A Plague Year

I blanked for a moment. My mind started racing. I found myself thinking, What do we have to thank God for? We are in the middle of a plague year, an annus horribilis. Are we supposed to be thankful that things aren’t even worse? I guess so.

I finally said this: “We’ve seen other families lose a lot this year. They’ve lost family members to death, and to jail, and to just… zombieland.”

Mom and Dad looked uncomfortable, like they were wondering where this prayer was going. So was I. I continued: “But our family has hung in there. We’re all healthy, and we’re all still here, and we’re not in jail, and we have even added a family member in John, so that’s all good.”

Mom and Dad quickly said, “Amen!” Lilly and John followed. Then we started to eat.

Sunday, December 30, 2001

The show went on, too. The Roses of Eyam.

Arthur had offered to drive me to it, and I was happy to accept. He picked me up outside the house on Sunday evening, immediately handing me one of Mr. Proctor’s Bibles with dialogue inside. We drove to the school, with me reading lines from the play and Arthur trying to remember his responses to them.

We parked in the row nearest to the auditorium. The Weavers’ Explorer was next to us. The Lyles’ red Suburban was in the row behind, three spaces over.

I followed Arthur through the main doors. We then veered left down a side corridor that led to the back of the stage. Arthur joined Jenny and Mike at a table, where they were going over their lines. I started to sit with them, when a hand reached out and grabbed me.

It was Wendy Lyle’s. She had not spoken to me in over two weeks. She had not bothered to tell me that she was leaving school and that she was moving away forever. But now she was pleading with me, like we were best friends, “Tom! You have to help. This play is a total disaster!”

I said calmly, “Hello, Wendy. How are you?”

She replied with controlled fury, “There is no director! We haven’t rehearsed in forever. Ben is in the bathroom, throwing up. And Chris Collier has bailed on us!”

“What?”

“He’s the freaking male lead, and he’s not here!”

I looked at the side door. “Well, there’s still time.”

But she was adamant. She practically babbled, “No, he has bailed on us! I knew he would, the jerk. He was only doing it for a grade from Mr. Proctor, and now Mr. Proctor has bailed, too!”

I couldn’t let that go. I repeated, “Mr. Proctor has bailed?”

She looked at me, puzzled. “Uh, yeah. Do you see him anywhere?”

“You think he just… quit because he felt like it?”

She answered simply, even convincingly, “Yes. He got the hell out of this place.”

I thought, Maybe she doesn’t know the truth. She’s been out of school. Maybe no one has told her.

Wendy looked at the door. She spoke bitterly. “Chris sucked anyway.” Then she added, to my shock, “It’s because he’s a freaking druggie.”

“No way!”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

She looked at me like I was deaf, dumb, and blind. “Please! He couldn’t memorize his character’s name, never mind his lines. He was still reading every word from the book.”

I was dumbfounded. “Chris Collier is using? Using what?”

“Who cares? Something that makes you stupid; that’s all I know.” Suddenly Wendy put both hands on my shoulders and begged me. “Tom! You have to do it. You have to play the lead!”

“Me?”

“Yes! You were Mr. Proctor’s first choice. He wrote the part for you.” She spun around and grabbed a black book off a table. She opened it and thrust it in my face. “Look! All you have to do is find the name Mompesson and read his lines. I’ll move you around where you need to be onstage. Please. Please!”

Arthur appeared beside me, bent double. He had obviously been listening, because he said in an idiotic voice, “Do it, Mr. Tom! Do it! The show must go on. Arthur needs to get his A.”

I stared at his hunched figure. “Are you serious?”

Arthur stood erect and spoke normally. “Dead serious, cuz. Come on, it’s no big deal. You just stand out there and read the lines. Nobody expects you to be any good.”

Jenny called from the table, “Yeah! Come on, Tom. We need you.”

I looked at all of their faces (well, mostly at Jenny’s face). I heard myself say, “Okay, then. All right.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was on the stage. I was appearing in The Roses of Eyam, by Don Taylor, as adapted by Mr. Proctor. I was the star of the show, in fact, performing before a small crowd consisting of mostly the actors’ parents.

I could see the Weavers in the first row. I could see Catherine Lyle in the second row. She was sitting with her creepy husband and a line of three frat boys, including, of all people, Joel. It was bizarre to see his curly head again. He didn’t seem uncomfortable to be there, either. He was just chatting with Dr. Lyle and the boys, acting like nothing was wrong. I thought, Why did they come tonight? Just to make fun of us?

I put them all out of my mind, though, and concentrated on my character. I stood where the Reverend Mompesson was supposed to stand, and I read all his lines the best I could. The Reverend had to convince the villagers of Eyam to stay where they were; to fight the plague to the death; to save the rest of England.

I liked the part. And I liked the character. Mr. Proctor had given the Reverend Mompesson some stirring speeches about honor, and responsibility, and shared humanity.

Mr. Proctor had condensed the play down to one long act, a little over an hour’s running time. Halfway through, Dr. Lyle’s frat boys got up and left. They returned ten minutes later, and suddenly everything was funny to them. They laughed particularly long and hard at anything Arthur did as the Bedlam, the village idiot.

But I must say, from where I was standing, that Arthur performed his part very well. He really threw himself into it. So did Wendy and Jenny and Mike; so did Ben, despite his earlier bout with stage fright. We managed to deliver Mr. Proctor’s version of The Roses of Eyam competently. Maybe even with some conviction. Maybe even with some passion.

There was a nice round of applause when it was over. There was also some silly hooting from the frat boys, causing Catherine Lyle to look uncomfortable. We took a group bow, with me in the middle, and made our exit. It was really an exhilarating feeling.

Backstage, Arthur was hopping around and slapping five with everybody, still in his stooped village-idiot posture. Wendy had her head down, muttering, “Thank God that’s over.” But Jenny, Ben, Mike, Arthur, and I were all up and giddy and elated.

I felt elated for Mr. Proctor, too. This had been his vision, and we had made it real. It wasn’t great; it wasn’t Broadway. But it was good, and it was Blackwater.

Our group walked together, going back down that side corridor and out into the night. As soon as we pushed open the auditorium doors, we were greeted by a swirl of blowing white snowflakes.

Ben stuck out his tongue and shouted sloppily, “I love eating snow!”

Arthur slapped him on the back. “Eat all you want, dude. It’s only water.”

We moved along in a laughing, chattering bunch to the first row of cars. Mrs. Weaver rolled down the driver’s window of her SUV. She called out, “You kids were great!”

“I know!” Ben replied.

“We want to take you to Friendly’s, the whole cast.”

Ben clenched his fist. “Yes! Real food!”

Jenny looked at me, so I looked at Arthur. He raised his shoulders up and down and said, “Sure. Sounds good. We’ll meet you there.”