The Cave Painter & The Woodcutter
Page 9
It should a been Bobby the first maybe, then he wouldn’t a tried ta save his sister. He wouldn’t a woke up. I wish I’d done it right, simple, like they died in their sleep, like they said Gram did. But I didn’t. There’s so much blood, like everywhere, and ya think ya know how ta go about somethin’, but once ya start it’s all different, and they won’t lie still. “It’s for yer own good,” I’m sayin, “I know, ’cause there’s no better life.” And poor Brittie’s so scared and screamin’ and…
Bobby comes at me, he comes in at me.
“Don’t,” I says. “Don’t.”
I clean’m up as best I can, and—
Put’m both on the one bed beside each other. Bobby with his arms around her.
Like they’re still sleepin’.
And put a note on the door for Angie, “Don’t come in. Call the cops.”
Then I started drivin’. Ditched the car, walked till I come here, wherever here is. I could give a fuck.
They better not find me. There’s been enough trouble already, enough talk about my family.
Just wanna stay here till it’s done.
And Angie. I didn’t do it ta get at her—she had nothin’ ta do with it, really, I don’t think. I feel terrible ’bout her, no doubt about it. Hope she didn’t go in. Wouldn’t serve her right after all, no sir. Cops is useta lookin’ at things like that. S’their job.
Bobby?
Brittie?
He takes off his coat; his shirt is covered with dried blood. He folds the coat up and puts in on the cleared ground. A pillow. He starts to shiver.
Their pictures’ll all be on the TV. And everybody’s probably all parading by the house, the whole fuckin’ countryside, day and night. Bringin’ flowers and candles, I bet. Pilin’ them up out front. Leavin’ little notes my kids won’t ever read. And they’ll be stickin’ teddy bears and dolls on ta the fence there. I don’t get that. Gets all soggy outdoors, turns right ta mush.
A week ago, none a those people’d give my kids the time a day. Pick on’m all a time. Sheila from the school there and her mother are probably on the TV talkin’ about how Brittie was her best friend. Boo hoo hoo. God, I hate that. I just hate that.
I feel so bad.
No kid a mine is ever gonna feel as miserable as this. Not ever again.
I couldn’t bear it if they grew up and felt this bad.
So now they won’t.
He lies down, his head on the coat.
He curls up, starts to rock slowly. After a few moments he starts to sing in rhythm to the rocking.
“Tell me the stories of Jesus I love to hear;
Things I would ask Him to tell me if He were here;
Scenes by the wayside, tales of the sea,
Stories of Jesus, tell them…”
He stops singing. He lies shivering as the light fades.
End.
This book is for Doug
“I am happyhappyhappy to be here with the stars and the logs”
—Mary Ruefle, “Timberland”
Playwright's Thanks
The playwright would like to thank:
The Canada Council for the Arts
Jenny Munday
Kim McCaw
Joan MacLeod
André Alexis
Mark Jenkins
The Playwrights Atlantic Resource Centre
The Canadian Centre for Theatre Creation
Playwrights Theatre Centre
Green College
NotaBle Acts Theatre Festival
Len Falkenstein
Diane Martin
Martin Kinch
Jane Heather, Trevor Leigh, Garry Williams and Marilyn Norrie
Betty Lou Daye
Gary Akenhead
The Parkdale branch of the Toronto Public Library
DON HANNAH is a playwright, dramaturge, and novelist who divides his time between Toronto and Nova Scotia. He was the inaugural Lee Playwright in Residence at the University of Alberta, and, most recently, was writer in residence at UBC’s Green College, and for the NotaBle Acts Theatre Festival. As a dramaturge, he has worked with playwrights from across the country, and for five years was on the faculty of the Banff Playwrights Colony. His published plays include the collection Shoreline and While We’re Young. His novel Ragged Islands received the Thomas H. Raddall Atlantic Fiction Prize. The Cave Painter was awarded the 2012 Carol Bolt Award.