Don’t feel obliged to say anything if you . . .
KAREN: I get sick to my stomach just looking at a boat. Does your husband hunt?
PATRICIA: Sit down. Relax yourself. You don’t have to talk. Although I think you’re doing a little better than yesterday.
KAREN: Oh, I like talking with you. Explaining herself timorously; indicating offstage—and very privately: . . . I should go out—he doesn’t like being kept waiting, don’t y’know.
PATRICIA: Why are you so afraid? He might start treasuring you more if you make him wait a little. Come, sit.
Karen adventurously sits at the foot of the bed, glancing about nervously.
Men are only big children, you know—give them a chocolate soda every day and pretty soon it doesn’t mean a thing to them. Looks at her watch again. Only reason I’m nervous is that I can’t decide whether to go home today. —But you mustn’t mention it, will you?
KAREN: Mention . . . ?
PATRICIA: About my pills. I haven’t told anybody yet.
Karen looks a bit blank.
Well never mind.
KAREN: Oh! You mean not taking them.
PATRICIA: But you mustn’t mention it, will you. The doctor would be very upset.
KAREN: And how long has it been?
PATRICIA: Twenty-one days today. It’s the longest I’ve been clean in maybe fifteen years. I can hardly believe it.
KAREN: Are you Baptist?
PATRICIA: Baptist? No, we’re more Methodist. But the church I’d really love hasn’t been invented yet.
KAREN, charmed, slavishly interested: How would it be?
PATRICIA, begins to describe it, breaks off: I can’t describe it. A sign of lostness. I was raised Lutheran, of course. —But I often go to the Marble Baptist Church on Route 91? I’ve gotten to like that minister. —You hear what I’m saying, don’t you?
Karen looks at her nervously trying to remember.
I must say it’s kind of relaxing talking to you, Karen, knowing that you probably won’t remember too much. But you’ll come out of it all right, you’re just a little scared, aren’t you. —But who isn’t? Slight pause. Doctor Rockwell is not going to believe I’m doing better without medication but I really think something’s clicked inside me. A deep breath. I even seem to be breathing easier. And I’m not feeling that sort of fuzziness in my head. —It’s like some big bird has been hovering over me for fifteen years, and suddenly it’s flown away.
KAREN: I can’t stand dead animals, can you?
PATRICIA: Well just insist that he has to stop hunting! You don’t have to stand for that, you’re a person.
KAREN: Well you know, men like to . . .
PATRICIA: Not all—I’ve known some lovely men. Not many, but a few. This minister I mentioned?—he came one day this summer and sat with me on our porch . . . and we had ice cream and talked for over an hour. You know, when he left his previous church they gave him a Pontiac Grand Am. He made me realize something; he said that I seem to be in like a constant state of prayer. And it’s true; every once in a while it stops me short, realizing it. It’s like inside me I’m almost continually talking to the Lord. Not in words exactly . . . just—you know—communicating with Him. Or trying to. Deeply excited, but suppressing it. I tell you truthfully, if I can really come out of this I’m going to . . . I don’t know what . . . fall in love with God. I think I have already.
KAREN: You’re really beautiful.
PATRICIA: Oh no, dear, I’m a torn-off rag of my old self. The pills put ten years on my face. If he was a Jew or Italian or even Irish he’d be suing these doctors, but Yankees never sue, you know. Although I have to say the only thing he’s been right about is medication.
KAREN: Your husband against pills?
PATRICIA: Fanatical. But of course he can stick his head out the window and go high as a kite on a breath of fresh air. Looks at her watch.
KAREN: I really think you’re extremely attractive.
PATRICIA: No-no, dear, although I did win the country beauty pageant when I was nineteen. But if you’re talking beauty you should have seen my mother. She only died two years ago, age eighty-nine, but I still haven’t gotten over it. On the beach, right into her seventies, people would still be staring at her—she had an unbelievable bust right up to the end.
KAREN: I cut this finger once in a broken Coke machine. But we never sued.
PATRICIA: Did your conversation always jump around? Because it could be your pills, believe me; the soul belongs to God, we’re not supposed to be stuffing Valium into His mouth.
KAREN: I have a cousin who went right through the windshield and she didn’t get a cent. Slight pause. And it was five below zero out. Slight pause. Her husband’s Norwegian.
PATRICIA: Look, dear, I know you’re trying but don’t feel you have to speak.
KAREN: No, I like speaking to you. Is he Baptist too, your husband?
PATRICIA: I said Methodist. But he’s more Episcopal. But he’ll go to any church if it’s raining. Slight pause. I just don’t know whether to tell him yet.
KAREN: What.
PATRICIA: That I’m off everything.
KAREN: But he’ll like that, won’t he?
PATRICIA: Oh yes. But he’s going to be doubtful. —Which I am, too, let’s face it—who can know for sure that you’re going to stay clean? I don’t want to fool myself, I’ve been on one medication or another for almost twenty years. But I do feel a thousand percent better. And I really have no idea how it happened. Shakes her head. Dear God, when I think of him hanging in there all these years . . . I’m so ashamed. But at the same time he’s absolutely refused to make any money, every one of our children has had to work since they could practically write their names. I can’t be expected to applaud, exactly. Presses her eyes. I guess sooner or later you just have to stand up and say, “I’m normal, I made it.” But it’s like standing on top of a stairs and there’s no stairs. Staring ahead.
KAREN: I think I’d better go out to him. Should I tell your husband you’re coming out?
PATRICIA: I think I’ll wait a minute.
KAREN, stands: He seems very nice.
PATRICIA: —I’ll tell you the truth, dear—I’ve put him through hell and I know it. . . . Tears threaten her. I know I have to stop blaming him; it came to me like a visitation two weeks ago, I-must-not-blame-Leroy-anymore. And it’s amazing. I lost all desire for medication, I could feel it leaving me like a . . . like a ghost. Slight pause. It’s just that he’s got really well-to-do relatives and he simply will not accept anyone’s help. I mean you take the Jews, the Italians, Irish—they’ve got their Italian-Americans, Irish-Americans, Hispanic-Americans—they stick together and help each other. But you ever hear of Yankee-Americans? Not on your life. Raise his taxes, rob him blind, the Yankee’ll just sit there all alone getting sadder and sadder. —But I’m not going to think about it anymore.
KAREN: You have a very beautiful chin.
PATRICIA: Men with half his ability riding around in big expensive cars and now for the second Easter Sunday in a row his rear end collapsed.
KAREN: I think my license must have expired.
PATRICIA, a surge of deep anger: I refuse to ride around in a nine-year-old Chevrolet which was bought secondhand in the first place!
KAREN: They say there are only three keys for all General Motors cars. You suppose that’s possible?
PATRICIA, peremptorily now: Believe me, dear, whatever they tell you, you have got to cut down the medication. It could be what’s making your mind jump around . . .
KAREN: No, it’s that you mentioned Chevrolet, which is General Motors, you see.
PATRICIA: Oh. . . . Well, let’s just forget about it. Slight pause. Although you’re probably right—here you’re carefully locking your car and some crook is walking around with the same keys in his pocket
. But everything’s a fake, we all know that.
KAREN, facing Patricia again: I guess that would be depressing.
PATRICIA: No, that’s not what depressed me . . .
KAREN: No, I meant him refusing to amount to anything and then spending money on banjo lessons.
PATRICIA: Did I tell you that?—I keep forgetting what I told you because I never know when you’re listening. Holds out her hand. Here we go again. Grasps her hand to stop the shaking.
KAREN: —You sound like you had a wonderful courtship.
PATRICIA: Oh, Karen, everyone envied us, we were the handsomes pair in town; and I’m not boasting, believe me. Breaks off; watches her hand shake and covers it again. I just don’t want to have to come back here again, you see. I don’t think I could bear that. Grips her hand, moving about. I simply have to think positively. But it’s unbelievable—he’s seriously talking about donating his saw-and-chisel collection to the museum!—some of those tools are as old as the United States, they might be worth a fortune! —But I’m going to look ahead, that’s all just as straight ahead as a highway.
Slight pause.
KAREN: I feel so ashamed.
PATRICIA: For Heaven’s sake, why? You’ve got a right to be depressed. There’s more people in hospitals because of depression than any other disease.
KAREN: Is that true?
PATRICIA: Of course! Anybody with any sense has got to be depressed in this country. Unless you’re really rich, I suppose. Don’t let him shame you, dear.
KAREN: No . . . it’s that you have so many thoughts.
PATRICIA: Oh. Well you can have thoughts, too—just remember your soul belongs to God and you mustn’t be shoving pills into His mouth.
Slight pause.
KAREN: We’re rich, I think.
PATRICIA, quickly interested: . . . Really rich?
KAREN: He’s got the oil delivery now, and of course he always had the fertilizer and the Chevy dealership, and of course the lumber yard and all. And Isuzus now.
PATRICIA: What’s Isuzus?
KAREN: It’s a Japanese car.
PATRICIA: . . . I’ll just never catch up.
KAREN: We go to Arkansas in the spring.
PATRICIA: Arkansas?
KAREN: For the catfish. It’s where I broke down. But I can’t help it, the sight of catfish makes me want to vomit. Not that I was trying to . . . you know . . . do anything. I just read the instructions on the bottle wrong. Do you mind if I ask you something?
PATRICIA: I hope it’s nothing personal, is it?
KAREN: Well I don’t know.
PATRICIA: . . . Well go ahead, what is it?
KAREN: Do you shop in the A&P or Stop & Shop?
PATRICIA: . . . I’m wondering if you’ve got the wrong medication. But I guess you’ll never overdose—you vomit at the drop of a hat. It may be your secret blessing.
KAREN: —He wants to get me out of the house more, but it’s hard to make up my mind where.
PATRICIA: Well . . . A&P is good. Or Stop & Shop. More or less. Kroger’s is good for fish sometimes.
KAREN: Which do you like best? I’ll go where you go.
PATRICIA: You’re very flattering. Stands, inner excitement. It’s amazing— I’m really beginning to feel wonderful; maybe I ought to go home with him today. I mean what does it come down to, really?—it’s simply a question of confidence . . .
KAREN: I wish we could raise some vegetables like we did on the farm. Do you?
PATRICIA: Oh, he raises things in our yard. Healthy things like salsify and collards—and kale. You ever eat kale?
KAREN: I can’t remember kale.
PATRICIA: You might as well salt your shower curtain and chop it up with a tomato.
KAREN: —So . . . meats are . . . which?—A&P?
PATRICIA: No. Meats are Stop & Shop. I’m really thinking I might go home today. It’s just not his fault, I have to remember that . . .
KAREN: But staples?
PATRICIA: What? —Oh, Stop & Shop.
KAREN: Then what’s for A&P?
PATRICIA: Vegetables.
KAREN: Oh right. And Kroger’s?
PATRICIA: Why don’t you just forget Kroger’s.
KAREN, holds up five fingers, bends one at a time: . . . Then Stop & Shop . . .
PATRICIA: Maybe it’s that you’re trying to remember three things. Whyn’t you just do A&P and Stop & Shop.
Slight pause.
KAREN: I kind of liked Kroger’s.
PATRICIA: Then go to Kroger’s, for Heaven’s sake!
KAREN: Well I guess I’ll go out to him. Moves to go. Halts. I hope you aren’t really leaving today, are you?
PATRICIA, higher tension: I’m deciding.
KAREN: Well . . . here I go, I guess. Halts again. I meant to tell you, I kind of like the banjo. It’s very good with tap dancing.
PATRICIA: Tap dancing.
KAREN: There’s a tap teacher lives on our road.
PATRICIA: You tap-dance?
KAREN: Well John rented a video of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire, and I kind of liked it. I can sing “Cheek to Cheek”? Would you like to hear it?
PATRICIA: Sure, go ahead—this is certainly a surprise.
KAREN, sings in a frail voice: “Heaven, I’m in heaven, and the cares that clung around me through the week . . .”
PATRICIA: That’s beautiful, Karen! Listen, what exactly does Doctor Rockwell say about you?
KAREN: Well, he says it’s quite common when a woman is home alone all day.
PATRICIA: What’s common?
KAREN: Something moving around in the next room?
PATRICIA: Oh, I see. —You have any idea who it is?
KAREN: My mother. —My husband might bring my tap shoes and tails . . . but he probably forgot. I have a high hat and shorts too. And a walking stick? But would they allow dancing in here?
PATRICIA: They might. But of course the minute they see you enjoying yourself they’ll probably try to knock you out with a pill.
Karen makes to go, halts again.
KAREN: Did your mother like you?
PATRICIA: Oh yes. We were all very close. Didn’t yours?
KAREN: No. She left the whole farm to her cousin. Tell about your family, can you? Were they really all blond?
PATRICIA: Oh as blond as the tassels on Golden Bantam corn . . . everybody’d turn and look when we went by. My mother was perfection. We all were, I guess. With a chuckle. You know, we had a flat roof extending from the house over the garage, and mother and my sisters and me—on the first warm spring days we used to sunbathe out there.
KAREN, covering her mouth: No! You mean nude?
PATRICIA: Nudity doesn’t matter that much in Sweden, and we were all brought up to love the sun. And we’d near die laughing because the minute we dropped our robes—you know how quiet a town Grenville is—you could hear the footsteps going up the clock tower over the Presbyterian church, and we pretended not to notice but that little narrow tower was just packed with Presbyterians.
KAREN: Good lord!
PATRICIA: We’d stretch out and pretend not to see a thing. And then my mother’d sit up suddenly and point up at the steeple and yell, “Boo!” And they’d all go running down the stairs like mice!
They both enjoy the laugh.
KAREN: I think your husband’s very good-looking, isn’t he.
PATRICIA: He is, but my brothers . . . I mean the way they stood, and walked . . . and their teeth! Charles won the All-New England golf tournament, and Buzz came within a tenth of an inch of the gold medal in the pole vault—that was in the Portugal Olympics.
KAREN: My! Do you still get together much?
PATRICIA: Oh, they’re all gone now.
KAREN: Moved away?
PATRICIA:
No . . . dead.
KAREN: Oh my. They overstrain?
PATRICIA: Buzz hung himself on his wife’s closet door.
KAREN: Oh my!
PATRICIA: Eight days later Charles shot himself on the tractor.
KAREN, softly: Oh my. Did they leave a note or anything?
PATRICIA: No. But we all knew what it was.
KAREN: Can you say?
PATRICIA: Disappointment. We were all brought up expecting to be wonderful, and . . . breaks off with a shrug . . . just wasn’t.
KAREN: Well . . . here I go.
Karen exits. Patricia stares ahead for a moment in a blankly reminiscent mood. Now she looks at her face in a mirror, smoothing wrinkles away . . .
Leroy enters.
PATRICIA: I was just coming out.
LEROY: ’Cause Mrs. Frick . . .
PATRICIA, cuts him off by drawing his head down and stroking his cheek. And in a soft but faintly patronizing tone: . . . I was just coming out, Leroy. You don’t have to repeat everything. Come, sit with me and let’s not argue.
LEROY: . . . How’s your day been?
She is still moved by her brothers’ memory; also, she hasn’t received something she hoped for from him. She shrugs and turns her head away.
PATRICIA: I’ve had worse.
LEROY: Did you wash your hair?
PATRICIA, pleased he noticed: How can you tell?
LEROY: Looks livelier. Is that nail polish?
PATRICIA: M-hm.
LEROY: Good. You’re looking good, Patty.
PATRICIA: I’m feeling better. Not completely but a lot.
LEROY, nods approvingly: Great! Did he change your medication or something?
PATRICIA: No.
LEROY: Something different about you.
PATRICIA, mysteriously excited: You think so?
LEROY: Your eyes are clearer. You seem more like you’re . . . connecting.
PATRICIA: I am, I think. But I warn you, I’m nervous.
LEROY: That’s okay. Your color is more . . . I don’t know . . . vigorous.
PATRICIA: Is it? She touches her face.
LEROY: You look almost like years ago . . .
PATRICIA: Something’s happened but I don’t want to talk about it yet.
The Penguin Arthur Miller Page 120