[The shades are drawn lopsidedly. Light from the cloudy afternoon casts weak light on a clearly inhabited room: the bed is unmade, and meager items of clothing, including several pairs of worn jeans and three crisply folded button-down shirts are folded neatly into an open set of drawers.]
[OLIVER stands in the middle of his room, looking lost and unhappy. He wears a rumpled T-shirt and jeans, as if he hasn't changed since he woke up, though it's already afternoon. One hand holds a phone to his ear, the other hangs empty and unmoving by his side.]
OLIVER: [into the phone] You're sure he didn't—didn't leave you anything?
ALEXANDER: [through the phone] Yeah I'm fucking sure. I was sure the last five times you asked, too.
OLIVER: Sorry.
ALEXANDER: [sighs. Does not acknowledge the apology.] You need to let it rest, alright? Pip's been worried about you, apparently you've also been asking her if James—
[OLIVER sucks in an audible breath. ALEXANDER pauses.]
ALEXANDER: [resolute] Whether James left her a personal note. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.
OLIVER: [sharp] Excessive grief? It's been two weeks for me, Alex. I didn't have five years, like you.
[ALEXANDER is silent for a beat. The barb sits in the air. Alone in his room, OLIVER, looking shaken, slumps on the edge of his bed.]
ALEXANDER: I'm sorry we didn't tell you. You were his Juliet, you know? We thought, if you knew he'd—he'd drunk the poison…
OLIVER: [grim] O happy dagger, / This is thy sheath. There rust and let me die.
ALEXANDER: [soft] Yeah.
OLIVER: I wouldn't have.
ALEXANDER: You confessed for him. Ten years, Oliver.
OLIVER: I know.
[In a practiced way that suggests he repeats this motion often, OLIVER pulls a folded piece of paper out from his jeans pocket. Phone still in one hand, he unfolds it clumsily with one hand and stares uncomprehendingly at it.]
ALEXANDER: Oliver?
OLIVER: [preoccupied with his own thoughts] Yeah?
ALEXANDER: I'm… It's good you're finally out. Everyone missed you—things weren't the same. They weren't ever going to be the same, not after Richard, but, you know… [hesitating] My worthy Lord / Your noble friends do lack you.
OLIVER: [still preoccupied] Yeah.
ALEXANDER: [pauses] If we can help out, you'll call.
OLIVER: [absent] Yeah, thanks. And for helping me move home, thanks.
ALEXANDER: [careful, detecting OLIVER's distraction] Yeah. Yeah, of course. Didn't have anything better to do, King Lear just finished, so.
OLIVER: [suddenly more attentive] You were in a Shakespeare play?
ALEXANDER: What else?
OLIVER: I can't believe I didn't ask if you were doing Shakespeare again. That's, uh. That's great.
ALEXANDER: Whatever fucked up baggage we have, Shakespeare is what I know. I was always going to go back to it. Not so happy, yet much happier.
OLIVER: [abrupt] Did you ever read the letter James left me? Any of you?
ALEXANDER: [pauses, taken by surprise by the turn of the conversation. Careful again.] Oliver…
OLIVER: Did you?
ALEXANDER: No, fuck, none of us read James' suicide note labeled with your name. For God's sake.
[OLIVER folds up the letter but does not place it in his pocket again. He turns the square of paper in his fingers and stands, his expression suddenly resolute.]
OLIVER: Right, yeah. I think I have to go.
ALEXANDER: [tense, sensing something is wrong] Oliver? Go where?
OLIVER: I don't know. I guess we'll see.
ALEXANDER: Oliver—
[OLIVER hangs up the phone.]
Scene 2: Filippa's Living Room[It is a bright early morning, but the shades are drawn and a fan in the corner turns at medium speed. The walls are occupied with a handful of amateurish-looking abstract paintings in bold oil pastel, three square windows, a set of drawers, and a bookshelf, on which there rest several similarly painted small stone animals and Shakespeare's plays, several copies each.]
[OLIVER and FILIPPA sit across a wooden table, cups of tea before each of them and a plate of grapes, still on the stem, between them. Neither of them are eating or drinking.]
FILIPPA: [matter-of-fact] I get it. You don't trust me.
OLIVER: I didn't say that.
FILIPPA: I didn't tell you he killed Richard. I didn't tell you he killed himself. I didn't give you his letter. I know, I get it.
OLIVER: [visibly upset] Please. Just—anything. A… location he mentioned? A play he suddenly became obsessed with, maybe.
FILIPPA: [softening] I'm sorry. I'm not keeping anything from you this time; I really don't have anything.
OLIVER: [slumps] God, Pip. I'm sorry. I'm going mad—I just—
[OLIVER runs a hand through his already disheveled hair and stares down at his tea. It is no longer steaming. The grapes sit untouched.]
OLIVER: [barely audible] I loved him.
FILIPPA: I know. I think we all knew.
OLIVER: [laughs hollowly] I think we knew, too, somewhere. Alex called me his "Juliet" a few days ago.
FILIPPA: [smiling bittersweetly] You compared your story to Romeo and Juliet yourself, back when it was all happening.
OLIVER: I cast myself as Benvolio!
FILIPPA: So you did.
[Silence.]
OLIVER: [as if to himself] His letter was a monologue—And have no more of life than may suffice / To give my tongue that heat to ask your help.
FILIPPA: [watching Oliver sharply] Pericles.
OLIVER: [speaking with the familiarity of abundant repetition]
Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rock,
Wash'd me from shore to shore, and left me breath
Nothing to think on but ensuing death.
What I have been I have forgot to know;
But what I am, want teaches me to think on:
A man throng'd up with cold: my veins are chill,
And have no more of life than may suffice
To give my tongue that heat to ask your help;
Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead,
For that I am a man, pray see me buried.
[Silence]
FILIPPA: [absent, deep in thought] He cut it up and put it together.
[FILIPPA plucks a single grape but does not eat it, turning it between her fingers. OLIVER nods, but does not speak. FILIPPA starts, and looks up suddenly to stare at OLIVER, her hands freezing in their idle movement]
FILIPPA: Oh—God—oh, Oliver—you don't think…
[FILIPPA trails off, pale, mouth agape. Her breath is loud. She sets down the grape and clutches one hand in the other tightly.]
OLIVER: [like a dam holding his words has just broken] Pericles is about—Pericles doesn't die, even though he should have drowned. Thaisa should be dead at sea, but she isn't. Marina—[fumbling his words] They never found his body. I looked it up—
FILIPPA: [murmuring] So did I.
OLIVER: He knew Shakespeare as well as he knew himself. He knew that when I read this, I would think—he must have expected—
FILIPPA: [gentle] He can't have planned for his body not to be found. It's possible he thought any… implications he didn't mean would be refuted when they found him. Oliver… he's not Pericles. He's not Marina, or Thaisa.
OLIVER: You mean he's Ophelia. Alas, then she is drowned.
FILIPPA: He's not Ophelia. Or Hamlet, for that matter. He's not Romeo, and you're not Juliet or goddamn Benvolio. He's not Macbeth and you're not Banquo, and Richard wasn't Caesar. You're Oliver. He's James. You're not living a tragedy or a romance, you're just living. But men may construe things after their fashion, / clean from the purpose of the things themselves. I… I'm not saying I don't see what you see here, it's— [struggles] James was always too clever for his own good. But I know you, and you can't—
OLIVER: [Heavily] Get my hopes up, I know. Because he may not….
FILIPPA: [Frustrated] No. Jesus, this is what I'm talking about. It doesn't matter if—I mean, of course it matters if he's alive or not—
OLIVER: [horrified] Filippa.
FILIPPA: —But whether or not he is or he isn't or even if we never find out, you have to live outside of him.
OLIVER: Never find out? I can't—
FILIPPA: [shouting over OLIVER] I'm not losing you to him again!
[Silence. OLIVER stares at FILIPPA, pale and unspeaking, shock overtaking his expression. FILIPPA stares back, breathing heavily.]
FILIPPA: [quiet] We aren't losing you to him again. We lost you for ten years because of him—
OLIVER: It wasn't James' fault—
FILIPPA: God's sake, Oliver, I know—it was yours! [She takes a deep breath] It was all of ours. I could have told Colborne myself. James could have stopped you.
OLIVER: No, he couldn't have.
FILIPPA: [shaky] We all loved you. You. You just threw yourself away for James; you always thought he was… [searches for words] bigger than anything else. We didn't think so. We loved you too, Oliver. We loved you just as much.
OLIVER: [emotional] Pip…
FILIPPA: [wiping her eyes] Shut up.
[OLIVER and FILIPPA look away from each other. FILIPPA releases a watery, self-deprecating laugh, and after a moment, OLIVER laughs quietly with her. In sync, they stand and look at their cold tea, then begin to wander towards the door without needing to speak.]
FILIPPA: Wren wants to see you.
OLIVER: Yeah, alright. Have you… [hesitates] Meredith?
FILIPPA: [grabbing a blue pen from the bookshelf] Yeah, here, I'll write you her email. But don't tell her about Pericles.
[FILIPPA gestures. OLIVER's hand moves to his shirt pocket, and then away. He rolls up his sleeve and presents her with his forearm.]
OLIVER: [unevenly] I, uh, I don't have paper with me.
FILIPPA: [writing on his forearm] I'm going to pretend I don't know you're lying and I'm not curious why you would feel the need to lie.
OLIVER: [quietly, after a pause] Thanks, Pip.
FILIPPA: [resigned] You're going to chase after him, aren't you.
OLIVER: Sorry. Then let me go and hinder not my course.
FILIPPA: I didn't say you shouldn't. Just don't get lost in him. Things without all remedy / Should be without regard. What's done is done.
OLIVER: I cannot but remember such things were / that were most precious to me.
[OLIVER pulls FILIPPA into a hug and FILIPPA hugs him back immediately.]
OLIVER: For this time I will leave you. / If you please to speak with me, / I will come home to you.
FILIPPA: [continuing the same line] Or, if you will, come home to me, and I will wait for you.
Scene 3: Oliver's Car[A beat-up car rumbles down a windy two-lane road two miles over the speed limit. To one side of the road is a yellow field of grass spotted with half-dead trees. To the other, water laps sluggishly at a rocky shoreline, glinting in the hard summer sun.]
[OLIVER sits behind the wheel. Beside him, in the passenger seat, sits a jumbled pile of familiar road-trip items: a half-unfolded map, a discarded sweater, one partly-drunk bottle of water, two untouched sodas, fast-food wrappers stuffed neatly into a paper bag. In the worn backseat sits a single black suitcase, which slides slightly whenever OLIVER takes the turns too quickly.]
[OLIVER, one hand on the wheel, he swipes his hand on the knee of his worn jeans and reaches over to the controls and turns on the air conditioning.]
OLIVER: Come on.
[OLIVER frowns, holding his hand out over the vent. He clicks on his blinker, despite there being no other drivers on the road. He takes the right exit, which veers inland, and drives nearly half a mile. Abruptly, OLIVER flicks on his blinker again, pulls over to the shoulder, clicks his hazard lights, and picks up the map from the passenger seat.]
OLIVER: [muttering absently, with the familiarity of repetition] "Hell. Del Norte. Anywhere." Goddammit James. Goddammit James.
[OLIVER refolds the map half-way, puts it back in the passenger seat, turns off his hazards, and pulls back onto the road. He is breathing carefully, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Before him, a quaint beach-side cottage-town unfolds before him like a picturebook; buildings grow more frequent and charmingly painted. The first stop signs begin to crop up.]
OLIVER: Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rock, / Wash'd me from shore to shore, and left me breath.
[People cross streets, walking in the street, carrying melting ice cream cones, stripey paper bags on their arms, and chatting. OLIVER continues until he reaches a residential area, painted in creamy greys and faded pinks. He parks and stares at a house with peeling doors and a sign hanging from the porch that reads "FOOD AND BOARD, please call ahead," followed by a string of digits.]
OLIVER: [Opening the unlocked door] Hello? Uh… Oh, hello.
[A plump white woman stands in what appears to be a living room. She has short black hair, glasses, and red lipstick. She holds in her hand a clipboard with a pen tied to it with a knotted shoelace. She wears a tight black tank top and black leggings. The room is dressed in sea-side pastels: blue for the walls and pink for the rug under the wooden coffee table.]
AMY: [Beaming, holding out a hand] You must be Oliver? I'm Amy, nice to meet you. You can just call me Amy.
OLIVER: Yeah, that's me. [accepting the hand] Amy, hello.
AMY: [without pause] Yes, it's so good you came. Here, just a quick couple of forms for you, nothing much, there's a pen—
OLIVER: Thank you.
AMY: [still not pausing] What brings you to Del Norte? Lovely area, I'll tell you—got married here, myself. Divorced, too. [laughs] Nice during the summer. You picked the right time of year! The water is just lovely—have you ever visited around here before?
OLIVER: Yes, I did. [Pauses.] With a friend.
AMY: [triumphant] Well, you know a good place when you see it, or you wouldn't be back, now, would you? Will your friend be coming here as well? If he does, I have two rooms. I'm only letting you one, and the other's open right now. And just you wait until tomorrow morning—you'll swear you've never tasted a breakfast like Amy's.
OLIVER: I don't know if I'll be seeing him here. Maybe.
AMY: [confused] The phone's just in the other room—
OLIVER: No. I—no, thank you. He may have invited me five years ago, that's all.
AMY: [A pause] Well. Right, the phone's just in the other room if you don't have one of those cell-phones, and you want to give anyone a call. I don't mind so long as you keep your voice down and your calls before midnight. Are you interested in anything specific around here? Good food, or the right time to go to the beach, anything, you just come to me, alright, dear?
OLIVER: I will, thank you..
AMY: [amused] You're very polite. No need for that—let me show you your room!
[AMY leads OLIVER down a hallway. To one side, a kitchen with pans stacked higher than the edge of the sink and an open cupboard full of spices. To the other, two consecutive closed doors with pieces of cardstock taped to them, each reading "GUEST" in thick black ink.]
AMY: [opening one of the guest rooms] Either of these can be yours; they're practically the same, I'll tell you right now, down to the color of the curtains, and the type of mattress. The only thing is the other one—[she taps the wall] is about two steps closer to the bathroom, if that's something you might find yourself worried about?
OLIVER: Not really.
[OLIVER peers around the room. A modest but neatly made bed is up against one wall and the window is directly above it. Beside the bed is a small chest of drawers, atop rests a clock and a lamp. There is a rug on the floor and a light affixed to the ceiling with a string that reaches the top of OLIVER's head.]
OLIVER: It's nice.
AMY: [anxiously] Is it? Is there anything you need?
OLIVER: [with emphasis] It's wonderful. It has just the atmosphere for my trip, I can feel it.
AMY: [brightening] Well.
OLIVER: Thank you.
AMY: [winking] No, thank you for your money. I'll let you pack now—what a small suitcase for three weeks! There's laundry, just the door next to the bathroom, if you need it.
[AMY begins to leave the room]
OLIVER: Wait—if you don't mind—
AMY: [turns immediately] Yes? Of course I don't—go on, dear.
OLIVER: I was wondering… I mean, I'm here—while I'm here, I was thinking I might like to see a local theater production? Would you be able to point me to nearby…
AMY: Yes, well, I suppose I could, yes. We're not quite known for our theater around here, you know, but of course—there's a production of Hamlet every evening this week, that I know—or, I'm mostly certain, anyway…
OLIVER: [sudden interest] Hamlet?
AMY: Shakespeare's very own! I've never seen a play of his myself, but then I've hardly ever been to the theater—anyhow, I'll get you a map of the area and show you how to get there. Shall I?
OLIVER: You should. [awkwardly] Thank you.
AMY: Well. Yes. Well, and of course, you just let me know if you have anything else you're looking for! We have the best ice cream just 'round the corner…
AMY: I'll let you settle in! Let me know about that friend of yours!
[AMY exits, leaving OLIVER alone. When she closes the door behind her, his shoulders slump. His faint, polite smile slides off his face, and he drags one hand down his face.]
OLIVER: [to the closed door] Yeah. I will.