Angels in America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes: Revised and Complete Edition

by Tony Kushner

  HANNAH: Then she’s escaped.

  I think maybe motion’s better for her right now, being out and away from—

  JOE: It’s raining. She can’t be out on her own.

  HANNAH: Can I help look for—

  JOE: There’s nothing you can do. You should go, Ma, you should go back home. It’s a terrible time. You never wanted to visit before. You shouldn’t—

  HANNAH: You never asked me.

  JOE: You didn’t have to—

  HANNAH: I didn’t and I shouldn’t and I don’t know why I did, but I’m here, so let me help.

  JOE: She’s my responsibility. Ma. Fly home. Please.

  HANNAH: I . . . can’t.

  JOE: Why?

  HANNAH: I . . .

  Aunt Libby thought she’d smelled radon gas in the basement.

  JOE: What?

  HANNAH: Of the house.

  JOE: You can’t smell radon gas, it has no smell, and since when do you listen to, to Libby? I can’t— (Continue below:)

  HANNAH: I acted on impulse, and I . . . (She decides against telling him that she’s sold the house)

  JOE (Continuous from above): I can’t, um, could we talk about this another—

  HANNAH: That thing you told me, that night. On the telephone, from Central Park. When you were drinking.

  JOE: No, we can’t do that. Not now. I don’t want to— (Continue below:)

  HANNAH: You said you thought you—

  JOE (Continuous from above): I don’t want to talk about it. Forget it.

  HANNAH: But I think maybe now we ought to, we ought to—

  JOE (Suddenly scarily enraged): NO!! And do what?! PRAY TOGETHER?! NO. I couldn’t . . . stomach the prospect!

  (Hannah turns away. He stares, baffled; it takes several moments for him to realize she might be crying.)

  JOE: Are you . . .?

  I’m sorry. Don’t cry.

  HANNAH (Not turning to face him): Don’t be stupid.

  And if I ever do. I promise you you’ll not be privileged to witness it.

  JOE: I should . . .

  (Still facing away, she nods yes.)

  JOE: Is there radon gas in the—

  HANNAH: Just go.

  (Little pause.)

  JOE: I’ll pay to change your ticket.

  (Joe exits. Hannah sits. She’s alone for several moments. There’s a peal of thunder.

  Prior enters, wet, in his prophet garb, dark glasses on, despite the dark day outside. He’s breathless, manic.)

  PRIOR: That man who was just here.

  HANNAH (Not looking at him): We’re closed. Go away.

  PRIOR: He’s your son.

  (Hannah looks at Prior. Little pause. Prior turns to leave.)

  HANNAH: Do you know him. That man?

  How . . . How do you know him, that he’s my—

  PRIOR: My ex-boyfriend, he knows him. I, I shadowed him, all the way up from—I wanted to, to . . . warn him about later, when his hair goes and there’s hips and jowls and all that . . . human stuff, that poor slob there’s just gonna wind up miserable, fat, frightened and alone because Louis, he can’t handle bodies.

  (Little pause.)

  HANNAH: Are you a . . . a homosexual?

  PRIOR: Oh is it that obvious? Yes. I am. What’s it to you?

  HANNAH: Would you say you are a typical . . . homosexual?

  PRIOR: Me? Oh I’m stereotypical. What, you mean like am I a hairdresser or . . .

  HANNAH: Are you a hairdresser?

  PRIOR: Well it would be your lucky day if I was because frankly . . .

  (Little pause.)

  PRIOR: I’m sick. I’m sick. It’s expensive.

  (He starts to cry)

  Oh shit now I won’t be able to stop, now it’s started. I feel really terrible, do I have a fever?

  (Hannah doesn’t touch his forehead. He offers it again, impatiently.)

  PRIOR: Do I have a fever?

  (She hesitates, then puts her hand on his forehead.)

  HANNAH: Yes.

  PRIOR: How high?

  HANNAH: There might be a thermometer in the—

  PRIOR: Very high, very high. Could you get me to a cab, I think I want . . .

  (He sits heavily on the floor)

  Don’t be alarmed, it’s worse than it looks, I mean—

  HANNAH: You should . . . Try to stand up, or . . . Let me see if anyone can—

  PRIOR (Listening to his lungs): Sssshhh.

  Echo-breath, it’s . . . (He shakes his head “no good”) I . . . overdid it. I’m in trouble again.

  Take me to Saint Vincent’s Hospital, I mean, help me to a cab to the . . .

  (Little pause, then Hannah exits and reenters with her coat on.)

  HANNAH: Can you stand up?

  PRIOR: You don’t . . . Call me a—

  HANNAH: I’m useless here.

  (She helps him stand.)

  PRIOR: Please, if you’re trying to convert me this isn’t a good time.

  (Distant thunder. Prior looks up, startled.)

  HANNAH: Lord, look at it out there. It’s pitch-black. We better move.

  (They exit. Thunder.)

  Scene 7

  Same day, late afternoon. Rain is coming down in sheets, an icy wind has picked up. Harper is standing at the railing of the Promenade in Brooklyn Heights, watching the river and the Manhattan skyline. She is wearing the dress she wore in Act Three, Scene 3, inadequate for the weather, and she’s barefoot.

  Joe enters with an umbrella. Harper turns to face him.

  HARPER: The end of the world is at hand. Hello, paleface. (She turns back to the skyline)

  Nothing like storm clouds over Manhattan to get you in the mood for Judgment Day.

  (Thunder.)

  JOE: It’s freezing, it’s raining, where are your shoes?

  HARPER: I threw them in the river.

  The Judgment Day. Everyone will think they’re crazy now, not just me, everyone will see things. Sick men will see angels, women who have houses will sell their houses, dime store dummies will rear up on their wood-putty legs and roam the land, looking for brides.

  JOE: Let’s go home.

  HARPER: Where’s that?

  (Pointing toward Manhattan) Want to buy an island? It’s going out of business. You can have it for the usual cheap trinkets. Fire sale. The prices are insane.

  JOE: Harper.

  HARPER: Joe. Did you miss me?

  JOE: I . . . I’ve come back.

  HARPER: Oh I know.

  Here’s why I wanted to stay in Brooklyn. The Promenade view.

  Water won’t ever accomplish the end. No matter how much you cry. Flood’s not the answer, people just float.

  Let’s go home.

  Fire’s the answer. The Great and Terrible Day. At last.

  Scene 8

  That night. Rain and thunder outside. Prior, Hannah and Emily (Prior’s nurse-practitioner) in an examination room in Saint Vincent’s emergency room. Emily is listening to Prior’s breathing, while Hannah sits in a nearby chair.

  EMILY: You’ve lost eight pounds. Eight pounds! I know people who would kill to be in the shape you were in, you were recovering, and you threw it away.

  PRIOR: This isn’t about WEIGHT, it’s about LUNGS, UM . . . PNEUMONIA.

  EMILY: We don’t know yet.

  PRIOR: THE FUCK WE DON’T ASSHOLE YOU MAY NOT BUT I CAN’T BREATHE.

  HANNAH: You’d breathe better if you didn’t holler like that.

  PRIOR (Looks at Hannah, then): This is my ex-lover’s lover’s Mormon mother.

  (Little pause. Emily nods, then:)

  EMILY: Keep breathing. Stop moving. STAY PUT.

  (Prior startles at her last two words, and stares hard at Emily as she exits.)

  HANNAH (Standing to go): I should go.

  PRIOR: I’m not insane.

  HANNAH: I didn’t say you—

  PRIOR: I saw an angel.

  (She doesn’t respond.)

  PRIOR: That’s insane. />
  HANNAH: Well, it’s—

  PRIOR: Insane. But I’m not insane. Do I seem insane?

  HANNAH: You . . . I’m not sure I—

  PRIOR: Oh for pityfuckingsake just answer the fucking—

  HANNAH: No. Driven, and, and rude, but—

  PRIOR: But then why did I do this to myself? Because I have been driven insane by . . . your son and by that lying . . . Because I’m consumed by this ice-cold, razorblade terror that shouts and shouts, “Don’t stay still get out of bed keep moving! Run!” And I’ve run myself into the ground. Right where She said I’d eventually be.

  What’s happened to me?

  She seemed so real.

  HANNAH: Who?

  Oh, the . . . (Angel gesture)

  (Prior nods yes.

  Hannah hesitates, then:)

  HANNAH: Could be you had a vision.

  PRIOR: A vision. Thank you, Maria Ouspenskaya.

  HANNAH: People have visions.

  PRIOR: No they—Not sane people.

  HANNAH (A beat before deciding to say this): One hundred and seventy years ago, which is recent, an angel of God appeared to Joseph Smith. In Upstate New York, not far from here.

  PRIOR: But that’s ridiculous, that’s—

  HANNAH: It’s not polite to call other people’s beliefs ridiculous.

  PRIOR: I didn’t mean to—

  HANNAH: I believe this. He had great need of understanding. Our Prophet. His desire made prayer. His prayer made an angel. The angel was real. I believe that.

  PRIOR: I don’t. And I’m sorry but it’s repellent to me. So much of what you believe.

  HANNAH: What do I believe?

  PRIOR: I’m a homosexual. With AIDS. I can just imagine what you—

  HANNAH: No you can’t. Imagine. The things in my head. You don’t make assumptions about me, mister; I won’t make them about you.

  PRIOR (A beat; he looks at her, then): Fair enough.

  HANNAH: My son is . . . well, like you.

  PRIOR: Homosexual.

  HANNAH (A nod, then): I flew into a rage when he told me, mad as August hornets. At first I assumed it was about his . . . (She shrugs)

  PRIOR: Homosexuality.

  HANNAH: But that wasn’t it. Homosexuality. I don’t find it an appetizing notion, two men, together, but men in any configuration . . . That wasn’t it. Stupidity gets me cross, but that wasn’t it either. I flew into a rage, filled with rage, then the rage . . . lifted me up; I felt . . . Truly I felt lifted up, into the air, and . . .

  (She laughs to herself)

  And I flew.

  PRIOR: I wish you would be more true to your demographic profile.

  (Little pause. Hannah smiles. They both laugh, a little. Prior’s laugh brings on breathing trouble. Trying to find a comfortable position, he begins to panic.)

  HANNAH: Just lie still. You’ll be all right.

  PRIOR: No. I won’t be. My lungs are getting tighter. The fever mounts and you get delirious. And then days of delirium and awful pain and drugs; you start slipping and then.

  I really . . . fucked up.

  (Losing it, crying) I’m scared. I can’t do it again.

  HANNAH: You shouldn’t talk that way. You ought to make a better show of yourself.

  PRIOR: Look at this . . . horror.

  (He lifts his shirt; his torso is spotted with several lesions)

  See? See that? That’s not human. That’s why I run.

  (Hannah’s shocked but doesn’t show it; it’s hard to look at, but she manages.)

  HANNAH: It’s a cancer. Nothing more. Nothing more human than that.

  (She puts a hand on his shoulder. He calms down. They’re silent for a moment.)

  PRIOR: Do Mormons read the you know the Bible? Or just the—

  HANNAH (Tight, trying not to take offense): The Book of Mormon is a part of the—

  PRIOR: Don’t get technical, you know what I mean, the other parts, the Old Testament part.

  HANNAH: I’ve read the—

  PRIOR: The prophets in the Bible, do they . . . ever refuse their visions?

  HANNAH (Considering, then): One did. There might be others, I—

  PRIOR: And what does God do to them? When they do that?

  HANNAH: He . . . feeds them to whales.

  (Prior laughs, Hannah joins him, they’re both a little hysterical. The laughter subsides.)

  PRIOR: Stay with me.

  HANNAH: Oh no, I—

  PRIOR: Just till I sleep? You comfort me.

  HANNAH: Oh, I—

  PRIOR: You do, you . . . (A little Katharine Hepburn) stiffen my spine.

  (Little pause.)

  HANNAH: I’m not needed elsewhere, I suppose I . . .

  (She thinks for a moment, then sits in a chair)

  When I got up this morning this is not how I envisioned the day would end.

  PRIOR: Me neither.

  (He lies back, and she settles into her chair.)

  HANNAH: An angel is a belief. With wings and arms that can carry you. If it lets you down, reject it.

  (Prior looks at her.)

  PRIOR: Huh.

  HANNAH: There’s scriptural precedent.

  PRIOR: And then what?

  HANNAH (A little shrug, then): Seek something new.

  Scene 9

  That night, the rain’s still falling. The Pitt apartment in Brooklyn. Joe and Harper’s clothing is strewn about the floor.

  Joe enters from the bedroom in a pair of boxers. He picks up his shirt, puts it on and starts to button it. He stops when Harper enters, wrapped in a bedsheet, naked underneath. He hesitates a beat, then resumes buttoning.

  HARPER: When we have sex. Why do you keep your eyes closed?

  JOE: I don’t.

  HARPER: You always do. You can say why, I already know the answer.

  JOE: Then why do I have to—

  HARPER: You imagine things.

  Imagine men.

  JOE: Yes.

  HARPER: Imagining, just like me, except the only time I wasn’t imagining was when I was with you. You, the one part of the real world I wasn’t allergic to.

  JOE: Please. Don’t.

  HARPER: But I only thought I wasn’t dreaming.

  (Joe picks up his pants. Harper watches him as he puts them on, then:)

  HARPER: Oh. Oh. Back in Brooklyn, back with Joe.

  JOE (Still dressing, not looking at Harper): I’m going out. I have to get some stuff I left behind.

  HARPER: Look at me.

  (He doesn’t. He puts on his socks and shoes.)

  HARPER: Look at me.

  Look at me.

  Here! Look here at—

  JOE (Looking at her): What?

  HARPER: What do you see?

  JOE: What do I . . .?

  HARPER: What do you see?

  JOE: Nothing, I—

  (Little pause)

  I see nothing.

  HARPER (A nod, then): Finally. The truth.

  JOE (A beat, then): I’m going. Out. Just . . . Out.

  (He exits.)

  HARPER: It sets you free.

  Good-bye.

  Scene 10

  Later that night. Louis is in his apartment, sitting on the floor; all around him are Xeroxed pages stapled together in thick packets. Louis is reading one of these.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  JOE (Outside the apartment): Louis.

  Please let me in.

  (Louis looks at the Xeroxed packets, fixes a grim little smile on his face, stands, unlocks the door, then immediately returns to his place on the floor.)

  LOUIS: You’re in.

  (A little pause, then Joe turns the knob, opens the door and enters. He looks at Louis, who’s ignoring him, continuing to read.)

  JOE: You weren’t at work. For three days now. You . . . I wish you’d get a phone.

  I’m staying in a hotel, near Fulton Street. It’s kind of—

  You said you’d call me, or—

  LOUIS (Still rea
ding): No I never.

  JOE: Or OK I expected you to call me, I hoped you’d—

  LOUIS (Finally looking at Joe): “Have you no decency, sir?”

  Who said that?

  JOE: I’m having a very hard time. With this. Please, can we—

  LOUIS: “At long last? Have you no sense of decency?”

  (Fake pleasant teasing) Come on, who said it?

  JOE: Who said . . .?

  LOUIS: Who said, “Have you no—”

  JOE: I don’t . . . I’m not interested in playing guessing games, Louis, please stop and let me—

  LOUIS: You really don’t know who said, “Have you no decency?”

  JOE: I want to tell you something, I want to—

  LOUIS: OK, second question: Have you no decency?

  (Joe doesn’t respond. Louis gathers the Xeroxed packets and stands up.)

  LOUIS: Guess what I spent the rainy afternoon doing?

  JOE: What?

  LOUIS: Research at the courthouse. Look what I got:

  (Holding out the papers) The Decisions of Justice Theodore Wilson, Second Circuit Court of Appeals. 1981–1984. The Reagan Years.

  (Little pause.)

  JOE: You, um, you read my decisions.

  LOUIS: Your decisions. Yes.

  (The fake pleasantness fading) The librarian’s gay, he has all the good dish, he told me that Justice Wilson didn’t write these opinions any more than Nixon wrote Six Crises—

  JOE: Or Kennedy wrote Profiles in Courage.

  LOUIS: Or Reagan wrote Where’s the Rest of Me? Or you and I wrote the Book of Love.

  These gems were ghostwritten. By you: his obedient clerk.

  JOE: OK, OK so we can talk about the decisions, if that’s what you want, or, or Prior, if you want to talk about— If you saw him, I’m— Well I’m relieved you’re here. I was scared you’d have moved back, I mean out. I’m . . . Oh God it’s so good to see you again.

  (Joe tries to touch Louis. Louis puts a hand on Joe’s chest and firmly pushes him back.)

  JOE: Hey!

  LOUIS: Naturally I was eager to read them.

  (Louis starts flipping through the files, looking for one in particular.)

  JOE: Free country.

  LOUIS (Finding it, leafing through the pages): I love the one where you found against those women on Staten Island who were suing the New Jersey factory, the toothpaste makers whose orange-colored smoke was blinding children—

  JOE: Not blind, just minor irritation.

  (Louis holds the decision right up to Joe’s face, open to the relevant page.)

  LOUIS: Three of them had to be hospitalized. Joe.