DAN O'BRIEN | Key West

Act Two: South

NIALL

Hello?

BRIGID

Hello?

NIALL

Hello, Bridge?

BRIGID

—Hi!

NIALL

What are you doing out here?

(They approach each other in the dark, along the beach, in a mist.)

BRIGID

—Niall?

NIALL

Hi. . . .

BRIGID

How are you? —My light broke.

NIALL

Fine—how are you?

BRIGID

Good, I’m good. That’s funny . . .

NIALL

What is?

BRIGID

Nothing. Just the way we’re—I don’t know, "talking."

NIALL

. . . What are you doing out here?

BRIGID

I went for a walk, as soon as the rain let up, with a flashlight which as you can see has just—(her light flickers)

NIALL

Bridge—

BRIGID

—busted. —If you shake it, like that, it—

NIALL

Brigid—

BRIGID

—flickers—see? It flickers. —My mood, Niall, it’s so improved!

NIALL

. . . Is there a reason you don’t have an umbrella?

BRIGID

I don’t believe in umbrellas.

NIALL

I don’t believe an umbrella requires your faith, my girl—either it keeps you dry or it does not. —Share mine: (the umbrella)
           Shall we walk?

(He offers his arm and she takes it.

They walk:)

NIALL

I see you’ve got yourself a slicker.

BRIGID

A—? yes.

NIALL

And the lightning?

BRIGID

What about it?

NIALL

Doesn’t frighten you anymore?

BRIGID

—Not this kind of lightning, no it doesn’t.

NIALL

What kind of lightning would you call this?

BRIGID

The kind that jumps around up there like—

NIALL

Watch your step.

BRIGID

—I don’t know, like "neural activity."

NIALL

. . . We’re talking about the weather here?

BRIGID

Do you think that, as a culture, the Irish have an unnatural obsession with the weather?

NIALL

. . . Yes.

BRIGID

That’s it, "yes"?

NIALL

Yes.

—Well I wouldn’t call it un-natural.
           The weather in Ireland is so changeable, so precarious, it demands a constant appraisal: four seasons in a day, four types of rain: spitting rain, pissing rain, weeping rain—and of course you’ve got your Biblical deluge. . . .

BRIGID

My father used to talk about the weather. Some days that’d be all he’d talk about. When he was sick, we were caring for him at home, I was due to visit after exams and my mother put him on the phone: His voice—he sounded like an old woman. . . "I understand you’ve got rain in New Haven."
           . . . Can you imagine?
           . . . We talked about the weather for two minutes and then hung up. And then he died a few days later.

(They walk in silence.)

NIALL

. . . Rain, when it’s hot, is not such a bad thing.

BRIGID

No, you might even say that the rain is good.

NIALL

You and your dad didn’t get along, I take it. I only ask because you can’t blame him. It’s something in the family, in the genes. Sins of the father, like. We didn’t get along with our father, for no reason, but it infected the whole family all the same. . . . We kept a certain—distance.
           Once, we were helping our father dig down to a broken sewage pipe. He was getting up there, fifties—old for those days—so Harold and I did the digging. Down deep as a grave, we’d unearthed this ruptured clay pipe: shite mixed with mud mixed with roots and shale and clay, and our father—your grandfather—was standing above the hole . . . and he starts to bury us. Laughing. Just a few spadesful of mud, dropped on our backs. . . .
          Harold laughed too, and took it for the joke I suppose it was meant to be. . . . But I didn’t laugh. I didn’t get the joke.

BRIGID

That’s terrible. . . .

NIALL

Well . . .

BRIGID

What an awful thing to do.

NIALL

Mmm . . .

BRIGID

—Why did he do it?—why would he do something like that?

NIALL

Don’t know, it’s a mystery. . . .

BRIGID

. . . I don’t care what you say: I think the storm’s over.

NIALL

The thing about storms is they move every direction at once. —Hurricanes, I’m talking about, the big ones—but tropical storms too. Like spinning tops, they careen across the map. . . . The one place you’re safe is in the eye of it.
          It’ll start raining again, you’ll see.

BRIGID

No one’s ever accused you of being an optimist, have they?

NIALL

Do you know it’s a major symptom of schizophrenia to divine too personal a meaning in the weather?

BRIGID

Were you schizophrenic . . . ? The other night you said you’d been institutionalized—

NIALL

A long time ago.

BRIGID

And what was it, a mistake?

NIALL

Everyone’s entitled to an opinion.

BRIGID

So you consider mental health a matter of opinion?

NIALL

—I like to think instead that I was ecstatic, when I was ill. —"Ecstasy," in the religious sense. I felt transcendent, and not a bit sick. . . .
          At the time, I remember wishing I were a religious man, so that I could explain it that way. But I didn’t have the words. How could I say, as a modern man, agnostic if not atheist, "Look here everyone, I’m hearing voices and they’re telling me grave things about the world and my place in it and I swear it’s all coming from God."
          . . . They gave me electroshock treatment.
          I got better.

BRIGID

. . . .

NIALL

. . . So tell me, Bridge: where’ve you been?

BRIGID

What do you mean?

NIALL

These last two days.

BRIGID

I don’t know—

NIALL

You don’t know?

BRIGID

I know, but—

NIALL

I thought I would’ve seen you by now.

BRIGID

You’re seeing me now.

NIALL

All the same, I thought you might’ve dropped by, considering . . .

BRIGID

. . . .

NIALL

I woke up the next morning and thought I’d dreamt it, thought I’d seen a ghost. —Now why would I think that?

BRIGID

. . . .

NIALL

—Where’ve you been? Do you remember?

BRIGID

Of course I remember. —What kind of question is that?

NIALL

Where, then?

BRIGID

Where could I go? I walked around the island. . . .

NIALL

Where?

BRIGID

Here and there, saw the sites.

NIALL

Which sites?

BRIGID

Houses, you know—homes—

NIALL

Whose homes?

BRIGID

Famous homes literary homes—homes of dead people. —You think I’m being, what—?

NIALL

No—

BRIGID

—dishonest? deceitful?—I bought a fucking slicker, Dad!

NIALL

—That’s not fair!

BRIGID

How is it not fair?

NIALL

That money was a gift—

BRIGID

A pay off’s more like it—

NIALL

Do you know how many children I’ve got?

BRIGID

. . . No . . . this is fascinating, please:

NIALL

—You’re not special. . . .
          That’s all I’m saying. . . .

BRIGID

. . . I used the money for where I’m staying. The rest I have on me. I can show you if you’d like.

(She doesn’t. They keep walking.)

NIALL

I was worried about you. . . .

BRIGID

. . . .

NIALL

You’re in trouble, anyone could see that—

BRIGID

What kind of trouble would I be in?

NIALL

I don’t know, and I don’t care—

BRIGID

—I’m not pregnant. And it would have to be an immaculate conception of some kind considering—

NIALL

I said I don’t care to know—

BRIGID

—I haven’t had sex with anyone, ever. . . .

(They walk in silence.)

BRIGID (cont’d.)

. . . I went walking, the last two days. Around the island.
          I’d no idea the maps were so wrong. Not wrong: blind. They left out the important streets—the lanes and alleyways and dirt paths. I took those paths and came out someplace strange: a street I’d seen but now saw it differently. One road took me to a house where an old man with a tank and an oxygen mask stood leaning up against a ladder, breathing hard. He looked at me for the longest time. . . .
          The whole time it was raining. . . .
          The island’s like a maze, but when I got lost I didn’t feel lost at all. —I love it here.

NIALL

Do you now?

BRIGID

("Yes.")

NIALL

That’s quite a change from the other day.

BRIGID

I know, I’ve changed my mind—

NIALL

You’ve changed—

BRIGID

—Yes.

NIALL

Shall we pause for a moment and sit . . . ?

(A wet bench, or a fence. She hesitates.

He sits first, wipes the seat with the seat of his pants, moves over.

She sits beside him.)

NIALL

Shall I tell you a story?

BRIGID

. . . .

NIALL

. . . The Irish believed in a place called Hy-Brazil. An island. Some call it Tir Na Nog, but that always sounds like a flavored coffee to me. All that matters is that it was an island off the west coast of Ireland. An island off an island, so already we’re dealing in myth. And Ireland in those days of flat-earth theory was the edge of the world, at least to the West Europeans. So an island past Ireland—west of west—this was truly an impossible geography.
          There was a poet named Oisín. He was the son of a warrior named Finn. Oisín would travel with his father, and fight, and chronicle their battles in song. One day they were out riding and they saw a beautiful young woman approaching, riding her white horse across the surface of the waves—naked, of course. Up out of the ocean, out of the west she rode. They stopped to admire her riding technique. —It was obvious at a glance she was a goddess. She rode up onto the dry land and inspected each man from atop her steed. She came to Oisín, looked down into his eyes and—recognized something. "Come with me," she said.
          He didn’t have to think twice.
          He bade good-bye to his father, his friends. They were sad to see him go, but they knew they would’ve done the same. —This was a goddess, for fuck’s sake! Fair play to you, boy! So Oisín climbed behind her on her white horse, coiled his hands round the front of her belly, and off they rode across the waves, into the west, to Hy-Brazil. . . .
          Now in Hy-Brazil, Oisín lived in a perfect state of bliss. He had many children, and never suffered hunger, nor sickness, nor sorrow of any kind. Yet by and by he began to miss his family, his home. He went to the goddess one day—her name was Niamh—and told her of his pain. She felt pity for this her lover, and granted he could take her horse to Ireland for just a quick holiday. "But never get off that horse," she warned, "for if you do, if you so much as touch the tip of the toe of your foot to the ground, all the years you’ve cheated life and death will fall upon your back—at once." And she snapped her fingers like a thunderclap.
          He promised her he would remain always on that horse, and away he rode over the waves to Ireland.
          What he found there shocked him: In his absence, a thousand years had passed. While he had stayed young, his father and his friends, countless generations of Irish, all had died. A new Ireland had sprung up, full of churches and bishops and, God avenge us, the English. Oisín cried aloud, in anger and despair for all that had changed and been lost, and in his sorrow he fell, toppled down from his horse. And when his body hit the ground it was just as the goddess had said: He aged a thousand years. He turned to dust, blew away in the wind.

BRIGID

. . . .

NIALL

. . . D’you see what I’m saying?

BRIGID

(standing)

You don’t want me here. . . .

NIALL

No—

BRIGID

You don’t need to tell me a story—you can say what you’re thinking—

NIALL

This has nothing to do with you, it’s my—

BRIGID

"It’s my fault"—please, it’s not like we’re dating—!

NIALL

I need you—!

BRIGID

What . . . ?

NIALL

. . . I said I need you to lower your voice, please!

BRIGID

My voice?—who’s going to hear me?

NIALL

—Sit down please!

BRIGID

There’s nobody out here, Niall—just you and me—hello! Anybody out there? Anybody care?

NIALL

—Quiet!

(He grabs her arm.)

BRIGID

Let ("go")! (Frees herself.) —You’re not my real father! You may have fucked my mother a hundred years ago but my real father raised me and now he’s dead! So don’t worry, I don’t want to stay with you. I don’t want to live here. You freak—faggot! —What did you think I was going to do? Hit you up for child support? Move in? Open up a flower shop in your God damned kitchen?

NIALL

(quietly)

I’m warning you:

BRIGID

"Warning" me? —What are you going to do? What could you possibly do to me now?

(He transforms: all bluster and anger disappears. He turns away from her, voice quieter, fragile, almost childlike.)

NIALL

. . . Do you know why it’s called Key West?

BRIGID

I don’t want to play any more word games, Niall. I don’t want another story from you—

NIALL

. . . It’s from the Spanish, "Cayo Hueso": Island of Bones—

BRIGID

It’s because of the white coral wash on the beach—it’s a fucking metaphor—

NIALL

(pleading)

—I can not get disturbed like this, Brigid! Please! I have my life here. —This isn’t good for me—

BRIGID

Why don’t you leave?

NIALL

You’re not listening to me—

BRIGID

If this place is an "island of bones," why not get in your car, your black Jag-u-ar, and drive away?

NIALL

—I called your mother last night.

BRIGID

(she sits again, reeling)

. . . .

NIALL

. . . On the phone, last night, and—

BRIGID

That must have come as a shock to her—.
          Stir up any old, you know, longings?

NIALL

Bridge—

BRIGID

—Any sparks fly?

NIALL

She said you were dead.

BRIGID

. . . .

NIALL

(he looks at her)

. . . .

BRIGID

She’s lying—

NIALL

Why would she say you’re dead if you’re not?

BRIGID

What kind of question is that?
           —She wishes I was dead—because I came home from school and I told her I was a lesbian and she won’t accept it. And I told her—I didn’t want to be a freak to the family, I didn’t want to be some—black sheep, like you—and she freaked out—and that’s when I decided I was going to take her car and come down here and stay till I found you. . . .

NIALL

. . . .

BRIGID

She’s doing the same thing to me that they did to you years ago. They’re liars, the whole fucking clan. —You didn’t run away, you didn’t hide from them—they turned their backs on you, made up lies about you. Because of who you are.

NIALL

—You could be anyone.

BRIGID

. . . Oh, Niall . . .

NIALL

You could be Brigid’s girlfriend—. She told you about me, before she died, and you’ve come down here because you can’t get over her—can’t get past her, you love her so
          much. . . .
          Or maybe this isn’t a love story—maybe you think I still deal and you need money—is that it?—is this some kind of con?

BRIGID

I’m Brigid, Niall. I’m your daughter.

NIALL

(shaking head)

Brigid’s dead. . . .

BRIGID

I’m not dead—I’m obviously not dead—

NIALL

—How is this obvious? —How is any of this obvious?

BRIGID

—Touch me:

NIALL

—?

BRIGID

Go on: touch me, Niall, please:

NIALL

They touched the wounds of the risen Christ—!

(He stands tall in the sand and meets her gaze: a lunatic or a visionary.)

BRIGID

(astonished)

What—?

NIALL

They touched the wounds of the risen Christ and the flesh was no less real!

(She sees what she can do.)

BRIGID

. . . Niall . . .

NIALL

I’ll buy you a plane ticket, wherever you want to go, I don’t care who you are.

BRIGID

Oh, Niall . . .

NIALL

—I can’t handle this now, Brigid. I can’t—I can’t figure it out.

BRIGID

(laughing softly to herself)

. . . .

NIALL

—What, are you laughing?—are you crying?

BRIGID

. . . You’re right.

NIALL

What am I right about . . . ?

BRIGID

—I give up. This is too hard—

NIALL

Yes—yes, it certainly is. . . .

BRIGID

— It’s ridiculous!

NIALL

What is:

BRIGID

I’m sorry—okay? I’m so, so sorry. None of this was supposed to happen. —I don’t know how it got this far—

NIALL

How far? what got far?

BRIGID

My mother’s right: I’m Brigid. I’m your daughter, and I died like a week ago today.

NIALL

. . . .

BRIGID

I’m dead.
          I’m a ghost. (She laughs.)
          I told you you wouldn’t believe me.
          —And I don’t expect you to understand. That’s why I haven’t said anything till now.
          —Think: How did I find you in the first place?

NIALL

How . . . ?

BRIGID

. . . I was driving in the rain. South, as far as I could go. Over a bridge—I was going fast—I lost control, slammed into a guard rail—I flipped—and for a second I was flying. . . .
          Then I’m in the water. I can’t open the doors. Water’s flooding through the dashboard, through cracks in the doors—I can’t open the doors—I’m punching the glass with my fists—screaming—the water . . . the water’s rising at my neck and the car is sinking. . . . I’m screaming and then my mouth is full of water.
          . . . .
          Next thing I know I’m on the road.
          I’m standing. —I’m dripping wet. —I feel fine.
          I walk for hours in the rain and night, and there’s not a soul out walking. Cars pass me by every once in a while. Thumb’s out—no one stops. No one sees.
          I keep walking, all night and all day, and I’m not hungry or hurt or tired. And I realize—I’m not alive anymore! That’s how it hits me: like when you fish a word off the tip of your tongue—you know: "I’m dead!" and I hardly noticed. . . .
          . . . And because I’m heading south I kept walking and somehow I got here, and I saw you through the window and I—just walked in.
          I asked you for my keys because I couldn’t think of an accurate way to tell the
          truth. . . .

NIALL

. . . .

(He kneels in front of her in the sand.)

BRIGID

What are you doing? —Niall:

NIALL

. . . .

BRIGID

Niall . . . what is it? What’s wrong?

(He takes her hand.

Abruptly, he stands:)

NIALL

Come on: It’s starting to rain again.