THEO, touching her hand briefly, hostility momentarily overcome: . . . Do you understand this?
LEAH: It’s baffling. He’s raced the Mount Morgan road, he knows what it’s like, even in summer.
THEO: Raced? You mean cars?
LEAH: Sure. He has a Lotus and a Z. He had a Ferrari, but he totaled it. Theo turns and stares into space, stunned. I was thinking before . . .
THEO: He’s always been terrified of speed; he never drives over sixty . . .
LEAH: . . . He reminds me of a frog . . .
THEO: A frog?
LEAH: . . . I mean you never know when you look at a frog whether it’s the same one you just saw or a different one. To Tom: When you talk to him—the television is hounding us; he really has to make a definite statement to stop all this stupid speculation.
THEO: What speculation?
LEAH: You’ve seen the Daily News, haven’t you?
THEO: What!
LEAH: We’re both on the front page with a headline . . .
TOM, to Theo, placating: It’s unimportant . . .
THEO, to Leah: What’s the headline?
LEAH: “Who gets Lyman?”
THEO: How dare they!
TOM: Don’t be upset. To Leah: I’ll get a statement from him this afternoon . . .
LEAH: Goodbye, Mrs. . . . Stops herself; a short laugh. I was going to call you Mrs. Felt, but . . . Correcting again. . . . Well you are, aren’t you—I guess I’m the one who’s not! I’ll come by about three or so. Leah exits.
THEO: She wants him back, doesn’t she.
TOM: Why?
THEO, gives her little laugh: Didn’t you hear it?—she’s the one he was happy with!
TOM: Oh, I don’t think she meant . . .
THEO, her fierce competitiveness aroused: That’s all she meant.—I pity her, though, with such a young child. She fumes in silence. Can it have been suicide?
TOM: Frankly, I’d almost hope so, in a way.
THEO: You mean it would indicate a moral conscience?
TOM: Yes. —But I’m wondering . . . maybe he just wanted to change his life; become a completely different person . . .
THEO, stares for a moment: . . . Maybe not so different.
TOM: How do you mean?
THEO, a long hesitation: I don’t know why I’m still trying to protect him—he tried to kill me once.
TOM: You’re not serious.
Lyman appears in sunlight in swim trunks, inhaling deeply on a boat deck. She begins walking toward him.
THEO: Oh yes! I didn’t know this woman existed then, but I see now it was just about the time they had either married or were on the verge. As she moves toward Lyman, her coat slides off, revealing her in a swimsuit. He seemed very strange, unreal. We’d gone for a two-day sail off Montauk . . .
Lyman is doing breathing exercises.
LYMAN: The morning mist rising from the sea is always like the first day of the world . . . the “oysterygods and the visigods . . .”
Theo enters into Lyman’s acting area.
THEO: Finnegans Wake.
LYMAN: I’ll get the weather. Kneels, tunes a radio; static. Is that a new suit? It’s sexy as hell.
THEO: Two years ago. You bought it for me in San Diego.
LYMAN, mimes a pistol to his head: Bang.
ANNOUNCER, voice-over: . . . Due to the unusually warm spring tides there’ve been several shark sightings off Montauk . . . one is reported to be twelve to fourteen feet long . . . Heavy static intervenes; Lyman mimes switching the radio off.
LYMAN: Jesus.
THEO: Oh that’s ridiculous, it’s only May! I’m going in for a dip . . . She looks out over the ocean.
LYMAN: But the radio man said . . .
THEO: Nonsense. I’ve sailed around here since my childhood, and so did my grandparents—there are never sharks until July if at all, the water’s much too cold. Come in with me?
LYMAN: I’m the Mediterranean type—we’re unreliable and hate cold water. I know I shouldn’t say this, Theo, but how you can hang on to your convictions in the face of a report like that . . . just seems . . . I don’t know—fanatical.
THEO, with a hard, determined laugh: Now that is really uncalled for! You’re just as stubborn as I am when you’re committed to something.
LYMAN: Goddammit, you’re right! And I love your convictions!—go ahead, I’ll keep an eye out.
THEO, with loving laughter: You simply can’t stand me contradicting you, darling, but it’s the best exercise for your character.
LYMAN: Right! And a miserable character it is. Into the ocean! He leaves her side, scans the ocean.
THEO, bends for a dive: On the mark . . . get set . . .
LYMAN, pointing left: What’s that out there!
THEO: No, sharks always move, that’s a log.
LYMAN: Oh right. Okay, jump in.
THEO: I’ll run in! Wait, let me warm up. Backs up to make a run for it. Join me! Come on.
LYMAN: I can’t, dear, I fear death.
She is behind him, running in place. His back is to her and his eye catches sight of something toward the right front; his mouth opens, eyes staring in horror following the moving shark. She bends to start her run.
THEO: Okay, one . . . and a two . . . and a . . . three! She runs and as she comes abreast of him he suddenly, at the last moment, reaches out and stops her at the edge.
LYMAN: Stop!
He points front; she looks, horror rising on her face as their eyes follow the fish.
THEO: My God, the size of him! Ahhh . . . ! She bursts into tears of released terror; he takes her into his arms.
LYMAN: Honey, when are you going to trust something I say!
THEO: Oh, I’m going to be sick . . . !
About to vomit, she bends and rushes into darkness. Lights go out on Lyman and up on Tom in the waiting room; he is staring straight ahead, listening. The light widens and finds Theo standing in her fur coat.
TOM: That sounds like he saved you.
THEO: Yes, I’ve always tried to think of it that way, too, but I have to face everything, now—coming downstage; newly distressed by the memory—it was not quite at the top of his voice. I mean, it wasn’t . . .
Light flares up on Lyman in his trunks. At top voice and in horror he shouts . . .
LYMAN: Stop! He stands mesmerized looking at the shark below. Blackout on Lyman.
THEO: It was more like . . .
Lights flare up again on Lyman, and he merely semi-urgently—as he did in the scene—shouts . . .
LYMAN: Stop.
Blackout on Lyman.
THEO: I tell you he was on the verge of letting me go.
TOM: Come on, Theo, you can’t really believe that. I mean, how could you have gone on living with him?
THEO: How I’ve gone on? A bitter and embarrassed smile. Well, we did have two serious breakups and . . . months have gone by without . . . relations. Gradually becomes furious. No, damnit, I’m not going to evade this anymore. —Maybe I’ve gone on because I’m corrupt, Tom. I certainly wasn’t once, but who knows, now? He’s rich, isn’t he? And vastly respected, and what would I do with myself alone? Why does anybody stay together, once they realize who they’re with? Suddenly livid. What the hell am I hanging around here for? This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life! Indignantly grabs her bag.
TOM: You love him, Theo. Physically stops her. Please go home, will you? And give it a few weeks before you decide anything? She stifles a sob as he embraces her. I know how crazy this sounds, but part of him worships you. I’m sure of it.
THEO, suddenly screams in his face: I hate him! I hate him! She is rigid, pale, and he grips her shoulders to steady her. A pause. I must lie down. We’ll probably go back to the city tonight. But call me if he wake
s up. —It’s so hard to just walk away without knowing what happened. —Or maybe I should just leave . . . She passes her hand across her brow. Do I look strange?
TOM: Just tired. Come, I’ll find you a cab.
THEO: It’s only a few blocks, I need the air. Starting off, turns back. Amazing how beautiful the country still is up here. Like nothing bad had ever happened in the world. She exits.
Alone, Tom stands staring into space, arms folded, trying to figure out an approach.
BLACKOUT
SCENE II
Lyman’s room. He is deeply asleep, snoring placidly at first. Now he starts muttering.
NURSE: Whyn’t you take some time off? You do more work asleep than most of us awake. You ought to come up ice fishing with us sometime, that’ll slow you down.
Nurse goes out. Now there is a tensing up, he is groaning in his sleep. Leah and Theo appear on either side of him, but on elevated platforms, like two stone deities; they are in kitchen aprons, wifely ribbons tying up their hair. But there is something menacing about their deathly stillness as the sepulchral dream-light finds them, motionless in this tableau. After a long moment they reanimate. As in life they are reserved, each measuring herself against the other. Their manner of speaking is godlike, deathly.
THEO: I wouldn’t mind it at all if you did some of the cooking, I’m not all that super.
LEAH, generously: I hear you make good desserts, though.
THEO: Apple cobbler, yes; gingerbread with whipped cream. Gaining confidence. And exceptional waffles for breakfast, with real maple syrup, although he’s had to cut out the sausages.
LEAH: I can do potato pancakes and segadina goulash.
THEO, disapproving: And all that paprika?
LEAH: It has to be blended in, of course.
THEO, at a loss, sensing defeat: Ah, blended in! I’m afraid I couldn’t do something like that.
LEAH, smiling, brutally pressing her advantage: Oh yes, blended in and really blended in! And my gefilte fish is feather-light. Clapping her cupped palms together. I wet my hands and keep patting it till it shapes up just perfect!
THEO, struggling, at a loss: He does love my glazed ham. Yes!—and my boiled tongue. A sudden bright idea. Custard!
LEAH, generously: You can do all the custard and glazed ham and I’ll do all the gefilte fish and goulash . . . and the blending in.
THEO: But may I do some? Once or twice a month, perhaps?
LEAH: Let’s leave it up to him—some months you can do more . . .
THEO: Yes!—and some months you.
LEAH: ’Kay! Would you wash out my panties?
THEO: Certainly. As long as he tells me my lies.
LEAH: Good! Then you’ll have your lies and I’ll have mine!
THEO AND LEAH: Hurrah for the menu!
LEAH, filled with admiration: You certainly have class!
Lyman chuckles in his sleep as they emerge from their matronly costumes, now dressed in sexy black tight-fitting body stockings and high heels and, slithering toward each other, kiss, turn toward the bed and as he laughs suddenly raise long daggers and chop at him again and again. He is shouting and writhing as Nurse rushes in and the women disappear.
NURSE: All right now, let’s come back, dear, come on back . . .
He stops struggling and opens his eyes.
LYMAN: Wah. Oh. What dreams. God, how I’d like to be dead.
NURSE: Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself; you know what they say—come down off the cross, they need the wood.
LYMAN: I’m suffocating, can’t you open a window?
NURSE: Not anymore, I can’t.
LYMAN: Huh? Oh listen, that’s ridiculous, I wasn’t really trying to climb out . . .
NURSE: Well, you did a pretty good imitation. Your lawyer’s asking can he come in . . .
LYMAN: I thought he’d gone back to New York. I look terrible?
NURSE, swabbing his face and hands: You takin’ it too hard. Be different if you deserted those women, but anybody can see how well taken care of they are. . . .
LYMAN: Go on, you don’t kid me, Logan—underneath all this cool you know you’re as shocked as hell.
NURSE: Go on, brush your teeth. As he does: The last shock I had come off a short in my vacuum cleaner . . . He laughs, then groans in pain. One thing I have been wondering, though.
LYMAN: What’ve you been wondering?
NURSE: Whatever got into you to actually marry that woman?—man as smart as you?
LYMAN: Were you talking about ice before?
NURSE: Ice? Oh, you mean . . . ya, we go ice fishing on the lake, me, my husband, and my boy—you’re remembering a lot better now.
LYMAN, staring: Not being married is going to feel very strange—like suddenly your case has been dismissed and you don’t have to be in court anymore.
NURSE: Don’t you talk bad about those women; they don’t look mean to me.
LYMAN: Why I married her? —I’m very attracted to women who smell like fruit; Leah smelled like a pink, ripe cantaloupe. And when she smiled, her clothes seemed to drop off. I’d never been so jealous. I swear, if a hundred women walked past me on a sidewalk I could pick out the clack of Leah’s heels. I even loved lying in bed listening to the quiet splash of her bathwater. And of course slipping into her pink cathedral . . .
NURSE: You have the dirtiest mind I ever seen on an educated man.
LYMAN: I couldn’t lose her, Logan, and that’s the best reason to marry anybody, unless you’re married already.
NURSE: I’ll get your lawyer, okay? He seems suddenly overcome; weeps. Now don’t you start that cryin’ again . . .
LYMAN: It’s just my children . . . you can’t imagine how they respected me . . . Bracing himself. But nobody’s any better, goddammit!
Tom enters.
TOM: May I come in?
LYMAN, uncertainly, trying to read Tom: Hi! I thought you’d gone back—something happen?
TOM: Can we talk?
Nurse exits.
LYMAN: If you can bear it. Grins. You despise me, Tom?
TOM: I’m still staggering. I don’t know what to think.
LYMAN: Sure you do, but that’s okay. His charming grin. So, what’s up?
TOM: I’ve been discussing things with the women . . .
LYMAN: I thought I told you—or did I?—just give them what they want. Within reason, I mean.
TOM: I really believe Theo’d like to find a way to forgive you.
LYMAN: Impossible!
TOM: She’s a great spirit, Lyman.
LYMAN: . . . Not that great; I’d have to live on my knees for the rest of my life.
TOM: Maybe not—if you were clear about yourselves . . .
LYMAN: I’m pretty clear now—I’m a selfish son of a bitch. But I have loved the truth.
TOM: And what’s the truth?
LYMAN: A man can be faithful to himself or to other people—but not to both. At least not happily. We all know this, but it’s immoral to admit that the first law of life is betrayal; why else did those rabbis pick Cain and Abel to open the Bible? Cain felt betrayed by God, so he betrayed Him and killed his brother.
TOM: But the Bible doesn’t end there, does it.
LYMAN: Jesus Christ? I can’t worship self-denial; it’s just not true for me. We’re all ego, kid, ego plus an occasional heart-felt prayer.
TOM: Then why’d you bother building one of the most socially responsible companies in America?
LYMAN: The truth? I did that twenty-five years ago, when I was a righteous young man; but I am an unrighteous middle-aged man now, so all I have left is to try not to live with too many lies. Suddenly collapsing within. —Why must I see them? . . . What can I say to them? Christ, if I could only lose consciousness! Rocking side to side in anguish. . . . Advise me, Tom, t
ell me something.
TOM: Maybe you ought to give up trying to seem so strong.
Slight pause.
LYMAN: What do you want me to say, I’m a loser?
TOM: Well, right now, aren’t you?
LYMAN: No, goddammit! A loser has lived somebody else’s life, I’ve lived my own; crappy as it may seem, it’s mine. —And I’m no worse than anybody else! —Now answer that, and don’t kid me.
TOM: All right, I won’t kid you; I think you’ve done these women terrible harm.
LYMAN: You do.
TOM: If you want to get off this dime you’re on I’d begin by confronting the damage I’d done—I think you’ve raked Theo’s soul.
LYMAN: I’ve also given her an interesting life, a terrific daughter, and made her very rich. I mean, exactly what harm are you talking about?
TOM: Lyman, you deceived her . . .
LYMAN, fury overtaking him: But she couldn’t have had all that if I hadn’t deceived her!—you know as well as I that nobody could live with Theo for more than a month without some relief! I’ve suffered at least as much as she has in this marriage!
TOM, demurring: Well . . .
LYMAN: . . . Now listen, you want the rock-bottom truth?—I curse the day I ever laid eyes on her and I don’t want her forgiveness!
TOM: For Pete’s sake, don’t get angry . . .
LYMAN: I ever tell you how we met?—let’s stop pretending this marriage was made in heaven, for Christ’s sake!—I was hitchhiking back from Cornell; nineteen innocent years of age; I’m standing beside the road with my suitcase and I go behind a bush. This minister sees the suitcase and stops, gives me a ride, and I end up at an Audubon Society picnic, where lo and behold, I meet his daughter, Theodora.—Had I taken that suitcase with me behind the bush I’d never have met her!—And serious people are still talking about the moral purpose of the universe!
TOM: Give or take a bad patch or two, you’ve had the best marriage of anyone I’ve ever met.
LYMAN, with a sigh: I know. —Look, we’re all the same; a man is a fourteen-room house—in the bedroom he’s asleep with his intelligent wife, in his living room he’s rolling around with some bare-assed girl, in the library he’s paying his taxes, in the yard he’s raising tomatoes, and in the cellar he’s making a bomb to blow it all up. And nobody’s different . . . Except you, maybe. Are you?
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 115
