Lacy opens her arms to welcome Sarah onstage.
EFFIE (calls out): Sarah! Oh my!
NEFFIE (with gusto): Good luck! Very brave of you, dear!
Sarah smiles nervously and looks at Lacy, who gives her an encouraging nod. Sarah gathers herself and sings. Her voice is honest and lovely.
SARAH:
All my life I was told to be quiet:
Music and dance is the devil’s riot.
Be a good girl and you’ll be a good wife.
The key to salvation is hard work in silence.
Sarah smiles sympathetically at her husband, Peter. Peter nods at her. They have hardly spoken in all the years they have been at Westminster, not because of animosity but only because, although married, they were never close. Sarah continues, singing to Peter.
SARAH:
You carried me across the threshold line,
then it was you in your corner, me in mine.
We didn’t know each other, strangers too young;
next thing we know a baby’s coming.
And with it joy for the first time—oh—
a baby boy so sweet I could hold him
forever and breathe in the whole of him,
fold him inside my arms safe from the cold.
Three years later, he got sick and died.
I kept pressing my ear to his chest, trying
to hear his heart, to find a sign
that he could be alive; I couldn’t leave his side.
The grief was like a tidal wave,
and all the people around me were praying and saying:
It’s God’s will. God must have wanted him.
You’ll look weak if you weep and long for him.
Emotion pours out of Sarah. Peter sits on the edge of his seat, listening to his wife sing. He knew that she had suffered, but he is feeling as if he is truly seeing her for the first time.
SARAH:
Cook. Clean. Scour. Sweep.
Don’t complain. Stay on your feet.
Iron, stitch, button up tight.
Cover up messes. Paint them white.
Put on your Sunday best. Say your prayers.
That ache in your chest? It isn’t there.
Maria, Effie, and Neffie rise from the audience. Sarah has touched a chord that resonates for them. She repeats these lines and they sing with her in a round.
SARAH, MARIA, EFFIE, and NEFFIE:
Cook. Clean. Scour. Sweep.
Don’t complain. Stay on your feet.
Iron, stitch, button up tight.
Cover up messes. Paint them white.
Put on your Sunday best. Say your prayers.
That ache in your chest? It isn’t there.
SARAH (singing alone):
I died in childbirth with my second son.
I never got to feel another one.
And the world went on without us, spinning,
And all this time I’ve been keeping it in.
Now I wish I would have told the world
to let me grieve, to let me feel my hurt.
Why did I always do as I was told?
Who says God loves being silent?
Aren’t you tired of always lying?
Lacy joins Sarah and leads the refrain. Sarah sings, too, her catharsis huge.
SARAH and LACY:
Let me shout. Let me scream. Let me blaze. Let me steam.
Let me cry. Let me fall. Love will burn through it all.
Let me face my fear and rage. All the demons in the dark.
Let me sing with my soul and this strangely still-beating heart.
As Billy drums and Raven beatboxes and Gabriel Barr plays tin whistle, Lacy breaks out dancing. The crowd shouts encouragement, and Sarah begins to copy Lacy’s dance moves. The crowd goes wild and the older women join in. As the women dance onstage, Sarah’s release is so great that she is laughing and crying at the same time.
Sam closes his eyes. It is beautiful, and he isn’t a part of it. He puts his face in his hands and rocks.
It’s Peter who surprises everyone by rising next. Lacy and Sarah both encourage him to come up, and then the women return to their seats and Lacy steps back to give him center stage.
PETER (terrified and determined at the same time):
I have never leaked this story before.
It’s been buried deep under the core.
I’ve been wary of sharing it. It’s been too scary
to think of opening the door and airing it.
(He looks at Sarah.)
All my life I felt different, which I hated,
I tried to fit in but I couldn’t relate.
I had a boy’s body but a girl’s disposition.
I tried to control it but there were suspicions.
My parents are down there. Are you both listening?
Hoping I’ll stay quiet. Truth is, wishing
the past didn’t happen won’t change that it did.
It’s Pandora’s box, and I’m lifting the lid.
When I was alone I would put on a dress
That belonged to my sister, her fanciest,
and I’d look in the mirror and see this face,
a girl inside, wanting to escape.
One day, my mother caught me and beat me.
She said, “Don’t speak of this. Keep this a secret.
You know it’s immoral and wicked. Defeat it.
Your father would kill you if he were to see it.
It’s a sickness inside you, a virus, a cancer.
Quickly now, hide it. There’s only one answer:
Deny this. It never happened and then
we won’t speak of this ever again.”
Am I wicked and immoral? Now that you know,
will you turn your back? Send me below?
Peter stops, shaking, close to tears. One of the Sleepers rises quickly and heads for the grave. Peter watches sadly. He takes a breath and turns.
PETER (to Sarah):
We were neighbors. We married. I tried. You did, too.
It never seemed right. I know that you knew that
something was wrong. It wasn’t you!
You were lovely and sweet and I wanted to please you,
but I felt like a stranger inside my own sleeves.
I loved our child, too, and mourned him in silence.
We sat at the table, said nothing about it.
I knew you were suffering and I had no clue
how to comfort or reach out to you.
I continued the pretense. Everything’s fine.
But I wish I had tried. I wish I had said,
“Sarah, tell me your pain and
I’ll listen and listen until you have said
all that you have to say.”
That’s what I wanted to give you.
That’s what I needed, too.
Tears well in Sarah’s eyes. Peter gathers strength. He has one more thing to confess.
PETER:
Am I wicked, immoral? I’ll add to the list.
I died by my own hand, a knife to my wrist.
Billy stops drumming. Shocked silence. No one knew. Sarah stands up from her place on the side.
SARAH: Peter . . .
EFFIE (whispering): This is consecrated ground, Peter. You shouldn’t be here. I’m not saying that I agree with the rule, but—
NEFFIE: Anyone who takes his or her life is not allowed to be buried here. You’re an illegal. If Mrs. Steele knew . . .
A woman rises from the Brown plot and rushes toward the group. Her hands are clasped to her chest, her face is drawn. She is the mother of Peter Brown. She stops a few feet from the stage and they look at each other deeply and compassionately, regardless of the fact that they have no privacy.
PETER: Mother.
MRS. BROWN: I wanted you here, so I lied. I was the one who found you, Peter. I couldn’t bear the thought of you lying out there, somewheres. (She points to the world beyond the gates of Westminster.) And I couldn??
?t believe that there’d be no mercy for your soul. (Tears are streaming down her face.) I told everyone you died by accident while you were cleaning fish. I didn’t even tell your father. I took that secret to the grave. I didn’t know what else to do. I never knowed what to do. I didn’t understand any of it and still don’t. I just tried to protect you.
Mrs. Brown stands, uncertain. Peter rushes over to her and hugs her. They both cry.
Sarah asks Lacy for her shawl, which has been around Lacy’s waist, and fashions a dress with it for Peter. He cries harder and then smiles. They hug. As the three of them step back into the audience, the regulars rise and applaud.
Ecstatic, Lacy looks out in the hopes of seeing Sam. She cannot believe he is not here to share in this joyful release, and then the worry that something has happened to him begins to cloud her thoughts. She wonders about those catacombs and whether it’s possible to get lost or stuck in them.
Virginia has been quiet so far, taking in everything. Now she stands.
VIRGINIA: I’ll go next, Lacy.
Lacy nods. The audience hushes. Virginia begins singing as she walks to the stage. Her voice, forceful, comes from a place so deep in her, she had forgotten it was there.
VIRGINIA:
You all know me. I’ll admit it:
Everything I long for is forbidden.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not into committing
major crimes or sins or Satan’s bidding,
but I find that sitting or sleeping or keeping
my mouth closed, my hands composed,
my neck and ankles fully clothed and unexposed
makes me want to explode.
I want to laugh too loud and dance too long
and make love until inhibition is gone.
But all that is supposed to be wrong.
From her seat in the audience Maria stands, worried that her daughter has gone too far.
MARIA: Virginia, hush!
Virginia’s flushed and expectant face falls. It had felt so good to finally speak the truth—and now here is the familiar silencing.
But Edgar steps over, places his hand gently on Maria’s arm, and looks up at Virginia.
EDGAR: Keep going, Virginia.
Virginia smiles and gets back into the trance of the rhythm.
VIRGINIA:
I lie and pretend to be polite,
greet with a smile, all sweetness and light.
Meanwhile, I sneak out every night
of every week to seek a place where I can be
somewhat, sort of free.
Virginia glances at Cumberland Poltroon, and her glance reveals her lack of deep feeling toward him.
At this, an expression comes over Cumberland’s face. In all the time he and Virginia have spent together, nothing of any depth passed between them. He suddenly sees life as a banquet, which he has made the mistake of looking at rather than eating. How stupid, he thinks. For a brief moment, he considers stepping forward to perform, but then he thinks of the effort and courage it would take to rise up, and his will to change shrinks. He tells himself that he doesn’t need to see any more, and he slips back into the Poltroon crypt and goes to sleep.
Virginia sees him go and is not surprised. She turns back to the microphone and continues.
VIRGINIA:
I was pressured into matrimony—
just thirteen. How could I have known
what marriage would mean?
I was starving and freezing
while he was off writing.
I was growing up and
wanting more out of life,
wanting to be myself.
Not some porcelain wife on a shelf.
Virginia looks at Edgar, not knowing how he’ll take it.
EDGAR: You didn’t love me?
VIRGINIA (face softening): I loved you, Eddy. I still do. But it wasn’t easy being married to you.
EDGAR: I thought you were happy. I knew you didn’t like being poor, but I thought you wanted to be Mrs. Poe.
VIRGINIA: I did, at first. But that changed. I remember waking up on my sixteenth birthday and feeling as if I were separate from my body. Who is Mrs. Poe? I thought. It can’t be me. Later that day, I went to the market and a stranger—a boy my own age—smiled at me, and I was overcome with a feeling of desire that I had never felt for you. I had loved you, Eddy. I had admired you. But I had never felt that kind of desire for you. I didn’t even know that it was lacking because I hadn’t felt it at all until that moment. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true.
The audience is rapt. The open mic is veering away from performance, but Lacy recognizes the importance and does not interfere.
Edgar, somewhat embarrassed, feels compelled to defend himself.
EDGAR: Well . . . you know . . . many women found me exceedingly attractive.
Virginia smiles. Edgar is maddeningly adorable in his way. Something about that disheveled hair and those dark crooked eyebrows. He’s a puppy, albeit a forty-year-old puppy, who just wants to be loved.
VIRGINIA: That’s true, Eddy, but do you want to open the box of that topic? I can laugh about it now, but we both know that you carried on with women while we were married. I read your love letters to other women. I read their letters back.
EDGAR: Those were trifles. You were my true love. I worshipped you.
Virginia responds. Lacy had used that word to describe his love earlier. She was right.
VIRGINIA: That’s the problem, Eddy. Worshipping is for statues. I worshipped you, too. You are a genius, after all. But you’re also—you must admit—at least a tad deranged. Maybe we all are. Anyway, statues can’t love and be loved. Statues aren’t alive. I didn’t feel alive in our marriage, but I didn’t know how to acknowledge or express that. I became duplicitous and calculating and bitter and . . . (she looks at Lacy, determined to go all the way) frankly, a little jealous of anyone—particularly any woman—who seemed to have what I didn’t have: an honest way of being in her own skin.
Lacy smiles at Virginia, and Virginia smiles back. Edgar takes in Virginia’s words. He returns her honesty with honesty.
EDGAR: You have grown up. You’re not my little wife anymore. I can see that, and I can see that I made mistakes. For that, I am truly sorry. I have always loved you and will always love you. Forgive me, please. You have my blessing, Virginia. Live your afterlife freely.
VIRGINIA: Thank you.
They embrace. No longer struggling to compose a clever poem, Edgar walks to the mic.
EDGAR:
I’m Poe. Yes, woe! I’m half deranged.
The beast inside is hard to tame.
So the drunk keeps drinking
though he wants to be sober.
And the lover keeps cheating
though insisting that it’s over.
And the gambler who has quit
runs to place another bet
while his family tries to live on
cold soup and regret.
I’m employing the word “he”
But, of course, I mean me.
I apologize for my infidelities.
I professed true love but
was blind to your needs.
This impulse to hide
the truth is perverse.
I was my own worst enemy.
That’s how it works.
We should shine the light
in the darkest of our places.
It’s frightening and wild,
but that’s where the grace is.
The audience applauds and Edgar smiles. Virginia gives him an affectionate pat on the back. Edgar turns and whispers, with equal affection.
EDGAR: Just so you know . . . being married to a thirteen-year-old girl wasn’t easy, either.
Virginia laughs. Maria runs over and puts her arms around both of them.
Lacy looks out at the audience to see who will go next. She sees an older man walking toward the stage, a man who bears a resemblance to Sam, and her heart skips
a beat.
From his hiding place, Sam also sees the man. Immediately he knows who he is, although they haven’t met as adults. This is Sam’s father. Jolted, Sam stands but doesn’t move.
As the man walks tentatively to the stage and stands in front of the mic, Sam stares at him and Lacy stares at Sam.
[We need to take a moment to understand the intricacy of what is happening, dear Reader. Here is Henry Steele, a man who hasn’t shown his face for over 160 years, and who looks terrified but resolute to finally step forward. And here is his son, our dear Sam, who is so shocked at the sight of his father that he has just revealed to Lacy the fact that he has been hiding behind a tombstone. And here is Lacy, who is simultaneously relieved that Sam is not lost or stuck in the catacombs and also worried about why he looks so distraught and yet also irritated at him for sitting behind that fucking tombstone for God knows how long when she had been missing him. While she would have been overjoyed to see him earlier, now her response is complicated. He has been at the open mic for how long, she wonders, crouching in . . . what, cowardice? . . . instead of offering support to her.]
HENRY STEELE (a halting, rusty voice): My name . . . I’m . . . Henry Steele.
The audience is silent.
Henry stops and looks around, seeing Sam standing in the rear. The father’s face lights up and then darkens with shame. He is frozen in the body of a thirty-five-year-old man: tall and muscular, crammed into the plain black, too-small suit, the one he got when he was married, the only one he ever owned, the one that the ladies at Westminster dressed him in for his funeral. He has a face like Sam’s, only longer and stronger and harder, with a scar on one cheek. Light eyes and curly hair. Like Sam’s. He stands holding one arm tightly against the side of his body with the other, as if he doesn’t trust himself, with an astonished look on his face. Truly, he did not think his legs would lift him out of his grave and carry him here. He takes a breath and begins to speak.
HENRY STEELE: None of you know me. I died in 1852. Sam was four years old. After I woke up here, I went right back to sleep. Or at least I tried to sleep . . . I had a lot of time to think . . . and a lot of time to listen. I know what you all think of my wife. I know what you’re doing right now.
There is a rustling in the audience as the residents look at one another uneasily. Henry continues.
HENRY STEELE: I worked for a bootmaker—I pegged the soles and the heels. Gertrude was one of the girls paid to sew the uppers. She was fifteen and poor like me and came once a week to get her new pieces and turn in the ones she had sewed. I fell for her and we married. But she was smart—too smart for me—and more ambitious. She had a knack for numbers and accounting and she read everything she could get her hands on. She wanted us to open our own shop, had all kinds of fancy ideas about shoes that were coming from Italy and France, but I didn’t have that kind of head. We took a loan and had some bad luck and I started drinking.