The warm glow of the spotlights in the Birchwood auditorium where we were shooting for Julius Caesar’s play covered me with warmth and silent adulation. Though I sat there, sweating beneath the heavy armour and makeup, I did not flinch nor attempt to escape into the cool air-conditioned environs of my cabin.

This was an escape… to me… where and what I was doing.

The next day, I continued my rehearsal for the main show as Julius Caesar. My co-actors could see me getting exhausted and implored me to get rid of that makeup and accessories to perform better but I turned a deaf year as usual.

The director shouted, “Pack up!”  

Gosh! I dread this moment.

I returned to my room and stayed in, with my past.

***

Nutting Village- When I was eighteen

The days I spent as a child in Nutting Village, Wellington dist., New Orleans, was simple yet full of exuberance. There wasn’t much money to buy what you wished for and there weren’t so many wishes that needed financial support. So, life was sailing on smooth waters, the occasional turbulence being the appearance of my Dad in his drunken happy state.

Dad’s appearance flickered out in the next few years much to my relief. I passed out of high school after much effort and counselling.

One day, I didn’t know what happened. Suddenly, I heard my mother screaming.

“I don’t have any money nor the papers of this house. Get out!”

“Nolaaaaan…..”

I could see her bloodshot eyes. I had to run away. I did after some time, wishing everything would be alright but it was too late when I returned.

Then, sorrow became fear. The fiendish silhouettes, trying to catch me, ruined my days and nights. I realized I had to do something to fill my stomach with more than superfluous thoughts.

***

New Orleans- When I was twenty- three

I honed my acting skills at James Edison Drama School and best of all, used my appearances to camouflage my fear. The moment I got into the character; I would never be bothered by…….

Did someone see me that day? Will I meet the same fate as my mother?

The main show was running to a packed house. The crowd was up on its feet insisting that he accept the crown of Rome. I looked triumphant with Mark Antony by my side.

The scene changed to the House of the Senate. The proceedings take an unfortunate turn as Cassius, Casca, and last of all, his loyal Brutus, come forth to stab me.

I cried with passion, “Et tu Brute!”

The crowd roared with me. But I wasn’t prepared for this. Brutus stopped short.

“Caesar, you can’t run forever, your mother wants to see her murderer.”

“Brutus?” I screamed as I turned to face the same fearful silhouettes.

“Sergeant Brutus, my dear Nolan. We are fortunate to have a great historical figure in our midst, isn’t it Sergeant Cassius?”

I fell on my knees. I wouldn’t be wearing that odious makeup any longer.

***

Bensley Jail, New Orleans - Six months later

As the clock struck eight, I could hear the loud clang of the heavy outer prison door being opened and the screeching sound of the metal food cart pushing through the long, dark corridors. Dinner plates were pushed into each of the dreary cells by someone, whom I had never seen, in all these months. The doors were then banged shut and every inmate had to spend the eerie night in the ‘esteemed’ company of themselves, dry bread, stale veggies, and an occasional fruit or tasteless dessert.

In the six-month-long court battle and some more to follow, I learned that mine was a ‘lost’ case. The meaningless arguments had turned into ego battles between the prosecution and defense. I refused to surrender. I stood, stoic and straight-faced though it required a lot of effort.  

At times, I felt like, “HELLO, ENOUGH! IT’S ABOUT ME.” Otherwise, it was quite absorbing like watching one of our theatrical performances. The thought that it was like a puppet show made me laugh loudly which pierced through the sorrowful dark gray walls of prison until a harsh rap on the secure doors silenced it.

Sometimes, I feel that The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne, which I had read in school, aptly symbolizes the prison door as the constraints of a new society. The society that punished someone for murder but never hesitated to murder feelings and virtues in the name of blind facts, for whom the word ‘empathy’ never existed in the dictionary, and rightly so.

Why would anyone put themselves in the place of the accused? However, I wished they had.

The next day, I lifted my drooping eyelids to meet the thin yet sharp ray of light that struck me with a stubbornness that painfully reminded me that I still existed and must endure another day of atonement for my crime. I lifted my heavy, uncooperative frame sore from the rigorous routines to hear, “Nolan, open the door! Quick! Mr. Ester is here to speak to you.”

I groaned,  “Not again, Please!” and added a few expletives when I knew there was no one to hear me.

“Mr. Nolan, I am sorry to say this, but we need a few insights into your mother, Mrs. Jenny’s murder five years ago. Remember, I am trying hard to get you out of this. ” My unapologetic defense attorney Mr. Ester was trying to be concerned.

Sorry, my foot! 

Over time, my emotions hardened and it was tough to crack them. The attitude of people never softened or changed its structure. Even if my tears threatened to burst forth, they froze like tiny icicles in my eyelashes. One added advantage of theatre was I could cover it all beneath layers of make-up. But now…..

I sat up and faced Mr. Ester, looking expectantly at me.

***

 Nutting Village- Ten years ago- When I was thirteen

I sat on the swing in the little garden outside our modest house. The swing was a makeshift one that had its bearings from an oak tree.

Faster! Higher!

I swung like one possessed unaware that I had disturbed an entire ecosystem. I was selfish. If I wasn’t gifted with peace, no one else could receive it. The screeching, shrieking sound of the birds as they angrily flew from the boughs drowned my silent screams at the harsh reality that I had to face almost daily - I was the son of a drunkard father and benighted mother who could hardly stand up for herself or her child.

It wasn’t so bad when I was a child or maybe I cared less.

We owned an apple orchard which my mother said belonged to her father. She even had some ancestral property which she rented out to a few retail shops.

So, we were wealthy in a sense. While my friends went to the local school in the village, I was sent to Wellington High School in the sixth grade. I wasn’t very good at academics but my teachers and classmates watered the tiny sapling of desire for arts and drama which grew to be a large, sturdy tree of passion in a few years.

“Let’s take Nolan…. only he can do it…. Nolan, you are a winner….,” The nectar continued to ooze and I drank it till I felt dizzy with self-pride and the growing fame.  

Maybe, I was born to do theatre and more.

My parents showered me with praise and treated me with expensive gifts every time I won an award.

 Later, what went wrong and how I can hardly recollect.

When did my home turn into a house? Was it when Father became a drunkard and illegally sold our property or was it when Mother found James? Father said he wished to live a little for himself. Understandable. But did he find any pleasure in abusing Mom and me? Why did Mother make love to James instead of showering it all on me, if she had so much to give?

“James is a hundred times better than that drunkard. He will prove to be a good father, Nolan. Trust me,” she held my hand.

I looked into her large, expectant eyes and gave that fake smile that I often used in the theatre.

Father needs his drinks and Mother needs James. But they never thought that I needed them both. Together. A happy, rich family. So, according to me, they could die….

I bit my lips and ate my cruel thoughts the moment they sprang up. I kept them pressed down in the pit of my stomach but I started suffering from ‘indigestion’.

***

Nutting Village- When I was eighteen

My aches abated when Dad was inconspicuous in his absence. I am not a great believer of prophecies but maybe someone’s wish had been granted.

Life went on much about the same. My mother assumed her role as Mrs. Jenny, who unleashed a lot of potential, qualities I had never known, like the hidden flowers falling from our garden tree. She took the entire business and household responsibilities under her care and leadership. She exuded power, an uncanny sense of direction, and surprising managerial skills, I had never known existed.

Did I say her qualities were the wildflowers?

 They lacked the sweet fragrance of love and companionship. They withered the moment I went close to her. Perhaps I was the summer heat. Not the best season to get along with, but she had to tolerate me. Reason- I had still not accepted James into the family.

Why? Who was James? He came every day now, and sometimes stayed in. Oh Yes! He was practicing to be a father and husband.

Strangely, he was like Spring to Mother. She danced, sang and breezily blew kisses to him. She glowed and spread her flowery self wherever and whenever he was around. He cheered and inhaled her scents enthusiastically. James even tried to make me do the same but I hated the pungent odour.

I decided that Mother had had enough of Summer. Things were heating up too much.

“Mother, I have decided to take up a three-year acting course in New Orleans.”

“Nolan, you have still not accepted James as your father,” she said completely ignoring my statement.

I stood still but met her searching eyes with a determination that had the answer to her question.

She was smart to understand and did not pursue the topic.

I am Summer. I have my identity. I have my admirers. Different flowers will grow during my season in the garden of life. How can I be like Spring or appreciate Spring? My mother blooms during Spring. So be it.

I planned to leave on a Thursday, a week after I announced my decision to her. 

I got admission into the James Edison School and found suitable accommodation nearby.

“Nolan”, I heard James as he walked towards me when I was on my favourite swing in the garden. “I heard that you are leaving. I am sorry we couldn’t get very close.

But I guess it is better this way.”

I looked at the faraway stream. If it had been closer, I would have pushed James in for a nice bath.

“Mother, Spring’s gone, forever. You have to live with Summer. That’s me.”

I laughed hysterically at James' retreating figure. But I was wrong.

*****

 Bensley Jail – Present Day

This was the first time I had broken my silence. Mr. Ester was recording my statement.

“A day before I was to leave for New Orleans for my acting course, I heard my mother’s shrieks coming from her room. An eerie feeling of a storm brewing tugged at my heart. Strong ominous winds pushed me into her room and then I saw James in the act. What he did was so unlike the Spring I thought him to be.”

 Mr. Ester paused quizzically, but I continued.

“I could see the rarest of fear dancing in her eyes. Her pupils sprang to life desperately a couple of times- a lamp trying its best to glow in the fear that it might be thrown away if it didn’t- but they knew they couldn’t live beyond the life of the source, my mother. Finally defeated, the light went out, but not before a lone tear managed to escape her lifeless eyes. It was for me. The final goodbye of my Mother’s warm love before the darkness and the chill set in. I touched her after what seemed like ages.”

Mother, Spring has gone. If only you had accepted to live with Summer, Winter wouldn’t have come so suddenly or been so harsh.

“Who was James?” Mr. Ester’s question brought me back to the dull environs of the cell.

I looked at him. There was relief and a sense of victory in his eyes. I knew that he had seen some light in the tunnel instead of aiming at an object in the dark.  

“James worked at the local hospital. A counsellor or something.”

He looked at me expectantly, not wishing to repeat the same question, about my silence, again.

Maybe, he didn’t believe me. But I couldn’t care less.

“It is a small village with gossip-ridden clouds hanging heavily over it. People knew of my poor relationship with my mother. James had a good impression on them like he had on my mother. So, the obvious happened.”

“I get you, Nolan. But a lot of evidence, especially your silence so far, is against you. We will launch a hunt for James. I can’t promise anything.” He made me sign a report of the proceedings. He had a stern and skeptical look but left quickly when it didn’t work on me.

Epilogue

My death sentence was revoked, three years after my statement. I was sent for counselling. Several questions were raised. Why did I try to evade the law? Why did I feel I had committed a crime and chose to be silent during my initial trials?

I owe myself an answer for the punishing silence and trying to keep up the pretense with make-up.

My crime was I had tried to run away from my mother and myself. I never accepted her as she was and was perhaps envious of the ‘Spring’ she was attracted to. Maybe, James was no good but I wasn't any better. I could have made the ‘house’ a ‘home’ but I chose to have my path-wear the make-up and forget everything. I forgot I couldn’t apply make-up to my conscience. 

Sorry, Mother, Summer could not save you from Spring.

 ***

Disclaimer: The characters in the story are fictitious and bear no resemblance to the original historical characters.

This story is a Distend of my attempt for Quintale 63 https://penmancy.com/who-is-julius-caesar-