Open Mic Night at Westminster Cemetery

by Mary Amato

  If you are not a young adult, but instead are one of those most intrepid souls—a teacher, librarian, or bookseller reading works to determine the merit of recommendation—I say, huzzah and thank you! Books that have complex sentence structures, poetic language, thought-provoking themes—or absurdly long asides to the reader—benefit greatly from your energy and enthusiasm. I do hope you are enjoying this one.

  And now, back to our story.]

  EDGAR: I’m famous! Isn’t this wonderful? A dream come true!

  Edgar takes Lacy by the hands and begins twirling with her. Raven puffs up with pleasure. Lacy laughs and looks back at Owen, who is caught up in a tender conversation with Clarissa. She spins out of the dance and catches her breath.

  LACY: I guess it feels good to find out you’re famous.

  EDGAR (stops and looks at Lacy thoughtfully): It sounds so superficial to desire fame. But . . . fame . . . it isn’t such a purely superficial thing . . . is it? Fame is a sign, the proof that what you’ve created will live forever. That’s what I really wanted. For things of complex beauty to . . . live. Is it so terrible to want beautiful things to last? Is it so terrible to do anything to try and make it happen? A thing of beauty shouldn’t die! Every woman I loved died—my mother, my stepmother, my wife—and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The flesh perishes, but a poem can have eternal life! Long after your beloved dies, you can hold a poem about your beloved and breathe it in and experience its tender embrace.

  LACY: That was beautiful.

  EDGAR: The truth is beautiful. (Suddenly extremely excited) Perhaps you know how I died, Miss Brink! I’m recalling that when I was inducted into this place, I wanted to know how I perished, and no one seemed to know. I was overcome with paroxysms of frustration and I cried out several times, using words that were, I admit, most profane.

  LACY: That’s why you got three strikes? See, that’s what pi— (She leans in and lowers her voice.) That’s what pisses me off. Sometimes people swear when they’re angry. You shouldn’t get Suppressed for that!

  EDGAR: Do you know how I died?

  LACY: I wrote about that in my report. It was very interesting. Everyone says that you died under mysterious circumstances.

  Edgar pulls Lacy over to sit on the stone bench.

  EDGAR: I love mysterious circumstances! Tell me more!

  LACY: You were in Richmond collecting subscriptions for a new magazine that you wanted to publish. Things were looking up. You were in good spirits. You wrote a letter to Mrs. Clemm—

  EDGAR: Muddy!

  LACY: Yes, your nickname for Maria. You wrote a letter to Muddy explaining that you were going to Philadelphia to edit a collection of poems for which you were being paid. Before leaving, you visited a Dr. Carter.

  EDGAR: Yes, John Carter! I remember his cane . . . loved it! Wanted one for myself. It had a hidden sword in it!

  LACY: Yes. Well, you seem to have mistaken his cane for yours because you left with it that day.

  EDGAR: Really? (Leans in, whispering) Do you think I did it on purpose?

  LACY: I don’t know. No one knows.

  EDGAR: So I filched his cane and then what?

  LACY: For some unknown reason, you didn’t go to Philadelphia. You came here instead.

  EDGAR: Baltimore . . .

  LACY: Yes. Accounts differ on what you did here, but several days after your arrival, you were found delirious and destitute, wandering around in someone else’s clothing.

  EDGAR (leaning back on the bench, fairly swooning with the drama): What in God’s name happened to me?

  LACY: No one knows for certain. Some say you were drunk, others say you had been robbed and suffered a beating!

  EDGAR: A beating! (He pulls up his sleeves to check for bruises.)

  LACY: Another theory is that you were kidnapped by a gang to be used as a straw voter in a local election.

  EDGAR: No!

  LACY: Yes, as the story goes, the gang tortured you and forced you to vote for their candidate and then tossed you out onto the street.

  EDGAR: Like a common sack of trash? A crime! Murder by a mob!

  LACY: But there are other theories, too.

  EDGAR (delighted): More? How else might I have perished?

  LACY: Congestion of the brain, heart disease, tuberculosis, diabetes, epilepsy, carbon monoxide poisoning . . . rabies . . .

  EDGAR (standing up to dance with a perversely impish joy at the list): Rabies! Fantastic! Perhaps I was visited by a bat in my sleep. Whilst I lay, the thing sank its fangs into my pale and throbbing neck. And then?

  LACY (laughing): Wow. I’m amazed that you’re having so much fun with this. I’m not exactly taking the news of my death as well.

  EDGAR (leaning in to whisper with a crazy grin): I’m Edgar Allan Poe. Master of the Macabre. Guru of the Ghoulish. Writer of the Warped. Sultan of the Strange. Tell me more!

  LACY: You were taken to the hospital, where you lapsed in and out of consciousness.

  EDGAR (sprawling on a nearby sarcophagus as if on his deathbed): No doubt, saying things of both profound beauty and utter incoherence! Who paid me a visit?

  LACY: I’m sure many tried. I believe you were deemed to be too excitable. On October 7, 1849, you took your last breath.

  EDGAR: And what were my dying words?

  LACY: People disagree.

  EDGAR: Really? What are the choices?

  LACY (counting them off on her fingers): One: “Lord help my poor soul.” Two: “He who arched the heavens and upholds the universe, has His decrees legibly written upon the frontlet of every human being.” Three: “Herring.”

  EDGAR: Definitely the second.

  LACY: Definitely.

  EDGAR: Well, I love it! Wonderful tale! I am exceedingly obliged, Miss Brink. And now here I am in the flesh. Ha! I suppose I can’t say that. I should say “in the—” (He looks down at his body.) What shall we call this? “In the corpse” doesn’t sound poetic enough. Ugly word, corpse.

  LACY: Here in the spirit?

  EDGAR: The spectre?

  LACY: The ghostly shade?

  EDGAR: The phantasm?

  LACY: The otherworldly presence?

  EDGAR: The vapor? Even better. The bloodless vapor!

  LACY: How about the supernatural shadow?

  EDGAR: The gauzy illusion?

  LACY: The ethereal essence?

  EDGAR: The astral nature!

  LACY: The imponderable being.

  EDGAR: Lovely.

  LACY (beaming): Thank you.

  EDGAR: Ah! The bracing tonic of words. Words give us the strength to face the ignoble vagaries; the poison-tipped arrows; the petty, shallow foibles of existence. How could I have stayed abed so long? Let us not waste another moment. Let us conspire to share more poetry!

  Enthusiasm vibrates out from Edgar, zipping around the cemetery like a fresh spring breeze. Lacy wants to encourage it, but she can’t ignore the reality of their situation.

  LACY: I tried to have an open mic—a night of poetry—and it su—it didn’t go well. Mrs. Steele scared everybody away.

  EDGAR: A night of poetry! We must do it.

  LACY: But you’re Suppressed. Even if I talked my way into doing another one, you wouldn’t be allowed to be there. (Getting up from her bench) Unless—

  EDGAR: Miss Brink, I see a veritable spark of mischief in your eyes. What are you thinking?

  Lacy waves at Owen to come over. Cautiously, he keeps one eye on Mrs. Steele’s grave and tiptoes over with Clarissa to join them. Whispered introductions are made and then Lacy lays out her idea.

  LACY (whispering): I’m thinking . . . what if we could find a way to get rid of Mrs. Steele for an hour or two? Then we could have a real open mic. The other people here . . . I know they need it.

  EDGAR: Let’s do it! We could stuff old Mrs. Steele under the floorboards or brick her up in a catacomb. (He notices the shocked expressions.) Ha! I jest! Of course, we can’t murder her. She’s already dead!

&nbs
p; LACY: How deep are the catacombs? If we found some reason for her to be way, way down there with the door closed, could she hear us, Owen?

  OWEN: Not unless you screamed your loudest. If you could find a way to get her down there, I could watch the door, miss.

  LACY: Thank you, Owen.

  EDGAR: Let’s devise a hoax. I’ve always loved a good hoax.

  LACY: Edgar has to be allowed to attend the open mic. Actually, maybe we should allow all the Suppressed to attend.

  Clarissa’s eyes light up. Owen takes this in.

  LACY: I know it’s a huge risk. If we get caught, we’ll all be in trouble. If you don’t want—

  OWEN: I think we should do it.

  Clarissa hugs him, and Lacy grins.

  Scene 2: The Secret Plan

  A rustling in the vicinity of Mrs. Steele’s grave sends Poe and Clarissa running, but when the cat appears and then slinks off, they stop and return.

  The sky has that fragile look it gets before dawn. The moon, large and low, is sinking on the horizon.

  OWEN (whispering): This is dangerous. It’s nearing daybreak. Peter will be making his rounds soon.

  LACY: Let’s at least wake the core group and tell them the plan tonight while Mrs. Steele is asleep. I’m thinking Sam, Sarah, Billy, Dr. Hosler, the Spindly Sisters, Peter, Maria. (She glances at Cumberland’s crypt.) I’m just not sure if Virginia—

  Momentarily forgetting about Edgar, Lacy was going to say that she wasn’t sure if Virginia could be trusted, but at the mention of his wife, Edgar spins around and looks at her name on the side of his monument.

  EDGAR: Virginia!

  LACY and OWEN: Sshh!

  Owen begs both Clarissa and Edgar to return to their graves. Clarissa does. Edgar is too agitated. While Owen runs back to keep a closer eye on Mrs. Steele’s grave, Edgar whispers rapturously.

  EDGAR: Oh, my mind and heart have been shrouded in the excitement or I would have instantly called out for my love. My love that was loved with a love that was more than love! My eternal bride! I cannot express in words the fervent devotion I feel. If I could not be with her I would not wish to live another hour—Virginia! Virginia, darling! (He runs to the side of the monument that bears her name.)

  LACY (whispering): Keep it down! Um—I think she is (she gives a sideways glance at Cumberland’s crypt) . . . maybe . . . on a stroll. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Let’s go get Sam first.

  Owen waves to stop her. He points to Sam’s grave and then to Mrs. Steele’s, making the point that the proximity makes it too risky to wake Sam at the moment. Lacy nods. She’ll wake the others first and find a way to tell Sam when it’s safe.

  For extra insurance, Lacy convinces Edgar to return to his grave.

  One by one, Lacy wakes Sarah, Dr. Hosler, the Spindly sisters, Peter, and Maria. As each person rises, the plan is introduced to much surprise and a fair amount of initial apprehension. We hear none of the actual dialogue, but we can tell by the excitement that something fundamental is shifting for these residents. Now that Lacy is tempting them with the idea of a colorful evening without the dreaded Mrs. Steele, they can’t go back to the drab gray of fear. Maria, in particular, is eager to see her dear Eddy again. They debate about whether to include Virginia and Cumberland. Maria insists that Virginia can be trusted, but they decide to wait until she comes out of the Poltroon crypt. They think it’s best to leave Cumberland out.

  Lacy fleshes out the hoax. They have dreamed up an excuse to send Mrs. Steele to the catacombs, but they will need a volunteer to help keep her there for at least an hour or two. Although no one wants to miss the evening, when Dr. Hosler sees the looks of joyful anticipation on the faces of the younger people, he raises his hand to volunteer.

  DR. HOSLER: I’ll do it. I had a full and happy life, which I know some of you weren’t lucky enough to have.

  Lacy kisses him on the cheek, and his eyes grow moist.

  DR. HOSLER: I . . . I . . . forgot how sweet that feels.

  LACY: Don’t tell me there’s a rule against kissing your friend.

  EFFIE (whispering): There isn’t a rule, per se, but we’ve developed a habit of keeping to ourselves.

  NEFFIE: The atmosphere here hasn’t been conducive to physical signs of affection.

  BILLY: If I’d a-known there’d be a kiss, I’d have volunteered myself.

  Effie and Neffie giggle.

  EFFIE: Perhaps kisses should be volunteered for any number of reasons, Mr. Bodley.

  NEFFIE: Or no reason at all!

  Just as Effie and Neffie’s giggle encourages Billy to become bolder in his flirtation, Sam is waking up.

  Usually quick to rise, it had taken Sam so long to fall asleep, he is now off his timing. The moment he opens his eyes, his thoughts are on Lacy and Billy. Did they spend the night together? Are the looks Lacy gives to Billy the looks of a friend or something more? How does one tell? He has the panicky thought that Billy will not be his only rival. What he loves about Lacy—the fact that she has affection and passionate concern for others—is also what challenges and confuses him. But maybe all his worries are for naught, he thinks. Maybe he can win her heart after all.

  [And here, dear Reader, is where we have one of those moments that we wish we could prevent.]

  While Sam is talking himself into rising, Billy is pouncing on Neffie’s playful innuendo and is making a game, first of kissing Effie on the cheek and then progressing to Neffie and then . . . you can guess where this is heading.

  At the moment that Sam rises and peeks out, Billy plants a kiss upon Lacy’s cheek.

  Sam reels back.

  Lacy laughs, whispers something to Billy, and gathers the others closer to her. Billy at her elbow, she is holding court in a warm, happy huddle, with a smile on her face. The hope Sam had been trying to nurture boils into despair.

  LACY: Okay, does everybody understand the plan?

  DR. HOSLER: I will do everything in my power to keep her in the catacombs for as long as possible.

  A plan . . . ? Sam tiptoes out and hides behind a tombstone to hear.

  MARIA: The only way this will work is if no one betrays us.

  EFFIE: What about Samuel?

  Sam freezes.

  OWEN: We can’t wake him up. He’s too close. Too risky.

  The fact that Owen is a part of this clique adds to Sam’s pain.

  MARIA: I don’t think we should include him in the open mic. He is her son.

  DR. HOSLER: Perhaps it would strengthen the ruse to make him part of it. As her son, he could be invited to the catacombs with her.

  EFFIE: Very reasonable.

  NEFFIE: Kill two birds with one stone, really.

  Raven growls, and Neffie apologizes.

  Sam has heard enough. He walks to his grave.

  Ordinarily Raven’s affection for Sam would compel him to do something for Sam, cough loudly in his direction so everyone would see him and have the chance for explanations and apologies, for example; but Raven is a bird, after all, and Neffie’s comment about the stone rankles. And so, as any tragedy would have it, while Raven growls at Neffie, Sam descends out of sight, missing what Lacy says next.

  LACY: But I don’t want Sam to miss the open mic.

  SARAH: I think his feelings would be deeply hurt.

  EFFIE: He needn’t know. He wouldn’t read anyway. (She nods toward the urn holding Sam’s crumpled poetry.)

  NEFFIE: He discards his attempts.

  EFFIE: It takes courage to perform.

  LACY: But it won’t be the same without him.

  DR. HOSLER: I sympathize with the boy, but minimizing the risk for us all is the best option.

  Raven hears a sound at Mrs. Steele’s grave and flaps a warning.

  Quickly Lacy sits on her bench and Owen steps into the shadows by the wall. Everybody else begins to saunter aimlessly in different directions.

  Mrs. Steele’s door opens fully. She steps out of her grave and looks at the strange sight.

  MR
S. STEELE: It’s almost daybreak. I heard talking. What in the world is everyone doing walking around?

  Nonchalantly, Raven lifts one wing and uses the wing tip to scratch the back of his head. Knowing it is best for the group if she is out of sight, Lacy dives into her grave.

  MARIA (thinking fast): We were feeling restless, Mrs. Steele . . .

  She looks at the Spindly sisters for help, and they jump in.

  EFFIE: We couldn’t sleep and . . . and . . .

  NEFFIE: Dr. Hosler gave us an exercise! (She looks expectantly at Dr. Hosler.)

  DR. HOSLER (panics for a moment and then recovers): An old remedy. It clears the mind and relaxes the muscles. Here we go. Counting off. One and two and three and four . . .

  Dr. Hosler ad-libs a slow yogic dance of sorts, counting as he goes, taking a step with his right foot, lifting his other foot in the air, and reaching up with his arms, and then repeating the whole with his other foot moving forward. The others join in, continuing to count and step and lift and reach. In the dark underground, Lacy listens, imagining the comedic movements, hoping Mrs. Steele buys the excuse, and trying not to laugh.

  NEFFIE (continuing to do the routine): It’s a bit mesmerizing. I am feeling sleepy. Aren’t you, Effie?

  EFFIE: I am. It’s a bit like . . . counting sheep . . . only physical.

  MARIA (yawning with one hand as she reaches up with the other): I shall sleep like a baby after this. I can feel it.

  Mrs. Steele is silent for a moment, regarding them with suspicion, as they continue.

  MRS. STEELE: You all felt restless at the same time?

  DR. HOSLER: Full moon, Mrs. Steele. Scientists have long hypothesized that the lunar phases influence sleep patterns, most specifically the association of insomnia with the full moon. (He grins, enjoying this little opportunity to lecture again.) Anecdotal evidence has existed for hundreds of years, which is why we have the word lunatic.