SEVENTEENTH WEDNESDAY A PLAY BY GEORGE SOETE COPYRIGHT 2004 CHARACTERS: TOMMY, 62 SETTING: DAD'S KITCHEN SEVENTEENTH WEDNESDAY Tommy stands at a kitchen counter. He prepares food and lays it out on large trays during the following. Raw vegetables, bologna, cheese, potato salad, etc. TOMMY During the last months of his life, I spent just about every Wednesday afternoon with my father. Camilla, his live-in, had some sort of family obligation. His cell phone rings: "There's no place like home." Hello. Yes. Camilla. How are you? Yes. Whatever we can do. You sound upset. Wednesdays. I don't know. I'm not sure I can. . . . Are you sure? Let me see what I can do. You take care. Everything will be fine. I'll call you back. He hangs up. As was usual with Camilla, we couldn't quite understand what this Wednesday afternoon business was about, but she was so good with dad, so patient. We couldn't let her go. He flips open his phone and dials. Marion. It's me. Look, Camilla called. Dad's home helper. Yes. Camilla. You've met her. She says she can't work Wednesday afternoons. I don't know. Some family thing. I have to believe it's serious. Well, because I'm basically a believing person, I guess. I'll try. I don't know. No. I can't lay down the law. I can't. What if she just quits? Then where would we be? Love you, too. He hangs up. Camilla also had the weekends off, but my sisters rotated these among themselves, sometimes taking dad to stay with them for a couple of days. I felt guilty about not doing my share. Not very guilty. Dad and I didn't get on that well. Or rather, he pretty much ignored me. Ever since I went off in pursuit of writing. He didn't understand writing. He understood life's important tangibles: gas mileage, two-by fours, furnace filters, earned run averages. At first I resented this Wednesday obligation. Marion was constantly on my case, and my boss wouldn't give me any allowance for hardship. I had to reduce my work schedule - and my take-home pay. He flips open the phone again. Calls Camilla. Camilla. How are you? I was able to talk with Mrs. Thompson. We're wondering if this is really necessary. Do you need a pay raise? No, Camilla! We don't want you to quit. Please don't quit. Do you know anyone who could take Wednesday afternoons? Yes. Yes. I understand. Camilla, I'll see you on Wednesday. He hangs up in a desperate state. So, I spent my Wednesday afternoons babysitting my own father. Dad's lunch was invariable: a bologna sandwich with a slice of Velveeta and mustard on crust-less Wonder Bread. Toward the end, when he couldn't manage the sandwiches, I tried some substitutes. Cream soups, those mushy cocktail weenies, even baby food. But he simply refused to eat them. Finally, I hit on the idea of making a sort of bologna smoothie. It's easy. Here, let me make one for you. He places a blender in front of him. He drops ingredients into the blender as he talks. You cut the crusts off two pieces of Wonder bread, then tear them into small pieces. Reserve the crusts for the birds. He calls offstage to Dad. Right, daddy? TOMMY AS DAD Save the crusts for the birds! He puts the crusts into a plastic baggie. TOMMY Cut the cheese and bologna into small pieces. Add a half teaspoon of mustard. Moisten with two or three tablespoons of water. Put the mixture in a blender and allow the liquid to soak the bread for a few seconds. Blend on low for about 30 seconds. Voila! Would anyone like a taste? He takes a minute quantity on a teaspoon and tastes it. Revolting! But he ate it happily, and he seemed to admire my ingenuity. Excuse me. He scoops the contents of the blender into a brightly colored toddler's bowl and exits toward Dad. He returns. He holds up a jar of applesauce. Opens it, spoons some into a bowl while he talks. Now, this is the invariable dessert: applesauce. He loved applesauce. His mother used to make it when he was a kid. TOMMY AS DAD Mom used to make her own applesauce. TOMMY (To audience.) See? (To Dad.) She sure was some lady to make her own applesauce, wasn't she, Dad? TOMMY AS DAD She was all right. It was nothing special. Everybody used to make their own applesauce. What did it take? Mash up a bunch of cooked apples. Add cinnamon. Serve. TOMMY It tasted swell, didn't it, Dad? Fresh applesauce? TOMMY AS DAD It sure tasted swell. Just like fresh apples--with a little cinnamon. (Tommy takes the applesauce to Dad.) TOMMY (To audience.) When I talked with dad, I liked to use words like "swell" and "golly" and phrases like "you betcha" and "Watcha gonna do?" Those were the words he grew up with and used till the day he died. (To Dad.) Didn't you, Dad? (To audience.) Mostly, at this point, Dad barely acknowledged me. Perhaps it was because I was a disappointment to him as a man. He didn't know what to do with me. Before the stroke, he was an active physical guy. As a boy, I had turned cerebral on him . I had become a writer. So on these Wednesdays, true to form, he ate and played cards and watched football tapes and slept. And I wrote. I would look over at him once in a while and wonder how in hell we came to share the same blood. Along about the ninth Wednesday, an idea formed. We needed a project, something we could accomplish together. We would sort through his things. He would enjoy it. It was physical. It involved things. And it had to be done. He was dying. Tommy picks up a tangle of ties and bathrobes, perhaps from a stool upstage. He calls off to Dad. Dad, you have hundreds of ties in there, and I counted fifteen bathrobes, some with the store tags still on them. Don't you think maybe Camilla's husband could use some of your clothes? TOMMY AS DAD I may need them when I get better. TOMMY Daddy, no one needs fifteen bathrobes. Most of them look like gifts, anyway. TOMMY AS DAD You don't give gifts away. TOMMY Who says? TOMMY DAD It's bad luck. TOMMY And what are you doing with these old ration books? TOMMY AS DAD I want to show them to the kids. That's living history. TOMMY You showed them to the kids years ago, Dad. They tossed them aside. TOMMY AS DAD Stay the hell out of my closets! TOMMY (To audience.) So much for tidying. Dad was going to hold on to everything he had until he couldn't hold on to life any more. Then I tried nostalgia. My next project was to interview Dad. Create a sort of oral history. He would stay engaged by talking about the past. And I would gather material that I might be able to use later. He has been replacing the robes and ties upstage and picks up a photo album. Pages through it smiling as he walks slowly back. Calls off to Dad. Dad, isn't this Robbie Smith? This guy, making horns over your head? TOMMY AS DAD A real son-of-a-bitch. TOMMY I thought he was your best friend. TOMMY AS DAD When I was growing up, someone could be your best friend and a son-of-a-bitch at the same time. TOMMY Yeah. I can see how that would be. Next you'll be telling me you climbed six flights with a full schoolbag to go to the dentist. TOMMY AS DAD How did you know? TOMMY A lucky guess. (Pause.) Daddy, that's mom, isn't it, in the bathing suit, standing next to that old car? TOMMY AS DAD It's not old. 1932 Buick. Brand new. Six cylinders. I paid $799.00 for that car. TOMMY Golly, mom was beautiful, wasn't she, Daddy? TOMMY AS DAD She was all right. TOMMY Do you miss her? TOMMY AS DAD She made better sandwiches than you. TOMMY Here's your old house. What was it like growing up with Aunt Rosie, and Uncle Jim, and your Mom and Dad? TOMMY AS DAD It was all right. TOMMY What sorts of things did you do? What games did you play? TOMMY AS DAD Kids games. TOMMY Like what? TOMMY AS DAD Baseball. TOMMY And? TOMMY AS DAD Football. Pause. Tommy tries a new tack. TOMMY Tell me about your first girlfriend. What was her name? TOMMY AS DAD Caroline. TOMMY Caroline. That's a nice name. What was she like? TOMMY AS DAD Or Betty. TOMMY Betty's nice, too. TOMMY AS DAD Or Gwen. TOMMY OK. What did you do on dates? Dancing? Movies? TOMMY AS DAD Yeah. TOMMY Was it fun? TOMMY AS DAD It was all right. TOMMY (To audience.) The oral history wasn't going too well. Dad's responses tended toward the monosyllabic. Until I got to one particular subject. (To dad.) Do you remember the first time you kissed a girl? As Tommy begins to take on more of Dad's lines, he might begin to differentiate clearly for the audience by taking contrasting stances, moving to different positions on the stage. TOMMY AS DAD (Begins haltingly, then builds up speed and enthusiasm.) Sure. Barbara Wendt. She wore a blue dress and a blue ribbon in her hair. We were on her front porch. I was sixteen. I didn't know her father was watching us. He yelled at me to get the hell off his porch. I ran all the way home. Next Sunday, I saw him in Church and he acted like nothing had happened. TOMMY (To audience.) I had hit pay dirt. Lust conquered all. For three Wednesdays, I listened to the unprompted, unvarnished, and unprintable details of his many conquests, especially when he was a randy young sailor. TOMMY AS DAD In Manila, on the Fourth of July, we had shore leave. Made our own fireworks. We went to a bar and picked up some cute brown girls. Smoothest skin you ever saw. Big brown eyes. Took them to a hotel down the street. Loved them up. . . TOMMY (To audience.) How my father reached full adulthood free of disease, I'll never know. (Pause.) And then, just as abruptly as it had started, the outpouring of memories about his love life stopped. And no amount of prodding could get him to return to them. (Pause.) That must have been the beginning of the end. His last grasp on a life that made any sense to him.. (Pause, shift in tone.) You'll notice that sometimes I call Dad "daddy," and sometimes "my father," and sometimes "dad." I shuttle back and forth among the stages of our relationship. You know: "Daddy, tell me a story!" "Daddy, what are we having to eat?" "Dad, can I use the car?" Later, "Dad, want to see what I'm writing?" And today, it's "My father passed away yesterday. We hope you can come to the service." (Pause. He becomes a little boy.) Daddy, tell me a story! TOMMY AS DAD (A young father again.) OK, now settle down. Did you brush your teeth? Your mom is gonna have kittens if you haven't. Once there was a young sailor. Was he handsome? You betcha! He sailed the blue seas in a big ship. He scrubbed the decks and helped shoot the big guns and slept in a hammock at night. He was happy. He never got seasick, even in the worst storms. He sailed to many ports and got to see the whole world. (Slowly.) Tokyo, Manila, Guam, Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Honolulu. And everywhere he went, he made new friends. Why, one time, it was the fourth of July, he got shore leave in Manila. . . Tommy has fallen asleep. He stretches awake. TOMMY Daddy, what are we having to eat? TOMMY AS DAD Fried Ice and Wind Pudding. Now get those hands washed. TOMMY He got me on that one every time. . . .Dad, can I use the car? TOMMY AS DAD After you've washed the dishes and taken out the garbage. You ever ask your mom what needs to be done? I wish I had been able to drive around with my friends when I was sixteen. I had two jobs after school and. . . TOMMY (To the audience.) And you walked up six flights with a full schoolbag to go to the dentist. I know. I know. (Pause.) Dad, want to see what I'm writing? TOMMY AS DAD Later, kiddo, we've got a game to watch. Get a beer. Sit down. TOMMY (Pause, then simply, to audience.) My father passed away yesterday. We hope you can come to the service. Yes, it's a great loss for all of us. But he seemed to have a happy life. And I got to spend a lot of time with him near the end. Wednesday afternoons. TOMMY AS DAD Did you get the flowers? TOMMY I sure did. TOMMY AS DAD Did you tell them not to use any makeup? TOMMY I did. TOMMY AS DAD Did you get some bologna and cheese and some of that potato salad for afterwards? TOMMY Yes, Daddy. TOMMY AS DAD And applesauce? TOMMY You betcha! You're all taken care of. TOMMY AS DAD What else? TOMMY Fried ice and wind pudding. TOMMY AS DAD Don't be a smart-ass. . . .Will you be by next Wednesday? TOMMY No, daddy, I can't make it next Wednesday. (Pause.) But we sure had some swell times, those Wednesdays, didn't we? TOMMY AS DAD It was all right. (A pin spot focuses on Tommy.) TOMMY Am I sorry he's dead? Yes. Of course. I'm sorry when anyone dies. That's all I can say. Blackout. Copyright George J. Soete, 2004