Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 55.1: April 2010

NOTE: This is the fifth full-act play I ever wrote, at the age of twenty, while studying abroad at the University of Limerick in Ireland. While I believe it is the weakest of my plays, I am proud of some of the language in it and wanted to share it. This is Act I of the play. Enjoy.

Dialogue With A Marionette: A Play In Two Acts
by Belinda Roddie

CAST (in order of appearance)

NEMO, an Irish prophet of death

EMACIATED WOMAN, an overused symbol of Ireland

ELLEN D. GOAT, a soul collector

JONATHAN C. RAM, a soul collector

MORDREN, the daughter of the Grim Reaper

TERRY MONAGHAN, an Irish senator

NELL MONAGHAN, his wife

CHARLES HAMILTON, an Irish senator

ANNE HAMILTON, his wife

DONAL PETERS, an Irish professor and Sean’s closest friend

SEAN DOYLE, a former Irish senator

ENSEMBLE

SETTING

The Other World

Ireland

WRITER’S NOTE: All stage directions and emotions listed in this script are open for suggestion. Altering them should not decrease the caliber of the play, but they should serve as guidelines for the director and the actors. Remember, nothing is set in stone.

Act One

Scene One – Other World

(Lights up on NEMO onstage, sitting in a chair and watching static on a television set. The sound of the static slowly fades to silence)

NEMO. Is it over? (Rises from chair) Three Irish students will die today. Shot by two angry men who falsely believed they were affiliated with the IRA. (Beat) They’ll say it’s the next step of the newest Northern Irish conflict. The death of that politician’s son was just the beginning. The media is going to eat this up.

(EMACIATED WOMAN enters)

NEMO. We’ll lose three teenagers to prayer. The angels will have hungry mouths to feed.

EMACIATED WOMAN. Are you disappointed?

NEMO. No. One of the murderers is worth their souls ten times over.

EMACIATED WOMAN. The other one’s worth more. He’s due for court next week. He’ll get the needle.

NEMO. Lethal injection. Has the drama, lacks in macabre.

EMACIATED WOMAN. He did try suicide, you know.

NEMO. I know. He failed at it. The police got to him first. He screamed for Mother Ireland. (Sneers) I’m sure you enjoyed that.

EMACIATED WOMAN. (Bitterly) It’s the twenty-first century, and I’m still nothing but a tired old emblem.

NEMO. You’ll escort the dead to his quarters. They’ll have a room for him. He’ll like it.

EMACIATED WOMAN. He’ll loathe it.

NEMO. Good. You’re learning from me.

(EMACIATED WOMAN exits. NEMO sits back down and stares at the TV. The static begins again)

NEMO. It’s happening sooner than I imagined. Psychotic episode. Watch the Limerick rain fall.

(Lights dim on NEMO and come up on ELLEN D. GOAT, who gleefully enters carrying a briefcase. She wears a business suit and sports a pair of goat horns)

GOAT. Two souls today! Hot off the summer barbecue. Who would’ve thought June would be such a productive month? (Sets down suitcase, counts on fingers) Let’s see…the entire accumulation for February was sixteen…got seven souls in March, three souls for three consecutive days – the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh. April and May, well, everyone was a bit too cheery, but those are always the slower months. But souls in June! This could mean a new business spike!

            (To audience) You know, I like to think that being a soul collector is a lot like being a tax collector. I mean, it’s unavoidable – sooner or later, you gotta pay up. And if you don’t, we put you on the list and the amount on the “I.O.U.” gets a bit drastic. Now, I didn’t want to be a collector at first – I wanted to be a reaper! I wanted to deal with the death part of the business process, not the soul part, because getting the soul’s a trickier job, you know? Yeah, I bet you think that only one guy goes around with a scythe, poking people like Death’s a Facebook application. No, no, being a reaper’s a group effort. You don’t stamp that kind of responsibility on one individual. That’s a liability! Not to mention the overtime, yikes…

            But anyway, here I am, just your run-of-the-mill collector going door to door with a clipboard and a checklist. I’ve been doing this for seventeen hundred years. I used to write this shit down on stone tablets, for crying out loud. Remember Julius Caesar? Yeah, I collected from him. Got his soul in exchange for letting him conquer the empire. Let me tell you, that got me a fast raise. Marie Antoinette? Got her, too. You really think she got hitched with King Louis because their family ordained it? I swear, I should get some sort of recognition for that. …What’s the matter? Not impressed yet? Well, how about this – Winston Churchill, while he was drunk on Cognac. I know, right? C’mon, you think the Blarney Stone gave him the gift of the gab? That was me, man! Special offer if he handed over his soul quickly and quietly.

(JONATHAN C. RAM enters while GOAT is still speaking. He is also wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase. However, he sports a pair of ram horns)

GOAT. See, being a soul collector calls for a smooth-tongued businesswoman. You need the tact, you need the marketing technique, and you need to know your discounts. Because who knows when you’ll come across a guy who’ll sell his soul for either infinite wisdom or a five dollar bottle of Jack Daniel’s?

RAM. If you’re done bragging about your job records, maybe you can do us all a favor and get to the paperwork on those two souls? (Laughs) Honestly, only two today? Just where were you looking? Salt Lake City?

GOAT. Oh, and I’m sure you just cleared out all of Europe like you always say you do. Seriously, you embellish so much that even the boy who cried wolf would say, “Wow, that guy has issues.”

RAM. Ha, ha, ha. For your information, I didn’t go soul-searching in Europe today.

GOAT. Wait, what?

RAM. C’mon, you really think June’s a good month for picking up Frenchies? I stayed in the States this time, Goat. Got me a truckload of souls this time around.

GOAT. (Bitterly) Oh, did you?

RAM. Oh, yeah. You ever tried collecting in Disneyland on a Saturday? It’s a freaking gold mine! I was almost picking jewels out of my teeth once I got off the Small World ride.

GOAT. Uh-huh…

RAM. Then I spent my lunch break in Times Square. Broadway was brimming with potentials after I finished my coffee. Gotta love the desperate showgirls. (Pseudo-dramatically) All they want is that one moment to shine!

GOAT. Yeah, yeah, sure…

RAM. Then, one hour left in my shift, and bam – the motherload. You ever been to Kansas?

GOAT. …What?

RAM. Made my way to the Westboro Baptist Church. Usual rally was in full swing. People were throwing down their “God Hates Fags” signs just to kiss my brand new Italian loafers. And get this…I got the grand prize.

GOAT. …You didn’t.

RAM. Oh, did I. Feast your eyes on this little war trophy. (Presents a picture of Fred Phelps)

GOAT. (Shoves RAM) You son of a bitch!

RAM. Whoa, whoa, easy, girl! Save the PMSing for later!

GOAT. You know that Phelps was on my list for the past year, Ram! He was mine!

RAM. Well, someone wasn’t getting the job done, now was she? (Pats GOAT’S head) Don’t worry, once I get the collection managing job I’ve always wanted, you won’t have to worry about being upstaged by the competition.

(GOAT pushes RAM again, resulting in a shoving match. This goes on for a while until MORDREN enters)

MORDREN. Wow. I knew that collectors had temper tantrums, but this is ridiculous.

GOAT and RAM. (Stop fighting and notice MORDREN) Mordren!

RAM. (To audience) Chairwoman of the Collection Branch!

GOAT. (To audience) Daughter of the Grim Reaper himself!

RAM. (To audience) And quite possibly the most fashionable person in the business!

GOAT. (To MORDREN) To whom do we owe this honor of being in your unholy presence?

MORDREN. Ugh, spare me. If you wanted to swoon over your superior, you should’ve gone to Osiris.

RAM. Osiris? I thought he worked the judgment scales.

MORDREN. Yeah, well, the committee’s agreed that the whole judgment system is a bit archaic and pretty much redundant. So Osiris has been moved to chair since he’s got a few fresh ideas. But you bumbling collector types wouldn’t understand that important stuff.

GOAT. You mean you’re not chairwoman anymore?

MORDREN. Nope. Got sick of the job. Besides, my father’s given me a special assignment that requires time away from the office.

RAM and GOAT. Do tell!

MORDREN. And who said it was any of your business? You think my dad just distributes office information to any klutz with a briefcase? Please.

RAM. But you’ve told us stuff before!

MORDREN. This is a bit different, little man. I don’t talk about important assignments to a collector who can’t seem to deflate his ego after snatching up a…(Snatches Phelps photo) Ah. An already bigoted, soul-less closeted homosexual.

RAM. H-hey, he had a soul!

MORDREN. Yeah, fine-looking meal, but no real flavor. Sorry, Ram. Gotta be a bit more careful with your culinary choices. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some competent workers to confer with.

(She pretends to leave, craftily looking back to see RAM and GOAT’S exaggerated sad expressions. MORDREN turns around, laughing with arms outstretched, as RAM and GOAT rush over and trade off friendly hugs, handshakes, high-fives, etc.)

MORDREN. Ah, you know I can’t keep up that charade for too long with you guys! (To RAM) Seriously, awesome haul. What did you offer him?

RAM. Uh, death to all soldiers and a new line of T-shirts?

GOAT. Damn it, Ram, that was my strategy!

RAM. Finders, keepers, Goat! (As the three sit down) So tell us, Mordren, what’s this oh-so-secret mission? Some special reaping to be done? Cutting down the Other World’s budget?

GOAT. Oh, maybe a re-evaluation of the levels of evil in the world! I know that Hobbes has been dying to update his Leviathan theory for his book’s new edition.

MORDREN. No, no, you’re both way off. This isn’t just an errand I’m running for my dad, he’s already got his reapers out cleaning up the dead. This is bigger, and it’s going to be completely overseen by the committee. That’s why I came to you guys. You’re going to help me.

GOAT. Why us?

MORDREN. Because you’re the two best collectors, silly. This is going to be a group effort. We need all the haggling we can get for this job.

RAM. Mordren, in case you haven’t noticed, Goat and I are rivals. What makes you think we can work together?

MORDREN. (Sighs) Honestly, can’t you two see anything past your own business motives? Stop the catfight for one second. This can be beneficial for all of us. The rewards for this assignment are huge. (Retrieves a piece a paper from her pocket) Here. (Hands it to RAM) You know what that is?

RAM. Statistics?

MORDREN. (Smacks RAM upside the head) Read the whole thing, man. What does it say?

RAM. “Culmination of Benign Levels Within Distinct Living Individuals.”

MORDREN. Yay, you can read! Give me that. (Tears paper away from RAM) This is the full documentation of any individual we see as having the best souls to collect. You both know that every evil soul we collect needs to be countered with a good soul. And of course, those are the hardest to get. However, you’ll notice that one particular man is on our radar.

GOAT. Whoa, shit. His benign levels are off the hook!

MORDREN. I know, right? His name is Sean Doyle, senator of the Oireachtas in the Republic of Ireland. According to the stats, he’s pretty much the most charitable, considerate, loving man we have on our list.

RAM. (Gags) How incredibly sappy.

MORDREN. Shut up, I’m getting to the important part. Now, normally we don’t go in and try to snatch up souls at their happiest, most comfortable point in life because it’s incredibly unproductive. It’s when the anxiety or desperation sets in that you normally make the strike, and Doyle hasn’t really had any emotional lapses until now. He’s a religious man, a God lover, a man who’s actually been fairly modest for most of his political career. But…a recent tragedy in his life may leave his soul open to us.

GOAT. Ooh, I bet his wife left him and he’s sobbing about how he’s all alone and unloved now.

MORDREN. Goat…seriously? That’s the best you can come up with? He’s a widower, for crying out loud. Show some respect for the dead.

GOAT. Well, sorry, I was just guessing…

MORDREN. Try guessing murder next time. (Retrieves another piece of paper from her pocket) Got an article from the Irish Times right here. Ram, since you seem to be at only a fourth grade reading level, I’ll let Goat take a look at it.

RAM. Aw, be nice…

GOAT. (Sticks out tongue at RAM and reads) “MURDER IN BELFAST: Son of Irish Senator killed on streets.”

MORDREN. (Snatches article away) Okay, enough. You guys clearly don’t know how to properly summarize information.

GOAT. Oh, c’mon! I was going to finish it!

MORDREN. Look, I can explain it better than any condensed news article can. Long story short: Doyle’s son goes out to Belfast for a trip with his buddies, spends a long night out at the pub, walks out, bam, gets his head blown off by a pissed off member of the IRA. Blood’s everywhere. Everyone’s screaming. Cops swoop in like hawks, but it’s too late. The kid doesn’t even get a chance to make some pleading last words because his brains are leaking out of his ears.

RAM. Okay, next time, spare the gruesome details. That was just excessive.

MORDREN. Yeah, and you’re just a sissy. The point is, Doyle’s son is dead. And not only is he dead, he was killed by an IRA member from Northern Ireland. The Republic is freaking out. Everyone wants to know what Doyle thinks. And the best part? As of yesterday, he’s no longer a senator. He resigned.

GOAT. That leaves him wide open!

MORDREN. Exactly. That man is the most vulnerable now than he ever will be. No wife, no son, no heir, no family. His soul is out there like bait on a fishing hook. All we have to do is grab that bait, give it a tug…and snap that fishing line in two.

RAM. Fantastic.

GOAT. Hear that? That’s the sound of my cold, black heart doing a happy dance.

MORDREN. So…I take it you guys are on board?

RAM and GOAT. Hell, yes!

RAM. If we get this guy, we’ll be heroes!

GOAT. We’ll have the best soul collecting record in history!

RAM. Maybe I can finally get that managing job!

GOAT. Hell, I’ll be the next chairwoman!

MORDREN. Hey, take it easy, you two. Don’t go off daydreaming like kids. This is going to take a lot of work. And we’re gonna start now.

RAM. Now? But…I’ve got a shift tomorrow.

MORDREN. (Smacks RAM upside the head again) You’re regressing again. I’ve got it all covered. My dad is more than happy to have others take over both your shifts. Think of this as a business trip.

GOAT. Well, I don’t know about you, Ram, but I’m psyched!

RAM. Hey, as long as we can work together…how about it, Goat? Think we can lay off the rivalry temporarily?

GOAT. Well, all right. Truce for now. But after this, I’m getting you for snatching up Phelps!

RAM. Fine, fine. But just wait until after we get…well, gee, only the most coveted soul in the twenty-first century!

(GOAT and RAM start getting excited and start dancing together before MORDREN pushes them apart)

MORDREN. As much as I’d like to stand here and watch you guys act like morons, we’ve got work to do. Tomorrow is going to be the funeral for Doyle’s son. And I’m going to be one of the guests.

GOAT. Ah, going for the good old collector’s trick. Pull a Mephistopheles and get to tempting.

MORDREN. No, that would blow our cover. No need to show up sporting your horns and making the man die of shock before we can get to them. Besides, he’s mourning. I gotta take advantage of that, get his trust. So, when I need you guys, you’ll be able to pull out your bag of cheap tricks and do whatever you want to get him. But not until I have him where I want him…completely open like a gaping wound.

RAM. So what are you going to do?

MORDREN. My dear, slightly dense collector friends…I am going to pull a Satan and become the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

GOAT. (Gasps) You’re going to become mortal? But…that hasn’t been done for almost two thousand years!

RAM. Yeah, not since the crucifixion! Remember that one guy who was responsible for the whole betraying Jesus gig? Hello? You want to be hanging from a noose with silver coins scattered around your feet? Ever heard of the saying, “God moves in mysterious ways?”

MORDREN. Please. I’m not afraid of God. Are you guys scared of Him? You honestly think He’s done anything since we coaxed Pilate to cough up his soul and got him to wash his hands and let the Messiah die? God was just like Doyle when that happened…losing a son breaks you. It kills your motivation. I’m gonna take advantage of that.

GOAT. Mordren, we’re serious here. Even your own father’s mentioned the side effects of mortality. Hell, that’s why he’s never done it himself.

RAM. Yeah, you could get drunk on it. Sure, small doses are fine, but if you’re a mortal for too long up there…who knows, you may end up liking it too much!

MORDREN. Oh, would you stop it with your anxieties? Judas was a fluke in the system. He got too carried away with human emotions and relationships and he screwed up a perfectly okay method of taking souls. The only reason we haven’t done things the mortal way for so long is because of the precautions, not to mention we haven’t dealt with a soul like this since the fifteenth century when we were working to collect from Joan of Arc.

GOAT. But still…

MORDREN. But nothing. My dad’s given me some lessons on the whole strategy. He’s given me a specific mortal form I can take once I’m up there, and I’m going to use it. And once Doyle’s fallen into that weird space between resignation and vengeance…(snaps fingers) You pick him up and carry him off like he’s a concubine. So…ready to work?

RAM and GOAT. Let’s do it!

MORDREN. Then let the games begin! Do every bit of research you can on this man’s emotions! I won’t have anything fall through the cracks that we can manipulate! …Well, what are you waiting for? Go!

(RAM and GOAT scurry offstage, while MORDREN paces the stage)

MORDREN. (To audience) Huh. Funny. You don’t look too convinced. You don’t think I can pull this off, do you? Well, let me tell you this: I’m not just some pampered heir to a head honcho. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been a first-class reaper and collector, a manager and a chairwoman. I’ve gotten the souls of kings, heroes, and martyrs. I’ve pulled dying soldiers into my lap and whispered sweet nothings into their ear, and they’ve given up the goods before they’ve crumbled to ash on the battlefields. I’ve gotten prophets, dictators, and people who could have been saints or popes. But now that I can be mortal, now that I can stand on the same soil and breathe the same air as the man I’m targeting…this is going to be a breeze. It’s going to be an absolute joyride. And I’m gonna love every damn minute of it. Doyle won’t even know what hit him. I’ll knock his soul out of his chest like that IRA guy knocked the cerebellum out of his son’s head. (Laughs) I was only taught by the best, you know! Watch me, and start learning from a master!

(She exits, leaving NEMO sitting by himself, watching the static on the TV)

NEMO. Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot. A beggar on horseback lashes a beggar on foot. Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again. The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on. …Yeats, you old, dead fool. Enjoy your eternal stay in Innisfree.

(Lights go out)

Scene Two – Doyle Residence

(Lights come up on a living room set-up. People dressed in somber, formal garb enter and speak among themselves. TERRY and NELL MONAGHAN soon enter with CHARLES and ANNE HAMILTON, as well as DONAL PETERS, who takes a seat in the corner)

ANNE. As I was saying, what a beautiful ceremony. So many in attendance. I often forget just how many people are friends with the Doyles.

TERRY. Oh, it’s always astounding to see all those familiar faces. I saw sweet old Gerald O’Leary there. He was all red and teary-eyed, just like when he went to Brigit’s funeral so many years back.

NELL. May God rest her soul. Lovely woman. Now with her son in heaven.

CHARLES. Well, let’s hope for that. You never know how God judges the youth these days.

ANNE. Charles, please.

CHARLES. Don’t take me so seriously, dear. Just my old cynicism kicking in. Now, where’s Sean? I hope he wasn’t assaulted by those awful media sheep again.

TERRY. Well, we’ll have to get used to that, Charles. Reporters have been camping out in the poor man’s yard. In fact, I was leaving the senate building earlier this week when a journalist came out of the bushes just to ask me where on earth Sean was.

CHARLES. And what did you say?

TERRY. I told him to sod off and learn to respect his superiors, that’s what I said.

(CHARLES and TERRY laugh)

NELL. Honestly, it’s a downright shame how the news just wants a story. The whole thing’s been turned into a spectacle. And all Sean wants to do is bury Michael in peace. (Dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief)

ANNE. Agreed. You’d think the media would back off a bit when it comes to respecting the dead. I mean, I saw men with cameras parked outside Sean’s gate when we came in! Things like that make me wish that Ireland was still doing the more traditional house wakes. At least people knew their place.

CHARLES. Well, at that rate, we’d need to bring back keening, too. And we all know how you sound when you’re upset.

ANNE. Charles!

TERRY. Good old Charles. Always lightening the mood with a joke or two.

(As the four move to a table set up with food, MORDREN enters in her mortal form, wearing glasses and formal attire. She stops to shake the hands of the guests and speak cordially, before DONAL notices her and walks over)

DONAL. Ah, there’s the girl I’ve been looking for. (Shakes MORDREN’S hand vigorously) Welcome, friend, welcome. Dia dhuit.

MORDREN. Dia’s Muire dhuit. Thank you. I’m glad I got here safely.

DONAL. Yes, well, can’t always avoid those pests we like to call reporters. Growing in numbers every day, I tell you. (To a fellow mourner) Hey, you met this lovely woman yet? Morgan Connelly from Cork. We spoke briefly before the funeral. Says she knew Michael from university.

MORDREN. (Shakes mourner’s hand) Good to meet you.

DONAL. You’ll have to send my greetings to my colleagues back at UCC. It’s not very often these days that I visit there. Well, sit down, have a drink. What’s your pleasure?

MORDREN. You got any Jameson on you? I’ve been aching for a glass of that.

DONAL. Ah, a whiskey girl, are you? I like that. Here, let me see if I can find a bottle.

(DONAL moves to a shelf while MORDREN travels over to the table where the HAMILTONS and the MONAGHANS are standing with drinks and appetizers. At this point, several more people have arrived at the residence, serving themselves drinks and settling down to talk)

MORDREN. (Nudges NELL) Excuse me, sorry.

NELL. Oh, think nothing of it, dear.

MORDREN. (Notices TERRY beside NELL) Ah. You must be Senator Monaghan. I’ve seen your picture in the papers lately.

TERRY. Oh, yes, along with that same quotation of mine being cycled through the Irish Times every day. And you are…?

MORDREN. Morgan Connelly. Friend of Michael’s.

TERRY. Funny…I don’t remember Sean mentioning anyone named Morgan before.

MORDREN. Oh, Michael and I took a lot of the same modules. We were in a similar programme of study at UCC, you know. Nowadays I give lectures there as a postgraduate.

TERRY. Oh, very good! Donal over there is a professor at Trinity. He may be interested in hearing a bit about your teaching.

MORDREN. Oh, we’ve already met. I’m just trying to get to know everyone here. It’s…fascinating, to hear all the stories people have about Sean.

TERRY. (Not really listening, pulls CHARLES over) Charles, this girl says she was a friend of Michael’s at university. Morgan Connelly.

CHARLES. Oh, I wasn’t aware that Michael had too many female friends. (Shakes MORGAN’S hand) Name’s Charles Hamilton.

MORDREN. Another senator in the Oireachtas. I’ve heard the name. Tell me, were a lot of Sean’s political acquaintances here for the service?

CHARLES. Well, as many as there could be, given our schedules. But Terry, Sean, and I have known each other since we were boys, so we thought it’d be best for us to come.

TERRY. And we’re very happy to support him. Isn’t that right, Nell?

NELL. Absolutely. We’re here to help him through the harder times.

MORDREN. Well, we’ll see how well he’ll take your support.

(Everyone goes silent for a moment as SEAN enters, dressed formally and looking completely exhausted. He passes everyone, shaking hands as he goes along, and moves to where the drinks are set up. The talking slowly starts up again)

CHARLES. Excuse us for one moment.

(CHARLES and TERRY walk off to greet SEAN, who is already busied with DONAL, as MORDREN watches with interest)

MORDREN. (Aside) Ah. The man of the hour has arrived.

NELL. So I overheard you telling Terry that you do some lecturing at UCC?

MORDREN. Yes, ma’am. I do.

NELL. How interesting. It’s not too often that I see young people attempting to teach these days. What is it that you lecture on?

MORDREN. Oh, standard lower level science modules, for those interested in physics and the like. I try to boost the new students up, give them a sense of what’s expected of them.

NELL. My goodness, more and more science these days. I remember when I was a schoolgirl, it was all about math and literature. And religion, of course. But I guess Ireland’s been shifting priorities for the past few years.

MORDREN. (Aside) Ah, yes, away from the usual ramblings in Irish about how special God is. (Sees CHARLES, TERRY, SEAN, and DONAL walking over) Perfect. Time for the first important step of this job.

ANNE. Oh, Sean, dear. Dia Dhuit. (Kisses Sean on both cheeks)

SEAN. Dia’s Muire Dhuit.

DONAL. Sean’s told me that he’s very happy all of you were able to come. It really does mean a lot to him.

NELL. Well, we’re happy to be here for you. After all you’ve been through over the past few days…must feel a lot better to be surrounded by people who care, doesn’t it?

TERRY. (Playfully shakes SEAN) Yeah, we’ll be here, old boy, whenever you need us.

SEAN. (To DONAL) I don’t like this set-up.  There are too many people in this one space. Why did so many people have to come?

DONAL. Do you want to move into another room, Sean?

TERRY. Wait here, I’ll refill your drink. What’s your pleasure?

SEAN. You don’t have to take care of me, Terry. I can refill my drink myself. (To DONAL) Where’s Rowan? I thought he’d be here.

DONAL. Oh, he was at the service, but he had to leave after it was over. His wife needs help with the baby, you know.

SEAN. Ah, yes. Their child. Of course.

DONAL. (In order to break the tension) Sean, I thought you’d be interested in meeting Morgan Connelly. She went to university with Michael.

MORDREN. (Extending a hand) Pleasure to meet you, sir. My condolences about your son. I –

SEAN. (Not listening) Michael? Just how many random people knew him, anyway? Are any of his actual friends here?

DONAL. Now, Sean, there are plenty of his classmates here, at that corner table. If you’d like to talk to them, I’m sure they’d gladly –

SEAN. Stop touching me. I don’t like all these hands on me. Here, I’ll get you an ale.

(SEAN goes back to the table with the drinks)

DONAL. (Apologetically to MORDREN)  I’m awfully sorry. He’ll be much friendlier later on. Especially once he’s had a few drinks.

MORDREN. I understand. The man’s mourning, after all. Not easy to lose a son.

DONAL. Well, yes, that’s obvious enough. Oh, yes, almost forgot. Here’s your whiskey. (Hands MORDREN a full glass)

MORDREN. Thanks. You know, I knew Michael fairly well, but I never heard much about his father. Tell me, what’s Sean like? Well, usually, before this all happened.

DONAL. You’re a curious girl, aren’t you?

MORDREN. I’m serious. I’ve always wanted to know more about the man. Michael didn’t say too much about him besides his political work.

DONAL. Well, Sean’s always been a bit reserved. Introverted. He’s the kind of politician who likes to mediate, not argue. If you went to a session and watched all those senators debate, he’d be the only one still sitting down, listening intently to all of it. Never butting in.

MORDREN. Has he ever been reclusive?

DONAL. Rather blunt question, if I may say so.

MORDREN. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.

DONAL. No worries. Sean’s never been a recluse. Got close to it, after Brigit passed. I don’t know, hopefully he avoids isolation again, after this is all over. But he’ll be alone now in the house. No one else will be around to keep him company. (Thinking aloud) Maybe I should ask him to move in with me.

MORDREN. Oh, well, that’s a big step, isn’t it?

DONAL. You think so?

MORDREN. Well, I mean, I don’t know how he’d feel about leaving home. Hell, I certainly wouldn’t feel comfortable. I’d feel sort of hollow…alone…maybe vulnerable… (As she speaks, she realizes how good of an idea this is in her book) Then again, who knows, it could be healthy for him. Maybe ask him about it later. See how he feels.   

DONAL. Oh, I don’t know, I don’t want to upset him.

MORDREN. Well, not now. Later. Let this simmer a bit. (To herself) But not too much, I have to get him where I want him.

DONAL. Always good to have someone listening to me ramble, I tell you. I think I’m getting to the point where my lectures go through one ear and out the other. Cheers to you, Morgan. And for your being here to support the Doyles.

MORDREN. Yeah. Sláinte.

(They clink glasses at the same time that SEAN hammers a spoon against his glass. Everyone turns to look at him)

SEAN. My dear friends and family, I thank you for coming here today. I thank you for eating my food and drinking my alcohol and making yourselves comfortable during this unhappy time. I wouldn’t want it any other way. But now I think you’ve all overstayed your welcome and should be going back to your own, happier lives. So…get out. Please.

(Everyone looks at each other in confusion as DONAL laughs and claps)

DONAL. Good old Sean, always knowing when to wrap things up. Thank you, everyone. Uh, how about you all go into the other room and enjoy your drinks and conversations…

SEAN. No, Donal. I want them all out. Now.

DONAL. Sean, I…

SEAN. Now.

DONAL. (Trying to lighten the mood) Well, you heard the man. Take care, everyone. Enjoy the rest of your evening.

(Everyone in a bewildered mass starts moving out, shaking hands with SEAN if he accepts the gesture. MORDREN grins and begins to walk out with the group, but SEAN stops her)

SEAN. Not you, Miss Connelly. Stay a while. You’re more than welcome to. (To TERRY, CHARLES, NELL, ANNE, and DONAL) You, too! Why’re you all starting for the door? We have the room all to ourselves now. Here. (Drags a chair into the middle of the room and sits down with his glass and a bottle) Sit down. Have a drink. We’ll chat.

TERRY. Are you sure you want this, old boy?

SEAN. Of course I want this! I just wanted to be surrounded by the people I care about. (To MORDREN) And you, because I want to get to know you more. Friend of Michael’s, eh? Well, whoever’s a friend of Michael’s is a friend of mine. C’mon, sit down.

MORDREN. (To herself) Funny how this is going so smoothly for me. (To everyone else) Well, I’m happy to be a part of such an intimate little group. But just let me know if I’m intruding on anything that’s too personal. C’mon, Mister Hamilton, have a Jameson with me.

CHARLES. Oh, I don’t drink Jameson. I –

SEAN. Ah, don’t be a spoilsport, Charlie. What’s one damn whiskey gonna hurt? Don’t be shy. Have a Jameson with the girl.

CHARLES. Well…whatever you say, Sean.

(He pours himself a whiskey as the group sits down in the respective chairs)

SEAN. Now. We can have a little more privacy. We can drink. We can talk. It’s all about celebrating Michael’s life, isn’t it? So let’s celebrate. (Raises his glass) To Michael, my dear son. May he kiss the arses of every man with a gun.

MORDREN. I’ll drink to that.

(She drinks while everyone else hesitantly drinks. DONAL is the first to cut the tension)

DONAL. So, Sean…I guess we’ll have to know what goes on with you in the next few days. You know, check up on you and see if everything’s okay.

SEAN. Check up?

DONAL. Yeah. Make sure you’re doing all right. In fact, I may stay in Limerick for a while just to keep you company. We don’t want to leave you all alone after this, do we?

SEAN. And what if I want peace and quiet?

DONAL. (Laughs nervously) Well, if that’s how you put it…

SEAN. I’m not a senator anymore for a reason, Donal. You think I wanted to put up with it all after this? I’d like some solitude after this. I’d like some time by myself so I can think straight for once. Here, to the Oireachtas. May God smirk at every bickering politician.

MORDREN. I’ll drink to that, too!

TERRY. Now, Sean, it couldn’t hurt to stay with a couple of friends for a bit, now would it? Charles and I are around if you need us. We can always spend time with you when we’re not in session.

CHARLES. Oh, absolutely. We’ll be able to see you during the summer months, spend a day with you. Maybe go out to town and get some air.

SEAN. Very kind of you boys, but I think I can manage. (Refills NELL’S glass) Here, more for you, Nell. Don’t be shy, there’s plenty to go around.

NELL. Oh, I don’t think –

TERRY. Just take the drink, dear. He’s offering it.

(SEAN, DONAL, NELL, ANNE, CHARLES, and TERRY continue to drink and chat, while MORDREN  listens. Slowly, their voices become quieter until they are muted, as MORDREN seems to phase them out. She looks at the audience while sipping her drink)

MORDREN. (To audience) Lot of guidelines for playing the mortal part when trying to get a soul, people. Rule number one, don’t get too involved in human conversation unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s about listening, then making the appropriate comments to garner information and reveal the person’s darker side. When it comes to normal collectors, they’re expected only to talk to the subject when it’s time to make a deal. Rule number two, don’t force a connection. Once you’ve established yourself in the person’s life, you have to wait until they let you in, not the other way around. After all, if you keep knocking on the door, chances are they’ll just lock it tighter. Rules number three and on…well, those just have to do with common sense. I gotta say, though, it’s nice to participate in some conversation that’s attempting to be civil, instead of going straight to the serious part. Let’s see how intense this ends up getting.

(She turns her attention back to the six others, whose conversation can be heard again)

TERRY. And obviously, we’ve got a lot of economic issues to cover when we’re in session. Some of the older senators…well, they’ve got this strange fear that the worst is going to happen in this recession.

SEAN. Like?

TERRY. Like we’re going to collapse again. Fall into a depression, you know?

CHARLES. Basically, they think it’s going to be worse than the famine.

(Everyone else save for SEAN vocally responds to CHARLES’ comment about the famine)

NELL. My goodness, how Ireland will never forget that. It’s like an illness that won’t go away.

DONAL.  Or a trauma. Yet so many people were affected by it, it can’t help being brought up again and again.

SEAN. Why do people keep bringing up the famine?

ANNE. Not to mention you have so many Irish writers going back to it. It drove so many people out of this country. And imagine, people are leaving Ireland again these days.

CHARLES. Well, I suppose some of the worrying is slightly justified, but there’s no need to get too scared. Another disaster like the famine isn’t something we’re expecting. It’s not very logical to imagine the absolute worst.

SEAN. Seriously, why are we still talking about this?

DONAL. Well, Sean, it’s had a huge effect on how this country’s grown. All the emigration, the colonization, the constant clinging to an old life…that’s prevalent here.

SEAN. I don’t see how it’s relevant to contemporary Ireland anymore.

TERRY. Course it’s relevant, old boy. Ireland wouldn’t be dwelling on it if it didn’t leave a lasting memory on us. The famine, now that was a way to test our survival through harsh times. If we could handle that, we can handle everything else.

ANNE. Oh, I don’t think this country could survive another famine, Terry. Not with the generation we have today. They wouldn’t be able to push through it. They’ll all be in England or America if it happens.

CHARLES. Still, it shows us that we’re tough enough to take on anything, doesn’t it, darling?

SEAN. Can we please talk about something else?

(Over the next lines of dialogue, SEAN continues to try to interject, drinking more and becoming more and more agitated)

DONAL. Can’t even imagine what else could be thrown at us. The famine, the Troubles up north…thank God for the Republic, I say.

TERRY. Well, we do our best. It’s hard, scraping up the morale to move forward. We haven’t gotten that confidence back since the 1800s, I think. This country’s been in a state of clinical depression for years now.

CHARLES. Now that’s quite a way to put it, Terry. Goes with good old Donal’s point about the famine being a sort of trauma.

DONAL. Oh, I’ve had lots of time to lecture on the effects of the famine. The psychological implications it left behind, the sort of Irish mindset that’s been sticking around since. Not to mention our reactions to immigrants here when we’ve gone off to other countries in swarms.

NELL. Well, yes, but if we try to learn something here instead of just thinking about it, if we learn from the events of the famine instead of just reminiscing about it –

SEAN. (Finally loses it) Enough about the famine! Why does everybody care about the damn famine?! Hasn’t it been over one hundred and fifty years?! How long is it going to take for us to move away from it?! Another fifty years?! Another hundred years?! My son didn’t die from a potato shortage, for the love of God! He died with a bullet in his brain! Why don’t we pay attention to that?! Why don’t we pay attention to what’s happening now?!

(There is a harsh silence among the group, before MORDREN grins and raises her glass)

MORDREN. Well, I’ll drink to that. (Takes a long drink)

TERRY. (Breaking a second silence) Good Lord. I didn’t think that’d rile you up so much.

NELL. (Terrified) Terry.

(SEAN slowly gets up and moves to the table for another bottle. He pours himself another drink, raises the glass to his lips, stops, and abruptly throws the glass to the floor. DONAL immediately stands up and goes to him)

DONAL. Sean…

SEAN. Don’t touch me!

DONAL. Sean, c’mon, sit back down. We won’t talk about it anymore. If it bothers you, we’ll leave it alone. Now come on. Take a deep breath.

(DONAL takes a deep breath and signals SEAN to do the same. SEAN does so a couple of times before looking at everyone)

SEAN. I’d like to be alone now. You can go home. All of you. (When no one moves) Go!

(TERRY, CHARLES, NELL, and ANNE all jump up at this, hurriedly walking offstage and not looking back. DONAL starts after them, stops, turns around, and goes back to SEAN)

DONAL. (Extends a hand) If you need anything, I’m at the Jury’s Inn, downtown.

SEAN. (After a pause, not taking DONAL’S hand) Why are you still here?

(DONAL hesitates, stunned, before turning slowly and exiting the room. SEAN silently looks at MORDREN, who has already stood up and is observing him. They say nothing to each other, but a connection has been made. SEAN goes to a door on the opposite side of the stage from the other exit, opens it, and leaves the room. MORDREN smiles, steps to the table, and refills her glass. She raises it to the audience)

MORDREN. To the first hurdle jumped. Hope you’re watching, Dad.

(She tosses back her drink as the lights go out)

Scene Three – Limerick Bus Station

(Lights come up on bus station. There are sounds of traffic outside as MORDREN sits on a bench. A while later, SEAN enters and sits beside MORDREN. They exchange no words at first. Lights slowly come up upstage, where NEMO visibly continues to watch the static on his television set. EMACIATED WOMAN appears next to him)

EMACIATED WOMAN. Pitiful, isn’t it? The dwindling Irish spirit.

NEMO. I wouldn’t count on it puttering out just yet.

EMACIATED WOMAN. Centuries of getting your face ground into the dirt is bound to lower morale.

NEMO. Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve been your nation’s prophet long before you were even conceived. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

EMACIATED WOMAN. A tired cliché.

NEMO. Yes…but an honest one. (Looks at the screen) Ah. The little protégé is at work. This should be entertaining.

SEAN. Where are you heading?

MORDREN. Cork. Yourself?

SEAN. Nowhere.

MORDREN. Nowhere?

SEAN. Nowhere yet.

MORDREN. Rather counterproductive to be at a bus station, then.

SEAN. I know. I don’t care.

MORDREN. Donal sounded like he wanted you to stay with him in Dublin.

SEAN. I may take him up on that offer.

(They sit in silence for a brief time)

MORDREN. What’s making you keep going?

SEAN. What?

MORDREN. I mean, what’s keeping you alive? You’ve lost your whole family. Your wife. Your son. Why are you still in Ireland? Why don’t you just leave?

SEAN. One doesn’t think too strategically when he’s grieving. Or rationally, for that matter.

MORDREN. So you linger here.

SEAN. We all linger. I’ve believed that ever since Brigit died.

MORDREN. And now?

SEAN. Now?

MORDREN. Now you just believe it more?

SEAN. What encouraged you to come to the wake? Did you really know Michael that well?

MORDREN. I knew him well enough.

SEAN. To care?

MORDREN. To make an appearance.

(They sit again in silence)

SEAN. You feel foreign to me. Are you even Irish?

MORDREN. That’s a weird question. What exactly is Irish?

SEAN. I’ll have to think about that.

MORDREN. And will you find an answer?

SEAN. Probably not. (Becoming upset) Probably never.

(MORDREN stares as SEAN begins to quietly cry, his shoulders shaking. She hesitates, then, as if out of curiosity, puts a hand on SEAN’S back and begins to rub it as if it would comfort him)

SEAN. I have thought of leaving. Don’t think I haven’t. It’s all...messy for me now. It’s all muddled. Every emotion is racing through me like blood. There’s fear, and sorrow…

MORDREN. And anger.

SEAN. Yes. Anger. Lots of it.

MORDREN. Will you go to Dublin?

SEAN. Yes. Most likely.

MORDREN. Will you stay with Donal?

SEAN. Yes. (Peruses MORDREN) Why do you care?

MORDREN. Your son was a good man. And a good citizen.

SEAN. And…?

MORDREN. And I feel I should watch out for you. The same way his friends watched out for him. Up until the end.

SEAN. Up until the end.

MORDREN. Do you want him back? (SEAN doesn’t reply, as he has lowered his head again) Do you want your son back?

(He does not reply. MORDREN first seems exasperated and reaches out as if to get his attention. She touches his hair and reacts as if in surprise and some pain as she presses her hand to her chest and begins to breathe harshly. She hears the shriek of bus tires and stands up)

MORDREN. I better go. My bus is here.

SEAN. Wait. (MORDREN turns) Morgan, isn’t it?

MORDREN. Yeah.

SEAN. If I go to Dublin…I’d like to see you again.

MORDREN. Why?

SEAN. I don’t know. Because. Because you remind me.

MORDREN. Remind you of what?

SEAN. Of what I’ve lost and can’t get back. A piece of me. A piece of my soul.

MORDREN. Well. Let’s hope that remains intact.

SEAN. No promises.

MORDREN. No promises?

SEAN. Good night.

(SEAN stands up and exits the station, leaving MORDREN staring after him, still pressing her hand against her chest. NEMO clucks his tongue as MORDREN takes deep breaths)

MORDREN. Careful. Careful, careful, careful. Don’t be stupid. (She starts exiting, then stops, reassuring herself) You’ve got him right there. You’ve got him right where you want him.

(She exits, and NEMO leans back in his chair)

NEMO. She’ll falter. She won’t have such a hold on her façade for very long. Not if she continues those lapses.

EMACIATED WOMAN. What lapses?

NEMO. The human weakness. The need to connect. The desire to sympathize.

EMACIATED WOMAN. She cannot sympathize. Not with him, not with Ireland. Not with the whole world.

NEMO. A real human may sympathize with anything. A hunter of souls could soon find he has a soul of his own. Buried.

EMACIATED WOMAN. Buried under European soil.

NEMO. You become more understanding every day. Soon, you won’t be just a two-dimensional slogan for the Celtic Twilight.

EMACIATED WOMAN. What will I be?

NEMO. What else? You will be an Irish woman. In every sense of the word.

EMACIATED WOMAN. And what impact does that have on my creators?

NEMO. Absolutely none.

(The static grows louder as NEMO and EMACIATED WOMAN stare at the television screen. Lights out)

END ACT ONE

The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since April of 2010.