The Man who was Radio Static pt 2

Act Three

The next day. Morning light streams into the kitchen. Maria Autre is sitting at the table, in the chair which is normally occupied by Jim. She has a yellowing, nicotine-stained newspaper set before her. The light emanating into the room is much cleaner, crisper and whiter than usual. The room itself is still in utter disarray, even the table and chairs have not been realigned. Broken glass and crockery, cigarette ash, grime, dirt and dust still cover the floors, countertops and walls. The stack of newspapers has toppled over like the remnants of a burnt-out apartment building. The kitchen is utterly silent: no electric hum from the fridge or ceiling light; no rumble from the traffic outside. Nothing. Maria Notre enters the kitchen in pyjamas and a night-gown. She treads over the litter and shard strewn floor with her bare feet – seemingly unfazed by the pain or the chaos. She staggers and stumbles her way toward the only thing which remains in its natural place. The beat-up old radio. She clicks the switch and peers at the dial. No noise emanates.

MARIA AUTRE (in a blasé tone): He’s not going to make it today.
Maria Notre takes no notice of this comment and it is unclear whether her failure to engage is deliberate or not.
MARIA AUTRE: There’s a power-cut. The whole block is out.
Maria Notre continues to click the switch of the radio on and off, becoming ever more frantic each time it fails to produce sound.
MARIA AUTRE: Don’t break it. That was a gift, remember? (slapping upon the open page of the newspaper) From our Teddy?
MARIA NOTRE (finally breaking her silence with a cutting voice; grabbing Maria Autre’s face and turning it toward her own): Ted who? Roosevelt? Bundy? He’s just some nobody who died in a fire.
MARIA AUTRE (furiously trying to pry Maria Notre’s hands from her face): You’re out of your damn mind!
MARIA NOTRE: Who are you? Why have you been voyeuristically watching me and James every morning? (hysterically) Why must you keep talking about Teddy? I don’t know who Teddy is; I don’t want to think about Teddy; I don’t want him to burn anymore!
Maria Notre collapses backward into her chair, panting and sobbing. Her hands are fidgeting to the point of distraction. Maria Autre regains her composure, touching her face as if to check it hadn’t been disfigured by Maria Notre’s long, unevenly nailed fingertips.
MARIA AUTRE: How did you meet Jim?
MARIA NOTRE: I beg your pardon?
MARIA AUTRE (flatly): You heard.
MARIA NOTRE: We met at… we met when… it was a long time ago! How am I to know?
MARIA AUTRE: Okay. How about this: when did you first hear Jim’s voice?
MARIA NOTRE: I… it’s just. I’ve always known it. That’s how it feels.
MARIA AUTRE: You’re wrong. The first time you heard his voice was 1987 – when you were eighteen.
MARIA NOTRE (incredulously): How could you possibly know that?
MARIA AUTRE: Don’t be so dense! I am you. And, I know, that somewhere in that chaotic brain of yours, you know this to be true; just as you know that Jim – the Jim you think you know – has never set foot in this kitchen; and just as you know your husband Teddy was a firefighter… and he died, four months ago when an ablaze apartment building collapsed with him inside. Leave this fantasy, Maria, I’m begging you. It will kill you.
Maria Notre begins sobbing, shaking her head in denial.
MARIA NOTRE: You’re lying! Teddy wasn’t real – he simply wasn’t. Jim is real. I’ve heard him laugh, I’ve told him stories and I’ve listened to his.
MARIA AUTRE: Jim Matthews is real – this much is true. Jim Matthews is a radio DJ. 102.9 F.M. Queens Enigma Rock Radio. (smiling wistfully) Teddy and I… (straightening up) sorry, you and Teddy, would park out on the wastelands in Maspeth every Saturday night, all night, and listen to Jim’s Retro Rock Anthems. You never really liked the music, of course, but Teddy did. That Gran Torino felt like its own little world – separate from the shuttered buildings, the cadenced sirens in the night, the brawling couples outside bars, the loud-mouth boys out on the Avenue. I know Jim Matthew’s voice brings you comfort – that’s why you choose him to replace Teddy. Because his voice reminds you of Teddy. Of your Teddy; before he suited up every night and ran into fires. Before you made yourself sick with worry every time he wasn’t home a minute after he said he’d be. But Jim is just a voice on the radio; he’s not real. Not for you, in any case. He doesn’t know who you are and you don’t know him. He’s just a voice on your radio, Maria.
MARIA NOTRE: What you’re saying – how can I believe it to be true?
MARIA AUTRE (sliding the newspaper over to Maria Notre): Look at him. Look at Teddy’s obituary. Look at how handsome he is in his uniform – and look who is standing by him.

MARIA NOTRE (with timid curiosity): She looks like someone. Someone I used to know. (suddenly, as if remembering she had forgotten something most urgent). Jim asked me to burn this! He’ll be here any minute – help me!
Maria Notre frantically attempts to leave the table but, with minimum force, Maria Autre pulls her gently down by the wrists until she is sitting again.
MARIA AUTRE: Focus, Maria! Forget about Jim. Tell me, who is the woman in that picture?
Maria Notre stares vacantly at the photograph before examining the greasy strands of her hair; the mucky worn cuffs of her dressing gown; the dirt between her finger nails.
MARIA AUTRE: Look at her. So pristine, so pretty. So happy.
MARIA NOTRE (meekly): It’s me.
MARIA AUTRE (forcefully): Again!
MARIA NOTRE: It’s me. I’m the woman in the picture. She is me.
MARIA AUTRE (in a pleading voice): And the man, Maria? Who is he, please?
Maria Notre gasps and immediately raises a hand to her mouth, as she begins to cry. She is no longer sobbing, pitiful and weak, but crying; bawling.
MARIA AUTRE: His name, Maria? Who is he?
MARIA NOTRE (gasping for breath; her cheeks soaking wet and her hand feverishly working over her face, as if trying to erase the emotion): T-T-Teddy! His name is Teddy; my husband – my loving husband Edward. Oh, God! What am I doing? I’m so sorry, Teddy. I’m so, so, sorry, my sweetheart.

Maria Notre continues to wail; crying apologetic pleas to the picture of her and Teddy. Maria Autre places a hand on her shoulder, in an attempt to provide comfort. Her facial expression suggests she knows it’s like putting a plaster on a woman who has lost all her skin.

Act Four
Maria Notre enters the empty kitchen. It is no longer dirty. The floor is no longer strewn with broken class and china. The tiles, walls and the counter-tops are free from grime, dirt and dust. The bin-bags have been cleared, the sink is empty and the table is clear but for a single newspaper. Even the wallpaper looks less dim and stained. Maria, herself, looks tidier. Her hair is a brighter blonde; her clothes look freshly cleaned. She is dressed in a pair of light blue denim jeans, a pale pink blouse and cream coloured canvas shoes. From a drawer she takes a long lighter – the kind used for igniting gas cookers – and a pair of long, silver scissors. She stares at the newspaper with the lighter in her hand. She presses down on the plunger, producing an orange flame – about four inches long. After a few moments, with nothing but the sound of a streaming flame – she lets the lighter extinguish and swaps it for the scissors. She flicks through the newspaper until arriving on the page for which she is searching. As she carefully cuts the page, she reads aloud.

MARIA NOTRE (reading from the page): FDNY Lieutenant Edward “Teddy” Donahue, of Ladder 129 in Flushing, who has died at the age of 47, as a result of a building collapse in Flatbush, is to be awarded posthumously, the prestigious honour of the James Gordon Bennett Medal in a ceremony outside City Hall. Lt. Donohue, pictured left with his wife Maria, (Maria pauses to look at the photograph of her and Teddy) bravely rushed into a burning apartment complex, in Elmhurst, in order to clear an obstruction in the emergency stairwell, preventing the residents from escaping the burning building. Once the stairwell was cleared, many residents escaped and Lt. Donohue, a veteran firefighter of 15 years, proceeded up to the fourth floor to look for more trapped residents. Unfortunately, moments later, the structure gave way, killing Lt. Donohue and sixteen other people inside the building.
Maria stops reading the obituary and holds the page out in front of her after setting the scissors down. She stands up from her seat, and walks toward the radio on the counter-top. She is visibly upset. She sticks the page to the wall, directly above the radio at eye-level, and runs her hand down the picture of her and Teddy. She steps back and retrieves the lighter from the table, and a tall vigil candle from the cupboard. She lights the candle after setting it down on the counter below the newspaper page. She admires the page for a moment longer before her eyes are drawn to the radio. Her eyes dart between the two and she begins to weep.

MARIA NOTRE: I’m sorry, Teddy. I’m so sorry.
She picks up the radio and takes it to the table with her where she sits down. She holds it and examines it. The lights fade until the only thing that can be seen is the flickering candle, illuminating the newspaper page hanging on the wall.

[The end.]