The Gravitational Pull of Bernice Trimble Read online

  Contents

  Production History

  Characters

  The Gravitational Pull of Bernice Trimble

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The Gravitational Pull of Bernice Trimble was first produced by Obsidian Theatre Company and Factory Theatre at Factory Theatre, Toronto, on November 2, 2013, with the following cast and creative team:

  Sarah

  Lucinda Davis

  Iris

  Alexis Gordon

  Bernice

  Karen Robinson

  Peter

  Peyson Rock

  Director

  Philip Akin

  Set design

  Camellia Koo

  Costume design

  Ming Wong

  Lighting design

  Andrew Smith

  Sound design

  Richard Lee

  Stage management

  Nicola Benidickson

  The play received a second production with Theatre Network and was presented at the Roxy Theatre, Edmonton, from November 6 to 23, 2014, with the following cast and creative team:

  Peter

  Jason Chinn

  Iris

  Clarice Eckford

  Sarah

  Patricia Zentilli

  Bernice

  Susan Gilmour

  Director

  Bradley Moss

  Set and costume design

  Cory Sincennes

  Lighting design

  Scott Peters

  Composer/sound design

  Darrin Hagen

  Stage manager

  Tracey Byrne

  Characters

  Iris

  Bernice

  Sarah

  Peter

  A kitchen. There is a bag of groceries already on the counter. IRIS enters carrying a block of cheese.

  IRIS

  (holding up the block of cheddar and directly addressing the audience) Voila. Cheddar cheese! The oldest and the strongest I could find. Got it! That’s everything.

  IRIS takes off her coat and hangs it up as BERNICE enters with a coffee, sits down at the table, and pulls a crossword puzzle and a pencil out of the pocket of her robe.

  Had to go back for the cheese. Should’ve made a list. That’s what she would’ve done.

  BERNICE

  One never regrets writing things down.

  IRIS

  Breathe, Iris, breathe. . . I know the whole breathing thing happens involuntarily, that you don’t really have to tell your brain to breathe, but. . . just give me a moment.

  BERNICE

  In with the good air.

  IRIS breathes in deeply.

  Out with the bad.

  IRIS breathes out.

  IRIS

  Better.

  IRIS stares at the clock.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tickticktick. Tocktocktock. Shitshitshit. Fuckfuckfuck.

  IRIS covers the clock with a dishcloth.

  Even better.

  BERNICE

  Not knowing the time makes it pass faster.

  IRIS stares at the covered clock.

  IRIS

  Problem is, I need to know when the time comes.

  IRIS takes out a timer and sets it. She stares at it. She takes out another dishcloth and covers the timer.

  There. An alarm will sound. No need to count down the minutes.

  BERNICE

  The busy bee has no time for sorrow.

  IRIS picks up the groceries and dumps them out on the counter.

  IRIS

  Voila. The ingredients.

  She holds up a tube of lipstick that she has found amongst the groceries.

  Did you know you can get lipstick in the same place you buy your milk? The world never ceases to amaze.

  She gets out a bowl, a spoon, a cheese grater, a measuring cup, and other utensils while she speaks.

  I’m trying like stink to keep busy. Nose to the grindstone.

  BERNICE

  You’re a workaholic.

  IRIS

  Some days, it’s best to keep busy so you don’t think too much.

  BERNICE

  Too much thinking and you’ll lose your marbles.

  IRIS

  Your mind is like anything else—you can wear it out with overuse. If you’re not careful, it’ll end up like casserole—goopy. . . The casserole. Now, this was a dumb idea, because it reminds me of the very thing that I’m trying not to think about, but it was the only thing I could think to do to keep myself busy, so I wouldn’t think too much. See what I mean by too much thinking?

  I thought about her when I took the bus back to the grocery store to get the cheese. Didn’t want to take the car. My mind wanders too much when driving. The bus keeps you on your toes, and it takes longer, so I was able to use up a bit more time. Besides, I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be amongst the masses.

  BERNICE

  The unwashed masses.

  IRIS

  I thought about her when I rode the bus.

  BERNICE

  Beware of fecal matter.

  IRIS

  It’s dangerous. You get on the bus, touch the shared handrail, brush the back of a dirty seat, and hold on to a communal pole. Little did you know that every object you just touched is covered in poo particles and now your hands are. Without thinking, you rub your eye and a poo particle goes straight from your filthy finger, through your tear duct, and into your brain. Poo equals infection and infection of the brain equals death.

  IRIS washes her hands.

  If I’ve been on public transit, I make damn sure to avoid touching my eyes and mouth until I have washed my hands—

  She turns off the water.

  —thoroughly.

  She turns the water back on and washes her hands again.

  All because of her obsession with germs.

  She turns off the water and stares at her hands.

  My hands. There’s not a lot about her and I that looks the same, but our hands are the spitting image of each others’, right down to the freckle, and they move in a similar manner.

  BERNICE

  Fidgety digits.

  IRIS

  Look at that. Shaking. Just the left one. It’s been coming and going all morning. Ha. Lucky thing I’m right-handed.

  IRIS puts her hands in her pockets in an attempt to still them. She finds a Monopoly piece and takes it out.

  (holds piece up) Her favourite Monopoly piece. She’s always the thimble; wishful thinking, because she never sewed a thing in her life. (playing with piece) Gives my hands something to play with.


  BERNICE

  Fidgety didgety digits.

  IRIS

  I thought about her again in the grocery store when I bought the ingredients.

  BERNICE

  Butter—full fat and salted.

  Sour cream—full fat.

  Cream of mushroom soup—full fat and very high in sodium.

  The oldest and the strongest cheddar cheese you can find—full fat.

  Hash browns and an onion. Salt and pepper to taste.

  All that from memory. Sharp as a hammer!

  IRIS

  (emptying the hash browns into a bowl) The entire bag of hash browns. She calls this recipe—

  BERNICE

  Schwartie’s Potatoes.

  IRIS

  Dumb name, so I’m renaming it the Everything That Is Bad For You Casserole. Not a very appetizing title, but at least you know what you’re getting yourself into.

  IRIS holds up the lipstick.

  I thought about her again when I saw this lipstick near the checkout.

  IRIS opens the lipstick.

  Maraschino Velvet.

  BERNICE

  A red tone.

  IRIS

  I’m told it suits my complexion.

  IRIS applies the lipstick.

  BERNICE

  Your complex complexion.

  IRIS

  I don’t usually wear lipstick to cook, just like I don’t usually carry around weird little trinkets in my pocket, but today is—today is different because today is the day.

  IRIS grips the countertop.

  Everything is in motion. Nothing stops. The world spins and spins.

  Because it’s supposed to.

  (releases the countertop) The laws of the universe remain in place. Nothing is at rest. Gravity persists.

  BERNICE

  Iris, you should have been a scientist.

  IRIS

  I thought about her, yet again, when I saw the paper this morning. The crossword. Her morning ritual.

  BERNICE

  A four-letter word for a suddenly bright, temporary star. Let’s see. . . starts with. . .

  Got it! N-O-V-A. Nova.

  IRIS

  No matter how much I try, no matter how busy I make myself, I can’t stop thinking about her. The reluctant Bernice. The maker of casseroles.

  I am thinking about my mother so hard right now that I swear I can see her sitting at her kitchen table in her bathrobe, doing the crossword.

  (crossing her fingers and wishing) Wishwishwish. Hopehopehope.

  BERNICE exits. IRIS turns to look at the empty chair where BERNICE was sitting.

  (uncrossing her fingers) Wishing and hoping. Classic conflict-avoidance technique.

  You can’t make something up and expect it to be real. For one thing, I’m not in her kitchen—I’m in mine. And for another thing, she’s—

  In this case, avoidance is impossible. I suck at it anyway. My mother cannot be avoided. She’s everywhere. Between every synapse, clinging to each strand of my DNA, controlling my very orbit.

  IRIS grates the cheese.

  Sometimes, the only way out is to go in. Can’t make things up. Can’t wish. Can’t hope. One must tell it like it is. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll tell you the story like it is, not imagined, but remembered. It’s just, I’m not sure where to begin, and once I’ve begun it’s going to get. . . goopy.

  I know that it will end with me right back here in my kitchen. A full orbit and a little later in time. Everything that adds up to this moment I will relate to you as best I can. It will be biased, but hey, it’s me remembering the story, my version of the events.

  It’s hard to know exactly where to begin when you’ve known a person your whole life and when their life began before yours did.

  Two cups of grated cheese. Give or take a little.

  (dumping the cheese into the bowl) I’ll start at the phone call.

  BERNICE enters. She is dressed and holding her phone. IRIS’s phone rings.

  From memory.

  The phone rings again. IRIS answers.

  Hello, Iris speaking.

  BERNICE

  Iris, is that you?

  IRIS

  Of course it is. You dialed my number. Who else did you think was going to answer the phone? And if I wasn’t Iris, why would I have said “Iris speaking”?

  BERNICE

  I can’t see your face. You could be anyone.

  IRIS

  What about my voice?

  BERNICE

  You don’t sound like you. Your voice is different over the phone. You sound so far away.

  IRIS

  I know, Mom, you’ve told me this before. I sound like I’m in outer space.

  BERNICE

  Outer space?

  IRIS

  Your words, not mine.

  BERNICE

  Iris, you should have been an astronaut.

  IRIS

  Nah. I’m too fond of gravity.

  BERNICE

  Can you come over tomorrow night? I’d like to speak with you and your siblings.

  IRIS

  I’m kind of busy.

  BERNICE

  You work too hard.

  IRIS

  Her little arrow of guilt lands because I’m always telling her I’m busy. She’s starting to call me on it.

  BERNICE

  You’re a workaholic.

  IRIS

  I fire back.

  I am not.

  BERNICE

  Just like your father.

  IRIS

  Wow, the father arrow. Didn’t expect that one. Ouch.

  BERNICE

  Nose to the grindstone.

  IRIS

  And we continue shooting our tiny invisible weapons. Just enough to graze the heart. Never anything serious.

  I can’t just drop stuff. You have to give me more notice than a day.

  BERNICE

  Your brother’s here.

  IRIS

  But my mother is a pro archer.

  BERNICE

  You haven’t seen him yet.

  IRIS

  I can’t compete.

  BERNICE

  Your sister’s coming too.

  IRIS

  I just saw Sarah a couple of days ago.

  BERNICE

  And when’s the last time you saw your brother?

  IRIS

  I don’t know. A while.

  BERNICE

  Well, it’s high time you saw him again. It’s for a family meeting.

  IRIS

  A family meeting?

  BERNICE

  You heard me.

  IRIS

  Bull’s eye. I’m done.

  Sounds important.

  BERNICE

  It is. I want you all to be here.

  IRIS

  You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?

  BERNICE

  No.

  IRIS

  I raise the white flag.

  All right, you talked me into it.

  BERNICE

  You’ll trundle on over here tomorrow, then?

  IRIS

  I’ll be there.

  BERNICE

  Thanks, Iris. Love you.

  IRIS

  She always signs off like this and I always sign off with the expected response. . .

  Love you too.

  We only sign off like this over the phone. Never in person.

  IRIS hangs up the phone. BERNICE exits.

  There you have it—it all began with a phone call. An unremarkable start. But unremarkable has a way of sneaking up on you. />
  It amuses me that she calls me a workaholic. I’m still a temp. Been at the same place for over a year and I can assure you that I am not addicted to it. Friends tell me I should ask to become a full-fledged employee. “You’ve been there a while,” they say, “You ought to be on staff, get all the benefits.” But the thing is, I’d rather be temporary, not permanent. I work hard at being something no one can hold onto.

  A family meeting.

  We hadn’t had one of those since Dad died. . . almost a year ago. Dad was always the one who’d called the family meetings. He’d held them to hammer out vacation details, resolve disagreements, show us how to properly use the barbecue—those sorts of things. Attendance was mandatory.

  The family meeting took place in the usual location—my mother’s kitchen. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that her kitchen is an awful lot like mine. But for the purposes of telling it like it is and to pass the interminable time, I’m going to pretend that sometimes my kitchen is my mother’s kitchen and you’re just going to have to accept it.

  IRIS takes out salt and pepper shakers from a drawer.

  Okay, how about this? These salt and pepper shakers will appear when we are in my mother’s kitchen and they will disappear when we are back in my kitchen. Make sense? It’s going to have to because it’s all I can think of.

  My mother collects salt and pepper shakers. She collects all sorts of weird knick-knacks. I, on the other hand, collect nothing.

  IRIS sets down the salt and pepper shakers.

  We were all at my mother’s house in her kitchen.

  My sister Sarah, the oldest.

  SARAH flies in through the door.

  SARAH

  Shit!

  IRIS

  The whirling dervish.

  SARAH

  Shit, shit!

  IRIS

  Drama in her wake.

  SARAH

  It’s in my hair. My hair!

  IRIS

  You’ve got shit in your hair?

  SARAH

  No, icing. I made cupcakes. I tripped outside and they flew all over the place.

  IRIS