by David French
JACOB A lifetime spent in this house, and he gives us less notice than you would a landlord! And me about to wallpaper his room like a goddamn fool! (slight pause) And don’t come back broke and starving in a week or two and expect a handout, ’cause the only way you’ll get t’rough that door is to break it in! (slight pause) You’ll never last on your own. You never had to provide for yourself.
BEN I’ll learn.
JACOB You’ll starve.
BEN All right, I’ll starve. And then you can have the satisfaction of being right. (slight pause) You’re always telling me it’s time I got out on my own and grew up.
JACOB Sure, t’row up in my face what I said in the past!
BEN Dad, will you listen to me for once? It’s not because home’s bad, or because I hate you. It’s not that. I just want to be independent, that’s all. Can’t you understand that? (slight pause) I had to move out sometime.
JACOB Was it somet’ing I said? What was it? Tell me. I must have said somet’ing!
BEN No, it was nothing you said. Will you come off it?
JACOB Can you imagine what our relatives will say, once they hears? They’ll say you left home on account of me.
BEN Well, who the hell cares?
JACOB And you any idea what this’ll do to your mother? You’m her favourite. (The last syllable rhymes with “night.”)
MARY Jacob! That’s not fair!
JACOB What odds? It’s true, and don’t deny it. (to BEN) Your mother’s always been most fond of you. She even delivered you herself. Did you know that?
MARY There’s no time for family history, Father.
JACOB moves quickly to the mantel and takes the photo album. He is slightly desperate now. He flicks open the album.
JACOB (intimately, to BEN) Look. Look at that one. You could scarcely walk. Clinging for dear life to your mother’s knee. (turning the page) And look at this. The four of us. Harry Saunders took that of us with my old box camera the day the Germans marched into Paris. (Turns the photo over.) There. You’m good with dates. June 14, 1940. Look how lovely your mother looks, my son. No more than ninety pounds when she had you.
MARY Ninety-one.
JACOB She was that t’in, you’d swear the wind would carry her off. We never believed we’d have another, after the first died. He was premature. Seven months, and he only lived a few hours.
MARY Enough of the past, boy.
JACOB That was some night, the night you was born. Blizzarding to beat hell. The doctor lived in Bay Roberts, and I had to hitch up the sled —
MARY He’s heard all that.
JACOB Some woman, your mother. Cut and tied the cord herself. Had you scrubbed to a shine and was washed herself and back in bed, sound asleep, before we showed up.
MARY Took all the good out of me, too.
JACOB And wasn’t she a picture? She could have passed for her namesake in the stained glass of a Catholic window, she was that radiant.
MARY Get on with you.
JACOB Your mother’d never let on, but you can imagine the state she’ll be in if you goes. You’m all that’s left now, Ben. The last son. (a whisper) I t’ink she wishes you’d stay.
MARY I heard that. Look, you speak for yourself. I’ve interfered enough for one night.
JACOB Your mother has always lived just for the two of you.
MARY (pained) Oh, Jacob.
JACOB Always.
BEN Come on, Dad, that’s not true.
JACOB It is so, now. It is so.
MARY Well, it’s not, and don’t you say it is. The likes of that!
JACOB Confess, Mary. I don’t count, I’ve never counted. Not since the day they was born.
BEN If that’s true, Dad, you should be glad to get rid of both of us. Have Mom all to yourself again.
JACOB Don’t be smart.
MARY Who’s the one making all the fuss? Me or you? Answer me that.
JACOB No, you’d sit by silent and let me do it for you and take all the shit that comes with it. I’m wise to your little games.
MARY I can’t stop him, if he wants to go. I don’t like it any more than you do. I can’t imagine this house without our two sons. But if what Ben wants is to go, he’s got my blessing. I won’t stand in his way because I’m scared. And if you can’t speak for yourself, don’t speak for me. I’m out of it.
JACOB If he’s so dead set on going, he can march out the door this very minute.
MARY He will not! Don’t be foolish!
JACOB He will so, if I say so!
JACOB charges into BEN’S bedroom and returns with a suitcase, which he sets on the floor.
There! Pack your belongings right this second, if we’m not good enough for you.
MARY Ben, don’t pay him no mind.
JACOB I don’t want you in this house another minute, if you’m that anxious to be elsewhere. Ingrate!
MARY If you don’t shut your big yap, he just might, and then you’d be in some state.
JACOB Oh, I would, would I? Well, we’ll just see about that. I’ll help him pack, if he likes! (He charges into BEN’S bedroom.)
MARY Ben, don’t talk back to him when he’s mad. It only makes it worse, you knows that.
JACOB comes out with a stack of record albums which he hurls violently to the floor.
There. Enough of that goddamn squealing and squawking. Now I can get some peace and quiet after a hard day’s work.
BEN Dad, I think I ought to . . .
JACOB Don’t open your mouth. I don’t want to hear another word!
BEN All right, make a fool of yourself!
JACOB (to MARY) And that goes for you, too! (He charges back into the bedroom.)
BEN What’ll we do, Mom? We got to get out of here. Can’t you stop him?
MARY All you can do, when he gets like this, is let him run down and tire himself out. His poor father was the same. He’d hurl you t’rough the window one minute and brush the glass off you the next.
JACOB comes out with a stack of new shirts still in the cellophane.
JACOB And look at this, will you? Talk about a sin. I walks around with my ass out, and here’s six new shirts never even opened. (He hurls the shirts on the pile of records.)
BEN I don’t want to spoil your fun, Dad, but so far all that stuff belongs to Billy.
JACOB stares at the scattered records and shirts, alarmed.
MARY Now you’ve done it, boy. Will you sit down now? You’re just making a bigger fool of yourself the longer you stands.
JACOB (her reproach is all he needs to get back in stride) Sure, mock me when I’m down. Well, I’ll show you who the fool is. We’ll just see who has the last laugh! (He charges into his own bedroom.)
MARY picks up the records and shirts.
BEN (pause) I wanted to tell him, Mom, a week ago. I kept putting it off.
MARY I wish you had, Ben. This mightn’t have happened.
BEN It’s all our fault, anyhow.
MARY What do you mean?
BEN We’ve made him feel like an outsider all these years. The three of us. You, me, Billy. It’s always been him and us. Always. As long as I can remember.
MARY Blame your father’s temper. He’s always had a bad temper. All we done was try our best to avoid it.
BEN Yeah, but we make it worse. We feed it. We shouldn’t shut him out the way we do.
MARY And what is it you’re not saying, that it’s my fault somehow? Is that what you t’inks? Say it.
BEN I didn’t say that.
MARY Your father believes it. He calls me the ringleader.
BEN Well, you set the example, Mom, a long time ago. When we were little.
MARY Don’t you talk, Ben. You’re some one to point fingers. (slight pause) Perhaps I did. Perhaps your father’s right all along. But you’re no little child any longer, and you haven’t been for years. You’re a man now, and you never followed anyone’s example for too long unless you had a mind to. So don’t use that excuse.
BEN I’m not
. I’m just as much to blame as anybody. I know that.
MARY I always tried to keep the peace. And that wasn’t always easy in this family, with you and your father at each other’s t’roats night and day. And to keep the peace I had to sometimes keep a good many unpleasant facts from your father. Small, simple t’ings, mostly.
BEN You were just sparing yourself.
MARY I was doing what I considered the most good! And don’t tell me I wasn’t. Oh, Ben, you knows yourself what he’s like. If you lost five dollars down the sewer, you didn’t dare let on. If you did, he’d dance around the room like one leg was on fire and the other had a bee up it. It was just easier that way, not to tell him. Easier on the whole family. Yes, and easier on myself.
BEN But it wasn’t easier when he found out. On him or us.
MARY He didn’t always, Ben.
BEN No, but when he does, like tonight — it’s worse!
JACOB enters from the bedroom, slowly, carrying a small cardboard box. He removes the contents of the box — a neatly folded silk dressing-gown — and throws the box to one side.
JACOB I won’t be needing the likes of this. Take it with you. I’ve got enough old junk cluttering up my closet.
BEN I don’t want it, either.
MARY He gave you that for your birthday. You’ve never even worn it.
JACOB Take it!
He hurls it violently in BEN’S face. Then he notices the diploma lying on the table. He grabs it.
MARY Not the diploma, Jacob! No!
BEN says nothing. He just stares at his father, who stares back the whole time he removes the ribbon, unfolds the diploma, and tears it into two pieces, then four, then eight. He drops the pieces to the floor.
MARY God help you. This time you’ve gone too far.
Pause. Then BEN crosses to the suitcase. He picks it up.
BEN I’ll pack. (He exits into his bedroom.)
MARY All right. You satisfied? You’ve made me feel deeply ashamed tonight, Jacob, the way you treats Ben. I only hopes he forgives you. I don’t know if I would, if it was me.
JACOB I always knowed it would come to this one day. He’s always hated me, and don’t say he hasn’t. Did you see him tonight? I can’t so much as lay a hand on his shoulder. He pulls away. His own father, and I can’t touch him. All his life long he’s done nothing but mock and defy me, and now he’s made me turn him out in anger, my own son. (to MARY, angrily) And you can bugger off, too, if you don’t like it. Don’t let me keep you. Just pack your bag and take him with you. Dare say you’d be happier off. I don’t give a good goddamn if the whole lot of you deserts me.
MARY You don’t know when to stop, do you? You just don’t know when to call a halt. What must I do? Knock you senseless? You’d go on and on until you brought your whole house tumbling down. I suppose it’s late in the day to be expecting miracles, but for God’s sake, Jacob, control yourself. For once in your life would you just t’ink before you speaks? Please! (slight pause) I have no sympathy for you. You brought this all on yourself. You wouldn’t listen. Well, listen now. Have you ever in your whole life took two minutes out to try and understand him? Have you? Instead of galloping off in all directions? Dredging up old hurts? Why, not five minutes ago he stood on that exact spot and stuck up for you!
JACOB looks at her, surprised, slightly incredulous.
JACOB Ben did . . . ?
MARY Yes, Ben did, and don’t look so surprised. Now it may be too late, but there are some t’ings that just have to be said, right now, in the open. Sit down and listen. Sit down. (JACOB sits.) For twenty years now I’ve handled the purse strings in this family, and only because you shoved it off on me. I don’t like to do it any more than you do. I’m just as bad at it, except you’re better with the excuses. (JACOB rises.) I’m not finished. Sit down. (He does — slight pause.) Last fall you tumbled off our garage roof and sprained your back. You was laid up for six months all told — November to May — without a red cent of Workmen’s Compensation, because the accident didn’t happen on the job. And I made all the payments as usual — the mortgages, your truck, the groceries, life insurance, the hydro and oilman, your union dues. All that, and more. I took care of it all. And where, Jacob, do you suppose the money came from? You never once asked. Did you ever wonder?
JACOB Where? From the bank.
MARY The bank! We didn’t have a nickel in the bank. Not after the second month.
JACOB What is you getting at, Mary?
MARY Just this. (She lowers her voice.) If Ben hadn’t got a scholarship, he wouldn’t have went to college this fall. He couldn’t have afforded to. It was his money that took us over the winter. All those years of working part-time and summers. All of it gone.
JACOB Ben did that?
MARY And you says he hates you!
JACOB I don’t want no handouts from him. I’ll pay him back every cent of it.
MARY Shut up. He’ll hear you! He never wanted you to know, so don’t you dare let on I told you, you hear? He knowed how proud you is, and he knowed you wouldn’t want to t’ink you wasn’t supporting your family. (slight pause) Now, boy, who’s got the last laugh? (MARY takes her coat and puts it on as she crosses to BEN’S door.) Hurry up, Ben. The taxi ought to be here any second.
She turns and looks at JACOB. There is anguish in her face. When she speaks her voice is drained.
I’m tired, Jacob. And you ought to be, too, by all rights. It’s time to quit it. A lifetime of this is enough, you and Ben. Declare it an even match for your own sake, boy, if for nothing else. I don’t want to see you keep getting the worst of it. You always did and you still do.
Enter BEN, carrying his suitcase.
BEN (to MARY) Isn’t the cab here yet? It’s almost eight.
MARY He’ll beep his horn. (slight pause) You don’t need to take that now, my son. Pick it up later.
BEN That’s okay, Mom. I’ve got all I want. The rest you can throw out. (He sits on his suitcase.)
JACOB Your mother told me what you done last winter. I —
MARY (sharply) Jacob!
JACOB I wants to t’ank you. I’ll pay you back.
MARY You promised you— (She stops, shakes her head in exasperation.)
JACOB (slight pause) I’m sorry what happened here tonight. I wants you to know that. I’ll make it up to you. I will.
BEN (meaning it) It’s nothing. Forget it.
MARY Let him say he’s sorry, Ben. He needs to.
JACOB Maybe I’ve been wrong. I suppose I ain’t been the best of fathers. I couldn’t give you all I’d like to. But I’ve been the best I could under the circumstances.
BEN Dad.
JACOB Hear me out, now. We never seen eye to eye in most cases, but we’m still a family. We’ve got to stick together. All we got in this world is the family — (He rises.) — and it’s breaking up, Ben. (slight pause) Stay for a while longer. For a few more years.
BEN I can’t.
JACOB You can. Why not?
BEN I just can’t.
JACOB Spite! You’m just doing this out of spite!
BEN shakes his head.
Then reconsider . . . like a good boy. Let your brother rent his room to a stranger, if he’s that hard up. Don’t let him break us up.
The taxi sounds its horn.
MARY There’s the taxi now.
JACOB (desperately) You don’t have to go, my son. You knows I never meant what I said before. You’m welcome to stay as long as you likes, and you won’t have to pay a cent of rent. (even more desperately) Come back afterwards!
BEN No, Dad.
JACOB Yes, come back. Like a good boy. I never had a choice in my day, Ben. You do.
BEN I don’t!
JACOB You do so! Don’t contradict me!
BEN What do you know? You don’t know the first thing about me, and you don’t want to. You don’t know how I feel, and you don’t give a shit!
JACOB In my day we had a duty to —
BEN In your day! I�
��m sick of hearing about your fucking day! This is my day, and we’re strangers. You know the men you work with better than you do me! Isn’t that right? Isn’t it?
JACOB And you treats your friends better than you do me! I know that much, I can tell you. A whole lot better! And with more respect. Using language like that in front of your mother!
The taxi honks impatiently. BEN moves to go. JACOB grabs the suitcase.
MARY Jacob! The taxi’s waiting!
JACOB (to BEN) You’m not taking that suitcase out of this house! Not this blessed day! (He puts the suitcase down at a distance.)
MARY That’s okay, Ben. Leave it. You can come back some other time. (MARY exits.)
JACOB He will like hell. Once he goes, that’s it. He came with nothing, he’ll go with nothing!
BEN (slight pause) Do you know why I want to be on my own? The real reason?
JACOB To whore around!
BEN Because you’re not going to stop until there’s nothing left of me. It’s not the world that wants to devour me, Dad — it’s you!
