FRICK: Well what she says you’ve been telling her. About her attitude and all.
KAREN, to Patricia: Would you like to see my costume? I also have a blue one, but . . .
FRICK, overriding her: . . . By the way, I’m Frick Lumber, I recognized your husband right away . . .
KAREN: Should I put it on?
PATRICIA: Sure, put it on!
Leroy starts tuning his banjo.
FRICK, to Patricia: All it is is a high hat and shorts, y’know . . . nothing much to it.
KAREN, to Frick: Shouldn’t I?
PATRICIA: Why not, for Heaven’s sake?
FRICK: Go ahead, if they want to see it. Laughs to Patricia. She found it in a catalogue. I think it’s kinda silly at her age, but I admit I’m a conservative kind of person . . .
KAREN, cutting him off, deeply embarrassed: I’ll only be a minute. She starts out, and stops, and to Patricia: You really think I should?
PATRICIA: Of course!
FRICK, suppressing an angry embarrassment: Karen, honey, if you’re going to do it, do it.
Karen exits with valise. Leroy tunes his instrument.
FRICK: The slightest decision, she’s got to worry it into the ground. —But I have to tell you, it’s years since I’ve seen this much life in her, she’s like day and night. What exactly’d you say to her? To Leroy, thumbing toward Patricia: She says she just opened up her eyes . . .
LEROY, surprised: Patricia?
FRICK: I have to admit, it took me a while to realize it’s a sickness . . .
PATRICIA: You’re not the only one.
FRICK: Looked to me like she was just favoring herself; I mean the woman has everything, what right has she got to start shooting blanks like that? I happen to be a great believer in self-discipline, started from way down below sea level myself, sixty acres of rocks and swampland is all we had. That’s why I’m so glad that somebody’s talked to her with your attitude.
PATRICIA, vamping for time: What . . . what attitude do you mean?
FRICK: Just that you’re so . . . so positive.
Leroy looks up at Patricia, thunderstruck.
She says you made her realize all the things she could be doing instead of mooning around all day . . .
PATRICIA: Well I think being positive is the only way.
FRICK: That’s just what I tell her . . .
PATRICIA: But you have to be careful not to sound so disappointed in her.
FRICK: I sound disappointed?
PATRICIA: In a way, I think. —She’s got to feel treasured, you see.
FRICK: I appreciate that, but the woman can stand in one place for half an hour at a time practically without moving.
PATRICIA: Well that’s the sickness, you see.
FRICK: I realize that. But she won’t even go shopping . . .
PATRICIA: You see? You’re sounding disappointed in her.
FRICK, angering: I am not disappointed in her! I’m just telling you the situation!
PATRICIA: Mr. Frick, she’s standing under a mountain a mile high—you’ve got to help her over it. That woman has very big possibilities!
FRICK: Think so.
PATRICIA: Absolutely.
FRICK: I hope you’re right. To Leroy, indicating Patricia: You don’t mind my saying it, you could do with a little of her optimism.
LEROY, turns from Patricia, astonished: Huh?
FRICK, to Patricia, warmly: Y’know, she made me have a little platform built down the cellar, with a big full-length mirror so she could see herself dance . . .
PATRICIA: But do you spend time watching her . . .
FRICK: Well she says not to till she’s good at it.
PATRICIA: That’s because she’s terrified of your criticism.
FRICK: But I haven’t made any criticism.
PATRICIA: But do you like tap dancing?
FRICK: Well I don’t know, I never thought about it one way or another.
PATRICIA: Well that’s the thing, you see. It happens to mean a great deal to her . . .
FRICK: I’m for it, I don’t mean I’m not for it. But don’t tell me you think it’s normal for a woman her age to be getting out of bed two, three in the morning and start practicing.
PATRICIA: Well maybe she’s trying to get you interested in it. Are you?
FRICK: In tap dancing? Truthfully, no.
PATRICIA: Well there you go . . .
FRICK: Well we’ve got a lot of new competition in our fuel-oil business . . .
PATRICIA: Fuel oil!
FRICK: I’ve got seven trucks on the road that I’ve got to keep busy . . .
PATRICIA: Well there you go, maybe that’s why your wife is in here.
frick, visibly angering: Well I can’t be waked up at two o’clock in the morning and be any good next day, now can I. She’s not normal.
PATRICIA: Normal! They’ve got whole universities debating what’s normal. Who knows what’s normal, Mr. Frick?
FRICK: You mean getting out of bed at two o’clock in the morning and putting on a pair of tap shoes is a common occurrence in this country? I don’t think so. —But I didn’t mean to argue when you’re . . . not feeling well.
PATRICIA: I’ve never felt better.
She turns away, and Frick looks with bewildered surprise to Leroy, who returns him a look of suppressed laughter.
FRICK: Well you sure know how to turn somebody inside out.
Karen enters; she is dressed in satin shorts, a tailcoat, a high hat, tap shoes, and as they turn to look at her, she pulls out a collapsible walking stick, and strikes a theatrical pose.
PATRICIA: Well now, don’t you look great!
karen, desperate for reassurance: You really like it?
LEROY: That looks terrific!
PATRICIA: Do a step!
karen: I don’t have my tape. Turns to Frick, timorously: But if you’d sing “Swanee River” . . .
FRICK: Oh Karen, for God’s sake!
PATRICIA: I can sing it . . .
karen: He knows my speed. Please, John . . . just for a minute.
FRICK: All right, go ahead. Unhappily, he sings:
Way down upon the Swanee River . . .
karen: Wait, you’re too fast . . .
FRICK, slower and angering:
Way—down—upon—the—Swanee River,
Far, far away.
That’s where my heart is turning ever . . . [etc.]
Karen taps out her number, laboriously but for a short stretch with a promise of grace. Frick continues singing . . .
PATRICIA: Isn’t she wonderful?
LEROY: Hey, she’s great!
Karen dances a bit more boldly, a joyous freedom starting into her.
PATRICIA: She’s marvelous! Look at her, Mr. Frick!
A hint of the sensuous in Karen now; Frick, embarrassed, uneasily avoids more than a glance at his wife.
FRICK:
. . . everywhere I roam . . .
PATRICIA: Will you look at her!
frick, hard-pressed, explodes: I am looking at her, goddammit!
This astonishing furious shout, his reddened face, stops everything. A look of fear is on Karen’s face.
karen, apologetically to Patricia: He was looking at me . . . To Frick: She didn’t mean you weren’t looking, she meant . . .
frick, rigidly repressing his anger and embarrassment: I’ve got to run along now.
karen: I’m so sorry, John, but she . . .
frick, rigidly: Nothing to be sorry about, dear. Very nice to have met you folks.
He starts to exit. Karen moves to intercept him.
karen: Oh John, I hope you’re not . . . [going to be angry.]
john: I’m just fine. He sees her despair coming on. What are you
looking so sad about?—you danced great . . .
She is immobile.
I’m sorry to’ve raised my voice but it don’t mean I’m disappointed, dear. You understand? A nervous glance toward Patricia. Stiffly, with enormous effort: . . . You . . . you danced better than I ever saw you.
She doesn’t change.
Now look here, Karen, I hope you don’t feel I’m . . . disappointed or something, you hear . . . ? ’Cause I’m not. And that’s definite.
She keeps staring at him.
I’ll try to make it again on Friday. —Keep it up.
He abruptly turns and exits.
Karen stands perfectly still, staring at nothing.
PATRICIA: Karen?
Karen seems not to hear, standing there facing the empty door in her high hat and costume.
How about Leroy playing it for you? To Leroy: Play it.
LEROY: I could on the guitar, but I never did on this . . .
PATRICIA: Well couldn’t you try it?—I don’t know what good that thing is.
LEROY: Well here . . . let me see.
He picks out “Swanee River” on his banjo, but Karen doesn’t move.
PATRICIA: There you go, Karen! Try it, I love your dancing! Come on . . . Sings:
Way down upon the Swanee River . . .
Karen now breaks her motionlessly depressed mode and looks at Patricia. Leroy continues playing, humming along with it. His picking is getting more accurate . . .
PATRICIA: Is it the right tempo? Tell him!
KAREN, very very softly: Could you play a little faster?
Leroy speeds it up. With an unrelieved sadness, Karen goes into her number, does a few steps, but stops. Leroy gradually stops playing. Karen walks out. Patricia starts to follow her but gives it up and comes to a halt.
Leroy turns to Patricia, who is staring ahead. Now she turns to Leroy.
He meets her gaze, his face filled with inquiry. He comes to her and stands there. For a long moment neither of them moves. Then she reaches out and touches his face—there is a muted gratitude in her gesture.
She goes to a closet and takes a small overnight bag to the bed and puts her things into it.
Leroy watches her for a moment, then stows his banjo in its case, and stands waiting for her. She starts to put on a light coat. He comes and helps her into it.
Her face is charged with her struggle against her self-doubt.
LEROY, laughs, but about to weep: Ready?
PATRICIA, filling up: Leroy . . .
LEROY: One day at a time, Pat—you’re already twenty-one ahead. Kids are going to be so happy to have you home.
PATRICIA: I can’t believe it . . . I’ve had nothing.
LEROY: It’s a miracle.
PATRICIA: Thank you. Breaking through her own resistance, she draws him to her and kisses him. Grinning tauntingly: . . . That car going to get us home?
LEROY, laughs: Stop picking on that car, it’s all checked out!
They start toward the door, he carrying her bag and his banjo.
PATRICIA: Once you believe in something you just never know when to stop, do you.
LEROY: Well there’s very little rust, and the new ones aren’t half as well built . . .
PATRICIA: Waste not, want not.
LEROY: Well I really don’t go for those new Chevies . . .
She walks out, he behind her. Their voices are heard . . .
PATRICIA: Between the banjo and that car I’ve certainly got a whole lot to look forward to.
His laughter sounds down the corridor.
The woman on the bed stirs, then falls back and remains motionless. A stillness envelops the whole stage.
END
BROKEN GLASS
A PLAY IN TWO ACTS
1994
Characters
PHILLIP GELLBURG
SYLVIA GELLBURG
DR. HARRY HYMAN
MARGARET HYMAN
HARRIET
STANTON CASE
The play takes place in Brooklyn in the last days of November 1938, in the office of Dr. Harry Hyman, the bedroom of the Gellburg house, and the office of Stanton Case.
ACT ONE
SCENE I
A lone cellist is discovered, playing a simple tune. The tune finishes. Light goes out on the cellist and rises on. . . .
Office of Dr. Harry Hyman in his home. Alone on stage Phillip Gellburg, an intense man in his late forties, waits in perfect stillness, legs crossed. He is in a black suit, black tie and shoes, and white shirt.
Margaret Hyman, the doctor’s wife, enters. She is lusty, energetic, carrying pruning shears.
MARGARET: He’ll be right with you, he’s just changing. Can I get you something? Tea?
GELLBURG, faint reprimand: He said seven o’clock sharp.
MARGARET: He was held up in the hospital, that new union’s pulled a strike, imagine? A strike in a hospital? It’s incredible. And his horse went lame.
GELLBURG: His horse?
MARGARET: He rides on Ocean Parkway every afternoon.
GELLBURG, attempting easy familiarity: Oh yes, I heard about that . . . it’s very nice. You’re Mrs. Hyman?
MARGARET: I’ve nodded to you on the street for years now, but you’re too preoccupied to notice.
GELLBURG, a barely hidden boast: Lot on my mind, usually. A certain amused loftiness.—So you’re his nurse, too.
MARGARET: We met in Mount Sinai when he was interning. He’s lived to regret it. She laughs in a burst.
GELLBURG: That’s some laugh you’ve got there. I sometimes hear you all the way down the block to my house.
MARGARET: Can’t help it, my whole family does it. I’m originally from Minnesota. It’s nice to meet you finally, Mr. Goldberg.
GELLBURG: —It’s Gellburg, not Goldberg.
MARGARET: Oh, I’m sorry.
GELLBURG: G-e-l-l-b-u-r-g. It’s the only one in the phone book.
MARGARET: It does sound like Goldberg.
GELLBURG: But it’s not, it’s Gellburg. A distinction. We’re from Finland originally.
MARGARET: Oh! We came from Lithuania . . . Kazauskis?
GELLBURG, put down momentarily: Don’t say.
MARGARET, trying to charm him to his ease: Ever been to Minnesota?
GELLBURG: New York State’s the size of France, what would I go to Minnesota for?
MARGARET: Nothing. Just there’s a lot of Finns there.
GELLBURG: Well there’s Finns all over.
MARGARET, defeated, shows the clipper: . . . I’ll get back to my roses. Whatever it is, I hope you’ll be feeling better.
GELLBURG: It’s not me.
MARGARET: Oh. ’Cause you seem a little pale.
GELLBURG: Me?—I’m always this color. It’s my wife.
MARGARET: I’m sorry to hear that, she’s a lovely woman. It’s nothing serious, is it?
GELLBURG: He’s just had a specialist put her through some tests, I’m waiting to hear. I think it’s got him mystified.
MARGARET: Well, I mustn’t butt in. Makes to leave but can’t resist. Can you say what it is?
GELLBURG: She can’t walk.
MARGARET: What do you mean?
GELLBURG, an overtone of protest of some personal victimization: Can’t stand up. No feeling in her legs.—I’m sure it’ll pass, but it’s terrible.
MARGARET: But I only saw her in the grocery . . . can’t be more than ten days ago . . .
GELLBURG: It’s nine days today.
MARGARET: But she’s such a wonderful-looking woman. Does she have fever?
GELLBURG: No.
MARGARET: Thank God, then it’s not polio.
GELLBURG: No, she’s in perfect health otherwise.
MARGARET: Well Harry’ll get to th
e bottom of it if anybody can. They call him from everywhere for opinions, you know . . . Boston, Chicago . . . By rights he ought to be on Park Avenue if he only had the ambition, but he always wanted a neighborhood practice. Why, I don’t know—we never invite anybody, we never go out, all our friends are in Manhattan. But it’s his nature, you can’t fight a person’s nature. Like me for instance, I like to talk and I like to laugh. You’re not much of a talker, are you.
GELLBURG, a purse-mouthed smile: When I can get a word in edgewise.
MARGARET, burst of laughter: Ha!—so you’ve got a sense of humor after all. Well give my best to Mrs. Goldberg.
GELLBURG: Gellbu . . .
MARGARET, hits her own head: Gellburg, excuse me! —It practically sounds like Goldberg . . .
GELLBURG: No-no, look in the phone book, it’s the only one, G-e-l-l . . .
Enter Dr. Hyman.
MARGARET, with a little wave to Gellburg: Be seeing you!
GELLBURG: Be in good health.
Margaret exits.
HYMAN, in his early fifties, a healthy, rather handsome man, a determined scientific idealist. Settling behind his desk—chuckling: She chew your ear off?
GELLBURG, his worldly mode: Not too bad, I’ve had worse.
HYMAN: Well there’s no way around it, women are talkers . . . Grinning familiarly: But try living without them, right?
GELLBURG: Without women?
HYMAN, he sees Gellburg has flushed; there is a short hiatus, then: . . . Well, never mind. —I’m glad you could make it tonight, I wanted to talk to you before I see your wife again tomorrow. Opens cigar humidor. Smoke?
GELLBURG: No thanks, never have. Isn’t it bad for you?
HYMAN: Certainly is. Lights a cigar. But more people die of rat bite, you know.
GELLBURG: Rat bite!
HYMAN: Oh yes, but they’re mostly the poor so it’s not an interesting statistic. Have you seen her tonight or did you come here from the office?
GELLBURG: I thought I’d see you before I went home. But I phoned her this afternoon—same thing, no change.
HYMAN: How’s she doing with the wheelchair?
GELLBURG: Better, she can get herself in and out of the bed now.
HYMAN: Good. And she manages the bathroom?
GELLBURG: Oh yes. I got the maid to come in the mornings to help her take a bath, clean up . . .
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 122
