That Summer Read online

  CONTENTS

  CHARACTERS

  SETTING

  PRODUCTION NOTES

  ACT ONE

  ACT TWO

  For Gareth, in his thirteenth year

  That Summer opened the 25th Anniversary Blyth Festival season in Blyth, Ontario, on June 25, 1999, with the following cast:

  MRS. CRUMP: Diana Belshaw

  PAUL: Eric Davis

  NARRATOR: Michelle Fisk

  DAISY: Samantha Reynolds

  CAITLIN: Erin Roulston

  MARGARET: Adrienne Wilson

  JACK: Larry Yachimec

  Directed by Bill Glassco

  Set and Costume Design by Shawn Kerwin

  Lighting Design by Renee Brode

  Sound Design by Evan Turner

  O world! O life! O time!

  – SHELLEY

  CHARACTERS

  MARGARET RYAN, narrator, 49

  CAITLIN, her granddaughter, 13

  MARGARET RYAN, 17

  DAISY RYAN, 16

  JACK RYAN, 43

  MRS. CRUMP, 57

  PAUL WYATT, 19

  SETTING

  The action takes place at Willow Beach, a summer resort on Wolf Lake in southern Ontario. Time ­present is 1990. Time past is 1958.

  PRODUCTION NOTES

  The production of the play should be poetic or lyrical. Accordingly, walls are not required. The cottage can be represented simply by a table and chairs. Other locations can be established the same way, or simply through light and sound.

  The staging should be fluid, filmic, at moments even dream-like. As the NARRATOR recalls the summer of 1958, she wanders around the periphery of the action, watching the events unfold, reacting to her former self and the other characters.

  ACT ONE

  Darkness.

  Music: A distant choir sings the hymn “Blessed Assurance.”

  Lights slowly come up on the corner of an old country churchyard. A few headstones. A white birch … A woman kneels before a grave. This is MARGARET RYAN, who from now on will be referred to as the NARRATOR.

  It is Saturday, May 26, 1990.

  The NARRATOR reacts to the hymn. Then smiles at the audience.

  NARRATOR

  Listen. Choir practice … The Reverend Raymond Scott used to be the minister here at the Willow Beach Baptist Church. My sister Daisy and his son Tim took a shine to each other in the summer of 1958. The cottage we rented that year is just down there by the lake. Our neighbour was Mrs. Crump. This is her grave.

  It’s been thirty-two years since I was last here on Wolf Lake, though I’ve often returned in dreams. In truth, I wouldn’t have come here this Memorial Day weekend except for my granddaughter Caitlin. She’s heard me mention this place so often that she insisted I bring her.

  CAITLIN

  (off) Gran!

  NARRATOR

  That’s her now. She’s thirteen.

  CAITLIN enters, carrying a freshly picked bunch of wildflowers.

  CAITLIN

  I like it here, Gran. It’s so peaceful, isn’t it? Know what it reminds me of? The Congregational Church cemetery back home.

  NARRATOR

  I suppose it does … For me, though, it’s always been unique. Don’t tell anyone, but I lost my virginity one night in this graveyard. Right under that white birch.

  CAITLIN

  You never mentioned that before, Gran.

  NARRATOR

  It’s not something a lot of seventeen-year-olds did in those days, either. Girls or boys … He seemed much older, of course, your grandfather. All of nineteen.

  CAITLIN

  Did you love him, Gran?

  NARRATOR

  Paul? Very much … Here, let me take those.

  CAITLIN

  I just picked them.

  NARRATOR

  On second thought, I can’t put white lilacs on her grave. Mrs. Crump considered all white flowers unlucky …

  CAITLIN

  (reads the epitaph)

  Kathleen Crump

  Born March eleventh, 1901

  Died August second, 1958

  NARRATOR

  (to the audience) She drowned the summer we were here. She was fifty-seven years of age, which doesn’t seem that old to me now, although it certainly did at the time.

  CAITLIN

  Kathleen’s such a lovely name, isn’t it, Gran? Kathleen with a K.

  NARRATOR

  Yes, it is. Caitlin, of course, is the Gaelic form of it.

  CAITLIN

  I know. I’m named after her.

  NARRATOR

  Come to think of it, I didn’t learn her given name till after she died. She was always Mrs. Crump to Daisy and me. No one called her Kathleen, not even my dad.

  In the distance comes the muffled roll of thunder. Lights change, and a slight wind rustles the white birch.

  NARRATOR

  (to CAITLIN) Could be a storm brewing … Why don’t you wait in the car, Caitlin? I won’t be long.

  CAITLIN

  I’d sooner poke around, Gran.

  NARRATOR

  Suit yourself. I saw some touch-me-nots in the woods over there. And starflowers. There used to be a sundial out on the point.

  CAITLIN

  A sundial? Really?

  NARRATOR

  No one knows who put it there. The woods have probably claimed it by now.

  CAITLIN

  I’ll find it. Thanks, Gran.

  She exits.

  NARRATOR

  Back in the 1950s, my dad was the guidance counsellor at our local high school. We lived in Vermont, in a small town called Jericho, our clapboard house not far from the Congregational Church.

  When my mom was alive, our family spent the summers on Cape Cod. But after she died, and Dad married Sally, we’d drive to Old Orchard Beach in Maine.

  However, 1958 was different. That spring, Sally began an affair with our life insurance salesman. And when Dad found out, he reacted as only Dad could. He sat down and wrote Mr. Rush an angry letter, cancelling our policy. Then he rented the cottage up here on Wolf Lake in southern Ontario.

  His plan, I suppose, was to separate the moonstruck lovers. Maybe bring Sally back to her senses.

  It didn’t. For two weeks, Sally pouted and sulked or went for long walks. At every meal her empty chair sat there like a rebuke. And at every meal my sister Daisy would mention it …

  Lights rise on the cottage … JACK, MARGARET, and DAISY are seated at the table, the room washed in the gold-red light of late afternoon. Even at seventeen, MARGARET has a watchful quality about her. She is flat-chested, and self-conscious, and clearly not as sociable as DAISY.

  DAISY

  Dad.

  JACK

  What?

  DAISY

  Dad, the tension here is killing me. I think I’m getting a bleeding ulcer. And don’t laugh.

  JACK

  I’m not laughing, Daisy. Did you hear me laugh, Margaret?

  MARGARET says nothing.

  DAISY

  Dad, I think you need your eyes examined. In case you haven’t noticed, Sally’s not at the table. This time, Dad, she’s locked herself in the bathroom. I think she’s reading Doctor Zhivago.

  JACK

  She has a splitting headache.

  DAISY

  Splitting headache? Dad, she’s had a splitting headache for two weeks. Either she’s lying through her teeth or she has a brain tumour.

  JACK

  Keep your voice down, will you? …

  He pours himself a bourbon.

  DAISY

  One thing I know, Dad. Maggie and I couldn’t refuse to come to the table, could we? (then) Could we, Dad?

  JACK

  Sally’s a grown woman. If she wants time alone, t
hat’s her business … Want some advice? Ignore her.

  DAISY

  Ignore her? Oh sure. That’s like ignoring a hangnail.

  MARGARET

  Let’s face it, Dad. Sally didn’t want to come here in the first place. That’s why she’s acting this way … Why not admit you made a mistake and send her home? …

  JACK says nothing.

  DAISY

  Dad?

  JACK

  I can’t do that, Margaret.

  MARGARET

  Why not?

  JACK

  I just can’t.

  MARGARET

  Dad, I can’t believe the hold she has on you. Is it because she looks so much like Mom? Is it?

  JACK

  For God’s sake, Margaret, you want Sally to hear you say that?

  He belts back the bourbon.

  NARRATOR

  I noticed Dad was beginning to drink a lot. He hardly drank at all when Mom was alive.

  MARGARET

  All right. But don’t let her ruin it for the rest of us, okay? I agree with Daisy. I don’t want to spend every meal like a Trappist monk.

  DAISY

  She means in silence, Dad.

  JACK

  I know what she means, Daisy.

  MARGARET

  Dad, it’s summer. Daisy and I are young. I don’t see why we have to tiptoe around like someone’s dying in the next room.

  DAISY

  Like Garbo in Camille.

  JACK

  (slams his glass on the table) No wonder I drink!

  Lights fade on the cottage.

  NARRATOR

  In the third week of July, it rained two days straight, and Sally became even more withdrawn, almost catatonic. And then the miracle happened. The morning the sun came out, Sally appeared for the first time in days. And somehow we knew, before being told, that Dad had agreed to send her home … As it turned out, he’d decided to drive her there himself. All the way back to Jericho …

  Music: “Blueberry Hill” by Fats Domino.

  Lights come up on the front porch … MARGARET, in a skirt and blouse, sits on the porch, writing in a blue hardback book. DAISY, in a two-piece bathing suit, sits on the steps, painting her toenails red.

  NARRATOR

  That morning, Sally was all smiles. She even insisted on carrying out her suitcases. I remember she waited in the car, the radio on, her copy of Lolita raised to her face like a hymnal …

  MARGARET

  The world is such a mystery, isn’t it, Daisy? I mean, I can understand why Sally might be attracted to Dad. What I can’t understand is why she’d fall for a loser like Mr. Rush. Would you risk it all for someone like that?

  DAISY

  Are you kidding? I wouldn’t even buy insurance from him. How can you trust a man who wears a hairpiece and drives an Edsel?

  MARGARET

  I know. His last car was a ’56 Packard. That’s just a glorified Studebaker.

  Pause.

  DAISY

  You don’t suppose he’s a great lover, do you? A sexual acrobat?

  MARGARET

  (incredulous) Mr. Rush?

  DAISY

  Tim Scott says short guys are usually great in bed.

  MARGARET

  Know why Tim says that? Because Tim Scott is five feet tall with his shoes on.

  DAISY

  He is not, Maggie. He’s five foot six, soaking wet.

  MARGARET

  Maybe the truth is nobody understands why we’re attracted to each other. Maybe it’s all just chemistry, like fireflies. Is that possible?

  JACK comes out, carrying a suitcase.

  JACK

  What’s that, Margaret? Is what possible?

  MARGARET

  Dad, remember when you first met Mom? The year you tried out for the Boston Braves?

  DAISY

  He met her the first week in Florida, didn’t you, Dad? She kept giving you the eye.

  JACK

  I was a goner, Daisy. From the moment I first laid eyes on her.

  MARGARET

  Dad, how did you know she was the one? You know, the one?

  JACK

  You just know it, Margaret. When it happens to you, it’ll hit you like a line drive to the heart. Believe me.

  The car horn sounds.

  JACK

  All right, you two, I’ve got to go. Now pay attention. I want you to look after each other. Daisy, you listen to your sister, you hear? Margaret, you need anything, you ask Mrs. Crump. She’ll be keeping an eye on you.

  DAISY

  Keeping an eye on us? What for?

  MARGARET

  We’re not delinquents, Dad.

  JACK

  I know you’re not. She’ll just be dropping in now and then. See how you’re coping … Look, I’ll be back as soon as possible. I promise. No more than ten days.

  DAISY

  Ten days? That’s a long, long time, Dad.

  JACK

  I don’t like it either, sweetheart. But right now I can’t help it. You see, Sally and I have … Well, we’ve decided to separate for a while. Don’t suppose that comes as much of a shock, does it?

  DAISY

  It doesn’t even register on the Richter scale.

  MARGARET

  Besides, the walls here are paper thin.

  DAISY

  What does she expect you to do? Find an apartment for her? Help her move in?

  JACK

  Don’t make it harder than it is, Daisy.

  MARGARET

  Dad, you know why she wants her own place, don’t you? She’s not fooling anyone. All of New England knows about her and Mr. Rush.

  Car horn sounds.

  DAISY

  Dad, promise us one thing. Promise you won’t paint her stupid place? Or pick out wallpaper? Promise?

  JACK

  I promise. Cross my heart … (kisses DAISY) See you soon. Be good now, you two. And don’t give Mrs. Crump a hard time.

  DAISY

  We won’t.

  JACK

  (kisses MARGARET) Things’ll be better now, Margaret. Much better. You’ll see.

  DAISY

  ’Bye, Dad. I love you.

  JACK walks off, carrying his suitcase.

  MARGARET

  Drive carefully!

  MARGARET and DAISY stand in the yard, waving at the departing car.

  NARRATOR

  We watched them drive off. Sally wore a red cotton dress and Wayfarer sunglasses, her hair like gold in the morning sun.

  MARGARET

  Look how she ignores him.

  DAISY

  What a bitch.

  NARRATOR

  Farther on, I saw my dad salute the rearview mirror. Then he struck the horn once, just once, with the heel of his hand, one long-drawn-out note of goodbye. And the sleek blue Chevy, the sun glinting off the narrow chrome of its fins, took the bend in the road, away from the lake, and was gone.

  DAISY

  Good riddance.

  Lights fade on MARGARET and DAISY.

  NARRATOR

  Memory, of course, is selective. So much about that summer I’ve long forgotten. After all, it’s been more than three decades. And yet what happened in the next week is as fresh in my mind as though it had just happened.

  And besides, there are some things in life we simply don’t forget. Ever.

  Music: “Red River Rock” by Johnny & the Hurricanes.

  Lights rise on the churchyard … MARGARET sits on the grass, her Yankees baseball cap beside her. She is writing with a yellow pencil in her blue hardback book. Ironically, this is the spot that a few weeks later will be MRS. CRUMP’s grave.

  PAUL WYATT runs on. He notices MARGARET, who is completely unaware of his presence … After a moment, PAUL removes a harmonica from his pocket. Rubs it on his shirt. Then blows a few notes. MARGARET, startled, scrambles to her feet, clutching her book.

  PAUL

  Sorry ’bout that. Did I frighten yo
u?

  MARGARET

  Yes, you frightened me! Do you always do that? Sneak up on people? What’s wrong with you? What if I had a heart condition?

  She slaps the grass off her dress.

  PAUL watches her. Finally –

  PAUL

  Do you?

  MARGARET

  (looks at him) Do I what?

  PAUL

  Have a weak heart?

  MARGARET

  That’s not the point, stupid.

  PAUL

  What is the point?

  MARGARET

  Forget it. Just scram. Can’t you see I want to be alone? … Look, if you don’t leave, I’ll scream. I mean it.

  PAUL

  Go ahead.

  MARGARET

  I will. I’ll call the minister.

  PAUL

  He wouldn’t hear you. He’s hard at work on next week’s sermon. The parable of the ten virgins. Remember that one?

  MARGARET

  No.

  PAUL

  Five were wise, four were foolish, and the tenth was wearing a baseball cap.

  MARGARET

  Very funny.

  Pause. PAUL blows on the harmonica.

  MARGARET

  Is this how you get your kicks? Lurking in graveyards? Serenading strange girls?

  PAUL

  If you ask me, you don’t look all that strange. In fact, you almost look normal.

  MARGARET

  Normal? Thanks a lot. That’s like calling someone cute.

  PAUL

  Actually, if I had to describe you in a word, I’d say you were …

  MARGARET

  What?

  PAUL

  I don’t know. Different.

  MARGARET

  Different? You mean, peculiar?

  PAUL

  I mean, unusual. Unlike anyone else … For one thing, you’re not like your sister at all, are you? Not really.

  MARGARET

  You know my sister?

  PAUL

  I’ve seen you together. Mostly at the Red Pavilion … She always dances with Tim Scott. You just sit and watch.

  MARGARET

  So? What’s wrong with that?

  PAUL

  Nothing’s wrong with it. Don’t be so defensive.

  Pause.

  MARGARET

  I don’t dance, that’s all.

  PAUL

  Because you can’t? Or because you won’t?

  MARGARET

  What difference does it make? Not every girl’s like Daisy, you know. That hardly makes me neurotic.

  PAUL

  I didn’t say that it did.