Open Mic Night at Westminster Cemetery

by Mary Amato

  SAM: Mrs. Brown, this is Miss Lacy Brink. She is a new resident.

  MRS. STEELE: Stop it, Samuel. Introductions are not necessary. I’m quite sure everyone has heard exactly what is going on by now. Sarah, tea as usual. And then to your graves. Unfortunately Mr. Chesterton and I didn’t find anything in the statutes that will be helpful in immediately resolving this problem. Samuel is correct in that, according to our rules, we must accept her into Westminster. Since she has already received the Official Welcome, the next task to come is assigning her a committee position. Mrs. Clemm, I’d like to confer with you in the catacombs.

  Maria struggles to hide her disappointment. She’d much prefer to stay and learn more about Lacy than to accompany Mrs. Steele to the catacombs.

  MRS. STEELE (turning to the others): No one should fraternize with Miss Brink or engage her in any discussion. She needs to realize that even if we have to accept her officially, we don’t have to do it willingly. And as for tea, I’m quite sure there is nothing in the rules saying that we have to serve her.

  During this little speech, Raven, who is perched on the monument behind Mrs. Steele, does a perfect imitation of the facial expressions and hand gestures of the cantankerous woman. It is hilarious, but no one dares to even crack a smile.

  Lacy is astonished and immediately falls in love with the impudent bird.

  Satisfied that her point has been made, Mrs. Steele is about to leave when she notices Lacy’s jacket on the ground.

  MRS. STEELE: See? She doesn’t even put away her things. No manners whatsoever.

  SAM (quickly picks up the jacket): She doesn’t know where or how to put her things away yet.

  He walks over to the spot by the stone bench where Lacy first appeared and drops the jacket. It falls through the dirt into Lacy’s grave and disappears.

  With a harrumph, Mrs. Steele turns and exits back through the catacomb entrance. Reluctantly, Maria follows.

  [You may have noticed a discrepancy of style by this point, dear Reader. In my narrative bits, Mrs. Steele and Dr. Hosler are the only characters I refer to by surname and corresponding honorific. This is at their request. The other characters did not mind the more informal use of the first name.]

  The moment the catacomb portal closes, Cumberland’s crypt door opens and Virginia pops out. She races over to Lacy, holding up her ankle length skirt so she can move quickly. Cumberland stays halfway in the crypt and peers out with nervous curiosity.

  VIRGINIA (looking Lacy over and speaking in a hushed whisper): A Modern in our little necropolis! Dash my wig! And look at the outfit! Is this what we’re wearing now? No wonder Mrs. Steele’s pantaloons are in a complete twist. Right, Sammy?

  Virginia turns to Sam and notices how firmly and warmly his eyes are glued to the girl. She looks next at Cumberland and sees a look of interest in his eyes, too. For over one hundred years, Virginia has been the main object of male adoration in the cemetery, and she experiences a stab of envy. Artfully, she takes two steps to the left, a move that effectively blocks Cumberland’s view of the newcomer.

  Lacy, standing alone, shifts uncomfortably, feeling Virginia’s animosity. It is just my luck, she thinks, to get a mean girl in the mix.

  Dr. Hosler approaches again, looking at Lacy as if he is examining a rare butterfly that has been captured and pinned to a museum wall.

  DR. HOSLER: She looks as if she was well nourished, but I do wonder at the reasoning of the attire. Surely those are not the clothes one wears in public. Look at the length of the skirt. Are they burying people in their unmentionables these days?

  Shyly Sarah removes her beloved lace shawl from her shoulders and demonstrates how to tie it around her waist so that it creates a kind of skirt that covers the thighs and then she quickly offers it to Lacy without making eye contact. The gesture is more than sweet. She’s looking out for Lacy. Even though Lacy doesn’t particularly want the shawl, she sees how hiding her thighs might help to keep Mrs. Steele off her back. She thanks Sarah and ties the shawl around her waist.

  Sam notices with a slight blush that the effect is the opposite of what Mrs. Steele probably would want: the veiling of Lacy’s firm thighs with the white lace only makes her look more desirable. But he keeps this to himself, and Sarah scuttles off to prepare the tea.

  The other “regulars” for the customary serving of tea emerge: two old sisters—Effie and Neffie Spindly—who, even after a century, no one can tell apart. They typically sit together and embroider, as Effie was buried with her sewing basket, and because of this, no one pays them the slightest attention. Tonight Effie brings her basket as usual, but they are too curious to sit by themselves and do needlework. Instead they tiptoe from their family crypt and join the huddle around Lacy.

  EFFIE: We heard the profanity and the consequences. A new resident! Goodness gracious!

  NEFFIE: Fiddlesticks. The girl should just say fiddlesticks or she’ll get another strike.

  EFFIE: Or she could just keep quiet.

  NEFFIE: She should definitely mind her p’s and q’s.

  Lacy looks from face to face, growing more uneasy.

  LACY: Can I talk with you privately, Sam?

  Sam blushes deeply, and all react as if she has just asked Sam to join her in robbing a bank.

  VIRGINIA: Oooh, Sammy.

  DR. HOSLER: It’s very risky. That would definitely be fraternizing.

  LACY: I don’t want to cause trouble. I just have so many questions about where I am . . . how it all works. The rules came at me so fast.

  Sam thinks. He wants to help her, but he can’t afford to upset Mrs. Steele. Perhaps they could give her information without actually talking to her.

  SAM (to the other residents but clearly intending for Lacy to hear): I have a thought. While we are having our tea, the new resident may ask a question or two aloud, not because she expects us to converse with her, but because she is talking to herself. And if we hear such questions, we might discuss the answers with one another, and if she happens to hear the answers, that is not our fault.

  There is a beat of silence as the others understand what Sam is suggesting.

  DR. HOSLER: Excellent idea.

  Lacy nods and sits on the stone bench, grateful not only for Sam’s willingness to help, but also for his gathering of support for her.

  Dr. Hosler removes his top hat, and he and the Spindly sisters sit in their usual places for tea: on thick, squat tombstones evenly placed around a sarcophagus, the flat surface of which is table-height, not too far from Lacy’s bench.

  Virginia ordinarily doesn’t bother to come up for tea, and she doesn’t particularly want to help Lacy, but she can’t possibly miss out on something new. She sits where Maria usually sits, at the foot of the stone coffin.

  Cumberland plays it safe and stays close to his crypt, but he makes sure, for Lacy’s benefit, to pose in what he thinks of as an attractive manner: hands on his hips, one foot up on a low tombstone.

  Sam perches where he usually does, which is on the sloped, waist-high roof of the Watson crypt next to the Poe monument. He doesn’t particularly like his own tombstone, which is in a depressing section way in the back.

  Sarah emerges from the same crypt with a tray bearing a pretty china teapot and matching cups. [Although the Watsons are not allowed out anymore, they are kind enough to allow Sarah to borrow their tea set. You’ll learn more about this soon, dear Reader.] Sarah walks around the table, serving tea to everyone except Lacy, the supposed persona non grata, to whom she gives an embarrassed and apologetic smile.

  Sam nods at Lacy to begin the charade of sorts.

  LACY: Okay . . . I’m just going to talk out loud over here, and I know nobody is going to talk directly back. I have so many questions. I don’t know where to start . . . um . . . okay . . . this whole strike thing. I know that I don’t want to get three strikes, but I’m not sure what it all means . . . I heard something about privileges.

  There is a beat of silence as the group takes in La
cy’s question. They sip their tea and glance at one another cautiously, uncertain how to begin. Finally Sam starts, and as they converse, they pretend as if Lacy isn’t there.

  SAM (looking at Dr. Hosler): When I was a new resident, it took me a while to understand what “aboveground privileges” meant. Was that true for you, too, Doctor?

  DR. HOSLER: Yes. I didn’t realize at first that the Dead are allowed to rise every evening at or after midnight to enjoy appropriate recreation—

  VIRGINIA: Meaning boring recreation—

  DR. HOSLER: As long as one is back in the grave before the sun rises.

  CUMBERLAND: And as long as one does not have three strikes.

  Virginia can see that Cumberland is hoping that Lacy is noticing him, and this irritates her even further.

  NEFFIE: Three strikes and you become one of the Suppressed, which means you lose your aboveground privileges. Isn’t that correct, Sister?

  EFFIE: True.

  A sad voice comes from a grave to Lacy’s left, which is marked Clarissa Smythe, 1852–1869.

  CLARISSA (remaining unseen underground): That means you have to lie in your grave every single night and do nothing but listen to the goings-on above.

  At the sound of Clarissa’s voice, Owen rises slowly and even the air seems to cringe. Just as he did earlier with the other offenders, he walks heavily toward Clarissa’s grave, but something about the energy that comes from his footsteps makes Lacy summon her courage to look, to really look, at him. Although his hulk of a body is rolling forward like a great wheel of stone, a particular kind of deep sorrow shines in his eyes, the kind of sorrow that comes when the heart is breaking and the love inside pours up through a crack. He is a sweet, soulful boy, Lacy realizes. He hates his job, and suppressing seventeen-year-old Clarissa Smythe is the last thing he wants to do. He must be in love with her, Lacy guesses. Lacy glances around, wondering if others see what she sees in Owen, and there is Sam, sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Watson crypt, cap in his hands, with a look of sympathy on his face for Owen that warms her heart and makes a funny lump rise in Lacy’s throat.

  SARAH (whispering sweetly): Hush now, Clarissa. Go back to sleep.

  CLARISSA: I won’t say another word. I’m sorry, Owen.

  There is silence. Owen stares at her grave for a moment, grateful and sad, and then slowly returns to his seat by the wall. Lacy gets up and looks at the grass in front of Clarissa’s crumbling tombstone. She can’t see Clarissa, but she can imagine her lying there.

  LACY: This is all wrong. It shouldn’t be like this.

  There is another silence. Lacy has said a truth that none of them likes to think about.

  EFFIE (leans in and whispers to the others in a sudden confession): I remember being afraid of the Suppressed at first. I thought they must be terrible people.

  NEFFIE: Me, too. But when I started seeing lovely people like Clarissa and the Watsons get their strikes, I realized they’re just like the rest of us.

  Lacy looks at Owen, who has resumed his motionless position.

  LACY: Who exactly is he?

  At that, the others look at Owen, but he doesn’t react.

  SAM (lowering his voice even more): If a new resident were to wonder about Owen Hapliss, I would explain that the Suppressed are not allowed to make noise or try to fraternize or scream or cry out or try to escape. If one does, Owen Hapliss has to keep the individual from rising. He’s the Suppressor. That’s his job.

  Owen’s gaze is down, his broad shoulders slumped, looking as beaten as the iron he used to forge. Although he is a terrifying figure, Lacy wants to get up and put her arms around him.

  LACY: If you are Suppressed, how long do you have to stay down there? Not . . . forever?

  There is a long pause. It’s a difficult question. Finally Sam speaks.

  SAM: I would explain to a new resident that . . . that . . .

  VIRGINIA (impatiently): The Suppressed don’t have a chance to be liberated. There. I said it.

  EFFIE: Virginia!

  VIRGINIA: It’s true.

  NEFFIE (whispering): We don’t know that for certain.

  DR. HOSLER: I would explain to a new resident that none of us knows the answer to the bigger question of whether this reality is what one might call the end. Many believe this is merely a waiting room of sorts, although we have no evidence one way or the other.

  EFFIE: I believe there is a better place.

  NEFFIE: I believe those of us who aren’t Suppressed will get to go to a better place, which is why I don’t take any chances on getting any strikes.

  EFFIE: I respectfully differ with my sister’s opinion. I believe there might be hope for the Suppressed. Maybe a second chance in another place.

  Owen looks up, hopeful for Clarissa’s sake.

  There is a beat of silence, and then Sarah speaks up in a quiet voice.

  SARAH: I was promised Heaven.

  A tired melancholy settles over the collective as each individual recalls the disappointment they felt upon finding themselves in the reality in which they now reside.

  EFFIE: It’s still a possibility!

  VIRGINIA: Unlikely.

  DR. HOSLER: In the meantime, we carry on the best we can, don’t we?

  NEFFIE (whispering): I would tell a new resident to try and avoid the wrath of Mrs. Steele.

  VIRGINIA (rising and walking over to stand next to Cumberland): I would tell a new resident to keep to herself as much as possible.

  Virginia gives Lacy a cold, stay-away-from-my-man smile. She reminds Lacy of Rachel Catrin, a girl in high school who would say she’s trying to be helpful while she pushed you off a cliff. First, Lacy has no interest in Cumberland Poltroon; and second, that kind of competitive, paranoid jealousy is the last thing Lacy needs.

  Shaking off the unnecessary hostility, Lacy gets up and begins to pace, thinking out loud about what her afterlife here is going to be like.

  LACY: So here’s what I have learned so far. I’m in some kind of seriously old-fashioned realm of existence, which may or may not lead to a better place, and I have to follow ridiculous rules, like saying fiddlesticks, which is harder than you think. I mean, things have changed as far as language goes. The f-word is as common as shi—See, that’s what I mean. Trying not to break this one little rule is going to take a hel—sinki amount of concentration, but I have to succeed because if I get three strikes, then I become a buried-alive dead person instead of just a dead person, which I definitely don’t want to be. And if by some miracle I don’t become Suppressed, then I get to come out every night at midnight and enjoy a fu—ndamental cup of tea . . . that’s the big reward, right?

  The table is silent. Finally it’s Virginia who breaks the silence.

  VIRGINIA: Well done. You’ve grasped the situation in all its glory.

  Lacy understands and even appreciates the bitterness in Virginia’s voice. Virginia tells it like it is. She and Virginia are more alike than she realized.

  EFFIE (to Virginia): Dear, remember we’re supposed to be talking to one another, not to her.

  There is an awkward pause, which Sarah tries to shorten by pouring another round of tea. Lacy looks at the teapot and the teacups.

  LACY: Wait a minute . . . we can drink? Can we eat? How does that work?

  Although Sarah is shy, she feels it is her duty to speak.

  SARAH: As President of the Food and Drink Committee, I’d explain to a new resident that ethereal food and drink are permitted. Except, of course, Mrs. Steele doesn’t allow alcohol.

  DR. HOSLER: Which is ridiculous since it has no effect on us.

  EFFIE: Of course, we can’t drink or eat the food of the Living, and, technically, we don’t need anything at all. But people like going through the motions.

  LACY (blurts): You mean it’s not really tea?

  SAM (jumps in): A new resident might wonder if the tea is really tea, and I would explain that it’s ethereal tea. It’s made of ether instead of water.

 
; NEFFIE: Lovely flavor.

  VIRGINIA: If you like the taste of air.

  DR. HOSLER: I remember how hard it was to grasp at first, but the worlds of the Living and the Dead are made of entirely different matter. We, the Deceased, cannot hold or manipulate anything of the world of the Living. For example, we can’t cut down these trees or throw a rock through that church window or open the gate.

  Lacy notices an empty bottle of vodka that someone has left by the church wall. She goes to pick it up and can’t. And then she realizes something that has been bothering her subconsciously all along. It is autumn and the grounds are strewn with fallen leaves, yet there is no rustling or crunching of the leaves beneath her footsteps when she walks.

  SAM: Similarly, we cannot be heard or seen by the Living. They can’t feel us if we touch them.

  DR. HOSLER: We do, however, have the power to manipulate things of our own world, and what counts as “things of our own world” are our graves, crypts, and sarcophagi, and anything in them, our own bodies, our clothing, the items that have been buried with us, et cetera. These things go through a physical transformation that I cannot explain and become made of the kind of matter that we, the Dead, are made of.

  NEFFIE: The reason we have some items that we can use is because these items were buried with us.

  SAM: Lucky for me, one of my fellow soldiers came to my funeral with this (he lifts the leather satchel he wears across his chest) and put it into my coffin, so now I have my pencil, my knife, and my journal at my eternal disposal. I’m forever grateful.

  DR. HOSLER: My top hat and medical bag are other examples. (He tips his hat and holds up his bag.) I taught many a student the art of surgery with the tools in this bag.

  Lacy recalls the shock of his knife sliding into her heart and shudders.