by David French
She exits. Pause.
WIFF (rises) Well, I . . . I must be off. (He crosses into the hall.) I’d like to be alone with Dot for a spell. May be my last real chance. I won’t be back tonight, love. I already told Mary. I’m going home.
JACOB Oh?
WIFF Will I see you all later?
JACOB We’ll be there, Wiff, we’ll be there. (then) Wiff?
WIFF What, my son?
JACOB I never meant what I said before. You’re the best friend I ever had, outside Mary.
WIFF Don’t you t’ink I knows that, boy. (slight pause) And Wednesday morning we’ll go to work together. Just like old times. Is that a deal, duckie?
JACOB That’s a deal. I’ll pick you up, same time as always.
WIFF See you later, love. You too, Ben. (He exits.)
JACOB removes his coat, hangs it over the banister. Then slowly crosses into the kitchen and gets down a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. He turns and looks at BEN.
JACOB You want a drink?
BEN No, thanks. (A beat. Then he enters the living room, sits on the chesterfield.)
JACOB (as he pours himself a drink) I never knowed how growed up you was till tonight. (He crosses to the archway.) What made you do it?
BEN Do what?
JACOB (moves close to BEN) One minute you was willing to stay, the next you wasn’t. It wasn’t all for me, now, was it? Tell the truth. (slight pause) You wouldn’t have a girl out west, would you? Is that it? Did I guess right? I did, didn’t I?
BEN . . . Yeah, that’s it. How’d you know?
JACOB (sits in the armchair, picks up his newspaper) Well, that puts a different light on t’ings. You ought to’ve mentioned it before. Now, that I can understand. I missed your mother when I come up here alone to look for work and left her back home. Well, perhaps you’ll settle down, at last. What’s she like?
BEN (with difficulty) She’s beautiful, Dad. She works in a library. That’s how we met.
JACOB What’s her name?
BEN Sarah . . .
JACOB Well, you bring her home next time you comes, you hear? I’d like to meet her. Will you do that for me?
BEN Sure, Dad . . . (He rises.)
JACOB (as BEN crosses behind the armchair) And don’t stay away so long next time, Ben. (a beat) Your mother worries . . .
He buries himself in his newspaper. Cross fade of lights so that BEN and JACOB end up in spots, BEN facing the audience. JACOB remains sitting in the armchair, his face hidden by the newspaper.
BEN Seven weeks later I took another jet home and stood in a winter cemetery, stamping my feet against the cold, feeling somehow he’d set me free with his death. Keeled over on the job, was how Uncle Wiff put it. Hammering a nail in a joist . . .
I never did get any closer to my father, though I had learned to take him seriously as a man, not an obstacle. But the wall was still there, a little cracked maybe, but still dividing us, still waiting to be toppled.
And I never did get to ask him that one simple question that has haunted me all my life, ever since that summer evening when I was twelve and he came down to the schoolyard to watch me play . . . “How did you like the game?”
Slowly JACOB lowers and folds his newspaper as though he has heard the question. The lights fade slowly to black.
END
SALT-WATER MOON
Once again,
for my parents
Salt-Water Moon was first produced in October 1984 at the Tarragon Theatre, Toronto, with the following cast:
JACOB MERCER Richard Clarkin
MARY SNOW Denise Naples
Directed by Bill Glassco
Set & Costumes by Sue LePage
Lighting by Jeffrey Dallas
The production was transferred to the Bayview Playhouse in November 1984, with the original cast.
Salt-Water Moon was revived in Toronto on January 5, 2008, by the Soulpepper Theatre Company at the Young Centre for the Performing Arts with the following cast:
JACOB MERCER Jeff Lillico
MARY SNOW Krystin Pellerin
Directed by Ted Dykstra
CHARACTERS
JACOB Mercer
MARY Mercer
THE PLACE
The front porch and yard of the Dawes’ summer house in Coley’s Point, Newfoundland.
THE TIME
An August night in 1926.
The front porch of a house that was built in the last half of the nineteenth century, probably by a ship’s captain or local merchant. It has a solid feel about it, this porch. You just know that the interior of the house would consist of oak banisters and newel posts, wide halls and high ceilings. And that every timber was hand-chosen and pit-sawn and constructed by men who built houses the way they built boats — to last.
On stage right of the porch is a rocker.
There is not much of a yard, because they built their houses close to the sea in those days to make easy access to the waters where they made their living. In fact, the house stands quite close to a road that runs in front of it, a gravel road skirting the rocky embankment that holds back the sea. Some indication of this road should be on the set, though it need not be realistic.
It is a lovely night in August, 1926. A warm night in this tiny outport at the edge of the sea, a night lit by the full moon and a sky full of stars.
At rise: MARY SNOW is alone on stage. She sits on the front step, training a telescope on the sky. MARY is seventeen, a slender, fine-boned, lovely girl with short black hair. She is wearing a short-sleeved yellow satin dress and black flat-heeled shoes. She wears no makeup except for a slight hint of red on her cheeks. The only jewellery she wears is her engagement ring.
Slight pause. Then MARY rises and crosses into the stage left part of the yard and again peers at the sky through the telescope.
A moment later JACOB MERCER’S voice is heard offstage, singing faintly as though he were some distance down the road stage right. His voice carries so faintly, in fact, that MARY spins around and faces that direction, listening intently, not sure whether it is her imagination.
JACOB (to the tune of “Pretty Redwing”)
Oh, the moon shines bright on Charlie Chaplin,
His boots are crackin’ for the want of blackin’,
And his baggy trousers they want mendin’
Before they send him, to the Dardanelles.
MARY stands riveted to the spot, her eyes searching the shadow-pocketed road, almost afraid of what might walk into view, but still straining to listen. . . . But the song has ended, and there is only silence. With an inward shrug, she assumes it is imagination — the ghost of last summer — and resumes her study of the stars.
At that moment JACOB MERCER appears on the road stage right. He is about six months older than MARY, a solidly built, good-looking young man in a store-bought suit and brown fedora. In his right hand he holds a cardboard suitcase held together with a rope tied in a half-hitch knot. At first sight of MARY, he instinctively sets down the suitcase and removes his hat. He watches her so intently it is as though he is holding his breath. . . . Finally, JACOB clears his throat, and MARY whirls around, startled. They stand motionless, staring at one another for a long moment.
JACOB (finally) Hello, Mary. (then) Aren’t you even going to acknowledge me? (pause) The least you could do is make a fist.
MARY (Beat. Quietly.) It was you I heard . . .
JACOB What? Just now?
MARY I heard your voice on the road, and I said to myself, No, it couldn’t be him . . .
JACOB It is. (then) Why? Who’d you t’ink it was, a spirit? The ghost of Bob Foote roaming the roads? Poor Uncle Bob in blackface out for a last howl at the moon?
MARY That’s not funny, Jacob.
JACOB It wasn’t meant to be.
MARY Making fun of the poor old soul, and him tonight in a closed casket. It’s not right.
Slight pause.
JACOB (crosses slowly to the porch) Don’t tell me you still believes
in spirits? I can hardly credit it, a young girl like you. (He nods at the house.) The Right Honourable and Lady Emma must find it some odd. (He sets down the suitcase.)
MARY I don’t see what’s so odd about that, believing in spirits.
JACOB Don’t you?
MARY No.
JACOB What? Looking at the sky t’rough a spyglass and over your shoulder for ghostes? (pronounced “ghostus”) You don’t find that odd?
MARY No. Neither do Mr. and Mrs. Dawe.
JACOB Then Jerome must, him being a schoolteacher. He must wonder who in the world he’s become engaged to.
MARY Just because I takes an interest in the stars, Jacob, don’t mean I shuts my eyes to the wonder that’s around me. Now do it?
JACOB I suppose not.
MARY The day Father died in the Great War, Mother saw him at the foot of the bed in Hickman’s Harbour. He was killed at Beaumont Hamel, more than two t’ousand miles away, yet mother woke up to find him standing side-on to the bed, and she stared at him, she said, till he faded into the light of morning.
JACOB I knows. I’ve heard you tell it.
MARY Well then. (She turns away.)
Pause.
JACOB Oh, look, Mary, it’s a shame to get off on the wrong foot after all this time. I’m sorry I said that. It just slipped out.
MARY What?
JACOB That crack about old Bob looking like a bootblack. I never meant to make light. That’s just me.
MARY No odds. I don’t imagine Mr. Foote minds now.
Slight pause.
JACOB It’s bad enough that he’s dead at all, but to come home looking like the ace of spades . . . Must be tough on Mrs. Foote.
MARY No mistake.
JACOB I saw the wreath on the door as I was passing, so I went inside to pay my respects. There was a crowd in the parlour, the closed casket sitting on two wooden chairs. I figured it was Mrs. Foote inside, till she walked out of the kitchen with the Right Honourable and Lady Emma. Figured old Bob was still on the Labrador along with Father and wouldn’t be back till next month.
Slight pause.
MARY He was sitting in the bunkhouse, they said, and bent down to take off his boots. He died before he hit the floor.
Slight pause.
JACOB Is it true what I heard? Is it true Mrs. Foote went down to the wharf yesterday to meet the mailboat? Hoping to get a letter from Bob?
MARY True.
JACOB Instead there’s a pine box on the deck with his body in it. And Bob in that box all packed in salt.
MARY It’s a sin.
JACOB Takes t’ree weeks for the boat to get here. And him burnt black from that rock salt. Jesus.
Pause.
Still, he couldn’t have picked a nicer night for a wake, could he? It’s some lovely.
Pause.
It’s that bright out I bet I can read the hands on my pocket watch. (He removes his watch from his vest pocket.) Look at that. Ten to ten. I can pick out the maker’s name, almost: Tisdall . . . (winding the stem for something to do) . . . Yes, maid, it’s some night. Not the best time to be studying the stars, though. Not with a full moon. (slight pause) It’s hard to see the stars with the naked eye on a night like this. I suppose that’s why you’m using the spyglass. (slight pause) What kind is it?
MARY Yes, you can’t wait to hear the answer, can you? Standing there with your eyes afire, drooling to hear what make of telescope.
JACOB Don’t be foolish.
MARY Well, as if you cares what make it is, Jacob Mercer. You’re just spitting out the first words that pop in your mouth.
JACOB I wouldn’t have to, Mary, if I wasn’t made to feel a stranger.
MARY Well, you are a stranger.
JACOB I wasn’t once.
MARY You are now.
JACOB Suit yourself.
Pause.
(almost to himself) Some welcome home this is.
MARY What did you expect, a band? A band with me at the head, clapping my hands: “Why, it’s the Prodigal Son, boys! All the way back from Toronto! Strike up the drum!”
JACOB Now who’s making fun?
MARY You’re lucky I’m still speaking to you! Some wouldn’t let you step foot in the yard! (She sits on the step.)
Pause.
JACOB All I asked just now was a simple question. There’s no call to be sarcastic.
MARY Isn’t there?
JACOB No. It don’t become you. A yellow dress becomes you, Mary, more than sarcasm . . . Not that you don’t have every right to be cross. I don’t blame you, I suppose.
MARY So you shouldn’t.
JACOB No. You have every right to carry a grudge. Every right in the world. I’m the first to admit it. Besides . . .
MARY Besides what?
JACOB Besides, I already knows the make of spyglass. It’s called a Black Beauty. We have one at the house. Father got it from a Sears-Roebuck catalogue back in 1902. Ours has a cracked lens.
MARY Oh, you t’ink you’re some smart, don’t you? Well you’re not, Jacob Mercer. And you’re not one bit funny, either.
JACOB That’s not what you used to say.
MARY I’m learning all about the stars now. That’s more than I ever learned with you. I can see the satellites of Jupiter with this telescope, and the mountains of the moon.
JACOB Imagine that. Imagine that cold white eye up there with mountains in it.
MARY The moon has more than mountains. The moon has valleys and seas and bays. All as dry as a biscuit, Jerome says. All with beautiful names.
JACOB Such as?
MARY Ocean of Storms, for one. Sea of Rains. Bay of Rainbows. Lake of Dreams.
JACOB That’s the only water Jerome McKenzie could sail without getting his socks wet, the Lake of Dreams.
MARY Don’t you start in on Jerome, either. He knows a lot more than you gives him credit for.
JACOB A year ago you wouldn’t have said that. A year ago you had your own notions about the moon. Remember that?
MARY No.
JACOB You don’t recall saying the Man in the Moon was set there for not obeying the Sabbath? He wasn’t good enough for Heaven, you said, so God set him betwixt Heaven and Earth. You don’t recall saying that?
MARY No.
JACOB Sure you do. I had a toothache that night, and we walked to Clarke’s Beach so’s Billy Parsons could charm my tooth. “Don’t pay him,” Mother said.
“Mind now. And don’t t’ank him, either, or the charm won’t work.” Oh, that was some night.
MARY I don’t recall.
JACOB You don’t seem to recall very much, suddenly, and you with a memory on you like a camera.
MARY (rises) Well, perhaps it suits me not to remember. As if you’re any different. You remembers only what you wants to remember, Jacob, and the rest you forgets. (She starts up the steps.)
JACOB Like what?
MARY Like what? (turns to face him) Like running off last August, that’s what! Or has that suddenly slipped your mind?
JACOB says nothing.
Didn’t have the courage to say goodbye, did you? Not so much as a card in the past year!
JACOB I’m no good with cards . . .
MARY You wrote your mother.
JACOB Once.
MARY Twice.
JACOB Twice then.
MARY I saw her at church that Sunday just before we went back to St. John’s in the fall. She told me you was boarding with Sam and Lucy Boone on Oakwood Avenue. Working for the Fairbanks Block and Supplies.
JACOB Yes. Making concrete blocks.
MARY A whole year you’ve been gone, boy, and now you just walks in off the road. Steps off the nine o’clock train in Bay Roberts and expects me to recall some old night when Billy Parsons charmed your tooth. Are you forgetting I’m spoken for?
JACOB I’m not forgetting.
MARY Then you haven’t changed one bit, have you? Still the same, in spite of your fancy hat! Still the schemer!
Pause.
&n
bsp; JACOB It wasn’t just some old night, and you knows it. A lot happened that night besides my toothache.
MARY A lot’s happened since.
JACOB I suppose.
MARY Too much.
JACOB Perhaps.
MARY Then don’t keep dragging up what’s best forgotten. Leave it buried.
JACOB Can’t be done, Mary. Nights like this brings it all back . . . The smell of honeysuckle on the road. The new moon that night like a smile over the Birch Hills. A smile that became a grin. Remember that?
MARY Yes, a lot you noticed the moon.
JACOB Indeed I did.
MARY You hardly gave it a second glance. Stumbling along the road to Clarke’s Beach, your hand tight to your jaw. Whimpering like an old woman.
JACOB I don’t recall.
MARY No, you wouldn’t.
JACOB You wasn’t much comfort, if it comes to that. Harping on spruce gum every inch of the way.
