Leaving Home, of the Fields, Lately, and Salt-Water Moon

by David French

  MARY “I ain’t going!” he said. “You’ll have to drag me! I wants to die in me own bed!” All because he had no clean underwear . . .

  BEN Jesus.

  MARY Oh, I’m glad you wasn’t here, my son. He’d never’ve wanted you to see him carried out, shivering, on a stretcher, all wrapped in blankets. It was all I could do not to turn away my head. He looked so puzzled . . .

  BEN How could it happen, Mom? I mean he’s not like other men. He’s so strong.

  MARY Was, Ben.

  BEN Christ, when we were growing up, he’d make fun of us, Billy and me, if we got a blister. Like it was a sign of weakness or something.

  MARY Imagine then what this’s done to him, a man that proud of his health and strength. Always wore it like some men wear a medal. T’ought he’d have it always like the colour of his eyes. (slight pause) I t’ink he’s frightened, now. Frightened and ashamed.

  BEN Ashamed? Of what?

  MARY He can’t keep up with others, even men his own age, and he knows it. I t’ink it preys on his mind like an insult. (slight pause) I never wanted you here, my son, but since you is, perhaps you can talk some sense into him, without getting into a row. Before it’s too late.

  BEN What do you mean “too late”?

  MARY I’m frightened to death, Ben. He starts back to work tomorrow. Wiff got him a job. He ain’t ready.

  BEN Is that what the doctor says?

  MARY He warned him against it.

  BEN Can’t you talk to him?

  MARY I’ve tried my best, but he t’inks I’m in league with the doctor. Perhaps you’ll have better luck.

  BEN He’d never listen to me, Mom. We’d just get in another argument.

  MARY It’s worth a try, ain’t it? Do it for me. I’m at my wit’s end, my son.

  BEN What the hell’s he trying to do, Mom — kill himself?

  MARY Don’t say that.

  BEN Well, Christ, that’s what it looks like.

  MARY No, Ben, it’s my fault. I made the mistake of mentioning my legs was hurting. All that standing at work. That’s all the excuse he needed. The very same night he was on the phone to Wiff. (Doorbell rings.) Speak of the devil, that’s him now. (She crosses to the foot of the stairs.) Jacob!

  JACOB (off) What?

  MARY Wiff’s here! Hurry up! Answer the door!

  JACOB (off) What’s wrong with your two feet? I’m dressing.

  MARY (as she crosses back to the counter and gets the bushel basket, to BEN) I t’ought he only took a minute? You answer it. (She crosses back to the archway.) I’m going upstairs. I don’t want to see his ugly face.

  BEN (crossing to archway) Mom, did you tell Billy about the heart attack?

  MARY Yes . . . He came to the hospital.

  BEN Great. No wonder Dad’s so pissed off. He thinks I knew, too, right?

  MARY What could I do, Ben? He’d have t’ought it strange if I hadn’t let both you know.

  She exits upstairs. Doorbell rings again. BEN crosses out into the hallway and answers the door.

  BEN (off) Hello, Uncle Wiff.

  WIFF (off) Who’s that? Is that you, Billy?

  BEN (off) Ben.

  WIFF (off) Ben? No. Is that you, Ben?

  He follows BEN into the hall. WIFF is dressed in an overcoat and dark suit. He wears a black fedora with a red feather in the brim, and has the red nose of a drinker.

  Well, for crying out loud I never recognized you, duckie, it’s been so long. Your old Uncle Wiff never recognized you. When’d you get in?

  BEN Just a while ago. I flew home.

  WIFF Jacob must be some t’rilled, I dare say. (He takes off his rubbers.) You all alone?

  BEN No. Mom and Dad’re upstairs. (WIFF removes his hat, places it on the banister.) I was sorry to hear about Aunt Dot, Uncle Wiff.

  WIFF Terrible, my son, terrible. And just when we was planning a trip home this summer. (He crosses to the chesterfield.) Our first since we left. Even got the old car fixed . . . Oh, well, Dot’s better off now. This life was too much for her. Perhaps the next’ll be a little kinder . . . (He sits on the chesterfield.)

  BEN Would you like a drink, Uncle Wiff?

  WIFF No, I don’t dare touch it. Your mother’d crown me, duckie, if she caught me . . . You say she’s upstairs?

  Your Uncle Wiff’ll have a whiskey then, as long as you makes it quick. And straight.

  BEN enters the kitchen, gets the whiskey and a glass from the cupboard, pours a drink. WIFF takes a mickey from the inside pocket of his overcoat and takes a quick drink, slips it back.

  How long you home for, Ben? For good?

  BEN No. Just till the funeral.

  WIFF Oh? A good excuse to come home, eh, my son? (BEN doesn’t answer. WIFF rises, removes his coat and scarf, hangs them over the banister.) Too bad you couldn’t stay a spell longer. Your father could do with some help now. He ain’t at all well. Scares me sometimes to look at him.

  BEN Yeah, I’ve noticed.

  WIFF (crosses to archway) A lot of changes in two years, boy . . . Even the cold bothers him, now. (BEN returns from the kitchen and hands WIFF his drink.) And I can recall times he’d find fun with it all, even the cold . . . Did he ever tell you the time back home me and him was in Holyrood?

  BEN (sitting in the armchair) No, I don’t think so.

  WIFF What a bugger of a cold night that was. Freeze your poor pecker off. We drove into this little town one night in the winter, Jake and me. Just boys, the two of us. I had my father’s old coal truck. Checked into the first hotel we saw — what we called back home a “baseball hotel.”

  BEN What’s that?

  WIFF A baseball hotel? That’s a pitcher on top of the dresser and a catcher underneath. (BEN laughs.) Holyrood’s a Catholic town, and the room we had was all decked out in religious pictures of bleeding hearts. Never seen so many in me life. Just a little room with a bare bulb hanging down over the bed. And the last t’ing we seen before I reached up and switched off the light was this big picture of Jesus on the far wall. There he was, poor old Jesus, with his halo and crown of t’orns and this big red heart dripping down on his white gown, with a flame shooting out the top of the heart, and him standing there with his arms stretched wide open — (he gestures) — and it was that cold in our room, duckie — and Jacob’ll back me up — it was that cold that in the morning when we looked up, Jesus had his hands over his ears like this. (He demonstrates.)

  BEN (laughing) Christ!

  WIFF Yes, that’s right, my son — poor old Jesus Christ! (then — seriously) Oh, he ain’t the same man, Ben, since the night you run off. I can testify to that. And what a state he was in at the time. Worse than your mother. Never ate for days. I doubt he slept a wink till he knowed where you was.

  BEN He shouldn’t have beat me, Uncle Wiff. I warned him.

  WIFF Forget it. You’re a bigger man than that, duckie. Make up. Take your Uncle Wiff’s advice. Stay home and give him a hand. He’s worked hard for you all his life. You might do the same in return. (BEN says nothing.) Some sons would, gladly.

  BEN I don’t want to live at home any more. I like being on my own. He’ll be all right.

  WIFF Will he? Have you taken a good look at him, lately? Have you, my dear? A close look? That’s a man walking in the valley of the shadow. Mark my words.

  BEN Then why’d you get him the job? Did you have to?

  WIFF Wait a minute, now, duckie, wait a minute. (He sits on the chesterfield.) I ain’t denying he wants to work. Your Uncle Wiff never said that, did he? All I’m saying is he oughtn’t to. He ain’t in no shape.

  BEN Did you tell him that?

  WIFF Bless your heart, I did so. I advised him to wait a few months, after he’s more rested up . . .

  BEN So what do you think I should do?

  WIFF He might listen to reason, if he t’ought you was staying home. That might do the trick.

  Enter JACOB. WIFF quickly passes his glass to BEN.

  JACOB Wiff, my son, how is y
ou? Still holding up?

  WIFF Oh, as good as can be expected, duckie. As good as can be expected.

  JACOB (to BEN) Where’s your manners? Get your uncle a drink.

  MARY (entering, sitting on the far end of chesterfield, away from WIFF) He don’t want a drink, and neither does you. Have a grain of sense. Look what happened yesterday.

  JACOB (ignoring MARY) Wiff?

  WIFF No, my son, I’m off it for Lent, as the old man used to say. Off it for Lent.

  JACOB Suit yourself. I t’ink I’ll have a quick one. (He enters the kitchen, pours himself a drink.) Been down to Jerrett’s yet, Wiff?

  WIFF Just come from there, duckie. Saw Dot for a few minutes.

  MARY Oh? How do she look?

  WIFF Lovely, maid, lovely. Never know it was the same person. Just like she’s sleeping.

  JACOB Did you see our flowers?

  WIFF I did, bless your heart. T’anks ever so much. They’s lovely. Even the Oakwood Hotel sent a big wreath signed by all the waiters.

  MARY Not surprising. You’re the best customer they ever had.

  BEN Mom, for Christ’s sake . . .

  MARY Even Dot’s dying couldn’t keep him out on a Saturday afternoon.

  WIFF Must be our time of life, Mary. Flowers don’t smell of the fields, lately . . . only of the funeral parlour . . . of death. (pause)

  MARY What dress did you settle on?

  WIFF What dress . . . ?

  MARY Wasn’t a black one, was it? You know how she felt about black.

  WIFF No, maid, wasn’t black . . .

  MARY Did any of her dresses fit her? I wouldn’t t’ink they would, all the weight she lost.

  WIFF Well, one did, Mary. Just one, my dear . . .

  MARY Which one?

  WIFF Well . . . (He rises, moves nervously behind the chesterfield.)

  MARY No, don’t tell me, Wiff. (She stands.) If you done what I t’ink you done I’ll wring your neck for sure. That’s a promise.

  JACOB enters with his drink and glances from WIFF to MARY.

  JACOB What in Christ’s name’s going on now? Can’t I step out of the room for two minutes, Mary?

  MARY Oh, I could murder him, I could. Guess what he’s went and done, Jake? You won’t believe this. Not in a million years.

  JACOB What?

  MARY Stuck Dot in her wedding dress. After what I told him Dot said.

  JACOB Did you, Wiff?

  WIFF That was the custom, Mary. You knows yourself. Why, the day we was married your poor mother said to Dot, “Now, me baby (rhymes with abbey) pack your dress away, that’s for your funeral.”

  MARY And what was it I told you Dot said just before she died? Her very last words: “Don’t let Wiff bury me in my wedding dress.”

  BEN sits on sofa, lights a cigarette.

  WIFF She never knowed what she was saying. Mary. She never meant that, for crying out loud. That wasn’t Dot speaking. Not my Dot.

  MARY No? How would you know? Was you there? Here I is, trying to keep my husband alive at all costs, and you ain’t got two minutes to give to a dying woman! (She enters the kitchen, sits at the table.)

  JACOB Leave my name out of it. (then) She’s just upset, Wiff. Pay her no mind.

  WIFF follows MARY into the kitchen.

  WIFF Look, Mary . . .

  MARY You just never loved her, Wiff, or you’d’ve made it to the hospital.

  WIFF That’s a lie, Mary. I loved Dot, and don’t you say I didn’t. And once she loved me, too.

  JACOB sits in the armchair.

  By Jesus, there was a time I couldn’t pass her chair without she’d reach out and touch me. And I was the same. I couldn’t get close enough. I would’ve crawled down and lived inside her bowels. We was the perfect pair . . .

  MARY You took up with the boarder. That’s what ruined it. And after Dot treated that girl like a daughter . . .

  WIFF I never looked at another woman, including Marie, till Dot went t’rough the change of life. Wouldn’t have a t’ing to do with me, after that. Too tired, she’d say. Always tired . . .

  MARY All right, but was it too much trouble to sit with her till she went? You could’ve done that much.

  WIFF For crying out loud, Mary, I was on my way to the hospital, no odds what you believes. I wanted to say goodbye.

  MARY You wanted a whiskey more.

  WIFF I just stopped off at the Oakwood for a minute. For a quick one, I told myself.

  MARY You might’ve waited.

  WIFF No, duckie, I needed a good stiff drink right then, that’s all there was to it. I’d been down to that hospital night after night for six weeks, watching her waste away to not’ing . . . hoping every day would be her last. I could hardly bear to look at her . . . One quick glass of Scotch. Should’ve only took two minutes, if that.

  MARY Why didn’t it, then?

  WIFF Why? If you’re ready to listen, I’ll tell you why . . . I had my first whiskey, and no sooner had I drunk it than somet’ing came back to me so clear . . . (He sits.) The first time Dot and me ever met. T’irty-five years ago. Me on my way down to the coal shed to unload the steamer, her on her way to the church to light the fire. How it all came back, suddenly, sitting at that table. That dark road, the stars still out, and me with my flashlight and lunch pail, no older than Ben. And who comes tripping along the road towards me, but Dot, the beam of her flashlight bouncing and swinging. I puts the light in her young face, and for a moment I don’t recognize her, she’s blossomed out that much in the time I was away in Boston . . . “Is that you, Dot Snow?” And she laughs. I’d forgot how gentle laughter could be. “Is that you, Wiff Roach?” Well, duckie, I never made it to the coal shed that morning. No, by God, I never. And my father couldn’t have dragged me, had he kicked me ass all the way with his biggest boots. I walked her up the road, instead, and we sat in her family pew till the sun come up. Two months later we was married. You remembers, Mary. You was the bridesmaid. (slight pause — WIFF stands) So that’s how come I never made it to the hospital yesterday. I had another whiskey to ease the pain I was feeling, and a t’ird because the second never helped . . . So if you wants to hurt me, Mary, you go right ahead, my dear, but you’re too late . . . and not’ing you can ever say or do will make me feel any worse than knowing what Dot and me once had and what it come to in the end, without either one of us ever knowing why . . . (He sits again.) And that’s why I wants her buried in her wedding dress, if you must know, in spite of what she said at the last. What she wanted in those days past is just as real to me as what she wanted yesterday. Nor do it have the same sadness, Mary, not the same sadness at all . . .

  MARY turns to WIFF. Slow fade to black. Music.

  SCENE TWO

  Lights up. Two hours later. MARY rushes in, followed by BEN. She removes her coat and thrusts it at BEN, who hangs it up. She crosses into the kitchen, fills the electric kettle, plugs it in.

  BEN (removing his coat, hanging it up) Quit it, Mom. (He enters the living room.) How long you going to keep this up? You didn’t speak once all the way home.

  MARY No, and you don’t deserve to be spoken to. And the same goes for your father.

  BEN crosses to the chesterfield, sits reading a magazine.

  What’d you let him get in a row for?

  BEN What do you mean let him? I didn’t let him.

  MARY Didn’t you see it coming? Couldn’t you stop it?

  BEN How? I was ten feet away talking to somebody. I still don’t know what happened. He was talking to Uncle Wiff and some other guy . . .

  MARY Ike Squires.

  BEN Who?

  MARY Your father never had much use for him, even back home.

  BEN Anyway, the next thing I knew this guy was running out the front door with Dad after him.

  MARY Well, he’s just lucky Ike can run faster than him. Wouldn’t that be a nice sight — two growed men going to it on the street? What’ll people say, for goodness sake?

  BEN reaches over and flicks on t
he radio. A late-night jazz piece plays.

  BEN Actually, it was pretty funny . . . (He laughs.)

  MARY (crosses to archway) Funny? There was not’ing funny about it. And you’re just as bad as him, if you laugh. That only encourages him. (She returns to the kitchen.)

  BEN Come on, Mom, where’s your sense of humour? Look at it this way . . . Who else do you know would pick a fight inside a funeral parlour?

  MARY Yes, and my poor sister lying dead a few yards away. What a sin. (slight pause) I stood there tonight looking down at Dot — and God forgive me — all I could t’ink about was perhaps your father was next. (She crosses to the archway.) Did you speak to him yet, like I asked you to?

  BEN No. Not yet.

  MARY Why not? He’ll soon be off to bed.

  BEN I just haven’t had a chance. I will, when he comes in from the garage.

  MARY See that you do. (crossing to BEN) Oh, Ben, I’ve been some uneasy, lately, I don’t mind telling you. At night I’ve been coming awake and listening for your father’s breathing in the dark. If I don’t hear it, I gets frightened and jabs him in the ribs with my elbow. If that don’t wake him, I gets more frightened and snaps on the light. And on top of that, last night I had a bad dream. Can’t get it out of my mind.

  BEN Really? What was it like?