Open Mic Night at Westminster Cemetery

  LACY: You got married when you were thirteen and Edgar was twenty-seven. He was your cousin, which is weird and creepy because that’s, like, illegal now, but my teacher said back then people actually did that. Anyway, thirteen is young. And my guess is that being married to Edgar wasn’t such a great deal. I mean, Edgar was brilliant and original and had ambitious dreams, but he also drank and gambled. You were poor, and it was always cold, and he was always saying things would get better but they didn’t. His love for you was definitely unusual, too. It was more like worship. Nobody really knows for sure, but it seems like all the two of you ever did physically was kiss, which I’m guessing was okay when you were thirteen, but maybe when you got older, you felt certain urges that Edgar couldn’t fulfill and yet you were stuck married to him. I think you’ve found a way to survive here, but I don’t think it’s a way that makes you happy.

  Lacy has nailed it, as she would say. Raven nods in admiration, not because he wishes to see Virginia taken down a notch. As loyal as he is to Poe, he has always felt sorry for Virginia. The reason Raven appreciates Lacy’s analysis of Virginia is because it’s true, and truth is something not many in Westminster dare to speak aloud.

  Self-consciously, Virginia takes her hand off Cumberland’s door, and Lacy continues.

  LACY: I knew a girl like you in high school. She went from guy to guy to guy because it gave her something that she thought she needed, and she saw every other girl as an automatic threat, which made things worse for her because she got a reputation for being a bi—you know.

  Virginia’s face is a mask, but Lacy can see that she has touched a deep nerve.

  VIRGINIA: You’re full of theories about me.

  Lacy pauses, and softens her own gaze.

  LACY: I know something else about you.

  VIRGINIA (lifts her chin, trying to remain unaffected by what she’s hearing): You do, do you?

  LACY: You liked to sing.

  Another flash of vulnerability passes through Virginia’s eyes.

  LACY: I think you had dreams of your own, Virginia Clemm Poe. I think you’re lonely and unfulfilled, and I think you died way, way, way too young. I think that’s sad. And I think that maybe I’m not your enemy after all.

  For a moment, Virginia looks as if she might cry or drop her guard completely and say something honest to Lacy in return. But she has spent so many years perfecting the metaphoric suit of armor that she wears, she doesn’t know how to act without it.

  VIRGINIA (laughing): You should spend more time feeling sorry for yourself, Miss Brink. I certainly don’t need your pity.

  She turns and slips into Cumberland’s crypt.

  Silence. There is a rumble of thunder in the distance, and Lacy looks toward the sound. After a few seconds, it begins to rain. Her first thought is one that she keeps to herself: Fuck. But when she realizes that the rain has no effect on her—the Dead stay dry in a deluge or a drop—she begins to laugh and she thinks: What’s next?

  As if answering her question, the sky opens and the rain shifts from light to absurdly drenching, and there is something about standing in the middle of the vicious downpour, something about being completely impervious to it, that gives her a feeling of power. She looks straight up, opens her arms, and chants.

  LACY: I’m not going to eat termites! I’m not going to sleep away my afterlife! Or sneak around with someone I don’t even like! You . . . (she looks at Mrs. Steele’s grave and raises her fist) you are not going to win!

  End of Act I.

  A Note about Intermission

  If you are performing this as a play for the Dead, you can certainly proceed without an intermission. Regardless of how much tea we knock back, we do not require the use of lavatories, nor do we need to “stretch our legs.” Free from all financial concerns, dead producers do not need to make money off concessions to defray the cost of production, either. Overall, the Dead are what you might call an easy crowd.

  That said, a brief intermission can be an amusing throwback that many dead theatergoers enjoy. At the premiere of this play, we sold wine, beer, bourbon, soda, tea, and chocolate and literally charged “an arm and a leg.” Hilarious. We also had male and female bathrooms; and, of course, the lines for the women’s room were longer. Again, hilarious.

  If you are performing this for the Living, of course, you must provide lavatories. The toilets have to actually flush. You even have to provide such amenities as sanitary products and soap. If you are in the latter group, dear Reader, I do hope that you make enough money after all expenses have been paid to stay afloat, and my sympathies are with you.

  Of course, you may be what I like to call an Armchair Enthusiast, one who enjoys reading and has no intention of producing any stage plays. In that case you may want to use the intermission to ponder what you think might happen next or which character you identify with the most. If you like, you could even discuss the philosophical questions that the work raises thus far with numerous friends and acquaintances and encourage them to purchase copies of their own. (This last morsel of advice is given not for my financial benefit, I assure you; it is merely to save you the aggravation of loaning out your own copy.)

  Whatever you do during the intermission, I suggest you come back ready. There are important people here at the cemetery whom you haven’t met yet, and they are dying to meet you.

  Scene 1: Surprises

  The rain has stopped. Occasional cracks of lightning and rumbles of departing thunder punctuate the scene as Lacy paces back and forth from the brick wall of the church to the iron gate. There and back. There and back. She has been at it for how long? An hour? Two? She can’t tell. She is teetering on the edge of frustration.

  In the distance, the sound of a siren can be heard. Bored, Raven mimics the sound and then he stops suddenly and looks at something with genuine surprise. An adorable Living mouse enters, completely unaware that a scene is taking place. [Yes, dear Reader, this is completely off script!] Without breaking character, Raven tries to get the mouse’s attention so that he can gesture at it to scram. Alas, the mouse is too busy sniffing around the wet grass on the side of the church, and Raven gives up.

  After a moment, the mouse stops near a tombstone, sits on its hind paws, and licks its forepaws. At the sight of something Living, Lacy brightens. She approaches it, bends down, and snaps her fingers, but it doesn’t react.

  LACY: Hello! (Mouse resumes sniffing.) You can’t see me, can you? That means you’re alive. If you were dead, you could see me. Rule 20 or 21: Living animals cannot see or communicate with the Dead with the exception of ravens and black cats. I read the rules, although I don’t understand them. I don’t understand any of it. (Mouse finds a crumb and nibbles it.) I had a gerbil when I was little. (Lacy touches the mouse on the top of its head. No reaction from the creature. Another pause.) You have no idea how lucky you are. (Sighs) You’re alive. You’re cute and free. You can scamper in and out. You can do anything—

  A stray black cat leaps out from the bushes near the gate, grabs the mouse in its jaws, and carries it away. Offstage we hear the mouse’s squeaks come to an abrupt and violent end.

  LACY (looks up at Raven): Really? Can’t we have one tiny moment of enjoyment?

  Raven shrugs. Lacy walks over to Poe’s monument and joins the bird, slumping down with her back against the base. The fact that she can’t feel how wet the ground is now makes her feel sad. Slowly she knocks her head against the marble base. Once. Twice. Three times.

  LACY: It doesn’t even hurt.

  She does it again. Once. Twice. Three times. Above her, Raven scratches his talons against the edge. The rhythm of what he’s doing combined with what she’s doing creates a beat. Inspired, Lacy sits up. Her body begins to rock. The words start to flow.

  LACY (whispering):

  I’m locked in this prison. It feels claustrophobic.

  I’m stuck and I know I’ve got nowhere to go.

  I’m surrounded by ghosts—the relics, the ancients—
>
  supposed to have patience, supposed to just take this.

  (A little louder.)

  I can’t get revenge. I can’t disappear.

  My only true friend is afraid to come near me.

  I thought he’d be here. I can’t blame or hate him.

  How can I berate him? His fate is the same, and

  the dread in this place runs as deep as a well.

  Wait. This can’t be heaven. So am I in he—?

  She pounds out the beat, the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. Raven bobs to the rhythm.

  LACY:

  Look, I don’t deserve this. My murderer does.

  So where is the justice, the fairness? Or must I

  just do what they all do and follow the order,

  swallow the chore, and fall to the floor and

  sleep . . .

  They want us to sleep . . .

  ’cause the people who sleep are easy to keep

  silent and meek.

  (She gets up and starts to pace.)

  I’m dead and my bed is a hole in the ground.

  I don’t want to lie down and pretend I can’t see

  the hypocrisy of a leader who claims to be

  proper and moral and good—the whole bit—

  but treats everybody around her like shi—

  If we were in Salem she’d call me a witch

  and put me on trial, but she is the bi—

  Raven laughs. From deep beneath her feet, she feels an echo of the beat.

  LACY:

  Choose words wisely ’cause they don’t come cheap.

  But hey, there’s a way to solve everything:

  sleep . . .

  They want us to sleep . . .

  ’cause the people who sleep are easy to keep

  silent and meek.

  Someone is listening to her. She can feel it. She runs and jumps up onto the Watson crypt roof.

  LACY:

  I’m so out of place, so isolated.

  Those who wake up saying oh goodness gracious

  with buttoned-up blouses and buttoned-up faces,

  they know what their choice is. Know they can’t trade places.

  So what would you do? Walk a tightrope of fear

  or sleep year after year?

  I can’t stay still. I can’t be passive.

  I have things to do. I have passion.

  Sleep?

  I can’t go to sleep.

  ’Cause the people who sleep are easy to keep

  silent and meek.

  And that’s not gonna be

  me!

  There is a moment of silence. And then a voice surprises her.

  OWEN (rising from his usual place, whispering): That was amazing.

  Since it is not yet daybreak, Owen has been on duty, so still that Lacy hadn’t noticed that he was glued to her every word.

  LACY: I forgot you were here.

  OWEN: I ain’t heard anything like it. What was it, miss?

  A male voice comes from below Lacy’s feet.

  EDGAR: That was poetry!

  Owen and Lacy look at each other and then back down at Poe’s grave.

  LACY (whispering): Edgar Allan Poe?

  Edgar’s door swings open. Another flash of lightning illuminates the graveyard. A clap of thunder follows, and a figure emerges. The man wears a black suit, crumpled and worn, with a cravat tied round his neck. He is hatless, his hair unkempt. In another flash of lightning, we see his face—the intense gaze of his dark eyes, the crooked mustache, the drooping eyebrows. It is Edgar Allan Poe.

  Raven squawks softly, and Edgar looks up to see the magnificent bird on the top of his monument. He holds out his arm, as if to a dance partner, and Raven flies down to perch on it.

  A shocked Owen finally speaks up, albeit in a whisper.

  OWEN: You’re Suppressed, sir. The likes of you ain’t supposed to be up here! Please . . .

  Owen feels that he should be herding Edgar back into the grave, but it doesn’t seem polite to physically threaten a celebrity.

  Edgar stops and looks at him, confused.

  EDGAR: Wait. Where am I?

  LACY: You don’t know?

  EDGAR: I’ve been asleep. I think. To tell you the truth, I can’t fully remember what city I’m in. Philadelphia?

  LACY: Baltimore.

  EDGAR: Really? I was on my way to Philadelphia.

  OWEN: You can’t be up here, sir! Please . . .

  Although Lacy knows that Owen will get in trouble for not enforcing the rules, she doesn’t want Edgar to return to his grave.

  LACY: This is your cemetery! It’s Westminster.

  EDGAR: I can see it’s a cemetery. But what do you mean, “my” cemetery?

  Lacy recognizes the look of confusion in his eyes.

  LACY (gently): I—I hate to break it to you, but—you’re dead.

  EDGAR: Dead?

  LACY: I’m dead, too.

  Raven lifts off Edgar’s arm, flies to Poe’s monument, lands on the top, and gestures down to Edgar’s name.

  OWEN: You died, sir, see . . . in 1849. Right after you woke up and heard what the rules are, you busted three of them, so down you went. Like I said, you can’t be up here. Please . . .

  EDGAR: Yes. It’s coming back to me . . . (He regards Owen from the top of his head to his boots and his eyes flash with both fear and aversion.) I remember you, young man! I tried to make my escape a few times in those early days, and you perambulated toward me with those colossal boots. You, sir, are a nightmare.

  Owen’s face falls. Lacy quickly puts her hand on Owen’s arm and gives him a sympathetic smile. Then she turns to Edgar.

  LACY: This is Owen Hapliss. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just stuck in a bad job.

  Since Owen has been made the Suppressor, the kind of look he is receiving from Edgar has been typical. Other than his beloved Clarissa, this Lacy girl is the only one who has ever given him a chance. He looks at Lacy, struck with gratitude.

  OWEN: Thank you, miss.

  EDGAR: I see. Yes, I suppose the jailor isn’t evil; it is the system that creates the jailor.

  He extends a hand to Owen, who, awestruck, shakes it.

  OWEN (whispering nervously): Thank you, sir. But . . . you have to go back down there. Now.

  LACY: Can’t we just let him have a little bit of freedom?

  Owen has been dutiful in his job. It’s all he knows. Lacy sees this and makes a different appeal.

  LACY: We both know the whole Suppression thing is unfair. There are very nice people who are being Suppressed for no good reason. People like Clarissa Smythe.

  Owen blushes.

  LACY: How about if we work together? We let both Clarissa and Edgar out for just a few minutes and we all keep an eye out for you-know-who.

  Raven flies over to Mrs. Steele’s grave and nods as if to say he will help.

  LACY: We will cover for each other if there are any problems. I know it’s a risk, but wouldn’t it be worth it?

  Energy rises in Owen. His face breaks into its first smile since Clarissa became Suppressed, and we can almost hear the sad mask that has formed over his face crack.

  OWEN: All right. But we keep our voices down, and if Mrs. Steele’s door opens an inch, we jump right back in the grave.

  EDGAR (whispers): Good man.

  LACY: Thank you, Owen. (Lacy smiles.) Go tell her!

  Edgar claps Owen on the back, and Owen tiptoes to Clarissa’s grave. She steps out before he can knock; she has been listening. Starry-eyed, they kiss.

  Lacy turns to Edgar.

  LACY: You really do have to dive if Mrs. Steele wakes up.

  EDGAR: Mrs. Steele! There’s a woman one can’t forget! (Turns to Lacy) And you are?

  LACY: I’m Lacy Brink. I’m what they call a Modern.

  EDGAR: What century?

  LACY: The twenty-first century.

  EDGAR (bowing slightly): Your poem woke me up. I can’t say I understood all the references but I appre
ciate your use of rhythm and rhyme.

  LACY: Thank you. I mean, that’s an amazing thing to hear coming from Edgar Allan Poe.

  EDGAR (a giddy look coming into his eyes): Wait! You’re a Modern and yet you know me. That must mean . . .

  LACY: You’re famous.

  Edgar leans jauntily against his monument, inhales dramatically, and speaks in the most sonorous and spine-chilling whisper imaginable:

  EDGAR:

  “On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

  Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

  Quoth the Raven—

  RAVEN (puffs up and squawks softly): Nevermore!

  EDGAR: Ha!

  LACY: That’s from your poem “The Raven.” We read it in my seventh-grade English class. We went to see your house and came here to see your grave. I wrote a whole report on you. I’ve been coming here to write poems ever since.

  Lacy pauses. She was going to say that it was weird of her to be such a fan considering how old-fashioned his work was. To be honest, she couldn’t get through some of it. But then she realized that, when so many of those long-ago writers were writing about the beauty of a rose or of a sunset, Edgar probably appealed to her because he did the opposite. He was preoccupied by things like the agony of grief and the torture of guilt, of a tell-tale heart that keeps beating after a murder, of a black cat that haunts the drunk man who killed it, of pits with pendulums, of insanity. He explored the mysteries of passions and he acknowledged that there is a dark side to human nature, which is the most disturbing mystery of all.

  [I beg of you, dear Reader, to indulge me for another quick aside. If you are a young adult reading this book, I’d like to acknowledge that it can be challenging to comprehend or even grasp the relevance of the writing of a different period or culture or style than one’s own but, in trying, one’s horizon is expanded in ways that are not immediately apparent. A reader of literature becomes a citizen not only of the world, but also, more importantly, of time—not geologic time, which is certainly magnificent, but human time, the only time that is aware of itself—and since literature is primarily the result of passion and insight, a reader of literature learns the deepest passions and insights that have moved people across time. This knowledge has a way of seeping into the soul and ultimately nourishing it. Think of each work of literature as an individual raindrop that is trickling into the soil. From the outside the ground may look dry, but those nourishing drops have sunk far beneath the surface and are ready to be pulled in by the roots of the tree, to be carried up the trunk, and to be lifted into leaves.