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Heather.
Heather Windermere ne Nixon sat, a small piece of egg dangling from the end of her
fork, reflecting on Easter and the meaning of it. She was especially curious as to what
Rasmunda Berkely could have possibly meant by accusing her of being whiter than a bleached
Charlton Heston. She dismissed those thoughts as trivial in the context of the holy season, but
still found herself with some angst pondering what gossip was being spread about her and poor
Charlton, the florist down the street whose wife was just recently passed.
The tension between the choir women was always high around Easter. The primary
source was the drama that inevitably surrounded each annual rendition of North Yorks All
Saints Anglicans famous crucifixion play. It was usual for who said what to whom, why and
why to them and not to me type conversations to permeate the hushed tones of otherwise
pleasant after mass fellowship and beyond. Whenever spring came this fever struck the gossip
circles in the congregation and cast shadows on all other murmurs and innuendoes. The tradition
was over a century old by the time production responsibilities fell on the shoulders of Edith
Burroughs, ne Odenkirk. The play had been long revered for the faith it kept to the original
form and religious instruction, based on the medieval original by the Reverend Archibald
Marsbaugh. Heather produced it two years prior and was proud of the reception it received from
within and without the congregation. Some previous productions had been done in ways the
church deemed innovative, becoming a source of infamy in the more conservative sub-circles
of the social sphere at All Saints. After half-realizing she had been sitting in the same position
for more than a minute, she brought the now cold egg to her mouth, chewing and watching
Arthur Windermere III, her husband, react atypically to the morning news.
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Three valium later her eyes were drawn, as they like to be most mornings, to the shafts of
light stretching across the kitchen table. Empty and strangely quiet without the staff, she
imagined the lines fell off the table and continued along the floor. There was no way she could
see from where she was sitting where they fell before they climbed up the granite island that held
the stovetop. They continued upwards until broken apart against a row of colanders dangling
from the ceiling, each new ray gleaming off the glass of the range behind them. Though she
hadnt actually spent much time in the kitchen before, she was increasingly aware of its
emptiness without their modest staff. Then, playfully admonishing her for a cynic, Arthur
gestured towards the television, which had begun to sputter and snow a bit. Arthur cranked the
dials with his left and shook the antenna with his right but, without her glasses, the significance
of Arthurs reaction was lost on her, appearing as little more than a spastic blur. He hunched
over the small screen for a while, morning coat open with the tails dangling at his feet, but could
not avail the thing. Her thoughts wandered back to the morning light. It shifted across the table,
becoming thicker as the sun slowly rose, until finally reaching her glass of orange juice, the
shining of which marked ten thirty-eight.
She was certainly not uninterested in the news, but her new analyst was really the only
person who captured much of her attention. She reached a point where her introspection became
a near constant internal dialogue between her and Dr. K, interpreting as best she could every
possible response to him. This preoccupation aggravated her neurosis, and she knew it, but she
found it near impossible to stop the pre-emptive sessions. To her, the only psychological
problem she had was that she thought she had one. She admitted to herself in guarded moments
to uncertainty regarding many aspects of her life, but was particularly silent about the question of
her love for Arthur. No interest or love was really lost, but as they built their home together the
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tasks required made them stray from more idyllic arrangements. She sometimes blamed the
frequent moves, uprooting their organized and predictable life to more reasonable
accommodations. Parkside House was still grand by modest estimation, but she had been most
comfortable at Parkhurst Manor and comfortable enough at Glenway Estate. Their lives still
tended towards the same goals, but they were conducted parallel to one another rather than
having clear and regular points of intersection, let alone spontaneous ones. Age does that, she
thought. Reflecting on her parents, the panache was drained from their relationship around the
same time in their marriage. She wondered if they had felt the same as she, or if their sense of
filial duty provided sufficient substitute for the more vivid possibilities afforded by marriage.
She concluded she was sad, quite simply, since she had no particularly good reason to be so. Her
parents were dead now, but lived to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary before her father
went and then her mother.
Hot from tea, the orange juice cooled her insides as she drank it. Setting the glass down,
sight of the burgundy velvet curtains made her pause to remember when they hung about the
nave at All Saints. She remembered her hands around the gilt tassels as she pulled the cords,
one after another, leading the congregation around the building and back towards the altar. She
had scaffolds set up specifically for this effect, deepening the reverence of the events she
reproduced and affording more opportunity for costume changes and line cramming. She
remembered, densely populated by little Roman soldiers, little sheep, little Pharisees and little
citizens of a little Jerusalem, the steps leading the way to the altar made a suitable Calvary.
The primary characters were recruits from the local little theatre. At the time this caused
a stir, as no main character was ever cast outside of the congregation before. She capped the
production off with Beethovens Ode to Joy, sung by the choir while supported by the York
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 4

Mills Municipal Brass. Many thought it was exquisite and an appropriate end to the
otherwise dark and often depressing fare. Edith Burroughs would be recruiting from outside this
year as well, though she was strictly mum on the details. Heather half expected some
complication, as the mainstays of the theatre company had changed after fourty-seven year old
Harry Moutin was grossly miscast as Oliver in their winter production. The company was
apparently infused with young theatre graduates from schools downtown, likely to be hipsters,
moonies or many other names Heather heard bandied on newscasts. The whole congregation
muttered about the new crew at times, knowing the change nixed any guarantee the play would
be at least dramatically similar to Heathers gangbuster. Further murmurs touched on how she
also could not compete with respect to available resources.
Arthur was now pacing in front of the small screen which only got the CBC. This made
the picture fall in and out of focus with him. In between bouts with the fuzz, it reverted to a
daytime drama neither of them particularly cared for. He was making his fifth pass when,
striking his knee on a side table, he began contending with gravity and a Royal Doulton
commemorative ewer. Heather very briefly admired his surprising dexterity until it fell and
broke into a dozen or so pieces. Arthur looked grief stricken, but neither of them ever expressed
any attachment to the thing, nor most of the ornaments afforded by or bequeathed to Arthurs
estate. It was nice to serve water to guests from it and frequently received positive comments.
He spent the last twenty years preserving his legacy, or so he would say if asked. Heather feared
he confused estate with lifestyle, she being mostly kept in the dark about most large transactions.
Heathers parents had encouraged her to marry upwardly, though not forced directly. She
wanted very much to remember a younger Arthurs collegial charm that kept her and her sisters
near the telephone while home in Pickering most summers, but that was a long time ago now.
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Much of the valuable South Ontario farmland he inherited had been sold piecemeal to
developers, government departments, private agricultural concerns and the like. Their fortune
swelled every few years and they would live on as they had on fresh and steady withdraws. It
was all very tedious, or so Arthur said, and the attention she insisted she not pay to any strains on
their spending gave her frequent headaches and the occasional fit of panic. Though a trained
nurse, and Arthur formerly a consulting financier of some renown, the couple had not been
employed in any official capacity since 1949. The majority of her skills were now used in the
care of Ponty, their mysteriously absent spaniel.
Arthur was, to Heathers surprise, rather insistent on their staying home and not making
the unreasonable trek to compare Ediths presentation with Heathers. The competition between
those who put on the play within a few years of one another was unspoken, deceiving
newcomers and non-parish audience members with a veil of civility that varied in thickness. A
strict etiquette was covertly established over the years and was passed on in hushed tones from
one generation to the next. Earning the right to put on the play was mostly a matter of waiting.
Volunteers signed a ledger, extant since the plays inception, for their preferred year, most often
the next available one. Sara Rothes, Virginia Blake, Heather, Ninny MacIntosh, and Edith all
decided to put on the play around the same time. They drew straws to determine first pick and
that was the resulting order. Volunteering at All Saints was not as simple as the word implies.
Murmurs always spread, indicating to anyone with an interested ear who intended to sign up for
the next available years. A tacit permission was required from the keepers of the ledger to sign
up. Rasmunda Berkeley had once tried to sign up without going through the proper channels and
suffered horrible stares from the choir members during communion, until she covertly inserted
into the general circle of gossip a sudden change of heart.
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Heather poured herself a cup of coffee and looked at the clock. Near eleven, she took her
cup into her bedroom to dress for the play. She quietly sipped in front of her armoire and fiddled
with what jewellery dangled out of the box nearest to her. A pearl earring slipped from her hand
and bounced on the carpet. This stirred Ponty, who emerged from behind the bedskirt and
shuffled over to Heather. Little Pontys hair had tangled again, prompting Heather to pick her up
and brush her. The one usually reserved for the dog was nowhere at hand, but Heather was
alright with using one of her own. She wanted to go to the play today but it seemed as though
Arthur would object if brought up again. Her curiosity was as worthy of satiety as any other,
perhaps more for her semi-celebrity status within the modest sized parish. The last morsel of
gossip she had been chewing on all week was that Edith was holding the production outside, in
her backyard. One part of Heather silently scoffed while the other wished shed thought of it.
She tugged at the dog, who, being spoiled, let out little yips as the mattes and tangles were ripped
as gently as possible from her. Ponty looked up at Heather who responded with a kissy face,
before she turned her head to the window, revealing to her the darkening sky. There was on shot
at the North York Crucifixion Play, and though she wished not to be upstaged, she was hard
pressed to ascertain exactly why.

The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 7

Mandy.
Mandy turned the keys to the Skylark and backed out of Ediths drive, careful to avoid
the Butler kids were in their third hour of playing cops and commies. The leaves were shaking
and the clouds rolled in quicker than the radio said. They were calling it Hurricane Hagar and it
made a sudden b-line up the eastern seaboard, bypassed the Maritimes entirely, and tore across
New York State heading for the lakes. Leaving the crescent, she went towards Yonge, hoping
Max was still home. Catching bad traffic heading south she regretted helping Edith with the
play. She found herself emphatically refusing to believe her only friends denial of reality and
what it meant to stage theatre in gale force wind. She refused her parents invitation to dinner at
Ediths insistence and would certainly not make Huntsville if she left now, let alone if she took
the time to get Max and pack for a nights stay. When the traffic would not move she jumped out
and got a coke at a passing Beckers. The cars behind her were beginning to violently swerve
around the Buick by the time she got back. She was dirty from the mornings work and her half-
hearted apologies went unheard over the din of horns, seemingly enough to shake the wall of
buildings that surrounded them. She simply did not care, however.
Mandy had been attending All Saints since her baptism a few weeks after being born.
She had undergone all the rituals there to become a confirmed member of the community, but the
portion of the congregation that was not yet extremely advanced in aged seemed to mistrust her
intentions on account of her youth. She grew up with many of the parishioners, in a sense, but
they were not like her friends from school, or her cousins. She saw them once a week for near
twenty-six years, yet they would still remind her of her menial past in the church. When the play
went on during her childhood, she found herself a citizen of little Jerusalem for fifteen
consecutive years, even when she was no longer little. Not lacking in any features or talents
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 8

found in any of the other young boys and girls, it seemed as though the degree of ignorance she
received was a statistical anomaly and she chalked it up as such. Her sanity was not contingent
on her being seen or admired within the community as it was with so many of the churchs
devotees. The thoughts of past alienations like those were compounded by the man who cleaned
her windshield with a newspaper, still bumper to bumper by the time she reached Lakeshore east.
Reverend Freeboot had been providing council to her in lieu of Dr. Bryant, tenor and
psychiatrist, who came highly recommended by many parishioners. Mandy wanted to attribute
the scathing barbs flung and the deep personal wounds unearthed by more gossipy choir
members to some demonic pact or possession, but was correct at least half the time in suspecting
Bryant. His tongue was loosed rather easily by the small prestige his position afforded him,
though he did almost always omit the facts that kept him within the purview of the parishs
confidence. Freeboot could be relied upon to keep secrets in a pinch, appreciating that some
secrets are so for a reason. She would often get extremely worked up over little things,
addressing them on at a time until always arriving at the same root issue. Max had inoperable
spinal cancer which had spread to his lymphatic system long before it was even detected. He
was in a great deal of pain, spending most of his days managing it at home with Demerol and
cannabis grown by a friend of theirs. Mandy was reluctant to acquire more potent and less legal
painkillers to help him manage, but did so anyway. She had betrayed a great deal of her moral
foundation in order to keep their life together, cavorting with people she never dreamed,
spending remarkable amounts of money and working harder than ever to see her Max at least
somewhat relieved. Freeboot was just barely fourty when he assumed his post over the
octogenarian Rv. Cathcart. His responses were only occasionally littered with pleasantries about
providence or other divine schemes. The more she thought about it, however, the more impotent
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 9

she felt, as even well thought, non-pleasant advice meant no clear change in possible outcomes.
Mandy tuned to CFNY and shortly afterwards she was on a fairly quickly moving QEW, making
the 401 in time she did not expect.
Moving at a decent clip towards her and Maxs home on the Pickering-Scarborough
border she back tracked her thoughts and, as she had several times before, realized it wasnt even
this unquestionably trying situation that was the worst of it. Almost immediately after Maxs
diagnosis one and a half months prior he intimated to her a desire to end his life before the
cancer did. He also found himself uncertain about his own actions, thinking he could not be
trusted to handle the pain without doing anything sudden or rash. He felt it would be more
dignified for him to make the choice, though still too young to concern himself with dignity,
according to Freeboot. This is what Mandy had exhausted most of her thought on, oscillating
between horror and understanding sometimes on a minute to minute basis. Max had for ten
years been her primary source of consistency and its floundering drove her both to labour
intensely to compensate and to secretly wish for an end to it, good or bad.
Meeting at a van party in a deserted Don Mills parking lot one weekend with a lot of
other Kipling Collegiate kids, Mandy and Max had formed what even then seemed an instant and
lasting bond. Both were shy, but Mandy could not ignore the man responsible for the paintjob
on a certain, heavily modified, Pontiac Bonneville. It seemed an age ago, though it was only ten
years. Max put down his enamel paints and detailing brushes for a time and found steady pay at
the paper mill. The tools had not seen daylight for almost a year, when the soreness in his lower
back first started to bother him and hours of arching over his friends hot rods became too much.
They married when they were both twenty three and had so far enjoyed the three years of
married life in Mandys parents old townhouse, acquiring a reasonable mortgage to cover
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renovations. She worked steadily at a sports bar, but now found herself an occasional mule for
people who only seemed to care about money.
She had made it possible for Edith to put on the play. She spent rather a lot of time away
from Max for the last week, securing props from other theatre companies, attending rehearsals in
Ediths basement, arranging floral decorations, preparing sandwiches and the like. She felt
guilty about the clarity she initially found in it, but found it so satisfying she got up early and
conducted this business before her frequently long shifts at the restaurant. She would be very
tired but it was good for her. She had grown somewhat weary of sitting and watching television
with her mostly incapacitated husband. She worked hard to maintain her spirits but the early
morning preparations were far too much for her to bear that day. Upon delivering the prop
crosses to Ediths house she retreated from her work on the mound they were to stand in. Mandy
was left with the shovel, moving and shifting earth around into the massive pile, before single-
handedly straddling the crosses and plunging them into the semi-soft dirt. The criminals that
were to hang to either side of Christ would do so in relative comfort, which filled Mandy with
some pride. She sat and looked at the yard full of embellishments to mount and arrange and
realized she hadnt seen Edith for at least an hour. She heard a distant thunder clap and noticed
the sun had stopped shining, obscured by thick and soupy stormclouds.
The Beatles We Can Work it Out began playing as she started rounding the last few
main streets before home. She removed the now warm and half empty coke from between her
legs and poured it out the window. Stopped at yet another stoplight on Highway 2, her mood
shifted and she tapped the beat to the music, the positive lyrics helping her to forget the church
and all the unnecessary posturing that took place inside. She stopped feeling diminished as she
began to forget the events of the still early day. She had gone to the Burroughs house in search
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 11

of the director and producer, only to find her sitting and chatting with the theatre company she
had, in Mandys opinion, spent enough time around already. Momently it caught her ire but she
realized Edith had not exploited her help for vanity. Her disappointment at the storms timing
and her current circumstances in general were the main reason for her rather overwrought display
preceding her departure. The uncertainty she realized was endemic to life on Earth seemed once
again to have at least as much room for possibility as doubt. She gave herself a break, knowing
Edith realized her circumstances and would likely attribute the satisfying destruction of her side
table to that. Max could, slim though the chance may be, hold on for some more time. Edith,
provided she wasnt embarrassed or flustered by the attention she was about to receive, would
return to her normal, temperate self.
She turned the key to the house, still a long way from presentable and stepped into the
kitchen, immediately grabbing a glass of water. She heard the television downstairs in the
basement, but it was all static. She figured Max had fallen asleep. She heard a creak and
assumed that was him adjusting himself half-conscious on their couch and proceeded to the
upstairs bath. She washed her face in the sink and brushed back her hair. Cleaning up her arms
and even sticking her feet in the sink to give them a scrub, she brought herself once again to a
modestly presentable state. Freeboot and her had discussed some of the more effective remedies
for stress, though at this moment she felt some of Maxs medication would be more so. Going
downstairs she poured another glass of water before looking through what was once their fruit
basket for a Percodan or a Valium. Between the sounds of shifting pill bottles she listened
downstairs for signs of Maxs stirring. The creaking noise appeared again, so she called down.
There was no response, nor was there anything left over for her to pilfer. His prescriptions were
running out at faster and faster rates, the various implications of which once again began to
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 12

unsettle her. She took a deep breath to put it down again and listened to the static. She noticed
the faint creaking noise was regular, or at least more regular than she previously noticed. It was
physically impossible for Max to change position that often, let alone in his sleep. The creaking
slowed down just as she was testing the kitchen floor for weak spots that would serve as an
explanation. Sighing once again, she realized that max must have just been asleep and that she
should let him rest.
Dr. B, as they affectionately knew him, was the only pharmacist nearby that was willing
to arrange anything on a Sunday. She quickly looked up his number and dialed. She would
certainly not have time to participate in the play anymore and, especially after her abrupt
departure, thought her role was finished. Dr. B told her he would help her yet again and she once
again grabbed her keys and readied for a trip in the ailing Skylark. She paused at the front door
in the hopes that her bustle had woken Max and he would pull his way up the stairs to kiss her on
the cheek. All she heard was static and the unexplained creaking coming from somewhere in the
floorboards. She paused some more, fearing rats, half praying to be back before the storm, then
finally she became worried about making the pharmacist wait on a Sunday and went about her
day.

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Edith.
Morgan bounded up the driveway in her new white spring dress, clumsy from pre-
emptively donning her rubber rain boots. Her mother was arranging boughs of cedar along their
fence when she heard the latch and saw Morgan return with news on the congregations progress.
The procession now at the top of Ronson crescent lost a few of the more decrepit parishioners,
but Edith predicted that the five-point-four kilometre trek from the church was bound to cost a
few audience members. Jesus broke his bike chain, however, and insisted the group go ahead
before him. Her fever was at its zenith but somewhere in the back of her mind she believed what
Mandy had said earlier about petty motivations and ridiculous compromises. She conceived that
it was not the unspoken competition she sought to win. God spoke through everybody in
different ways as Rv. Freeboot had said, and though the wind was picking up she felt more
certain than ever that this was how she channelled His voice. This was not too far to impart a
closer understanding of Christs sacrifice.
Gordon watched from the back window into his yard as his wife arranged the final
accoutrements. He did not reveal to anyone in the two months since she began production
anything but the official party line. They were devout enough, true believers both, but his
thoughts were in August. That was when he would normally harvest vegetables from his garden,
which was now a Neolithic mound on which three crosses were arranged in a jagged triangle,
each rocking arrhythmic in the consolidating storm. He postponed planting for two weeks of
mild weather already and sighed slightly when he saw what was surely the first good rain coming
in. Watching Edith, he was relieved to see her seem to finally breathe sighs of satisfaction,
putting her gloved hands on her waist and giving the back yard what looked like a final once-
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over. She had been filled with purpose and Gordon had no right to subdue it, ignoring all the
hushed questions as to her motivations spurious purity.
The congregation sauntered into the backyard and spread themselves in a semicircle,
many agape at the elaboration and effort Edith put into her rendition, though officially their
gratitude was towards the whole Burroughs family. Gordon turned from the window and
rejoined the primary, non-Jesus characters, all making sweeping movements, stretching,
breathing deeply and warming up their mouths with nonsensical onomatopoeia. Pilate and Mary
stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his elbow resting against the doorframe well above his head
and attempting humour. Jerusalem would not be populated by children this year. Instead, four
grown legionnaires stood around the Burroughs coffee table. They had been very selective with
the egg salad sandwiches they chose to eat, fingering each on it seemed before finally deciding.
But now with the show about to begin they descended more readily on the crumbly mess they
had made. Gordon knew Marys father from the paper mill but that was the only connection he
had with any of the people now in his home. He maneuvered into the kitchen and pulled the
carton on lemonade from the icebox. He peered down the hall at the band tuning their
instruments in his daughters bedroom before leaning against his elbows on the half wall. He
had never heard of Alice Coltrane, but hoped that she was as good a harpist as these people had
led him to believe as they had taken many cues from her work. He thought briefly about the
tulip bulbs he had managed to covertly plant near the bay window that, to his knowledge,
remained intact. He drank straight from the box and the players lined up in their pre-designated
order. The musicians, winged as angels, carried their instruments through the living room and
were the last to join the rest.
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 15

Edith did not voice to anyone her difficulties with the newly repopulated little theatre
company. She spent most of her time with them debating the value of maintaining the original
play, but eventually, to get it done, they agreed to disagree. They stuck to the script, but the
company wrested responsibility of the plays aesthetic and feel. As they looked over the
materials in their first read through the ideas started bubbling, as the company liked to say. Edith
had little frame of reference other than the plays that came before. Sarah Rothes stuck to the
script, employed the congregation and involved the children, as was expected and was the most
common jumping point for the uninitiated. Virginia Blake made a similar offering but
incorporated bits from some more Catholic scripts she unearthed from the Churchs earlier
records. The sweeping epic was fascinating to some, dialogue heavy to others, and explored
contexts from ancient history and comparative religious studies. It was the longest rendition in
the traditions history, clocking in at well over two hours. Parishioners often recalled Virginias
version of the play alongside spoiled meals or memories of trench warfare, though these
comparisons were largely left out of audible conversation.
Though she would deny it if asked, Edith drew the majority of her inspiration from
Heathers version. The parish, however, inevitably and unabashedly use it as the benchmark for
their judgement of Ediths efforts, but she felt it was ostentatious and only successful for the
excessive budgeting made possible by the Windermere estate. If vanity was Heathers chief sin
than Ediths was jealousy, she sometimes thought to herself in the weeks before production
began in earnest. That acute awareness faded though once the jazz sextet, Caterwaul, the
companys suggested musical accompaniment, began their tuning. Edith relented to most of the
companys suggestions. The point they wished to convey was subtle, hidden conspicuously
behind a sensory assault to wake the audience from psychological slumber, keeping them from
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 16

passively experiencing the crucifixion. Though atheists all, Ediths commission spurred the
eager dramatics to reinterpret their own conception of sacrifice, betrayal and other such themes
so entwined in their personal politics. They felt they were given an opportunity to align
themselves with tradition while also breaking away from it. They did not realize they had
unconsciously commandeered the play from Edith almost entirely, far too excited to see where
the pieces they had torn from the tradition would fall.
Edith moved unnoticed to the back of the semicircle and leaned against the bay window,
looking in at Gordon and giving him a thumbs-up as the actors had taught her. Gordon gave a
smile back but could read her mostly hidden reticence. He knew she drew distinct boundaries
around what the company could and could not do with the play. Topless female Christ was, of
course, out of the question. Stage blood was considered far too risqu as well, but Pilate
smuggled a stage spear from their adaptation of Thucydides Peloponnesian War in under
Ediths radar. Gordon heard of these and agreed with Edith, though when made aware of their
insubordinate intentions he became more interested in seeing what would become of it.
He was with Edith when the ledger was brought out of its case in the rectory, seemingly
sucking the air in around it like the tome was infused with real and holy vitality. The fragile
pages required a gentle hand with the ceremonial quill. All five women were there, as Gordon
remembered, and their husbands. While the group was toasting to the auspicious event, Gordon
snuck a peek at some of the earlier names and recalled some of the renditions. The competition
was as old as the book itself. Gordon, moving closer to the bay window to confirm his wifes
crushing his sole plantings, wondered by what merit the competition was judged before the
allowance of outside help, elaborate staging, or even script editing. Gordon, in light of what was
happening, could not guess what metric could have made one crucifixion play better than any
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 17

other. Moving back to the kitchen, he ensured the actors were all in the backyard before pulling
down a bottle of white rum, Lambs, which he added liberally to the carton of lemonade and
finished in an heroic two and a half minutes.
Jesus locked his Raleigh against the Burroughs electrical metre. He took the prop
chains from his front basket. The cross was far too cumbersome to carry the entire distance from
the church, but the pilgrimage was deemed absolutely necessary to force the audience to
experience an approximation of Jesus trek to Golgotha. A compromise was made and some of
the child extras from the Dickens production were called up to act as weights on the end of
Jesus chains. It was suggested as a logistical compromise, but the difficulty was in keeping the
children from laughing as Jesus dragged them about Ediths living room during rehearsal. Other
complications, such as the potential inconsistency of the Burroughs lawn, what to do with the
children after the effect had been achieved and how to get the chains off in the middle of the
introduction were all given little consideration. Eventually the image of Jesus literally carrying
the weight of future generations on his shoulders became a more powerful image in their minds
than the original. Christ was played by a young man that knew his limitations and was in fact
chosen for the role partially because of his waifish physique. He practiced dragging his brothers
dumbbels at home which resulted in an unexpected reduction in his makeup expenditures.
Bruised and chained to the bishops quintuplets, he wagged his finger over his lips in preparation
for his dramatic entrance. Breathing one last deep breath he tightened the childrens gags and
pushed open the backyard gate.
The audience ceased all chatter, the wind making the dialogue difficult to hear for even
the most aurally healthy spectators. The sight was a shock to many, especially for those closer to
the bishop, who was not in attendance. The four Roman soldiers marched nearly synchronized
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 18

towards Jesus, yanking him from his chains, positioning themselves to make a red and leather
wall behind him. Brought to his knees, loudly groaning and attempting to hide the shivering
caused by a steady pulse of easterly wind, he inched towards the centre of the action. The
crosses still rocked back and forth in the wind, creaking and giving every indication one would
need to determine structural instability. The dirt was loosened so with each motion a wedge
grew where the wood met the ground. Their tilt became rather extreme at both pitches. Edith
found herself for the first time truly understanding the effect of an uncommon image and even
appreciating not-planned-for effects. It was haunting, as if the simple wooden death machines
were themselves alive, reaching impatiently to swallow their intended victim.
It came time for the soldiers to foist the characters up onto the crosses. The soldiers and
Jesus had only a brief dialogue, but it was the conclusion of all speaking parts. The sextet to
stage left began to play their heavily practiced hymns, which they augmented with syncopation
and note quotes from Charles Mingus. Pilate held his arms aloft and moved towards the action.
The chained children were removed from Jesus limbs and pulled up, one on each arm of the
flanking crosses. They served as poignant understudies for the criminals Jesus pardoned with
some of his last breath. Some were moved, and some were perplexed. Once on the crosses,
holding on with their hands to the manacles they dangled from, the wind made them swing,
which only made holding back their laughter even more difficult. It came time to place Jesus in
his place and finish the play. Edith could not believe it was already coming to a close after all
her preparation. She almost didnt want it to end.
Gordon looked among a crowd of worried and confused faces. The winds were picking
up and only getting worse, almost urging him to retreat to the cellar. He watched on, feeling
helpless as the soldiers lifted their Christ up to the cross but could no longer keep the thing still.
The North York Play of the Crucifixion - 19

It swayed back and forth with such force it beat Jesus on the back, leaving hefty marks and
lending weight to the realism of his screams. Ediths heart suddenly sank. She looked to
Gordon, seeing his concern as he panned his sight across the crowd. Some were frightened of
the subject matter, others of the storm, many of both. The ties around Jesus arms were finally
slipped onto the cross but the swinging started again, continuing until he was green in the face.
The bishops children still laughed, enjoying the ride of a lifetime. Their chains somehow did
not come back to hit them or skin their palms as they held on. They were all swing and semi-
toothless grins. Jesus, not so fortunate, became unable to restrain the egg salad Morgan had
brought to him on the road. He cried his final line:
My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?
As he ended his final cry he was bucked forward with such force his lunch was flung from him.
It careened through the air with such speed the bulk of it was flung clear to the bay window.
Edith let a single tear fall from her left eye and the audience turn3ed to her, eyes wide and unsure
whether or not they should expect some explanation. A flash lit up the whole scene and froze it
in light for only a second, before the thunder came indicating its closeness. The rains began, and
the procession quickly made for the living room.