SOLATIUM
Robin Gwak
Scene 1
(A young man, Peter, enters the rundown, old chapel from the cemetery. He is dripping with rain and looking for Reverend Matthews. The Reverend is sitting in the first pew, gazing up at the large crucifix hanging above the altar. He sees Peter, and beckons him forward with a sad smile. He embraces him.)
PETER. Reverend, I… I just wanted to thank you for organizing, y’know, the service. And the arrangements, flowers, the grave… and everything. I know Mom wasn’t feeling up for it.
REVEREND. Of course. It’s the least I could have done. I know it must be difficult. (Peter nods awkwardly.) I heard you’re graduating art school soon. Congratulations. You’ve come a long way. (He shakes Peter’s hand firmly, warmly.)
PETER. Thank you. (He shuffles his feet, and looks up at the huge crucifix hanging behind the altar.)
PETER (cont.). Is this…?
REVEREND. It is. His last work, a gorgeous piece. I insisted on paying, but he wouldn’t take it.
PETER. (chuckles bitterly, shaking his head.) That doesn’t sound like him. (He looks out the door, at the slowly emptying cemetery.)
REVEREND. Shouldn’t you be going to the reception? He is your father.
PETER. Was my father.
REVEREND. Was. My apologies. (He bows his head.)
PETER. It’s fine. I don’t really think my mom wants me around anyways. I only came home to pay my respects. To say goodbye. I’m driving back up to school tomorrow. Thought I might stay at the church a little longer, see how much it’s changed. I grew up here, after all. (He takes a look around, guiltily). I guess you didn’t renovate after all.
REVEREND. (shakes his head.) Peter, she’s your mother. Of course she’d want you to be with her. The church isn’t going anywhere, while she needs you more than ever.
PETER. She doesn’t, trust me. And besides, I don’t want to be there either. I doubt he’d want me there. Especially when my last words to him were… (A long pause.)
REVEREND. He was a hard man, Peter. He had his gifts, it’s true, but people never really came easy to him.
PETER. He was an asshole.
REVEREND. (smiles sadly.) Yes. And yet you grieve for him all the same. (Silence. Peter turns away.)
PETER. (scoffs angrily) I can’t believe she buried him at a church cemetery. A fucking church. Of all people… (he glares at the cross.) … him? Should’ve cremated him, and thrown his ashes away. I don’t remember the last time he came here willingly. Mom always had to drag him to the doors. (laughs) Hey, he used to corner you after service and try to debate theology with you, remember? As if he could win against an ordained minister. For someone who called himself a Christian, he sure hated God’s guts. Though my mom tried pretty damn hard to change that.
REVEREND. Your mother’s determination is truly something to be admired.
PETER. They’re both so stubborn. (laughs mirthfully) Made for each other, really. (pause.) She wanted to save him so badly, you know. She wants to save everybody, including me. Well, I ran away from home because of him, because she couldn’t give up on saving him. Stole from the both of them. Broke her heart. I guess neither of us really deserves saving. (turns away from the Reverend, smirking.) She prayed all fucking week, Rev. From the moment he got hospitalized, until they pulled the plug. You know she didn’t sleep? Or eat? Crazy woman. He treated her like shit, but I bet she’s still praying for his soul right now. What’s the use? I bet God wouldn’t even let him in—even if there is a God. And I don’t really think there is. (stares defiantly at the Reverend.) What do you think of that, huh Rev?
REVEREND. Well, I think you’re wrong on that one. I wouldn’t be a very good minister if I agreed with you, would I?
PETER. You’d be a minister with a sense of humor.
REVEREND. (smiles) Those are hard to come by.
PETER. (laughs heartily.) Aw, jeez, I’m awful, aren’t I? My old man’s dead, I broke his heart, and I’m cracking jokes. Cursing in a church. Spouting blasphemy. I’m almost as bad as he is. (pause.) Was. (He looks away. They stand in silence for a minute.)
REVEREND. He loved you, Peter.
PETER. He never showed it.
REVEREND. He did. In his own way. A painful, stunted way, but it was love regardless.
PETER. It wasn’t enough. (He sits down, heavily. He gazes up at the cross.)
REVEREND. We can only repeat the love that we are shown, Peter. That’s all we are, echoes. His brand of loving was cruel, but it was never your fault.
PETER. (sneers.) Oh, I’m sure he’d disagree. He reminded me every single day that it was my fault. I wasn’t smart enough, I was lazy, I was selfish, I was an ungrateful little shit. I’d amount to nothing. I was nothing. Sometimes I wished I was one of his stupid sculptures. They were more like his children than I ever was. And they didn’t even have to do anything. Just sit there and exist.
REVEREND. (pause.) I saw him in his studio once. Pounding away at a piece of marble like it had done something horrible to him. I wouldn’t want to be one of his sculptures, if it took that kind of abuse to become so beautiful.
PETER. At least they didn’t feel anything. They just became whatever shape he wanted them to be without complaint. Mom should have given him a rock instead of a human baby. He’d have been much happier.
REVEREND. Biologically impossible, unfortunately. And I doubt it would have made a difference; men like him tend to stay perpetually unsatisfied. It’s what made him a great artist, and a… not-so-great father.
PETER. (chuckles.) You can say that again. Bastard never should’ve had a kid. Or gotten married. He should’ve just stayed in his workshop, hammering and drilling away until he croaked. It’s what he deserves. (Peter stops abruptly, and looks ashamed.)
REVEREND. (gently.) He would have caused considerably less damage, yes. But he did marry, and he did have you. (he looks Peter up and down, smiling.) So out you came into this glorious world, with all your soft impressionable flesh and soft human emotions.
PETER. (half-jokingly.) I should have been born a rock.
REVEREND. (laughingly) No need to beat yourself up over it. Becoming a father was his choice; becoming his son wasn’t yours.
PETER. Sometimes I wonder how important “choice” really is, in the grand scheme of things. I could say he chose to be a cruel man, but I doubt he knew any other way.
REVEREND. That’s kind of you.
PETER. Not kind, just the truth.
REVEREND. The truth is oftentimes a form of kindness. Or love. Or cruelty. Whichever you will it to be.
PETER. I guess that’s the way he thought of it. Always being honest to me, about me. I guess he thought he was being kind. That if he hurt me enough, I could be enough.
REVEREND. That was his style. A true perfectionist, through and through. (pause.) I remember seeing the steel beams he had bought for this. (he gestures at the cross above them.) I touched it, knocked on it; it was the coldest, most unforgiving metal I’d ever felt. I wondered, How on earth is he going to make art out of this? Why would he choose something so difficult to work with, when we would have been satisfied with much less? As if he was punishing himself. But somehow, he, he… here, I’ll just show you. (he gets up and gestures to Peter to follow him. They walk up to the altar and stand in front of the giant crucifix. Peter slowly reaches out a finger and traces the lines.)
PETER. (In awe, despite himself.) It looks just like wood. He even got the splinters down.
REVEREND. (laughs.) And the tragedy is that the congregation sits too far away to even appreciate it. The only one who ever has reason to see it up close is me. (he looks up at the cross.) I still don’t understand how he got the face to look like that. The sorrow. From a hunk of steel. (He turns to look at Peter.) It was his way of loving, I suppose. Beautification.
PETER. (bitterly.) Perfection.
REVEREND. Yes, you’re right.
PETER. (pause.) He saw potential in everything, Rev. Not just metal, but wood, and rocks, and people. I could never understand his vision, and he hated me for it. He’d bring home a boulder, and sit me down in front of it. Look at this, son, he would say. Do you see what I see? I see angels. All I saw was a boring old rock. But I would try to please him, I would lie to make him think I understood… I’d tell him I saw a lion, or an eagle, or, or something. Somehow, he always saw through me. He’d shake his head and spit out, Useless. And then he’d retreat into that fucking studio of his and pound away, all through the night. Wham, wham, wham, wham, wham. It kept me awake, I didn’t dare sleep (through gritted teeth) because every blow felt like it was hitting my own skin—I could feel his wrath through the walls, so I bled for his goddamn art. Every night, I bled. (He clenches his hands into fists. Breathing heavily, he continues in a harsh whisper) The rocks never disappointed him, those unyielding, ugly old things, things he loved more than his only son. He could beat a lump of fucking metal into perfect submission, pry his precious vision out with his bare fingers. Wham, wham, wham, wham. He would have hit me like that too, if mom would ever let him. But she didn’t. Until that night. She couldn’t stop him then. (Chokes back a sob.) Why did I lie? I’m not him.
REVEREND. (shakes his head slowly, sadly.) How childish. How childish.
PETER. (mirthfully) I know, Rev, I should’ve told the truth and made him swallow it. None of my paintings could make him happy, I might as well have stopped pretending. I don’t have his talent. I was a disappointment either way. An honest idiot makes for a better son than a fraud.
REVEREND. I meant your father, not you. You’re not a block of marble, Peter. You couldn’t meet his vision even if you tried. I doubt he satisfied his vision. And that never should’ve been your job.
PETER. (awkward pause.) I guess. I was a burden to him, though. He hated his office job, being forced to sculpt only at night. He worked to keep me fed and clothed, and made sure to remind me of that every day—to be grateful. And I repaid him by running away. And stealing his money, like the prodigal fucking son that I am. Just like the story. (laughs heavily.) I have to hand it to him, though. He was fucking brilliant. (gazes sadly at the cross). His attention to detail…
REVEREND. His love for detail was unmatched, yes. A true, honest artist. His personality shines right through his work. See—the church would have forgiven him if he hadn’t put that little twig under Christ’s left arm, if he hadn’t given Him a single chipped toenail, if he had neglected to carve such a fine grain on the beams. He chose to go the extra mile.
PETER. The church would have forgiven him, but he wouldn’t have.
REVEREND. Ah. Well, there’s your answer. (They look at the cross for a bit longer. Christ’s face stares mournfully down at them. Peter violently turns away.)
PETER. God, I can’t look at it anymore. It makes me sick.
(The Reverend bows his head.)
PETER. I–I’m glad I left when I did.
REVEREND. I’m glad too. It wasn’t good for your soul to stay. All men have to leave the shadows of their fathers eventually.
PETER. What was your dad like, Rev?
REVEREND. (smiles.) I don’t know. I’ve never known him. He left before I was born.
PETER. (silence.) I wonder what’s worse. A shitty father, or an absent one.
REVEREND. Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was lucky in that he left so early—I couldn’t blame myself even if I tried. It was easier to be angry with him that way. (hums and looks up at the cross) I used to try to fill in the blanks when I was little. It was like a game to me; late at night, I would stay up and try to picture his face. Why he had to leave. What his voice might have sounded like. Where he was, right then and there. What he had for dinner. Who he was eating with. If he had a new family, one that was enough to stay for. If he was happy. It’s a strange feeling, to miss what you never had.
PETER. You didn’t look for him?
REVEREND. I did, for a long time. After my mother died, I felt there was nothing left for me in my old life. And yet, I couldn’t move past it without at least knowing if he was alive or dead. There were just so many questions that gnawed at me without pause. I couldn’t find peace because his emptiness was everywhere around me, crushing me. If I could have a shred of proof, the tiniest confirmation that he could love me… It was hard growing past a shadow that didn’t exist. But I did, eventually.
PETER. How?
REVEREND. (smiles) I learned to be loved.
PETER. I don’t understand.
REVEREND. We are creatures that are designed to be loving, Peter. All resounding echoes of one heavenly song, and I have devoted my life to its maker. Everyone feels the need to sing that very melody, but sometimes it gets distorted. In many cases, such as your father, people grow up listening to a very painful, corrupted kind of love. It becomes all that they know, what they think they deserve. And they won’t accept anything else. I was stuck in a very similar boat as you, you know. Other people’s demons were alive, and they could confront them and make peace with themselves. Mine had never existed, I couldn’t confront a blank space. Luckily, I found God (smiles) and I learned to be alright with the state of my life. And once I stopped being angry at me, I just stopped being angry at others. I could be kind to myself, and let others be kind to me.
PETER. (in disbelief) So that’s your advice then, just be religious? Just find God?
REVEREND. It was what worked for me. It might help you, but there are always different routes to healing. People turn to therapy, or music, or art, or preaching. Your father sculpted, your mother prays, and I talk to troubled young people. (laughs). I wouldn’t dare tell you what to do with your life. That’s not my burden to carry, only His and yours. (turns to Peter) You paint. It must have improved your life somewhat if you chose to make it your career.
PETER. Yea, I like it enough. It was my only escape at home.
REVEREND. What do you think about when you paint?
PETER. I don’t. Think, I mean. The silence is what I love about it. There was always noise at home—fights with Mom, fights with Dad, fights with Mom and Dad—but once I picked up that brush, it all melted away. Nothing but white noise, and the canvas in front of me.
REVEREND. I see. I’m glad you at least had that. (pause)
PETER. Yea, I wouldn’t have survived without it. Which is why I had to go. Being at home was hard, but having to sit through service every week looking at THAT (points.) would’ve been harder. He would’ve been so smug; I’d have to look at fucking Jesus hanging up there, knowing he was the one who made it–shaped the face of God. His last, beautiful, perfect work. God, I’m glad I left. (bitterly).
REVEREND. Strangely, he couldn’t stand it either. You’d think he’d be proud, since he created it—but when he did come to service, he was always looking angrily down at his feet. As if he was ashamed.
PETER. Probably felt like he was being judged. He couldn’t take the tiniest hint of criticism without losing his shit.
REVEREND. We are all sinners, and aware of that… to an extent. No one likes when a finger is pointed at him, especially when the finger is a blameless one.
PETER. (shifts uncomfortably.) Reverend, I–I didn’t come back here just to look at that, you know. Just to be, well, sentimental with you.
REVEREND. Oh? What are you here for then?
(Peter shifts uncomfortably. He looks everywhere except at the Reverend, wringing his hands, and takes a few deep breaths.)
PETER. To–to apologize, Reverend. I waited too long to apologize to him, and now he won’t ever hear it. He didn’t deserve it, no, but…but you’re here, and I–I did a horrible thing to you. After you were so good to me. He wasn’t good to me, but you were. It’s killing me. It’s been killing me.
REVEREND. Peter—
PETER. (pacing nervously up and down the pews.) Rev, the money I stole from my parents, it was enough for the train ticket, and it got me a place to stay, but… but art school costs more than that, especially in the city. Tuition, it-it costs a lot. (He pauses, and bites his lip. He looks the Reverend in the eye, and bows his head.) It was me. It was me that took the money Rev.
(The Reverend is silent.)
PETER (cont.) But I guess you knew all along, didn’t you? That night, that night when Dad and I had the really bad fight–remember? I was crying so damn hard, and I hadn’t cried in years–when you let me sleep here, in your own office, on the pull-out bed while you—you slept on the floor. God, he wasn’t gonna let me go. I had worked so hard on that portfolio, spent hours every night drawing, brought each drawing to you because you were the only one who liked them. I had to escape him, and he wasn’t going to let me go. Told me he wouldn’t pay a cent for my education. Ripped up my best work, my masterpiece. And then I showed up here, lip and hands bleeding and you took me in without question… (He angrily wipes the tears out of his eyes.) You sat on the floor with me as we tried to piece the painting back together… you said, Even ruined, it’s the best damn painting I’ve ever seen.
REVEREND. Peter—
PETER. I lay there that night, holding the ice pack to my eye, glancing around the room until I saw it, the safe, the door slightly ajar. A light went off in my brain. And I agonized. Fucking hell, if it makes it any better, just thinking about it tore me up inside. Doing that to you. But I had worked so fucking hard to get in, and I just couldn’t find the strength to wait a year and do it again. I knew everyone was saving up to rebuild the church. To renovate. And I knew what would happen if I stole it from you. What it would imply. (He stops. He breathes heavily and looks wildly at the Reverend.) God, Rev, even if I stole the money, I could’ve left a note on the bulletin, told someone, made sure that they knew who the bad guy was. But I didn’t want to be the bad guy. I was so fucking sick of being the bad guy at home—I wanted to be $20,000 richer, I wanted to be at my dream school, and I didn’t want to be the bad guy anymore. I couldn’t stand being hated. (His voice cracks, and he starts to sob). So, I fucked you over Rev. I crucified you.
REVEREND. Peter—
PETER. My mother knew. She didn’t say it outright, but I could feel her shame from the one letter she sent me. She said nothing about the money I stole from them, about home, about dad, but wrote so painstakingly about how half the congregation had angrily left the church, disgusted with you. About the Johnsons and Greens suing you. The newspapers, the speculation, the town gossip—and most shockingly, how you didn’t even deny it. You covered for me. I was a dumb kid; there’s no way they wouldn’t have suspected when I had mysteriously disappeared at the same time as half the town’s money. But you took the fall. Said you made a bad investment. (He buries his face in his hands.) Mom told me that renovations would have to wait. That there wasn’t much point, with half the members gone. (He removes the creased, yellow letter from inside his jacket.) I reckon I read this a million times. It hurt each time I read it, like being stabbed, but it’s what I deserve. All this time you knew. And it took–it took my damn father’s death for me to have the courage to come and ask you for forgiveness. (He falls on his knees. The letter floats to the ground, and falls open at the Reverend’s feet.) I don’t deserve it. I’ve spent all my life vowing to never be like my father, but I’m even worse. Still—I have to ask. I don’t deserve it, but I have to ask. I have to. (The Reverend is silent for another minute, watching Peter trembling on the ground.)
REVEREND. Stand up, Peter. I’ll trade you a letter for a letter. (He picks the letter up, and walks back to the cross. He squeezes his hand behind it, pulls out a dusty piece of paper, and hands it to Peter.)
PETER. (examining it.) That’s—that’s Dad’s handwriting. It’s a—
REVEREND. A receipt. The cost of the metal, tools, hours spent creating it.
PETER. $20,000. I don’t understand— (He suddenly looks up, stricken.)
REVEREND. His last work. In his own way, he made peace with God, while trying to make peace with you. (Waiting.) Flip it over.
PETER. (reading out loud, shakily through tears.) “Matthews. A solatium.”
REVEREND. I had forgiven you the moment I realized. (He smiles at him.) He knew that. He didn’t build it for me. You know, at the fellowship dinner where he unveiled it, he told everyone I had commissioned it with my own savings, to make up for the money lost. Wouldn’t accept anyone’s compliments, replying with only four words: “He paid for it.” (pause.) Many who had left this church returned after we installed it, you know. A local newspaper article about it directed newcomers our way. Sometimes in the mornings, I see your mother kneeling in front of it, praying. Receiving strength. (He takes Peter’s hands and helps him to his feet.) When I examine this monument, I try to imagine what went through your father’s mind as he carved away at it. Every wrinkle, line, and curve all teeming with… what? Some days it feels like repentance. Other days, passion. All the time, it rings with love. Words he didn’t have the courage to say, but couldn’t deny in his own mind. Peter, whether years of pain can be healed with one last gesture, I don’t know. He was a great artist, but ultimately his sacrifice’s worth is completely in your hands. At your mercy. If it’s enough, if you can let it be enough—let it be enough. Not for him, but for you. You won’t find your peace with me, here. (He points up at the crucifix in front of them, at Christ’s face.) You’ll find your peace there.
(Peter looks up at the cross in wonder, as if he’s seeing it for the very first time. His face collapses into despair.)
End scene.