The Penguin Arthur Miller

by Arthur Miller

  LEROY: Really? Like what?

  PATRICIA, instant resistance: I just said I . . .

  LEROY: . . . Okay. Goes to a window. —It looks like rain outside, but we can walk around if you like. They’ve got a beautiful tulip bed down there; the colors really shine in this gray light. Reds and purple and whites, and a gray. Never saw a tulip be that kind of gray.

  PATRICIA: How’s Amelia’s leg? Are you getting her to change her bandage?

  LEROY: Yes. But she’d better stop thinking she can drive a car.

  PATRICIA: Well, why don’t you tell her?

  LEROY, a little laugh: That’ll be the day, won’t it, when she starts listening to her father.

  PATRICIA, a softness despite her language: She might if you laid down the law without just complaining. And if she could hear something besides disappointment in your voice.

  LEROY: She’s learned to look down at me, Patty, you know that.

  PATRICIA, strongly, but nearly a threat of weeping: Well, I hope you’re not blaming me for that.

  LEROY, he holds back, stands silent. Then puffs out his cheeks and blows, shaking his head with a defensive grin: Not my day, I see.

  PATRICIA: Maybe it could have been.

  LEROY: I was looking forward to telling you something.

  PATRICIA: What.

  LEROY: I got Harrelson to agree to twelve-thousand-five for the altar.

  PATRICIA: There, you see!—and you were so glad to accept eight. I told you . . . !

  LEROY: I give you all the credit. I finally got it through my thick skull, I said to myself, okay, you are slower than most, but quality’s got a right to be slow. And he didn’t make a peep—twelve thousand, five hundred dollars.

  She looks at him, immensely sad.

  —Well why do you look so sad?

  PATRICIA: Come here. Draws him down, kisses him. I’m glad. . . . I just couldn’t help thinking of all these years wasted trying to get you to charge enough; but I’ve decided to keep looking straight ahead, not back—I’m very glad you got the twelve. You’ve done a wonderful thing.

  LEROY, excited: Listen, what has he got you on?

  PATRICIA: Well, I’m still a long way from perfect, but I . . .

  LEROY: Patty, nothing’s perfect except a hot bath.

  PATRICIA: It’s nothing to joke about. I told you I’m nervous, I’m not used to . . . to . . .

  LEROY: He changed your medication, didn’t he.

  PATRICIA: I just don’t want you to think I have no problems anymore.

  LEROY: Oh, I’d never think that, Patty. Has he put you on something new?

  PATRICIA: He hasn’t done anything.

  Pause.

  LEROY: Okay, I’ll shut up.

  She sweeps her hair back; he silently observes her. Then . . .

  . . . This Mr. Frick handles oil burners; I don’t know if I can trust him but he says he’d give me a good buy. We could use a new burner.

  PATRICIA: What would you say if I said I’m thinking of coming home.

  LEROY, a pause filled with doubt: You are? When?

  PATRICIA: Maybe next Thursday. For good.

  LEROY: Uh huh.

  PATRICIA: You don’t sound very positive.

  LEROY: You know you’re the only one can make that decision, Pat. You want to come home I’m always happy to take you home.

  Slight pause.

  PATRICIA: I feel if I could look ahead just the right amount I’d be all right.

  LEROY: What do you mean?

  PATRICIA: I realized something lately; when I’m home I have a tendency—especially in the afternoons when everybody’s out and I’m alone—I look very far ahead. What I should do is only look ahead a little bit, like to the evening or the next day. And then it’s all right. It’s when I start looking years ahead . . . slight pause . . . You once told me why you think I got sick. I’ve forgotten . . . what did you say?

  LEROY: What do I really know about it, Pat?

  PATRICIA: Why do you keep putting yourself down?—you’ve got to stop imitating your father. There are things you know very well. —Remind me what you said . . . Why am I sick?

  LEROY: I always thought it was your family.

  PATRICIA, fingers pressing on her eyes: I want to concentrate. Go on.

  LEROY: They were so close, they were all over each other, and you all had this—you know—very high opinion of yourselves; each and every one of you was automatically going to go to the head of the line just because your name was Sorgenson. And life isn’t that way, so you got sick.

  Long pause; she stares, nodding.

  PATRICIA: You’ve had no life at all, have you.

  LEROY: I wouldn’t say that.

  PATRICIA: I can’t understand how I never saw it.

  LEROY: Why?—it’s been great watching the kids growing up; and I’ve had some jobs I’ve enjoyed . . .

  PATRICIA: But not your wife.

  LEROY: It’s a long time since I blamed you, Pat. It’s your upbringing.

  PATRICIA: Well I could blame yours too, couldn’t I.

  LEROY: You sure could.

  PATRICIA: I mean this constant optimism is very irritating when you’re fifty times more depressed than I am.

  LEROY: Now Patty, you know that’s not . . .

  PATRICIA: You are depressed, Leroy! Because you’re scared of people, you really don’t trust anyone, and that’s incidentally why you never made any money. You could have set the world on fire but you can’t bear to work along with other human beings.

  LEROY: The last human being I took on to help me tried to steal my half-inch Stanley chisel.

  PATRICIA: You mean you think he tried . . .

  LEROY: I didn’t think anything, I found it in his tool box. And that’s an original Stanley, not the junk they sell today.

  PATRICIA: So what!

  LEROY: So what?—that man has three grandchildren! And he’s a Chapman—that’s one of the oldest upstanding families in the country.

  PATRICIA, emphatically, her point proved: Which is why you’re depressed.

  LEROY, laughs: I’m not, but why shouldn’t I be?—a Chapman stealing a chisel? I mean God Almighty, they’ve had generals in that family, secretaries of state or some goddam thing. Anyway, if I’m depressed it’s from something that happened, not something I imagine.

  PATRICIA: I feel like a log that keeps bumping against another log in the middle of the river.

  LEROY: Boy, you’re a real roller coaster. We were doing great there for a minute, what got us off on this?

  PATRICIA: I can’t be at peace when I know you are full of denial, and that’s saying it straight.

  LEROY: What denial? Laughs. You want me to say I’m a failure?

  PATRICIA: That is not what I . . .

  LEROY: Hey, I know what—I’ll get a bumper sticker printed up—“The driver of this car is a failure!” —I betcha I could sell a hundred million of them . . . A sudden fury: . . . Or maybe I should just drive out on a tractor and shoot myself!

  PATRICIA: That’s a terrible thing to say to me, Leroy!

  LEROY: Well I’m sorry, Patty, but I’m not as dumb as I look—I’m never going to win if I have to compete against your brothers!

  PATRICIA, chastened for the moment: I did not say you’re a failure.

  LEROY: I didn’t mean to yell; I’m sorry. I know you don’t mean to sound like you do, sometimes.

  PATRICIA, unable to retrieve: I said nothing about a failure. On the verge of weeping.

  LEROY: It’s okay, maybe I am a failure; but in my opinion no more than the rest of this country.

  PATRICIA: What happened?—I thought this visit started off so nicely.

  LEROY: Maybe you’re not used to being so alert; you’ve been so lethargic for a long time, you know.


  She moves; he watches her.

  I’m sure of it, Pat, if you could only find two ounces of trust I know we could still have a life.

  PATRICIA: I know. Slight pause; she fights down tears. What did you have in mind, exactly, when you said it was my upbringing?

  LEROY: I don’t know . . . I had a flash of your father, that time long ago when we were sitting on your porch . . . we were getting things ready for our wedding . . . and right in front of you he turns to me cool as a cucumber and says—through laughter, mimicking Swedish accent—“No Yankee will ever be good enough for a Swedish girl.” I nearly fell off into the rosebushes.

  PATRICIA, laughs with a certain delight: Well, he was old-fashioned . . .

  LEROY, laughing: Yeah, a real old-fashioned welcome into the family!

  PATRICIA: Well, the Yankees were terrible to us.

  LEROY: That’s a hundred years ago, Pat.

  PATRICIA, starting to anger: You shouldn’t keep denying this! —They paid them fifty cents a week and called us dumb Swedes with strong backs and weak minds and did nothing but make us ridiculous.

  LEROY: But, Patty, if you walk around town today there isn’t a good piece of property that isn’t owned by Swedes.

  PATRICIA: But that’s now.

  LEROY: Well when are we living?

  PATRICIA: We were treated like animals, some Yankee doctors wouldn’t come out to a Swedish home to deliver a baby . . .

  LEROY, laughs: Well all I hope is that I’m the last Yankee so people can start living today instead of a hundred years ago.

  PATRICIA: There was something else you said. About standing on line.

  LEROY: On line?

  PATRICIA: That you’ll always be at the head of the line because . . . breaks off.

  LEROY: I’m the only one on it.

  PATRICIA: . . . Is that really true? You do compete, don’t you? You must, at least in your mind?

  LEROY: Only with myself. We’re really all on a one-person line, Pat. I learned that in these years.

  Pause. She stares ahead.

  PATRICIA: That’s very beautiful. Where’d you get that idea?

  LEROY: I guess I made it up, I don’t know. It’s up to you, Pat—if you feel you’re ready, let’s go home. Now or Thursday or whenever. What about medication?

  patricia, makes herself ready: I wasn’t going to tell you for another week or two, till I’m absolutely rock sure; —I’ve stopped taking anything for . . . this is twenty-one days.

  LEROY: Anything?

  She nods with a certain suspense.

  My God, Patty. And you feel all right?

  PATRICIA: . . . I haven’t felt this way in—fifteen years. I’ve no idea why, but I forgot to take anything, and I slept right through till morning, and I woke up and it was like . . . I’d been blessed during the night. And I haven’t had anything since.

  LEROY: Did I tell you or didn’t I!

  PATRICIA: But it’s different for you. You’re not addictive . . .

  LEROY: But didn’t I tell you all that stuff is poison? I’m just flying, Patty.

  patricia, clasps her hands to steady herself: But I’m afraid about coming home. I don’t know if I’m jumping the gun. I feel I could, but . . .

  LEROY: Well, let’s talk about it. Is it a question of trusting yourself? Because I think if you’ve come this far . . .

  PATRICIA: Be quiet a minute! She holds his hand. Why have you stayed with me?

  leroy, laughs: God knows!

  PATRICIA: I’ve been very bad to you sometimes, Leroy, I really see that now. Starting to weep. Tell me the truth; in all these years, have you gone to other women? I wouldn’t blame you, I just want to know.

  LEROY: Well I’ve thought of it but I never did anything.

  patricia, looking deeply into his eyes: You really haven’t, have you.

  LEROY: No.

  PATRICIA: Why?

  LEROY: I just kept hoping you’d come out of this.

  PATRICIA: But it’s been so long.

  LEROY: I know.

  PATRICIA: Even when I’d . . . throw things at you?

  LEROY: Uh uh.

  PATRICIA: Like that time with the roast?

  LEROY: Well, that’s one time I came pretty close. But I knew it was those damned pills, not you.

  PATRICIA: But why would you be gone night after night? That was a woman, wasn’t it.

  LEROY: No. Some nights I went over to the library basement to practice banjo with Phil Palumbo. Or to Manny’s Diner for some donuts and talk to the fellas.

  patricia, slightest tinge of suspicion: There are fellas there at night?

  LEROY: Sure; working guys, mostly young single fellas. But some with wives. You know—have a beer, watch TV.

  PATRICIA: And women?

  LEROY, a short beat: —You know, Pat—and I’m not criticizing—but wouldn’t it be better for you to try believing a person instead of trying not to believe?

  PATRICIA: I’m just wondering if you know . . . there’s lots of women would love having you. But you probably don’t know that, do you.

  LEROY: Sure I do.

  PATRICIA: You know lots of women would love to have you?

  LEROY: . . . Well, yes, I know that.

  PATRICIA: Really. How do you know that?

  LEROY, his quick, open laugh: I can tell.

  PATRICIA: Then what’s keeping you? Why don’t you move out?

  LEROY: Pat, you’re torturing me.

  PATRICIA: I’m trying to find myself!

  She moves in stress, warding off an explosion. There is angry resentment in his voice.

  LEROY: I’d remember you happy and loving—that’s what kept me; as long ago as that is now, I’d remember how you’d pull on your stockings and get a little makeup on and pin up your hair. . . . When you’re positive about life there’s just nobody like you. Nobody. Not in life, not in the movies, not on TV. Slight pause. But I’m not going to deny it—if it wasn’t for the kids I probably would have gone.

  She is silent, but loaded with something unspoken.

  You’re wanting to tell me something, aren’t you.

  PATRICIA: . . . I know what a lucky woman I’ve been.

  LEROY, he observes her: —What is it, you want me to stop coming to see you for a while? Please tell me, Pat; there’s something on your mind.

  Pause. She forces it out.

  PATRICIA: I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I’m not too sure I could stand it, knowing that it’s never going to . . . I mean, will it ever change anymore?

  LEROY: You mean—is it ever going to be “wonderful.”

  She looks at him, estimating.

  Well—no, I guess this is pretty much it; although to me it’s already wonderful—I mean the kids, and there are some clear New England mornings when you want to drink the air and the sunshine.

  PATRICIA: You can make more out of a change in temperature than any human being I ever heard of—I can’t live on weather!

  LEROY: Pat, we’re getting old! This is just about as rich and handsome as I’m ever going to be and as good as you’re ever going to look, so you want to be with me or not?

  PATRICIA: I don’t want to fool either of us . . . I can’t bear it when you can’t pay the bills . . .

  LEROY: But I’m a carpenter—this is probably the way it’s been for carpenters since they built Noah’s ark. What do you want to do?

  PATRICIA: I’m honestly not sure I could hold up. Not when I hear your sadness all the time and your eyes are full of disappointment. You seem . . . breaks off.

  LEROY: . . . How do I seem?

  PATRICIA: I shouldn’t say it.

  LEROY: . . . Beaten. Like it’s all gone by. Hurt, but holding on: All right, Patty, then I might as well say it—I don’t think you ever had
a medical problem; you have an attitude problem . . .

  PATRICIA: My problem is spiritual.

  LEROY: Okay, I don’t mind calling it spiritual.

  PATRICIA: Well that’s a new note; I thought these ministers were all quacks.

  LEROY: Not all; but the ones who make house calls with women, eating up all the ice cream, are not my idea of spiritual.

  PATRICIA: You know what spiritual is?

  LEROY: For me? Sure. Ice skating.

  PATRICIA: Ice skating is spiritual.

  LEROY: Yes, and skiing! To me spiritual is whatever makes me forget myself and feel happy to be alive. Like even a well-sharpened saw, or a perfect compound joint.

  PATRICIA: Maybe this is why we can’t get along—spiritual is nothing you can see, Leroy.

  LEROY: Really! Then why didn’t God make everything invisible! We are in this world and you’re going to have to find some way to love it!

  Her eyes are filling with tears.

  Pounding on me is not going to change anything to wonderful, Patty.

  She seems to be receiving him.

  I’ll say it again, because it’s the only thing that’s kept me from going crazy—you just have to love this world. He comes to her, takes her hand. Come home. Maybe it’ll take a while, but I really believe you can make it.

  Uncertainty filling her face . . .

  All right, don’t decide now, I’ll come back Thursday and we’ll see then.

  PATRICIA: Where you going now?

  LEROY: For my banjo lesson. I’m learning a new number. —I’ll play it for you if you want to hear it.

  PATRICIA, hesitates, then kisses him: Couldn’t you do it on guitar?

  LEROY: It’s not the same on guitar. He goes to his banjo case and opens it.

  PATRICIA: But banjo sounds so picky.

  LEROY: But that’s what’s good about it, it’s clean, like a toothpick . . .

  Enter the Fricks.

  LEROY: Oh hi, Mrs. Frick.

  KAREN: He brought my costume. Would you care to see it? To Frick: This is her—Mrs. Hamilton.

  FRICK: Oh! How do you do?

  KAREN: This is my husband.

  PATRICIA: How do you do?

  FRICK: She’s been telling me all about you. Shaking Patricia’s hand: I want to say that I’m thankful to you.

  PATRICIA: Really? What for?