A cemetery. Various headstones are scattered around the stage, and perhaps a monument or two. Flowers upon several gravesides, an occasional tree and the sounds of birds round-out the peaceful setting. A stone bench lies down-center-stage, upon which sits a woman in her early forties. She is lost in her thoughts. A man enters from upstage right, and wanders aside her without really realizing that she's there.
CHRISTOPHER: (unsure) Jennifer?
JENNIFER: (peering, startled- then recognizing) My God, it is you.
CHRISTOPHER: What are you doing here?
JENNIFER: (defensively) I could ask you the same question.
CHRISTOPHER: I come here some times- when I want to be alone.
JENNIFER: Alone? A cemetery is full of people (indicating gravestones).
CHRISTOPHER: Yes, but they aren't very talkative. Take this fellow (squatting in front of a gravestone) Samuel G. Johnson. Born in 1889, died in 1967. He's here, but he leaves me alone.
JENNIFER: You always did like reading from those things.
CHRISTOPHER: You always liked listening. (long pause as the collect their thoughts)
JENNIFER: How have you been, Christopher? It's been years since I've been back to town. I had heard that you finally married that girl.
CHRISTOPHER: Yes, I did. It seemed to be the thing to do at the time.
JENNIFER: (smirking) Ah yes, you were always the pragmatic one. I'm sure that she's making a lovely wife, keeping a lovely home, making a lovely mother of, let me guess, two lovely children. You got what you wanted then, didn't you, Christopher.
CHRISTOPHER: (turning away) She's dead.
JENNIFER: (not with shock or remorse, but with compassion) Oh Christopher, I'm so sorry. I hadn't heard.
CHRISTOPHER: We never did travel in the same circles, after all.
JENNIFER: How did it happen.
CHRISTOPHER: Beth died in a car wreck. It was a one car accident. (beat) She had been drinking.
JENNIFER: Drinking? I would have never thought... (changing subject) So what are you doing now?
CHRISTOPHER: (deflecting question) You're still with him, I suppose.
JENNIFER: Yes, of course.
CHRISTOPHER: And how many little ones do you have on the path to Stamford, or whatever?
JENNIFER: (coldly) We don't have any children.
CHRISTOPHER: I'm surprised. I would have thought that the two of you would....
JENNIFER: (standing) So how often do you come here? (wandering through the stones)
CHRISTOPHER: Not very often. Once or twice a year, I suppose. I almost feel like I have to occasionally pay my respects to our friends (indicating the gravesides) after all the time we spent here. (turning to her) How about you?
JENNIFER: Once or twice. Or a lot. I don't really know. (pause) (hopefully) Do one of the stones- like you used to? Please?
CHRISTOPHER: That was a long time ago, Jennifer. Things were different.
JENNIFER: Please?
CHRISTOPHER: (with resignation) OK. Pick one.
JENNIFER: (wandering through and examining the stones, then stopping aside one, and pointing) This one!
CHRISTOPHER: (breathy sigh) All right. Let's see. Bartholomew B. Banister. Should have been a Barrister! Born 1911, died 1984. He was... (thinking) a taxi driver. He drove the equivalent of 26 times around the planet without a single fender-bender. Was renowned through the area for knowing each and every address in the county, (darkly) and was driven insane by High School pranksters who gave him mythical address.
JENNIFER: Oh, I don't like that one at all! Don't make him end up crazy. Do another one, quick!
CHRISTOPHER: (crouching) All right, how about this one. Clarence Cromwell. Died when he was... 80 years old, and it says here that he was never wed and left no survivors! (standing) What a happy fellow he must have been! He never knew the annoyance of others telling him what to do, or the frustration of not having what he wanted. If he wanted a ham sandwich, then he had one, by God! He never knew of the labyrinthine complexities of a relationship between a man and a woman. He just went about amassing considerable wealth, I'd imagine, holding to a straight path which was his, unencumbered by unrequited love...
JENNIFER: Oh stop! Stop, will you! This isn't like it used to be. You're not like you used to be. You're so... so cold.
CHRISTOPHER: And what would you expect? That we'd fall into each other's arms? (beat) Do you have any idea how hard it was for me when you left? And to Africa, for God's sake! I couldn't even call you! It wasn't like you took a position in D.C. or something.
JENNIFER: Christopher, journalism is everything to me. My whole life was geared to that. When they offered to make me a correspondent, what should I have done? Said, "No, it's hard to receive calls there?"
CHRISTOPHER: It's how you left, Jennifer. It's not like you left with a plan. Who knew when you would come back. People can't put their lives on hold just because...
JENNIFER: (angrily) Oh please! You're making it out to be something that it wasn't. I had no obligation to you. We were together for a summer. A summer!
CHRISTOPHER: (pained) But I loved you. (Jennifer collapses on bench in defeat.) I wanted a family.
JENNIFER: Well, you got one.
CHRISTOPHER: Not with you. (He gently sits next to her, and they sit in silence for a moment.) So, tell me about your husband.
JENNIFER: What do you want to know? He's an editor at the Times. We met in Cairo. He's good to me.
CHRISTOPHER: It must be exciting for the two of you, canvassing the globe, chasing the stories.
JENNIFER: Well, it is exciting for us individually. We don't really see that much of each other.
CHRISTOPHER: That must be hard.
JENNIFER: (standing) Not for him. (she starts to wander among the stones) You and I certainly spent a lot of time here that summer. Do you remember the time we got caught in the thunderstorm? My God did we get wet. My clothes were soaked through, my hair was matted- I looked like a drowned rat.
CHRISTOPHER: You looked beautiful! (she looks as him with disbelief) Well, sexy anyway. And how about that old groundskeeper. He got so sick of chasing us out of here that he eventually gave up.
JENNIFER: I think he figured out that we meant no harm.
CHRISTOPHER: Do you remember the woodchuck we used to feed? You used to bring him sweet potatoes. What did we call him?
JENNIFER: Mister Pippin? No, Mister...
CHRISTOPHER: Bippin!
JENNIFER: That's it! (kneeling in front of a stone) Do one more, for me. Please? Do her? (pointing)
CHRISTOPHER: (joining her with a breathy sigh) All right. Let's see. Jane P. Proxmire. Born 1927, died 1957. (pause) Well, she died quite young, at 30, just like my wife. Her tale is a sad one too, I'm afraid. She was raised by parents that seemed to be perfect. They were wealthy, attractive, successful in their respective fields. They knew the right people, said the right things; never in her home were voices, or hands, raised. Not many people have the opportunity to grow up in such a privileged home, you know? But while this house was free of the violence, the booze, the evils that are so prevalent, it was also lacking something. There was no love. Her parents, there- see, their names are right here, (pointing to Jane's stone and reading) "The loving daughter of Jack and Betty Proxmire", her parents never loved each other, and never loved her. They had a strong sense of obligation to their daughter, but that was it. She grew up amid the paradox of having everything, but actually having nothing. It's not a surprise, really, that such a person would wind up marrying someone who's heart was really elsewhere. As time passed, she began to understand love, or at least recognize it, and discovered that her husband longed for another. So she staggered through life, not ever really finding her rhythm until, one day, in an alcohol induced stupor that had become commonplace with her, she wrote a note blaming herself for what she had become, and resigning from continuing. Then she very purposely got into her car and drove it straight into the biggest tree she could find.
JENNIFER: (Jennifer looks away, fighting back tears) I didn't know- how could I have known? I'm so sorry, Christopher. That must have been so hard for you.
CHRISTOPHER: Not as hard as not seeing you anymore. That was harder. (beat) You do a stone.
JENNIFER: Me? No, that's your thing.
CHRISTOPHER: Please? You don't like how I do them anymore, and I always wanted to hear you do one.
JENNIFER: All right. (beat) I'll try. (kneeling in front of a stone) Margaret Conner Madison. Born in 1882, died 1967. (thinking) Margaret Conner left her hometown sweetheart behind, then fell deeply in love with a man named Frederick Madison. He was a powerful man; he ran a... a railroad line. His work took him out of town a lot, but Margaret was absolutely devoted to him, so she didn't mind too terribly. In their early years together, everything seemed ideal, but as time went on, Margaret began to question Frederick's commitment to her. He seemed to be more concerned with his business, his stature in the community, than her. (deep breath) It came to pass that Frederick wanted to start a family- he wanted a son. Months passed, then years, but she didn't get pregnant. It turned out that Margaret couldn't bear a child, and Frederick did not take this well. He angrily ruled out adoption, and threw himself into his work more than ever, never touching Margaret again. (standing, near tears) So Margaret had to endure the irony of not having loved the only man that loved her, yet not having been loved by the man to whom she was completely devoted. (Christopher crosses to Jennifer and hugs her. She cries in his arms.) I'm so sorry, Christopher, this is unfair to you.
CHRISTOPHER: I've accepted things as they are. I've learned to tolerate what I can not change.
JENNIFER: (with chagrin through tears) It's amazing that after everything that each of us has been through, nothing really has changed.
CHRISTOPHER: Not even the names on the stones....
JENNIFER: Someday our names will be here.
CHRISTOPHER: Yeah, then maybe we'll finally be together.
JENNIFER: (she kisses him on the cheek) Take care, Christopher.
CHRISTOPHER: Yeah, you too.
They exit slowly, to stage right and stage left, as the lights slowly fade.
Redux was produced as part of the 1999 Wisconsin Playwright Original One Act Festival.
Copyright 1998 Victor-charles Scafati
Performance rights available with permission.
scafativ@execpc.com
All other rights reserved