Gilmer 485 / Scene 1

words by Agnes Cho and Avery Carlson

Gilmer 485

by Agnes Cho

A knock on the door

and I enter with joy.

To see that smile

In my world of scars:

Interruptions,

He listens.

shouts and arguments,

He is gentle.

and humiliation.

He encourages.

He heals me.

The parts of me

that I had hid behind,

hushed

over

and over again.

I count to three:

There’s his name post

next to the door.

The smell of 

that old couch

and the faded, soft, floral print.

The stillness

of this carpet flooring under my feet.

And there it is.

My mind proceeds.

A knock on the door.

Scene 1

by Avery Carlson

Cast

Grandfather…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….Actor 1

Granddaughter……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..Actress 1

Grandmother………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..Actress 2

Mother………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….Actress 3

Father………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………Actor 2

Grandfather Internal…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………Disembodied Male Voice*

*during these pieces of dialogue, lights dim on the scene and just shine on grandfather. Other characters feign conversation. Maybe a low hum in the back for muddled chatter.

Scene 1

[Lights reveal five people seated at a patio table in a garden having dinner. Light is fading from a summer’s day. Sound effect of light chatter, which fades out with first dialogue.]

Grandfather [Internal]:

How do birds know how to navigate and fly in formation? I’m watching this flock of small birds taking sharp, sudden turns–not unlike a school of moonfish-shimmering across the dying day. They’re staged against a pink-yellow sky, the last dregs of light giving way to the dark evening.

The chair is hard and cold beneath me; I listen to the clink of cutlery on plates and bowls; I smell the rich food from the kitchens and the flowers that surround us; I look at my family. My silver-haired wife sits to my left, my dark-haired granddaughter on her other side. My daughter is to my right with her husband across from me: between my little girl and the dark-haired girl. Well. My daughter’s not so little anymore. Her creases are beginning to match her mother’s. When did she go from grown up to growing old?

Their mouths are moving but I haven’t been paying attention. Oh– What are they talking about? My granddaughter is still in school–she’s talking about books.

Grandfather: What do you like to read? Fiction or nonfiction?

[Granddaughter pauses. Fidgets. Responses are short and clipped, like they’ve been memorized.]

Granddaughter: Mostly fiction but I’ve been getting into some nonfiction. I’m reading more memoirs and books on psychology.

Grandfather: Oh, what kind of fiction do you read?

Granddaughter: Mostly historical fiction. I think books with wars have the most interesting stories. I also like abstract sci-fi.

Grandfather: That’s great! You know, I read quite a bit of history myself. Nonfiction of course. I’ve never been able to get into fiction. Are there any time periods in particular?

Granddaughter: Not really. Just a little of everything.

[Granddaughter looks away.]

Grandfather [Internal]:

She sounds angry. Impatient. Did I do something wrong? She seems like she doesn’t want to talk with her robotic, dry answers. I remember when she would go on and on… She feels so distant. But she’s as sharp as ever. She’s watching the conversation, she’s always been a watcher. But what did she see in me to look away?

[Grandfather begins to zone out of conversation, staring into his lap.]

[Lights fade in and out as audio distorts, long “pause” as grandmother, granddaughter, mother, and father talk around the table]

Grandmother: It is nice to have a dog in the house.

Grandfather [Internal]:

Dog? Winston is at home. He must be waiting in the study for us, looking out the window keeping watch. What a good boy he is. I can’t wait to go on our nightly walk around the block. Such a good boy.

Grandfather: We need to walk the dog. Winston is at home.

[A brief silence. Grandmother extends her hand, gently rests it on grandfather’s forearm. Thumb tracing a recent bruise.]

Grandmother: Honey, Winston is dead. He passed two weeks ago. We have Harper now, remember? She’s in her kennel waiting for us to come home.

Grandfather [Internal]:

Winston is dead? My friend of 10 years? This doesn’t make sense. I was just in the yard with him this afternoon. It was warm still. He must be at home–I saw his empty bowl before we left. Why is my daughter looking at me like that? It’s not sad, but it's certainly not happy. How could I forget losing Winston?

Who’s Harper? Why do we have a ‘Harper’? Why can’t I remember? I used to know everything. But now I can’t even–

Grandmother: So when will Harper be coming back? Thanksgiving?

Mother: No, we’ve been over this. She needs to come back when she’s bigger. In the spring. She would be a lot for you right now.

[Lights fade in and out as audio distorts, long “pause” as grandmother, granddaughter, mother, and father talk around the table]

Grandfather [Internal]:

They’re still talking about a ‘Harper’. My wife is happy, looking excited. This must be a good thing. Should I be happy with her? Put on a brief smile? I don’t want them to be concerned about me. I think I worry them. I’ll put on a brave face. Be excited for this Harper. 

No more confusion. Brave face. Happy. I’m so happy.

[Scene freezes. Lights only focus on granddaughter. She stands up, walks to the front of the stage]

Granddaughter [to audience]:

I watch my grandfather seated across the table. Throughout dinner he’s been drifting in and out of conversation. I’d love to catch a glimpse of what’s happening in his brain. This man used to be so animated and the center of any family event. To watch him sit on the side, swinging his head back and forth trying to keep track of the conversation, only to fall silent and watch his hands in his lap.

It is strange to watch a person struggle with something so invisible yet so present. I see it reflected in my mother’s knit forehead when the waitress comes back with a burger my grandfather didn’t order; I see it in my grandmother’s defeated eyes before admitting for the first time that their dog is dead; it exists in the tensing of my shoulders and knowing glances my father and I cast at each other behind my mother’s back. But there isn’t much we can do with our reality. Observe, apply a thin bandage of pretending, and move on.

[Sighs, looks at grandfather. Approaches him, puts hand on the side of his face]

He has the best smile. Toothy and unapologetic. Think: rosy cheeks. That is the epitome of my grandfather’s smile. Eyes bright and loving life. I still see snippets of it, and when I do, I smile for him. I remember when he would smile all the time. 

[Smiles, waits a beat. Smile goes away, takes hand from face]

Now, I only catch glimpses of it.