by James Morrow
SUSAN: Oh, dear.
MAURICE: (shoving bowl toward Susan) Would you like some dirt?
SUSAN: NO, thank you.
ARABELLA: Time for bed, Maurice.
MAURICE: (rising, to Susan) Would you like to see my coffin?
SUSAN: Not right now. (to Arabella) We might want to interview Maurice later. Will it be hard to wake him up?
ARABELLA: (shaking head) Zombies can’t sleep—but, they do need their rest.
MAURICE: Once you’ve experienced ontological oblivion, insomnia doesn’t seem so bad.
ARABELLA: (to zombie) Big day tomorrow, Maurice, deworming all those tomatoes.
MAURICE: May I read in bed?
ARABELLA: (assenting) Lights out by 9:30.
A moan signals the return of another zombie.
ARABELLA: (cont’d) Come in, Gaston!
Maurice removes Heidegger’s Being and Time from the bookcase and, still gripping his dinner, exits toward the cellar stairs.
ARABELLA: (cont’d) Now that you’ve seen what they’re like, do you still want to…?
SUSAN: I’m not going to enjoy it, but… yes, I want to meet him.
Susan’s resurrected husband, now called GASTON, enters from the foyer: pale face, black eyes, shambling gait. He wears ragged clothes and a torn felt hat.
Gaston takes the second dirt meal from the bookcase, flops down on the loveseat, and speaks. His voice is toneless, but we still detect a note of exasperation.
GASTON: God, what a day! “Gaston, read us a story.” “Gaston, tie my shoes.” “Gaston, give me a horsy-back ride.”
Gaston spoons dirt into his mouth.
ARABELLA: (to Susan) Gaston baby-sits for Mrs. Fishbine every day, so she can work the cash register at Home Depot.
GASTON: “Gaston, I have to go potty.” “Gaston, we want to see Toy Story.”
SUSAN: Hello, Herman. (American pronunciation) Gaston.
GASTON: (French) Gaston.
SUSAN: (French) Gaston.
Gingerly, she joins him on the loveseat.
GASTON: Susan? Is that you?
SUSAN: Uh-huh.
ARABELLA: I’ll leave you two alone.
Still holding cantaloupe, Arabella exits toward the kitchen.
GASTON: So… how’s life?
SUSAN: I’m doing okay.
GASTON: “Doing okay.” That’s good, isn’t it?
SUSAN: Our daughter’s about to graduate from Villanova.
GASTON: (straining to feel) Well, well. (beat) You appear to be quite healthy, Susan.
SUSAN: I feel great. They found a lump in my breast last month, but it was benign.
GASTON: My, my. (proffers bowl) Would you like some dirt?
SUSAN: I just had dinner. (earnest) Tell me what it’s like.
GASTON: Dirt?
SUSAN: Death.
GASTON: A phenomenologist might put it this way, “There is nothing that being dead is like.”
SUSAN: (feigning comprehension) I see.
GASTON: (indicating candle) I can tell you this candle is red, but I don’t experience the redness. (touches Susan’s cheek) I know your cheek is soft, but the softness doesn’t register. My reality is devoid of sensation. All qualia are absent. I think this suggests that consciousness is not supervenient on the physical, but reflects an as yet undiscovered property of the universe, wouldn’t you agree?
SUSAN: (perplexed) Yes. (beat) But do you feel exploited, Herman?
GASTON: Gaston.
SUSAN: Gaston.
GASTON: Exploited?
SUSAN: Some people think zombies should be outlawed in Montrose. Last week the Borough Council appointed a Public Safety Committee. We’re meeting with Ms. LeGrand tonight: me… and Reverend Larkin… and—
GASTON: Reverend Larkin? Yuck. (mimicry) “Now you too can be part of our wonderful new expedition to find the Holy Grail. Just send your hard-earned cash to Radio Station WQRX.”
SUSAN: (chagrined) He gives the Committee a certain moral authority. Whatever we decide, the Borough Council will go along with it.
GASTON: “It is easier for a poor man to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich camel to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” (to Susan) Who else is coming over? Richard Nixon?
Susan blanches slightly: Ben Grigsby is not a comfortable topic.
SUSAN: The County Health Inspector. You know, Ben Grigs—
GASTON: Ben Grigsby? That chucklehead got reelected? He stuffed the ballot box all over again?
SUSAN: Ben never stuffed the ballot box. That was just a rumor…
GASTON: Maybe I wasn’t the ideal campaign manager, Susan, but I never recruited any voters for you in Greenbriar Cemetery.
SUSAN: …and the second time around, there was no controversy at all. Ben earned every vote he got. (uncertain) I’m sure of it.
GASTON: You mean the people actually wanted him? That’s even worse! If I was alive, I’d be glad I didn’t live to see it.
SUSAN: (confused) Yes. (beat) Ben believes he can prove that zombies are a public health hazard.
GASTON: I’ll be honest, Susan: I used to worry that you and Ben had a thing for each other—back when you were both on that Sewer Study Task Force. Imagine that.
SUSAN: (forced sincerity) Imagine that.
GASTON: You were so dedicated to that task force.
SUSAN: Montrose has a lot sewers.
GASTON: You know something? Ben’s wife had the same suspicions I did.
SUSAN: How … suspicious of her. (the subject must change) So your preference would be for Ms. LeGrand to stay in business, right?
GASTON: The dead have no preferences.
SUSAN: If you could persuade her to let everybody in Montrose have a zombie… even wealthy people… I’m sure the Public Safety Committee would—
Arabella enters, sans cantaloupe. Her sudden appearance cuts Susan off. Gaston yawns.
GASTON: That was a yawn, wasn’t it? I must be tired.
ARABELLA: Your coffin’s waiting.
GASTON: (to his wife, portentously) You have much to think about, Susan.
Gaston rises from the loveseat and, grasping his dirt bowl, stumbles toward the bookcase. He removes a copy of Immanuel Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason.
GASTON: (cont’d) Goodnight, everyone.
SUSAN: Goodnight, Gaston.
ARABELLA: NO reading after 9:30.
Dirt and philosophy in hand, Gaston exits toward the cellar stairs.
Someone knocks on the front door. Suddenly galvanized, Arabella rushes toward the loveseat, lifts a cushion, and pulls out a cloth voodoo doll.
SUSAN: What’s that?
ARABELLA: I made it in the likeness of your friend Commissioner Grigsby. (pointedly) Your good friend Commissioner Grigsby.
She removes a pair of scissors from her shoulder bag.
ARABELLA: (cont’d) All I need is a DNA sample.
Another round of knocking. Arabella puts the doll and the scissors in her skirt pocket.
SUSAN: None of your cheap voodoo tricks, Ms. LeGrand. This case must be decided on its merits alone.
ARABELLA: No case is ever decided on its merits alone. That’s why there’s a Susan Wingrove Campaign Fund. (responds to knocking) Come in!
BEN GRIGSBY, the smooth and opportunistic County Health Inspector, sweeps into the room holding a black satchel.
BEN: An open sewer, right in the middle of Montrose! A pest hole of filth and contagion! (notices Susan) Hello, Susan. (forced professionalism) Mayor.
Ben and Susan trade freighted glances.
SUSAN: Hello, Ben. Ms. LeGrand, this is Ben Grigsby, County Health Inspector.
ARABELLA: So I gather. Would you like some dirt, Inspector?
Ben frowns, sets his satchel on the coffee table, and takes out four jars, each filled with a colored liquid reagent.
BEN: (to Susan) Our paths don’t seem to cross much these days, Susan.
>
SUSAN: Whose fault is that?
Maurice enters from the cellar stairwell, carrying his copy of Being and Time, which he evidently found impenetrable. He approaches the bookcase, reshelves the Heidegger, and selects Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil. As he starts back toward the cellar, Ben blocks his path.
BEN: Stop, dead man! Don’t move!
Maurice freezes. Ben sniffs the zombie head to foot.
BEN: (cont’d) Just as I suspected—he smells bad! (to Susan) A breeding ground for plague!
Ben returns to the coffee table and removes four tools from his satchel: syringe, tweezers, medicine dropper, Q-Tip.
BEN: (cont’d) A walking toxic-waste dump!
ARABELLA: His name is Maurice.
SUSAN: DO you have any tea, Ms. LeGrand? It’s going to be a long evening.
ARABELLA: Everything’s in the kitchen. Help yourself.
Susan heads into the kitchen. Nietzsche in hand, Maurice starts to exit.
BEN: Stay right there Maurice. This scientific investigation has barely begun.
A brief comedic ballet follows as Ben collects four samples from Maurice and transfers them to the reagent jars.
BEN: (cont’d) Let’s see: we’ll need (wields syringe) two cc’s of blood… (uses tweezers) a skin sample… (inserts medicine dropper) an ounce of saliva… (swizzles Q-Tip) and a bit of ear wax.
Taking out her scissors, Arabella sneaks up behind Ben and snips off a lock of his hair.
BEN: (to Maurice) Okay, dead man, you’re done.
As Maurice shuffles out of the room, Arabella retrieves a bottle of rubber cement from her shoulder bag and surreptitiously affixes the lock to the doll. She slips the cement and the doll into her skirt. Ben meanwhile seizes the first reagent jar and shakes it.
BEN: (cont’d) This reagent will tell the tale. Organic chemistry never lies.
He holds the jar up to the light.
BEN: (cont’d) Hah! Just as I suspected, Ms. LeGrand! Your zombies are carrying amoebic dysentery!
Arabella turns away from Ben, takes out the doll, and proceeds to tickle it. Though obviously perplexed by the sensation, Ben can’t help giggling.
Regaining his composure, he sets down the dysentery experiment, holds up the second reagent jar, and shakes it.
BEN: And here we have… Asiatic cholera!
Arabella extends her index finder and jabs it into the doll’s stomach.
Ben suddenly clutches his belly and gasps. Despite his confusion, he manages to set down the second reagent jar, grab the third, and examine it.
BEN: (cont’d) Jackpot! African sleeping sickness!
As Ben sets down the jar, Arabella puts the doll through a series of bizarre gyrations. Wholly against his will, Ben mimics the doll’s convulsive dance.
Susan enters carrying a tea tray: pot, cups, sugar, cream. For an instant she simply stands in place, perplexed by Ben’s antics. Sizing up the situation, she sets down the tray and yells at Arabella.
SUSAN: Stop that, Ms. LeGrand! You stop that!
Arabella returns the doll to her skirt pocket. Ben regains control of himself. He glances in all directions, trying to discover the source of his recent spasms.
SUSAN: (cont’d) Ben, this woman is devious!
A knock on the door.
ARABELLA: Come in!
Ben holds up the fourth reagent jar, shakes it, and prepares to pronounce on the result.
REVEREND JEREMIAH LARKIN strides into the room. He is an imposing man whose worldview derives largely from St. Paul’s First Letter to the Republicans.
SUSAN: Hello, Reverend Larkin.
BEN: Syphilis!
JEREMIAH: What?
ARABELLA: (to Ben, angry) Oh, please let’s be honest, Inspector. The minute I let you have one of your own, you’ll decide my zombies aren’t a health hazard after all. But I won’t do it. No zombie for Ben Grigsby, who inherited one million dollars from his Uncle Alex. (points to Susan) No zombie for Mayor Wingrove, who pulls in an extra two hundred thousand a year as the landlord of Skyview Terrace. (points to Jeremiah) No zombie for Reverend Larkin, whose radio station clears an annual profit equal to the budget of Guatemala.
JEREMIAH: Costa Rica.
BEN: (to Jeremiah) You’re late.
JEREMIAH: Sorry. I decided to walk. (rubs his chest and winces) Doctor Merrick said it’s good for the heart. His heart maybe, not mine. (gasps) Christ had the Via Dolorosa. I have a cholesterol count of 345.
As Susan pours Jeremiah a cup of tea, he staggers into the loveseat and pulls out a pill bottle. The minister removes a pill, lobs it into his mouth, and washes it down with tea.
BEN: (indicating fourth jar) The proof is irrefutable. These corpses are harboring four different epidemic diseases. The Borough Council will have no choice but to ban them!
Gaston shuffles in from the cellar stairwell, wearing a sour expression and clutching his copy of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. He reshelves it and selects Heidegger’s Being and Time instead.
Transcending his pain, Jeremiah rises from the loveseat and blocks the zombie’s path.
JEREMIAH: Herman? Herman Wingrove? Remember me? Your minister?
GASTON: I’m Gaston now.
JEREMIAH: Tell me honestly, Herman. Wouldn’t you be better off dead?
GASTON: I am dead.
JEREMIAH: Dead and buried, I mean.
GASTON: All phenomenological experience is beyond me.
Jeremiah confronts Arabella with a full measure of his wrath.
JEREMIAH: How evil of you, Arabella LeGrand! How cruel! To create beings who are incapable of (mispronounces) phomenalogical experience!
GASTON: It’s not so bad. I used to get migraines.
JEREMIAH: I’ll bet Mrs. Wingrove could have an adulterous love affair right in front of Mr. Wingrove, and he wouldn’t feel one tittle of jealousy!
BEN: (joining in) Somebody could kiss Mrs. Wingrove right now, and Mr. Wingrove wouldn’t even care.
GASTON: Ben Grigsby? Is that really you? (to Arabella) This is the man I was telling you about, the one who gets corpses to vote for him.
BEN: Susan, I think we should put Reverend Larkin’s theory to the test.
He sweeps Susan into his arms and kisses her passionately. Against her better judgment, Susan reciprocates.
Gaston’s only response is to decide against the Heidegger volume. He reshelves it. Jeremiah studies Gaston’s impassive face.
JEREMIAH: Not a twitch!
Ben pulls Susan onto the loveseat, and they engage in a bizarre variety of necking, half passionate, half clinical. Jeremiah leads the impassive Gaston toward the couple.
JEREMIAH: (cont’d) Not a twinge! Not a flicker! Not a blip! (to Arabella, indicating Gaston) Do you realize what you’ve done, Arabella LeGrand? Shame on you! You’ve stolen this man’s soul! In a Godless age, who will protect the rights of the undead?
Jeremiah climbs onto the coffee table, the better to study the whole group. Inspired by his newfound elevation, he behaves as if commanding a pulpit.
JEREMIAH: (cont’d) But the Lord, he shall come in a cloud of flame, and then shall the wicked know his wrath! He shall scourge the atheists and the idolaters (points at Arabella) and the enchantresses and the flag burners and the gun controllers and the adulterers (glances at Susan and Ben, realizes he’s condemning them) and certain adulterers and the sodomites and the Darwinists and the (pain sears his chest) environmental… alarmists… and… and… and—
Jeremiah clutches his shoulder and falls on the floor, dead. His demise gets the attention of Ben and Susan. They rise from the loveseat and stand over Jeremiah’s body.
SUSAN: Good heavens, is he… dead?
GASTON: A reasonable supposition.
Arabella bends over Jeremiah, grasps his wrist, and feels for a pulse.
BEN: Leave this to me. I’m the professional here.
Arabella stands aside. Ben pulls a mirror f
rom his satchel and holds it over Jeremiah’s mouth. He checks the glass for condensation.
BEN: (cont’d) He’s dead.
Ben looks at himself in the mirror. He smoothes back his hair.
ARABELLA: Gaston, give me a hand.
Together, Gaston and Arabella pick up Jeremiah’s body and carry it out of the room, toward the cellar stairs. Ben and Susan are now alone.
SUSAN: Poor old Jeremiah. At least he fell in the line of duty.
BEN: Kiss me again.
SUSAN: Ben, we have to talk.
BEN: My marriage is over. This time I mean it.
SUSAN: I don’t care.
BEN: No. Really. Karen and I are through.
SUSAN: Ben, everybody knows there were some irregularities the first time you got elected, but the second time around, you earned every vote, right?
BEN: What does that have to do with anything?
SUSAN: I need an honest answer. How many dead people voted for you in last year’s election?
BEN: Susan—
SUSAN: How many?
BEN: This isn’t—
SUSAN: How many?
BEN: Three hundred and thirty. But they were all recently dead.
SUSAN: I thought so.
BEN: I’m definitely leaving Karen.
SUSAN: Not for me you aren’t.
BEN: Let’s save that discussion for tomorrow. Right now we’ve got to block those zombies. I now call to order the first meeting of the Montrose Public Safety Committee!
SUSAN: No, Ben. The meeting’s over. (under her breath) Everything’s over.
BEN: Come on, Susan! It’s you and me against the dead!
SUSAN: I don’t think so.
BEN: (to Susan) How can you blithely ignore major disease vectors? (points to reagent jars) Amoebic dysentery, Asiatic cholera, African sleeping sickness—
SUSAN: None of those are airborne diseases. You can’t catch them from a zombie unless you eat it or have sex with it.
BEN: (to Susan, angry) Since when did you get elected County Health Inspector?
SUSAN: Since when did you?
An otherworldly moan issues from the cellar stairwell.
BEN: Damn it, Susan, we have to present a united front. I mean, now that the Public Safety Committee is down to just two…
Jeremiah staggers into the room: paleface, dark eyes—a zombie.
JEREMIAH: (zero affect) No, friends, there are still three of us.