adjust the plot.’ Without a
Dramatrug sitting they saying, “Sorry folks you can’t do that,” or going through a script
carefully taking out all the ellipses that are wrong, pretty soon somebody would say, lets
just take them out and . . .”

“Whoa!” said Emily suddenly. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Did I say something
about ellipses?”
Roxanne smiled her normal Roxanne smile and Emily felt herself begin to breath
normally again. She wondered what had gotten into both of them. Why did Roxanne
suddenly want her to know how important her job was? And why had she almost stopped
breathing?”
“No,” said Roxanne laughing. She shook both Emily’s hands and then let go. “I picked up
an early script because I wanted to see something about my entrances. I noticed the
ellipses. They went right past the last person who checked this script, but I knew you’d
catch them.”
Emily looked at the ceiling, her eyes rolling. “Yeah, I caught them and there are six
thousand of them!”
Roxanne smiled back. “Six thousand correct ellipses. Besides what else you’ve caught,
which is plenty I’d guess.”
Emily looked around at her desk and sighed again. “I have. I don’t know who checked
this script last, but they were either half asleep or on something.”
“Both entirely possible. The next time they do R&J someone will say, “Why did I have to
check this bloody script, it’ perfect!’ and someone else will reply, ‘well, yeees, Emily St.
Claire did the work.”
Emily laughed. “And I think no one will ever notice anything. But, I’ll keep doing it. For
the Fat Lady.”
Roxanne smiled. “Salisnger. Yes, for the Fat Lady.” Her voice got very quiet, “it’s why
all of us here do what we do.” The empty look was back and she reached for Emily’s
hands again. When she spoke her voice had an odd ritualistic note. Emily had heard it
before, however and she knew what it was.
“And who is Emily,” she said, “And what does she hold?”
Emily bit her lip, and looked at her feet, feeling a little bit frightened. Where was this
coming from? Roxanne shook her hands again very slightly, bringing their eyes back
together.
“I am the Anna,Earth Mother,” said Emily softly, solemnly, looking right into Roxanne’s eyes.
“I hold survival, health, stability. I ground. I evoke gravity, Saturn, Ganesha. I wear red, I
wear the garnet and the bloodstone.” They both looked down at Emily’s right hand
where she wore the double stoned ring Roxanne had given her when she turned twenty-
one. Her hand was held in Roxanne’s left hand, where she wore the diamond and
amethyst ring that the girls had given her just a year ago.” Roxanne smiled and gave
Emily’s hands a small squeeze. “Muladhara,” said Emily softly, “I am the root, the earth,
I guard the right to have.”

Roxanne dropped Emily’s hands and nodded sharply. “Yes,” Her voice softer than her
nod. “Indeed you are. Don’t forget it. Promise me.”
“I will never forget it,” said Emily. “What on earth on you on about Roxanne?”
“Nothing,” said Roxanne waving a hand. “Just trying to wake you up before you fell
asleep on your keyboard.”
Emily just looked at with her head on one side. “What’s wrong? Is this about Ivy?”
Roxanne looked even more troubled. “Partly.” She was silent a second, her lips pressed. “She will need you . . . don’t let her get lost in her head. Keep her feet on the ground.”
Emily smiled. “I’ve been doing that for years.”

“Indeed you have. Carry on. You know what you are doing.” Roxanne looked at Emily hard and repeated, “You know what you are doing.”
Then suddenly the moment was over, as quickly as it began, and Roxanne was once again a compact package of flowing movement. “Ok for you Toots,” she said. I’m going to go roll Ivy down to Bloomsbury for tea.”
Emily stretched and yawned. “I’ll come next time, Roxy, I promise.”
“Next time sweetheart,” She stood up on her toes and kissed Emily’s cheek, then her lips twisted and she blinked as if she were trying not to cry. “Next time," Roxanne whispered. She touched
Emily’s arm briefly and disappeared through the doorway into a shimmering patch of
winter sun.