Open Mic Night at Westminster Cemetery

by Mary Amato

  LACY: Do you think they’ll be okay?

  SAM: Yes.

  LACY (turns to Sam): Thank you.

  They hug.

  Edgar speaks up.

  EDGAR: What now?

  CLARISSA: We can’t go back to the way things were.

  There is silence as this is contemplated.

  SARAH: What about making new rules, as Lacy suggested in the open mic? Rules that make sense.

  OWEN: No more Suppression.

  SARAH: Be kind. Be tolerant.

  VIRGINIA: Be honest.

  SAM: Allow for grief and for the full expression of emotions.

  MARIA: Comfort those who are in need of comfort.

  EDGAR: Share power wisely.

  EFFIE: Encourage music, poetry, dance, art, and the expression of feelings as a way of not only coping with death . . .

  NEFFIE: . . . but also celebrating life!

  Mrs. Steele steps forward. She is struggling to understand.

  MRS. STEELE: But . . . the rules can’t be changed.

  LACY: Why not?

  MRS. STEELE: They were given to us by the Authorities.

  LACY: But who are the Authorities?

  Everyone is silent. No one knows. Mrs. Steele tries to answer.

  MRS. STEELE: They are the ones who came before us, who were appointed to the positions. They were . . .

  LACY: . . . people like us? (She looks at everyone.) What if this whole system of rules was created by people so that this existence we’re in has some kind of order? What if obeying these particular rules has nothing to do with whether or not you progress to whatever is beyond this place, if there is anything at all? What if what’s beyond this place is so huge and beautiful and mysterious that no ordinary rules apply?

  DR. HOSLER: None of us knows.

  LACY: Exactly. What if the Authorities who made up the rules didn’t know either?

  MRS. STEELE: We need the rules to stay civilized. If there were no rules, we’d have a cemetery full of chaos. It’s happening right now.

  SAM: But this isn’t chaos right now, Mother. This is civil dialogue. And look—Edgar and Clarissa and Lacy and Owen and I should be Suppressed according to the rules, but we’re standing here and we haven’t been struck by lightning.

  VIRGINIA: I always suspected that the Authorities were just people like us.

  Mrs. Steele walks over and sits on Lacy’s bench. She is dumbfounded by how this is unfolding.

  MRS. STEELE: I know you all hated me for being strict, but I didn’t know how to do the job without being strict. How do you decide what’s right and wrong? How do you hold the line? If someone breaks a rule, do you give a warning or a strike? When is a transgression normal and when is it dangerous? In one man’s hands, alcohol is a warm friend; in another man’s hands, alcohol is a demon. (She looks at Henry.) I decided early on that the safest path was to stick by the rules. I hated my job, but I did it because I thought it was necessary. I did it because . . . (She looks at Sam, her face opening.) I’ve been scared . . . I’ve been . . .

  She stands up, not knowing how to put into words everything she is feeling. Effie steps forward helpfully.

  EFFIE: You’ve been saddled with a lot of responsibility. I wouldn’t have wanted your job.

  NEFFIE: I would have gone quite insane.

  EDGAR: We’re all a tad deranged.

  MRS. STEELE (turns to Sam): I was trying to protect you.

  SAM: I know.

  Sam steps toward his mother, thinking that perhaps he should offer a hug, but she gives him a little nod of her head to show that, regardless of the recent upheavals, Gertrude Parsons Steele is still not the hugging type. Still, what passes between them is monumental. Sam returns to Lacy and squeezes her hand.

  The sky is lightening almost imperceptibly, but Peter notices and reaches instinctively for the bell tucked in his belt.

  PETER: It’s almost sunrise. I should be making the rounds.

  Everyone looks at the sky. Raven caws softly. A thought comes to Lacy.

  LACY: If we don’t have to follow the Suppression rule, what about the sunrise rule? What would happen to us if we didn’t go back to our graves?

  The question hangs in the air for a few seconds.

  MARIA: Maybe nothing bad would happen to us.

  VIRGINIA: You told me that if I let the sunlight touch me, I’d cease to exist.

  MARIA: I didn’t know for sure. I was afraid you wouldn’t follow the rule.

  SARAH: Maybe something wonderful would happen to us.

  VIRGINIA: Maybe that’s what it takes to progress. Maybe we’d go on to a better place.

  PETER: Or a better state of being.

  EDGAR: Something beautifully incomprehensible! Maybe we’d become vibrations of pure bliss in the vastness of infinity beyond the luminiferous ether.

  EFFIE: That has a lovely sound.

  NEFFIE: Quite.

  Mrs. Steele stands, suddenly anxious.

  MRS. STEELE: What if it’s worse? What if it’s nothing? Dust to dust.

  SAM (turns to his mother and smiles): You can feel that there’s something more. I can.

  LACY: I think it’s like the feeling we all had when we were singing together.

  SARAH: Beautiful.

  SAM: Maybe the whole reason we haven’t moved on is because we haven’t taken the risk.

  Lacy and Sam look at each other. Lacy reaches out to hold Sam’s hand. They begin the countdown.

  ALL: Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .

  As the countdown continues, everyone joins hands, standing still, looking straight ahead.

  ALL: Five, four, three, two, one . . .

  The most gorgeous colors begin to rise. Slowly sunlight fills the stage and swells with such beautiful ferocity, we are no longer able to see anything but color.

  Scene 10: The Amen

  Raven is alone in the day-bright cemetery. The sky behind him is a cloudless blue. A drumroll begins, softly at first and then building. We’re not sure where the sound is coming from. Perhaps it is merely the sonic ripple-effect of a truck passing by on a nearby street or perhaps it is the deep thrumming of the invisible cosmic gears that turn the Earth.

  Perched on Poe’s monument, the bird looks directly at us, black eyes glittering. He opens his beak as if to finally give us the truth, to tell us what it all means, to tell us what that vastness of infinity holds for our characters and holds for us, and then a look—a mixture of humor, pity, and love—flashes from his eyes, and he closes his beak. That thing gathering inside our chests—hope—snags against the prickle of comprehension. We know now that he won’t reveal a thing.

  As the drumming continues, Raven looks at us for a long moment without blinking. Then he opens his wings fully—more magnificent than we could have ever imagined—and lifts. As our eyes follow his shifting black shape, the light filters through the wings, streaming and changing in intensity and color until we’re not sure when we’re seeing shadows and when we’re seeing light and when we’re seeing sky. It’s dizzying. Exhilarating.

  Gradually we discover that we’re looking down now and that we have left the cemetery. We recognize a new scene: an ordinary street in Baltimore . . . a café with tables outside. It is summer. For a moment, we take in the vibrancy of the colors and sounds: the patrons at the tables, the people passing by, the cars, the marquee of the nearby theater, the shops and restaurants, the strollers, the child stopping to pet the dog on a leash. And then we focus on a young woman sitting at one of the small round café tables: Olivia. She is wearing a sleeveless dress, and the skin of her face and arms in the sunlight is smooth and alive.

  In front of her is a glass of water and a piece of cinnamon crumb cake on a blue and yellow plate. It is a middle piece. Perfectly baked. Olivia closes her eyes and breathes in the smell. Then, she opens her eyes. With her fingers, she lifts the cake from the plate and takes a bite.

  Lights do not fade.

  Acknowledgments

  I am eternally i
ndebted to Alix Reid [yes, dear Reader, that is the correct spelling of her name] for saying yes to this odd project and for her willingness to toil on it during the unwieldy early-draft stage. When it was a play of mere sticks and bones, Alix urged me to flesh out the characters, an especially challenging task given the fact that most of them were dead and buried centuries ago.

  I also owe my gratitude to Julie Zielke for embracing that antiquated experience known as an actual phone call. Julie has an unusual knack for listening to the dilemmas of characters she has never had the chance to meet and for imparting deep insights about them. I don’t know how she does it, but she always has my ear.

  For comments on early scenes or drafts, my appreciation extends to Ivan Amato, Andrea Caspari, Bob Hersh, Danny Scheie, Phil Schewe, John Feffer, Jeremy Berlin, Isadora Kaplan, my beloved Hive, the participants and staff of the 2016 National Playwrights’ Symposium at Cape May, including playwright Steven Dietz, Shawn Fisher and Roy Steinberg, and my offspring, Max and Simon Amato (the latter of whom must be given an extra dollop of thanks for the termites).

  You may all count on me for a favor in return for as long as I live—and, who knows, maybe even after that.

  About the Author

  Mary Amato is an award-winning author of books for young adults and children as well as a songwriter, poet, and playwright. She teaches workshops on all aspects of writing, on music, and on the creative process nationally via Skype and in Maryland, where she resides. She is the author of the popular Guitar Notes and Get Happy, which are novels containing original music. You can visit her at www.maryamato.com and also learn more about writing lyrics and music at www.thrumsociety.com.