Leaving Home, of the Fields, Lately, and Salt-Water Moon

by David French

JACOB whips off his belt.

  JACOB (as he brings it down hard on BEN’S back) Then go!

  BEN instinctively covers his head, crouching a little, unprotesting.

  JACOB (sobbing as he brings the belt down again and again) Go! Go! Go! Go! Go!

  Finally, as JACOB swings again for the sixth time, BEN whirls and grabs the belt from his father’s hand. Then with a violent motion he flings it aside.

  BEN You shouldn’t have done that, Dad. You shouldn’t. (He exits.)

  Silence. JACOB retrieves his belt. A slight pause.

  JACOB (fiercely striking the chesterfield with his belt) Holy Jumping Jesus Christ!

  Silence. MARY enters from the hallway. JACOB begins to put on his belt. He notices MARY.

  What’s you doing here? Isn’t you going? (He crosses into the dining room and sits at the table.)

  Slowly MARY puts down her purse and enters the dining room, crossing behind JACOB and sitting at the table beside him. She says nothing.

  JACOB (anguished) In the name of Jesus, Mary, whatever possessed you to marry the likes of me over Jerome McKenzie?

  MARY says nothing. Pause.

  I’ve never asked you before, but I’ve always wondered.

  Pause.

  MARY It was that day you, me, and Jerome McKenzie was all sitting around my mother’s kitchen and in walked my brother Clifford. He was teaching Grade Six in St. John’s that year, and he told of a story that occurred that very morning at school. You’ve most likely forgotten. A little girl had come into his class with a note from her teacher. She was told to carry the note around to every class in the school and wait till every teacher read it. Clifford did, with the child standing next to him. The note had t’ree words on it: Don’t she smell? Well, Jacob, boy, when you heard that, you brought your fist down so hard on the tabletop it cracked one of Mother’s good saucers, and that’s when I knowed Jerome McKenzie hadn’t a hope in hell. (slight pause) Q.C. or no Q.C.!

  Slowly MARY lifts one foot then the other onto the chair in front of her. The lights slowly dim into darkness.

  END

  OF THE FIELDS, LATELY

  For all fathers and sons

  Of the Fields, Lately was first performed on September 29, 1973, at the Tarragon Theatre, Toronto, with the following cast:

  BEN MERCER Tim Henry

  JACOB MERCER Sean Sullivan

  MARY MERCER Florence Paterson

  WIFF ROACH Sandy Webster

  Directed by Bill Glassco

  Of the Fields, Lately was revived in Toronto on June 25, 2009, by the Soulpepper Theatre Company at the Young Centre for the Performing Arts with the following cast:

  BEN MERCER Jeff Lillico

  JACOB MERCER Kenneth Welsh

  MARY MERCER Diane D’Aquila

  WIFF ROACH Eric Peterson

  Directed by Ted Dykstra

  As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more.

  PSALM 103, 15–16

  CHARACTERS

  Jacob Mercer

  Mary Mercer

  Ben Mercer

  Wiff Roach

  SCENE

  A house in Toronto, January 1961.

  ACT ONE

  Scene One: Early Sunday evening

  Scene Two: Two hours later

  ACT TWO

  Scene One: Monday morning

  Scene Two: Early Monday evening

  ACT ONE

  SCENE ONE

  Limbo. Light up on BEN.

  BEN (to the audience) It takes many incidents to build a wall between two men, brick by brick. Sometimes you’re not aware of the building of the wall, and sometimes you are, though not always strong enough or willing enough to kick it down. It starts very early, as it did with my father and me, very early. And it becomes a pattern that is hard to break until the wall is made of sound brick and mortar, as strong as any my father ever built. Time would not level it. Only death.

  I don’t know if my father ever remembered one such incident. He never spoke of it to me, but I often thought it was the emotional cornerstone of the wall between us.

  Light up on JACOB.

  JACOB It was summer, 1952, and I had just come home from work, later than usual. It was going on nine in the evening, and as I stepped in the door, Mary said to me, “Ain’t tonight the night Ben’s team plays for the championship?”

  BEN He rushed out the door and down to the schoolyard, the first game he had ever come to, and my mother put his supper in the oven, for later . . . I hadn’t reminded my father of the game. I was afraid he’d show up and embarrass me. Twelve years old, and ashamed of my old man. Ashamed of his dialect, his dirty overalls, his bruised fingers with the fingernails lined with dirt, his teeth yellow as old ivory. Most of all, his lunch pail, that symbol of the working man. No, I wanted a doctor for a father. A lawyer. At least a fireman. Not a carpenter. That wasn’t good enough . . . And at home my mother sat down to darn his socks and watch the oven . . . I remember stepping up to bat. The game was tied; it was the last of the ninth, with no one on base. Then I saw him sitting on the bench along third base. He grinned and waved, and gestured to the man beside him.

  JACOB (at the game) That’s my son.

  BEN But I pretended not to see him. I turned to face the pitcher. And angry at myself, I swung hard on the first pitch, there was a hollow crack, and the ball shot low over the shortstop’s head for a double. Our next batter bunted and I made third. He was only a few feet away now, my father.

  JACOB Ben! Ben! Over here! Ben!

  BEN But I still refused to acknowledge him. Instead, I stared hard at the catcher, pretending concentration. And when the next pitch bounced between the catcher’s legs and into home screen, I slid home to win the game.

  JACOB His teammates pounced on him and hefted him up on their shoulders and lugged him around the infield. A hero.

  BEN And there he was, jumping up and down, showing his teeth, excited as hell.

  JACOB “Ben!” I shouted my level best. “Ben!” And I seen him look my way . . . and then look off . . . (Light fades slowly on JACOB.)

  BEN And as the crowd broke up and our team stampeded out of the schoolyard, cleats clicking and scraping blue sparks on the sidewalk, I looked back once through the wire fence and saw my father still sitting on the now-empty bench, alone, slumped over a little, staring at the cinders between his feet, just staring . . . I don’t know how long he stayed there, maybe till dark, but I do know he never again came down to see me play. At home that night he never mentioned the game or being there. He just went to bed unusually early . . .

  A hymn begins: “Abide with Me,” softly at first as BEN turns and walks into the kitchen, removes his shirt, and drops it into the bushel basket beside the ironing board. The light has been slowly fading, and the hymn rising in volume as the light fades to black, then comes up onstage.

  The stage is divided into two rooms: living room and kitchen. In addition there is a hallway with the front door offstage. A staircase leads up from the hallway to the second floor, to the bedrooms and bathroom, all unseen.

  The kitchen contains an ironing board, a small arborite table and four chairs, a stove, fridge, cupboards over the sink containing dishes, a wall telephone, a calendar and kitchen prayer. There is also a back door leading off the kitchen and a window.

  The living room contains a bay window, a knick-knack cabinet, chesterfield and armchair, TV and radio. There are various family photographs around the room.

  It is a few minutes past seven, Sunday evening, January 1961.

  JACOB sits on the chesterfield in the living room, listening with a preoccupied look to the hymn which comes from a nearby radio. He wears casual clothes.

  MARY is in the kitchen, ironing. She sings along with the hymn. There is a bushel basket of clothing on the floor beside the ironing board, and now and then she helps herself to a shirt or blouse, irons and folds i
t. She wears black.

  MARY Remember that time Dot and me was crossing Water Street with Ben in the carriage? You and Wiff was behind.

  JACOB looks up and turns down the radio.

  The streetcar had stopped to let us cross, and that old car shot out from behind it and took the carriage right out of our hands.

  JACOB Can still hear the t’ump. And you screaming like a teakettle.

  MARY Poor Dot. She fainted dead away. T’ought he was killed for sure. Remember that?

  JACOB A wonder he wasn’t, the way the carriage was all squashed up.

  MARY A miracle she called it. Suppose it was . . . (pause)

  JACOB He hardly said hello, Mary . . .

  MARY What?

  JACOB Two years away, and he hardly gives me a glance.

  MARY Well, give him time, he just got in. Besides, you wasn’t much better, the way you kept your distance.

  JACOB Not so much as a handshake . . .

  MARY Perhaps if you’d put your hand out first . . .

  JACOB Yes, and have him chop it off. (He rises, crosses to archway.) What’s he home for? Did he say?

  MARY Dot’s funeral, I imagine.

  JACOB What? All the ways from Saskatchewan? He wasn’t that close to Dot.

  MARY Look, Jake, I don’t know any more than you do. I was just as surprised as you when he walked in just now. He never mentioned he was coming home.

  JACOB You sure, Mary?

  MARY Well, you was listening into my ear when I called him yesterday. Did I once ask him to? Did I?

  At that moment BEN comes down the stairs, and JACOB returns to the chesterfield. BEN’s hair is slightly long, and he wears blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He looks at JACOB, who looks away and turns up the radio. BEN enters the kitchen.

  BEN My shirt ready yet, Mom?

  MARY Not yet, my son. Did you find everyt’ing okay?

  BEN Yeah. Hey, I like the new house.

  MARY Do you?

  BEN goes to the fridge and pours himself a glass of milk and takes a biscuit from the breadbox.

  BEN You surprised to see me, Mom?

  MARY I still ain’t recovered.

  BEN You don’t seem too excited.

  MARY Don’t I?

  BEN No. I thought you would be.

  MARY Well, you never said you was coming home when I talked to you on the phone. You never gave any hint.

  BEN So what? I’m impulsive, okay?

  MARY I only called to let you know about Aunt Dot. I never expected you to come all this ways. Why did you?

  BEN How’s Uncle Wiff taking it?

  MARY Wiff? Don’t mention Wiff to me.

  BEN You two still not getting along?

  MARY I never expected him to sink as low as he done this time.

  BEN Why? What’d he do now?

  MARY Never had the decency to go down to the hospital when Dot died. His own wife.

  BEN Really?

  MARY Not a word of a lie. The hospital phoned to tell him Dot never had long, so he called us. Then he never showed up. Later, we drove up to the Oakwood and found him drunk at one of the tables. Couldn’t stand on his own. (slight pause) Ben?

  BEN What?

  MARY You never answered my question. Why did you come home?

  BEN Why? I wanted to. What do you mean why? I liked Aunt Dot. Do I have to have any other reason? (MARY just looks at him.) All right. I wanted to see you, too. Is that good enough? Missed your cooking. (He hugs her.) Hey, you lost weight.

  MARY What about your father?

  BEN What about him?

  MARY Don’t he enter into it? He lives here, too. He ain’t just a stick of furniture, you know.

  BEN Look, if you don’t want me here, Mom, just say so . . .

  MARY At least you could speak to him. Is that too much to ask? A few words, at least.

  BEN I already said hello. What more do you want? He doesn’t want to talk to me.

  MARY Don’t he? (slight pause) You might’ve shook his hand, Ben. He stood there, waiting . . . Both of you too proud to make the first move. What a pair.

  BEN How come he’s listening to the church service? He never used to.

  MARY That’s not’ing. He even lets me drag him there on occasion — Christmas and Easter.

  BEN What’s happened to him?

  MARY Who knows, my son? Never t’ought I’d see that day, though, did you? (slight pause) Ben?

  BEN Yeah?

  MARY I’m telling you right now, there’s to be no fighting. Is that understood? I won’t have it.

  BEN Don’t worry. I won’t start anything.

  MARY No, and don’t finish it, either, or else. (BEN looks at her.) Or else.

  BEN What if he picks on me? What then? What am I supposed to do, let him?

  MARY Ignore him.

  BEN Just like that?

  MARY Yes, just like that. He ain’t a well man, Ben, and I don’t want him upset.

  BEN Why? What’s wrong with him? His back still bothering him?

  MARY What? . . .

  BEN His back.

  MARY Oh, yes . . .

  BEN What does the doctor say? Is he okay now?

  MARY Look, why don’t you go in and speak to him. Break the ice. Go on now. And don’t forget what I said. No fighting.

  BEN enters the living room, takes a few hesitant steps towards his father, stops, his hands jammed into his pockets. He is about to return to the kitchen when JACOB turns his head.

  JACOB (quickly) How was your flight?

  This stops BEN.

  BEN (turns) What? . . .

  JACOB The plane ride . . . You never said . . . How was it?

  He switches off the radio. During this scene they look awkwardly at one another, separated by a continent of a few feet. Each waits for the other to speak first and each suffers the discomfort of self-consciousness.

  BEN Oh? . . . Bumpy . . . You know.

  MARY You used to like those old planes, Jake. He was up a lot during the War. Wasn’t you, boy?

  BEN (to JACOB) Yeah?

  JACOB (to BEN) When I worked at the Gander . . . I was there when Dr. Banting crashed. We heard his plane take off that morning in the fog, and not long afterwards we heard he went down . . .

  Pause.

  BEN (finally, for something to say) Didn’t Uncle Fred work for the Air Force or something? Around the same time?

  JACOB No, the Army.

  BEN Was it the Army? (He nods.)

  MARY Tell him about Fred, Jake. How he couldn’t read or write, and he was putting up towers.

  JACOB No, he don’t want to hear about that. A telegram would arrive from Ottawa, and Fred’d say to the nearest man, “Read it, I left my glasses home.” What a man. Couldn’t read or write his own name, and he was building towers for the Army. (pause) Don’t let on I said it, but your mother was worried half to death, these past two years.

  MARY Who was? I heard that.

  BEN What for? I can take care of myself.

  JACOB Well, you might’ve wrote more often. Four or five letters ain’t much. There was months there we never knowed whether you’d been kidnapped or killed.

  BEN It’s not the Wild West any more, you know.

  JACOB That ain’t the p’int, now, and you knows it. Don’t argue.

  MARY Jake!

  BEN Dad, look . . .

  JACOB What’s you doing out there? Is you still working?

  BEN Yeah. Didn’t Mom tell you?

  JACOB Don’t tell me you’m still sorting letters at the Post Office?

  BEN So? What’s wrong with that?

  JACOB Ah, my Jesus . . .

  BEN It’s a job, okay? I don’t know what I want to do yet.

  JACOB That’s for men without schooling. You went to university.

  BEN Yeah, for two whole months. Big deal.

  JACOB Whose fault is that? Mine, I suppose?

  BEN Did I say it was anybody’s fault? Did I?

  JACOB No, and that you didn’t. Well, don�
��t blame me. You didn’t have to run off and quit school, just because I struck you once.

  BEN Once?

  JACOB How many times did my own father take the skin off me, and I never held a grudge. I never let it ruin my life, a few strokes of the belt.

  MARY All right, that’s enough! Ben, get in here quick and get your shirt.

  BEN (to JACOB) I didn’t come home to fight, okay? I came for the funeral. So lay off. (He enters the kitchen.)

  JACOB Would you’ve come home so quick if I’d died?

  MARY What a t’ing to say, Jake. Shame on you.

  JACOB (to himself, as he switches on the radio) Be lucky if he sent flowers . . .

  Another hymn plays.

  MARY (angrily) I t’ought I asked you not to fight with him? Not home ten minutes and already it’s started. If there’s any more of that, you can go straight back where you came from, and I means it. I won’t warn you again.

  BEN Look, you asked me to talk to him, Mom. It was your idea.

  MARY Talk, yes.

  BEN So I tried.

  MARY Did you?

  BEN Yeah, I did.

  JACOB What’s you two doing in there, Mary — scheming?