All My Sons

by Arthur Miller

  ANN, to Chris, sits slowly on stool: Haven’t they stopped talking about Dad?

  CHRIS, comes down and sits on arm of chair: Nobody talks about him any more.

  KELLER, rises and comes to her: Gone and forgotten, kid.

  ANN: Tell me. Because I don’t want to meet anybody on the block if they’re going to . . .

  CHRIS: I don’t want you to worry about it.

  ANN, to Keller: Do they still remember the case, Joe? Do they talk about you?

  KELLER: The only one still talks about it is my wife.

  MOTHER: That’s because you keep on playing policeman with the kids. All their parents hear out of you is jail, jail, jail.

  KELLER: Actually what happened was that when I got home from the penitentiary the kids got very interested in me. You know kids. I was . . . Laughs. like the expert on the jail situation. And as time passed they got it confused and . . . I ended up a detective. Laughs.

  MOTHER: Except that they didn’t get it confused. To Ann: He hands out police badges from the Post Toasties boxes. They laugh.

  ANN, wondrously at them, happily. She rises and comes to Keller, putting her arm around his shoulder: Gosh, it’s wonderful to hear you laughing about it.

  CHRIS: Why, what’d you expect?

  ANN: The last thing I remember on this block was one word—“Murderers!” Remember that, Kate? . . . Mrs. Hammond standing in front of our house and yelling that word . . . She’s still around, I suppose?

  MOTHER: They’re all still around.

  KELLER: Don’t listen to her. Every Saturday night the whole gang is playin’ poker in this arbor. All the ones who yelled murderer takin’ my money now.

  MOTHER: Don’t, Joe, she’s a sensitive girl, don’t fool her. To Ann: They still remember about Dad. It’s different with him— Indicates Joe: —he was exonerated, your father’s still there. That’s why I wasn’t so enthusiastic about your coming. Honestly, I know how sensitive you are, and I told Chris, I said . . .

  KELLER: Listen, you do like I did and you’ll be all right. The day I come home, I got out of my car;—but not in front of the house . . . on the corner. You should’ve been here, Annie, and you too, Chris; you’d-a seen something. Everybody knew I was getting out that day; the porches were loaded. Picture it now; none of them believed I was innocent. The story was, I pulled a fast one getting myself exonerated. So I get out of my car, and I walk down the street. But very slow. And with a smile. The beast! I was the beast; the guy who sold cracked cylinder heads to the Army Air Force; the guy who made twenty-one P-40’s crash in Australia. Kid, walkin’ down the street that day I was guilty as hell. Except I wasn’t, and there was a court paper in my pocket to prove I wasn’t, and I walked . . . past . . . the porches. Result? Fourteen months later I had one of the best shops in the state again, a respected man again; bigger than ever.

  CHRIS, with admiration: Joe McGuts.

  KELLER, now with great force: That’s the only way you lick ’em is guts! To Ann: The worst thing you did was to move away from here. You made it tough for your father when he gets out. That’s why I tell you, I like to see him move back right on this block.

  MOTHER, pained: How could they move back?

  KELLER: It ain’t gonna end till they move back! To Ann: Till people play cards with him again, and talk with him, and smile with him—you play cards with a man you know he can’t be a murderer. And the next time you write him I like you to tell him just what I said. Ann simply stares at him. You hear me?

  ANN, surprised: Don’t you hold anything against him?

  KELLER: Annie, I never believed in crucifying people.

  ANN, mystified: But he was your partner, he dragged you through the mud . . .

  KELLER: Well, he ain’t my sweetheart, but you gotta forgive, don’t you?

  ANN: You, either, Kate? Don’t you feel any . . . ?

  KELLER, to Ann: The next time you write Dad . . .

  ANN: I don’t write him.

  KELLER, struck: Well every now and then you . . .

  ANN, a little ashamed, but determined: No, I’ve never written to him. Neither has my brother. To Chris: Say, do you feel this way, too?

  CHRIS: He murdered twenty-one pilots.

  KELLER: What the hell kinda talk is that?

  MOTHER: That’s not a thing to say about a man.

  ANN: What else can you say? When they took him away I followed him, went to him every visiting day. I was crying all the time. Until the news came about Larry. Then I realized. It’s wrong to pity a man like that. Father or no father, there’s only one way to look at him. He knowingly shipped out parts that would crash an airplane. And how do you know Larry wasn’t one of them?

  MOTHER: I was waiting for that. Going to her: As long as you’re here, Annie, I want to ask you never to say that again.

  ANN: You surprise me. I thought you’d be mad at him.

  MOTHER: What your father did had nothing to do with Larry. Nothing.

  ANN: But we can’t know that.

  MOTHER, striving for control: As long as you’re here!

  ANN, perplexed: But, Kate . . .

  MOTHER: Put that out of your head!

  KELLER: Because . . .

  MOTHER, quickly to Keller: That’s all, that’s enough. Places her hand on her head. Come inside now, and have some tea with me. She turns and goes up steps.

  KELLER, to Ann: The one thing you . . .

  MOTHER, sharply: He’s not dead, so there’s no argument! Now come!

  KELLER, angrily: In a minute! Mother turns and goes into house. Now look, Annie . . .

  CHRIS: All right, Dad, forget it.

  KELLER: No, she dasn’t feel that way. Annie . . .

  CHRIS: I’m sick of the whole subject, now cut it out.

  KELLER: You want her to go on like this? To Ann: Those cylinder heads went into P-40’s only. What’s the matter with you? You know Larry never flew a P-40.

  CHRIS: So who flew those P-40’s, pigs?

  KELLER: The man was a fool, but don’t make a murderer out of him. You got no sense? Look what it does to her! To Ann: Listen, you gotta appreciate what was doin’ in that shop in the war. The both of you! It was a madhouse. Every half hour the Major callin’ for cylinder heads, they were whippin’ us with the telephone. The trucks were hauling them away hot, damn near. I mean just try to see it human, see it human. All of a sudden a batch comes out with a crack. That happens, that’s the business. A fine, hairline crack. All right, so . . . so he’s a little man, your father, always scared of loud voices. What’ll the Major say?—Half a day’s production shot. . . . What’ll I say? You know what I mean? Human. He pauses. So he takes out his tools and he . . . covers over the cracks. All right . . . that’s bad, it’s wrong, but that’s what a little man does. If I could have gone in that day I’d a told him—junk ’em, Steve, we can afford it. But alone he was afraid. But I know he meant no harm. He believed they’d hold up a hundred percent. That’s a mistake, but it ain’t murder. You mustn’t feel that way about him. You understand me? It ain’t right.

  ANN—she regards him a moment: Joe, let’s forget it.

  KELLER: Annie, the day the news came about Larry he was in the next cell to mine . . . Dad. And he cried, Annie . . . he cried half the night.

  ANN, touched: He shoulda cried all night. Slight pause.

  KELLER, almost angered: Annie, I do not understand why you . . . !

  CHRIS, breaking in—with nervous urgency: Are you going to stop it?!

  ANN: Don’t yell at him. He just wants everybody happy.

  KELLER, clasps her around waist, smiling: That’s my sentiments. Can you stand steak?

  CHRIS: And champagne!

  KELLER: Now you’re operatin’! I’ll call Swanson’s for a table! Big time tonight, Annie!

  ANN: Can’t scare me.

&n
bsp; KELLER, to Chris, pointing at Ann: I like that girl. Wrap her up. They laugh. Goes up porch. You got nice legs, Annie! . . . I want to see everybody drunk tonight. Pointing to Chris: Look at him, he’s blushin’! He exits, laughing, into house.

  CHRIS, calling after him: Drink your tea, Casanova. He turns to Ann. Isn’t he a great guy?

  ANN: You’re the only one I know who loves his parents!

  CHRIS: I know. It went out of style, didn’t it?

  ANN, with a sudden touch of sadness: It’s all right. It’s a good thing. She looks about. You know? It’s lovely here. The air is sweet.

  CHRIS, hopefully: You’re not sorry you came?

  ANN: Not sorry, no. But I’m . . . not going to stay . . .

  CHRIS: Why?

  ANN: In the first place, your mother as much as told me to go.

  CHRIS: Well . . .

  ANN: You saw that . . . and then you . . . you’ve been kind of . . .

  CHRIS: What?

  ANN: Well . . . kind of embarrassed ever since I got here.

  CHRIS: The trouble is I planned on kind of sneaking up on you over a period of a week or so. But they take it for granted that we’re all set.

  ANN: I knew they would. Your mother anyway.

  CHRIS: How did you know?

  ANN: From her point of view, why else would I come?

  CHRIS: Well . . . would you want to? Ann studies him. I guess you know this is why I asked you to come.

  ANN: I guess this is why I came.

  CHRIS: Ann, I love you. I love you a great deal. Finally: I love you. Pause. She waits. I have no imagination . . . that’s all I know to tell you. Ann, waiting, ready. I’m embarrassing you. I didn’t want to tell it to you here. I wanted some place we’d never been; a place where we’d be brand new to each other. . . . You feel it’s wrong here, don’t you? This yard, this chair? I want you to be ready for me. I don’t want to win you away from anything.

  ANN, putting her arms around him: Oh, Chris, I’ve been ready a long, long time!

  CHRIS: Then he’s gone forever. You’re sure.

  ANN: I almost got married two years ago.

  CHRIS: . . . Why didn’t you?

  ANN: You started to write to me . . . Slight pause.

  CHRIS: You felt something that far back?

  ANN: Every day since!

  CHRIS: Ann, why didn’t you let me know?

  ANN: I was waiting for you, Chris. Till then you never wrote. And when you did, what did you say? You sure can be ambiguous, you know.

  CHRIS—he looks towards house, then at her, trembling: Give me a kiss, Ann. Give me a . . . They kiss. God, I kissed you, Annie, I kissed Annie. How long, how long I’ve been waiting to kiss you!

  ANN: I’ll never forgive you. Why did you wait all these years? All I’ve done is sit and wonder if I was crazy for thinking of you.

  CHRIS: Annie, we’re going to live now! I’m going to make you so happy. He kisses her, but without their bodies touching.

  ANN, a little embarrassed: Not like that you’re not.

  CHRIS: I kissed you . . .

  ANN: Like Larry’s brother. Do it like you, Chris. He breaks away from her abruptly. What is it, Chris?

  CHRIS: Let’s drive some place . . . I want to be alone with you.

  ANN: No . . . what is it, Chris, your mother?

  CHRIS: No . . . nothing like that . . .

  ANN: Then what’s wrong? . . . Even in your letters, there was something ashamed.

  CHRIS: Yes. I suppose I have been. But it’s going from me.

  ANN: You’ve got to tell me—

  CHRIS: I don’t know how to start. He takes her hand.

  ANN: It wouldn’t work this way. Slight pause.

  CHRIS, speaks quietly, factually at first: It’s all mixed up with so many other things. . . . You remember, overseas, I was in command of a company?

  ANN: Yeah, sure.

  CHRIS: Well, I lost them.

  ANN: How many?

  CHRIS: Just about all.

  ANN: Oh, gee!

  CHRIS: It takes a little time to toss that off. Because they weren’t just men. For instance, one time it’d been raining several days and this kid came to me, and gave me his last pair of dry socks. Put them in my pocket. That’s only a little thing . . . but . . . that’s the kind of guys I had. They didn’t die; they killed themselves for each other. I mean that exactly; a little more selfish and they’d’ve been here today. And I got an idea—watching them go down. Everything was being destroyed, see, but it seemed to me that one new thing was made. A kind of . . . responsibility. Man for man. You understand me?—To show that, to bring that on to the earth again like some kind of a monument and everyone would feel it standing there, behind him, and it would make a difference to him. Pause. And then I came home and it was incredible. I . . . there was no meaning in it here; the whole thing to them was a kind of a—bus accident. I went to work with Dad, and that rat-race again. I felt . . . what you said . . . ashamed somehow. Because nobody was changed at all. It seemed to make suckers out of a lot of guys. I felt wrong to be alive, to open the bank-book, to drive the new car, to see the new refrigerator. I mean you can take those things out of a war, but when you drive that car you’ve got to know that it came out of the love a man can have for a man, you’ve got to be a little better because of that. Otherwise what you have is really loot, and there’s blood on it. I didn’t want to take any of it. And I guess that included you.

  ANN: And you still feel that way?

  CHRIS: I want you now, Annie.

  ANN: Because you mustn’t feel that way any more. Because you have a right to whatever you have. Everything, Chris, understand that? To me, too . . . And the money, there’s nothing wrong in your money. Your father put hundreds of planes in the air, you should be proud. A man should be paid for that . . .

  CHRIS: Oh Annie, Annie . . . I’m going to make a fortune for you!

  KELLER, offstage: Hello . . . Yes. Sure.

  ANN, laughing softly: What’ll I do with a fortune . . . ? They kiss. Keller enters from house.

  KELLER, thumbing toward house: Hey, Ann, your brother . . . They step apart shyly. Keller comes down, and wryly . . . : What is this, Labor Day?

  CHRIS, waving him away, knowing the kidding will be endless: All right, all right . . .

  ANN: You shouldn’t burst out like that.

  KELLER: Well, nobody told me it was Labor Day. Looks around. Where’s the hot dogs?

  CHRIS loving it: All right. You said it once.

  KELLER: Well, as long as I know it’s Labor Day from now on, I’ll wear a bell around my neck.

  ANN, affectionately: He’s so subtle!

  CHRIS: George Bernard Shaw as an elephant.

  KELLER: George!—hey, you kissed it out of my head—your brother’s on the phone.

  ANN, surprised: My brother?

  KELLER: Yeah, George. Long distance.

  ANN: What’s the matter, is anything wrong?

  KELLER: I don’t know, Kate’s talking to him. Hurry up, she’ll cost him five dollars.

  ANN—she takes a step upstage, then comes down toward Chris: I wonder if we ought to tell your mother yet? I mean I’m not very good in an argument.

  CHRIS: We’ll wait till tonight. After dinner. Now don’t get tense, just leave it to me.

  KELLER: What’re you telling her?

  CHRIS: Go ahead, Ann. With misgivings, Ann goes up and into house. We’re getting married, Dad. Keller nods indecisively. Well, don’t you say anything?

  KELLER, distracted: I’m glad, Chris, I’m just . . . George is calling from Columbus.

  CHRIS: Columbus!

  KELLER: Did Annie tell you he was going to see his father today?

  CHRIS: No, I don’t think she knew anything about it.

 
KELLER, asking uncomfortably: Chris! You . . . you think you know her pretty good?

  CHRIS, hurt and apprehensive: What kind of a question . . . ?

  KELLER: I’m just wondering. All these years George don’t go to see his father. Suddenly he goes . . . and she comes here.

  CHRIS: Well, what about it?

  KELLER: It’s crazy, but it comes to my mind. She don’t hold nothin’ against me, does she?

  CHRIS, angry: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  KELLER, a little more combatively: I’m just talkin’. To his last day in court the man blamed it all on me; and this is his daughter. I mean if she was sent here to find out something?

  CHRIS, angered: Why? What is there to find out?

  ANN, on phone, offstage: Why are you so excited, George? What happened there?

  KELLER: I mean if they want to open up the case again, for the nuisance value, to hurt us?

  CHRIS: Dad . . . how could you think that of her?

  ANN, still on phone, simultaneously: But what did he say to you, for God’s sake?

  KELLER: It couldn’t be, heh. You know.

  CHRIS: Dad, you amaze me . . .

  KELLER, breaking in: All right, forget it, forget it. With great force, moving about: I want a clean start for you, Chris. I want a new sign over the plant—Christopher Keller, Incorporated.

  CHRIS, a little uneasily: J. O. Keller is good enough.

  KELLER: We’ll talk about it. I’m going to build you a house, stone, with a driveway from the road. I want you to spread out, Chris, I want you to use what I made for you . . . He is close to him now. . . . I mean, with joy, Chris, without shame . . . with joy.

  CHRIS, touched: I will, Dad.

  KELLER, with deep emotion: . . . Say it to me.

  CHRIS: Why?

  KELLER: Because sometimes I think you’re . . . ashamed of the money.

  CHRIS: No, don’t feel that.

  KELLER: Because it’s good money, there’s nothing wrong with that money.

  CHRIS, a little frightened: Dad, you don’t have to tell me this.

  KELLER, with overriding affection and self-confidence now. He grips Chris by the back of the neck, and with laughter between his determined jaws: Look, Chris, I’ll go to work on Mother for you. We’ll get her so drunk tonight we’ll all get married! Steps away, with a wide gesture of his arm: There’s gonna be a wedding, kid, like there never was seen! Champagne, tuxedoes . . . !