Yours?
FRANK: Mister Sullivan’s.
HELEN: What’s her name?
FRANK: I don’t know. There’s a little more. (Gestures to her face; she wipes off the paint) You are like a vision. (She laughs) Appearing suddenly.
May I ask you something?
HELEN: Sure.
FRANK: May I ask you to have dinner with me tonight?
(She starts to speak. He stops her by putting his finger to his lips.)
I find you very attractive. And perhaps it’s because of the children, when I look at you, I see—a good person. And a beautiful person.
(She tries to smile.)
I don’t often say things this directly. But it’s been a long day. I like looking at you. I like . . . (Reaches for her hand)
HELEN: I can’t. I—don’t want to. I’m sorry. And I’m tired. (She starts to go, then stops, trying to make things better) Yesterday, I said to your daughter, how wonderful it must be to have a father like you.
(She goes.
Frank is alone.)
SCENE 3
Olive Hill, overlooking Hollywood, the same as Scene 1. Later that evening. Two chairs. Frank sits and waits; he holds a glass; lamps are lit. There is an empty cup on the other chair.
Sullivan enters with his newly filled flask and a small pile of letters/telegrams.
SULLIVAN: William’s up. He said to give you these. (Holds out the letters/telegrams) He’s stopped even opening them. I could just throw them out.
(Frank takes the pile and starts opening the letters. Sullivan pours more drink for both of them.)
I poured a little more for William—he said he can’t sleep. I told him we didn’t need anything. Do we need anything?
(Frank reads.)
I said we can fend for ourselves. More abuse? (About the letters)
(Frank opens another, then stops, leaving a couple unopened.)
Are we staying out here all night?
FRANK: I thought we were just getting started.
SULLIVAN: So—whose turn is it?
FRANK: Mine.
SULLIVAN: What did I just—?
FRANK: One of your skyscrapers. How you were lied to. And cheated. And how every third person in Chicago is a goddamn crook.
SULLIVAN: So—then it’s your turn.
(Frank fiddles with the letters/telegrams, then sets them on the ground beside him.)
FRANK: So—here’s a good one. Mrs. Alice Madison Millard.
SULLIVAN: The Millard house? The one you want to show me?
FRANK: In South Pasadena. That’s that way. (Points in the direction, then continues) Mrs. Millard. From Chicago. I’d built her and her husband, George, their house there, and, maybe I was a little overly appreciative since they didn’t hold this against me, and had actually lived in this house with some pleasure, I’m told. They now wanted another one—out here—well how often does that happen to an architect?
SULLIVAN: Not often.
FRANK: She was—slight, but a nice figure. I like her feet. I could have watched her open one of those doors in the Imperial Hotel. (Smiles. Sips) Now, this is a mistake. Ugly clients only: this should be a rule. But here she was—and did she want one of those Spanish sores you see everywhere around here? With all that Spanish-style garnish? No. My client, which is why she was my client, wanted a flesh-and-blood home. She wanted—architecture.
SULLIVAN (Seriously): You should have run.
FRANK: I know. I know. I thought about that. But again they’d lived in one of my houses for fifteen years. With hardly a complaint. Except the usual. So I was, I suppose—blinded by this. (Another sip, thinks, then) Did I say that Mrs. Millard and her husband, George, had a mere ten thousand dollars for this house? Maybe another two grand—everyone lies about this—but maybe not them. Who knows? And the bankers out here are like bankers anywhere. Look at my son-in-law. Anyway, we settled on a very doable design—large living room, fireplace, balcony over it, which leads to the sleeping rooms. Nice size bedroom, dressing room, bath, guest rooms, and so forth, etc. The normal. And she had real standards. She wanted “good” floors. “Good” doorknobs. Everything about her house was going to be—“good.” Maybe we could “squeeze out” a garage? she asked, with a big blue-eyed smile. Well—why not? Lovely, lovely feet. (Short pause. Thinks, then) Oh, she says, there’s this most wonderful builder!
(On hearing this Sullivan pours himself and Frank a little more.)
He’s built a real and I quote “thoroughbred house”—what does that mean? A friend of her’s house, it turns out. We go and see it. Seems—fine. We meet the builder. Seems—fine. “Well, what do you think?” she asks me, then, eyes wide-open, sighs. “Well,” I reply, then catch myself looking down at her sandaled feet, “a woman’s intuition is something I value rather highly.”
SULLIVAN: You don’t—
FRANK: No.
SULLIVAN: I didn’t think—
FRANK: But it made her happy. It made her blush. So just like that the contract’s signed. He signs—with a flourish. With that look in his eye of someone hungry to sign his name to—well anything. A contract? Or say the back of my shirt? Anyway, he begins. And, to be fair, he begins—just fine.
SULLIVAN: Don’t they all.
FRANK: And so we trust him. Probably the last person Alice Madison Millard will ever trust in her life. That includes me. Especially me. And with good reason. Meanwhile, we turn our backs on the boring, shadeless piece of land that’s been bought for this “home,” and a nearby ravine has caught my imagination, where stand two very lovely, very elegant eucalyptus trees. (As he sips) Has anyone ever before thought of building in such a spot? I doubt it. People out here are stuck on setting their buildings on the top of every boring hill. A tic. Call it—a bad tic. Is what I think. We get the land for a song. Offer half of what they’re asking, and they take it. Like that. (Snaps his fingers) This home, I tell her, will spring up out of that ravine: “framed between those two haunting eucalyptus trees.” The neighbors love us, they’re thrilled, it keeps their views open. (Short pause) The construction begins. In what seems like one minute, Mrs. Alice Millard has begun addressing our builder as one imagines one would an Olympian god. As the source of all information. The solver of all riddles. The font of all knowledge. I notice this with some concern. It’s not a good signal for an architect to see his client suddenly hanging onto the contractor’s every word.
SULLIVAN: No. No.
FRANK: Has she suddenly had doubts? I wonder. About me? Have her friends “gotten to her”? I’d been in the battle before.
SULLIVAN: Who hasn’t?
FRANK: Why does it happen? Answer me that. And especially with the ladies. How quickly they fall for the first man who is quote unquote “practical.” What does that mean?! He knows “pipe fittings,” he knows “lumber,” so he must know—what he’s doing. For a woman a “practical” man must simply be irresistible.
(Sullivan nods.)
I bite my lip. I pretend not to see this. Anyway, what could I do about it? (Sips) Our handsome “practical” builder, by the way, has pulled in some of his “family” to help him with the . . . what? The work? The building? His lunch? Or maybe they are there to keep him company. Probably that. I’m not sure where he housed them. Or where they had come from. Mrs. Millard, by now, has “cajoled”—out of me about as much drawing and redrafting and time for overseeing the beginnings of the construction of her “home” as might have been spent on say your average good-size medieval cathedral.
(Sullivan smiles.)
I’m not joking. I’m needed back in Japan to add a few touches to my indestructible hotel, when she decides to leave for Italy for the summer, paying—in advance—our builder. No receipts asked for. She writes me in Tokyo that she has done this. She says she—“didn’t want to compromise” the relationship by asking for receipts.
(Sullivan starts to say something.)
I’m just getting going, Louie. Lloyd, now in my employ, drives over every da
y to check on the progress. None. Mrs. Millard comes home and finds—little done. Doubt begins to creep its nasty way into our triangle. And our builder? Where is he? Lloyd finally finds him—miles away—working on another house—one for himself. Imported marble floors. Expensive hardware. Oak trim. Huh. Odd. Lloyd digs a little deeper. And learns that everything, down to the doorknobs, is in his wife’s name.
(Sullivan tries not to laugh, shakes his head.)
Don’t laugh—yet. We’ve a long ways to go. The house now is maybe half built with a third of the money left. Where’s it gone? Who knows—on imported marble floors? Oak trim? And then—surprise—our builder quits—no doubt because the money is drying up, though he says it’s because of the tone of my letters delivered by Lloyd, and the questions I keep asking. Questions like: Why aren’t you working?! How much is this costing?! When will you be done?! (Short pause) So what is Mrs. Millard, our heroine with the lovely feet, doing at this point in time? Well, she’s writing, and I quote: “We are going to finish that building if it takes every cent I’ve got in the whole world or can get.” I’m sure she was crying herself to sleep. But on one of my visits back, she puts up a tough front. She takes it upon herself to find new builders, one after another. I say no more. And they just keep fading away. To where? Where? Is there some special “community” where builders go to hide out? Finally, I get one. He’s not any better, probably worse. And by now we’re in trouble—with creditors, we have debts; we’re now subject to ridicule, there’s even a law suit—which I now learn, Los Angeles is a very fertile soil for. “Thank god!” I insanely tell myself, “I still have six thousand dollars of my own to put into this house!”
SULLIVAN: No.
(Frank nods his head.)
FRANK: It’s the first builder who’s suing—the handsome “practical” one? Who’s built his wife a nice house? Just what he is suing about, or for, I never figure out—more oak trim? The judge, bless him, rules in our favor. Thank god, and that, finally was that. Wounds begin to heal, leaving—only ugly scars. Reflecting back, in one of those rare moments of quickly passing objectivity, I have thought that our first builder just couldn’t help himself from dipping back just one more time into such a deep well of gullibility. (Sips. Holds out his glass)
SULLIVAN: More??
(Frank nods. Sullivan pours, as:)
FRANK: And so—up it goes! And this is always a very dangerous moment. When we dare allow ourselves a morsel of pride. And perhaps even the thought that it was all worth it, after all. And Mrs. Millard’s money, or rather some of her money, was not wasted. We relax. Mistake. Have fun arranging the books and so forth, which Alice with her usual good taste has brought back from abroad. So there we are at the oak tea table, in the afternoon light, a roaring fire in the handsome fireplace. The inside, it’s beautiful, everything we’d hoped it would be—as long as I don’t look too close. Outside, our ravine’s turned into an enchanting miniature garden. We’ve built a pool that catches the light. The eucalyptus and house compliment, complete each other, like frame and picture. So—we toast “our success.” This unwanted plot in this old ravine—which we’d cleverly bought for a “song”—has been transformed into that flesh-and-blood home of our dreams, one full of grace and charm, much like, I raise my glass and say—like it’s owner. La Miniatura, she names it. I never get to pick the names. La Miniatura: beauty where before there was only—nothing. (Short pause) But nothing we do—escapes the jealous eyes of the gods. The Japanese, they are aware of this and so leave on purpose obvious mistakes in their work—as offerings to appease these jealous gods. Our workers had done this as well—in many, many spots. But Alice and I, apparently, had made no such sacrifice. And so—comes the rain, a crack of thunder, a downpour seemingly focused only upon our humble ravine. A river, no one had seen for fifty years, now carries street water and half the embankment down the hill. And so it rises and rises, first through our basement, until reaching the height of the dining room floor. It seemed determined to float the whole house down the hill. Mud everywhere. The basement. The first floor terrace. Pilot lights went out, the gas heaters buried. Books, even the fireplace wasn’t spared. And Mrs. George Madison Millard’s spirit? No doubt as heavy and caked with mud, as those lovely feet. And her faith, confidence in me? What about that? I think it just blew out, with the pilot lights. And my last sighting of her—streaks of brown ooze across her face, head held in hands, those blue eyes, seemingly blank—while she sobbed. (Sips) I know this now: just because a place boasts “eternal sunshine,” doesn’t mean you still don’t build a roof as tough as any back in Chicago, where you build for ice and snow and . . . The sun here, I now know, cooks these roofs month after month after month until they are like burnt toast, cracked and crumbly. And then for a few days—it rains. Unfortunately, I didn’t know that then. God only knows how many leaking roofs there must be out here. No wonder people seem so scared when it starts to rain—any kind of rain, even a sprinkle. They must look upon rain with unmitigated fear. Anyway, I now wished to make amends, but Alice Millard refused all entreaties now, insisting that others come and repair the floors, relight the pilot lights, scrape off the charming fireplace. Fix the roof, which of course was easy to do, as there was not going to be any rain for another year. And—we never speak again. My client and me. (Looking off) I have visited the house once since I’ve been here, kept my distance, and the motor running, just out of curiosity. I wanted to see if our house was still standing. It is, barely, I now suspect.
(Pause. His mind drifts, then with the story done, he turns back to Sullivan.)
Your turn. (Before Sullivan can say anything) I try, Louie. I try. A couple more drinks and I’ll tell you about building the Imperial Hotel. Now that’ll take all night. And more nights to come.
(Laughs to himself. Sullivan watches, listens.)
People think we control what we create. But we don’t. I’m sorry my hotel collapsed. (Then he shrugs. He looks off toward Hollyhock House) Hollyhock House—it’s already started to fall apart. (Pause) I’m broke. You know that?
(He looks at Sullivan who says nothing. Then:)
In Japan, one night I found I couldn’t move. My voice went away—to some place outside of me. I could hear it at a distance. Talking to me. Nicely formed sentences. Making no sense. I sat on our bed immobile. Miriam was asleep, probably drunk. And I felt this—breeze, Louie. A very slight wind go by my cheeks. And I heard myself think—I have felt the wind from the wing of madness. (Short pause) I was designing the same furniture over and over again—for the per diem. I was spending more time buying and reselling Japanese prints than anything else. I enjoyed making the money, but . . . The wind of the wing of the monstrous shape of madness. Flying ’round and ’round me. In my bedroom. It took everything, all of my strength—to get up and come home. (He looks at Sullivan) When you let me visit you, instead of always coming to me, Louie, and I saw how you were living in one dirty room. You even owed rent on that. But you let me come and see—
SULLIVAN: That was my little milliner’s idea, she—
FRANK: She wasn’t a she, Louie. (Short pause) What was his name?
SULLIVAN (After a brief pause): Samuel.
FRANK: Samuel.
SULLIVAN: Sammy. He knew he was ill and going to die. He wanted someone to see—what had happened to me. So, I suppose, they—you—might help. Sammy cared a great deal about me.
(Short pause.)
FRANK: So—as I was saying, when you let me visit you—I saw all that. (Silence) You don’t want to take a turn?
(Sullivan shrugs. Frank begins to open the rest of the letters/telegrams. As he skims the letters; about Hollyhock House:)
I do think that house is beautiful. And that should be enough. That is all I meant to say to my son.
SULLIVAN: I know. I understand.
FRANK (Still skimming the letters): We don’t actually control anything. Buildings rise and fall; we do the best we can. Something—or someone else—decides the rest. I sup
pose we’ll need to leave here. I should be able to sell a few Japanese prints, enough for our train fares back.
SULLIVAN: Back?
FRANK: Home? I suppose we can call it that. I know more people in Chicago than anywhere else. Why not? What do I have here? The three of us can go back together.
SULLIVAN: Three??
FRANK: I’m going to call Miriam. I think I’m making a mistake. (He looks at Sullivan) I can’t be alone. (Then) She’ll stop drinking. And all that.
SULLIVAN: She’s a lovely woman. Graceful.
FRANK: And she will never leave me. No, that’s not in her. (Continues with his mail) She’ll take care of me. Like Sammy did for . . . (Gestures to Sullivan. Pause. Skimming the mail) I have designed a house for myself—set in the middle of a desert. Surrounded by walls. Inside—surprises. Worlds. It will never be built.
SULLIVAN: I’ve designed seven skyscrapers that haven’t been built. I love each one like a son. Each more handsome than the next. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
FRANK (Continuing to read): When I design now, I imagine not just the house, or the furniture, but I see the people and what they’re doing. How they walk through the halls; where they sit and take off their shoes. I see them in pairs; though mostly I see them alone. Standing at a window, looking out at the night and the moon. Sitting in a chair, in the midst of a circle of yellow lamplight, reading a book with a red cover. In the kitchen, testing the soup. There is no sound. But they are there, living. (He opens a telegram) Imagining them, Louie, makes me happy. (He reads the telegram to himself. His face changes expression)
SULLIVAN: What? What is it?
FRANK: From the Japanese Embassy. (He reads) “Hotel stands undamaged, monument of your genius. Hundreds of homeless shelter there. Initial reports wrong.”
(Pause.)
SCENE 4
The same. A few more chairs have been brought out.
The next morning. Off, the children can be heard playing. Lloyd, Catherine, Kenneth, Sullivan and William stand, sit in chairs or on the ground. Sullivan and William are reading from a pile of newspapers that Catherine and Kenneth have brought.
Frank's Home Page 6