Carrie is 70 years old, a retired teacher of English Lit. She reads Jane Austen, May Sarton and an occasional "trashy novel." She votes Democratic and worships pantheist ( "I can't feel the presence of God inside a building" ) . She never married and currently lives reclusively in a tiny Saginaw apartment. She adores the music of Peggy Lee and Frank Sinatra. She describes herself as "the type who writes very bad poetry." After losing the Great Love Of Her Youth, she has hesitated to pursue another. Her Great Love, by the way, was a homosexual woman.
Abigail is 68, a retired professor of economics. She reads newspapers and technical journals. She votes Republican and worships Episcopal, but is uncomfortable with the more communal aspects of its liturgy. She is an avid Masterpiece Theatre enthusiast. She has been widowed for eight years and travels extensively and safely ( "I have sailed the Nile with the ladies of the DAR, but I always make my reservations well in advance." She declares, to which Carrie retorts, "I'll bet you know every Hyatt from here to Morocco." ) . She has been boating only once, and her single foray into casino gambling convinced her that a second visit was unnecessary. She describes herself as "a dull soul whose idea of a good time is an afternoon spent creating an annotated bibliography." After losing the Great Love Of Her Youth, she married a husband whom she could lose painlessly. Her Great Love, coincidentally, was a homosexual man.
These are the characters in Fossils, Claudia Allen's new play, currently in its world premiere production at Victory Gardens Theater. They meet on the porch of a Bed & Breakfast overlooking the Grand Traverse Bay on the northern coast of Lower Michigan. It is Abigail's customary summer retreat, but Carrie has arrived peripatetically —setting out from Saginaw on impulse, driving until nightfall and checking into the closest refuge. Her agenda is likewise adventurous—she goes walking in flimsy shoes and returns with blisters. She goes wading in the bay, gets sunburnt, bitten by a turtle and sprains her ankle. She does tai chi exercises. She buys her first athletic shoes, and catches her first glimpse of the Northern Lights, both under Abigail's guidance.
Her plucky spirit is infectious, however, and soon Abigail finds herself engaging in all sorts of activities inappropriate to her age, station and temperament: Dry-land fishing, for example. Hot and sweaty hikes. Touring five lighthouses in one day, accumulating souvenir photographs of same. And, on Carrie's suggestion, leaving a picnic supper—brie, smoked whitefish, French bread and champagne—at the door of the newlyweds who never leave their room. Carrie has purchased an extra bottle of champagne, on which the two self-styled fairy godmothers proceed to get tipsy and dance in the moonlight. But with the enjoyment of each other's company also comes revelation of secrets, and reconsideration of values hitherto taken for granted, and a reluctance to resume the enervating lifestyles from which their serendipitous encounter has liberated them.
When we think about old lesbians—or old women, for that matter—we tend to picture them in groups—jolly sewing circles and garden clubs, or at least a cozy Boston Marriage with tea and cats. Young females may fret over the prospect of celibacy, but elderly ladies are assumed to have found their niche, encouraged by our society's general indifference to the sexual propriety of those exempt from childbearing duties. In Victorian times, straitened finances would justify two women setting up housekeeping together, and lack of central heating excuse their sleeping in the same room—or in the same bed. ( In one of L.M. Montgomery's Anne Of Green Gables books, a proper matron refers to this practice without the slightest indication of it being anything but commonplace. ) And with the sexual revolution of the 1960s proclaiming the universal right to erotic fulfillment, surely no one need languish in solitary despair any more, need they?
But even our permissive atmosphere has not removed all the impediments. Beneath Abigail's defense of the social order ( "How could I consider becoming someone I would be reluctant to invite to tea?" ) lies the same fear of intimacy as that expressed by the naturally romantic Carrie. The latter has "known passion," as she puts it, and the former denied it, but both have allowed their experience to cripple them. Granted, Carrie's obstacles were more severe—in the 1950s, she reminds us, homosexuality was still classified as a psychiatric disorder and those displaying its symptoms subject to arrest, involuntary incarceration and dubious therapeutic "cures." But now, in the twilight of their years, they both face the same decision: Will they, shrouded in the safety of spiritual isolation, quietly become one with the Ice-Age remains that Carrie collects on her woodland walks? Or will they risk one last chance at the happiness that comes from sharing with a special Other?
"It's so rare to find Great Love," says director Sandy Shinner, "Carrie feels she will never find anyone again. And Abigail has never considered the fact of being in love with a woman. We have all these prejudices—but who dictates that one point of view is right for another person? I think what the play is saying is that when you find someone you really love, when you find that Great Love—then you have to reach out and grab it."
Shinner also comments on the age factor. "Society teaches women to play certain roles, to behave a certain way. Carrie and Abigail talk about all the things they can't do any more—but who decides that? The young lovers remind them of what they think they've missed, but eventually they realize that passion is still possible in old age. Look at the landlady and her husband—I think it's safe to say that the spark has gone out of their marriage, but that's just what WE see. How do we know what keeps them together? As Carrie says, 'I envy them the years, if not the life.' "
The healing power of nature, a cornerstone in American literary tradition, is evident in Fossils' pastoral setting, with the foliage-framed porch creating a kind of nest in which new life may flourish. And with a steadily increasing proportion of our nation's population approaching the mid-century mark, more playwrights are addressing issues of concern to that demographic—chiefly the perception that they cannot adapt to changing times. "Just because we're old farts doesn't mean we have to be bigoted old farts" Carrie snaps, at one point.
"Carrie talks about the fossils," muses Shinner. "A fossil is certainly something that was once alive. But I like the idea of fossil FUEL, of energy coming from the fossil, so that it's not just a relic left over from another time. And I like the possibility of women having more freedom BECAUSE they're older." Old age is usually thought to be a time for finishing, but Fossils declares it a time for beginning as well—good news for lovers, whether in their first bloom or their last ripening.
Fossils, starring Julie Harris, is written by Chicago lesbian Claudia Allen and is being staged through July 1 at the Tony-winning Victory Gardens Theater; ( 773 ) 871-3000.
