Julius Caesar: Portia’s Jab Leads to Brutus’s Stab

Julius Caesar: Portia’s Jab Leads to Brutus’s Stab

March 2023

When I entered our kitchen, I saw Brett hunched over his coffee cup with a worried look.

“You’re up early. Are you okay?”

“No.” I'd never seen him look so defeated.

“Your Mom?”

“Yes. What am I going to do?” asked Brett. He looked tired and disheveled, and the bags under his eyes were more pronounced than usual.

“I’m so sorry, hon.” 

“She wants to die. She’s in such pain. They won’t give her any more pain medication because they’re afraid it’ll kill her. Ironic, right?”

“No literary terms before my morning coffee.” My attempt to lighten the mood failed. 

March 2024

My college students had just finished reading their fourth Shakespearean play, Julius Caesar. “So what did you think?”

“Beware the Ides of March,” said one student.

“Indeed, March 15th,” I said as I paced the front of the classroom of thirty students. I tightened my gray hair in my ponytail, feeling dismayed at my recent hair loss. “Which characters come foremost to mind in this play?”

A student in the back who rarely speaks up said, “Julius Caesar.”

Another chimed in, “Et tu, Brutè?” The students chuckled.

“Any women come to mind?” I asked with hope. Silence. “Anyone remember Portia?”

“Brutus’s wife?” asked Rebecca, the top student in the class.

“Yes! Let’s talk about this essential minor character. If you’ll check out the optional reading—I know, I know, no one has time for that—you’ll find my paper on her called 'Portia’s Jab Leads to Brutus’s Stab.'” A few students snickered.

“Shakespeare only gives Portia a few lines in the play, but I assert that she’s consequential. Let’s back up. Portia is smart and observant, but she lacks power because…”

“She’s a woman,” says Rebecca.

“Yes! Portia loves Brutus and observes him with an eagle's eye. She suspects there’s a conspiracy afoot, and she’s worried. Really worried. Portia is so concerned that she commits self-harm to get Brutus’s attention.”

“Wait, I read the whole play, really. How did I miss that?” asks John. 

“You’re not alone, John. Portia stabs herself in the thigh offstage. Shakespeare barely mentions her. Let's talk about that.”

March 2023

Brett became withdrawn and secretive. He took long walks despite the cool, rainy weather. Sleep eluded him, and he wasn’t interested in food. I worried and felt helpless. To encourage him to eat, I purchased the ingredients for his favorite meal: spaghetti with meatballs, toasted garlic bread with mozzarella, a big salad with black pepper, and rocky road ice cream for dessert. 

I chopped the garlic for the salad dressing, and my largest pot began to boil, awaiting the pasta. I watched a nature show on the TV in the family room to entertain myself as I diced the onions. As I saw the alligator lurch out of the waterhole, ensnaring a zebra in his jaws, the butcher knife leaped, severing the side of my middle finger.

“Yaaaa!” I screamed. Blood was everywhere: the cutting board, the kitchen towel wrapped around my waist, and the floor. An array of expletives spilled out of my mouth like the crimson gush pouring out of my finger as Brett rushed in from the bedroom. 

Brett's calm-under-pressure mentality kicked in. He applied pressure to the wound, which took forever to stop bleeding. Brett called urgent care, and they urged him to bring me in for stitches. I refused. Dinner was ruined, but at least it altered Brett’s thoughts momentarily from his 90-year-old terminally ill mother to my care.

March 2024 

“So how do we know that Brutus is affected by Portia’s self-mutilation?” 

“He says, ‘Oh ye gods!’” said John. “And that’s a big deal for a stoic.”

“Correct. What does the self-harm do for Portia?”

“It relieves her mental anguish,” said Rebecca.

“Yes!” Pointing to Rebecca, I utter, “You read my paper.” Rebecca couldn’t hide her self-satisfied grin. “You all know to go to a counselor before resorting to harming yourself, right?” Heads nodded.

“But what does Portia’s leg wound prove to Brutus, even though he leaves Portia to attend his conspiratorial meeting with the gang?”

“It shows she’s tough,” said the curly-haired guy in the back. 

“Yes, her wound demonstrates to Brutus that she can take the pain and not complain. Sorry for the rhyme. She wants Brutus to confide in her. Portia demonstrates that she can be stoical while suffering.”

March 2023

I awoke to hear something creak and rustle, and finally, I detected a quick pounding sound in the bathroom. Although it was still dark outside, Brett was getting ready to go to his vet clinic earlier than usual. He popped out of the bathroom dressed in his work clothes. I struggled to open my eyes but saw 4:30 a.m. on my bedside clock.

“Going to work already?”

“Yes, I have a difficult surgery and need to read up on a few things.” I admired his dedication.

“I didn’t hear you come home last night. How’s your mom doing?”

“Same.” He looked down and bowed his head. “How’s your finger doing?”

“It smarts, but it will heal. Thanks for stitching me up, doc.”

“It’s what I do, but not usually on humans.” As he approached the bedroom door, I said, “Good luck.”

He seemed distracted but managed to utter, “See ya tonight.”

###

As I sat at the kitchen table drinking my coffee, my cell rang. It was the care facility. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Gardiner?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Kathryn Delaney. We’re trying to reach your husband, but we’re unable to.”

“He’s in surgery this morning.”

“I’m sorry to inform you that his mother passed.”

“Ohhh…” I didn’t know what else to say. My emotions were in a game of tug-of-war.

“Can you have him call me when he’s free?”

“Yes. Thanks for calling.”

I canceled all my appointments and drove to Brett’s work. After his surgery, I broke the news to him. He seemed subdued. Of course, her death was no surprise. Somehow, I expected tears, but instead, I observed the tension that had wracked his body for months melt like an ice cube in a cup of hot tea. I drove us to the care facility to say our final goodbyes. His mother's still body lay draped with a sheet adorned by a rose. I grabbed Brett's hand to steady him. Next, we went to Kathryn's office to sign paperwork and learn about next steps.

“What can you tell me about the death certificate?” Brett's voice quaked.

“What do you mean?” asked the administrator. “Like how to get copies?”

“No,” Brett said with a tone of impatience. “What will be the cause of death? Who will sign the certificate?”

“Oh,” said Kathryn, registering the direction of the conversation. “We have a doctor on call for such events. She’ll write in 'pancreatic cancer,' since that was your Mom’s diagnosis.”

“When will that happen?”

“It already has.”

“May I see it?” Brett's jaw clenched.

“No, I’m afraid not. There’s a process. You can get the death certificate next week from the County.”

“Can I talk to the doctor?” Brett asked. This conversation started feeling strange. The administrator’s face revealed her uneasiness, and my stomach seized.

“You can wait till next week, can’t you, hon?” I asked. Brett read the room and nodded.

March 2024

“Let’s jump ahead now. Brutus and his gang kill Caesar on the Ides of March, which leads to war, which is going badly for Brutus. His generals start killing themselves, knowing that they are losing. And who remains behind in Athens hearing all this bad news?”

“Portia,” says Rebecca.

“Right. Who wants to describe what she does next?” John raised his hand, and I pointed to him.

“Well, Brutus was away at war, and he gets word of Portia’s suicide. It’s brutal. She swallows hot coals.” Although most of the students had read the play, the class groans. 

“Yes, it’s gruesome. Please note that Shakespeare, once again, has Portia’s violence against herself occur offstage to…”

“Minimize its effect on the audience,” said Rebecca.

“Correct. Switching gears. Show of hands. Who thinks Portia's suicide gave Brutus permission to end his own life.” Nearly all hands rose. “Can we conclude, then, the minor character of Portia was instrumental in Brutus assassinating Caesar and then taking his own life?”

March 2023

Pound, pound, pound. “Police, open up. We have a search warrant.” My eyes sprung open, and Brett and I stared at each other in the darkness. I noted that the clock said 4:00 a.m. 

“Oh my god! What’s going on?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but I don’t want them beating down the door, so I’m gonna answer it,” Brett said as he raced down the hall. Outside, I saw cop cars with red and blue lights flashing everywhere.

They searched the house, took our phones and laptops, and emptied our medicine cabinets. Then, they arrested Brett for the murder of his mother. I couldn't believe my eyes. My husband of nearly forty years had never looked so crestfallen.

September 2023

The care facility administrator grew alarmed with Brett’s questions on the day of his mother’s death. That, combined with the propped open door discovered the night before, raised her hackles. She alerted the doctor, and tests ensued. They found a lethal dose of phenobarbital in the deceased woman’s blood. Enough circumstantial evidence accumulated to create a case against Brett. Motive: to relieve his mother’s suffering. Opportunity: a propped open door the night she died. Means: a veterinarian with access to phenobarbital that is used to alleviate the suffering of pets. Although they didn’t find the murder weapon, Brett was convicted and sent to prison for 25 years, essentially a life sentence.

The verdict stunned us both. Besides the dearth of evidence, we figured that even if the jury believed Brett was guilty, they'd let him off due to the merciful nature of the killing. We figured wrong.

I never had the nerve to ask Brett if he did it. I just supported him. He probably did, but his heart was in the right place. Who wouldn’t want to be relieved of suffering so close to death?

Being a convict’s wife was lonely. Some friends and family offered condolences, but most of them disappeared. At the university, colleagues and staff pretended that nothing happened, which made life with them easier. I welcomed the distraction that work offered. My clothes looked baggy on my thin frame because food no longer interested me, and cooking for one was a drag. Mostly, outside of work, I slept.

Visits to the prison depressed us both. We decided to rely on letter writing instead. We read each other’s letters over and over and preferred that to anguished, compressed public visits. In our missives, we expressed our mutual pain of depression and loneliness. Brett hated prison life and wondered if life was worth living anymore. I tried to bolster him, but my own reserves were low.

At least I had my work to sustain me. I forgot that the dean assigned me a Shakespeare class in the spring. I decided to teach four tragedies and selected Hamlet, Othello, Romeo & Juliet, and Julius Caesar. My unconscious mind must have selected Julius Caesar, not realizing how prophetic it would be. 

March 15, 2024 —The Ides of March

At home, as I reflected on my final lecture with my Shakespeare class, I couldn’t get my paper’s title out of my head, “Portia’s Jab Leads to Brutus’s Stab.” My publication asserted that if it weren’t for Portia, Brutus wouldn’t have green-lighted the assassination. I blamed Portia. Her show of strength scaffolded Brutus’s resolve. My nerves surged through my body as a revelation struck me. I am Portia. Brett wouldn’t have killed his mother if I hadn’t cut my finger and dismissed the pain. Oh. My. God. What have I done?

As the pieces started falling into place in my head, I recalled the noise that awoke me the morning of Brett’s mom’s death. Brett hadn’t gotten up early. He had just gotten home. And those sounds I’d heard were him accessing our secret hiding place in the bathroom floor. 

I ran into the bathroom and tossed aside the floor rug. I rummaged under the sink for the screwdriver we use to lift the wood slat above our hidden stash of cash and jewelry. I inserted the screwdriver's blade into the crack to lift the loose board covering our valuables. The board creaked as it emerged. I took a deep breath and placed my hand on my chest when I saw the new contents in our secret location: a bottle of phenobarbital and a syringe. 

I knew what I had to do. I am Portia. My death will give Brett permission to end his suffering.