by Mary Amato
DR. HOSLER: Clarissa Smythe, if I recall. She organized evenings of parlor songs and dances that were quite entertaining!
From Clarissa’s grave, her voice calls out.
CLARISSA: Thank you, Dr. Hosler!
Owen looks up. With the exception of Mrs. Steele, there are smiles all around as the residents recall the brief sweet period of nightly tunes and dances. Miffed at Clarissa for speaking out, Mrs. Steele readies herself to summon Owen if she tries it again. But Clarissa is silent.
MRS. STEELE: Entertainment is risky. Let us recall that on the third night of performances, Miss Smythe got quite carried away. That song with the innuendos earned her a third strike.
[At the mention of this, you will notice, if you are observant, that Owen looks as if he has been struck in the chest with an arrow.
A further glance at the expressions of the others will tell you what you probably have already guessed, dear Reader: that no one but Mrs. Steele thought the song “with the innuendos” was worthy of a strike.]
NEFFIE: I remember.
EFFIE: That was the last show. Nobody came along that was suited to fill the position after that.
A sad silence follows. Finally Maria throws in one last seemingly fruitless appeal.
MARIA: Perhaps with our help Miss Brink can ensure that the material will be appropriate.
Mrs. Steele is quiet. All are expecting her to reject the idea, but Mrs. Steele smiles.
MRS. STEELE: Fine.
Raven does a double take. Everyone is shocked.
MARIA: Fine?
MRS. STEELE: Perfect.
VIRGINIA: Perfect?
MRS. STEELE (to Lacy): You will organize and host an open mic. And we hope you will also perform.
LACY: I—I haven’t really thought about that.
MRS. STEELE (smiling thinly): You must. We’re dying to see what you do. Why don’t you get started? I imagine you have to prepare a few things before showtime.
LACY: Now?
MRS. STEELE: No time like the present.
Mrs. Steele folds her hands in her lap and smiles, looking like a villain who has just poured a cup of poison and is waiting for her nemesis to take a sip.
Scene 7: The Transformation
Despite Mrs. Steele’s attitude, something positive is happening. As Lacy looks at Sam and the other assembled residents, she can feel it. She hears a new hum, a faint buzzing sound that is growing in intensity. Although it sounds alive, it isn’t frightening. It sounds, to Lacy, like the tremolo of bows against strings, but it is, in fact, the hum that the souls of the Deceased give off when some extraordinary current of new energy is beginning to run through old grounds.
Lacy nods and smiles.
LACY: Okay. Let’s do this.
The Spindly sisters jump to their feet like schoolgirls and start plotting.
EFFIE: We should have a little stage, perhaps something exotic . . . columns on the side with Rosicrucian symbols?
NEFFIE: Oooh, some velvet draperies!
EFFIE: And on each table . . . nosegays!
NEFFIE: Decorative placecards!
EFFIE: Come, Virginia, you’re the President of the Decorating Committee! This will be fun.
NEFFIE: Doilies!
EFFIE: Nut cups are always a nice touch.
Although Virginia is dying for entertainment, her jealousy of Lacy keeps her firmly planted in her seat. She has no desire to help make more of a celebrity out of the girl. In fact, she thinks throwing a little water on Lacy’s fire might be fun.
VIRGINIA: Ladies . . . calm down. It’s not as if there’s a mercantile down the street.
EFFIE: Right. We’ll make use of what we have.
Cumberland, who has been playing it safe by sitting near his crypt and keeping his mouth closed, can no longer contain his excitement.
CUMBERLAND (standing up): I happen to have a silk sheet in my crypt! My mother wanted me tucked in, so to speak. Perhaps we could get the effect of a small stage by hanging the sheet up between two posts of the iron gate. Look! (He points to an open space between the Watson and Hosler crypts.) With my sheet hung up like a curtain in the back, it would define the space as a stage, don’t you think?
Virginia gives Cumberland a dirty look, but the sisters clap and coo and Maria joins the excited huddle.
MARIA: It will be nice to have something more than tea to look forward to. (She gives a quick apologetic glance to Sarah.) No offense, Sarah. You make a lovely pot of tea.
SARAH: No offense taken, Mrs. Clemm.
EFFIE: Ladies! We could spread our shawls on the sarcophagi . . . here, in front of the open space, and they could serve as the tables!
NEFFIE: The tombstones behind them and around them could be our chairs.
Dr. Hosler rises, too. He recalls that bubbling of excitement one feels in the chest when a theatrical spectacle begins, and he wouldn’t mind feeling it again.
DR. HOSLER: Happy to help out in whatever way I can. Perhaps the host would like to borrow my hat?
With a grin, he tosses his top hat at Lacy. She catches it, puts it on, and smiles adorably, first at the doctor and then at Sam, whose heart skips several beats.
Mrs. Steele’s eyes flash, but she remains quiet.
Lacy can feel Mrs. Steele’s hostility, and lace shawls and silk sheets aren’t exactly the hip vibe she had in mind, but the warm enthusiasm from the group is seeping into Lacy and filling her with the desire to make this work, to give them a positive experience. She faces them.
LACY: Creating the effect of a stage and tables would be great. (She smiles at Sarah.) If we could have tea along with the entertainment, that would be perfect.
SARAH (beams): I can do that!
Sarah jumps up and begins preparations for tea, and the excited residents transform the crumbling graveyard into a little café of sorts as Lacy paces, rehearsing what she’ll say to kick off the show. The Spindly sisters set their lace shawls like tablecloths upon three sarcophagi and collect small bouquets from the residents who were buried with them to use as centerpieces.
Much to Virginia’s annoyance, Cumberland leaps into action with more verve than she has ever seen from him, hanging up his silk sheet from the iron gate between the two sets of crypts.
Delighted to have a project, Dr. Hosler uses his scalpel to cut letters spelling Open Mic Night at Westminster Cemetery out of the pillowcase from his own coffin. As soon as he is done, he hangs this up like a poster on the iron gate near the backdrop curtain. The moonlight shining through the negative spaces of the pillowcase makes it look as if the letters are lit up.
Meanwhile, Sam is feverishly revising a poem, looking every now and then at Lacy with starry eyes to make sure her appearance in this place isn’t a dream.
DR. HOSLER: What do you think, Miss Brink?
Lacy takes it all in.
LACY: Sweet. And oddly charming.
EFFIE: The place has never looked better.
NEFFIE: All we need is an audience.
Reality hits Lacy like a bolt of lightning. It’s one thing to decorate, but can she count on anyone here to actually come through with a performance?
LACY: Um . . . the audience is the easy part. Are any of you going to perform?
Sam catches her eye and a terrified look comes over his face. The poem in his hands suddenly seems awkward and inelegant. If he shared it and it didn’t go well, Lacy’s admiration for him would plummet. He walks over to the urn where he stuffs his rejects and squashes it in.
Lacy sees it happening before her eyes. Stage fright and a lack of confidence make for a terrible combination. If Sam won’t perform, she wonders, who will? She looks around. Sarah is too timid. The Spindly sisters and Maria are more the type to cheer rather than to perform. Virginia definitely has something to say, and Lacy is guessing that she would have a ton of stage presence; but when Lacy looks over at her, she sees the smirk Virginia is giving her and feels even further disheartened. Virginia wants her to fail. Mean girls always do.
Perched on Poe’s monument, Raven clears his throat loudly. Lacy looks at the bird. He clears his throat again and then looks down, as if to call attention to the base of the monument. The letters P-O-E come into focus.
LACY: Edgar Allan Poe! I can’t believe I forgot about him. I’m having an open mic in Edgar Allan Poe’s cemetery! (She looks at the monument and then back at Raven.) Oh my Go—sh. You’re the Raven! He wrote a famous poem about you.
Raven gives a dignified nod. Everything Lacy learned for her seventh-grade report on Poe and his family rushes back. She spins around and looks at Virginia.
LACY: You’re his wife! I can’t believe I’m just making this connection. You’re Virginia Clemm Poe.
Virginia gives a complicated, rueful smile, a smile that totally intrigues Lacy, a smile that Lacy wants to unpack when she has the time, which she doesn’t at the moment; and then Maria clears her throat, and Lacy spins around to face her.
LACY: And you’re his aunt and mother-in-law, Maria Clemm. I recognized you when we first met, but with all the drama, the whole Poe connection slipped my mind. He used to call you Muddy. You ran the house. You were very well organized.
MARIA (pleased): Thank you. I’ve missed Eddy.
Virginia rolls her eyes and then she notices everyone—including Mrs. Steele—looking at her and adds a quick amendment.
VIRGINIA: Of course I miss my husband, too. Any wife would. (To gain favor with Mrs. Steele she adds) But Eddy has no one to blame but himself. Anyone who gets three strikes has to live with the consequences.
LACY (shocked): What?
SAM: Mr. Poe is Suppressed.
LACY: No fu—dging way.
SAM: We never really got to know him. From what I heard, it took him a long time to rise for the first time.
EFFIE: Weeks.
VIRGINIA (under her breath): Probably had to sleep off the drink.
EFFIE: When he finally rose, it was three strikes in the first three minutes.
NEFFIE: Poor Mr. Poe.
MRS. STEELE: He didn’t have to be so verbal in his dislike for the rules. If he hadn’t been, he wouldn’t have gotten his strikes.
MARIA: Well, he has been silent ever since.
VIRGINIA (under her breath again): Probably still sleeping off the drink.
MARIA: Virginia!
VIRGINIA (shrugs and whispers): He drank a lot.
LACY: He got strikes for expressing his dislike of the rules? That isn’t right.
MRS. STEELE: He received strikes for throwing a tantrum.
LACY: I can’t believe that you’ve essentially silenced one of America’s famous poets.
MRS. STEELE: We didn’t silence him. He silenced himself by behaving inappropriately.
There is a beat of silence. Lacy can feel that the majority of the residents disagree with the system, but they remain quiet.
EFFIE: Well, since we can’t have Mr. Poe, perhaps a poet will come out of the woodwork, so to speak. Someone who has been writing poetry secretly could surprise us with a masterpiece.
Sam reaches back into the urn and sifts through the discarded pages, hoping against hope to find a gem, an action that Mrs. Steele notices with disdain.
MARIA: Why don’t we ask Peter to make an announcement around the entire perimeter? Who knows, perhaps some of our younger residents will be interested in participating. (Everyone looks at Mrs. Steele to see what she thinks, and Maria jumps in.) After all, it would be rude to have a soiree and not inform those with aboveground privileges.
Maria has a point, and Mrs. Steele is obliged to nod. Delighted, Maria marches over to Peter Brown’s grave and knocks. Peter steps out, surprised.
MARIA: Peter, we have a job for you! We want you to announce our new entertainment. Let’s call it a talent show so people understand. Say: “Poetry talent show starting soon.” Make sure to do it around the entire cemetery. Say: “All who have aboveground privileges are welcome.”
Mrs. Steele nods at the shocked Peter to get on with it. Then she takes a seat toward the rear of the cemetery, in the shadows, so that she can collect her thoughts. She is allowing the open mic because she thinks it will provide an opportunity for the girl to break a rule. She only hopes that the mounting enthusiasm doesn’t have any ill effects for Westminster on the whole.
Excited, Peter pulls his bell out and begins to make the rounds.
PETER: Oyez! Oyez! Come one, come all who have aboveground privileges! Poetry talent show starting soon! All are welcome! Oyez! Oyez!
He begins to walk around the cemetery, repeating his call.
EFFIE: I wonder if the announcement will do any good.
MARIA: It might encourage some to wake up and step out for a change. We might see old friends. If so, it will be quite the affair! Quite the how-de-do!
VIRGINIA (barely able to contain her sarcasm): Oh yes. Quite the how-de-do.
NEFFIE: Perhaps Mr. Barr will rise. (She turns to Lacy.) He plays a lovely tin whistle.
VIRGINIA: He’s been sleeping since 1899. I doubt this will inspire him to join us.
DR. HOSLER: You could perform, Virginia.
VIRGINIA: I am not performing in Miss Brink’s little talent show.
As Virginia is speaking, William “Billy” Bodley appears from the back of the cemetery, buttoning up the jacket of his Civil War uniform and putting on his cap.
A sixteen-year-old drummer for the Baltimore regiment, he was buried with his drumsticks in the same section of the cemetery as Owen, a collection of much more modest graves.
Sam, who was just about to stuff the poem he is holding back into the urn, looks up along with the others and shrinks.
[Perhaps, dear Reader, I need to explain that Sam is not literally becoming smaller. Since you do not know all the rules of the afterlife, you might assume that shrinking is a possibility. I am using the word here to describe that deflating of self-esteem that can come when one rather sensitive soul has to watch a much more confident soul enter the scene. If you have never had to face that little demon called jealousy, you are lucky. Unfortunately, Billy Bodley’s arrival is a challenge for Sam and you’re going to have to watch poor Sam squirm. I’ll explain why soon. For now, please keep him in your thoughts.]
BILLY: Did I hear something about entertainment?
Virginia turns.
With a dazzling grin, the precociously charming Billy tips his cap to all the ladies. His hair is long, and he runs his hand through it to keep a few locks from falling into his eyes, a habit that could be annoying but, coupled with a dimpled smile, makes him irresistible.
Seeing that he has an audience, he tosses his cap onto the head of a stone angel, pulls his drumsticks out of his back pocket, and twirls them around.
The eyes of all the women—with the exception of Mrs. Steele—and at least one of the men light up.
EFFIE (whispering to Neffie): It’s Billy. Remember Billy?
NEFFIE (whispering back): I remember when he got his first strike!
Shortly after Billy Bodley’s Official Welcome on a hot summer night, he made the mistake of ditching his jacket and his undershirt, which was purely for effect, thus exposing his young and muscular chest and arms—a sight that many in the graveyard greatly enjoyed, but for which he was given his first strike.
VIRGINIA (stepping forward with as much of a flirtatious smile as can be allowed under Mrs. Steele’s gaze): Why, Billy Bodley, we haven’t seen you in ages.
BILLY: Ginny Poe. A sight for sore eyes. Hello, gals. (He winks at the Spindly sisters and they giggle.) Gents.
Virginia beams and extends her hand, expecting Billy to kiss it the way he did when he first woke up at Westminster. Instead he strides past her and takes Lacy’s hand in his. Sam watches Lacy, whose jaw has dropped slightly.
BILLY: Who’s this filly? And why’ve I been asleep so long?
Under Billy’s intense gaze, Lacy squirms. But not without pleasure, Sam notices.
Virginia is seething.
LACY: Hi.
BILLY: Name’s Billy. I love your hat.
LACY (blushing and taking off Dr. Hosler’s top hat): Oh. Thank you.
MARIA: Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Bodley!
DR. HOSLER (clapping Billy on the back): Bacterial infection following a wound, if I recall.
MARIA (to Lacy): Billy was a drummer in the war, and that was a serious responsibility. They communicated messages and commands by relaying different rhythms. Quite a talent.
EFFIE: And so brave! When his best friend, a soldier, was shot, Billy ran to carry him back to safety. He was shot in the back.
NEFFIE: Poor brave lamb.
Everyone looks at Billy. Sam winces.
From her seat in the rear of the cemetery, Mrs. Steele is about to put an end to this ridiculous tongue-waggling. She never liked Billy Bodley. Too much of a show-off. But then, she thinks, the boy could be just the thing to push Lacy Brink over the edge of propriety. She folds her hands and presses her lips together.
Lacy sees the first true potential for a performer in Billy and she doesn’t hesitate.
LACY: We’re having what’s called an “open mic.” It’s like a talent show.
EFFIE: Perhaps you could add your talents, Billy.
NEFFIE: Miss Lacy Brink here is the host.
EFFIE: She’s a Modern.
BILLY (smiling broadly at Lacy): I can tell! How can I help, Miss Lacy Brink? Need a drummer?
Billy goes down on one knee and taps out a light rhythm on the toes of Lacy’s boots with his drumsticks. She laughs and looks down at him. The thought of having someone else around who is young and energetic and musical lifts her spirits.
VIRGINIA: I’d love to watch you perform, Billy! I’m considering performing myself.
Lacy laughs at Virginia’s sudden desire to perform in the show she had derided only minutes ago, and Virginia gives her a look.
LACY: Actually, Billy, it would be great to have a drummer. A lot of spoken word is rhythm-based.
BILLY: Spoken word?
LACY: You lay down a beat and then the poet raps over you.
BILLY (with a twinkling smile): You can rap over me any time—
The sight of Billy on one knee gazing up at Lacy with his hair falling into his eyes and the sight of Lacy looking back at him with a smile on her face sends Sam into full-blown panic. He has to do something—the only problem is that he doesn’t know what.
