It’s a relief to see Macbeth at the karaoke bar after the show.
The last time I saw him, he was dead. Lying in a pile of bodies on the stage. And don’t think I took pleasure in his demise. I, too, have felt so charmed that no man of woman born could harm me. But, really, there’s always some fellow from his mother’s womb untimely ripped lurking out there.
Isn’t this better? Seeing the actor who played Macbeth sing karaoke, I mean. It dissolves Macbeth into fiction. He struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. Now, back to steady reality.
Here’s the truth: all of them–the whole cast–are young, happy and alive. Tonight, opening night, they’re a little tipsy, but certainly not evil. They’re just my husband’s actors.
I see one of them (Macduff, I think) give Macbeth a slap on the ass as he grabs the microphone and jumps on stage. They’re chummy. The witches and Lady M., now in jeans and t-shirts, sing along, laughing, as if nothing happened.
And Birnham Wood never comes to high Dunsinane Hill. This isn’t Scotland; it’s Illinois. We’ve got no hills. No kings or witches or thanes (whatever a thane is).
Your children–all your pretty chickens–are safe. And everybody sleeps tonight.