[Pause]
My boss has been picking on me for the last year now… Little things mostly.
New kid on the block. Young. She thinks she knows my job better than me. Twenty-four years I’ve been at it. Now she wants to check everything I do. Always asks if the facts have been verified – as if they wouldn’t be! Holds up the process. I can’t get anything done on time anymore - and then she has the nerve to say – well suggest anyway - that I am not being productive enough.
I keep thinking about that little racoon. Never did anything to me. Never made my life miserable. Never undermined me. Nothing. Twenty four years and I’ve been at it and I’ve always been patted on the back for what I’ve accomplished… Not any more.
Of course, she’s a young micro-manager from one of those fancy business schools, a this week’s trend in management style person. A let’s find a reason to get rid of people pick. My gran would have said: “She’ll t’row out the baby with the bathwater that one”.
Yah, I guess people are expendable.
Not sure why it’s the little person that is always expendable though. You know - the ones who work overtime because they enjoy their work,… the ones who never complain about being sent out on the road at the last minute, when they should be going home… The ones who care about the clients.
We had a little disagreement the other day. She told me I was being a little too impudent. Impudent. She’s young enough to be my grandchild for god’s sake, – well almost anyway. Who’s the impudent one, eh? Anyway, she couldn’t even say the word. Said I was being “imprudent”. “Imprudent”: I know it’s a word, but it’s not what she meant.
She has no sense of humour. No sense of collegiality. … No sense at all in fact.
My secretary - Nancy – well, ok, the office admin for our department – she knows I’m at breaking point. She got me the appointment with this counsellor. Just sat there in this comfortable armchair, legs crossed, saying nothing while I had to think up things to say for the 50 minutes. … Dreadful Argyle socks, skinny legs…
Anyway, we’ve become fast office friends lately, Nancy and I, co-conspirators let’s say. We joke a lot. We bitch a lot. Mutual therapy. A lot better than that guy who probably gets about $200 an hour anyway!
If I’d been more ambitious, - more of a yes man, I’d have been better off.. I know that. But I just enjoy my work and I am damn good at it too. Didn’t want to be a manager anyway. Managers have no life. Oh, I suppose they think they do, but they don’t. Not as far as I can tell anyway.
I know she’s picking on me with a purpose in mind. I know what they think; they think a younger person could do the job more … efficiently. - What they really mean is that a younger person would save them a bundle of money – They won’t have to pay them nearly as much.
[Starts to gather up his things for work – e.g. laptop, jacket etc. ]
She’s insecure. You can tell. She’s always trying to impress… Trying to be one of the big boys. It’s laughable really.
[Comes back to the table for a last gulp of coffee. Looks at his shoes. Bends over to tie one up. Starts to leave. Stops.]
Of course, I’ve heard she’s been sleeping with the CEO. … He got her the job apparently. …That’s what the office buzz is anyway.
[Pause]
I keep thinking about that little racoon.
[Exit – Fade to black]
[Lights fade in. The sound of gulls and the sea. Character enters, sits
and stares off into space. (1985 A.D.)]
I could sit here all day. I
often have. We lived here by the sea when I was young. I loved it here. Still
do. The wind, the smells, the gulls screeching, the lighthouse - the sound of
its horn at night… And there was music all the time it seemed… in the kitchen,
at the Hall, you know, at weddings, birthdays, anniversaries - funerals, or
just plain, simple gatherings of a couple of folks around the table or on the
porch. I guess not much has changed really. [pause]
My Gran’s funeral was yesterday. She’d
have been 86 next month. Hard to believe. So she lived a good long life, - a hard
life. My mom was a help to her in those last years.
Uncle Calen came back from
Ontario. Haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I never met Uncle Rob. He went off
to the States before I was born. You’d never know he was from the Cape. He’s as
American as they come. Came in a big car – rented… probably the biggest one he
could get. Must have forgotten there are no super highways here. [Pause] He
looked like he was an ad for a polyester clothier. Smokes a “see-gar”, as he
says. Mum won’t let him smoke in the house though.
Gran has left mom the house.
She knew the boys were well enough off. Uncle Rob thinks he should get a share.
Says they could make it into a business. Put on an addition with four or five
rooms to rent --- American fishermen would love this place. Big bucks!
Mom told him where he could
put his big “see-gar”. Ha! Mom always shot from the hip! Told him my grandpa
would roll over in his grave.
My grandfather and I were
close when I was a child. Very close. I remember a short wiry man with a bunch
of teeth missing. He had a limp from an old war injury – the first World War. His
hands were gnarled from hard work all his life. And his left hand was missing
the tips of two fingers…. He was my hero when I was a kid.
Grandpa used to take me out
in the boat. Not all the time. Some days he said it was too dangerous. But I
loved the boat. I loved the sea. I was six or seven maybe. I told grandad one
day that I wanted to be a fisherman like him… he looked at me long. He was
sizing me up. And he patted me on the shoulder. “No Jake lad”, he said and
smiled that toothless smile of his, “you’re better suited for other things”. He
didn’t say what though.
Those days he only had a
small boat. He’d sold the big one many years back grandma told me. Sometimes
he’d go out with one or two of the lads. But often he went out alone. The night
his boat didn’t return to the cove, we all sat silent, hoping that it was just
taking a little longer to come in. But we knew a storm had come up from the
south west. It came from nowhere… all of a sudden. No warning except the sky
turning colour in the distance. I always remember that night. I was only eight
– but I remember it like it was yesterday.
Grandma, was strong. She’s
always been. She’d lost two boys in the second world war already. But I know
she cried that night. Mom cried too. It didn’t really hit me until the funeral.
Everyone came to the funeral. Everyone liked my grandpa. And of course, there
were lots of relatives. I wasn’t always sure how we were related… but it seemed
somehow a lot of people were.
Mom and I helped grandma go
through my grandad’s things. That’s when I found that fiddle. It was up in the
attic. Gran said it’d been there for years. She’d almost forgotten about it.
It was then I learned that
grandpa had once played the fiddle long ago – before he lost those fingers.
Gran just stared at the fiddle for the longest time. She was caressing it like
it was something very special. She said grandpa was once the best fiddle player
around and that he had played at all the caleighs and kitchen parties in the
area. But I didn’t know grandpa played the fiddle. He never talked about it. That’s
strange. We used to talk about all kinds of things. But I know, - there are
some things you just want to keep to yourself.
Grandma saw me looking at
the fiddle that afternoon … I touched it like it was gold. I touched all the
nicks and scratches because maybe my grandpa had put them there. Grandma told
my mom I should have the fiddle. She said grandpa would want that. So my mom
let me have the fiddle. I was the happiest kid in the world.
[Fade out]
Scene II
[Light fades in. Sitting at a desk going through some papers]
I’ve been going through some
of gran’s papers. I just found these pictures in my gran’s desk. They’re of my
parents during the war. I’d never seen them before…
My dad was away in the early
days after the war. When the War ended he’d stayed in the forces. It was where
he felt most at home.
Mom was in the War too. She
was a nurse. She wore one of those head veils. A nursing sister. That’s what
they’d been called. Like a nun. Only she wasn’t. [He laughs] She’d loved the War, my mom. She’d light up when she
spoke about it. Funny how that is. She’d felt important. She’d been young.
That’s where she met my father… overseas. That’s where they got married.
I think my mom’s biggest
regret was getting pregnant and having to come back to Canada just before the
War ended. She didn’t get to be there at the end. And she lost the baby on the
way to Halifax on the boat. Anyway, she didn’t get that big promotion she was
up for, and she didn’t get that baby. She got sea sick instead.
I don’t think my mom ever
wanted to be a mom. I don’t think she ever wanted to be anyone’s Mrs. either.
She’d wanted to be a doctor. But it wasn’t to be. Not in those times. But she
loved nursing.
And she tried hard to be a
good mom. It didn’t come naturally for her. But when I got bullied at school,
she’d taught me how to fight. When I never got chosen first for teams because I
couldn’t catch or throw a ball, she’d taken me out to practice with me. I got
good at it too. Good because of my mom made me do things I didn’t think I could
do.
But she couldn’t teach me
how to play the fiddle. Mom didn’t play the fiddle. I tried to teach myself. It
isn’t easy teaching yourself an instrument. It isn’t easy playing a big fiddle
with tiny hands. But I’d practiced… and practiced. I don’t know how my mom
stood it. I was awful at it.
My little sister hated it.
She said I frightened the cat. [short
pause] We didn’t have one though. My sister was jealous I’d been given the
fiddle. I know that. But she was just a toddler when my grandpa died.
My dad got transferred to
the mainland when I was nine. That was 1958. He didn’t like the Cape anyway. It
wasn’t in his blood. He worked in the city now. …
My dad had always had a desk
job in the army; but you’d have thought he’d won the War single-handed. He’d
been given a promotion just before the War had ended – the one mom had wanted.
He was a Major now. She was just a Mrs.
That day we drove away in
that new station waggon my dad had just bought was the last time I saw my gran
for a long time after. I watched her waving as we disappeared down the road. I
always remember that time, grandma getting smaller and smaller until I couldn’t
see her anymore. I’ve often wondered if she thought the same of us as we drove
off. Getting smaller and smaller.
[Pause]
I didn’t like our new
neighbourhood in the city, but I liked my school okay - most of the time. I
tried to practice the fiddle after school when I could - before dad got home
from work. Somehow I could never please him. My sister, she always pleased him.
She couldn’t do anything wrong, not even when she did. If we got in a fight, it
was always my fault. I always got the thrashing and had to go to my room. My
sister loved it when I got sent to my room. She played it up – the tears. My
dad would take her into his arms and call her his little princess. She was no
princess, my little sister.
My dad got angry a lot. One
day he came home early. I was upstairs in my room practicing. I was practicing
Silent Night. Christmas was coming and I wanted to surprise my mom. How I
thought it would be a surprise to anyone in the house I don’t know. Dad came
stomping up the stairs and storming into the room … My mom was close behind him
trying to calm him down… He grabbed the fiddle from me and I thought he was
about to smash it into the wall, when my mom pushed him and shouted at him. I
thought he was going to hit her. She said if he smashed it she was leaving…
My dad stormed out of the
room… But when I came home from school the next day the fiddle was not where
I’d left it… where it had always been. I asked my mom. She looked at me, not
exactly with a smile; no, it was more of concern I think, and she patted my
arm. She said it was better if it was put away for a while. I cried. But mom
held me in her arms and rocked me for the longest time. When I think of it, I’m
not really sure if she was comforting me, or if I was comforting her. Then she
said that one day I could have it back. But I didn’t see the fiddle again… a
least not for a long time.
By then I was a senior in
high school, and busy with other things. I’d forsworn anything musical. I was
captain of the soccer team and president of the students’ council! Then, one
day when I came home from high school, my sister was sitting on the back porch;
she was playing with the fiddle, my grandpa’s fiddle, my fiddle. It was just
noise really – like I used to make. Only it wasn’t my noise. She was trying to
get my goat. I knew that.
She said she was going to
take lessons. Something in me, cracked, but I kept it to myself. I’d learned
not to let my sister see me weak. She looked at me. I knew she wanted to get to
me. But I shrugged and said: “That’s great” and I walked away. I could tell she
was disappointed.
My sister and I had never
been really close, but after that, it was as if my sister was invisible. For
me, she wasn’t there anymore.
I know I said that music was
never something I pursued after my fiddle was taken away from me; but that’s
not quite true. I did go after it a little; - Ha! - but it always took flight
whenever it saw me coming – the music.
Our high school had a choir.
Even some of the jocks were in the choir. It was pretty well known, and the
choir got to go on some interesting trips. They even travelled to Ottawa once.
So I thought I would try out.
I did. But the music teacher
wasn’t too impressed with my audition. She told me that she didn’t think the
choir was for me. She closed the lid of the piano and looked at me for a bit. Then
she got this look on her face and suggested I join the glee club. So, I thought
that sounded cool. I went in search of the school’s glee club; but I soon
discovered that there wasn’t one at our school. I think the teacher thought she
was pretty smart. But I told her what I thought. I told her where to stick her baton.
I got hauled off to the principal’s office. But I stood my ground. I told the
principal what I thought too. [pause]
I got expelled.
My mom didn’t tell my dad.
And she warned my sister within an inch of her life not to tell him either. My
sister was scared of my mom, like I was scared of my dad. And then, my mom went
to the principal and told him off… told him that the teacher had no business
saying what she said to me. I got back to school soon enough after that. My mom
always went to bat for me. She was the best, even if she didn’t want to be a
mom.
[Fade out]
Scene III
[Lights fade in with the sound of Neil Gow’s Lament on the fiddle –
sound of gulls, the sea ; character sitting as in Scene I (1996 AD) ]
I could watch the waves for
hours. The sea, it’s always moving, always alive. Not like us humans. [Pause] My
mom was buried yesterday. She was only 78. I guess you just never know when
your time is up. [Pause] It was a
good Cape Breton send off. She’d have been pleased.
Mom’s left me the house. I
don’t want to sell it. My mom knew that. Not my grandad’s house. It’s special.
It’s always been “home”. Anyway, there isn’t much of a market for old houses on
our cove these days. It’s a bit run down, but I’ll fix it up a little at a
time.
[Pause]
That summer I’d graduated
from high school, I came back here. My gran needed some help at the house. I
thought it was only for the summer, but I stayed longer than I had meant to – [Pause] Three years longer! There was
plenty to do.
When I was here, I heard
that my sister got to be quite good with the fiddle. A new teacher had arrived
at the school after I’d gone. He was teaching the fiddle there – and maybe some
other instruments too. My sister got to take those lessons. [Pause] Later, I also found out from a
friend that she had been fiddling with the teacher too. [Short pause] She got pregnant.
Mom told me that my dad hit
the roof when he found out. She left home, my sister. She left with the fiddle…
my fiddle. I wasn’t sure what happened to the teacher. That was a long time ago
now. I wasn’t sure at the time what happened to my sister. I didn’t know what
happened to my fiddle either. I think I was more worried about the fiddle.
Mom and dad started to fight
a lot after that. Mom didn’t want to worry me but I knew. It’s not like it had
been a marriage made in heaven, but it got worse, - a lot worse.
Mom, she was never quite the
same after we moved away. She lost something. I don’t know – a spark or
something. She came back here to visit as much as she could. But back in the
city mom was depressed. She left my dad eventually. She came back here and
moved in with gran. She wasn’t yet sixty years old then, my mom.
I loved my mom. I told
myself never to be what you don’t want to be. Like my mom had to be. I’m glad
she left my dad. I think she had some good years after. I think she enjoyed
working at the home … not exactly nursing; but similar. I think she felt a
little bit important again. I hope so anyway.
[Pause]
While I was staying with my
gran that time, I had tried my hand at fishing. My cousin, second cousin I
guess, had a lobster boat. Anyway, after a couple of seasons at that I began to
understand why my grandpa had told me that time that I was better suited for
other things. I still didn’t know what that was though. I knew I needed to find
out.
I went to Toronto. It was
the early 70’s then. At first, I got a job there as a dishwasher in a
restaurant. Then, I got promoted to be a waiter. The money was good. But the
hours were long. I managed to save a lot and eventually went back to school, -
part time.
Now that I’m older, I am not
sure how I did it all. But when you are young, you seem to have all the energy
in the world – and all the time.
It took quite a few years,
but after I graduated from college, I got a good job in a publishing house. In
those days you could work your way up the ladder. And I climbed up the rungs.
One day after I’d been in
Toronto for ten or more years, I was sitting in a park having lunch. I used to
like going there in the good weather. It was peaceful. I don’t think that I was
ever made for city living really. But you do what you have to do.
Anyway, while I was sitting
there, people would come and go. People of all kinds. And I love watching
people about their ordinary lives. I always have. I make up stories about them.
If they only knew what I was turning their sighs, their glances, their
movements into.
Anyway, after I’d finished
eating my sandwich, I noticed this woman sitting on a bench across the park.
She looked older than me by a decade or more. It’s always hard to tell. I was
in my mid-thirties at the time. What did I know then about how life sculpts
different people. But she looked familiar, this woman. However, I was sure I
didn’t know her.
She was a bit unkempt. It
looked like life had been hard on her. She had a smoker’s face and she was
smoking in an agitated manner. Then she looked in my direction. She froze. She
stared. She became anxious.
I jumped up. I couldn’t
believe it. It was my sister. My baby sister! I don’t know how I knew that – I
just did. Something about that look she gave me. She got up quickly and started
to leave. I ran after her, but she disappeared into the underground mall across
the street.
For weeks I would look out
for her. But I didn’t see her. Not for a long time after that. Then, one day, I
saw her again. She didn’t see me. I decided to follow her. She stopped every
once in a while and would appear to be doing business with some young guys… and
some not so young. Drugs maybe. I didn’t know; but it looked like something
illegal was going on.
I stayed back. I needed to
talk to her. But not then – not there. I waited my time. And when she finally
went into a coffee shop and sat down, I followed. She was staring out the
window.
I stood there behind her. It
was as if there was this thick, invisible wall between us. But I forced myself
… “Janet?”, I said. She turned slowly and looked up at me. She put her hand to
her head and said in a low smoker’s voice – “Oh god, what do you want?” She
slumped her head between her hands for a moment. Then she picked it up and said
in a quiet, angry way: “Go away!”
I hesitated and said: “Can’t
we talk?” “About what”, she hissed. Foolishly, I said: “About things – about
life.” She cackled. “Life! And what do you know about life big brother?” I
didn’t know what to say. I wanted to run; but I caught myself and said: “Look,
you are my sister.” She cackled again and said “What do you know about that.
You never were a brother to me. We --- we just lived in the same house that’s
all.”
It was as if she’d punched
me in the stomach. It was true. I’d never paid much attention to her. She was
five years younger than me. We had nothing in common. She was a girl. She was
daddy’s girl. Daddy whom I hated. And I’d hated her for that … for that, and
for taking my fiddle.
Maybe I was jealous of her.
She’d had the talent I lacked and so desperately wanted. I’d wanted to play
that fiddle for grandpa’s sake. And she’d been the one to play it.
I had to break the silence.
I was shrivelling inside. I said: “What about the baby?” She stared. She sipped
her coffee. The silence was dark. She looked at me for the longest time – only
her eyes were cloudy. She said: “What about the baby?” “What happened?” I said.
She shrugged her shoulders
and said deliberately, nonchalantly: “Abortion”. That’s all she said. Only I
could tell she was just saying that. There was something about the way she said
it. I don’t know. Just something. She wanted to hurt me. I don’t know why she
thought that would hurt me.
There was this long pause.
Then I cried out: “You’re lying!” Only it came out louder than I intended.
People looked at me like I was a murderer or something.
She pushed the coffee mug
away, put down some change and started to leave. Then she stopped and said:
“She’s dead, that’s all.” And she left. I stood there for a while in a daze.
Then I ran out on the street
after her. And when I caught up to her, she was moving quickly, I said out of
breath: “One more thing … where’s the fiddle?” She stopped in her tracks and
gave me this piercing look like she wished I were dead too. And she laughed:
“Grandpa’s fiddle?” Then in a painfully slow voice she said: “I soooold it a
looooong time ago.” And she was gone.
[Pause]
Boy was she gone.
It wasn’t until I came here
a couple of days ago that I found out that she’d died. Mom never told me.
When I went to the graveyard
just before mom was buried, I saw a flat stone… couldn’t have been more than a
couple of years old. I had never seen it before. That was odd because I had
visited my grandparents’ graves from time to time over the years. It just said
my sister’s name and “1954 – 1994”. I guess I hadn’t been to the graveyard
these past two years.
Mom’s friend, old Mrs.
Fraser, they’d known each other all their lives, she told me that some
therapist had contacted mom when Janet was dying a couple of years ago. Mom had
arranged for her ashes to be sent here. I don’t know why she hadn’t told me;
but then I had never told her about seeing Janet in Toronto all those years ago.
Maybe she didn’t want to
upset me… Maybe we just had too many secrets…
[Black out]
Scene IV
[Lights fade in. Sitting at a high table in a bar with a glass of beer.
Country music playing in background to fade out. (2007 AD) ]
After that incident with my
sister, life in Toronto kind of soured for me. I didn’t want to be there any
more. Anyway, after gran died, mom was alone. I felt that I needed to be a
little closer. - I only made it as far as Moncton though. That was 1986. I got
a job here with the local paper. A journalist of sorts. An editor really.
Compared to Toronto, life in
Moncton has been pretty quiet. Very quiet actually. But I like to come to this
bar every now and again; it’s great. Nothing fancy mind you. Just a plain old
fashioned bar. They have music here most Friday nights. I don’t come all the
time. But I come often enough.
Some nights the music isn’t
my thing; so I don’t hang around long. But there are nights when they have
music I like: guitar, drum, fiddle. That sort of thing. Foot tapping, hand
drumming.
[Pause]
It isn’t always the same
band. In fact, rarely do you get to see the same group. They are touring.
That’s what musicians do I guess. Sometimes they just have jams… and anyone
could come up and play. It’s fun. I wish I could join in. Wish I’d learned that
fiddle. But I’m only a table top drummer now– Ha!
I guess everyone has
regrets…. I don’t regret much. No point really. But I do regret that – not
learning the fiddle. Anyway, I just come here to listen - and to watch. I love
watching the fiddlers in particular.
[Short pause]
One time – not too long
after I’d moved here in fact – I came here with some people from work. Most
times one can barely hear the music above the chatter. But that night the crowd
was pretty quiet. They were listening to this group. I was too. They were damn
good. This one guy was playing the fiddle. After a while I wasn’t sure if I was
watching the fiddle or watching him. It was as if the two were one big
instrument with one incredibly sweet sound.
There was a young girl
playing with him that night. She was good too. A teenager I thought. Later he
introduced her as his daughter. You could tell he was mighty proud of her.
Proud - the way I’d wished my dad could have been proud of me.
[Pause]
It’s funny. That night I
came to terms with the fact my grandpa’s fiddle might be in the hands of
someone like that young woman … someone who could really play it well and who
deserved to have it. I felt good about that.
[Pause]
I thought about that fiddler
and his daughter a lot after that – when I’d seen how he was so proud of her –
I thought of my dad. Funny, until then I’d blocked him out of my life. I
thought maybe I should at least try and get in touch with him.
I sent my dad a letter; but
it had come back saying he’d moved – “address unknown”. I found out he’d
retired and moved out west. I never found him though. I never really knew
anything about my dad other than that he’d been born in England. But I wanted
to find out more.
It wasn’t until I got access
to the internet in the late 1990s that I found out a little more. Just bits now
and again over the next few years. He’d been born in Cornwall, England. The
town – I looked it up - can’t pronounce it but it’s on the sea. Maybe his dad
had been a fisherman like my grandpa. But I could find no mention of his
father. And I learned his mom had died when he was only ten years old. A record
I found showed he’d come to Canada when he was only thirteen years old. Shit! I
wish I’d known. I wish he’d told me. I wish we could have talked about it.
Maybe I could have been able to forgive him for not knowing how to love me.
Maybe I could have loved him. Maybe…. [sobbing]
Shit! …
[Black out]
Scene V
[Lights up. Comes in on a walker. Sits in a chair, in a hospital, and places the walker beside him (2016
AD) ]
Amazing how weeks turn into
years, - decades. I’d been in Moncton twenty years. Back then, it was no place
to be gay. In some ways, maybe it still isn’t, I don’t know. I filled my life
with work. I’d never been good at dating, -at intimate relationships. - Like I
was never good at the fiddle. Awkward. I never learned intimacy at home. I’d
learned lots of good things there, mostly from my mom, and when I was small
from my grandparents, - but not intimacy. Like the fiddle, I guess I really
needed a teacher.
[Pause]
Anyway, over a year ago,
when I was about to turn sixty-five, I was already thinking about retiring and
moving back to Nova Scotia. But then I got this diagnosis. The dreaded Cancer.
I was knocked off my feet. Your head goes in all directions at such a time. But
I’ll survive. They say they’ve caught it early on. But it’s life changing for
more reasons than one. They sent me here to Halifax for treatment.
[Pause]
I’ve been here in the
hospital for a while now. A couple of days ago, this specialist came in to see
me. She seemed young; but then all the doctors seem young to me now. She
introduced herself and said she’d been in a couple of times already, but with
other doctors and students. I guess I hadn’t paid much attention. When you are
being prodded and stared at like you are a strange object of scientific
interest, and you are being asked a lot of repetitive questions, you eventually
tune out. At least I do.
But this time she came in
alone. And she wasn’t dressed like a doctor either. At least not like one on
duty. She seemed a bit uneasy. A bit out of her element. She asked me some
questions about myself. Questions that did not seem related to my medical
history.
She said that my name was
unusual, at least around here. Where did I come from? I laughed. My dad’s
family… Cornwall. It’s true I’d never heard of anyone else with our family
name. It’s rare, even in England apparently. Anyway, it was nice to have the
company; so I explained about my parents, and I told her about Cape Breton and
moving away to the city.
She said she’d like to talk
to me more; but she had to go just then. And, as she was leaving, she leaned
over and picked up what I thought had been one of those black leather doctor’s
bags, like you used to see in the old films. But it wasn’t. I only caught it
briefly as she left. [Pause] Strange.
It was a worn fiddle case. I was sure it was.
[Fade out]
Scene VI
[Lights up. Sitting in an apartment reading - 2017]
I got discharged shortly
after that doctor had come in to see me. I didn’t see her for quite a long time
after that. But I thought about that meeting a lot. I thought it was
interesting that she’d carried a fiddle case to work.
The next time I was in outpatients,
she’d come by. I said “That’s some interesting doctor’s bag you had with you
the last time I saw you.” She wasn’t sure what I meant at first, but then she
remembered and she laughed. She said it was a fiddle case. I said, “I know
that.” Apparently she plays fiddle with a group when she has the time. She said
it relaxed her. They had had a practice that night.
I’d never known a doctor who
was a musician. I thought that was special somehow. She was hesitating. Almost
fidgeting. Then, she blurted out: “I think we’re related”. I looked blank I
guess. She said “Yes. I think you are my uncle”. I was gobsmacked.
Now, they say there are six
degrees of separation in life. I’ve never really done the math. And I am not
sure what it means if you really want to know. But sometimes life is stranger
than fiction.
So it seems that my sister and her fiddle teacher had gotten married after they’d run off, or at least stayed together. She said she didn’t remember her mom really; only what her dad told her: how pretty she was back then with her fiery red hair [pause] and, I thought, fiery temperament too!
But it wasn’t happily ever
after time. For a while they had both played in a band. Things seemed okay. But
my sister had changed. After a time she stopped playing the fiddle. She got
into drugs. She got angry at life. No one was sure why. Then, one day, she’d
just up and left… left a four year old child.
[Pause]
So, my sister had lied to me
about her child being dead. She wasn’t dead. She was a doctor! I had to tell her that her mom was dead. She
said she had wondered. She had tried to contact her, but had had no luck.
I wondered if Janet had ever
thought about her child. How she was doing. I know mom wondered about whether
she had a grandchild. She told me. Sad really. But you can’t change the past.
Gotta move on. Regrets, they’ll cripple you if you let them.
[Pause]
I see my niece from time to
time, - when I go into outpatients mostly. I like her. There is so much to talk
about; but you don’t like to ask too many questions all at once.
One time when I was there,
my niece told me that her dad was the best mom a girl could have ever had. She
smiled when she told me. I was glad about that. Then, she paused… I could tell
she was thinking about something. She said, “Actually, I had two great dads”.
She looked at me to see my reaction. But all I said was “You’re lucky then”.
I’d asked her about her dad.
He’d always been the boogeyman in our family. I was curious about him. She told
me that when her dad was about thirty-two, she was ten, he’d met this guy, a
doctor, at a bar in downtown Halifax. Her dad was playing with a local band
then. They hit it off and soon they were all three living together.
Her doctor dad had died quite
a few years ago. [Pause] She looked
sad when she told me that. He’d had cancer. I wondered if that was maybe why
she became an oncologist.
Another time, she mentioned
that her mom had left an old fiddle behind. I felt a rush of adrenalin when she
said that. She told me that her father had taught her how to play it. By the
time she was in high school she was good; so he’d even let her go on tour with
him from time to time.
[Pause]
Not only had my sister lied
about her child being dead, she’d lied about the fiddle too … I was sure that
this must be my grandpa’s fiddle. I was excited.
I asked my niece, about it. Asked
her to describe it to me. She looked at me curiously and asked me why, did I
play the fiddle? So I told her about the fiddle and about my grandpa. She
hadn’t known about that. She seemed interested. She asked about my grandparents and about my
mom and dad. She didn’t know much about them…And she asked me about where we’d
lived in Cape Breton. She said she’d only been there once on a high school trip
to Louisburg.
I told her she should come
and visit grandpa’s house someday. I said she could play the fiddle there. They
would love that. Grandpa’s great grand-daughter – a doctor and a fiddle player.
She smiled. She had a nice smile. It was
the first time I thought she looked a bit like my mom – when she was that age.
She told me that she didn’t
use that old fiddle anymore. She had gotten another one years ago. But she said,
if I was interested, that I wasn’t too old to learn - that learning an
instrument was good for old guys like me. The old one was at her dad’s. She
would ask him for me.
[Fade out]
Scene VII
[In blackout, the sound of fiddles being played. Lights up as music
fades out. Sitting with a fiddle outside his Grandpa’s house - 2018]
When my niece called me one
evening, about nine months ago now, to say that her father had the fiddle and I
could have it if I wanted, I was thrilled. I nearly jumped through the phone.
So I went to her dad’s house
one morning – I had stood there at the door for a while. I heard a fiddle being
played inside. I hesitated and then knocked at the door. I heard a child’s
voice call out, “I’ll get it grandpa”. When the door finally opened, a little
girl about 7 or 8 years old stood there, a tiny fiddle in one hand and a bow in
the other. She smiled a toothless smile, - kind of like my grandpa’s.
She asked excitedly, “Are
you the man who’s coming for the old fiddle?” I said “Yes, I am”. She brushed
her frizzy red hair off her speckled face and said proudly, “My name’s Poppy”,
as she swung her hips from side to side. I said, “That’s a lovely name”.
She smiled and pulled
herself up as tall as a little girl can. She said “I’m going to be a sea
captain when I grow up”. And she studied me to see my reaction. I laughed and
said, “Well you can be anything you want to be”. She looked pleased. Then she
turned and ran away. I heard her call out: “Grandpa, the man’s come for the
fiddle.”
Well, I got my grandpa’s fiddle
back … [Pause, smile] and I got my
teacher too. Now I’m finally getting those lessons I’ve needed. Poppy says I’m
doing okay. I told her that one day she could have the fiddle if she wanted.
She thought that was a very good idea.
Sometimes, I wonder if even
my teacher thinks he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Sometimes he just
looks at me like I am hopeless. He doesn’t say that of course… He tells me my
efforts are getting better. Better than what, I am not sure. Anyway, we laugh a
lot.
We’ve been spending a lot of
time on those lessons for the past eight months. And the bunch of us have even been
coming to stay here at grandpa’s house from time to time. Later we’re all four
going to the graveyard to play our fiddles … well, I’ll try anyway. My niece
really wants to do this, - for her mom. It’s a form of closure I suppose … of
forgiveness maybe. [Pause] Yah -
forgiveness.
I know it will take a long
time and a lot of practicing to get really good. Perhaps more time than this
seventy-year old has. [Laughs] I’m
not discouraged. I don’t care – about that. Right now, it’s the learning that
feels good.
[Picks up the fiddle and starts to tune it. Pause. Smiles]
And I’m really enjoying the lessons.
[As the lights slowly fade out, sweet fiddle music fades in and then
gradually out again.]
INTRODUCTION
Jake is the
main character. He is the story teller. He was born in Cape Breton in 1949. The
play takes Jake through various events in his life, including the death of his
grandfather in 1957, the death of his grandmother in 1978, the death of his
sister in 1994, the death of his mother in 1996 and his own illness in 2016.
The play ends in 2018 when Jake is in his seventieth year.
The play was
originally conceived and performed as a one-actor monologue with Jake passaging
from the age of 36 to 70 years old. When the Covid-19 pandemic put a stop to
live performances for an extended period, the play was turned into an audio
play (podcast) with other actors doing the voices of Janet, (Jake’s younger
sister), Jake’s grandfather, his niece and an eight year old grand-niece. Each
of these voices had been originally spoken in reminiscence by Jake.
When live
performances remained difficult into the fall of 2020, the play was expanded
and turned into a stage to screen production, which added new “voices” to the
script. These voices, were those of Janet, Meg, (Jake’s mother), and Reg, (Jake’s
father). Each of these characters perceives the play’s events from a different
perspective.
This is not a
play of dialogues. It remains a play of monologues – a chorus of voices.
In the
current expanded version of the play, in scene one Jake is reminiscing in1993 about
his grandmother’s death fifteen years earlier in 1978, instead of speaking at
the time of her death, which in the original play was in 1985. (The date of her
birth and death have been adjusted.)
Meg is a
proud and independent woman. She is the daughter of a Cape Breton fisherman.
She loved nursing and was never cut out to be a wife and mother. Reg comes from
the school of hard knocks as a home child immigrant to Canada. He has made
something of himself in a career in the army. Janet was the younger spoiled
sister of Jake, a daddy’s girl who fell off the rails and ended up on the
street.
The other
characters who feature in the play, (Jake’s grandfather, niece, and grandniece),
only speak from Jake’s voice. But it would not be untoward to have them appear
and speak their own lines if a director so wished.
Reg likely retains something of his native uneducated Cornish accent; although tempered by many years in Canada. In the screen version, Reg’s accent was quite strong. Being retired and older, his voice had reverted to that of younger days.
Act
I, Scene I
[Lights fade in. The sound of gulls and the sea. Character enters, sits
and stares off into space. (1990 A.D.)]
Jake:
I could sit here all day. I
often have. We lived here by the sea when I was young. I loved it here. Still
do. The wind, the smells, the gulls screeching, the lighthouse - the sound of
its horn at night… And there was music all the time it seemed… in the kitchen,
at the Hall, you know, at weddings, birthdays, anniversaries - funerals, or
just plain, simple gatherings of a couple of folks around the table or on the
porch. I guess not much has changed really.
[Pause]
It’s hard to believe my Gran’s
funeral was fifteen years ago today. She’d have been 86 the next month. Hard to
believe. So she lived a good long life, - a hard life. My mom was a help to her
in those last years.
Uncle Calen came back from
Ontario for the funeral. Hadn’t seen him since I was a kid. I’d never met Uncle
Rob. He went off to the States before I was born. You’d never have known he was
from the Cape. He was American as they come. Came in a big car – rented…
probably the biggest one he could get. Must have forgotten there are no super
highways here. He looked like he was an ad for a polyester clothier. Smoked a
“see-gar”, as he said. Mum wouldn’t let him smoke in the house though.
[Pause]
Gran left mom the house. She
knew the boys were well enough off. Uncle Rob thought he should get a share. Said
they could make it into a business. Put on an addition with four or five rooms
to rent --- American fishermen would love this place. Big bucks!
Mom told him where he could
put his big “see-gar”. Ha! Mom has always shot from the hip! Told him my
grandpa would roll over in his grave.
[Pause]
My grandfather and I were
close when I was a child. Very close. I remember a short wiry man with a bunch
of teeth missing. He had a limp from an old war injury – the first World War. His
hands were gnarled from hard work all his life. And his left hand was missing
the tips of two fingers…. He was my hero when I was a kid.
Grandpa used to take me out
in the boat. Not all the time. Some days he said it was too dangerous. But I
loved the boat. I loved the sea. I was six or seven maybe. I told grandad one
day that I wanted to be a fisherman like him… he looked at me long. He was
sizing me up. And he patted me on the shoulder. “No Jake lad”, he said and
smiled that toothless smile of his, “you’re better suited for other things”. [Pause] He didn’t say what though.
Those days he only had a
small boat. He’d sold the big one many years back grandma told me. Sometimes
he’d go out with one or two of the lads. But often he went out alone. The night
his boat didn’t return to the cove, we all sat silent, hoping that it was just
taking a little longer to come in. But we knew a storm had come up from the
south west. It came from nowhere… all of a sudden. No warning except the sky
turning colour in the distance.
[Pause]
I always remember that
night. I was only eight – but I remember it like it was yesterday.
Grandma, was strong. She’s
always been. She’d lost two boys in the second world war already. But I know
she cried that night. Mom cried too. It didn’t really hit me until the funeral.
Everyone came to the funeral. Everyone liked my grandpa. And of course, there
were lots of relatives. I wasn’t always sure how we were related… but it seemed
somehow a lot of people were.
Mom and I helped grandma go
through my grandad’s things. That’s when I found that fiddle. It was up in the
attic. Gran said it’d been there for years. She’d almost forgotten about it.
It was then I learned that
grandpa had once played the fiddle long ago – before he lost those fingers.
Gran just stared at the fiddle for the longest time. She was caressing it like
it was something very special. She said grandpa was once the best fiddle player
around and that he had played at all the caleighs and kitchen parties in the
area.
But I didn’t know grandpa
played the fiddle. He never talked about it. That’s strange. We used to talk
about all kinds of things. But then I now know, - there are just some things
you want to keep to yourself.
Grandma saw me looking at
the fiddle that afternoon … I touched it like it was gold. I touched all the
nicks and scratches because maybe my grandpa had put them there. Grandma told
my mom I should have the fiddle. She said grandpa would want that. So my mom
let me have the fiddle. I was the happiest kid in the world.
[Fade out]
End of Scene I
Act I, Scene II
[Light fades in. A few days after his grandmother’s funeral (1978) Sitting
at a desk going through some papers]
Jake:
I’ve been going through some
of gran’s papers after she died. I found these pictures in my gran’s desk.
They’re of my parents during the war. Until then, I’d never seen them before…
My dad was away in the early
days after the war. When the War ended he’d stayed in the forces. It was where
he felt most at home.
Mom was in the War too. She
was a nurse. She wore one of those head veils. A nursing sister. That’s what
they’d been called. Like a nun. Only she wasn’t. [He laughs] She’d loved the War, my mom. She’d light up when she
spoke about it. That sounds odd; but she’d felt important. She’d been young.
That’s where she met my father… overseas. That’s where they got married.
I think my mom’s biggest
regret was getting pregnant and having to come back to Canada just before the
War ended. She didn’t get to be there at the end. And she lost the baby on the
way to Halifax on the boat. Anyway, she didn’t get that big promotion she was
up for, and she didn’t get that baby. She got sea sick instead.
I don’t think my mom ever
wanted to be a mom. I don’t think she ever wanted to be anyone’s Mrs. either.
She’d wanted to be a doctor. But it wasn’t to be. Not in those times. But she
loved nursing.
And she tried hard to be a
good mom. It didn’t come naturally for her. But when I got bullied at school,
she’d taught me how to fight. When I never got chosen first for teams because I
couldn’t catch or throw a ball, she’d taken me out to practice with me. I got
good at it too. Good because of my mom made me do things I didn’t think I could
do.
But she couldn’t teach me
how to play the fiddle. Mom didn’t play the fiddle. I tried to teach myself. It
isn’t easy teaching yourself an instrument. It isn’t easy playing a big fiddle
with tiny hands. But I’d practiced… and practiced. I don’t know how my mom
stood it. I was awful at it.
My little sister hated it.
She said I frightened the cat. [short
pause] We didn’t have one though. [pause]
My sister was jealous I’d been given the fiddle. I know that. But she was just
a toddler when my grandpa died.
My dad got transferred to
the mainland when I was nine. That was 1958. He didn’t like the Cape anyway. It
wasn’t in his blood. He worked in the city then. …
My dad had always had a desk
job in the army; but you’d have thought he’d won the War single-handed. He’d
been given a promotion just before the War had ended – the one mom had wanted.
He was a Major now. She was just a Mrs.
That day we drove away in
that new station waggon my dad had just bought was the last time I saw my gran
for a long time after. I watched her waving as we disappeared down the road. I
always remember that time, grandma getting smaller and smaller until I couldn’t
see her anymore. I’ve often wondered if she thought the same of us as we drove
off. Getting smaller and smaller.
[Pause]
I didn’t like our new neighbourhood
in the city, but I liked my school okay - most of the time. I tried to practice
the fiddle after school when I could - before dad got home from work. Somehow I
could never please him. My sister, she always pleased him. She couldn’t do
anything wrong, not even when she did. If we got in a fight, it was always my
fault. I always got the thrashing and had to go to my room. My sister loved it
when I got sent to my room. She played it up – the tears. My dad would take her
into his arms and call her his little princess. She was no princess, my little
sister.
My dad got angry a lot. One
day he came home early. I was upstairs in my room practicing. I was practicing
Silent Night. Christmas was coming and I wanted to surprise my mom. How I
thought it would be a surprise to anyone in the house I don’t know. Dad came
stomping up the stairs and storming into the room … My mom was close behind him
trying to calm him down… He grabbed the fiddle from me and I thought he was
about to smash it into the wall, when my mom pushed him and shouted at him. I
thought he was going to hit her. She said if he smashed it she was leaving…
My dad stormed out of the
room… But when I came home from school the next day the fiddle was not where
I’d left it… where it had always been. I asked my mom. She looked at me, not
exactly with a smile; no, it was more of concern I think, and she patted my
arm. She said it was better if it was put away for a while. I cried. But mom
held me in her arms and rocked me for the longest time. When I think of it, I’m
not really sure if she was comforting me, or if I was comforting her. Then she
said that one day I could have it back. But I didn’t see the fiddle again… a
least not for a long time.
By then I was a senior in
high school, and busy with other things. I’d forsworn anything musical. I was
captain of the soccer team and president of the students’ council! Then, one
day when I came home from high school, my sister was sitting on the back porch;
she was playing with the fiddle, my grandpa’s fiddle, my fiddle. It was just
noise really – like I used to make. Only it wasn’t my noise. She was trying to
get my goat. I knew that.
She said she was going to
take lessons. Something in me, cracked, but I kept it to myself. I’d learned
not to let my sister see me weak. She looked at me. I knew she wanted to get to
me. But I shrugged and said: “That’s great” and I walked away. I could tell she
was disappointed.
My sister and I had never
been really close, but after that, it was as if she was invisible to me. For
me, she wasn’t there anymore.
I know I just said that
music was never something I pursued after my fiddle was taken away from me; but
that’s not quite true. I did go after it a little; - Ha! - but it always took
flight whenever it saw me coming.
Our high school had a choir.
Even some of the jocks were in the choir. It was pretty well known, and the
choir got to go on some interesting trips. They even travelled to Ottawa once.
So I thought I would try out.
I did. But the music teacher
wasn’t too impressed with my audition. She told me that she didn’t think the
choir was for me. She closed the lid of the piano and looked at me for a bit. Then
she got this look on her face and suggested I join the glee club. So, I thought
that sounded cool. I went in search of the school’s glee club; but I soon
discovered that there wasn’t one at our school. I think the teacher thought she
was pretty smart. But I told her what I thought. I told her where to stick her baton.
I got hauled off to the principal’s office after that. But I stood my ground. I
told the principal what I thought too. [pause]
I got expelled.
My mom didn’t tell my dad
tough. And she warned my sister within an inch of her life not to tell him
either. My sister was scared of my mom, like I was scared of my dad.
Then, my mom went to the
principal and told him off… told him that the teacher had no business saying
what she said to me. I got back to school soon enough after that.
My mom always went to bat
for me. She was the best, even if she didn’t want to be a mom.
Meg:
We never got along, Janet
and me. She was a terror from the get go. Not like Jake. We were always
fighting… well she was always fighting with me… not with her father though…. Oh
no. He spoiled her. Gave her everything
she wanted. [Pause] Maybe gave her too much. But he wasn’t around much. Blamed
me for all the trouble.
Reg, - my husband. I thought
I loved him once… thought he loved me… We met overseas during the war. I was
young, a nurse in the Royal Canadian Medical Corps. He was a captain then. He
was handsome – oh yes handsome. And he was a charmer too. He told me I had the
best legs in the Empire! We got married in ’44. Thought I’d won the lottery I
did.
But then I got pregnant… I
kept it secret for a while… I was stationed in North Africa. But I got sent
home to Canada. Discharged. Got sick on
the way. A fisherman’s daughter and I get sick on a big ship. Lost the baby. Lost everything. [Pause] When I got back home, I found out
my baby brothers both died in France. I thought the war was romantic until
then. Oh I’d seen lots of death, lots of terrible injuries… but when Frank and
Johnny were killed I lost it…
Reg didn’t come home right
away when the war ended… He stayed in the army. I got a job nursing in Sydney.
That made me feel better. But when Reg came home on leave he was changed.
Didn’t want me to work. A wife shouldn’t work he said. And he was rough. He didn’t make love the way
I thought it should be. I got pregnant again… twice actually but lost the babies
both times. Nearly died the second time. But he blamed me.
Reg:
Didn’t find out she was
pregnant until she told me they were sending her back to Canada. She seemed
sad… not sure if it was sad about leaving me or leaving the war. I think it was
more about leaving the war. She went back to her folks in Cape Breton. A dreary
place if you ask me – kind of like back home in Cornwall only not so built up.
When I got home I found out
she was nursing in Sydney. No wife of mine should be working. We should be
making a family. I never had a real one. I wanted it. But she’d lost the baby
on the way back in 45. She wasn’t interested in more babies. But she quit
nursing. I told her she had to. I’d provide for her the way a husband should.
Because my father, whoever he was, never provided anything.
Meg:
When things were heating up
out in the Far East, he was away most of the time. Said he couldn’t get home
when I was there lying sick in the hospital.
Well when I got home and
rested up, I went up to Sydney to see if I could get my job back. I was a good
nurse. I was sure they would take me. And when I was there I ran into Jacob… I
hadn’t seen him since I was in nursing school. He was the chief surgeon’s son…
he was a resident when I was a student. We dated. He was gentle and fun. I was
only 19 when we met. But I had loved him. I think he loved me too. But he went
off to Montreal before I graduated and then the war came along. The war changed
everything.
But we got together that
time I was in Sydney. We went on a picnic “for old time’s sake”. He was
married. I was married. Just friend’s. But we got talking. And laughing. And
soon we were making love – real love. Gentle love. No one was around. We had
our secret cove. We used to go there way back.
Reg:
I wasn’t home a lot after
the war. I stayed in the army. I was a Major. I had made something of myself. I
wasn’t going to give that up. And then Korea was heating up. I was gone for a
long time. Jake was born while I was gone. He was already walking when I came
home the first time. Didn’t know who I was.
Meg was in her element
there. But me, I wasn’t. I was an outsider. Never liked it. But we stayed there
because I was away so much – it meant she had support. She wouldn’t be alone.
But we became strangers. My fault maybe. Things don’t always work out how you
think they will.
Meg:
I don’t know if my Jake is
Jacob’s son or not. Reg came home on leave just about that time and we had sex…
he had sex – so Jake could be his son. But I like to think he’s Jacob’s. He’s
like Jacob in many ways. Smart, gentle, kind – good looking but not movie star
handsome the way Reg is – or was.
[Pause]
Oh Reg doesn’t know I named
him after someone. Oh no. But he never
took to Jake the way he took to Janet. He was hard on Jake all the time. Said I
pampered him. Said I loved Jake more than I loved him. – I guess it was true,
‘though I denied it.
After Jake I didn’t want any
more babies. I didn’t want to get pregnant again. I was tired of trying… well I
wasn’t the one trying. It was good he was away most of the time even after
Korea … but every time he came home it was the same. If we weren’t married it’d
have been called rape. Then Janet came along – just when I thought I was done.
It’s not her fault I know. I tried to love her the way I loved Jake. I tried. I
really tried.
I hated it when we moved to
the City. I didn’t fit in. Didn’t want to fit in. I was just a mom. Chief cook
and bottle washer.
Reg:
When I got promoted to
Colonel and transferred to Halifax, I made up my mind. We were moving to the
city and we’d be a family there: Me, Meg, Janet and Jake. That was 1958.
End of Scene II
Act I, Scene III
[Lights fade in with the sound of Neil Gow’s Lament on the fiddle –
sound of gulls, the sea ; character sitting as in Scene I (1996 AD) ]
Jake:
I could watch the waves for
hours. The sea, it’s always moving, always alive. Not like us humans. [Pause] My
mom was buried yesterday. She would only have been 80 next year. I guess you
just never know when your time is up. [Pause]
It was a good Cape Breton send off. She’d have been pleased.
Mom’s left me the house. I
don’t want to sell it. My mom knew that. Not my grandad’s house. It’s special.
It’s always been “home”. Anyway, there isn’t much of a market for old houses on
our cove these days. It’s a bit run down, but I’ll fix it up a little at a
time.
[Pause]
That summer I’d graduated
from high school, I came back here. My gran needed some help at the house. I
thought it was only for the summer, but I stayed longer than I had meant to – [Pause] Over three years longer! There
was plenty to do.
When I was here, I heard
that my sister got to be quite good with the fiddle. A new teacher had arrived
at the school after I’d gone. He was teaching the fiddle there – and maybe some
other instruments too. My sister got to take those lessons. [Pause] Later, I also found out from a
friend that she had been fiddling with the teacher too. [Short pause] She got pregnant.
Mom told me that my dad hit
the roof when he found out. She left home, my sister. She left with the fiddle…
my fiddle. I wasn’t sure what happened to the teacher. That was a long time ago
now. I wasn’t sure at the time what happened to my sister. I didn’t know what
happened to my fiddle either. I think I was more worried about the fiddle.
Mom and dad started to fight
a lot after that. Mom didn’t want to worry me but I knew. It’s not like it had
been a marriage made in heaven, but it got worse, - a lot worse.
Mom, she was never quite the
same after we moved away. She lost something. I don’t know – a spark or
something. She came back here to visit as much as she could. But back in the
city mom was depressed. She left my dad eventually. She came back here and
moved in with gran. She wasn’t yet sixty years old then, my mom.
I loved my mom. I told
myself never to be what you don’t want to be. Like my mom had to be. I’m glad
she left my dad. I think she had some good years after. I think she enjoyed
working at the home … not exactly nursing; but similar. I think she felt a
little bit important again. I hope so anyway.
Meg:
When Janet got pregnant and
ran off things got really bad. We fought all the time, Reg and me. I left. Came
back home – here, and moved in with my mom.
It’s good here. I have
friends and family. I got a job at the nursing home for a few years before I
had to retire. I still go in to volunteer when I can – well before the damn
stroke. I’m slower now. Tire more easily. Old age isn’t for the weak at heart.
Golden years – my arse!
Reg:
When the war came I went
overseas… 1939 – I was a Captain then. Older than the conscripts who were mostly
kids… almost twenty-five. Assigned as payroll officer for our battalion. That’s
how I met Meg – my wife. She was a real beauty. And she had spunk. The doctors
all loved her… said she was the best nurse in the field.
I’d never had a girlfriend
before. But we had fun… always a chaperone on any leave or dates. That was back
in the early forties. Things were different then. Things were “proper”. Ha.
Then she got sent off to North Africa somewhere. When she came back we got
married… that’s was 1944. They let us take a honeymoon…. A honeymoon in the
war. Imagine.
Jake:
While I was staying with my
gran that time, I had tried my hand at fishing. My cousin, second cousin I
guess, had a lobster boat. Anyway, after a couple of seasons at that I began to
understand why my grandpa had told me that time that I was better suited for
other things. I still didn’t know what that was though. I knew I needed to find
out.
I went to Toronto. It was
the early 70’s then. At first, I got a job there as a dishwasher in a
restaurant. Then, I got promoted to be a waiter. The money was good. But the
hours were long. I managed to save a lot and eventually went back to school, -
part time.
Now that I’m older, I am not
sure how I did it all. But when you are young, you seem to have all the energy
in the world – and all the time.
It took quite a few years,
but after I graduated from college, I got a good job in a publishing house. In
those days you could work your way up the ladder. And I climbed up the rungs.
One day after I’d been in
Toronto for ten or more years, I was sitting in a park having lunch. I used to
like going there in the good weather. It was peaceful. I don’t think that I was
ever made for city living really. But you do what you have to do.
Anyway, while I was sitting
there, people would come and go. People of all kinds. And I love watching
people about their ordinary lives. I always have. I make up stories about them.
If they only knew what I was turning their sighs, their glances, their
movements into.
Anyway, after I’d finished
eating my sandwich, I noticed this woman sitting on a bench across the park.
She looked older than me by a decade or more. It’s always hard to tell. I was
in my mid-thirties at the time. What did I know then about how life sculpts
different people. But she looked familiar, this woman. However, I was sure I
didn’t know her.
She was a bit unkempt. It
looked like life had been hard on her. She had a smoker’s face and she was
smoking in an agitated manner. Then she looked in my direction. She froze. She
stared. She became anxious.
I jumped up. I couldn’t
believe it. It was my sister. My baby sister! I don’t know how I knew that – I
just did. Something about that look she gave me. She got up quickly and started
to leave. I ran after her, but she disappeared into the underground mall across
the street.
For weeks I would look out
for her. But I didn’t see her. Not for a long time after that. Then, one day, I
saw her again. She didn’t see me. I decided to follow her. She stopped every
once in a while and would appear to be doing business with some young guys… and
some not so young. Drugs maybe. I didn’t know; but it looked like something
illegal was going on.
I stayed back. I needed to
talk to her. But not then – not there. I waited my time. And when she finally
went into a coffee shop and sat down, I followed. She was staring out the
window.
I stood there behind her. It
was as if there was this thick, invisible wall between us. But I forced myself
… “Janet?”, I said. She turned slowly and looked up at me. She put her hand to
her head and said in a low smoker’s voice – “Oh god, what do you want?” She
slumped her head between her hands for a moment. Then she picked it up and said
in a quiet, angry way: “Go away!”
I hesitated and said: “Can’t
we talk?” “About what”, she hissed. Foolishly, I said: “About things – about
life.” She cackled. “Life! And what do you know about life big brother?” I
didn’t know what to say. I wanted to run; but I caught myself and said: “Look,
you are my sister.” She cackled again and said “What do you know about that.
You never were a brother to me. We --- we just lived in the same house that’s
all.”
It was as if she’d punched
me in the stomach. It was true. I’d never paid much attention to her. She was
five years younger than me. We had nothing in common. She was a girl. She was
daddy’s girl. Daddy whom I hated. And I’d hated her for that … for that, and
for taking my fiddle.
Maybe I was jealous of her.
She’d had the talent I lacked and so desperately wanted. I’d wanted to play
that fiddle for grandpa’s sake. And she’d been the one to play it.
I had to break the silence.
I was shrivelling inside. I said: “What about the baby?” She stared. She sipped
her coffee. The silence was dark. She looked at me for the longest time – only
her eyes were cloudy. She said: “What about the baby?” “What happened?” I said.
She shrugged her shoulders
and said deliberately, nonchalantly: “Abortion”. That’s all she said. Only I
could tell she was just saying that. There was something about the way she said
it. I don’t know. Just something. She wanted to hurt me. I don’t know why she
thought that would hurt me.
There was this long pause.
Then I cried out: “You’re lying!” Only it came out louder than I intended.
People looked at me like I was a murderer or something.
She pushed the coffee mug
away, put down some change and started to leave. Then she stopped and said:
“She’s dead, that’s all.” And she left. I stood there for a while in a daze.
Then I ran out on the street
after her. And when I caught up to her, she was moving quickly, I said out of
breath: “One more thing … where’s the fiddle?” She stopped in her tracks and
gave me this piercing look like she wished I were dead too. And she laughed:
“Grandpa’s fiddle?” Then in a painfully slow voice she said: “I soooold it a
looooong time ago.” And she was gone.
Janet:
The doctor told me next time
it could kill me. So?.. Life sucks. Dead can’t be worse…
[Pause]
Ran into goody two shoes the
other day. My big brother. Who’d have thunk!
Hadn’t set eyes on him since - I
don’t know – fifteen years maybe. He looked like a scared rabbit when he saw
me. Ha.
I dumped him. Thought I was
invisible in Toronto. Can’t ever be sure. [Looking around]
[Pause]
All he cares about is that
damn fiddle. Don’t know why. He can’t play it anyway. He was jealous I could. I
know. He was jealous about a lot of things. He was mummy’s boy – but I was
daddy’s girl. You bet. Pissed him off royally that.
Ha ha. [She coughs]. Arghhh.
[She spits and wipes her mouth on her sleeve.]
I was thinking of moving on
anyway. I owe Johnny a bundle and he’s a mean bastard. Guys!
Jake:
She was gone all right. Boy
was she gone.
It wasn’t until I came here four
or five days before mom died that I found out that Janet was dead. Mom never
told me.
When I went to visit the
graveyard a few days before mom was buried, I saw a flat stone… couldn’t have
been more than a couple of years old. I had never seen it before. That was odd
because I had visited my grandparents’ graves from time to time over the years.
It just said my sister’s name and “1954 – 1994”.
Meg:
[at home, 1994 – Meg is 78 years old]
Jake called to see how I am
doing…. A minor stroke – no permanent damage thankfully. Just home from the
hospital two weeks ago. A little wobbly still. I think they were glad to get
rid of me. These days you can’t tell who’s a nurse and who’s a floor cleaner.
Not like when I was nursing. But then it’s not my world.
Janet:
(Early 1993 – Janet is in a hospice)
Well I finally got a nice
place to live. Ha. And staff too! Three meals a day! My own bathroom. La dee
dah! [Pause] Maybe my dad would think
I’m a princess again.
[Pause]
Turns out I got AIDS. Guess
that’s why I was so sick. That fucker gave me a dirty needle. That’s why I’m
here.
I told the social worker I
had no family. She’s nosey. Well then I told her I didn’t want her to contact
them anyway. Sometimes I talk too much. Gotta be careful. Drugs… ha! The legal
ones. Can’t trust them. Not always thinking clearly.
I split from Toronto after
that time I saw my brother… not just because of him… Had to leave. Got too
dangerous… Got to B.C. Better than Toronto. I made friends here. Friends are
better than family…
Families are messy. My dad
once told me Jake isn’t his kid… Thinks those years he was away after the war,
my mom had an affair… So I guess I’m not the only whore in the family.
[Pause]
Was my dad’s whore too…
Meg:
I got a telephone call
yesterday. Long distance. Some therapist or counsellor or something called. She
said Janet’s dying. Wanted to know about the funeral arrangements. We talked
for a while. Said she couldn’t say much because of “confidentiality”.
Confidentiality be damned!
Well, I arranged to have her
cremated and sent back here. She can be buried up in the family plot.
Reg:
She got real depressed, Meg,
when we moved to the city. I guess she tried. But she didn’t like being a
hostess or anything like that. She got some help from one of her doctor friends
from the war. But she was cold, real cold. I guess I got rough with her. Got
mad. The only time I felt anything good at home was with Janet. She loved me.
Thought I was special. Jake, he thought he was royalty. That’s Meg’s fault. She
spoiled him. When he got that fiddle he thought he was the greatest. The noise
drove me crazy… Work was tiring and the drive home was tiring. I didn’t need
that bloody screeching. No boy of mine was going to spend his time playing the
fiddle!
And I did him a favour too [pause] by taking it away. You bet I did.
Put some metal in him. Made a man out of him! He started to play sports and he
got good. Real good. No sissy like I thought he was.
[Pause]
Haven’t heard from him since
Meg and I split.
Janet:
Didn’t know at first that it
wasn’t okay – wasn’t s o c I a l l y
acceptable. [Pause] When I was small
he tickled me. I liked it. Came in to tuck me in, may dad. He’d caress me… Tell
me I was his princess. But that time I was thirteen he came in … I was getting
undressed. He noticed I had breasts. Just small ones then… Not like now… Ha ha.
Well – not like they used to be
anyway. He teased me, my dad. Asked if he could feel them. I didn’t mind. [Pause] Aroused me… Aroused him…
[Pause]
Shouldn’t have told the
social worker. Told her it was none of her business. Wasn’t thinking clearly.
Told her not to tell my mom. She wants to speak to my mom. Why? I’m almost
forty for god’s sake. You can’t tell my mom on me anymore. She’s old
anyway.
I wasn’t mom’s princess. She
was there but she didn’t treat me special like my dad did. He wouldn’t let my
brother have the fiddle, but he let me have it. I got the fiddle. Should have
taken it with me… should have, should have, should have….
Anyway, my mom left my dad.
My dad told me… She’s back at Grandma’s house I think. But she don’t know where
I live … “live” – shit, where I’m dying. D y I n g! I’m fuckin’ dyin’!
Meg:
Asked to talk to Janet. She
said I couldn’t. Perhaps I should be sad. Well I am I guess. But more for the
way things turned out. Not a word from her in all these years.
Her kid must be an age now…
[Pause] unless she had an abortion…. That’s
what young girls do these days if they get pregnant. Don’t want to be tied
down.
Jake:
Mom’s friend, old Mrs.
Fraser, they’d known each other all their lives, she told me that some
therapist had contacted mom when Janet was dying a couple of years ago. Mom had
arranged for her ashes to be sent here. The marker only went in six months ago.
I don’t know why she hadn’t
told me; but then I had never told her about seeing Janet in Toronto all those
years ago.
Maybe she didn’t want to
upset me…
[Pause]
Maybe we just had too many
secrets…
End of Scene III
Act II, Scene I
[Lights fade in. Sitting at a high table in a bar with a glass of beer.
Country music playing in background to fade out. (2005 A.D.) ]
Jake:
After that incident with my
sister, life in Toronto kind of soured for me. I didn’t want to be there any
more. Anyway, after gran died, mom was alone. I felt that I needed to be a
little closer. – I only made it as far as Moncton though. That was 1986. I got
a job here with the local paper. A journalist of sorts. An editor really.
Compared to Toronto, life in
Moncton has been pretty quiet. Very quiet actually. But I like to come to this
bar every now and again; it’s great. Nothing fancy mind you. Just a plain old
fashioned bar. They have music here most Friday nights. I don’t come all the
time. But I come often enough.
Some nights the music isn’t
my thing; so I don’t hang around long. But there are nights when they have
music I like: guitar, drum, fiddle. That sort of thing. Foot tapping, hand
drumming.
[Pause]
It isn’t always the same
band. In fact, rarely do you get to see the same group. They are touring.
That’s what musicians do I guess. Sometimes they just have jams… and anyone
could come up and play. It’s fun. I wish I could join in. Wish I’d learned that
fiddle. But I’m only a table top drummer now– Ha!
I guess everyone has
regrets…. I don’t regret much. No point really. But I do regret that – not
learning the fiddle. Anyway, I just come here to listen – and to watch. I love
watching the fiddlers in particular.
[Short pause]
One time – not too long
after I’d moved here in fact – I came here with some people from work. Most
times one can barely hear the music above the chatter. But that night the crowd
was pretty quiet. They were listening to this group. I was too. They were damn
good. This one guy was playing the fiddle. After a while I wasn’t sure if I was
watching the fiddle or watching him. It was as if the two were one big
instrument with one incredibly sweet sound.
There was a young girl
playing with him that night. She was good too. A teenager I thought. Later he
introduced her as his daughter. You could tell he was mighty proud of her.
Proud – the way I’d wished my dad could have been proud of me.
[Pause]
It’s funny. That night I
came to terms with the fact my grandpa’s fiddle might be in the hands of
someone like that young woman … someone who could really play it well and who
deserved to have it. I felt good about that.
[Pause]
I thought about that fiddler
and his daughter a lot after that – when I’d seen how he was so proud of her –
I thought of my dad. Funny, until then I’d blocked him out of my life. I
thought maybe I should at least try and get in touch with him.
I did. I sent my dad a
letter; but it had come back saying he’d moved – “address unknown”. I found out
he’d retired and moved out west. I never found him though. I never really knew
anything about my dad other than that he’d been born in England. But I wanted
to find out more.
Reg:
Life’s a bitch. I found out
early. You’ve gotta make it what you want yourself. No one hands you anything.
We had nothing when I was a kid. Mom and me… she worked washing clothes for
people and I had to go to work when I was seven – worked on a farm cleaning
stalls for some rich hoity toit. She never told me who my dad was. Sometimes
we’d get some money sent to us… not much…
I was only ten when she
died… my mom. They sent me to this “HOME”. Said I was too young to look after
myself. I think I’d have done a better job. I’d have got by somehow. Never fit
in there. Always in trouble. Then one day they said I could go to Canada. A
boat was leaving in a month. Me and Albert, he was my chum, we thought that was
a great idea… across the sea. We hadn’t heard much about Canada but it sounded
like a real adventure for two thirteen year olds. They said we’d be looked
after, be educated. The “home” had education too. First time I went to anything
like a school. Found out I was smart… good at mathematics.
But we arrived in December…
It was cold and grey. Halifax was dreary then. Al went off out west to some
farm. Sent me a letter once … don’t know how they found me. Told me it was
better back home in England.
I was supposed to go to some
place in Ontario; but I decided to stay in Halifax. I was sort of adopted by
this old guy and his wife. He had a business down by the wharf. I worked there.
He taught me how to do his books… Said I was a bright lad. They were kind… not
like the first people who I was sent to… treated me like dirt… like a slave. I
ran off.
The army was my real family…
The only one I really knew. I fit in.
Jake:
It wasn’t until I got access
to the internet in the late 1990s that I found out a little more. Just bits now
and again over the next few years. He’d been born in Cornwall, England. The
town – I looked it up – can’t pronounce it but it’s on the sea. Maybe his dad
had been a fisherman like my grandpa. But I could find no mention of his
father. And I learned his mom had died when he was only ten years old. A record
I found showed he’d come to Canada when he was only thirteen years old. Shit! I
wish I’d known. I wish he’d told me. I wish we could have talked about it.
Maybe I could have been able to forgive him for not knowing how to love me.
Maybe I could have loved him. Maybe…. [sobbing]
Shit! …
Meg:
I think Jake’s coming home
this weekend. He’s a good boy. Well a good man. Helps out a lot. Never married.
I ask him but he doesn’t talk much about things. Other than his work. Says he
travels a bit. Too busy to settle down. He’s a good boy, my Jake. Looks a bit
like Jacob.
[Pause]
Seems happy enough.
[Pause]
That’s all a mother can ask.
End of Act II, Scene I
Act
II, Scene II
[Lights up. Comes in on a walker. Sits in a chair, in a hospital, and places the walker beside him (2016
AD) ]
Jake:
Amazing how weeks turn into
years, - decades. I’d been in Moncton thirty years. Back then, it was no place
to be gay. In some ways, maybe it still isn’t, I don’t know. I filled my life
with work. I’d never been good at dating, -at intimate relationships. - Like I
was never good at the fiddle. Awkward. I never learned intimacy at home. I’d
learned lots of good things there, mostly from my mom, and when I was small
from my grandparents, - but not intimacy. Like the fiddle, I guess I really
needed a teacher.
[Pause]
Anyway, over a year ago,
when I was about to turn sixty-five, I was already thinking about retiring and
moving back to Nova Scotia. But then I got this diagnosis. The dreaded Cancer.
I was knocked off my feet. Your head goes in all directions at such a time. But
I’ll survive. They say they’ve caught it early on. But it’s life changing for
more reasons than one. They sent me here to Halifax for treatment.
[Pause]
I’ve been here in the
hospital for a while now. A couple of days ago, this specialist came in to see
me. She seemed young; but then all the doctors seem young to me now. She
introduced herself and said she’d been in a couple of times already, but with
other doctors and students. I guess I hadn’t paid much attention. When you are
being prodded and stared at like you are a strange object of scientific
interest, and you are being asked a lot of repetitive questions, you eventually
tune out. At least I do.
But this time she came in
alone. And she wasn’t dressed like a doctor either. At least not like one on
duty. She seemed a bit uneasy. A bit out of her element. She asked me some
questions about myself. Questions that did not seem related to my medical
history.
She said that my name was
unusual, at least around here. Where did I come from? I laughed. My dad’s
family… Cornwall. It’s true I’d never heard of anyone else with our family
name. It’s rare, even in England apparently. Anyway, it was nice to have the
company; so I explained about my parents, and I told her about Cape Breton and
moving away to the city.
She said she’d like to talk
to me more; but she had to go just then. And, as she was leaving, she leaned
over and picked up what I thought had been one of those black leather doctor’s
bags, like you used to see in the old films. But it wasn’t. I only caught it
briefly as she left.
[Pause]
Strange. It was a worn
fiddle case. I was sure it was.
[Fade out]
End of Act II, Scene II
Act
II, Scene III
[Lights up. Sitting in an apartment reading – 2017]
Jake:
I got discharged shortly
after that doctor had come in to see me. I didn’t see her for quite a long time
after that. But I thought about that meeting a lot. I thought it was
interesting that she’d carried a fiddle case to work.
The next time I was in
outpatients, she’d come by. I said “That’s some interesting doctor’s bag you
had with you the last time I saw you.” She wasn’t sure what I meant at first,
but then she remembered and she laughed. She said it was a fiddle case. I said,
“I know that.” Apparently she plays fiddle with a group when she has the time.
She said it relaxed her. They had had a practice that night.
I’d never known a doctor who
was a musician. I thought that was special somehow. She was hesitating. Almost
fidgeting. Then, she blurted out: “I think we’re related”. I looked blank I
guess. She said “Yes. I think you are my uncle”. I was gobsmacked.
Now, they say there are six
degrees of separation in life. I’ve never really done the math. And I am not
sure what it means if you really want to know. But sometimes life is stranger
than fiction.
So it seems that my sister
and her fiddle teacher had gotten married after they’d run off, or at least
stayed together. She said she didn’t remember her mom really; only what her dad
told her: how pretty she was back then with her fiery red hair [pause] and, I thought, fiery temperament
too!
But it wasn’t happily ever
after time. For a while they had both played in a band. Things seemed okay. But
my sister had changed. After a time she stopped playing the fiddle. She got
into drugs. She got angry at life. No one was sure why. Then, one day, she’d
just up and left… left a four year old child.
Janet:
Guys – Fuck em. Well that’s all they want anyway. Well not
Jamie. He didn’t want it. But I was pretty back then and I was persistent.
Shirley said I couldn’t do it with him; we made a bet. It took a while, but I
won. He was cute. My brother’s age but he looked younger then. And he could
play the fiddle real well. I thought we’d be a team him and me. But I didn’t
think I’d get pregnant. Seventeen and pregnant – Damn.
Oh we played in these bands
for a while. At first I thought it was cool. But Jamie wanted me to practice
all the time. It wasn’t fun anymore. Jamie said I couldn’t be in the band if I
didn’t practice. And the kid. She cried a lot. Drove me screamin’ crazy.
Jake:
So, my sister had lied to me
about her child being dead. She wasn’t dead. She was a doctor! I had to tell her that her mom was dead. She
said she had wondered. She had tried to contact her, but had had no luck.
Janet:
When I met Jed, he played
drums – cool dude – I just wanted to hang out. What’s wrong with that. Heh, I
was young. Life was supposed to be fun I thought. Jamie was way too serious.
And he was more in love with the kid than with me. Al introduced me to weed.
Cool. Wow. Stoned was good. Got tired of the fights with Jamie. Got tired of
the kid always needing attention.
I wanted an abortion. Jamie
wouldn’t let me. Said it would be okay. He wasn’t the one with this thing
growing inside him! I hated being
pregnant. They say you are beautiful when you’re pregnant. Fucking liers. I was
sick all the time – got fat and ugly. Hated it. I hung around for four years
but couldn’t take it. We ran off Jed and me… just like Jamie and me ran off
when I found out I was pregnant. Ran off because my dad was gonna kill Jamie –
said I was a whore. Ha.
Jake:
I wondered if Janet ever
thought about her child. How she was. What she was doing….. I know mom did. She
wondered if she had a grandchild. She didn’t talk much about it. Made her sad
not knowing. You can’t undo the past. Gotta move on. Regrets, they’ll cripple
you if you let them.
Janet:
I wanted to be special. Is
that too much to ask? My dad thought I was special once.
Jed was cool. He was
special. But he couldn’t hold a job. We were always moving. Bumming around. He
got nasty at times. Blamed me for his problems… blamed everyone. But I brought
home the money… what little we had. Drugs. Got busted once. Jail’s no fun. But
I got connexions there anyway. Al was gone when I got out. Good riddance I say.
Reg:
[1983, Reg is 68, old and worn out – sitting by a phone]
Why do you get whacked when
you’re already down. Retirement. Been in the army all my life… all my adult
life anyway… Joined when I was 17. Looked older. It seemed a good way to get
ahead. Discovered I loved it … the routine, the discipline – the adventure.
Janet:
When I was down on my luck,
- ha! – as if I’m not now, I tried to contact my dad. Found out he’d split from
my mom. He was distant. Didn’t want to talk to me. Said I had let him down. Yah
right. Let him down. Shit! It was fine when I was his little princess. It was
fine when he thought he had me to himself.
Reg:
She called me just now. Collect!
Haven’t seen or heard from her in eight years or more… Janet. My daughter. Didn’t
recognize her voice. She sounded dozy, - not the little girl I remember. The
little girl I loved… She was my little princess. Asked me for money. Said I
owed it to her… Gave her everything she ever wanted and then she goes and gets
pregnant with that prissy teacher. Runs off.
[Pause]
I’ll send her some money.
Can’t wire it. She said she doesn’t have a bank account. Who doesn’t have a
bank account? She’s somewhere in Toronto, just a box number.
Anyway, the house is sold.
Time to move on.
Decided to head west.
Kelona.
[Pause]
Time for a change.
Jake:
I see my niece from time to
time, - when I go into outpatients mostly. I like her. There is so much to talk
about; but you don’t like to ask too many questions all at once.
One time when I was there,
my niece told me that her dad was the best mom a girl could have ever had. She
smiled when she told me. I was glad about that. Then, she paused… I could tell
she was thinking about something. She said, “Actually, I had two great dads”.
She looked at me to see my reaction. But all I said was “You’re lucky then”.
I’d asked her about her dad.
He’d always been the boogeyman in our family. I was curious about him. She told
me that when her dad was about thirty-two, she was ten, he’d met this guy, a
doctor, at a bar in downtown Halifax. Her dad was playing with a local band
then. They hit it off and soon they were all three living together.
Her doctor dad had died quite
a few years ago. [Pause] She looked
sad when she told me that. He’d had cancer. I wonder if that was maybe why she
became an oncologist.
[Pause]
Another time, she mentioned
that her mom had left an old fiddle behind. I felt a rush of adrenalin when she
said that. She told me that her father had taught her how to play it. By the
time she was in high school she was good; so he’d even let her go on tour with
him from time to time.
[Pause]
Not only had my sister lied
about her child being dead, she’d lied about the fiddle too … I was sure that
this must be my grandpa’s fiddle. I was excited.
I asked my niece, about it. Asked
her to describe it to me. She looked at me curiously and asked me why, did I
play the fiddle? So I told her about the fiddle and about my grandpa. She
hadn’t known about that. She seemed interested. She asked about my grandparents and about my
mom and dad. She didn’t know much about them…And she asked me about where we’d
lived in Cape Breton. She said she’d only been there once on a high school trip
to Louisburg.
I told her she should come
and visit grandpa’s house someday. I said she could play the fiddle there. They
would love that. Grandpa’s great grand-daughter – a doctor and a fiddle player.
She smiled. She had a nice
smile. It was the first time I thought she looked a bit like my mom – when she
was that age.
She told me that she didn’t
use that old fiddle anymore. She had gotten another one years ago. But she said,
if I was interested, that I wasn’t too old to learn – that learning an
instrument was good for old guys like
me. The old one was at her dad’s. She would ask him for me.
[Fade out]
End of Act II, Scene III
Act
II, Scene IV
[In blackout, the sound of fiddles being played. Lights up as music
fades out. Sitting with a fiddle outside his Grandpa’s house - 2018]
Jake:
When my niece called me one
evening, about nine months ago now, to say that her father had the fiddle and I
could have it if I wanted, I was thrilled. I nearly jumped through the phone.
So I went to her dad’s house
one morning – I had stood there at the door for a while. I heard a fiddle being
played inside. I hesitated and then knocked at the door. I heard a child’s
voice call out, “I’ll get it grandpa”. When the door finally opened, a little
girl about 7 or 8 years old stood there, a tiny fiddle in one hand and a bow in
the other. She smiled a toothless smile, - kind of like my grandpa’s.
She asked excitedly, “Are
you the man who’s coming for the old fiddle?” I said “Yes, I am”. She brushed
her frizzy red hair off her speckled face and said proudly, “My name’s Poppy”,
as she swung her hips from side to side. I said, “That’s a lovely name”.
She smiled and pulled
herself up as tall as a little girl can. She said “I’m going to be a sea
captain when I grow up”. And she studied me to see my reaction. I laughed and
said, “Well you can be anything you want to be”. She looked pleased. Then she
turned and ran away. I heard her call out: “Grandpa, the man’s come for the
fiddle.”
[Pause]
Well, I got my grandpa’s fiddle
back … [Pause, smile] and I got my
teacher too. Now I’m finally getting those lessons I’ve needed. Poppy says I’m
doing okay. I told her that one day she could have the fiddle if she wanted.
She thought that was a very good idea.
Sometimes, I wonder if even
my teacher thinks he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Sometimes he just
looks at me like I am hopeless. He doesn’t say that of course… He tells me my
efforts are getting better. Better than what, I am not sure. Anyway, we laugh a
lot.
We’ve been spending a lot of
time on those lessons for the past eight months. And the bunch of us have even been
coming to stay here at grandpa’s house from time to time. Poppy loves it here. Later
we’re all four going to the graveyard to play our fiddles … well, I’ll try
anyway. My niece really wants to do this, - for her mom. It’s a form of closure
I suppose … of forgiveness maybe.
[Pause]
Yah – forgiveness.
[Pause]
I know it will take a long
time and a lot of practicing to get really good. Perhaps more time than this
seventy-year old has. [Laughs] I’m
not discouraged. I don’t care – about that. Right now, it’s the learning that
feels good.
[Picks up the fiddle and tunes it. Pauses. Smiles]
And I’m really enjoying the
lessons.
[As the lights slowly fade out, sweet fiddle music fades in and then
gradually out again.]
- THE END –
All rights reserved. To obtain permission to use or perform this script in whole or in part, please contact the playwright, Paul Rapsey, in writing at 5408 Granville Road, Granville Ferry, Nova Scotia, B0S 1A0.
Acknowledgements
This play has
traversed many forms. It owes a great deal to many people. The feedback on the
early script was very helpful and I thank: John Saynor, Gale Ruby, Henry Liot,
Chris Greatrex, All Steele, Annette Burke, Grant Webber, Sarah Webber, Tina
Moorey, Susan Clark, and Christina Fraser.
The feedback
on the podcast version was tremendous and it would take a book to include the
names of those who contacted me about it. However, I have to acknowledge the
participation in it by Heather Hiscock, Khadi Hiscock and Wilfred Allan.
The expanded
script was workshopped in the fall of 2020 in an effort to find out whether it
destroyed the flow of the original script or contributed in a positive way to
it. I have to thank Gillian Ormerod, Flora Colautti Hall and Wilfred Allan for
participating in this three day workshop.
I have to
thank Simon Bonnington for suggesting the script would be worthy of a stage to
screen production.
Finally, I am
very grateful to Gillian Ormerod, and John Saynor for their participation in my
low budget (“no budget”) screen project. No one was more surprised than me when
I received word in late October that the film had been jury-selected for the
Montreal Independent Film Festival and that I moved on to the Semi-Finalist
category. It also received an Exceptional Merit Award in the 2020 LGBTQ Unbordered International Film Festival. The film has been screened to Covid-reduced audiences in several
theatres in Ontario. It was slated to be shown at the King`s Theatre in Annapolis Royal, Nova Scotia in early January until fresh Covid-19 restrictions for cultural events came into play. It is now going to shown at the Lower Granville Hall, Port Royal, in early March 2021.
The original monologue will be easier to produce on stage and to tour, as I have done with earlier monologues I have undertaken. But the expanded script is exciting, and one hopes it might be taken up and performed on stage one day.
----
One's Company
By Paul Rapsey, c. 2021
INTRODUCTION
I first wrote this as a screen play. I had never written a film script before. Although my play "Fiddelity" became a film, it was not written for film. I am an accidental filmmaker by reason of a worldwide pandemic. I did not love the screen version of "One's Company" the way I did the story of "Fiddelity". Nor did I feel capable of filming it the way I had envisioned it. So, I have re-written it as a stage play. It is not quite the same story. I like it much better than my first version and I have even come to think it very good. As is often the case with my own scripts, as I begin to learn the lines and grow into the character, the script evolves further.
One’s Company
A whimsical drama set in the time of Covid.
© 2021 by Paul Rapsey
Scene One
[Rick enters with a duster and does some quick dusting.
Goes to the window, and looks out for a moment.]
He was supposed to have been home two weeks ago. Geoff. In
time for my birthday. Seventy-five. No flowers this year! We both thought it
would be a quick visit. It’s been over a month.
I don’t really like travelling these days. And certainly
not with this pandemic. Don’t like airplanes or airports at the best of times.
They treat me like a bloody criminal the way they pat me up and down, just
because I have an artificial hip. People look at me like I am one too… a
criminal.
Don’t get me wrong, if the destination is right I’ll go. Normally
we spend much of the winter in Cuba. Been going there for years. A second home
sort of. Couldn’t head south this winter anyway. But I didn’t want to go West
to visit old prune face, - his sister. And he didn’t really want me to go
anyway. I’d just get in the way.
[Rick sits]
He’ll be home this afternoon. Better late than never. I
was up early. Lot’s to do. When you’re alone, you let yourself go. The beard
got long. Hair could stand a trim. Things pile up. Things to do, like dusting. Pat
hasn’t been coming to clean since the pandemic. Laundry. Been wearing the same
shirt for two weeks. Ha Ha. Gardening. Thankfully Geoff will be home to cut the
lawn when it finally needs it. Dandelions are lovely right now. – And grocery
shopping. It’s no fun these days - those damn masks!
[Pause]
My niece says I’m a person at risk. She means I’m old.
Says I shouldn’t be going out.
[Pause]
She used to come round a fair bit, especially when Geoff
would go away. She doesn’t anymore. Maybe that’s a good thing. She treats us
like a pair of irresponsible children. Anyway she works in a hospital. A social
worker. So she’s a person at risk too. Has to be careful. But she calls – a lot
– at the most inconvenient times. Especially when she thinks Geoff’s not here. Sometimes
I don’t answer the phone.
She did come in the other day though. Scared the By-Jesus
out of me. Didn’t hear her come in. Should never have given her that key. All
of a sudden this voice behind me says “Who are you talking to?” There she was
in a mask, standing in the doorway. – Couldn’t see the expression on her face but
her voice said it all. She thinks I’m going daft. I know.
What’s wrong with talking to yourself … especially when
you’re alone. Good company. Usually agreeable. Good to hear one’s own voice
from time to time. They say the best company is one’s company – one’s own
company.
She never took to him - Geoff. She lived with us when she
was a teenager for five years. Don’t think he paid enough attention to her. He says
they were five of the longest years of his life. Thought she was high
maintenance – spoiled, precocious, - argumentative.
But she was just being a teenager. Thought she knew
everything. I think it was Oscar Wilde who said: “I am not young enough to know
everything”… something like that anyway. Fortunately, Geoff travelled a lot
with work back then. Sometimes I’m sure he stayed away longer than he had to.
I miss him. Can’t be together almost fifty years and not
miss him. Our Anniversary’s coming up. It’s a big one. Hope he doesn’t forget.
He sometimes does. But this one is special. Never dreamt I’d live long enough
to see the day.
He doesn’t call much. Never been a telephone talker.
Forgot to give him my new email before he left. Slipped my mind. A lot is
slipping these days. Anyway, difficult with time zones. Four hours difference.
When he gets in, I’m in bed. Says he doesn’t want to waken me.
He’s stressed, I can tell. Spends the day at the
hospital. They let him in after his test came back negative. He was lucky, I
guess. Well his sister was, anyway. Then, she had a turn for the worse… as if
she ever had a turn for the better. Ha. He had to cancel his last flight home.
She doesn’t really like me, his sister. But then, she’s religious
– in a rigid, judgmental sort of way. Always talking about saints and angels. Told
me one day that even I, yes she said “even I” have an angel looking after me.
Ha! A lot of rubbish if you ask me. I told her I had a fairy looking after me
and that I didn’t need any angels. She gave me one of those looks, the kind she
gave me so often, especially when she thought I wasn’t looking. Disapproving.
A wiry thing. Takes more pills than a travelling rock
band. Has all these fad diets. It’s no wonder she’s sick so much. One day she told
Geoff I was trying to kill her. How was I to know she was allergic to garlic.
Garlic is good for you. I use it in everything. Told me she was gluten free,
but I caught her sneaking a Danish!
And she’s messy. She came for a visit once a long time
ago and stayed six weeks. Drove me crazy. Geoff too. Spent my time picking up
after her. Geoff’s untidy, but he isn’t messy. No wonder she fell down the
stairs. Probably tripped on something she’d left lying around.
But Geoff’s her only close family. … Her husband died –
gotta be ten years ago. No kids. A good thing if you ask me. I wouldn’t say
that to Geoff. He’s very loyal. She’s older, but he treats her like a baby
sister. Even calls her “Babe” sometimes … She’s no Babe. Believe me.
[Pause]
Once he even called me “Babe”. Took me off-guard…. But I
warned him that if he called me that again, he’d be dubbed “Lambie Pie”
thereafter.
Passed the morning preparing Geoff’s favourite meal.
Spent hours in the kitchen. A marathon workout. Table’s set. Going all out.
Silver cutlery. Best china. Crystal glassware. Cloth napkins. Candles. His
favourite wine. A date. First time I haven’t eaten alone in more than five
weeks.
I’ll even spruce up. Geoff says I’m a sartorial disaster.
A fashion mistake. Always handing me a comb. Sending me back upstairs to change
my shirt – or pants – or socks!
[Gets up and goes to the window.]
Should be here in a couple of hours.
Scene
Two
[A few days later. Sitting reading with one leg up on a
stool. Slippers on the floor beside him. He’s sprained his ankle.]
Geoff didn’t get home the other night. He had to cancel
his flight again. He called the next morning. I was worried sick.
[Pause]
She died - his sister. Just when he thought she was
pulling through. I told him I was sorry. I don’t think he believed me. But I
was sorry, am sorry – for him not for her, his late sister – Love that term:
“Late”. She always was late. I don’t think she’s ever been early or on time for
that matter.
Still, it’s sad to lose a sibling. .. your only sibling. I
know, my sister died young. That’s why my niece came to live with us that time.
Geoff’s sister wasn’t young; but I guess that doesn’t matter.
[Winces] Been having indigestion. - I’ve been eating left
overs since Geoff didn’t get home the other night. Can’t complain. Delicious I
must say. Maybe a bit too rich.
[Pause]
He won’t be home for a while now. She’s being cremated,
but there’ll be some sort of service at that dreadful church she went to. I
suggested he just scatter her ashes into the Ocean. But then he reminded me
what happened when we scattered my mom’s ashes. Got the wind direction wrong. She
ended up all over me… head to toe. She was still in my hiking boots for years
after that.
So, he has to clear up her place, settle things. I
thought she owned the townhouse, but it turns out that it’s rented. He’s got to
clear it out quickly. Look after her bills and finances. Serves him right. He’s
terrible with finances. He said he’d rebook as soon as he could see the light
of day.
I know he’s missing his painting. He didn’t take his art supplies.
– It was supposed to be a quick visit. He hasn’t had time for that out there
anyway. He took it up after he retired ten years ago. Spends hours at it. Says
it relaxes him. He studied art at college. He was good at it too, but it didn’t
pay the Bills. Pays them now though. He’s gotten himself quite the reputation.
He even has a gallery in Ottawa that sells his work.
We met when we were just kids… in our early twenties. He
was studying art. I was studying theatre and dance back then. It took us quite
a while to realize we weren’t just best friends. But then, back in those days
sex education wasn’t about making love, it was about making babies.
We were different – are different – but they say that
makes a good team. I think we’ve been a good team. Two horses on the plough, as
they say. But he’s the creative one. Me, I’m a pragmatist.
Gave up on performing, in a theatrical sense, by the time
I was twenty-six. No future in it for me. Anyway I broke my leg in a rehearsal.
In three places. They set it wrong… Became a lawyer. A different kind of
theatre really. A game. An old boys’ game, especially back then.
When I retired, I swore I would never wear a suit and tie
again, never go to a hair stylist, never golf or go to cocktail parties. And
certainly never say “hereinafter” or “forthwith”, or “under advisement”. I’ve
kept my promise.
[Pause]
We’ve stayed pretty active for two old guys. We’ve always
liked to hike. A little less rigorously these days, and a lot less often it
seems. Don’t like doing it alone anyway. And we love to cycle – used too anyway
– not so much these days. The hills seem steeper and higher. And the
destinations seem further than we think they should be. [Bends over and puts on
his slippers with some effort.] Even bending over to put on my slippers seems
further than it used to be!
[Stands]
I haven’t been getting enough exercise since he’s been
away though. My back’s been acting up. So I went to this massage therapist the
other day. She told me I should try some traction. Showed me how to hang from a
doorframe. I tried it when I got home. [Pause] The molding started to come
off.
Well, the other day I tried it outside when I was hanging
the laundry. Climbed up on this step ladder and hung from the upper deck. A
little more sturdy than the old door frame anyway. The ground was sloped. The
ladder was wobbly. When I was hanging there I knocked it over. It was just a
small one. I was only a foot or two off the ground. Trouble was, the neighbour
kids, who’d been playing in the yard below, looked up and from their vantage
point all they could see were my feet dangling there and this step ladder on
the ground. I didn’t see the kids, but I sure heard them running off shrieking.
Twisted my ankle when I dropped to the ground and fell
over the blinking step ladder. I banged my forehead in the process and rolled
down the hill. Must have looked a mess. Next thing I know the police are at the
door. Asking questions. Looking around. Giving me the third degree. Whom do I
live with? Where is he? How did I get that lump on my head and what about those
bruises? That sort of thing.
The neighbours were all out on the street… some of them in
masks. A little excitement … more than they’d had since the pandemic. I saw
Mrs. Doyle looking very concerned. She’s a nice old girl – younger than me I’d
guess. She lives up the street. Her husband died last year. Didn’t really know
her until then. Just the neighbourly smile and wave, the occasional “hello”. When
I heard the news, I took her up a seafood casserole. Didn’t know she was
allergic to shrimp, but she was very gracious and said her family were coming
over and they’d enjoy it.
I think the neighbours were disappointed there was no
dead body, no yellow tape stretched around the property, no old guy being
dragged off in handcuffs. I think the police were too.
I thought it would be okay being on my own for a while …
It was at first… I got used to that when Geoff was working – when I was
working. But it’s different now that I’m retired … being alone wears off soon
enough.
[Hobbles to the window and looks out for a moment.]
My niece called to see if Geoff got home. She calls a
lot. Thinks I don’t take care of myself. Didn’t help that my ankle was sore and
I kept wincing while I was standing there talking on the phone. She said I
don’t look after my “needs”. I thought she said I didn’t look after my “knees”.
So I explained, or tried to anyway, that it wasn’t my knees, it was my ankle.
The conversation got a little confusing after that.
Anyway, finally I explained why Geoff had to stay out
west longer. She thinks he’s staying out there longer than he has to. She asked
me if I thought there was another reason he was away so long. As if a dying sister isn’t enough reason. She
asked me if the reason I seemed so down recently was because I thought he was
having an affair. But I think it’s what she’s been thinking. I hadn’t even
thought about it until then.
[Pause. Stands up and limps to the window. Looks out for
a moment]]
Not that I’m proud of it – and I did resist the temptation
for a while – but after my niece put the idea in my head, I went through the
drawers in his studio… Didn’t find anything … which made me even more
suspicious – We all have things to hide.
Anyway, I wouldn’t blame him if he were. I’ve been edgy
lately. Tired more than usual. And this social distancing thing is really
getting to me.
Geoff says I’m depressed. Wants me to see a doctor. Why I
ask. They don’t teach them bedside manners any more. And they’re so abrupt. It’s
usually bad news anyway. And they want you to go for all these tests, take
pills. I don’t want to take pills. One time I did, and I got cranky. Found out
it was a side effect. Imagine, a pill to make you cranky. It didn’t say that
exactly, but that was the gist of it.
There is enough in this world to make one cranky these
days; you don’t need a pill for that. Besides, who wants to spend time sitting
in a waiting room. Time’s precious at my age.
[Exit]
Scene
Three
[Four days later. He’s sitting at the table with a
calculator working on some papers.]
Geoff says it’ll be a few more weeks before he can leave.
Couldn’t find the Will at first. He was looking for an official document. He
found it, but it was a handwritten document – it was in a suitcase in one of
her closets!
[Shakes his head in disbelief].
Poor guy, he’s the executor. Not so easy to deal with a
handwritten Will let me tell you. So it’s going to be taking him more time.
Anyway, that’s probably a good thing. It will give me
more time to find my ring. I just realized it wasn’t there. I must have taken
it off to do some cleaning the other day. I’d lost it once before. Put it in a
safe place.
[Pause]
But, the trouble is, I can’t remember where that safe
place was. I’ll remember at some point – or it will show up… I’m sure…
[Pause]
He told me he’s contacted a gallery out there that is
interested in his work. He’s excited about that. Good for him.
Meanwhile, I’m just a house husband. Scullery maid, wash
maid, gardener, cleaner, cook – and accountant.
If Geoff were in charge of the finances, we’d be in
trouble. Finances were never his forte. I took over soon after we got together.
Was tired of coming home and finding the phone cut off and all the nasty
letters from the power company threatening to shut off the power. Not to
mention the late payment charges.
He laughed at me one day when I told him that I was
having trouble balancing our books. He looked concerned at first - asked me how
much we were out. It was only ten cents, but I had to find it. Took a while,
but I did.
He says I’m Obsessive Compulsive. Only he says I’m O C D.
I hate acronyms. Always have. Everyone uses them these
days. They are everywhere - in law, in government, in all professions.
My niece she uses them too. But she’s a social worker.
They love them – even more than lawyers! Makes them feel important, like they
have the inside scoop.
So, when Geoff told me one day that the “postperson” had
delivered a parcel, I told him he had P C S. Took him a while, but he asked me
what I meant. I told him he had “Politically Correct Syndrome”. He wasn’t
amused.
Anyway, it gave me something to do in my spare time. I wrote
that book about political correctness.
[Pause]
It’s meant to be funny. But I don’t think those with PCS
have much of a sense of humour.
I sent it off to a publisher in Toronto a while back… on
a whim … a guy I know from my law days. He said he’d take a look at it.
I’ve been working on another book. Had trouble with it at
first. – writer’s block I guess.
But I’ve been on a roll again. It’s nearly finished.
[Pause]
And it’s filled the time while he’s been away.
[Pause. Gets up and goes to the window. Looks out window]
Lawn’s getting long. I haven’t been able to cut it. I had
to send the lawnmower out for repair. It wouldn’t start. They said it would be
a week or more … Having trouble getting parts these days.
Scene
Four
[Several weeks later. Rick is on the floor looking under
the chair.]
I still haven’t found the bloody ring. I was sure I would
have remembered where I’d put it by now. - Not much is turning up in my memory
bank these days.
He was supposed to be home yesterday. I heard a knock at
the door. Figured it must be him. It was about the time he was supposed to be
home. He’s always forgetting his key. And he never remembers where the hidden
one is.
Well, when I opened it, there was this kid standing
there…dutifully six feet back. I recognized him but didn’t know him. A teenager,
lives on the next street I think. He said he was raising money for this
conference he wanted to attend.
Asked me what I thought about climate change. Ha! Well, -
I told him I knew all about that: The sudden swings in temperature, things
growing where they haven’t before, and not growing where they have, places
being moist where they shouldn’t be and dry where they should be moist. Sudden
eruptions. Deeper furrows, sagging foundations. - Stronger wind.
He looked at me kind of strangely. It wasn’t quite the
answer he was expecting. But he took it at face value. But I wasn’t talking
about planet earth. I was talking about me. Anyway, he was pleased when I
handed him a hundred dollar bill.
[Gets up of floor with some effort]
Geoff didn’t show though. I figured something must have
come up - or maybe he just missed his flight. Not the most punctual of people
our Geoff.
I tried calling him at his sister’s. The phone was cut
off. Should have known it would be. He didn’t answer his cell either. I don’t
know why he has one. It’s usually turned off, misplaced or out of power.
Anyway, I wasn’t going to waste another good meal I’d
prepared for him. And I was tired of eating alone.
[Pause. Sits]
You’ll think I’m crazy. My niece already does. I decided
to invite … my Teddy Bear to dinner. He usually stays in the guest room. I’ve had him since I
was born – a Christening gift from my godmother. Someone I never knew!
[Pause]
So he’s an antique – like me. A bit worn, also like me. Geoff’s
sister made me take him out of the guest room when she was here that time. She
said he was ratty. She should talk.
At least it was someone to sit and look at. And talk to. I
even forgot it wasn’t Geoff, - just for a moment. The mind is a funny thing,
especially when you’re alone a lot.
I’d set the dining table with all the finery. I put on
some music – a Strauss waltz. And I invited Teddy to dance with me before
dinner. Geoff and I dance sometimes. He’s a bit clumsy and hard to move around.
But Teddy was light as air and didn’t step on my toes like Geoff does. I got
lost in the music.
I didn’t notice my niece drive in. But I saw her drive
away. Pretty sure it was her car. It was dark. She didn’t come in. Figured she
saw me through the window, a crazy old guy dancing with a teddy bear.
Oh god, I thought: Now she will think I’ve lost it for
sure. Uncle Richard’s in la-la land.
[Pause]
Maybe I am. I’ve come to understand why we old people like
that land … It’s a comfortable place to be.
[Pause]
Well, then she called, my niece, - I knew she would - ostensibly
to see if Geoff got home. I could tell she was in her car. I had trouble
hearing her. She was obviously on a cell phone. Lousy reception.
I kept asking her to repeat herself. I was getting frustrated.
She told me she was concerned that I was going deaf. Said I should get a
hearing aid.
Now why would I do that? A friend got himself one
recently. Cost him $5,000. Five thousand dollars! When he told me, I asked him
“What kind?” He paused for a moment, then looked at his watch and said “12:30”.
Ha Ha. 12:30. A waste of money if you ask me.
[Pause]
Anyway, when I told her “no” he wasn’t home, she got this
concerned voice on and asked me how was I doing. I guessed where that was coming
from.
I just told her I was fine.
She mothers me. One mother was enough for a lifetime. But
she’s well-intentioned.
Scene
Five
[A few days later. Sitting at the table polishing silver]
Geoff called - the day after he was supposed to have been
home. He sounded upset - confused. He said he’d lost his phone.
He told me that he had to cancel his flight at the last
minute. He’d gotten a call from that gallery out there. They wanted to see him
in person at the end of the week. It’s a big deal apparently. A big show.
[Pause]
He tried to call – somebody else’s phone I guess. But
we’d had that storm here and the power was out here for a few days. No phone. Difficult
to get in touch with the phone company when your phone is out of service.
He should have let me know sooner. He just doesn’t think
of these things. Too much on his mind I guess.
He says he’ll book another flight out as soon as he can.
Maybe early next week.
Of course my niece called. Like clockwork. I didn’t want
to answer the phone; but I knew that would only worry her and she might stop
by. So I answered. And I’m glad I did.
At first she was playing social worker –asking questions
– you know, the sort that are meant to check on your mental state. I was
getting annoyed. I finally got up the courage to ask her why she kept
insinuating Geoff was having an affair.
She kind of sputtered at that. Then she mentioned all the
flight cancellations. Oh come on, I said, there were plenty of reasons for
those.
And then I could tell that she took a deep breath, she paused
awkwardly, and then finally she told me that she’d stopped by just before Geoff
left. He was talking quietly on the phone in the front room. Before he noticed
her, she heard him say: “Love you Rob - or Robbie. See you soon Babe.” Something
like that. She wasn’t sure of the exact words. But it was affectionate she said.
And he got red in the face when he noticed her.
Can’t say I blame him. He hates it when she just appears
unannounced.
Well, I started to laugh so hard I was gasping for
breath. I even had tears in my eyes. My niece thought I was crying. Well, I guess
I was, but not in the way she was thinking.
[Pause]
You see, Geoff’s sister’s name is Roberta, but he calls
her - called her - “Robbie”. And he called her “Babe” too, even though she was
older.
My poor niece. She was so embarrassed. She didn’t know
what to say for once. She’s always so in charge. It looked good on her. A
little penitence.
But my niece had never met Roberta. Geoff’s sister had
only visited us here that once, a long time ago. And we never had reason to
talk about his sister with my niece. I mean, why would we. So my niece had no
reason to know Roberta’s name.
I should have asked my niece that question a long time
ago. It would have saved me a lot of anxiety. But I guess that sometimes we are
just too afraid of what the answer to our questions might be.
Scene
Six
[A week later. Standing looking out the window. He has a
bandage on his head.]
Maybe I am depressed. Not sleeping well. I’ve been aching
more lately. Still sore from that fall.
I went back to the massage therapist. Told her about the
traction incident, you know, the one with the police. She thought it was
hilarious. [slight pause] I guess it was – if you weren’t the one who was
humiliated.
Anyway, she told me that I should try out some breathing
exercises she had recently started doing. She said it would stimulate the blood
and help reduce the swelling in my body, which she said was causing much of my
pain.
So I tried it out at home the next morning – the
breathing exercises - with the guidance of a YouTube video she told me about.
There I was, sitting on the floor, like Buddha on a bad
day - breathing, in out, in out, in out.
[Pause]
I passed out - knocked my head on the coffee table. Fortunately,
my niece came by; she was dropping off some books she’d borrowed. She found me
and freaked. There was blood on the floor. She called an ambulance.
They wheeled me out. I didn’t see, but you can be sure
the neighbours where lined out on the street enjoying the excitement.
I had a concussion. They kept me in for several days for
observation.
[Pause. Sits]
When I got home the day before yesterday, I found this
chicken pot pie in the fridge. Best pastry I’ve ever had. There was a get well
note with it from Mrs. Doyle. She lives up the street.. I think my niece must
have let her in.
[Pause]
Geoff was supposed to have been home yesterday. I noticed
a telephone message just this morning. It came in a couple of days ago – when I
was in the hospital.
It wasn’t from Geoff, the message. It was from some guy –
a friend of Geoff’s sister apparently.
[Pause]
He was talking fast. Sounded nervous. I think he said his
name was Bob something-or-other. Might have been Todd. Anyway, he said Geoff
was stuck on some island off the coast.
When Geoff couldn’t get an earlier flight, he’d loaned
Geoff his cabin there for a few days. He’d already vacated his sister’s place. So,
he needed a place to stay I suppose.
It did sound like the sort of place Geoff would like.
Quiet. Remote. A good place for him to relax after all the stress of dealing
with his sister’s affairs, and everything.
Geoff was supposed to be back in Vancouver three days ago,
in time for his flight, but this Bob – or Todd – whatever - said a storm had
come up. The water taxi was damaged, so Geoff couldn’t get across to the
mainland in time to make the flight.
Apparently, Geoff couldn’t have called me because the guy
said there’s no service on the island. Also no power in the cabin!
He said he felt bad because, “unfortunately” – his word
not mine – he hadn’t warned Geoff about that. But he eventually thought he
should let me know, so I wouldn’t worry. Ha! - A little late for that!
He didn’t think Geoff would be back in the city until
tomorrow at the earliest.
Of course, the joker didn’t leave a callback number.
[Pause. Stands. Looks at phone]
Hope my niece won’t phone.
[Exit. Phone rings]
Scene Seven
[Four days later. Has a large envelope with his
manuscript. He’s been reading an accompanying letter.]
My book was rejected. The spoof on Political Correctness.
I wasn’t holding out much hope anyway. He said it would ruffle too many
feathers. Should have known.
He apologized for taking so long to get back to me. He
told me that personally he did like it though. Said it made him laugh. But it
wasn’t the right climate for laughing at political correctness right now. - Pity the world.
I was working on that other book anyway. It’s finished. I
am feeling good about this one. It’s politically correct too. A mystery, - a murder
mystery … with a twist. There’s no murder! That’s the twist. Ha Ha. Lots of
intrigue though. False assumptions. Misleading clues. Fiction with a little
sprinkling of fact.
I sent it off to that publisher several weeks ago now. … They
got back to me quickly on this one. And they like it. It’s on the list for
publication! Maybe even a book tour… Ha Ha.
[Pause]
Geoff was supposed to have been home five days ago. He called
and told me his flight was delayed a day. Then a couple of days later he called
to say it was redirected. Ottawa. A freak wind and hail storm in Toronto!
He couldn’t call earlier. Said they’d made him check his
carry-on bag. It’s where his phone was – the new one. - Typical.
It’s why I don’t have a cell phone. You get to depend on
them too much, and then when you can’t find them you’ll need a landline anyway.
He said he’d get a flight out in a day or two. He thought
he should take advantage of being in Ottawa and stop in at the gallery there first.
Apparently they weren’t open until yesterday.
[Pause. Stands]
He hopes to get a flight out to Halifax tomorrow.
[Pause]
I won’t hold my breath. Ha Ha. I might pass out again. [Exit]
Scene
Eight
[Two weeks later. Rick is sitting with a cane and a glass
of whisky]
Geoff didn’t get home. He’s been in isolation in Ottawa
these past two weeks. There was Covid on his last flight. He’s okay. It’s me
who’s stressed.
Well, they say things happen in threes: The Three Tenors,
Three Musketeers, the Three Stooges, the Three Witches of Condor, the Three
Kings, [slight pause] Three Strikes and you’re out – well, and oh yes, then
there’s the Holy Trinity, of course.
I wonder if Roberta’s angels come in threes. Ha Ha.
Now where was I. Oh yes - stress. Well, I went for
another massage. She told me about a simple treatment that would help with my stress,
as well as reduce my blood pressure. It’s been running awfully high lately.
The magic potion - cold showers. She said you just reduce
the water temperature gradually. Supposed to be invigorating. I thought I’d try
it. Nothing to lose. - Anything to avoid taking pills.
Well I should never have left the window in the bathroom
open. I thought I could stand it at first, just turning the tap ever so
gradually and getting used to it bit by bit. But then this stream of ice cold
water came out all of a sudden.
I shrieked the cry of the banshees. Slipped on a bar of soap
I’d dropped on the shower floor and fell, -cried out again. Terrible pain. Figured
I’d dislocated my hip or something. … the one I’d had the surgery on twice
before.
Old Mrs. Fraser, she lives next door, well she was in her
garden and heard the noise. So, ever vigilant, she did her civil duty and
dialled 911.
[Stands up. Hobbles to the window]
Of course, I am sure that the masked fan club was out on
the street when the cavalcade of emergency response vehicles arrived.
I must have been in shock when they found me – there,
crumpled up on the shower floor in all my faded glory with the icy water still
pouring over me. Wouldn’t have been a pretty sight.
Bill Donaldson, he lives directly across from us, he let
them in. Said he hoped I didn’t mind, but he thought it better than them
bashing the door in. Apparently, he’d noticed me getting the hidden key from
time to time.
Ended up in hospital for a few days… Buggered up my hip
all right. Needs surgery again. They can’t do it now. Said it might be a while.
They wanted to give me pain pills. I don’t want pills. Make
my head fuzzy. It’s fuzzy enough without that. But, because I refused the pills,
now they assume the pain isn’t that bad and I can live with it for a while.
Well I can’t. I just don’t want pills.
[Pause. Looks out the window.]
Anyway, thankfully the lawn’s been cut while I was away.
– Old Mrs. Fraser got her grandson to do it for us. She said it was beginning
to look like a hay field. I hadn’t been able to do it. Still waiting for those
lawnmower parts.
Turns out her grandson is that environmentalist kid on
the next street. Did a pretty good job too. He wouldn’t take any money – but I
gave him twenty dollars anyway.
[Goes to sit down. Flinches]
Heartburn. Ruined a nice piece of chicken I’d prepared
for Geoff the last time he was supposed to be home. When he didn’t show I
didn’t want to eat, but I forgot to turn the oven off. The smoke detector went
off.
The fire engines didn’t come that time. I got to it soon
enough. Chicken was burnt though. Thought it might still make a good stew, so I
saved it; but I ate some of it this evening – gives a new meaning to
charbroiled chicken... Probably why my stomach’s upset. Argh. Heartburn too…
[Pause]
Geoff is supposed to be getting home this evening. It’s
getting late. Should have been in Halifax two hours ago. Well, he’ll get here
eventually.
I’m sure he’ll have eaten. Have a nice bottle of wine
though. Thought we could celebrate his new gallery – and my book. Haven’t told
him about that yet. I wanted it to be a surprise.
They want him to fly back out west for a show once public
gathering restrictions are lifted there. Soon I think.
Maybe I’ll go too this time. - Hate airports. Never liked
long flights.
[Pause]
Come to think of it, hate gallery show openings too. But,
- I don’t like being alone even more.
[Looks at his watch] It’ll be good being in quarantine
together. Time for us to catch up. --- Argh. Damn heartburn.
[Looks at his watch again.]
It’s late.
[Starts to get up. Yawns]
Tired. Way past my bedtime.
[Sits back down]
Think I’ll just sit here for a bit longer. … He’ll call
from the airport.
[Finishes his whisky]
Plane should have been in by now. I’m sure ... [His glass
drops on the floor.]
[The phone rings. Rick is slumped in his chair.]
Scene
Nine
[Two weeks later. A suitcase is on the floor. Rick is
standing by the SR entrance. He hobbles to a chair with a cane. He is obviously
in some discomfort.]
Geoff’s home. Got home two weeks ago now. Thankfully, I
found my ring before he got here. Just in time too. He’d have been really upset
if I’d lost it again.
It was in a safe place after all. I was eating one of
those dinner rolls I’d made. When he didn’t show up I’d frozen them. It must
have come off when I was kneading the dough. Nearly cracked my tooth on it. Good
thing I didn’t swallow it, that’s all I can say. Ha Ha.
Geoff arrived late that night two weeks ago. His car had
been at the airport so long it wouldn’t start. I’d stayed up, but I fell asleep
in the chair. I broke down and had taken a couple of pain pills … just over the
counter ones. Maybe took too many.
He woke me up when he got in. He had this weird look on
his face. I thought I was dreaming.
He said he thought I was dead, until I snorted and opened
my eyes. He had a bunch of flowers waving in my face.
It was our anniversary. He got home for our anniversary. Our
fiftieth! – He remembered. - I forgot. Well I remembered, but then forgot to
remember on the day.
I wasn’t really convinced he’d be home anyway. Was
starting to wonder if maybe my niece had been right all along. Should have
asked him myself. Saved me a lot of worry.
He’s been speaking to my niece. That in itself is a
miracle. He told me she has some concerns about my mental state. Thinks I’m
getting to be too eccentric. I told him that I took that as a compliment.
She also told him about my fall… about the hip. I’d told
her not to tell him. Didn’t want to worry him with that show of his coming up. I’ve
tried to hide my pain… it’s hard to hide pain like this. He could see it on my
face anyway.
The surgeon says it might be a year or more before they
can do the surgery. Like the lawnmower I guess – they must be having trouble
getting the parts. Ha ha.
[Pause]
So, we’re off to Havana! Geoff’s told the gallery he can’t
come out west right now. They wanted to do the show later this month, or early
next. He said they would have to do the show without him then. I don’t think
they were too pleased.
He’s taking me there for surgery on my hip. Says it’s an
anniversary present for our 50th. But I really think it’s a gift
from his sister – although she didn’t know it. She’s left him everything. It’s
not a lot, but he says it’s enough for a few good trips.
I’m not really keen on travelling right now. Things are
uncertain right now – but the pain is bad. My niece says we shouldn’t be going,
but Geoff insists we go. He’d even bought the tickets. We’re leaving in a
couple of hours now. My niece is taking us to the airport.
Which reminds me, I need to let her know where the Wills
and other documents are – just in case you know. I couldn’t find them at first.
But when I got our passports from my old briefcase up in the bedroom closet,
they were there.
[Pause]
Geoff says they’ll see me right away… Well, that’s if the
bloody virus test comes back negative after we arrive, which it should do.
Imagine something you can’t see running your life. … I
guess it always has. Not the virus per se,
but things we can’t quite see.
Anyway, Geoff has connexions in Cuba. He’s spent way more
time there than I have. It’s a benefit of being self-employed I guess. He is
good friends with a Cuban artist. He met him years ago. He lives in Spain now.
His name is José. Well, it turns out that José’s brother is an orthopaedic
surgeon at the big hospital in Havana and he’s going to see me.
… His name’s Dr. Angel (arn-hell) Fuentes. Angel (arn-hell).
That’s “A N G E L”. – an angel – Ha! –
Imagine. Maybe Roberta was right after all. An angel is looking
after me. He’ll take away my pain!
The End
One’s Company, © Paul Rapsey 2021: All rights to the production or reproduction of this script are reserved to the playwright. Permission to copy the script in whole or in part or to perform this play may be requested in writing to Paul Rapsey, 5408 Granville Road, Granville Ferry, Nova Scotia, B0S1A0, CANADA.
Script © 2022, Paul Rapsey
Song Lyrics © 2021, Paul
Rapsey
Prologue in film version
[Sam is 80 years old and has
been hospitalized for an extended period due to a serious concussion followed
by a serious reaction to Covid-19. Sam wakes. It is night.]
Ah… She’s left the cage
open. [He sits on the edge of the bed] Slippers …. Slippers. There. Okay, now
easy. Time to run – ha! That’s a joke. Hmmm. The mask. Better put it on. They
say we have to wear them. – Okay, easy now. Coat? – no. Don’t want to wake up
the miserable old geezer. He’ll start yelling again. - Careful now. Open the door – slowly. No one
coming. Look both ways before you cross the street.. Ha Ha. – Hall’s clear.
Okay, now’s the time. – Good the old staff sergeant is doing her paperwork.
Easy – Down – Argh. Shhhh. Good boy. Got by. – [ Voices in the distance]
Someone’s coming. Quick – in here. … Stairs? Okay. One step at a time. Careful
now. Hang onto the rail. Good boy. Good boy. – A door. Open it – Careful now. –
No. Too busy. Can’t go there. Keep going. Must be a way out. – More stairs.
Going down… Another door… Let’s try it now. Ha! Good. No one’s here. Awful dark
though. [Distant chatter] Voices. Quick in here. [Sound of door closing] That
was close. [Yawns] Sleepy.
Prologue
– Stage (This was pre-recorded by the actor who stands with his
back to the audience.)
Let me set the scene. The
nurse, at least Sam assumes she is a nurse, has just brought him back to bed
after a bowel emergency. As she is putting up what Sam calls his “cage”, one of
those hospital secret codes blares over the speaker buried in the ceiling above
his bed. She hurries out, but hasn’t noticed that Sam has his hand on the rail.
The cage has not latched. And it drops down. Damn Sam thinks. Hope it won’t
wake up the old geezer in the next bed. He’s always fussing. Calling out. No
not a sound from the next bed.
Sam chuckles. This is his
chance to escape. He can’t remember how he got there. Or how long he’s been
there. His mind is fuzzy. He doesn’t remember much. Only that he doesn’t want
to be there. He swings his legs off the side of the bed and pushes himself to a
seated position, works his feet into his slippers that lay on the floor beside
the bed, and stands, unsteady at first.
He glances at his side
table, piled high with cards and other debris he has only recently noticed,
spots a mask he’s been told he has to wear when he leaves the room, which he
rarely does. And never unattended. He places the mask on his face as he has
been taught to do. Sam looks over to the other bed. The old guy is snoring. Doesn’t
even know the guy’s name. He quietly proceeds to the door, slowly opens it, is
blinded by the light for a moment, then peers left and right down the hall.
There seems to be a commotion in one of the rooms at the end of the hall. But
otherwise the hall is empty of human traffic.
Now is the time to run…. He
chuckles at that word, “run”, because it has been a long time since he has done
more than walk gingerly, often assisted. He still has to pass the nurses
station, but there’s only one of them there and he’s on the phone. He ducks
down as he passes, which is easier than the getting back up to a vertical
position. But with some effort and some discomfort he manages to do so. Then he
hears voices coming his way from around the corner… Conveniently there is a
door, but it will be locked. He knows that from past experience. Just then the
door opens and someone runs out and down the hall toward the room with all the
commotion without noticing him. Was he invisible? It felt that way to him. He
reaches for the door before it clicks shut and slides into the room
behind…. Not a room, but a
stairwell. An escape hatch of sorts. He
smiles.
Taking the rail, he
carefully descends the stairs, step by step. He comes to a landing with a door.
He opens it and peers from a crack out into a brightly lit space with far too
much activity. He closes it. Scratches his head and looks down the next set of
stairs. Once again he takes the rail and slowly goes down until he reaches yet
another door. No more stairs. He grabs the handle and cautiously opens the
door. It is relatively dark and quiet, except for what sounds like some sort of
machinery whoring and clanging in the background - and some faint distant
chatter. He proceeds down the hall. Then, hearing voices approaching, he heads
for the first door. It opens. He steps into darkness and hears the latch secure
itself.
Sam is tired. This has been
more exertion than he has had in some time. And it is late after all. He yawns.
Leans against the wall beside the door and slowly slides to the floor asleep.
It is 1:00 a.m. somewhere in the bowels of a hospital.
Scene
I
[A little while later. It’s
dark. Sam wakes. He is sitting on the floor. He finds himself in a confined
space, a janitor’s storage closet with a toilet. (This space is defined on
stage in most venues by the actor’s words and mimed actions.) There is a mirror
on the wall. On an unelevated space, Sam is standing slumped as he wakes.]
[Feels around the space] Not
sure how I got here. Not sure where here is. [Pause]
Must be a dream. Some dream.
Stuck in a small space… in the dark. [Feels around. Feels the mops and broom
and bucket.] Brooms! A broom closet? … Stuck in a closet. Maybe I’ll wake up
soon.
[Feelsd more. Finds the
toilet.] A toilet? – Lovely! Stuck in a bloody toilet. Shit!... [Pause] Ha ha.
Now that’s appropriate. Don’t lose your sense of humour Sam. Lose anything else
but not that.
[He has a mask dangling from
an ear.]
Light. Must be a light
switch.
[He finds a light switch and
turns on the light. He is blinded momentarily. See the mirror and looks in the
mirror. Pulls off the mask. Looks at it. Drops it.]
No. Can’t be. Don’t
recognize it. The face. [Studies it further] Must be a trick. Old
son-of-a-bitch. Must be a nightmare. Must have eaten something.
[Trys the door.] The doors
stuck. [He bangs on the door.] Anyone there? [Bangs again] Heh, let me out! I
want to go home!
[Scratches his head. Sits]
Home? Can’t remember where
home is. Don’t recognize this place anyway. Don’t remember much. The name’s Sam.
I know that much. Samuel Frederick James. That’s me. So me’s got a name. Don’t
know much else.
Somebody’ll find me.
Somebody must be missing me by now. Don’t know who. There must be somebody.
Everybody has somebody. At least I hope. Used to anyway.
Come on Sammy boy. Think! [Looks
in the mirror.] You don’t look like Sam to me. You’re too old. [Feels his face.
Shakes his head] Guess you are anyway. Unless it’s a dream. Could be a dream. A
bad one. A real bad one.
[He smiles] I remember, I
used to dream a lot. When I was young. I dreamt I could fly. Well float really.
I could suck in the air and raise my arms and then I’d let the air out slowly
and up I’d go. Way up! I’d get away from people who were chasing me. People who
wanted to hurt me.
And I’d leap huge distances
floating like a feather in the wind. I liked dreams like that. Even when I was
falling, I’d just keep falling and never land, never hurt myself. Eventually I’d
end up on my bed.
[He sucks in the air, closes
his eyes and raises his arms. Nothing happens. He opens his eyes, looks
disappointed and then sits.]
I can see that bedroom,
where I had those dreams. It was in my parents’ house. Yes, my parents?
[Pause]
I remember that house. I
loved it. I always wanted my own house just like that. I can see my parents
standing there. I’ve got a suitcase. Mum’s fussing. Dad puts the suitcase in
the car and we drive off… to the train station. I remember now. I can see them
like it was yesterday. I don’t remember what happened to them though. They must
be old. [Pause] Old like me. Maybe they are dead. Yes. Yes. Dead. Both of them.
I remember the funeral. Died in a car crash. 1987. They weren’t that old. [Shivers]
It’s damp in here.
[Pause]
Damp. Yes, I remember it was
raining that day. Don’t know who all the people were. Don’t think I’d been home
for some time. No. I was living somewhere else. Can’t remember where. No, it
wasn’t at home, the funeral.
I remember their car. A big
station waggon. Wood panelling. Real fancy. Dad kept it for years. Worked on it
constantly. Mum said he paid more attention to it than to her.
They always liked road trips,
especially after dad retired. Came out east to see me, more than once. Yes, now
I remember. I was living somewhere out east… near the coast. I remember the
place. It was on the coast… a big bay.
[He frowns] The Priest at
the graveside got their names wrong. I was sure I heard him ask the funeral
director why there were two caskets. He seemed awfully confused. Read that
prayer they always read at funerals, but I’m sure he got it mixed up. “…I fear
no evil for my rod and staff comfort me...” Someone whispered he had probably
been drinking.
The funeral director was
holding an umbrella. A big one. I remember watching the water streaming off it.
It was awfully muddy. The priest slipped when he was doing the dust to dust
bit. Fell right into the hole.
I was soaked. Someone is
standing beside me. I am older. Yes, in my forties. I remember laughing – just
to myself - nerves.
Funny the things you
remember and the things you forget. Well I guess the things you forget aren’t
funny because you can’t remember what they were.
Don’t remember what happened
to him, - the priest. Don’t remember much about that funeral. It was a big
cemetery though. An old one. On a hill. I can see it – the view. There was a
view of water… It was windy. I remember that. [He ponders.] I think I was living
there??
Wish I remembered more.
Stuck here in this tiny space. A closet. A water closet at that! Don’t
recognize it. Don’t have the strength to push it open, the door. I did once.
Must have. Yes. [Sits] Once upon a time.
[Pause, leans forward. He
starts to rock.]
I remember, yes, I can see
it – Yes. Someone is rowing a boat. It’s cold. Looks like a pirate almost. Has
a patch on his eye. Wearing a black toque with orange stripes. Like one I had
once.
I remember. Yes, I was up a
ladder. I was doing some work on the house. Disturbed a wasp nest. Didn’t
notice it at first. Just a small one but big enough. I got stung in the face.
My eye swelled up big time. It’s why I was wearing that patch.
So I was in that boat with
this patch on my eye. I could row that boat clear across the bay. They called
it a cove… But it was too big. Yes, there was a bay. A big one.
Now where was it, that bay.
I can see it in my head. Yes. There’s me in a boat. I’m rowing this big dory. [Proudly]
I had strong arms back then, solid and powerful. I could have pushed this door
open back then – no problem.
Fog rolled in. It rolled in
fast. Can’t remember where I was going. Fog’s like that there. Thick. Like the
fog in my head.
There was someone in the
boat with me. A man. Young I think. About my age at the time - maybe. He has a wispy
beard. A fuzzy moustache. I can’t see his face. He’s got his jacket hood tucked
tight. He’s hunched over. It’s chilly. I’m listening for sounds from land…. But
it’s quiet. Can’t hear a thing. Just the water lapping against the hull. And
his whimpering.
Yes, he was scared, the
other fellow. I was scared too but I wasn’t showing it. No way. I told him it
would be fine. We were best just to float rather than take a chance on rowing
in the wrong direction… out to sea. Yes the sea. It was the Ocean. The
Atlantic.
So, there we were, floating.
It was like that dream I had when I was a kid. The one where I could float. For
me there was a certain comfort in being suspended like that, that’s what it
felt like, suspended in the fog…
I don’t remember why we were
out there. We must have been going somewhere.
Must have been a reason. There’s a reason for everything… well most
things anyway. Even if the reason is simple.
There must be a reason I
came here too. Maybe there’s a reason why I am stuck here. Here in this closet.
Small one. Can hardly move. Don’t know. Maybe the fog in my head will clear.
Someone must have known we
were out there. That we didn’t arrive wherever we were going, or come back to where
we’d left off. Maybe someone knows I’m in here. Someone is missing me. Maybe.
[He yawns]
[Sam gets up and goes to the
door. Knocks on it several times.]
Anyone there? Heh! Someone? Anyone?
[Sits. He is drowsy.]
Oh wake me up! Wake me up.
Wake me up.
[He falls asleep]
Scene II
[Time passes. Still sitting
as he was. He wakes with a start after shouting in a mumbled way.]
Heh! --- No, I don’t want
to! No!
[He stands] That’s what the
other guy started to do. He started to yell. To call out. To scream. He was
shaking. He started to cry. I tried to calm him. I even got up and tried to put
my arms around him. Pretty hard to do that in a dory on the ocean. But he was
shaking bad. Told him it would be okay. Just to be patient. He pushed me away. I
nearly fell overboard. Bastard.
Called me a fucking faggot. Yes
he did. Now why did he call me that?
[Pause]
I didn’t know I was one back
then. I was just trying to calm him down. His screaming wasn’t helping things.
Yes screaming. Then I hear
these sea gulls screeching. Figured we must be near shore then. We were still
just drifting. Still don’t know why. Somehow it’s never enough to know what you
are up to, you have to know why.
Yes, land was there all
right. Can’t tell where. The fog is still pretty thick. I can hear the waves
washing against rocks. The boat is rocking. I see this beach. Could be anywhere
along this coast.
We pulled the boat up on the
shore. The fog eventually started to lift. But it was getting late. The guy
wasn’t much help. We didn’t talk. It was cooling down. I made a fire with the
driftwood. Sitting there staring at the flames smoking a cigarette. Still
smoked back then; so that’s why I had those matches. He just sat there quiet.
He wouldn’t look at me. Blamed me for the fog I guess.
But I must have been taking
him somewhere across the bay for a reason. There was no road to the other side
of the bay at the time. There was a big old house there I remember - and some
derelict buildings. The house was standing, but I was sure it was empty. Needed
some paint. But it wasn’t too run down. Used to be a wharf there way back. Long
before I was there. There were still signs of it.
Anyway, don’t remember what
happened after that. Don’t remember how we got back. I assume we did. Must
have. I’m here. Don’t know how I got here.
[Stands, trys the door and
then calls out]
Heh! Anyone there?
“Anyone there”, Ha. That’s
what the teacher used to say. Miss Anderson. Grade six. She’d ask a question.
No one would answer. She’d say, “Is anyone there?” So I’d put up my hand and
answer her question. She’d say “Thank you Sam. I guess Sam’s the only one who’s
done his homework.” I probably was. The other kids teased me. Said I was
teacher’s pet.
I remember the day she came
into class late. She could be stern, but that day she was sombre. We always
stood up when she came into the classroom after us. Things were different in
those days. You didn’t mess with the teacher if you knew what was good for you.
She stood there in front of
the class. So, we stood up like we did every morning to sing “God Save the
King”. But she told us to sit back down. We were confused. Then she gets teary
and her voice started to quiver. We kids looked at one another with wide eyes.
Then, she said: “Children,
this morning will be different. The King died last night. Princess Elizabeth is
now our Queen, so we will sing “God Save the Queen” from now on. And we did.
Now this was all very
confusing to a ten year old. We already had one Queen Elizabeth and now there
were two!
After we said the “Our
Father” prayer, we prayed for the dead King, and for the new Queen Elizabeth,
and for the old Queen Elizabeth and for another even older Queen, who was
already unwell and now was very sad because of the death of the King, who was
her son.
When I got home from school
for lunch that day, I told my mother we now had three Queens. I asked her if
that was something like the three Kings who come at Christmas. But she said:
“No dear. They live in another country, far away.”
Sometimes, when I walked
home for lunch from school, this one guy in my class who lived near us, would
take this big leather belt and smack me hard with it. He was a tough little
kid. He didn’t sing “God Save anyone”. He walked with a brace. Polio I think. I
wanted to cry, but I didn’t. He was a bully, but I felt sorry for him really. He
didn’t have it easy. He wasn’t liked by the other kids. I don’t think his home
was too nice either. Eventually, we actually became friends. Two outsiders.
But then we moved away.
Can’t remember where. Don’t know what happened to him. Don’t even remember his
name.
[Pause]
I wonder if he remembers
mine.
[Sits]
Not sure what I did after
that. Must have gone to high school. Moved to the coast I remember. But I was
older. Twenty. Must have gotten a job there. My parents were coming to see me. They
died. Just up the road from where our summer house was. “Our Summer House?” –
Now why did I say that?
[Pause]
They hit a Moose full on. [Pause]
Should have kept that big old station waggon. Mum wanted a new one. Crumpled
like an accordion.
The priest died too. There
on top of my parents’ caskets. A big day for the funeral home. But it took the
focus away from my parents’ funeral for sure with that priest lying there dead on
top of their caskets - in the pouring rain.
Only a few people are there.
Very few people there knew my parents. [Pause] But everyone around knew the
priest.
Yes, rumour was he’d gotten someone
pregnant. Apparently she was sent off to some place run by nuns. I doubt she
got much sympathy. After she gave birth, she just went and jumped into the sea -
off the cliffs. She was just young. Her name was Annie. Annie Lytle.
Annie didn’t float like a
feather. No, they never found her body. So I’m not sure how they knew she’d
jumped. Maybe she just ran off. But people say no.
I don’t know what happened
to her child. Adopted probably, or maybe someone in her family took the child.
But I doubt it. Too much shame back in those days. Best to send the child off
with some strangers.
That was long before I got
there though. I never was one who had much use for priests anyway. There was
one – recently I think? He came to see me. Not sure why. Not sure where I was.
[Pause]
I was in the hospital … I
woke up. Startled me. I am confused enough as it is. – He was giving me the
last rites!
A nurse came in while he was
there. I was agitated. She told him to leave. I don’t think anyone had ever
asked him that before. Oh he was indignant. Yes indignant all right. But the
nurse was not to be messed with. It said right on my chart that I was an
agnostic – or was it atheist? [Scratches his head] - One of them anyway.
Turned out he was in the
wrong room! Yes siree! Ha Ha.
[He looks around.] If this
is a dream – it’s going on too long. Maybe I’m dead. Could be dead. Maybe I’m
in Hell. Imagine. Hell is being locked in a small toilet – for eternity.
[Pause] Hope there’s enough toilet paper at least!
[Pause]
You’d think someone would
know I’m not where I am supposed to be by now. Not sure where I am supposed to
be. Hopefully not here in this toilet. I wonder if it works. I don’t need it
but I might. Hell would be being locked in a toilet that is out of order for
eternity … even if there is toilet paper!
That guy I rowed across the bay
in the fog that time, he had toilet paper in his knapsack. I remember. I used
some of it to light the fire. Yes, now I remember. He was going over to that abandoned
house across the bay. He said it had been his grandfather’s home once.
[Pause]
Something strange about that
house. Something strange about that young guy too. Anyway he told me he had
planned to stay there for a bit. He wanted to see if it was worth fixing up. Guess
that’s why he had that big roll of toilet paper. There was an old outhouse
there, but you wouldn’t have gotten me inside it.
Not sure if he ever got
there. He didn’t talk much. In fact, he was downright hostile. As if it was my
fault about the fog. I was doing him a favour.
We were rescued by the Police
that night. They’d spotted the fire. Good old Freddy, he had alerted them. I
had to go back for the dory later. We were only a few kilometres down the
coast. So we were lucky.
Wish I could remember more. Remember
how I got here.
[Pause]
I guess I remember - more
than I did anyway. Now I do remember my parents. I remember I loved them at
least. I remember the nameless kid who bullied me and became my friend. I
remember the old priest who ruined my parents’ funeral…. I remember Freddy and
that young guy who nearly knocked me overboard after calling me a faggot - just
because I tried to comfort him. And I remember my name: Sam, Sammy.
I remember more now, and I
remember this: I am stuck in a closet and no one is coming to rescue me.
[Pause]
Rescue me? Someone said that
to me once. Yes. She wanted to do that. Rescue me - from a life of loneliness
she said. I remember, yes I remember this: I came out east to get away from
that woman. She wanted to be my Mrs. Robinson. Just like in that film. She was
a professor. Yes, my sociology professor. I went to university. She thought she
could make a man out of me. She tried hard. Was persistent. I ran fast. Fast
and far away. Never did get my degree.
[He sits. Yawns.] Tired
[Drifts off to sleep.]
Scene III
[He wakes. Elbow on knee.
Hand on chin. Thinking.]
There’s this guy walking
along a boardwalk. There’s a harbour. Boats. Big buildings. He looks familiar. He’s
talking to someone. They are both in business suits. Yes. I can see it like it
was today. It looks … he looks sort of like me… Like when I looked in the
mirror just now and saw my face, but didn’t see me. But I know it’s not me this
time. Something is different. [Rubs his chin]
[Pause]
It’s the guy I rowed in the
fog. Yes, I’m pretty sure. Beard’s thicker. He’s older. Maybe forty, maybe
older. I never had a beard until I retired. – Retired. - Yes, I retired.
I worked in an office. It
was close by. I used to have lunch on that boardwalk. Just a sandwich from the
deli. I remember seeing him that day. He didn’t notice me. Funny to remember
that now. It was a long time ago.
[Pause]
I’m sitting at a desk. A
high one. By a big window. It’s an old warehouse. Yes, I remember. The window
looked out on that harbour. I’m drawing. Yes. I’m a graphic designer. - Was a
graphic designer. I remember that. A woman comes up to me. Jane. She was my
partner – junior business partner. It’s my office. Sold my share of the
business to her soon after my parents died.
Yes dead. No sense in it. –
No sense in much of life. I was losing interest in the business anyway. I’d
inherited enough to keep me going. And I was getting tired of dealing with the
big shots who wanted me to promote their “garbage” to the prisoners of
consumerism. But I enjoyed the creative side – when they didn’t muck it up. So
I took time off. Sold. I needed time to think. Tragedy can wake you up. I
discovered I liked teaching design more than doing it.
[Stands. Looks in the
mirror. Rubs his chin.]
Yes. Hmmm. I wasn’t alone –
on that bench – on the boardwalk. There’s someone with me. Grant. He was with
me. We’d often meet for lunch. He worked in a Bank nearby. Manager. We met when
I was 32. I went in for a loan … a business loan.
He thought he knew me from
somewhere. He said it was good to see me again. Asked me if I’d been at any
more demonstrations. I thought that was a funny come-on line. I didn’t know
what he was talking about. I’d never been at demonstrations of any kind back
then. I told him he had me confused with someone else.
Anyway, we became good
friends. He had a real passion for life. He was kind and generous. He taught me
a lot. In time we became lovers. Moved in together. They were good years. Spent
a lot of summers at my house up the coast. - Our summer house.
Anyway, he noticed me look
at that guy that day. Felt his elbow in my ribs. He kidded me about having a
loose neck. “Sam, you’re so transparent” he said. [Shrugs] He should have
talked. He could do a 360 without effort. But I wasn’t looking at him in that
way…. It was just …. There was something about him. Something about the guy in
the fog. The guy who once called me a faggot… in the fog. And him whining like
a baby.
Well, I got my dory - the
next day I think. The fog had lifted. We even had some sun. And the sea was
calm. A friend with a boat dropped me off on that beach. Freddy. It was Freddy.
He took me there in his boat. I rowed back alone. Took me several hours. But I
liked being out there alone on the water like that. It gave me time to think
about things. Like I’m doing now. Thinking about life. Feels a little like
that… the fog lifting. Remembering things I’d forgotten. Putting pieces back
together. Pieces that had scattered over time. Maybe I just needed to forget.
To be in fog.
The shed. That’s where I
found the dory. In that abandoned shed. Across the bay. Back of the old wharf.
The derelict wharf by that old house. The house the guy wanted to get to. I
wonder if he ever did. He said it had once been his grandfather’s house. His
grandfather’s dory too - maybe.
I moved closer to the city
after that. That day I was rowing back alone, I thought about what that guy had
said. Don’t know why he said it, but it made me think about things. I thought
I’d be better off in the city. I was too. Went to college. I got myself a good
career in graphic design. Met Grant. Bought ourselves a nice house in the City…
a big house like my parents had in Winnipeg.
I should have gone out to
see them more. Instead they always came east to see me. The last time they got
killed. Blamed myself. It hit me hard. Their death.
[Pause. Sits.]
Must have come east for a
reason. Must have known something. Must
have.
[Pause]
I do remember! Yes, I found
out my mom had been from out here. Yes she’d been born down here, well near
here. Not right where I was living. Somewhere close I think. Left when she was
young. Never talked about it.
But dad told me she’d gone
west when the war broke out - to get work on a farm. They met soon after. Dad
had a big farm back then. Well, it was his father’s farm, my granddad’s, but he was running it because
granddad had been injured in an accident and couldn’t manage it anymore. – It’s
why he didn’t go off to War. He had to look after his folks and the farm too.
His mum was dying at the time and his dad was an invalid. … Oh dear… not
supposed to say that word “invalid” any more. – Anyway, my grandfather was
crippled, so dad had to look after the farm.
When the War ended, both his
parents were dead; so dad sold the farm and moved to the city. I was five at
the time. I don’t remember much about the farm. But I do remember Billy – the
old work horse. We were friends, Billy and me. There weren’t any children my
age out where we lived. I used to go into the barn and talk to him for hours it
seemed. He listened well and was very patient.
Sometimes, dad would hitch
him up and we’d go off into town in the old waggon. Billy liked that. He felt
young again as he trotted along with his head held high. Dad said gas was
scarce because of the War and he had to save it for work on the farm.
My Dad, he always worked on
engines – tractors, farm equipment, cars, trucks, motorcycles – You name it.
After he sold the farm, he bought a gas station in Winnipeg with a garage
attached to it – for working on cars. Mum ran the gas station. Dad ran the auto
repair business. They were a good team.
Dad told me all this because
I was thinking of heading east - to get away from the Mrs. Robinsons in my
life. Oh, I didn’t tell him that was why I was going. No. Anyway, he thought I
was nuts, but said I was young and I’d find out for myself that there was
nothing out there for me. But there was! I felt like it was always part of me.
I loved the sea. The first
time I saw it, I felt as if I’d come home. The cliffs! I used to go hiking
along them. I’d look way down at the waves, watching them endlessly, creating
shapes, changing colours, creating designs among the caverns and crevices –
swirling powerfully among those incredible rocks. I loved the sounds they made
– primaeval. I could sit watching them for hours. And I’d watch the fishing
boats way out – tiny, vulnerable.
Sometimes, I’d fall asleep
on the soft heather, then wake to the sound of the seals barking on the rocks
off shore – shimmering in the sunlight.
Most of the fishermen I knew
there didn’t like the seals, so I kept my fascination with them to myself –
except for Freddy. He was the only one in our village who thought they were
special. He told me their wide, wet eyes held a thousand secrets of the sea. If
I`d only let go of my stubborn disbelief, I’d see the human torsos – of dead
fishermen and seafarers - and the broken-hearted lovers.
I bought a small house there
after I’d been there for a few years teaching at the small school house. Just very
basic. Someone told me that it had once been a sea captain`s house. But it was
very small. It did have a turret though. But it wasn’t the sort of house I
thought a sea captain would live in.
But I loved its cozy rooms, -
and the narrow back staircase off the kitchen - and the big potbelly stove that
kept me warm on bitter nights. So, even when I moved to the city, I kept it and
went there as much as I could. Fixed it up over time. Old Freddy, he helped me
fix it up initially, so it was more liveable. That was before I moved to the
city. Before I met Grant.
He liked me, Freddy. He’d
have been about 50 when we met. He looked older – the sun, the wind, the salt
sea air. And he worked hard. I loved his big moustache stained copper from smoking
all those years. His skin was deeply wrinkled – like old leather. His eyes had
a sparkle, like they knew something – a secret – that he wanted to share, but
wouldn’t. He was bigger than life dear Freddy; so I could never forget him.
I got to know him after a
few years there. He treated me like a son. His only son had drowned several
years back. And I’m pretty sure he thought I’d be a good catch for one of his
daughters. Kept hinting. I think that’s another reason why I moved to the city.
Grant said, now he couldn’t
be sure, but to him it almost looked like Freddy, who was standing near the old
priest at my parents’ funeral, gave the old guy a push.
[Pause]
Freddy’s the one who told me
about poor Annie. Told me the nun’s had been hard on her. They told her she was
a sinner. Worse, a liar for saying it was Father McGarrigle that got her
pregnant. Made her feel an outcast. Ashamed. Like it was her fault. She
couldn’t stand it.
Freddy had no use for them,
the nuns or the priests. She’d been working for the priest in the Rectory.
Devout she’d been. They found her rosary by the cliff edge. And the shawl she
used to wear on the ground close by. It’s why they’re pretty sure she’d jumped.
It had been a stormy evening in April.
He told me her father had
lived in the old abandoned house across the Bay. He’d been a successful
fisherman. Had several boats. But he’d been very religious. Never forgave Annie
for getting pregnant. Didn’t want anything to do with her. Kicked her out he
did. Penniless. She was little more than a child. Some religion.
Freddy’s the one who told me
about the dory in the shed because I’d mentioned to him I’d like to get a boat
for rowing in the bay. We went over together. He helped me fix it up. He was
good at that. Fixing things.
It wasn’t really like
stealing. The property had been abandoned for years after all. Freddy said “finders
keepers”. He’d been a fisherman himself. Still went out at times. Not regular.
I remember he played the
fiddle too. I can hear one tune clear as day. Yes, that’s how I got asking
about Annie. He’d written a song about her and he sang it often when we were
sitting on his front porch: “Annie dear Annie, why did you go – in tears into
darkness, why did you fly. Your heart was so tender, sweet like a rose, but
your wings could not carry you into the sky.”
At first, I just thought it
was one of those old tragic Scottish or Irish songs. You know, the Celtic
version of country and western. Poor Annie Lytle did herself in. Something like
that. But he got teary when he sang it.
[FREDDIE’S SONG - optional]
So, I asked him about it. He’d
had a big crush on Annie when they were children. Said she was gentle and
pretty as an angel. He told me she was very smart and that she could draw
really well. He showed me some of her drawings – just pencil, but they were
really very good. She’d given them to him as presents. He cherished them.
He put real feeling into
that song. He said he remembered the time she died like it was yesterday –
April 1941. Said she tried to fly like an angel, but Old Neptune had called her
to the sea and now she swims with the seals. That’s what his song said. - I
think it made him feel better to see it in that way.
Scene IV
I didn’t know about Annie
when I was rowing that young guy across the bay. And I never mentioned to him that
I’d taken the dory from his grandfather’s place. Anyway, I was pissed off at
him. And the place was abandoned after all.
[Pause]
I wonder if he was related
to Annie somehow. Must have been I suppose. A nephew maybe. - Maybe even the
kid that she gave birth to.
Freddy said Annie never got
to see her child. The nun’s took the baby off right away. Said she wasn’t fit
to see him. One of Annie’s older sisters got a friend she’d been at the convent
school with to adopt the child. The woman had moved to New Brunswick before the
War. She was working in the naval ship yard in Saint John. She was married to a
sailor who worked on the ships when they came in – a plumber I think. No kids.
Annie’s sisters all had large broods of their own, - except one, who’d become a
nun.
[He shivers]
It’s getting cold in here.
[He stands and shouts] Heh! Wake me up or let me out of here!
[Pause]
Let me out of here!
[Pause]
That’s what I said to her –
the nurse. She said I was always “defying the world”. I had to settle down. She
said: “Dear, you’re behaving like an irritable child”. She calls me “dear”. A
lot of them do. Makes me angry. The don’t know me – don’t know anything about
me.
I told her right back … I
said, “And I am not an irritable child. I am an irritable old man, that’s what
I am. And I am no dear to you.”
I didn’t want to be there.
Didn’t know how long I’d been there. The guy in the other bed was always
shouting. … Me settle down? I told her to settle him down or I was leaving. She said, “And where would you go - dear?”
“Home” I said. She said “Not till you’re a lot better.” “Better than what?” I
said. She says I’ve had a concussion. Serious. Affected my memory. Well
something has anyway.
Defying the world indeed. [Pause]
Grant says that’s how I came across sometimes.
[Pause]
One day when he’d been at
the gym, Grant told me that there was a guy there who looked a bit like me. He
said the guy even stood with his arms crossed just like I do: - Defying the
world.
[Pause]
Our house up the coast was
my scape from that world. Grant and I went there for a month most summers. We’d
go there from time to time during the good weather too. Grant loved it as much
as I did.
One time, we were there and I
noticed work was going on at that abandoned house across the bay. Well, I guess
it wasn’t abandoned any more. Found out some city lawyer had bought it for the back
taxes as a holiday house.
Freddy had died but his wife
told me she’d heard that some relative of the last owner had bought it. I
wondered if it was that snotty grandson. Never ran into him at the time myself.
[Pause]
Grant did. Yes, in the City.
Small world. Turns out that he was the lawyer who did the probate for Grant’s
dad’s will. - Grant told me he was adopted, the lawyer. Don’t know how that ever
came up; but Grant’s a real talker. A people person. Wants to know all about
people. Sometimes a bit too nosey, if you ask me.
So, the guy was probably Annie’s
son after all. Maybe he had a right to be angry. Maybe he’d just found out. That’s
what he was that time in the dory - angry.
Grant said he was nice
enough. A bit reserved. He was married with three kids.
So, if the rumours were
true, I figured it must have been his father, birth father anyway, who’d died
on top of my parents’ caskets! – I guess that makes us practically related
then. Ha Ha.
[Pause]
Years later, in 2005, we downsized,
Grant and me. The house in the city was getting to be too big for us anyway. We
bought a nice condo on the water. I was pitching a whole bunch of stuff, some books
we’d been carting around for years. My parents’ books. No one reads old books
anymore. Couldn’t give them away.
It’s then I found it: My
parents had stashed away a document, actually just a scrap of paper with handwriting
on it. It fell out of an old book. The handwriting was my dad’s. It said: “mother – deceased – father, unknown, born
March 23, 1941” and then the name of an orphanage. The one run by the nuns not
far from the village where our summer house was.
[Pause]
March 23, 1941, that was the
day I was born - my birthday.
My parents never told me I’d
been adopted. There I was in my sixties and all of a sudden I discovered I
didn’t really know who I was. Well who a big part of me was anyway. I knew I
was Sam. But I didn’t know what made me Sam. I needed to find out more.
It felt like being trapped
in this closet. A lot of light but no room to move. Grant told me I was the
person he loved and that was all that mattered. But somehow not knowing did
matter. I felt a bit like that tough kid who walked with a brace, out of
kilter. Hopping and skipping along, but never quite upright and stable.
[Pause]
Maybe that’s what life is:
Hopping and skipping along. Never quite stable. [Looks around] Can’t do much of
that in here, hopping and skipping.
When I found out I was
adopted, I became unfocussed. Grant propped me up. He told me I should try to
find out about my birth family. He kept encouraging me while I stood there like
a deer trapped in the headlights. But with his help and that scrap of paper my
parents had tucked in that old book, I eventually got started.
The nuns didn’t keep
records. I wrote, but they were all dead - or in a nursing home for old nuns.
The orphanage had been closed long ago. No one could find a record from 1941.
[Pause]
1941. That was the year
Annie had died. I figured a lot of women had had babies out of “wedlock” back
then, with the War being on and their men away.
If Freddy wasn’t dead, I
would have asked him a lot more questions. But his wife mentioned that she
thought maybe one of Annie’s sisters, the youngest one, who’d become a nun, was
still living at the old hospital up in town. So I decided to go there to see if
there might be an old nun with a memory. Grant came with me. I needed his support.
[Pause]
And there was indeed an old nun
there. And it was Annie’s younger sister after all. – I was surprised when she
came into the room. I was expecting a frail and stooped old woman to shuffle piously
in. But no. She strode in upright and with authority!
Her eyes were clear and
alert. I remember thinking that she must have been quite pretty when she was
young. - I didn’t think nuns were supposed to be – except for Julie Andrews in
“The Sound of Music”, - but she didn’t stay with the Order for long.
She thought I was there to
talk about Annie. But I wanted to know about my birth parents. She was direct
and took charge. She said “Annie gave birth” – I interrupted her. Grant said I
was rude. I said: “Yes we know. We’ve met him. He’s a lawyer in the City”. She sat
back and smiled and said she was glad to know that. I said, “But I want to hear
about my adoption – my birth parents”. I asked her if she was aware of any
other adoptions back then – in 1941.
She sat forward, hands
clasped on the table as if in prayer and gave me this long and penetrating look.
She said: “Now my dear, I was only eleven years old at the time”. - I felt like
I’d come up against a brick wall. I was deflated. But she sat back again, arms
crossed, and looked at me once more with that look, then quickly added: “But
yes, I do actually”. She said, “You see, Annie gave birth to two little boys -
fraternal twins”!
One of the babies had been
adopted out first - she thought to people in New Brunswick. No one wanted two
babies. Times were tough. The war was still on. A lot of the men were overseas.
The other baby had an
adoption arranged sometime later, she thought with some people somewhere out
west.
Grant was excited. He was
putting the pieces together faster than I was. He called the lawyer and asked
him if he could talk with him. Told him why. The lawyer, his name is Frank, was
born the same day as me: March 23, 1941.
We’re brothers. Twin
brothers! There was no doubt in my mind. Annie was my mother. My birth mother –
Our birth mother.
[Pause]
Grant and I and Frank and
his wife get together from time to time. Not often. We don’t have a lot in
common really. Actually Grant and Frank get along better than Frank and me. But
sometimes in the summer we are both at our summer homes at the same time and we
see one another, - well saw one another. We sold that little house a few years
back.
Anyway, we agreed to raise a
cairn in memory of Annie on the cliff where she had jumped. And we did. We made
it out of stones from the beach. We collected them and built the cairn. We even
embedded some sea shells in it.
Then we got together one day
for a little ceremony. No priest. Just us: me, Grant, Frank, his wife - even
two of the kids were able to join us.
[Pause]
Haven’t seen any of them for
a long time. Well the kids must all be older now – yes – they all moved away a
long time ago. The rest? – I don’t know. Maybe the rest are dead. Some of them.
- Grant? Don’t remember when I last saw him.
I’ve been feeling trapped,
like I am here. They said I had to stay in my room. A virus. No visitors –
except that priest. But I started forgetting things. Started imagining things. Getting
confused. Started “Defying the world!”
When I found out I was
adopted I thought finding my birth family would satisfy me. And then I found
out I had a twin. I figured that I hadn’t ever been whole. If nothing else, finding
my twin should make me complete. Like looking in the mirror and seeing yourself
as you really are for the first time. – Believe me, that can be scary.
But I realize now I was already
complete. It’s Grant who’d made me see that. He’s been “my rod and staff”. He “comforted
me”. He’s the one who encouraged me to
write. He said: “Do it for yourself Sam, if for nothing else”. A form of
therapy I suppose. My first book was an allegory about Annie. I even did the
art work myself – just pen and ink drawings with a wash of light colour. – Come
to think of it, not unlike the pencil drawings Annie had done. - I was shocked
when the book sold – became a best seller, then a film!
The fall on the sidewalk didn’t
help, I guess. Spread eagle. No floating that time! I hit the ground hard. I
don’t remember much about that. I remember falling. I ended up in hospital.
Didn’t know anything for a long time. Caught the virus apparently. The doctor
said I was lucky – I nearly didn’t pull through. Was in a coma for a long time
they say.
The nurse said Grant
couldn’t visit, but he sent me all those cards I found by my bed recently. And
he’d called. But I wasn’t aware of any of that. I didn’t know anything. I was
in a fog.
[Pause]
Missed the curb that day on
the side walk. I remember I’d turned and said something to someone. Who? - Yes! A young kid was staring at us as we
approached. Then as we passed I remember hearing him say to his mother “They
must be brothers”, – Was I with Frank? - No, no, Grant! I was with Grant.
Sam, you’re starting to remember
things. Here -in this closet. [Picks up the mask. Studies it.] Yes, putting my
life together after - 80 years!
[Sits]
[Pause]
[Stands. Then sits again]
The pieces are coming
together. Have come together.
[He stands. Looks in the
mirror.]
Ha Ha! - I know you Samuel
Frederick James. You’re more than an empty shell, more than an old face – more
than a name.
[Music. He listens. Freddy’s
song.]
[Voices are heard. He sits.]
Mr. James are you down here? Mr. James?
Sam?
Voices!
[Sound of knocking on the door. Sam stands and
goes to answer]
Sam dear, are you in there?
[Sam cringes at the “dear”
and stops. More Knocking.]
It’s locked. Is there a key? Mr. James?
[He turns away from the door
and facing the audience raises his arms and sucks in the air and lets it out
slowly.]
[Lights, if any, start to
fade out]
I’m floating. F L O A T I N
G. F L O A T i n g.
Epilogue
[Marianna, a young looking
sixty-three year old woman, is sitting at a table reading a newspaper and
drinking a cup of tea. It is 1987. She is an artist. An easel with a canvas
sits close by.]
Tragic. The death of a
couple of tourists, in a car accident. And not far from where I was born. Sad.
Visiting their son it says. Don’t recognize the names. - Hit a moose… Oh, there
were lots of them when I was growing up.
Haven’t been back there
since I left. Often thought about it. But life moves on. Can’t go back. But the
memories.
I left when I was seventeen.
Had to. Either that or die. I thought about death. Was going to jump off the
cliffs. I thought it would make me even with them. Thought they’d wish they
hadn’t been so narrow-minded. And I was depressed after the birth. Seventeen!
We lived way over on the far
side of the cove. Only way to get there was by boat or to walk. But that took
an hour or more. Sometimes I rowed the dory over – when the tide was right and
the wind too. It could get rough. I did walk into the village sometimes. Had to
when the weather was bad or dad was out fishing.
We were a large family, like
most families there, I had a lot of sisters – one brother only. He died in the
early days of the War. Dad turned sour then. The only boy. Nine girls. He started
to get religious in a rigid way. He was already pretty down after mum died. She
died of fever when Mary Louise was only four. She was worn out. We girls helped
of course. But one by one my sisters got married or went off in search of work
– or men.
I was only ten when my mum
died. I had to grow up quickly. Became mother to Mary Louise. And became
mistress of the house too. No time for school. But I found time for drawing. I
could spend as much time as I could eek out with my pencil and some scraps of
paper. Freddie liked them. His dad was a fisherman too. Freddie was a little
older than me. He quit school when I was 12 and went out with the men. He was
my best friend. Got engaged to a friend of my sister Mary Ellen.
But dad kept getting darker.
He didn’t go out fishing as much. Sold some of his boats. By the time Mary
Louise was nine, I had to get work. We needed money. I didn’t earn much, but
enough to get us by. I went to work for the priest in his house, the old
rectory. Dad spoke to the priest. I called it the Wreck-tory because it was in
bad shape. He gave me the creeps, the priest. Used to catch him leering at me,
but I told myself I was imagining things, until the day he put his hand on my
breast. Thankfully Antoine, the seminarian, walked in then. He never tried it
again.
I think the Antoine had seen
what Father MacGarrigle had done. Don’t know that they ever spoke of it. I
never did, but I kept my distance. Antoine, he was young and very handsome. Oh
yes. I was about to turn sixteen. He gave me a present, a beautiful rosary.
Said he wanted to make sure I was okay. I knew what he meant… unsaid, but clear
as day.
I was fifteen, going on
sixteen, like that song in the movie said – the one with Julie Andrews. I
didn’t mind when the Antoine came close. He was sweet. Probably only 19 or 20
at the time. One afternoon, when the priest was away, we had sex. - It just
happened. Natural it was. No force, no planning. But you don’t think of the
consequences, not when you are young.
It was a month or more later
that I figured I must be pregnant. No one taught me about sex. I didn’t tell
anyone. Dad just thought I was getting fat at first. But I couldn’t keep it secret forever. No. When
Dad figured it out, men are slow that way, he sent me off to the home run by
the nuns up in town. It was part of the hospital. Catholic of course. Dad was
furious. Called me awful names. Said he didn’t want to see me again.
I don’t hold it against Antoine.
I never told him I was pregnant. No point. He was going off to some parish in
New Brunswick anyway. It would have ruined two lives. I didn’t want that.
Marie Louise was sent off to
the convent school when I was sent away. I never saw her again. When I was at
the home I was treated like a sinner. Maybe I was. But they sure wanted me to
know it. Except for Sister Angelica. She was kind. Not openly, but when the
others weren’t around. And I think she was assigned to me to keep an eye on me…
make sure I did my chores, said my rosary – that sort of thing. But she was
never harsh. She never made me feel bad. She told me God loved everyone and
cared for everyone the same. We had our little secrets. We even giggled. I
don’t think you are supposed to do that in a convent.
I had a hard time toward the
end of my pregnancy. I got to be the size of a house. I don’t know why anyone
has to go through the agony I was going through … I was in a dark space. And I
don’t remember much about the birth except the sweat, the convulsions, the
pain. I was sick after for some time. I never saw my babies. I had two. Sister
Angelica told me. She wanted me to know they were fine. She wasn’t supposed to
tell me. But she thought it would make me happy to know that. She was the only
one who cared for me.
I was just one of several
dirty little girls. She knew what I was thinking. I couldn’t go home. Dad made
that plain. Freddie came to see me once and told me I could go to stay at his
parents’ house for a while to get better. But I wanted to die. Sister Angelica
could see that. She told me I would be fine if I left the village and went away
to discover a new life. I laughed… how was I going to do that? I had no money.
No connexions outside the village. She told me God would look after me and not
to worry. I didn’t know what she meant by that. But I thought to myself: “Yah.
Right!” She said she knew a young soldier who had been badly wounded and was
recovering from his injuries in the infirmary there. He was being discharged
soon. She said she would talk to him about taking me away with him.
Don’t worry, she said. You
won’t have to worry about him. I didn’t know what she meant by that either - until
later.
The soldier and Sister
Angelica had hit it off too. He had a rough time of it. His wounds had been
serious and he had fits and recurring nightmares of the front. But she said he
was a good lad and was going back to Prince Edward Island when he was
discharged. That was in the early spring of 1941.
The morning I left, I found
an envelope by my bed with some money in it – more than I had ever seen. I
didn’t know how it got there, but I suspected Sister Angelica had something to
do with it. Sister Angelica wasn’t there when I left. I never saw her again.
I did go to stay with
Freddie’s parents, but when I went out, I could feel the village eyes on me
wherever I went. I never felt at ease. I wanted my dad and everyone in the
village to feel the pain I was feeling. And the guilt. I’d arranged with the
Soldier, Amory was his name, to meet him at a certain time and place on the day
he was being discharged. [Pause] Oh, Sister Angelica was right. He was a lovely
young man. And she was right. I had nothing to fear.
It was a stormy April
evening. I took my few belongings and asked Amory to meet me up on the cliffs
by the lighthouse. When I got there, the wind was howling and the rain was
pelting. The waves - what a cacophony. I placed my rosary, the one Antoine had
given me, on the ground by the cliff edge. And I placed the shawl I was wearing
that day on the ground close by. When Amory arrived on his motorcycle, - we
rode off. I’d say into the sunset, but there was no sunset.
Perhaps I should have told
Freddy. But he was away fishing at the time. And besides, I needed a new life.
The one Sister Angelica had told me was possible.
Amory was a homosexual. I had never heard the word until then. His
boyfriend had died in the same explosion that he’d been injured. They’d
enlisted together. Had been in the same battalion. No one knew. Of course, back
then it was a serious crime to love someone of your own sex - in that way.
I told Amory we could
pretend to be boyfriend and girlfriend or even get married if he wanted. I had
no interest in men myself at that time. I wanted, as Sister Angelica had said,
to find a new life. And we did just that.
I got work in his Uncle’s
Medical practice in Charlottetown. And I even sold a few of my drawings for
extra money. Amory’s uncle liked my art himself, bought me my first real art
supplies, and eventually helped me set up a little studio there. But Amory
never really settled down. The nights were the worst. I tried hard to help him.
I spoke to his Uncle about it, because I was worried. We got him some pills
that helped him sleep. But after two years he died. Killed himself.
I stayed in PEI for a few
years. Amory’s folks were good to me. Treated me like the daughter–in-law they
thought – or at least hoped – I was. I had some money saved by then.
One summer a gallery owner
from Halifax, came into the studio. He was on holiday. He liked my work and got
me a show in Halifax. I never looked back. I got some big commissions in
Montreal, Toronto, New York – even
Paris. I lived in Paris for several years… me a poor little girl from Cape
Breton.
I often wondered about my
two little babies – What they were doing. How they were doing. But I couldn’t
go back. I was dead. Annie was dead. But Marianna is very much alive.
The
End
Annie’s Song
Annie dear Annie, why did
you go
In tears into darkness, why
did you fly
Your heart so tender, sweet
like a rose
But your wings could not
sweep you into the sky.
REFRAIN:
You had the eyes of an angel
Your smile banished my gloom
Til the day it was stolen
And left you in ruin.
Old Neptune watched from the
sea far below
And welcomed you to his open
embrace
He cradled you gently in
fatherly arms
Bathed in waters of ancient
grace
REFRAIN:
You had the eyes of an angel
Your smile banished my gloom
Til the day it was stolen
Leaving my love in ruin.
Annie, sweet Annie, love of
my youth
You dance on the waves, a
watery sprite
You play with the seals and
sing to the stars
While I sit by in the moon’s
soft light.
REFRAIN:
You had the eyes of an angel
Your smile lit up the room
But when it was stolen
You left me too soon.
About the Script
I wrote this as a stage
play; but first did it as film without a budget and without any sophisticated
equipment. It has been watched by few hundred people but has not received a wide
viewing. In the summer of 2022, I made some changes to the script, re-wrote the
prologue and added a brand new Epilogue for live performances in Ontario and
Nova Scotia. It was performed without a set, lighting, props or sound effects. The
set was created by the actor’s words and movements.
Originally, I perceived this
as a monologue in the theatre of the absurd genre. But as I worked on it more,
it did not fit neatly there. It will be as it will be. Is it a dream? Is it the
character’s reality? Will Sam wake up in his bed? Is he dying? Is this merely
an allegory about a decent into ignorance and a gradual awakening into
self-awareness. The audience will have to decide for themselves.
What’s
in a Name
By Paul Rapsey © 2022, revised 2023
(George Taylor is 75 years old. The stage is set centre with two plain wooden chairs side by side.)
Prologue
(Interior of bus
travelling from Ottawa to Montreal.)
GEORGE:
(George enters wearing
a light jacket, rushing. He mimes getting on bus, handing ticket to driver and
making his way to his seat. Still miming, he puts a knapsack in the overhead
bin. He takes his seat. Settles himself.)
Just caught it in time, -the bus. Heading east. Always
wanted to get back to the ocean. Ever since I was a kid I’ve loved the sea.
Spent a lot of time by the water in the last 40 years -lakes. Not the same
though.
I had to get away. Bus will be okay. Not into flying these
days. Too risky. Not dependable. And the train is way too expensive. Anyway, I
have the time. They say getting there is half the fun.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Glad I got a seat to myself though. I don’t want to get
stuck with someone chatty… Telling you all about their most intimate secret
lives, …or who their grandfather was, or why they hate eating fish… Or shouting
into their cell phone at someone who’s shouting back. No earphones… Or eating
messy food… Chewing with their mouth open, …stuffing their faces with greasy
junk food… Or smelly…probably because of the food they eat… Or someone who
twitches…can’t sit still… Or someone who’s too big for their seat… oozes over
into mine, like it’s their right to do so. Some people have no boundaries. They
get irritated at me if I claim my own space.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I heard about this guy who got his head cut off on a bus a
few years back. Not good publicity for the bus companies if you ask me. Still,
one can’t just stay home. You have to take chances sometimes. Can’t go around
being scared all the time. Like a bunch of sheep. Run if you so much as look
their way. Something like that could happen anywhere these days. People are
crazy. Crazy!
(Sound of bus driving
off. George bounces in his seat)
Off we go. A bit of a jerky start. Hope the guy knows how to
drive this thing.
[Beat]
GEORGE
I heard about this guy on a bus in Mexico. The bus is
running, heading down this road. Music blaring. The driver gets up and dances
with this young woman. People laughing and egging him on, until the guy screamed
at him as the bus was coming to a corner. Stupid idiot driver just made it back
to the steering wheel in time. Could have killed a bunch of people.
[Beat]
GEORGE
Some people think they are invincible. Show offs. No thought
for other people. It’s all about them. That’s why the world is a mess.
(George yawns, get out
his cellphone. looks at the time’)
Nine o’clock. Tired, think I’ll sleep a while.
(George falls asleep.
Lights fade but not to black. Time passes.)
Scene 1
(The the lights come
up again. The journey to Montreal continues. The bus hits a pothole. George
bounces and wakes. He looks out the window, then looks at the time on his phone.)
GEORGE:
Ten fifty. Slept longer than I thought. But then, I have
been awfully tired lately. No routine. That’ll do it.
[Beat]
GEORGE
I met this guy recently. He was sitting at the counter in
this diner. I used to go there for breakfast. He was sitting a couple of stools
down. Not too many people. It wasn’t the best. But it was the closest to where
I lived… Lived. Yah. Moved out. Rent went up.
Soon after I retired the rent went up 30 percent! Can’t find
a place I like for what I can afford to pay right now. So I’m living in
temporary digs.
That’s another reason I’m heading east. Not just to see the
ocean. Although I do want to see the ocean. And I always loved those photos of
old lighthouses out there.
My great-grandfather was a Lighthouse Keeper in Scotland. I
never knew him.
It’s just a holiday. Haven’t had a real one for a few years.
I’ve got this chest thing. A cold I guess. Not really a
cold. More like a cough. But not really a cough either. More like a congestion.
Thought it might be Covid, but it’s not. Anyway, the Ocean
is good for congestion. Salt air is good for the lungs.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Oh yeah. This guy. The one in the diner. He had an accent.
Ozzie maybe. Not sure. Didn’t ask him where he was from. You can get yourself
into trouble asking a question like that these days.
He had long hair. Messy. Tied up in one of those girly
man-buns. Said he played in a band. Long fingers. Amazing.
Nice guy. Younger than me. Familiar face. Anyway, we got
talking.
He was on tour. -Was missing his lady friend. -Well, I think
it was a lady friend. Might have been a guy friend. Can’t tell these days. We
didn’t get into that. Not directly anyway.
He asked me if I had a “partner”. Ha Ha. That’s the safe way
to ask. Or “spouse”. You can say spouse. It’s neutral. Can’t make assumptions
these days, -which suits me.
Yeah. That’s what we were talking about assumptions. Or the
lack of them rather. Boy, was he surprised when I told him I was retired. Said
he had me figured for a lot younger, 55 maybe. Ha Ha. He thought, when I said I
was retired, I meant I was 65. I’m seventy-five, next birthday. Now that’s the
kind of assumption I can live with.
Ha Ha. I didn’t tell him I had him figured out for ten years
older than it turned out he was. No. Some assumptions are good, but some you
have to keep to yourself. Trouble is, sometimes you can’t always tell when to
do that.
Caution is good. Yeah. “Caution is”…. Is what?-Valour… No,
it’s “Discretion is the better part of valour.”
Nice guy though. He said “George, I know you’ll like it out
east.”
Asked me how long I’d be there. I said I didn’t know.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I was surprised to find out there’s no bus service there. No
trains either. So a person needs a car to get around the province. Not like
Europe I guess, where trains and buses can take you everywhere, -not just in
the cities.
That guy, Bill, he told me he’s played a lot of gigs out east.
Moncton, Halifax, Sydney, and a bunch of towns I’d never heard of.
Fiddle. That’s what he plays.
When he heard I didn’t know anyone out there, he wrote down
the name and phone number of a friend of his in Halifax. He said she could help
me out when I got there, if I wanted.
Her name…
(Gets out a piece of
paper from his pocket. Reads) Hard to read. Lousy handwriting. Need my
glasses. They’re up there (Points to
overhead bin) in my knapsack.
Huh. Looks like (he
squints) “Agnes Day”. A bit smudged. Pretty sure it’s Agnes anyway.
Wonder if she’s related to Doris Day. Ha Ha.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Doris Day. She was my secret love when I was a kid growing
up. Went to all her films. I knew all about her.
Of course, she wasn’t “Doris Day” when she was born. No. She
was born Doris Kappellhoff. Ha Ha.
No wonder she changed her name. Who’d want to be stuck with
that moniker –especially in the movies!
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Maybe Agnes is really Agnes Daigledorf -something like that.
Could be anything. What’s in a name? (ponders)
A lot I think.
Maybe a rose by any other name would smell so sweet, but “Kappellhoff”
wouldn’t have hit the lights, not in Hollywood anyway. Not back then at least.
Maybe I will get in touch with Bill’s friend, the Agnes
woman. I’ll see. I’m booked into a B and B there. Just want to hang out for a
bit once I get there.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
My dad was stationed in Halifax at the end of the War. –“The
War”. Ha! As if there’s only been one. The Second World War. My dad said
Halifax back then was a dreary place.
Bill, he’s the guy I met at the diner, he told me Halifax is
a happening place today, at least musically I guess.
It’s on the sea. That’s all I care.
(George bounces in his
seat)
Whoa. Some bump! Must be in Quebec. Roads are bad there I’ve
heard.
(George looks out the
window)
Getting built up. (Looks
at the time on his phone) Must be getting close to Montreal.
[Fade to black]
Scene II
GEORGE:
(George wakes. Still
on the bus now travelling from Montreal to Edmunston, New Brunswick. He is
sitting alone. Looks at the seat next to him)
Thank god. He’s gone. Got on at Montreal. Never shut up.
He had headphones on. Sat there bouncing up and down, all
those gyrations- and letting out these loud sounds. Finally the bus driver told
him to cool it.
The guy looked at me like I’d done something wrong. Spoiled
his fun. But it wasn’t me. I was just trying to ignore him. Hard enough to do.
He must have gotten off while I was sleeping.
Only discovered my knapsack was gone at the next stop. It
had my sandwiches in it. -Just a few bits of clothing. And my glasses.
Fortunately not my wallet or phone. They were in my jacket. The bus is cool. My
change purse though. That’s gone. Twonies and loonies mostly, and some small
bills. Only about thirty dollars fortunately.
Funny though. It reminds me of the last time I was in Montreal.
I was only nineteen. I was working the summer at a resort east of Quebec City.
I was heading home to Ontario for a few days, -for my
brother’s wedding. Just before I left, I discovered my tip money was gone, -stolen.
I’d kept it in my dresser drawer in the staff lodging.
Foolish I guess. But I was young –and trusting.
That was over fifty years ago, so $150 was a big deal. Might
have been $200 even. I was a good waiter.
Anyway, it was more than enough to get a train to Kingston and
back at the time. That’s where my folks were living then.
But I had to hitch hike. Only got as far as Montreal. It was
hard to get a ride through to Kingston. The roads around Montreal are a mess,
or at least they were back then.
I was dropped off in downtown Montreal. I didn’t have enough
on me for the train- or the bus. I really didn’t know what to do.
The wedding was only 2 days away. No credit card back then
of course. I did have my cheque book, but the guy at the bus station wouldn’t
take a cheque.
Finally I had to pee. I went down to the washroom area at
the bus station. And there were phones down there. I didn’t want to, but I
thought maybe my parents could do something if I called. –It would have had to
be a collect call.
But then I saw this gaggle of nuns standing by the phones.
They still wore those burka outfits back then. Not really burkas. I mean you
could see their eyes and nose and mouth. But that was all.
They were speaking French, of course. I spoke pretty fair
French back then. Not Quebec French though. I got lost when the other waiters
at the resort got talking amongst themselves. Gave me a headache trying to
understand.
I did speak French though. I had to. I mean I was working in
Quebec for the summer after all. My dad got me the job. A business connexion.
But the nuns were speaking a French I could understand.
My mind was working at a pace. Finally, I got up my nerve. I
went up and told the one who seemed to be the leader of the pack that my
grandfather had died and the funeral Mass for him was in two days.
Haven’t a clue where that story came from. In retrospect it
was brilliant.
I said I needed to get there but I’d been robbed. I didn’t
have money for the bus home, but I could give them a cheque if they’d loan me
the money.
They were very sympathetic and back then I think looked like
an innocent, an angel even. And I got so worked up, nerves I guess, that the
tears in my eyes must have sparkled.
I put on a real show. Oh yes, I said all the right things. I
wasn’t even a Catholic, -Anglican, so close enough. I knew enough of the right
words anyway.
Well, they did loan me the money, and I did write them a
cheque, and I gave them my contact information. -Well, the information was on
the cheque after all.
The wedding was a bust. That marriage didn’t last long
either. I’ve never liked weddings anyway. I didn’t hang around Kingston long.
I went back to the resort ‘til school started again in the
fall. I had been planning on a career in the diplomatic service. That’s why I’d
kept up my French studies.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Then, about a month after I got back to college, I received
this letter from somewhere in Saskatchewan. It was from a convent out there.
My cheque had bounced!
I was sure I was going to Hell. I still believed in god back
then… the punishing kind.
The letter was very nice, but very guilt inducing.
You see, I’d closed my account in Quebec after my summer job
ended. The nuns mustn’t have cashed the cheque very promptly, because I was
sure I’d had the funds in my summer account to repay them when I wrote the
cheque.
I’m not sure to this day why I hadn’t gone to the bank to
get cash before I headed to Kingston. But I had been depending on that tip
money I’d stashed away. Just wasn’t thinking too clearly I guess.
Well, I wrote them the nicest letter of apology. I explained
what must have happened. And I sent them another cheque in the mail to repay
them and with a good little donation added on.
I figured I needed all the help in life I could get. Maybe
they’d pray for me and it would wipe out my lie.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I never heard back from them though. So I’ve never been sure
which side of the divide I’m on.
[BEAT]
GEORGE:
Explains a lot about my life.
I never did go in for the diplomatic corps. I dropped out of
college.
The closet door was just starting to open for me. That was
in the late 1960s. I fought it because back then you couldn’t be a homosexual
and a diplomat. They were afraid of blackmail. Thought you’d be a push over.
Even though they were talking about changing some of the
laws, that didn’t happen soon enough. Not for me anyway.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Oh well, I would have made a lousy diplomat anyway. Never
suffered fools gladly.
Don’t like pretentious people either. I’m more a down to
earth kind of guy. Call a spade a spade.
Probably why I never got ahead in this life.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Looks like we’re stopping. (Pause. George jerks in his seat as the bus stops. Looks out window. Wipes
the window with his sleeve. Looks again.)
Oh no! …Looks like a nun is getting on.
[Fade to black]
Scene III
GEORGE:
(Still on the bus, now
travelling from Fredericton to Moncton, New Brunswick)
Well, she sat next to me, the nun. My luck. She only stayed
on until the stop in Fredericton.
She was nice enough. Young too.
These days they don’t wear the same outfit they used to. Can
hardly tell they are nuns, except some of them still wear a head dress of sorts
and the outfits are usually grey in colour. Oh yes, and then there’s the cross
they have around their neck.
She read most of the way. Or tried to. Hummed a bit. The
tune… it’s in my head. I’ve heard it somewhere before….
She said she was a teacher. We talked a bit, -quite a bit. I
think I did most of the talking, but she started it.
She asked me where I was going. So I told her. She said I
should try and get to Cape Breton while I was in Nova Scotia. She said it was a
special place and if I liked the sea, I’d like it there. Trouble is, she said it
is far from Halifax. She told me if I didn’t have a car it would be a problem
for me to get around.
That’s the second time I’ve heard that.
If it was meant to be it would be, she said.
I told her I had been given the name of someone in Halifax
who might be able to help me out. She smiled and said it is good to use
resources offered to us.
She had one of those faces that told you that you could tell
her your innermost secrets. I chatted away like a wren. But she had asked me
about myself after all. Not that she expected the encyclopedic version that
ensued.
I told her it had been a hard ten years after my partner,
David, had been diagnosed with cancer. I didn’t mention his name. I used the
indefinite “partner” rather than “David”. But she was smarter than I thought.
She quickly referred to David as “him”.
We’d had a good life ‘til then. Thirty years at the time.
Had a nice home. Travelled. Then he went on disability. Fortunately our income
stayed pretty good. But it was a difficult time. He died just after our 41st
anniversary. Almost four years ago now.
We went into debt paying for drugs that weren’t covered. -Trips
to Mexico to see natural healers. All sorts of therapies.
David wanted so desperately to hang onto life. I wanted him to
hang on to life too. But it was exhausting.
We had to sell the house. I gave up a promotion I’d wanted because
I couldn’t commit to more responsibility.
When he died, I was relieved at first. Then, the emptiness
hit. And the financial mess we were in took its toll… -Forced me to make some
hard decisions.
I had worked beyond retirement age, -had to. But I retired
in the last year of David’s life so I could look after him at home. I am glad I
was able to do that.
But my Lamb had died. (pause)
Oh dear, yes. We called each other “Lamb”. Embarrassing. Got that term from
older friends. She always called her husband “Lamb”. It stuck.
Sometimes David was “Lamb Chops”; sometimes, if he was in a
teasing mood, I was “Lamb Droppings”. -Just to ourselves of course.
But one lamb is lonely, a lost creature. -I was lost. David
was dead. My partner and my best friend was dead.
And people I’d worked with for decades quickly forgot about
me after I’d retired.
But then, I had been preoccupied with looking after David
for so long.
And I was stuck living in an apartment I could no longer
afford and never really liked anyway. I needed to get away to figure things
out.
She listened quietly, the nun, without saying much.
I asked her her name. “Sister Susan”, she said. She was on her
way to Fredericton. A Catholic school there. She taught biology and music.
She told me she was originally from Cape Breton. Her father
had a farm, -a sheep farm, in some big valley there. She said it was beautiful,
-pastoral.
I asked her about the song she’d been humming. She wasn’t
aware she’d been humming. She apologized. She said sometimes she just catches
herself.
I told her not to worry. I said I’d heard the tune before
but couldn’t remember where, or why I remembered it.
But she didn’t know what she’d been humming. She hoped it
hadn’t bothered me.
I said; “No”.
She asked if I liked music. I laughed. “Yes”, I said, but I
am a lousy singer. Music at school was compulsory; however the teacher
eventually asked me to just mouth the words. Sister Susan frowned at that.
She was a good listener. She said she hoped I would find
happiness again in time. She felt that I would. I was “a good person”, she said.
But she didn’t use the “G” word or the “J” word. She only
said I had to have faith that I was capable of a good life.
Yes, she spoke about “goodness”, not “godness”. I related to
that.
When David was so sick, I didn’t experience God in action,
but I experienced a lot of good caring people.
Sister Susan told me that life was a journey. She said I had
to be open to embracing the new sights and new opportunities.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
As she was getting off, she stopped and turned. She called
out: “Agnes Day”. She smiled. “Lovely”, she said. “Have a nice journey.”
And she was gone.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I don’t remember talking about Agnes to her? (pause, shrugs) I must have I guess. I
talked about everything else.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I keep hearing that tune in my head –I likely will for the
rest of the trip.
(Music: Mozart’s Angus
Dei fades in playing several bars.)
[Fade to black]
Scene IV
GEORGE:
(Still on the bus, now
travelling from Moncton, New Brunswick to Halifax, Nova Scotia.)
When we got to Moncton, the bus driver got off to eat. So I
got off too and had a hamburger, -since the food I’d brought had gone off with
my knapsack.
While I was sitting there, I noticed this framed picture hanging
behind the counter. It was a bit worn but it caught my eye.
It was a picture of a very young lamb curled up in a snow
bank. This dog, a border collie I think, was standing over it with its head
held high, barking -or maybe it was howling.
The waitress saw me looking at it. She said her grandmother
had the same picture. She always liked it. The lamb was lost in a snow storm,
she said, and it had been found by the shepherd’s dog and it was raising the
alarm.
It was a powerful image really...-a lamb and dog.
Anyway, while I was eating my burger, this guy was sitting
at the next table. A sailor it turned out. Sailors like to talk. I know; I was
on the ships too until I was almost thirty-one. Almost ten years at sea, -after
I dropped out of college. So we had a lot to talk about.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I had no idea I’d ever be a sailor when I was growing up. I
didn’t really know what I wanted to be. After I quit college, I went off to
Europe for a year. Just hitchhiking around. Staying in youth hostels. Hanging
out.
That’s when you could do Europe on the cheap. I had this big
book, “Europe on Five Dollars a Day”, -or was it ten?
I ended up in England for Christmas that year. I met this
guy in London on New Year’s Eve –at Trafalgar Square. He was a Portuguese
sailor, -on leave.
After the midnight celebration, we ended up back where he
was staying. A tiny room. A garret I guess you’d say.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Lost my virginity that night. Yes, a late bloomer. (pause) It’s the only time I’ve enjoyed
losing something.
A nice guy. We hung out together while he was in London.
I had always thought sailors were rough fellows. He wasn’t.
He liked classical music. Fancy food. Nice clothes.
He told me I might like it on the sea. He talked about all
the places he’d been. It sounded exciting, so I joined the Seafarers International
Union when I got back to Canada.
I travelled all over. -Saw things I’d never dreamed of. Made
a bundle. Spent it too.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Hadn’t thought about that time for ages. The people I’d met.
(pause) Memories.
Once, I got drunk in a bar in Cape Town. I was only in port
a few days. Got seduced by this woman. The only time I ever slept with a woman.
Her name…? (he thinks)
Margaret -no Marguerite. Nice woman. An artist I think. A little older than me
at the time.
But it didn’t do the trick. There were no bells going off.
I quit seafaring soon after I met David. I was 31; he was
only 25. He was finishing law school at the time.
I couldn’t believe that a young lawyer would be interested
in me. I never finished college. After I gave up going to sea, I got a job in a
bank. Worked my way up. You could do that then.
I always missed the sea though. Oh, David and I would go
places by the sea when we went south, -on winter vacations. But it wasn’t the
same.
Still, I have to say we had a good life together, -until he
got so sick.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I think I will look up this Agnes woman. Bill’s friend. The
musician I met.
Sister Susan said we had to take advantage of help when it’s
offered. Something like that.
If I like it out east I might even buy myself a small house
out there. Sea view. Oh yes, it has to have a sea view.
I’ve heard real estate is relatively inexpensive out there.
We went through most of our savings. But eventually I got a
life insurance payment, and I have my own pension. So I’ll be fine.
I’ll buy myself a car. David would like that. It seems I’ll
need one to get around.
I haven’t driven in years. Haven’t needed to in the city.
When we needed a car, we’d rent.
David was the driver most of the time. In more ways than
one.
I didn’t mind.
[Fade to black]
Scene V
(If there is a stage
crew, the chairs can be removed. If not, they can stay.)
GEORGE:
(George is in Halifax.
Standing centre stage. He is talking on his cell phone.)
Okay. I’ll meet you there then. Thanks.
(George ends call.)
I’ve been in Halifax a little over a week. The bus trip was
good for the most part. Except the creep who stole my knapsack. And the woman
who got on after Moncton. Sat herself by me while I was sleeping.
She poked me, woke me up and said I was snoring.
She seemed friendly enough, at least until she complained
that my elbow was in her ribs.
I was tired of holding my arms close. They must have
slipped.
And then later she poked me again and said I was humming and
it sounded like a cow in labour.
I wasn’t aware I was humming, at least out loud. It’s that
damn tune. The one Sister Susan hummed.
Finally she got up and said she wasn’t interested in who my damned
Scottish grandfather was and she stormed off to a seat somewhere at the back of
the bus.
I was just trying to be a little friendly. Anyway, it was my
great grandfather.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
What a grouch!
Well, Agnes has been a big help since I got here. She has
been showing me around.
She tells me that Bill will be coming with his band to play
in town in a few weeks. The tour out west was cancelled due to Covid.
Bill, she calls him Willie, was the son of a friend of hers.
He’s been in Canada almost thirty years apparently. Left South Africa when he
was 19. She said it was because of apartheid.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I thought he was Australian, -an Ozzie. But then I always
get the Australian and South African accents mixed up. But I should have known.
Bill’s mum died a few years ago. She was an artist, -a
painter Agnes said. She came to Canada after Bill. She’d been a single mum
raising Bill.
When she came to visit Bill, she met and married a fellow in
Montreal.
Agnes told me that Bill’s birth father, -she called him “the
sperm donor”, she said he had been an “itinerant sailor”. (pause) A Canadian.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
This was all too strange. I thought it was too much of a
coincidence. The place, the timing, -the events.
I had to ask Agy, that’s what she likes to be called, -I had
to ask her what Bill’s mother’s name was.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
“Maggy” she said. “Like Agy, but with an ‘M’.”
I said, “I mean her full name.”
“Marguerite Van Rheede”, she said. “Why?”
[BEAT]
GEORGE:
“Just curious”, I said.
Don’t know if I should say what I’m thinking yet.
I think I’ll wait ‘til Bill gets into town. (pause) Anyway, he may not be interested
in finding his birth father. I won’t push it.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Oh, and it’s Agnes “Daygle”, -D A Y G L E. Not “Day”. Bill’s
writing is not the best. In fact, it is downright awful. And I didn’t have my
glasses anyway.
Agy laughed when I had called her that first time, -after
I’d been in Halifax a few days. I had asked to speak to “Agnes Day”.
She said that it wasn’t the first time someone had called
her that.
Then, she asked me if I knew the music?
“What music?” I asked.
She hummed it. She had a beautiful voice. It was the music
that Sister Susan had been humming on the bus.
I told Agy that the tune had been driving me nuts. It was buzzing
around in my head practically the whole bus trip.
She said it was Mozart, -an ecclesiastical song. Latin:
Agnus [Ag-ñoose] Dei [Day-ee].
It means “Lamb of God”.
Worthy is the lamb, she said.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Worthy is the lamb?
Yes I thought, the lamb is worthy.
And I am the lamb.
Yes I, George Taylor, -I am worthy!
The whole trip I had missed the signs: Lamb with dog, Lamb
of God; Agnes Day, Agnus Dei.
[Beat]
Sister Susan said we have to seize opportunities offered to
us. Something like that.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
I’ll be staying in Nova Scotia. I’m meeting Agy now and she is
taking me to look at a used car a friend of hers is selling.
And next week we are going to look at a small house up the
coast. It’s just come on the market. Agy knows it. She thinks I will like it.
And there’s an old working lighthouse within sight of it!
[Beat]
GEORGE:
“If it’s meant to be it will be”, Sister Susan said.
Que será será.
[Beat]
GEORGE:
Heh! That’s my favourite Doris Day song!
What will be, will be.
(Doris Day singing
‘Que Será Será plays as the lights slowly fade to black. George mouths the
words.)
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