by David French
BEN No, I didn’t, Mom.
MARY Oh.
BEN I didn’t look.
MARY You didn’t look? Why not? What was you doing all day?
BEN I was at the library.
MARY The library?
BEN I needed some time to think. I just lost track of time. When I looked out the window, finally, it was dark. So I came home.
MARY What was you t’inking about?
BEN Mostly Dad, I guess.
MARY (as BEN enters the living room, sits in the armchair with his Coke) Well, the best way you can help your father is get a job. You can’t look tomorrow, but you can start again Wednesday. (She turns to exit, then turns back to BEN.) Since when did you start going to the library? You was never that fond of books, even in school.
BEN Yeah, I know. It happened in Regina last winter. I ran into the library one day to get out of the cold, on my way home from the Post Office. I saw a girl there behind the desk.
MARY A girl?
BEN The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. So I picked up a book, any book, just as an excuse to hang around, you know. I did that for weeks, every day except Sunday. I’d go to the library after work and read and look at this girl. Even gave her a name: Sarah.
MARY Did you talk to her?
BEN No. I was too shy . . . And one day she wasn’t there. I still don’t know what happened to her: whether she quit, moved away or got married or what. I kept going back for weeks, hoping to see her again . . . and then one day I realized I was going there just for the books . . . (He laughs.)
MARY (laughing too) Well, just don’t tell your father where you was at the whole day. He’d have a fit if he knowed.
She exits upstairs. BEN rises, takes a few paces.
BEN (exasperated) Shit! (He paces a moment, then crosses to the window, looks out. Suddenly, he knocks on the window and waves, enters the hall, out of sight. The front door opens.)
BEN (off) You want a hand with that, Uncle Wiff?
WIFF (off) I wouldn’t mind, love. Just put it down anywhere.
BEN enters carrying two fair-sized cardboard boxes. WIFF follows behind, removes his rubbers. BEN sets the boxes down on a chair in the hall.
MARY (off) Is that you, Jake?
WIFF No, it’s Wiff, Mary. (to BEN) Ain’t he home yet?
BEN No. Mom’s worried.
WIFF Yes, well, he’s usually home by this time . . .
BEN She thinks he might’ve had an accident or something.
WIFF Well, I wouldn’t go that far, duckie. Jake’s not the kind to do somet’ing rash, for all that. He’s a good driver.
BEN Yeah, but he needs glasses. And you saw the mood he was in this morning.
WIFF Still and all — Jesus! — it don’t help to jump to conclusions. Did you phone the hospitals?
BEN No. I didn’t want to frighten Mom. I thought I’d phone the Oakwood first.
WIFF Now that’s an idea. He just might’ve tied one on.
BEN (as he enters the kitchen) You know the number?
WIFF (absently) No, my son . . .
BEN walks to the counter, picks up the telephone book, opens it.
BEN Uncle Wiff?
WIFF Yes, my son?
BEN About this morning . . . Have they been fighting a lot like that, lately?
WIFF No. No, come to t’ink of it, they’ve been getting along famously. Like two kids.
BEN So it’s only since I’ve been home . . .
Sound of truck.
WIFF Sounds like him, now.
They both look out the kitchen window.
BEN (crossing to the stairs) Mom, he’s home!
MARY (off) Yes, I heard his truck!
BEN picks up his book and sits on the chesterfield.
WIFF (as he crosses to the stairs and hangs his coat, hat and scarf on the banister) T’ank Christ. That’s a load off my mind. I t’ought he’d gone off the road and was freezing to death in some ditch. (He crosses to the chesterfield, sits beside BEN.) Ben, my son, I just hope we done the right t’ing, persuading him to stay home. I don’t mind telling you I’ve had my doubts, after today.
BEN So have I, Uncle Wiff.
WIFF I wish I’d never interfered.
BEN What if he went in? What do you think would happen?
WIFF Ben, I wish I had the answer to that one.
BEN He might be better off, Uncle Wiff.
WIFF Yes, and who knows? It might be the last t’ing he ever does.
BEN Well, he’ll die if he stays home. At least if he went to work he could keep a little self-respect.
MARY comes quickly down the stairs. She is dressed in slacks, blouse, and cardigan. WIFF gets himself a magazine.
MARY Hello, Wiff. (to herself, as she rushes into the kitchen) Better get the supper on the table or he’ll have another excuse to be cranky.
She takes the casserole from the oven and is crossing to put it on the table, just as the kitchen door opens and JACOB enters. He shields his left cheek with a rolled-up newspaper.
MARY (casually) You’re just in time, boy. Just this second took the supper out of the oven. You must be famished.
JACOB (as he crosses to the hall closet and hangs up his coat and cap) No, I ain’t a bit hungry. I ate downtown.
BEN and WIFF pretend to be engrossed in their reading.
MARY I made macaroni and cheese, special.
JACOB Goddamn it, Mary, why won’t you listen to me? I said I wasn’t hungry. Don’t you understand English? And then you wonders why I loses my temper so much of the time. (As he crosses and sits in the armchair with his newspaper we can see the bruise and cut on his left cheek.)
WIFF (casually, from behind his magazine) How’d it go today, Jake? What was you up to?
JACOB (sitting) Not a goddamn t’ing, Wiff, and I’m the tiredest I’ve ever been. Doing not’ing takes the good right out of me.
WIFF throws down his magazine and looks at JACOB for the first time.
WIFF What the hell . . . !
BEN (looking over) What happened, Dad?
JACOB puts his finger to his lips, indicating MARY.
WIFF Where’d you get the souvenir, Jake?
JACOB (smiling) Where else? — the Oakwood.
WIFF Who’d you run into? Anybody we knows?
JACOB Only Ike Squires.
WIFF How is Ike, Jake?
JACOB Well, a funny t’ing happened, Wiff. Somebody bloodied his nose while I was there.
WIFF Is that a fact? Sorry I missed it. What hospital’s he in?
As MARY enters the living room and stands behind his armchair, JACOB covers his cheek with his hand.
MARY Is that where you was all day, at the hotel?
JACOB No, I wasn’t. I drove around most of the day and for a short spell I parked in front of the job.
BEN What for?
JACOB Don’t know, Just to have a look, I suppose.
MARY What’s wrong? You got a toothache?
JACOB No. What put that in your head?
MARY What’s you trying to hide then?
JACOB I ain’t hiding a blessed t’ing.
MARY No? Then let me look. (She pulls away his hand.) What in the world! . . . Have you been in a fight?
JACOB (laughing) What makes you t’ink that?
MARY Stand up and let me look. Stand up. (He does.) Stand still. (He lets her inspect the bruise.) Better put some Mercurochrome on it. Who hit you? (She touches his cheekbone.)
JACOB (dancing away) Goddamn it, Mary, that stings. Keep your fingers to yourself.
MARY Who hit you?
JACOB None of your business.
MARY Well, I hope it hurts. Who was it, Ike Squires? I heard you say somebody bloodied his nose. You set some example, you do.
JACOB That’s right, Mary, pour on the sympathy. All I did was what you suggested last night.
MARY What was that, pray tell?
JACOB (to WIFF) I went after Ike in the beer parlour, instead of the funeral parlour.
MARY Well, come on, you two, supper’s ready. (She crosses towards the archway.) Jake ain’t eating. We might as well start.
WIFF (rising) No, t’ank you kindly, Mary, I ate before. I just come by to drop some of Dot’s t’ings off. (He crosses to the chair and picks up one of the boxes.)
MARY Oh? (She takes the box.)
WIFF (putting on his overcoat) T’ought you might like to look t’rough it and pick out what you likes. The rest you can give to the Salvation Army.
MARY (crosses to the chesterfield, puts down the box) So you went home after all? I t’ought you’d never set foot in there? (She sits.)
WIFF (crosses to MARY, who slowly removes a beautiful shawl and stares at it) Well, Mary, I left here this morning and went to the cemetery and picked out a plot, two plots, one for each of us, and I stood there with me breath blowing, looking at the white ground and all the headstones round about, and suddenly it went t’rough me like a cold wind: Dot’s dead. I don’t t’ink it had really sunk in before, that fact, even when I bent over her casket last night and kissed her cold lips. Not even then for some reason. Perhaps because she was there in body if not in spirit. Not until that moment in the cemetery did it strike me: Dot’s dead. Dead. The word itself was like a nail in me own coffin. Tomorrow, I said to myself, she’ll be under the snow forever in a bronze box and I’ll never see her face again, even in death. In time I’d forget what she even looked like . . . So I had a good cry right there in the cemetery, as much for myself as for her, I suppose, the first tears I shed since she died . . . And then I got in the car and drove home. Went t’rough the house, top to bottom.
MARY What for, Wiff?
WIFF Looking for Dot, maid. Only this time she never appeared. Even sang out her name.
MARY Wasn’t you frightened to, after last night?
WIFF (sitting) Mary, I suddenly felt that anyt’ing was better than not’ing, maid . . . anyt’ing. I t’ink I understands for the first time a little what Jacob feels . . .
MARY It ain’t the same, Wiff.
WIFF Ain’t it, Mary?
Enter JACOB, carrying a bottle of Mercurochrome and a box of Band-Aids. He crosses to the armchair.
JACOB Here, Mary, put this on for me.
MARY (rises, crosses to JACOB) Did you wash it with hot water?
JACOB I did. Just stick on the Band-Aid and don’t say another word. And don’t be rough, it smarts.
MARY (as she administers to his cheek) What’d you do — follow Ike from the job?
JACOB No, I never. He just happened to be there. Him and a few of the other boys. I sat by myself.
MARY Yes, for how long?
JACOB Until I heard them laughing and looking my way. Then I pushed back my chair and went over to his table and asked him to repeat what was so goddamn funny.
WIFF I’d like to’ve seen that. That must’ve shut him up in a hurry.
JACOB No, Wiff. He t’ought he was safe among his friends. Only a good swift kick in the arse would shut that one up.
MARY Yes, and you have just the boots to do it. Hold still. (She pushes him down on the arm of the armchair.)
JACOB Hold your tongue, Mary. You don’t even know what he said to me.
MARY What?
JACOB “Sit down, Mercer,” he says. “The drinks’s on me.”
MARY And for that you bloodied his nose?
JACOB “You won me five dollars today,” he says. “How’s that?” says I. “I bet one of the boys five dollars you wouldn’t show up.” And he gave a great loud horse-laugh. Could’ve heard him a block away with a band playing.
WIFF Is that when you struck him, duckie?
JACOB No, first off I t’rowed his beer in his face, and he lunged up knocking over the table, walloped me one right in the cheek.
WIFF Sneaky little bugger, ain’t he?
JACOB By Jesus, Wiff, I’ll hand him that much, he’s fast. Never saw it coming. I only got one good one in before the waiters rushed over and broke it up.
WIFF Well, next time, duckie, he’ll save his bets for the racetrack.
MARY (sticking on the Band-Aid) There. Serve you right if you gets a black eye. That’d teach you.
JACOB (walking away) Dared me to come into work. Right there in front of the other men. Said I wasn’t man enough . . . never had the guts is how he put it. Holy Christ, Wiff, I’d like to make him eat those words.
WIFF Dare say you would.
JACOB I’d like to cram every goddamn word down his gullet.
BEN Why don’t you, Dad?
JACOB What?
BEN Make him eat his words.
JACOB How?
BEN How else? Go in to work.
JACOB What? . . .
MARY Ben . . .
BEN Don’t let me stop you. I might as well tell you now as later. I’m going back out west.
JACOB You is not, now. You just got here.
BEN I am. I’ve thought it over.
MARY Ben, what’s come over you?
BEN Christ, he wants to work, Mom. Let him.
JACOB Who says I wants to work? I never said a word, did I, Mary? (slight pause) Did I, Wiff?
BEN Come on, Dad, you know you would’ve gone to work today if we hadn’t blackmailed you. You only agreed to keep me home.
JACOB Listen here, I couldn’t care less if I never lifts a bloody hammer again. What’s it ever done for me? I’m just a workhorse.
BEN That’s bullshit, and you know it. It’s your whole life. (slight pause) Anyway, I’m going home . . .
JACOB Home? . . .
BEN . . . right after the funeral tomorrow, so you can do what you want. I’m sorry, Mom. (He enters the kitchen.)
MARY (going after BEN) Sorry? You’ll be sorry all right.
JACOB (to himself) I t’ought it was too good to be true . . . (He sits in the armchair.)
MARY (to BEN) Have you lost your mind? What do you suppose’ll happen now, if he goes in? Have you forgot Ike Squires? He has double the excuse to go after your father now.
BEN What if he doesn’t go in, Mom? Did you ever consider that? Or doesn’t that matter?
MARY He’ll never let up on him, Ben. He’s that type. You heard Wiff.
JACOB (explosively) Will you shut up about Ike Squires, Mary? I can snap him in two like a stick of pencil.
BEN (crosses to JACOB) You’d never let up on yourself, Dad. Or Mom. (to MARY) You’re the one has to live with him.
WIFF Ben’s right, Jake, as much as I hates to admit it. The boy’s right.
JACOB What? Whose side is you on, Wiff? Mine or his?
WIFF There’s no sides this time, duckie. Don’t you know that?
BEN Look what happened this morning, Mom. That was just the beginning.
JACOB This morning? What happened this morning? Oh, I see. I ain’t allowed to get up on the wrong side, is that it? It’s a crime not to have a smile on my face every blessed morning.
BEN (crosses into the kitchen to MARY) Let him go, Mom. It’ll only get worse if you don’t.
JACOB (jumps up, crosses to the hall closet, and gets his coat and cap) All right, Mary. See that, now? He don’t give a shit if I lives or dies. He never has. Perhaps you’ll believe me now.
BEN Oh, don’t be ridiculous. (He crosses to the table, sits.)
JACOB Well, don’t you come to my funeral, you hear? (to MARY) And don’t you let him within a hundred yards or else. (to WIFF) Some friend you turned out to be, taking his part. I never would’ve believed it, Wiff.
WIFF Now, duckie . . .
JACOB Don’t duckie me, goddamn it!
He heads for the kitchen door and manages to get just outside, but MARY’s next line brings him back.
MARY (to BEN) Even if what you says is true, Ben, he still ain’t fit to work!
BEN I know that . . .
JACOB (to Mary) Who ain’t fit?
MARY You ain’t, boy. And I’
m in no hurry to be a widow, even if Ben’s intent on killing you.
JACOB Goddamn it, Mary, I’ll put my fist t’rough that wall if you says I ain’t fit one more time. I can still work as good as Wiff here, no odds what you says to the contrary.
MARY All right, but admit it or not, you’re in no condition to be up twenty stories in ten-below cold!
JACOB Is that a fact? (He crosses into the living room, tossing his cap at the foot of the stairs.)
MARY (following him) What if you’re hanging on with your toolbox and you takes a fit of coughing? Sometimes you can’t catch your breath. I’ve seen it on cold mornings. Even the wind can take your breath away. Or what’s worse — what if you has a sudden pain in your chest? What then, boy? Do you t’ink I wants to be sick with worry every day you sets off for the job, not knowing whether you’ll be back or not? (She crosses into the kitchen.) Ben don’t care. He don’t have to live with it. (She crosses to BEN.) But you’ll have to live with it, my son, if anyt’ing should happen to him. It’ll be on your conscience for the rest of your life. Is that what you wants? Is it? (BEN says nothing.) Well, I just hopes you don’t live to regret it, my son. For your sake. I wouldn’t want it on my mind, I can tell you. (She turns and starts wearily for the stairs.) If anyone wants supper it’s on the table. I’m going to lie down. (She starts up the stairs, then stops.) He can battle all he wants to, Ben, we’re all up against the same enemy: time . . .