Frank's Home

by Richard Nelson

  (Short pause.)

  CATHERINE: Lloyd has a very responsible job in the motion pictures.

  (No response from anyone.)

  FRANK (To Lloyd): You’re going to just sit there, Lloyd? And take it? You’re not going to get up and storm out? You’re not going to give me a punch? (Smiles to himself, then shakes his head in disgust. To William) So stop work on the school. Tell the men.

  WILLIAM: They’ve been told. They got a cable, too. They’re gone.

  (No one has anything to say. Off, the children can be heard playing.)

  CATHERINE: The children are back outside. They’ll be through for the day soon.

  FRANK: One by one we’re abandoned.

  LLOYD: Now you know how it feels.

  CATHERINE: Lloyd!

  KENNETH (Standing): I should go. I’m really late. (To Frank) How nice to finally meet Catherine’s father.

  FRANK: I hope I’m everything you expected.

  KENNETH: You are. So I will set up those appointments?

  FRANK: Thank you.

  KENNETH: It was all Catherine’s idea, so maybe you should thank—

  FRANK (To Catherine): Thank you.

  KENNETH (Second thought): It might take a while, they are . . .

  FRANK: Busy. I understand.

  KENNETH: Lloyd. (To Sullivan) Sir. (He goes)

  CATHERINE: I’ll just walk him to the car.

  (She hurries after her husband. Pause.)

  LLOYD: Listen to those children. Imagine that they are screaming.

  WILLIAM (Disgusted with Lloyd): Jesus Christ. (Goes inside)

  FRANK (To Lloyd): Now even William doesn’t like you. And he likes everyone. Poor boy.

  (We hear the children playing, off.)

  So, are you just going to sit there? (To Sullivan) My son has no pride, Louie. And that is one trait I can’t abide.

  SULLIVAN: Frank—

  FRANK: Look at him. How can he just sit there? At least—walk away! It’s what I’d do if I were him. Or—hit me! Come on, Son. (Pretends to box) Hit me. Come on.

  (He gets up and gives Lloyd a couple of light hits on the shoulder. Lloyd doesn’t react.)

  Louie, remember me taking boxing lessons?

  (He hits Lloyd again, a little harder.)

  SULLIVAN: I remember, Frank.

  FRANK (Stops. Explains to Lloyd): I was an apprentice for . . . (Gestures to Sullivan) Years younger than you are now, but already— (Another punch) Well, Louie’s favorite in the office, wasn’t I? Some of the older boys, they were jealous of me, so . . . (Shows off his boxing skills; shadowboxes) They weren’t going to stop. And I wasn’t going to just sit there and take it.

  (Frank stands in front of his son, arms out, begging to be punched. He gives Lloyd a quick hit, then goes back and sits.)

  (Explaining to Sullivan, about Lloyd) A wannabe artist, Louie. In the circles of hell of art—that’s about as low as you get. You’re there with all the pathetics. (“Smiles”)

  LLOYD (To Frank): And you? Where are you in hell?

  FRANK: I’m up with the godly.

  LLOYD: How can you feel like that today?

  FRANK: I feel like that every day. (Puts on a big “smile”) Don’t you wish you were me, Lloyd?

  LLOYD (Looking at his father): Have you no conscience?

  FRANK: What do you want me to do, Lloyd? About the hotel? What can I do about that now?

  LLOYD: Apologize? Admit a mistake for once in your life?

  FRANK: I’ve admitted many mistakes—

  LLOYD: Bullshit!

  FRANK: That hotel was beautiful. A work of art. Both inside and outside. It lasted—well, as long as it lasted. That doesn’t take anything away from—

  LLOYD: That is obscene!! It’s a goddamn building for people to live in, not some—sculpture!

  FRANK: It was beautiful—

  (Kenneth returns, followed by Catherine.)

  SULLIVAN: Look who’s back. The banker.

  KENNETH: Mister Wright—

  FRANK (Correcting him): Frank.

  KENNETH: What?

  FRANK: Frank.

  KENNETH: Frank, Catherine and I—

  FRANK: Maybe “Mister Wright” is better for now.

  KENNETH (After a beat): Catherine and I were just talking at the car. (He points)

  FRANK: I know where the driveway is. I put it there.

  KENNETH: And we both agree that we need a new addition on our house. Nothing—grand. (Looks to Catherine)

  CATHERINE: No. No.

  KENNETH: But with Ann, we thought . . . I know it’s not much.

  CATHERINE: And you’d be doing us a favor, too.

  FRANK: Too?

  KENNETH: Nothing—expensive. Just a . . .

  FRANK: I see. Thank you. Thank you both. Very much.

  (Catherine and Kenneth are pleased with themselves. Frank takes out a little notebook.)

  CATHERINE (To Frank): I told you he’d be pleased. What are you doing? What’s he doing? What’s he drawing? (Looking over her father’s shoulder)

  FRANK: It’s just . . . (He has drawn a few quick lines, then rips out the page)

  CATHERINE (Smiling): A little house?

  FRANK: How’s this? I’ll send you my bill.

  (Pause. Then Kenneth laughs—thinking it is a joke.)

  KENNETH: That’s very funny.

  CATHERINE (Laughs, taking the piece of paper): I’ll treasure this.

  FRANK: Good.

  KENNETH: I should go. We can’t pay much . . .

  FRANK: I’ll send you the bill for that.

  (More laughter. They go.)

  (To Lloyd) I will.

  LLOYD: May be the only job you’ll get for a while now.

  FRANK: What Lloyd doesn’t understand, Louie.

  SULLIVAN: I’m not going to be in the middle. (Gets up and goes)

  FRANK: He needs a drink.

  LLOYD: What don’t I understand, Father? I think I understand things very well.

  FRANK: Then go ahead. Give it to me. Tell me what you know. I know you’ve been waiting for me to stumble. Now I have. Hit back. I’ve watched you always—judging me.

  LLOYD (Smiles incredulously): Me?

  FRANK: I know you think I’m doing the same to you. But I’m really watching you look at me. What do you really know? I’ve lived a—complicated life. I have many enemies. You don’t think I know how they’ll attack this carcass of mine. One reporter was only the beginning. There’ll be many, many more. You think I don’t see the vultures circling? And this could not have come at a worse time for me. God I know that.

  LLOYD: What about for those in Tokyo? Could it have come at a worse time for them?

  FRANK: I feel terrible for them. Some of those people are my friends. My colleagues. I’ve tried desperately to get through. William keeps trying. I lived with these people, Lloyd. I’m heartbroken.

  (Lloyd just smiles to himself and shakes his head.)

  So don’t believe me. (Starts again) I have been hoping to start again here. I’ve said all this. And this is still my intention. You say, Lloyd, that I do not admit mistakes. Well, here is a mistake I do admit—you.

  (Lloyd looks at him.)

  And your sister, to some extent. I blame me for what you are. What you don’t know. But maybe, just maybe, I can make up for that—to you. To Catherine. Here. It was one reason I came here.

  (Lloyd stares at his father.)

  Now—where to begin. To make up for what you’ve missed. All you don’t know that I could have— I could have taught you. Why not start now? Here—Lloyd—is what I know. Listen. And listen carefully. Especially now, because it’s times like this, that what I’m about to say, we cannot be allowed to forget. (Short pause) Beauty, Lloyd. Beauty. How do we look at the world? Why is it we seek beauty? “The perception of beauty is a moral test.” Thoreau said that. Beauty is not just a pleasure, an ornament, an—extra; it is not even a roof, or a door, or a floor. It is right and wrong. It is good and it is bad. The Imperial Hotel
is—was—a quite beautiful building. I think. I tried my best.

  And now—I have to believe that that was enough. For however long—

  LLOYD: That’s not how you talked about the hotel. What about those “miraculous floating foundations” making it “impervious to earthquakes, anything . . .”?

  FRANK: I say a lot of things. To clients. To critics. (Short pause) What I argue and the art I create are maybe two different things. Have you thought about that? The hotel was beautiful. That is enough. So let me be proud of that accomplishment. A far greater accomplishment and more difficult than— What you see as failure? And disappointment? I see as the erosion say of time. Perfectly normal, expected, maybe in this case shorter than expected but we are not God. (Making a joke) Unfortunately.

  LLOYD (Ignoring the joke): I don’t believe a word you say, and I’m not sure you do either. You’re just looking for any justification to get you out of the mess you’re in. Once again, you’re trying to talk your way out.

  FRANK: You’re not listening. That’s unfair.

  LLOYD: You lie about everything. Ask Mother.

  FRANK: That was a different sort of lie. I’m talking about art and beauty! Important things!! If you’d listen, Son, you just might learn something! (Calms himself, then tries again to explain) Look around at the houses here in California, Lloyd. Or back in Chicago. Look at what’s being built today in this country. The vulgar, wicked, moral lies, extravagant waste, social, aesthetic excrement. To attempt to create a bit of beauty within this . . .

  (As he searchs for the word, Sullivan returns with his coffee. He realizes that he is interrupting.)

  Stay, Louie. Stay. There’s nothing I’m going to say that Louis Sullivan didn’t teach me. As I was saying: to attempt to create a bit of beauty within this— (Searches for the word) Catastrophe. (He gestures across the landscape) This country. That’s what it’s become now—a catastrophe. Which is why I find myself pushed now to here. To the edge. There is no further I can go, and still be in this country. Here—to find beauty, to make art. And that is so very important. That, Lloyd—is a moral act. It is a political act. A patriotic and religious act that far supersedes the survival of one building.

  LLOYD: And the deaths of many people?!

  FRANK (Finally upset): My building did not cause their deaths!!

  LLOYD (Shouts back): It fell on them!

  FRANK (Over this): You’re not listening, Son! A moral act! A political and patriotic and religious act! To find beauty in this mess—that’s all there is. If you can understand one thing, understand this! And you will see why I can’t let this stop me! Why I must not stop! (Pause) Beauty, Son—it’s not just decoration, a painted face. It’s our life and death. Our reason. Our meaning. And what we are—as human beings. (Short pause) Now tell me, what don’t you understand?

  LLOYD: I think you are a great artist, Father.

  (They look at each other.)

  A con artist.

  FRANK: No, Lloyd. You’re not listening.

  LLOYD: And I think I must have known that for a long time, but just didn’t want to admit it.

  FRANK: That is not fair.

  LLOYD: You’ve conned me. You con your clients. You conned our mother. Who knows, maybe you even con yourself, I don’t know. But I’m not going to let you con me anymore. Do you have any idea what you did to us? How you hurt us?

  FRANK: I wasn’t talking about my personal life—

  LLOYD: I am!!

  (Catherine enters.)

  CATHERINE: What’s going on? What’s happening?

  FRANK (Lloyd): There is so much more than that. This— (Gestures, meaning this conversation between father and son) should be about more than that.

  CATHERINE: Lloyd, what are you doing?

  LLOYD: Talking to my father. Finally.

  FRANK (To Lloyd): I am so happy to talk about all of this with you. But, tell me—are you interested? Tell me—what can I teach you? What can I share? Ask me. About art. Beauty. What I’m trying with my life to do. Ask me, Lloyd. Ask me what I know.

  (Lloyd looks at his father, hesitates, then:)

  LLOYD: Do you have any idea what you did to our mother?!!

  CATHERINE: Lloyd, stop it!

  LLOYD (Continuing): I was the oldest. I took care of her!

  CATHERINE: This isn’t the time! Stop!!

  FRANK (Half to himself): Say what you need to say, Son.

  LLOYD: He talks about morality. I don’t know how you live with yourself. What you must go through not to look at yourself. Hear the garbage that comes out of that mouth.

  (Catherine grabs Lloyd’s arm.)

  CATHERINE: School’s out. Ann’s waiting for me. She can hear.

  (All look off and see Ann. Short pause.)

  LLOYD (Bursts out, to Frank): I want to know if you’re listening to me?!!

  FRANK (Quietly): I’m listening, but learning nothing I don’t already know.

  CATHERINE: Father, we have to go.

  FRANK: Have you said what you wanted to say to me, Lloyd?

  (Lloyd says nothing. Catherine goes to her father and kisses him on the cheek. Then trying to make a joke:)

  CATHERINE: I’m going to save that little thing you drew, and frame it. And don’t forget to send us a bill. (She laughs) Lloyd, why don’t you come, too? (She goes and takes his arm) Ann and I will drive you home, so you don’t have to take the streetcar.

  FRANK: Nothing more to say, Lloyd?

  (Pause. Nothing is said. Then:)

  LLOYD (To Catherine): Thank you. I’ll take that ride.

  (He strides off.)

  FRANK: Good-bye, Lloyd!

  (Short pause.)

  CATHERINE: We’ll take him home. He’ll be fine. I’m sorry about the—hotel. Good-bye.

  (Catherine goes. Pause.)

  FRANK: Did he understand a thing I said?

  SULLIVAN: No. (As he sketches in his sketchbook) I’ve never seen you take that much from anyone.

  FRANK: He’s my son. I was trying to teach him.

  SULLIVAN: I’m glad I don’t have children.

  (Short pause.)

  FRANK: Maybe we should just get the hell out of here, Louie. And give up on this country. They love me in Europe, you know. What if this isn’t the place? What if—I’m wrong? They’re more open to new things in Europe. It’s funny because they’ve got the old things right around them. But that’s probably why. They’re not trying to re-create something, because it’s already there. So the new—is the new. Not copies of something old. We’ve forgotten that here, Louie.

  SULLIVAN: You could no more live in Europe than you could fly.

  (Frank stands, looks off.)

  FRANK: To have the Roman Coliseum—in plywood—rotting . . . I can’t tell you how much comfort that gives me. (Smiles)

  SULLIVAN: William was in there crying his eyes out. I gave him a drink. I told him if you want to be an architect, you have to drink.

  FRANK: We’re not all like you, Louie.

  SULLIVAN: No. I know. I sent him to, bed. To rest. We’re on our own now . . . (Short pause) If I can help in any way.

  (Without looking at Sullivan, Frank shakes his head no.)

  I did come here to help. I came to work. Why else am I here, Frank?

  (Frank turns and looks at him.)

  I’ve been here four days; it took me nearly three to get out here. I’ve been wondering why you sent for me.

  FRANK: What??? I don’t understand. (Then answering) You’re my friend.

  SULLIVAN: Why the hell can’t you give me a job working with you?!

  FRANK (Trying to smile): The day Louis Sullivan needs to be “given” a job—by anyone—is the day that culture in this country is at an end. The day, Louie, when you and I clasp hands and look for a cliff. You don’t need to be given anything.

  SULLIVAN (Suddenly erupts): I haven’t been offered a job in—!

  FRANK: Please not now. I can’t—

  SULLIVAN (Over this): I have designed one goddamn
pedestal for one stupid statue in front of one damn post office in a two-bit Illinois cracker town! That’s been it, Frank! For six years! A little ornamentation.

  FRANK (Same time): I know. I know. We all go through unlucky—

  SULLIVAN: My hands shake, but not when I draw!

  FRANK: You’ve just been unlucky!

  SULLIVAN: What’s going to happen to me? What am I supposed to do? I write about you. I wrote glowingly of this hotel. I praise you. Now what? I need help!! Help me, Frank!!

  (Frank starts to answer, then stops. Then:)

  FRANK: Bringing you here was a nice thing. A good thing. You live in one room in a dirty hotel, and for months now you’ve been weeping over the loss of your little “red-haired milliner.” What milliner, Louie, I met him. He was a very nice forty-year-old man you lived with. And I am very very sorry that you lost him. So I brought you here because I felt sorry for you. I pitied you. And I needed—someone to talk to. (Pause) And your hands do shake when you draw. I’m sorry you brought this up. This wasn’t the time. (He looks at Sullivan) It’s good we can be so honest with each other. Now I need a drink.

  SULLIVAN: Thank you, Frank.

  (Sullivan leaves. Frank picks up Sullivan’s sketchbook, looks at a drawing, then sets it down.

  Helen enters. She has paint on her face.)

  FRANK: School’s out.

  HELEN: They’re gone. Finally. (Smiles, pushes the hair out of her eyes) Packed up by their parents. I’m exhausted. I don’t think I’ve caught my breath all day. They keep you running, that’s for sure. I saw you over here, I just wanted to thank you for last night.

  FRANK: Last night?

  HELEN: Dinner? With—

  FRANK: My pleasure. Sit down, sit.

  HELEN: I can’t. I need to change . . . (She starts to go)

  FRANK: My first day at school—I think my mother said I cried and cried.

  HELEN: We had a couple of criers. Your granddaughter though did very well.

  FRANK: It was nice having them here. Hearing them play. What’s that on your . . .? (“face”)

  (She touches her face.)

  HELEN: We painted our faces. I thought I’d—

  FRANK: What were you?

  HELEN: A cat.

  (He stares at her. She sees Sullivan’s opened sketchbook, and looks at the sketch he was drawing.)