by Mary Amato
SAM (singing to Lacy as he writes):
I know you’re suffering. It’s there burning in your eyes.
I want to reach out to you,
wrap you in comfort and make everything all right,
but I cannot move.
I hope you see something in me that’s in you, too,
but maybe you never will.
You have experience. You have the guts I lack.
I am standing still.
I fell in love back then. Her name was Abigail.
She liked to read just like me.
There she is . . . just go and give her your poetry.
Courage is all that you need.
But I am standing still.
(Sings more forcefully now.)
I want to sing. I want to speak.
The voice inside won’t let me sleep.
I want to be so different than I’ve been.
I spill the ink upon the page
and write my joy and write my rage
and this is what I do to ease the pain.
Sam recalls the night he came home to find his mother reading his poetry. She believed in education, but she wanted Sam to go into business. She said that poetry was a waste of time.
The war started soon after and while they worked, she often talked about how becoming a soldier could be a way for him to gain leadership skills, skills that would be useful in business. He remembers feeding the pieces of leather into the sewing machine and glancing out the window as often as possible and trying desperately to tune out her voice.
SAM (singing):
How many times did I watch the trains come and go?
How many times did I dream?
I could start a new life somewhere. Make my own destiny.
Courage is all I would need.
I am standing still.
(He closes his eyes, picturing one cold, gray day.)
My mother takes me and says, “He wants to enlist.
He wants to be something more.”
They give me a gun and say, “Sign your name here, boy.”
Next thing I know is the war.
Marching at dawn, the ground hard underneath my boots,
head down as we climb the hill.
They’re waiting for us, their muskets all loaded.
I am standing still.
Then my grave is filled.
(He looks at Lacy’s grave.)
Now you have come and I feel myself waking up.
Gone is that everyday chill.
Maybe I’m here because I have to take a step
Instead of standing still.
I want to sing. I want to speak.
The voice inside won’t let me sleep.
I want to be so different than I’ve been . . .
I spill the ink upon the page
And write my joy and write my rage—
Sam is standing now, singing his heart out with one foot in the grave when we hear a sound. Raven caws. The earthen door to Mrs. Steele’s grave opens. A split second before Mrs. Steele emerges, Sam pulls his other foot into the grave.
MRS. STEELE: Samuel Steele!
SAM: Sorry, Mother. I’m not out. It was just that cat again.
Raven, behind Mrs. Steele’s line of sight, puts one wing to his beak and imitates the meow. By the time Mrs. Steele turns to look, he has resumed his sleeping position.
MRS. STEELE: Enough of this nonsense and get back to bed.
SAM: Yes, Mother.
She gives the journal, which he is pressing to his chest, a disgusted look. On silent wings, Raven lifts and flies over Mrs. Steele. There is a moment of suspense and then . . . plup. An ethereal little gift lands on her head.
Sam tries to hide his smile as Mrs. Steele’s face registers a wince. As she reaches up to discover the gift, Raven flies back to his perch so that he is feigning innocence by the time she looks at him. She huffs and returns to her grave.
Sam gives Raven a nod of approval.
SAM: Good night, Raven.
Raven nods. Softly, as Sam clasps his journal and descends, he sings again.
SAM (singing):
And this is what I do to ease the pain
while I’m standing still.
Sam descends. His door closes. The cemetery is quiet. In the distance we hear a passing car . . . farther away a rumble of thunder . . . and then . . . silence.
Scene 6: The Loophole
Imperceptibly, the earth turns on its axis and is pulled along its orbit, tethered by the mysterious invisible bond of a star’s love; and so our stage’s set revolves inch by inch until the moon, white as a bone, has crawled to the top of the ink-black sky.
The midnight bell begins to toll. The cemetery is so still it is hard to believe anything unusual has happened within its perimeters. Then Sam’s door opens with a bang. He hops out with the scroll in his hand and quickly races over to Lacy’s unmarked grave. He crouches down, taps on the ground, and whispers.
SAM: Lacy, wake up! I have news.
Knowing that it will take her a moment to rouse, he runs to Sarah’s grave next and does the same thing. Then he knocks softly but excitedly on Maria’s grave.
By the time Maria emerges, Lacy and Sarah are out—Lacy looking exhausted and bleary-eyed—and Sam leaps into conversation without even saying hello.
SAM: There’s a rule that my mother forgot—
MARIA: Goodness gracious! Your manners, Samuel.
SAM (removing his cap): I’m sorry. Good evening, Mrs. Clemm. Good evening, Mrs. Brown. (Sam’s nods to Maria and Sarah are affectionate, but when he turns to greet Lacy, the full measure of his love makes his smile radiant.) Good evening, Miss Brink.
The warmth of his greeting wakes Lacy and clears her mind. It is good to see him, she realizes. She wants to hug him—and Sarah, too, who was so sweet earlier.
SAM: I was in my grave thinking about jobs and things. I couldn’t sleep. And I checked the rules and found something a few minutes ago that we all forgot. Look! (Quickly unrolling the scroll and reading): “The President of the Committee to Assign Committee Assignments must interview the resident before assigning a job. Material gained from the interview should be used whenever possible to determine the most fitting job for that resident.” It’s Rule 219. You need to do an interview, Mrs. Clemm!
By now, Mrs. Steele and the other regulars are rising—Dr. Hosler, the Spindly sisters, Virginia, and Cumberland. They greet one another properly and then Mrs. Steele dives in.
MRS. STEELE: What’s this commotion, Samuel?
Sam hides his giddiness and turns and speaks to the assembling residents in a serious, official tone.
SAM: I’m afraid we neglected to follow the rules yesterday regarding the assigning of a job for Miss Brink.
Lacy doesn’t comprehend what he’s talking about but she can see that Sam is excited and she gives him a smile. This sweet moment is pierced by Mrs. Steele, who marches over and gives Sam her oft-imparted swat on the back of his head.
MRS. STEELE: Samuel, are you actively trying to help this girl?
SAM: Of course not, ma’am! I thought you wanted me to study the rules.
MARIA (stepping forward eagerly): I am remembering now! It’s been so long since we had a new resident, I forgot. There’s an interview process, Mrs. Steele, remember? And the job is supposed to be chosen based on information that is gleaned from the interview.
SAM: The interview questions are right here. (He holds the scroll out.) I think we should start again. There might be a more appropriate job for Miss Brink. What do you think, Mrs. Clemm? You’re the President of the Committee to Assign Committee Assignments.
MARIA: I think we should start again.
Maria is about to take the scroll, but Mrs. Steele snatches it from Sam’s hands and reads it.
Sam is right. It’s there in black and white. Mrs. Steele straightens up and saves face by complimenting Sam even though it’s obvious she is irked.
MRS. STEELE: Excellent, Samue
l. How wonderful that you’re keeping up. (Turns and hands Maria the scroll.) Mrs. Clemm, of course, we must follow the rules. Do conduct your interview.
For her part, the good-hearted Maria is much relieved.
[You should know, dear Reader, that she remembered the rule and told Mrs. Steele about it in the catacombs, but Mrs. Steele had strongly suggested that her memory was incorrect. Now Sam has spoken up, allowing her to give the poor girl a second chance.]
Hardly able to hide her happiness, Maria holds up the scroll and turns to Lacy to start the interview. Lacy sits down. The other residents lean in, and Mrs. Steele gives them all a sharp glare.
MRS. STEELE: This is official business, not a circus.
Sarah, Dr. Hosler, the Spindly sisters, Virginia, and Cumberland back up and take their usual tea places, pretending that they’re not dying to hear every word. Sam climbs up onto the Watson crypt, thrilled.
Lacy sits up straight on the stone bench, knowing that she is lucky to have this opportunity, hoping that it will lead to at least some kind of improvement in her job assignment. She and Sam don’t dare smile, but they exchange another look.
MARIA: Profession in life?
LACY: Um . . . I’m only sixteen.
MRS. STEELE (interrupting with a loud huff): By sixteen I was married with two children and working sunup to sundown.
LACY: I’m a student. I go to school. It’s kind of like a job. Was.
School seems suddenly far away to Lacy. She remembers it, but it no longer feels quite real.
MARIA: What did you study then?
LACY: I liked certain classes. I liked my English classes and chorus. Other classes seemed like a waste of time. Sometimes I’d have to pinch myself to stay awake. (She looks at Sam and Sarah.) I’m sure it’s ridiculous for me to complain. School was probably really boring for you guys. I’ve seen those pictures of those wooden desks and strict teachers who hit you with rulers and made you memorize stuff. Or was school not even a thing in your time? Anyway, now it’s much more informal. I’m sure it’s much noisier. I like the library. Mrs. O’Reilly let me come in during lunch. And Mr. Vincent, the music teacher, is a really good teacher. I actually learn stuff in his class. And every day you see all the people you like. (She looks at Sam.) Everybody acts . . . there’s just more . . . openness. We hug a lot. Every day when you see your friends—I don’t know—you hug. It’s nice. You can kind of be who you are. I mean, that’s not completely true. You think everything’s great and then something will happen, like a hate crime. And you realize there are still haters out there.
Sam loves the sound of her voice. He’d like to sit there and listen to her talk all night. He wants to know everything about her. He wants to know what that library is like. He wants to know what it’s like to be hugged every day.
MRS. STEELE: Let’s get to the point.
MARIA: Family?
LACY: My dad abandoned us. Not in a drug addict, criminal kind of way, more like in a workaholic way. He’s a lawyer and was never home, and then when I was ten his firm wanted to send him to Dubai to set up a big international office there and my mom said forget it and he said well I’m going. My mom is a high school math teacher, which is funny because I’m not the math type. Or the lawyer type. Neither is Liv, my sister, come to think of it. My mom teaches at a school in Towson—not the one we go to. She’s a worrier, my mom. She’s always calling me and texting me and getting freaked out if I don’t text back.
Lacy looks out at the street beyond the iron gate, realizing that she keeps talking in the present tense. That ache in her throat returns.
LACY: I used to think my mom was overreacting and that she didn’t need to worry so much, but bad things do happen . . . It’s really hard for me to imagine . . . This whole thing must be so hard for her . . . I wonder how she found out. Did the police knock on the door? Do they know who did this to me? Is the guy in jail? She must be so angry and sad—
The residents are quiet. Mrs. Steele shifts uncomfortably in her seat and clears her throat for Maria to continue.
MARIA: Any other family?
LACY: My sister, Olivia. (Looks up at Maria.) She was here earlier, at the cemetery. I think she came to visit me. I wanted to ask her what happened to me . . . I know that sounds ridiculous. I know she can’t hear me. (She looks at Sam, who gives her a sympathetic nod.) Anyway, she’s eighteen. We’re different. I love books and words and music (Sam’s soul is swooning) and she’s all about partying and hanging with this huge group of friends. She does a lot of stuff that my mom would freak out about but she’s really good at lying. (Lacy’s face darkens.)
Sam wants to respond, but his mother interrupts with a huff.
MRS. STEELE (to Maria): How many questions are there, Mrs. Clemm?
MARIA: Just two more.
Sam is disappointed. Would that there were ten more, twenty more, a thousand more.
MARIA: Do you have any habits that might be relevant to a particular job?
LACY: Habits? I don’t know—
MRS. STEELE (peering at Lacy’s hands): She bites her nails.
Reflexively Lacy pulls her hands in. Will Mrs. Steele try to argue that this makes her perfectly suited to eating termites? A tremor of anxiety runs through Lacy. She hasn’t been focusing. She has to think of something that will help her get a better job, but how can she when she is at such a disadvantage? She doesn’t even know the range of possibilities.
MARIA: Last question. Were you particularly suited for any recreational diversions, such as fern-collecting or hat-making?
LACY: Hobbies? (Pause. She tries to consider what might be useful to say, but in the end can only think of the truth.) Spoken word. I sing and I rap—
Raven perks up at the word rap and caws abruptly.
MARIA: Rap on doors?
LACY: Rap . . . like lyrics . . . poetry.
VIRGINIA (rolling her eyes): More poetry.
Thrilled, Sam moves to the edge of the crypt. An affirming hum is vibrating out from him, and Lacy can feel the energy.
MARIA: Poetry?
Maria’s energy is humming, too. And Sarah’s. Lacy can feel it all. She has kindred spirits here, and that fans her own flames. She stands. An idea is coming to her.
LACY: I know what I should do.
Everyone is silent, unused to hearing such assertiveness, especially coming from someone as young as Lacy. The residents, with the exception of Mrs. Steele, lean in, eager to hear what this girl has to say.
MRS. STEELE: It is not the resident who chooses his or her job.
SAM: There’s nothing in the rules to say that a resident can’t give a suggestion.
Mrs. Steele gives Sam a sharp look, but he pretends not to see it.
MARIA: What did you have in mind, Miss Brink?
LACY (with even more conviction): I want to run an open mic.
MRS. STEELE: What in the world is that?
LACY: It’s short for open microphone. (She paces, her face flushing, her eyes shining.) How can I explain this? A microphone is a round, knobby thing that projects your voice so an audience can hear it. An open mic is entertainment . . . but it’s not formal or scripted. It’s kind of like a show, but it doesn’t happen in a theater. It usually happens at a . . . well, at a place that serves tea and coffee or beer and wine.
SARAH (excited): We serve tea.
Mrs. Steele shoots her a look and Sarah quickly wipes the excitement off her face.
SARAH: Sorry, ma’am. I heard the word “tea.”
EFFIE (to Lacy): Entertainment . . . what do you mean?
LACY: People get up and perform their poems or their songs.
Sam hops off the Watson crypt. He can’t believe his good fortune.
MRS. STEELE: People? What do you mean by “people”?
LACY: Anybody who wants to. Somebody is the emcee and you have a sign-up sheet and anybody can come and sign up to perform.
SAM: Anybody?
LACY (smiles): Anybody. The whole idea is to crea
te a space for self-expression, to give people a chance to share their poems or their music with a supportive crowd. I mean, the vibe at most open mics is very—I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just very real and raw. Sometimes the performers aren’t great, but everybody is rooting for them because they’re letting it out, they’re taking the risk, putting their heart and soul into it. Most people do original poems or songs, things they have written or something that expresses the truth of what they’re feeling. Do you know what I mean?
Silence. Collectively, the souls gathered in front of Lacy have spent hundreds of days, weeks, months, years hiding various truths from each other and from themselves. To stand up in front of others and to, as she says, “let it out” seems impossible. They glance at each other, each trying to imagine the unimaginable.
Sam steps into the privacy of a shadow and pulls out his journal to see if there is anything inside that he might have the courage to share. Sarah looks down at her shoes, thoughts racing. Effie reaches over and squeezes Neffie’s hand. Maria glances at Dr. Hosler, who raises his eyebrows with a smile as if to say, “Well, this is unexpected, isn’t it?” Finally Mrs. Steele breaks the silence.
MRS. STEELE: I’ve never heard of such a thing. One should keep one’s thoughts and emotions to one’s self.
MARIA: Agreed, of course, Mrs. Steele. But it would be nice to have some kind of entertainment.
Lacy nods, hoping others will speak up in favor of the idea.
DR. HOSLER: Once, when I was teaching a class of medical students, a young man brought in a sonnet that he had written about caring for his sick grandmother. It wasn’t academic. It was personal. When he read it aloud, I was brought to tears.
LACY: That’s what I mean! It can be really beautiful.
SARAH: It would take great courage to share something so personal.
NEFFIE (encouraged to be a little bolder): I think this open mic idea sounds educational as well as entertaining.
EFFIE: If we allowed her to do it, we would be creating a new job . . . do our bylaws allow us to create new jobs?
MARIA (quickly before Mrs. Steele can respond): It wouldn’t be a new job. She would be President of the Entertainment Committee. We used to have one, remember?
