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Why, This is Hell "The visible apparition of the Devill on the stage at the Belsavage Play-house, in Queen Elizabeths dayes (to the great amazement both of the actors and spectators) while they were there prophanely playing the History of Faustus (the truth of which I have heard from many now alive, who well remember it) there being some distracted with that feareful sight" * * * * * * "Why this is hell, nor am I out of it," Mephistopheles boomed out. He certainly got that right -- Oklahoma in summer is hell. I rummaged in my handbag for my compact and studied my face in the mirror. Just as I expected, my nose was as shiny as the Stillwater Bijoux Cinema marquee. I fluffed on some powder and frowned at myself. I should be applying greasepaint and checking my costume and wig now instead of just wilting in the backstage heat. I inched my chair over to the open stage door and tilted my head to catch a bit of dusty breeze. "Now, I'm really sorry, Lucy." Principal Sloan had taken me aside when I showed up at the tryouts. "But there just aren't going to be any parts for women in this play." "There are too! I read Faustus, and I know I would make a perfect Helen of Troy even if it's not a speaking part!" "Well, Lucy, you see... we...we ... aren't using Marlowe's version." He stammered. "Now, you know we don't have the budget to open the school auditorium in the summer, but Rev. Davy has kindly agreed to sponsor this production." Principal Sloan lowered his voice and moved his head closer to mine. "Rev. Davy has told me he doesn't approve of women on the stage, so he has rewritten the script. I'm afraid we have to use his version. But, you know what?" His face brightened. "I'm sure Miss Johnson can use your help with the prompting." Sure. Women have had the vote for seven years, but we still aren't considered equal enough to be on the stage with men. Not that it mattered much in this production. The script was bad, the acting even worse. I could barely hear half of them from where I sat. Prompting would be nearly impossible. I fanned myself with Rev. Davy's script -- at least it was useful for something. From my new position by the door I could see the front of the stage and the first few rows of the audience. Principal Sloan was there -- front row, center -- with his prune of a wife. He was holding a script, but didn't seem to be following along with the play. Instead, he kept glancing furtively to his right. I knew exactly who he was looking for. Coral Johnson, our high school drama and speech teacher, was somewhere backstage making sure things ran smoothly. I giggled softly to myself. I'd seen the two of them kissing in the prop room one day last spring after school when they didn't know I was there rummaging through the racks of costumes. With a wife like his, I guess I didn't really blame him. I shifted my glance back to Mrs. Sloan. Her gray felt cloche hat was clamped down tight over her forehead, hiding her eyes, but I could see the sour look on her pinched lips even from this distance. No wonder he preferred Miss Johnson with her reddish hair and bright blue eyes. Maybe he would even leave his wife and cause a big scandal. If I were writing the script, that's what I would have him do. Leaving was certainly what I was going to do. I had my exit scene all planned. The day after high school graduation next May, I would come downstairs for breakfast with my suitcase already packed. Papa wouldn't say anything -- he never did. Mama wouldn't be able to stop crying long enough to talk. I would walk downtown and catch the 9:30 bus in front of Pike's Drug Store, then another bus from Oklahoma City. I'd keep going until I got to Hollywood. Of course, I still had to get the money for the trip, but I had ten months to figure that out. And when I got to Hollywood, what stage name should I use? Nobody on earth was ever going to be lured into a movie that had "Starring Lucy Stubbs" on the marquee. I needed a name like Miss Johnson's. Coral sounded wonderfully exotic. And I could dye my dishwater blonde bob red like hers. Or maybe I should just keep Lucy but make it French. Lucienne, perhaps? And should I wear my hair in short curls like Clara Bow or long curls like Mary Pickford?
A scream interrupted my reverie...then another one...and some banging noises. I ran through the archway to the front of the auditorium, almost tripping over Mrs. Sloan who was on her knees, arms extended, bleating out to Jesus to save her. I tried to step around her, but collided with Principal Sloan. He turned a pasty gray face to me, mouthing gibberish. "What?" I screamed. "I don't understand." He grabbed my arm with one hand, and with the other pointed to the stage. The stage was set for the final scene: Mephistopheles, Faustus, and the devils come to escort him to hell. Only nobody was where they were supposed to be. Mephistopheles and Faustus were cowering at the rear of the stage behind a ripped stage flat that had tipped over. They were gaping downstage toward the five devils. Only there were six devils... A sixth devil hovered over the pack. He was dressed as the others, black choir robes and a hood. I stared into the hood, but saw no face. It was encircled with an eerie white-orange light that seemed to spring up from the stage, licking at the figure like flames. It leaned slowly toward me and an arm with a skeletal hand shot out, pointing accusingly directly at me. It was only then that I realized the entire figure was transparent. I never took my eyes off the stage, but backed slowly away until I bumped into my chair. I grabbed my handbag, ran out the stage door, and didn't stop until I was home in bed. It was a long time before I stopped shivering and could think rationally and even longer before I knew what I had seen. Events started rolling fast Sunday morning. Principal Sloan, still looking pasty and gray, showed up early asking for my copy of the script. I told him truthfully that I didn't know where it was, probably still backstage. He left before I could ask why he wanted it. A reporter from The Cameron Gazette wasn't far behind him, wanting to know what I had seen. "Could it have been a trick?" I repeated her question and then chose my words carefully. "Possibly...anybody could get another choir robe and a matching hood from Rev. Davy's Bible Church, then hide backstage or sneak in after the play started and show up at the appropriate moment but, I don't know of any way to create that effect. Anyway, ma'am, it wasn't a trick. You see, I thought the ghost was pointing at me, but it wasn't me. He was pointing at Principal Sloan right next to me. What he was really pointing at was the script that the principal was holding. Don't you see? That was the ghost of Kit Marlowe complaining about his play being tampered with. He didn't like it." She thanked me, but didn't seem interested in discussing it further. I eagerly grabbed up a copy of the special edition of The Cameron Gazette that came out on Tuesday. Rev. Davy's church had been packed on the Sunday morning after the Saturday night production. And he had a "hellfire and damnation" sermon all ready for them. But the high point of the day was after church when the congregation reassembled in the parking lot to burn all copies of the Faustus script. "I don't want that devil loosed on this world again, especially with words I wrote!" Rev. Davy was quoted as shouting, though he looked quite pleased with himself in the front-page picture of the burning. There was an entire page of quotes from people who had been there that night. Everybody saw something different. Some people thought it was the Devil. Some people thought it was Jesus. Some people claim not to have seen anything at all. Apparently I was the only person who thought it was Christopher Marlowe, but everything I had said was left out of the article. The school board had called an emergency session for Wednesday to determine if Cameron High School should continue to put on dramatic productions. And a group of moonshiners up in Payne County were said to be offering $500 cash for a copy of the words that summoned up the demon in the belief that they could summon him up to protect themselves. I knew exactly what was going to happen ... and it did. The school board voted to suspend all drama productions at the school, and Miss Johnson was let go after the fall term. She accepted a position at a school in Minnesota where she hoped they wouldn't be so "superstitious." Principal Sloan looked disconsolate, although I noticed his wife seemed to smile a lot more. I didn't see any reason to stay at a school that didn't offer drama, so I left for Hollywood in early January, my exit scene much as I had imagined it, though with $500 concealed in my stocking and a large handbag on my shoulder -- one large enough to conceal a script dropped into it accidentally. * * * * * * "Belasco Productions announced today that it was unable to come to terms with wildly popular movie starlet Lucienne Coral to play Ophelia in their upcoming Broadway revival of Hamlet. The Titian-tressed Miss Coral cited a crowded work schedule for turning down the role, but David Belasco's office claims she had expressed extreme displeasure over planned script rewrites and refused to talk to them after she learned of it. 'You know how superstitious actors can be,' they told us privately."
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