middle-of-the-road, nice, respectable, nice young woman. Well, not nice, but decent. Then one day she just fell off the map of decency. In the public eye. In the opinion of civilized society. You’ve heard the rumours. The Supine Cobbler, this and that. People talk. The Hashknives, the Nacogdoches, they talk. Now you and I keep quiet. Even though we know a lot of things. We keep quiet. Still. Nobody knows this here story I’m about to unfold. Nobody talks about this. Even though it happened this year. Ultimately this story is brutal and unforgiving. Pretty violent and heartbreaking overall. That’s because most of what follows is true.
Powder flash. Dusters drop to the ground. Lights expose the gang in a criminal line-up. They step forward one by one as their photographs are taken.
Francisca Cordovan, AKA Frankie. Thirty-three. The Cobbler’s older sister. Achieved some small fame as a dancer in the Winnipeg Ballet. Met her death by hanging. One tough son of a bitch, such is the way with dancers of the ballet.
Leigh Meloné. Twenty-nine. The Cobbler’s best friend. Just friends. Married to the Kestrel. He’s not the topic. Leigh went missing three or four years ago, leaving not so much as footprints in the snow, presumed dead.
Everett ‘the Kid’ McMurtrett-Howley-Réjean-Cournoyer. Twenty-two. The Cobbler’s apprentice. Man-woman-child, a charmer, turncoat, as it turns out. Lived down the street from the Cordovans. Still does.
Grace Volonté Cordovan. Thirty-something with no name. Well, she was thirty-one and she had a name but you wouldn’t recognize it. I’m not going to try to explain her, as that would be a disservice, and tonight’s soirée would not be needed if I could. But she was a plain genius, with a concern for doing the right thing. And that’s where the trouble begins.
This is the story of one particular event, one particular sally into the wilderness. I was there for some of it. Some good times we felt immortal but also some mix-ups. Half of them end up dead. At least half.
Gotta know what kind of funeral you want.
Silence.
A morning bird.
LOVER: What are you thinking about?
COBBLER: Lovin’.
Gunshot. Blackout.
Horses’ hooves morph into a train at full steam: loud. Or: an adventure song.
One: Waiting Room
Clinic door shuts. Clinic lights up on clinic chairs. Clinic eighties music: filtered, one world in remove. The Cobbler and Kid stand arrived. The Kid has the Cobbler’s bag slung over her shoulder.
Punctuated by silences:
KID: Is this the place?
COBBLER: Yeah. What time is it?
The Kid carries the Cobbler’s smashed iPhone. She checks it.
KID: 7:15. What time’s our appointment?
COBBLER: Noon.
KID: Maybe we’re early.
COBBLER: We’re supposed to come early.
KID: Who’s that person?
COBBLER: Doctor.
KID: You know her?
COBBLER: No.
DOCTOR: You can have a seat.
They go to sit.
Hang your coat and hats.
They do.
Sit. It’s a waiting room.
They sit. They wait.
The Doctor removes her duster. Underneath she wears underwear and a soccer jersey that says GIRLS or MARADONA on the back. She transforms over the course of the play toward her role in the procedure.
Crickets. Waiting.
The Doctor puts a wolf pelt on the clothesline and travels it over to the waiting room. The Cobbler and Kid watch the wolf. The Doctor sits at her vanity smoking a water-vapour cigarette.
Punctuated by silences:
KID: This is a lot of waiting.
COBBLER: It’s been about two minutes.
KID: You think we’ll have to live here forever?
COBBLER: No, it’s just a checkup.
KID: You think she’ll know what you have?
COBBLER: Yeah.
KID: I don’t want to live here forever.
COBBLER: We’ll leave today.
KID: At least it’s not raining. At least we’re not starving. At least we don’t live in a palace. Did I say palace? I meant a townhouse. At least we don’t live in a townhouse beside a Walmart. Prison’s going to be bad. It’s going to be like prison. But at least we’ll have a place to live. What do you think you have?
COBBLER: Nothing, really. I bet it’s really common.
KID: Do you think I have it too?
COBBLER: No.
KID: It feels like I have it.
COBBLER: You don’t have it.
KID: I hope you don’t have something that costs a lot of money to fix. I hope you don’t have something that once you have it everyone hates you. I hope you have something so common there’s no name for it, something so common we don’t have to fix it because everyone has it.
COBBLER: Yes.
KID: Things could be worse. Still, things feel pretty bad. Which means they can only get better. Until we have to go to prison.
COBBLER: We’re not going to go to prison.
KID: I’m going to prison. I’m going to prison like five times.
COBBLER: I’ll tell your parents.
KID: I’ll tell my parents. Things are going to get so bad for me.
The Cobbler looks at the Kid.
I think this is a wolf. / Skin. Pelt.
COBBLER: / I think so.
KID: I want to put it on.
COBBLER:
