by Mary Amato
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Yes, the Westminster Hall and Burying Ground does exist, and Edgar, Virginia, and Maria are all buried there, but if you are an historian of Poe or of the place or of the period, do not get your knickers in a twist over any inaccuracies herein. This is a work of fiction, and the author enjoyed taking many liberties along the way.
Text copyright © 2018 by Mary Amato
Carolrhoda Lab™ is a trademark of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.
Carolrhoda Lab™
An imprint of Carolrhoda Books
A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.
241 First Avenue North
Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA
For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.
Cover and interior images: Marcin Perkowski/Shutterstock.com (raven); Voysla/Shutterstock.com (neon letters); annamiro/Shutterstock.com (grunge letters); Curly Pat/Shutterstock.com (background patterns); Anna Poguliaeva/Shutterstock.com (Victorian ornaments); Jag_cz/Shutterstock.com (gravestones).
Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10.5/15.
Typeface provided by Linotype AG.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Amato, Mary, author.
Title: Open mic night at Westminster Cemetery / Mary Amato.
Description: Minneapolis : Carolrhoda Lab, [2018] | Summary: Sixteen-year-old Lacy Brink, surprised to find herself dead and buried at Baltimore’s Westminster Cemetery, recruits fellow poets Sam and Edgar Allan Poe in resisting tyrannical Mrs. Steele’s rules by having an open mic night.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017038717 (print) | LCCN 2018007835 (ebook) | ISBN 9781541523777 (eb pdf) | ISBN 9781512465310 (th : alk. paper)
Subjects: | CYAC: Dead—Fiction. | Future life—Fiction. | Cemeteries—Fiction. | Poetry—Fiction. | Poe, Edgar Allan, 1809–1849—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.A49165 (ebook) | LCC PZ7.A49165 Op 2018 (print) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017038717
Manufactured in the United States of America
1-43062-32220-4/13/2018
9781541530737 ePub
9781541530744 mobi
9781541530751 ePub
For Ivan, who has haunted many a cemetery with me, even while on vacation. And for every courageous soul who has ever stood—knees quaking, palms sweating, heart pounding—before any kind of “open mic” to tell or sing a truth.
Table of Contents
Dear Reader
Act I
Scene 1: Sam and Lacy
Scene 2: Reality Sinks In
Scene 3: The Tea
Scene 4: Job Assignment
Scene 5: The Living
Scene 6: The Loophole
Scene 7: The Transformation
Scene 8: Showtime
Intermission
A Note about Intermission
Act II
Scene 1: Surprises
Scene 2: The Secret Plan
Scene 3: Soundtrack of Another Ordinary Day
Scene 4: Hoaxes
Scene 5: The Open Mic
Scene 6: Sam Below
Scene 7: The Open Mic Continues
Scene 8: Olivia
Scene 9: The Rules
Scene 10: The Amen
Dear Reader
This play, based on a true story, was originally written for the Deceased and was first performed at Westminster Cemetery in Baltimore, Maryland. All of the characters you will meet, unless explicitly identified as Living, are Dead. I would say that no animals were harmed in the making of this spectacle, but there is one tiny mouse for which I beg your forgiveness—it was an accident, as you shall see.
The debut was so well received by the grateful Dead, my intent is to “take it on the road,” as they say, and perform it in cemeteries hither and yon. And to further the reach of this work even more, I have decided to recreate the play in the form you are holding now: a novel. If you are the type who insists that novels be comprised of tidy paragraphs, you will be perplexed by what lies ahead. This is no ordinary novel, you will say, this is a stage play! If you are a dramatist, you may throw your hands up and shout: For God’s sake, why not write a normal book? Well, it is what it is. Perhaps you will be the spirited reader who enjoys it because of its oddities.
I do need to add one disclaimer: If the Living should somehow get a hold of a copy and wish to perform it, common sense should dictate how and when to alter the stage directions. A live actor playing the part of Sam should not *spoiler alert* literally stab himself in the heart, for example. The joy will be in dreaming up the stagecraft to conjure necessary special effects. In other words, do paint charming and vivid stage pictures for your audience, but do not be stupid about it. The author will not be held liable for any physical, psychological, spiritual, or intellectual damage caused by the reading or performance of this work.
All my best. Break a leg . . . or two. If you’re Dead, you won’t even feel it.
Scene 1: Sam and Lacy
Lights gradually reveal a small, spooky graveyard cloaked in fog. Even though it’s dark, we can make out the gothic, empty church in the center and the modern apartments and office buildings across the street. This is Westminster Cemetery in downtown Baltimore: a jumble of tilting tombstones, crumbling sarcophagi, and mold-covered crypts surrounding the old church and guarded by a black, spiked iron gate. A white, square monument stands over a family grave site near the entrance, and if we’re observant, we’ll notice a rather famous name on its base: Poe.
The admirers of Edgar Allan Poe who seek out this cemetery to pay their respects to the writer find the place suitably decrepit and creepy in a charming way, but we see none of them at this hour. It is midnight, and all is deathly still. The mournful toll of the bell begins.
On the third chime, a plot of earth marked with a tombstone about twenty paces toward the back of the cemetery opens like an old cellar door, and a figure climbs out. This is Sam. He is a fair-haired, gray-eyed, quietly handsome boy of seventeen uncomfortably buttoned up in his stiff, itchy Civil War uniform. As he tugs at the collar and tries to adjust the poorly fitting cap over his curls, looking hardly the soldier, we can’t help doing the rough calculation: if Sam died sometime between 1861 and 1865, it would mean he has been stuck in that uniform for over 150 years, poor fellow.
From the worn leather satchel he wears around his chest he pulls out a knife and a rather antique-looking pencil. With a few deft strokes of the knife, he sharpens the pencil. Although we see the lead coming to a point, we notice that no shavings fall to the ground and we get the hint that the laws of physics must work differently among the Dead.
He puts away the knife and begins to pace, stopping every now and then to look at Edgar’s grave as if for inspiration. Finally, his eyes light up. He pulls a small hand-stitched journal out of his satchel, sits on a stone bench, and begins to write a poem. As his pencil races across the page, he is ecstatic. He completes the poem and puts the last period down with a flourish. Pleased, Sam slips the pencil back into his satchel, holds his journal out in front of him, and begins reading his work silently. Unfortunately, as he reads, the look of euphoria on his face dims and then disappears. He tears the page out, crumples it, and stuffs it in a
large rusty urn, long empty of flowers, smashing down all his previous discards to make room for his latest disappointment. Then he turns to Edgar’s grave and moans softly.
SAM: Edgar, why can’t I be like you?
With a violent sigh, he puts his journal back into his satchel, pulls out his knife, and stabs himself in the heart. He staggers around dramatically quite a bit and then finally falls to the ground near Poe’s monument with a thud.
A long pause.
We hear a caw. Raven enters, lands on the top edge of the monument, and looks down at Sam. Another pause. Raven turns and lifts his tail as if to—
SAM (opening one eye): Don’t you dare.
Raven turns back around and adjusts his wings. We think we see a smile at the corners of his beak, although, of course, we know that birds don’t smile.
In the next moment, the south-facing side of the Poe monument swings open and words etched on that side are briefly illuminated by the moonlight for us to see: Virginia Clemm Poe, born August 15, 1822, died January 30, 1847.
The twenty-five-year-old wife of Edgar Allan Poe peeks out, and Sam quickly and respectfully removes his cap. Virginia has large dark eyes, and although most of her dark hair is neatly combed and gathered into a tight bun in the back of her head, a few loose tendrils bounce playfully around her cheeks and neck. When she sees that Sam is the only other resident up, she steps out and the door to her monument swings shut. She is forever dressed in her best, which is a modest gown in white brocade with a sash around the bodice and a full, ankle-length skirt.
Sam is always thrilled to catch a glimpse of pretty Virginia, not because he believes that he has any chance of romance with her, but because she is Edgar’s wife, a woman who inspired poems from a poet’s pen. Virginia knows she has his attention and milks it for all it’s worth. First of all, it’s amusing for her to see shy Sam squirm, and secondly, she needs Sam as an ally, as we’ll soon see.
VIRGINIA (whispering with a smile): Hello, Sammy. You’re looking handsome tonight. Is Missus You-Know-Who up yet?
Virginia takes a step closer, and Sam blushes.
[Yes, dear Reader, the Dead do experience physical responses to stimuli; although, due to the fact that blushing in this case is caused by a rising of ethereal energy to the face rather than blood, the effect is that the cheeks appear more gray than pink.]
SAM: Not yet, Mrs. Poe.
VIRGINIA (pouts): Sammy, I’ve been telling you for years, I hate being called “Mrs. Poe.”
SAM: I’m sorry . . . Virginia.
Virginia smiles and ruffles Sam’s curly hair, which he finds both electrifying and humiliating. Noticing the knife still sticking out of his chest, she gives him another patronizing smile.
VIRGINIA (continuing to whisper): Aw, is Sad Sammy having trouble writing his poems again?
SAM (quickly pulls the knife out and puts it in his satchel): Poems? What? I don’t—
VIRGINIA: Oh Sammy. Everybody knows that you’re forever scribbling in that notebook of yours and then moaning about how your writing never turns out the way you want. Why don’t you finally give up and have some fun?
SAM: But poetry is—
VIRGINIA: You want to know what I think of poetry? (She puts her thumb on her nose and wiggles her fingers.) Bah humbug.
SAM: But your husband—
VIRGINIA (leaning in to whisper even softer): Eddy, the famous poet, was a miserable mess of a man. What did poetry ever get him, Sammy?
SAM: Fame, for one thing, Mrs.—Virginia. I thought you loved his poetry.
VIRGINIA: I did. But all he ever did was write, write, write. And what has he done ever since he died? Sleep, sleep, sleep. (She rolls her eyes.) As boring as yesterday’s toast.
SAM (looks over at Edgar’s grave): Maybe he’s not sleeping, Virginia. Maybe he’s writing.
VIRGINIA: He could be dancing a jig down there in his unmentionables every night for all I care. I’m awake and I’m going to have a bit of recreation.
A crypt door engraved with the name Cumberland Poltroon opens and a dashing Victorian hunk peeks out dressed in a crisp waistcoat, vest, and cravat. Virginia waves. Cumberland bows to Virginia and then cautiously steps halfway out, peering around to see if anyone else is up. He nods at Sam, who doesn’t care for Cumberland Poltroon but is too polite not to nod back.
VIRGINIA (whispering to Sam): I know you won’t tell, Sammy. Ta-ta!
Virginia blows Sam a kiss and then races over to Cumberland’s crypt, giggling all the way. The two duck inside, and the door closes with a faint creak. Sam sighs heavily, shoves on his cap, and throws himself on the ground, certain that he can’t write a poem worth reciting; certain that he will never have a friend, let alone a girlfriend; certain that tonight will be just another boring stretch like every other one that has come before it for the last 150 years.
There is a long moment of silence, and then an abrupt change comes over Raven. The bird’s neck stretches and he blinks as if being called to action. His claws grip the edge of the monument on which he’s perched and his body rises up to its full height. He spreads his wings and squawks majestically.
RAVEN: Lacy Brink. Lacy Brink.
SAM (sits up, shocked): What?
RAVEN (squawking): Lacy Brink. Lacy Brink.
Flustered, Sam gets up and stares incredulously at the bird.
SAM: What exactly do you mean by “Lacy Brink”? It can’t be a name.
Raven shrugs and folds his wings. Sam looks around, wanting to wake up someone to talk about it with, but the sad truth is that there is no one in the cemetery Sam would call a friend. Finally, he begins to search the grounds for the unthinkable: a new grave. Puzzled, he talks to Raven as he looks.
SAM: This is ridiculous. There can’t be a new grave. We’re officially closed. We haven’t had a new resident since 1913. It can’t—
Raven notices what Sam does not . . . a shifting of the earth near a stone bench just a few yards from Poe’s monument. Raven clears his throat and Sam turns. A rough circle of earth is pushed up and over, revealing a hole, much the way the carved lid of a jack-o’-lantern can be lifted to reveal the scooped-out interior of the pumpkin. To Sam’s amazement, a moment later, sixteen-year-old Lacy Brink climbs out of the hole. Dazed, she stands and instinctively brushes off her very short skirt, bare legs, boots, and short wool jacket.
Sam catches glimpses of the Living from time to time—they tend to be faces passing by in cars or uninteresting men who stumble in the street past the cemetery in the middle of the night or even drunk ones who wander into the cemetery in need of a snore—but he has not seen a recently Deceased person up close since the last burial at Westminster, which was old James Hirston in 1913. And in all the years before that, none of the souls who rose from their graves ever looked like this girl. Her frizzy dark hair is wild. Her expression is serious. She’s guarded, but vulnerable at the same time.
The girl looks around, trying to determine if she could still be in a dream. She knows this cemetery well—it’s Westminster, which has been a daytime hangout of hers for years—but it’s late and she has no memory of walking here. She wonders if she might have sleepwalked. The strangely dressed boy staring at her isn’t helping. Possible explanations flit through her mind: he could be one of those Civil War reenactor geeks on his way home from a rehearsal, or maybe an actor on his way home from a performance. The Hippodrome Theater is right around the corner, after all. She considers the thought that it might be Halloween night. It is October, isn’t it? For some reason, she can’t even remember. She checks her pockets for her cell phone and discovers it isn’t there. Unnerved, she begins a panicky search for the phone on the ground around the stone bench.
SAM (respectfully removing his cap): Um . . . miss . . . are you . . .
Sam can’t possibly compose a coherent sentence. To see so much of a girl his own age is overwhelming. He wants to drink in every inch of her, but he is too shy to take in anything but furtive peeks. Her face is so dynamic. He
r legs and neck are so bare. Her jacket is open and the soft black shirt she is wearing with her short skirt is stretched tight across her chest. He quickly looks down at the cap in his hand and stammers.
SAM: You must be . . . Raven announced a name, which is what happens when a new resident wakes up . . . I . . . I can’t believe it . . . I didn’t think that we could get any more new residents.
LACY (completely confused): New resident?
SAM: Well, of course, there must be some mistake, miss. I . . . I know you can’t be a new resident. We’ve been closed to new residents for years, and you’re so . . . new.
Sam finally allows himself to look up. They lock eyes, and a joyous warmth rushes through him.
Struck by his soulful gaze, Lacy feels the spark of attraction, but then she tells herself she’s being ridiculous. She’s alone and it’s dark. She should be alert. She glances through the iron gate at the street beyond the cemetery and tries to guess how late it is. She remembers that she was on her way to Tenuto’s Coffee House for the open mic and wonders if she stopped in here and blacked out for a moment. She left home around seven or eight, didn’t she? The stillness of the street is interrupted only by the occasional passing car. It looks more like midnight or later. The foyer light of the apartment building across the street is on. Just a block down, the hospital is open, of course. If she screams, someone will come and help, she says to herself, and decides it’s worth the risk to stay and try to find her cell phone. If this guy is nice, maybe he’ll even help. She tries to keep her voice light and confident.
LACY: I’m just looking for my cell phone, which must be around here . . .
SAM: Cell phone? May I ask what that is?
Lacy gives him an odd glance, not knowing if he is trying to stay in character for a Civil War soldier or if he is certifiably crazy, and quickly intensifies her search.
Sam and Raven exchange glances. The thought of someone like her, a Modern girl his own age, joining the community fills Sam with joy. Although it has been a long time since a new resident emerged from his or her grave at Westminster, Sam recalls how confused and disoriented some were at first. Perhaps if he can find what she is looking for, she will see him as her first friend here at Westminster. Eager but shy, he stands hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. Raven nods his head at Sam, encouraging him to try.
