by Tony Kushner
HARPER: When you pray, what do you pray for?
JOE: I pray for God to crush me, break me up into little pieces and start all over again.
HARPER: Oh. Please. Don’t pray for that.
JOE: I had a book of Bible stories when I was a kid. There was a picture I’d look at twenty times every day: Jacob wrestles with the angel. I don’t really remember the story, or why the wrestling—just the picture. Jacob is young and very strong. The angel is . . . a beautiful man, with golden hair and wings, of course. I still dream about it. Many nights. I’m . . . It’s me. In that struggle. Fierce, and unfair. The angel is not human, and it holds nothing back, so how could anyone human win, what kind of a fight is that? It’s not just. Losing means your soul thrown down in the dust, your heart torn out from God’s. But you can’t not lose.
HARPER: In the whole entire world, you are the only person, the only person I love or have ever loved. And I love you terribly. Terribly. That’s what’s so awfully, irreducibly real. I can make up anything but I can’t dream that away.
JOE: Are you . . . Are you really going to have a baby?
HARPER: It’s my time, and there’s no blood. I don’t really know. I suppose it wouldn’t be a great thing. Maybe I’m just not bleeding because I take too many pills. Maybe I’ll give birth to a pill.
(He laughs a little.)
HARPER: That would give a new meaning to pill-popping, huh?
(They both laugh.)
HARPER: I think you should go to Washington. Alone. Change, like you said.
JOE: I’m not going to leave you, Harper.
HARPER (A beat, then): Well maybe not. But I’m going to leave you.
Scene 3
One A.M., the next morning. A hospital room. Prior is in a bed, oxygen mask on his face, IV tubes draining bags of fluids into his veins. Emily, a nurse, finishes checking the tubes, the machines. Louis watches Emily; he avoids looking at Prior.
EMILY: He’ll be all right now.
LOUIS: No he won’t.
EMILY: No. I guess not. I gave him something that makes him sleep.
LOUIS: Deep asleep?
EMILY: Orbiting the moons of Jupiter.
LOUIS: A good place to be.
EMILY: Anyplace better than here. You his . . . uh . . .?
LOUIS: Yes. I’m his uh.
EMILY: This must be hell for you.
LOUIS: It is. Hell. The After Life. Which is not at all like a rainy afternoon in March, by the way, Prior. A lot more vivid than I’d expected. Dead leaves, but the crunchy kind. Sharp, dry air. The kind of long, luxurious dying feeling that breaks your heart.
EMILY (Not following, exactly): Yeah, well. We all get to break our hearts on this one.
He seems like a nice guy. Cute.
LOUIS: Not like this.
Yes, he is. Was. Whatever.
EMILY: Weird name. Prior Walter. Like, “The Walter before this one.”
LOUIS: Lots of Walters before this one. Prior is an old old family name in an old old family. The Walters go back to the Mayflower and beyond. Back to the Norman Conquests. He says there’s a Prior Walter stitched into the Bayeux tapestry.
EMILY: Is that impressive?
LOUIS: Well, it’s old. Very old. Which in some circles equals impressive.
EMILY: Not in my circle. What’s the name of the tapestry?
LOUIS: The Bayeux tapestry. Embroidered by La Reine Mathilde.
EMILY: I’ll tell my mother. She embroiders. Drives me nuts.
LOUIS: Manual therapy for anxious hands.
EMILY: Maybe you should try it.
(Louis looks at her, then finally looks directly at Prior. Then he looks away.)
LOUIS: Mathilde stitched while William the Conqueror was off to war. She was capable of . . . more than loyalty. Devotion.
She waited for him, she stitched for years. And if he had come back broken and defeated from war, she would have loved him even more. And if he had returned mutilated, ugly, full of infection and horror, she would still have loved him; fed by pity, by a sharing of pain, she would love him even more, and even more, and she would never, never have prayed to God, please let him die if he can’t return to me whole and healthy and able to live a normal life . . . If he had died, she would have buried her heart with him.
So what the fuck is the matter with me?
(Little pause)
Will he sleep through the night?
EMILY: At least.
LOUIS: I’m going.
EMILY: It’s one A.M. Where do you have to go at—
LOUIS: I know what time it is. A walk. Night air, good for the . . . (Quickly brushing his hand across his heart; then) The park.
EMILY: Be careful.
LOUIS: Yeah. Danger.
Tell him, if he wakes up and you’re still on, tell him good-bye, tell him I had to go.
Scene 4
Same night. Split scene: Joe and Roy sitting at the bar in an elegant restaurant; Louis and a Man, dressed in leather, in the Ramble in Central Park. Roy’s in a tuxedo, bowtie loosened. He’s been drinking heavily, a rye and soda before him. Joe’s dressed casually, nursing a tumbler of club soda. Louis and the Man are eyeing each other, alternating interest and indifference.
JOE: The pills were something she started when she miscarried or . . . no, she took some before that. She had a really bad time at home, when she was a kid, her home was really bad. I think a lot of drinking and physical stuff. She doesn’t talk about that, instead she talks about . . . the sky falling down, people with knives hiding under sofas. Monsters. Mormons. Everyone thinks Mormons don’t come from homes like that, we aren’t supposed to behave that way, but we do. It’s not lying, or being two-faced. Everyone tries very hard to live up to God’s strictures, which are very . . . um . . .
ROY: Strict.
JOE: I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.
ROY: No, please. Heart to heart. Want another . . . What is that, seltzer?
JOE: The failure to measure up hits people very hard. From such a strong desire to be good they feel very far from goodness when they fail.
What scares me is that maybe what I really love in her is the part of her that’s farthest from the light, from God’s love; maybe I was drawn to that in the first place. And I’m keeping it alive because I need it.
ROY: Why would you need it?
JOE: There are things . . . I don’t know how well we know ourselves. I mean, what if? I know I married her because she . . . because I loved it that she was always wrong, always doing something wrong, like one step out of step. In Salt Lake City that stands out. I never stood out, on the outside, but inside, it was hard for me. To pass.
ROY: Pass?
JOE: Yeah.
ROY: Pass as what?
JOE: Oh. Well . . . As someone cheerful and strong. Those who love God with an open heart unclouded by secrets and struggles are cheerful; God’s easy simple love for them shows in how strong and happy they are. The saints.
ROY: But you had secrets? Secret struggles . . .
JOE: I wanted to be one of the elect, one of the Blessed. You feel you ought to be, that the blemishes are yours by choice, which of course they aren’t. Harper’s sorrow, that really deep sorrow, she didn’t choose that. But it’s there.
ROY: You didn’t put it there.
JOE: No.
ROY: You sound like you think you did.
JOE: I am responsible for her.
ROY: Because she’s your wife.
JOE: That. And I do love her.
ROY: Whatever. She’s your wife. And so there are obligations. To her. But also to yourself.
JOE: She’d fall apart in Washington.
ROY: Then let her stay here.
JOE: She’ll fall apart if I leave her.
ROY: Then bring her to Washington.
JOE: I just can’t, Roy. She needs me.
ROY: Listen, Joe. I’m the best divorce lawyer in the business.
(Little pause.)
JOE: Can�
�t Washington wait?
ROY: You do what you need to do, Joe. What you need. You. Let her life go where it wants to go. You’ll both be better for that. Somebody should get what they want.
MAN: What do you want?
LOUIS: I want you to fuck me, hurt me, make me bleed.
MAN: I want to.
LOUIS: Yeah?
MAN: I want to hurt you.
LOUIS: Fuck me.
MAN: Yeah?
LOUIS: Hard.
MAN: Yeah? You been a bad boy?
(Pause. Louis laughs, softly.)
LOUIS: Very bad. Very bad.
MAN: You need to be punished, boy?
LOUIS: Yes. I do.
MAN: Yes what?
(Little pause.)
LOUIS: Um, I . . .
MAN: Yes what, boy?
LOUIS: Oh. Yes sir.
MAN: I want you to take me to your place, boy.
LOUIS: No, I can’t do that.
MAN: No what?
LOUIS: No sir, I can’t, I—
I don’t live alone, sir.
MAN: Your lover know you’re out with a man tonight, boy?
LOUIS: No sir, he—
My lover doesn’t know.
MAN: Your lover know you—
LOUIS: Let’s change the subject, OK? Can we go to your place?
MAN: I live with my parents.
LOUIS: Oh.
ROY: Everyone who makes it in this world makes it because somebody older and more powerful takes an interest. The most precious asset in life, I think, is the ability to be a good son. You have that, Joe. Somebody who can be a good son to a father who pushes them farther than they would otherwise go. I’ve had many fathers, I owe my life to them, powerful, powerful men. Walter Winchell, Edgar Hoover. Joe McCarthy most of all. He valued me because I am a good lawyer, but he loved me because I was and am a good son. He was a very difficult man, very guarded and cagey; I brought out something tender in him. He would have died for me. And me for him. Does this embarrass you?
JOE: I had a hard time with my father.
ROY: Well sometimes that’s the way. Then you have to find other fathers, substitutes, I don’t know. The father-son relationship is central to life. Women are for birth, beginning, but the father is continuance. The son offers the father his life as a vessel for carrying forth his father’s dream. Your father’s living?
JOE: Um, dead.
ROY: He was . . . what? A difficult man?
JOE: He was in the military. He could be very unfair. And cold.
ROY: But he loved you.
JOE: I don’t know.
ROY: No, no, Joe, he did, I know this. Sometimes a father’s love has to be very, very hard, unfair even, cold to make his son grow strong in a world like this. This isn’t a good world.
MAN: Here, then.
LOUIS: I . . . Do you have a rubber?
MAN: I don’t use rubbers.
LOUIS: You should. (He takes one from his coat pocket) Here.
MAN: I don’t use them.
LOUIS: Forget it, then. (He starts to leave)
MAN: No, wait.
Put it on me. Boy.
LOUIS: Forget it, I have to get back. Home. I must be going crazy.
MAN: Oh come on please he won’t find out.
LOUIS: It’s cold. Too cold.
MAN: It’s never too cold, let me warm you up. Please?
(Louis puts the condom on the Man’s cock, and they begin to fuck.)
MAN: Relax.
LOUIS (A grim, small laugh): Not a chance.
(More fucking. It gets rough. Louis falls on his hands and knees. Then the Man stops.)
MAN: It . . .
LOUIS: What?
MAN: I think it must’ve . . . It broke, or slipped off, you didn’t put it on right, or— You want me to keep going?
Pull out? Should I—
LOUIS: Keep going.
Infect me.
I don’t care. I don’t care.
(The Man pulls out.)
MAN: I . . . um, look, I’m sorry, but I think I want to go.
LOUIS: Yeah.
Give my best to Mom and Dad.
(The Man slaps him.)
LOUIS: Ow!
(They stare at each other.)
LOUIS: It was a joke.
(The Man leaves.)
ROY: How long have we known each other?
JOE: Since 1980.
ROY: Right. A long time. I feel close to you, Joe. Do I advise you well?
JOE: You’ve been an incredible friend, Roy, I’m—
ROY: I want to be family. Famiglia, as my Italian friends call it. La Famiglia. A lovely word. It’s important for me to help you, like I was helped.
JOE: I owe practically everything to you, Roy.
ROY: I’m dying, Joe. Cancer.
JOE: Oh my God.
ROY: Please. Let me finish.
Few people know this and I’m telling you this only because . . . I’m not afraid of death. What can death bring that I haven’t faced? I’ve lived; life is the worst. (Gently mocking himself) Listen to me, I’m a philosopher.
Joe. You must do this. You must must must. Love; that’s a trap. Responsibility; that’s a trap, too. Like a father to a son I tell you this: Life is full of horror; nobody escapes, nobody; save yourself. Whatever pulls on you, whatever needs from you, threatens you. Don’t be afraid; people are so afraid; don’t be afraid to live in the raw wind, naked, alone . . . Learn at least this: What you are capable of. Let nothing stand in your way.
Scene 5
Several days later. Prior and Belize in Prior’s hospital room. Prior is very sick but improving. Belize has just arrived, stopping on his way to work to check up on Prior, with little time to spare.
PRIOR: Miss Thing.
BELIZE: Ma cherie bichette.
PRIOR: Stella.
BELIZE: Stella for star. Let me see. (Scrutinizing Prior) You look like shit, why yes indeed you do, comme la merde!
PRIOR: Merci.
BELIZE: Not to despair, Belle Reeve. Lookie!
(Taking a little plastic bottle from his bag)
Magic goop!
(Belize hands the bottle to Prior, who opens it and sniffs it suspiciously, as Belize looks over the IV bags feeding meds to Prior.)
PRIOR (Reacting to the smell from the bottle with alarm): Pooh! What kinda crap is that?
BELIZE: Beats me. Let’s rub it on your poor blistered body and see what it does.
PRIOR: This is not Western medicine, this bottle . . .
BELIZE: Voodoo cream. From the botanica ’round the block.
PRIOR: And you a registered nurse.
(Belize takes the bottle back and sniffs it.)
BELIZE: Beeswax and cheap perfume. Cut with Jergen’s lotion. Full of good vibes and love from some little black Cubana witch in Miami.
(He pours some in his hands, ready to give Prior a backrub.)
PRIOR (Frightened): Get that trash away from me, I am immune-suppressed.
BELIZE (Firm, slightly offended): I am a health professional. I know what I’m doing.
(Prior hesitates, then reluctantly offers his back to be rubbed. Belize gets on the bed and rubs, gently.)
PRIOR: It stinks.
Any word from Louis?
(Little pause; Belize rubs Prior’s back.)
PRIOR: Gone.
BELIZE: He’ll be back. I know the type. Likes to keep a girl on edge.
PRIOR: It’s been . . .
(Pause.)
BELIZE (Trying to jog Prior’s memory): How long?
PRIOR: I don’t remember.
BELIZE: How long have you been here?
PRIOR (Suddenly upset): I don’t remember, I don’t give a fuck. I want Louis. I want my fucking boyfriend, where the fuck is he? I’m dying, I’m dying, where’s Louis?
(Prior is crying, hard. Belize cradles him.)
BELIZE: Ssssh, sssh . . .
PRIOR: This is a very strange drug, this drug. Emotional lability, for starter
s.
BELIZE: Save a tab or two for me.
PRIOR: Oh no, not this drug, ce n’est pas pour la joyeux noël et la bonne année, this drug she is serious poisonous chemistry, ma pauvre bichette.
And not just disorienting. I hear things.
Voices.
BELIZE (Covering, but alarmed): Voices.
PRIOR: A voice.
BELIZE: Saying what?
(Pause.)
PRIOR: I’m not supposed to tell.
BELIZE (Earnest): You better tell the doctor. Or I will.
PRIOR: No no don’t. Please. I want the voice; it’s wonderful. It’s all that’s keeping me alive. I don’t want to talk to some intern about it.
You know what happens? When I hear it, I get hard.
BELIZE: Oh my.
PRIOR: Comme ça. (He uses his arm to demonstrate) And you know I am slow to rise.
BELIZE: My jaw aches at the memory.
PRIOR (Pleading): And would you deny me this little solace? Betray my concupiscence to Florence Nightingale’s storm troopers?
BELIZE: Perish the thought, ma bébé.
PRIOR: They’d change the drug just to spoil the fun.
BELIZE: You and your boner can depend on me.
PRIOR: Je t’adore, ma belle nègre.
BELIZE (With an edge): All this girl-talk shit is politically incorrect, you know. We should have dropped it back when we gave up drag.
PRIOR (Indignant): I’m sick, I get to be politically incorrect if it makes me feel better. You sound like Lou.
(Little pause)
Well, at least I have the satisfaction of knowing he’s in anguish somewhere. I loved his anguish. Watching him stick his head up his asshole and eat his guts out over some relatively minor moral conundrum—it was the best show in town. But Mother warned me: if they get overwhelmed by the little things—
BELIZE: —they’ll be belly-up bustville when something big comes along.
PRIOR: Mother warned me.
BELIZE: And they do come along.
PRIOR: But I didn’t listen.
BELIZE: No. (Doing Katharine Hepburn) Men are beasts.
PRIOR (Also Hepburn): The absolute lowest.
BELIZE: I have to go. If I want to spend my whole lonely life looking after white people I can get underpaid to do it.
PRIOR: You’re just a Christian martyr.
BELIZE: Whatever happens, baby, I will be here for you.