Leaving Home, of the Fields, Lately, and Salt-Water Moon Read online

BILL We’re supposed to meet Father Douglas at the church at five to. I just hope Dad’s not too drunk. (He exits.)

  MARY (studies BEN a moment) Look at yourself. A cigarette in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other, at your age! You didn’t learn any of your bad habits from me, I can tell you. (pause) Ben, don’t be in such a hurry to grow up. (She sits across from him.) Whatever you do, don’t be in such a hurry. Look at your poor young brother. His whole life ruined. Oh, I could weep a bellyful when I t’inks of it. Just seventeen, not old enough to sprout whiskers on his chin, and already the burdens of a man on his t’in little shoulders. Your poor father hasn’t slept a full night since this happened. Did you know that? He had such high hopes for Billy. He wanted you both to go to college and not have to work as hard as he’s had to all his life. And now look. You have more sense than that, Ben. Don’t let life trap you.

  BILL enters. He has changed his pants and is buttoning a clean white shirt. MARY goes into the dining room and begins to remove the tablecloth from the dining-room table.

  BILL Mom, what about Dad? He won’t start picking on the priest, will he? You know how he likes to argue.

  MARY He won’t say a word, my son. You needn’t worry. Worry more about Minnie showing up.

  BILL What if he’s drunk?

  MARY He won’t be. Your father knows better than to sound off in church. Oh, and another t’ing — he wants you to polish his shoes for tonight. They’re in the bedroom. The polish is on your dresser. You needn’t be too fussy.

  BEN I’ll do his shoes, Mom. Billy’s all dressed.

  MARY No, no, Ben, that’s all right. He asked Billy to.

  BILL What did Ben do this time?

  MARY He didn’t do anyt’ing.

  BILL He must have.

  MARY Is it too much trouble to polish your father’s shoes, after all he does for you? If you won’t do it, I’ll do it myself.

  BILL (indignantly) How come when Dad’s mad at Ben, I get all the dirty jobs? Jeez! Will I be glad to get out of here! (Rolling up his shirt sleeves he exits into his bedroom.)

  MARY takes a clean white linen tablecloth from a drawer in the cabinet and covers the table. During the following scene she sets five places with her good glasses, silverware, and plates.

  BEN (slight pause) Billy’s right, isn’t he? What’d I do, Mom?

  MARY Take it up with your father. I’m tired of being the middle man.

  BEN Is it because of last night? (slight pause) It is, isn’t it?

  MARY He t’inks you didn’t want him there, Ben. He t’inks you’re ashamed of him.

  BEN He wouldn’t have gone, Mom. That’s the only reason I never invited him.

  MARY He would have went, last night.

  BEN (angrily) He’s never even been to one lousy Parents’ Night in thirteen years. Not one! And he calls me contrary!

  MARY You listen to me. Your father never got past Grade T’ree. He was yanked out of school and made to work. In those days, back home, he was lucky to get that much and don’t kid yourself.

  BEN Yeah? So?

  MARY So? So he’s afraid to. He’s afraid of sticking out. Is that so hard to understand? Is it?

  BEN What’re you getting angry about? All I said was —

  MARY You say he don’t take an interest, but he was proud enough to show off your report cards all those years. I suppose with you that don’t count for much.

  BEN All right. But he never goes anywhere without you, Mom, and last night you were here at the shower.

  MARY Last night was different, Ben, and you ought to know that. It was your high school graduation. He would have went with me or without me. If you’d only asked him.

  A truck horn blasts twice.

  There he is now in the driveway. Whatever happens, don’t fall for his old tricks. He’ll be looking for a fight, and doing his best to find any excuse. (calling) Billy, you hear that? Don’t complain about the shoes, once your father comes!

  BEN (urgently) Mom, there’s something I want to tell you before Dad comes in.

  MARY Sure, my son. Go ahead. I’m listening. What’s on your mind?

  BEN Well . . .

  MARY (smiling) Come on. It can’t be that bad.

  BEN (slight pause) I want to move out, Mom.

  MARY (almost inaudibly) . . . What?

  BEN I said I want to move out.

  MARY (softly, as she sets the cutlery) I heard you. (pause) What for?

  BEN I just think it’s time. I’ll be nineteen soon. (pause) I’m moving in with Billy and Kathy and help pay the rent. (pause) I won’t be far away. I’ll see you on weekends. (MARY nods.) Mom?

  MARY (absently) What?

  BEN Will you tell Dad? (slight pause) Mom? Did you hear me?

  MARY I heard you. He’ll be upset, I can tell you. By rights you ought to tell him yourself.

  BEN If I do, we’ll just get in a big fight and you know it. He’ll take it better, coming from you.

  The front door opens, and JACOB MERCER enters whistling “I’s the b’y.” He is fifty, though he looks older. He is dressed in a peaked cap, carpenter’s overalls, thick-soled workboots, and a lumberjack shirt over a T-shirt. Under one arm he carries his black lunch pail.

  MARY Your suit! I knowed it!

  JACOB Don’t get in an uproar, now. I left it sitting on the front seat of the truck. (He looks at BEN, then back to MARY.) Is Billy home?

  MARY He’s in the bedroom, polishing your shoes.

  JACOB (crosses to the bedroom door) Billy, my son, come out a moment.

  BILL enters, carrying a shoe brush.

  Put down the brush and go out in my truck and bring me back the tux on the seat.

  BILL What’s wrong with Ben? He’s not doing anything.

  JACOB Don’t ask questions. That’s a good boy. I’d ask your brother, but he always has a good excuse.

  BEN I’ll go get it. (He starts for the front door.)

  JACOB (calling after BEN) Oh, it’s too late to make up now. The damage is done.

  MARY Don’t talk nonsense, Jacob.

  JACOB (a last thrust) And aside from that — I wouldn’t want you dirtying your nice clean hands in your father’s dirty old truck!

  The front door closes on his last words. BILL returns to his room. JACOB sets his lunch pail and his cap on the dining-room table.

  JACOB Did he get his diploma?

  MARY Yes. It’s in the bedroom.

  JACOB (breaks into a smile) And will you gaze on Mary over there. When I stepped in the door, I t’ought the Queen had dropped in for tea.

  MARY You didn’t even notice.

  JACOB Come here, my dear, and give Jacob a kiss.

  MARY (darts behind the table, laughing) I’ll give Jacob a swift boot in the rear end with my pointed toe.

  JACOB grabs her, rubs his rough cheek against hers.

  You’ll take the skin off! Jake! You’re far too rough! And watch my new dress! Don’t rip it.

  JACOB releases her and breaks into a little jig as he sings.

  I’s the b’y that builds the boat

  And I’s the b’y that sails her,

  I’s the b’y that catches the fish

  And takes ’em home to Lizer.

  Sods and rinds to cover your flake

  Cake and tea for supper

  Codfish in the spring of the year

  Fried in maggoty butter.

  I don’t want your maggoty fish

  Cake and tea for winter

  I could buy as good as that

  Down in Bonavista.

  I took Lizer to a dance

  And faith but she could travel

  And every step that she did take

  Was up to her ass in gravel.

  JACOB ends the song with a little step or flourish.

  MARY There’s no mistakin’ where you’ve been to, and it’s not to church.

  JACOB All right, now, I had one little glass, and don’t you start.

  MARY (as she re-enters the kitchen) How many?
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  JACOB I can’t lie, Mary. (puts his hand on his heart) As God is my witness — two. Two glasses to celebrate the wedding of my youngest son. (He follows her into the kitchen.)

  MARY Half a dozen’s more like it, unless you expects God to perjure himself for the likes of you. Well, no odds: you’re just in time. Kathy’ll soon be here, so get cleaned up.

  JACOB I washed up on the job.

  MARY Well, change your old clothes. You’re not sitting down with the likes of that on. (She returns to the dining room with bread and butter for the dining-room table.)

  JACOB I suppose it’s fish with Kathy coming and him now a bloody Mick. Next t’ing you knows he’ll be expecting me to chant grace in Latin.

  MARY And I’ll crown you if you opens your yap like that around Kathy. Don’t you dare.

  JACOB (following MARY, he sits at the dining-room table) ’Course we could have the priest drop by and bless the table himself. (He makes the sign of the cross.)

  MARY Jacob!

  JACOB Though I doubts he could get his Cadillac in the driveway.

  MARY (back to kitchen) If you comes out with the likes of that tonight, I’ll never speak to you again. You hear?

  JACOB Ah, go on with you. What do you know? If you had nothing in your pockets but holes, a priest wouldn’t give you t’read to sew it with.

  BEN (enters with the box) I put your toolbox down in the basement while I was at it, Dad. And rolled up the windows in your truck, in case it rains tonight.

  JACOB Did you, now? And I’m supposed to forget all about last night, is that it? Pretend it never occurred? Your brother’s good enough for you but not your own father. (as BEN crosses to kitchen) Well, it would take more than that to stitch up the hurt, I can assure you. And a long time before it heals. Don’t be looking to your mother for support.

  BEN I wasn’t. (He sits at the kitchen table.)

  JACOB Or for sympathy, either.

  MARY Jacob, it don’t serve no purpose to look for a fight.

  JACOB (to MARY) You keep your two cents worth out of it. Nobody asked you. You got too much to say.

  Enter BILL, carrying the shined shoes, which he gives to his father.

  BILL Hey, Dad, do me a favour? When Kathy gets here, no cracks about the Pope’s nose and stuff like that. And just for once don’t do that Squid-Jiggin’ thing and take your teeth out. Okay? (He sits at table across from his father and reads the evening paper.)

  JACOB Well, listen to him, now. (to MARY) Who put him up to that? You? Imagine. Telling me what I can say and do in my own house.

  MARY (returning to dining room) Billy, my son, I got a feeling you just walked into it. (She takes a polishing cloth from cabinet and rubs her good silverware, including a large fish-knife.)

  JACOB (to BILL) If you only knowed what my poor father went t’rough with the Catholics. Oh, if you only knowed, you wouldn’t be doing this. My own son a turncoat. And back home, when we was growing up, you wouldn’t dare go where the Catholics lived after dark. You’d be murdered, and many’s the poor boy was. Knocked over the head and drownded, and all they done was let night catch them on a Catholic road. My father’s brother was one. Poor Isaac. He was just fifteen, that summer. Tied with his arms behind him and tossed in the pond like a stone. My poor father never forgot that to his dying day.

  The family waits out the harangue.

  And here you is j’ining their ranks! T’ree weeks of instructions. By the jumping Jesus Christ you don’t come from my side of the family. I’m glad my poor father never lived to see this day, I can tell you. The loyalest Orangeman that ever marched in a church parade, my father. He’d turn over in his grave if he saw a grandson of his kissing the Pope’s ass. Promising to bring up your poor innocent babies Roman Catholics and them as ignorant of Rome as earthworms.

  Oh, it’s a good t’ing for you, my son, that he ain’t around to see it, because sure as you’m there he’d march into that church tomorrow with his belt in his hand, and take that smirk off your face! Billy, my son, I never expected this of you, of all people. No, I didn’t. Not you. If it was your brother, now, I could understand it. He’d do it just for spite. . . .

  MARY Hold your tongue, boy. Don’t you ever run down? I just hope to goodness Ben don’t call on you at the wedding to toast the bride and groom. We’ll all be old before it’s over. (slight pause) Did you try on your tux?

  JACOB No, boy, it was too crowded.

  MARY Then try it on. You’re worse than the kids. (She hands him the box.) Go on.

  JACOB (to BILL, referring to the shoes) T’anks. (He exits into his bedroom.)

  MARY Ben, do your mother a favour? Fill up the glasses. I left the jug in the kitchen. (She sits at the dining-room table, checks and folds five linen napkins.) Look at him, Ben. The little fart. My baby. (to herself) How quick it all goes. . . . I can still see us to this day . . . the t’ree of us . . . coming up from Newfoundland . . . July of 1945 . . . the war not yet over. . . . Father gone ahead to look for work on construction . . . that old train packed with soldiers, and do you t’ink a single one would rise off his big fat backside to offer up his seat? Not on your life. There we was, huddled together out on the brakes, a couple, t’ree hours . . . with the wind and the soot from the engine blowing back . . . until a lady come out and saw us. “Well, the likes of this I’ve never seen,” she says. “I’ve got four sons in the war, and if one of mine was in that carriage, I’d disown ’im!”

  We’ve never had anyt’ing to be ashamed of, my sons. We’ve been poor . . . but we’ve always stuck together. (to BILL) Is you frightened, my son?

  BILL No. Why should I be?

  MARY Don’t be ashamed of it. Tomorrow you’ll most likely wish you was back with your mother and father in your own soft bed.

  BEN He’s scared shitless, Mom. (to BILL) Tell the truth.

  MARY Ben, is that nice talk?

  BILL (to BEN) I’ll trade places.

  MARY Well, as long as you loves her, that’s all that matters. Without that there’s nothing, and with it what you don’t have can wait. But a word of warning, Billy — don’t come running to us with your squabbles, because we won’t stick our noses into it. And before I forgets — you’d better not say a word to your father about Ben moving out. I’ll tell him myself after the wedding.

  JACOB (off) Mary!

  MARY (calling) What is it, boy?

  JACOB (off) Come here! I can’t get this goddamn button fast!

  MARY It’s one of those mysteries how he made it t’rough life this far. If he didn’t have me, he wouldn’t know which leg of his pants was which. (She exits.)

  BILL (slight pause) You told her, huh? She doesn’t seem to mind.

  BEN Keep your voice down. You want Dad to hear?

  BILL What did she say? Is she going to tell him?

  BEN Yeah, but do you think I ought to let her?

  BILL What do you mean?

  BEN Well, maybe I should tell him myself.

  BILL Are you crazy?

  BEN If I don’t, you know what’ll happen. Mom’ll get all the shit.

  BILL (pause) Ben, you really want to do this? Are you sure?

  BEN Look, my books and tuition’re paid for. All I got to worry about is the rent. I can handle that, waiting on tables. I’ll make out. Listen, whose idea was it anyhow? Mine or yours? I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.

  BILL Okay.

  BEN I need to, Billy. Christ, you know that. Either Dad goes, or I do.

  BILL I wish I felt that way. I don’t want to move out. I don’t want to get married. I don’t know the first thing about girls. I mean, Kathy’s the first girl I ever did it with. No kidding. The very first. We’ve only done it four or five times. The first time was in a cemetery, for Chrissake!

  BEN Well, at least you’ve been laid, Billy. I never.

  BILL Really? (he laughs — pause) I like Kathy. I like her a lot. But I don’t know what else. What do you think Dad would do, if he was in my shoes? I think if Kathy was M
om he’d marry her, don’t you?

  MARY (enters) Listen to me, you two. I don’t want either one of you to say one word or snicker even when your father comes out. Is that understood?

  BEN What’s wrong?

  MARY They give him the wrong coat. I suppose he was in such a rush to get to the Oakwood he didn’t bother trying it on.

  Enter JACOB singing, now dressed in the rental tux and polished shoes. The sleeves are miles too short for him, the back hiked up. He looks like a caricature of discomfort.

  Here comes the bride,

  All fat and wide,

  See how she wobbles

  From side to side.

  The boys glance at one another and try to keep from breaking up.

  JACOB Well, boys, am I a fit match for your mother?

  BEN Dad, I wish I had a camera.

  JACOB Is you making fun?

  MARY No, he’s not. The sleeves are a sight, but — (giving BEN a censorious look) — aside from that it’s a perfect fit. Couldn’t be better. Could it, Billy?

  BILL Made to measure, Dad.

  JACOB I t’ink I’ll kick up my heels. I’m right in the mood. (as he crosses to the record player) What do you say, Mary? Feel up to it? (He selects a record.)

  MARY I’m willing, if you is, Jake.

  JACOB All right, boys, give us room. (The record starts to play — a rousing tune with lots of fiddles.) Your mother loves to twirl her skirt and show off her drawers! (He seizes his wife, and they whirl around the room, twirling and stomping with abandon.)