By Jay Squires
THANK YOU for taking a chance with this play. It is different from "Genius In Love". But I hope you will find the characters just as relatable and the plot as believable. The time frame is the same as "Genius In Love"—the early 50s. The mores were different back then, and so the language that expresses them is different as well. Please enjoy.
CHARACTERS:
(added as they appear, or when they make a strong presence in other characters’ dialogue):
Phillip Dellaney: Age 26, a behemoth of a man, at a height of 6' 7", and pushing 300 pounds, having thick, muscular shoulders and hips, and with thighs like heavy coiled springs, not just capable of carrying such a load through life, but at a lively pace. A recent seminary graduate, he will be an odd duck as a priest. Of late, he has been rather dark and moody.
Margaret Dellaney: Three years a widow, this brittle twig of a woman is the unlikely bearer of a physical anomaly like Phillip. The mother of two additional children, one who kindly stopped growing at 6' 4", and the other a sweet soul of a child who would never leave her wheelchair. Margaret’s life, of late, has made many existential withdrawals but few deposits.
James Dellaney: Phillip’s junior by one year. Immediately likable, by design and through practice, he has his sights on the most distant and brightest political star. Vastly ambitious, he is Brutus to Rome’s Julius Caesar. His name is on the ballot for the Worcester City Council. The brothers have always been close, but Phillip’s recent disclosure burns in James’s gut like a drop of acid.
Setting: Phillip Dellaney’s upstairs bedroom. Entrance to room, upstage, right. Furniture is sparse: a very long bed, centerstage, right; several inexpensive chairs, downstage, center; a dresser against the wall, upstage, center, the top drawer of which is forced open by the pages of a magazine, half hanging out. On the wall, above the dresser, a two-foot-tall, highly-polished, dark, mahogany cross, upon which a very tortured Jesus leans out, precariously, presenting the illusion that he would be face-first on the dresser top if his hands were not held fast by the spikes driven through his palms and into the crossbeam, and another spike securing his feet, one atop the other. Polished blood has oozed from the crown of thorns pressed into his forehead, and it trails rivulets to his eyes. His sockets are dark and deep. His mouth is open and one can imagine he has just finished uttering those most profound words, “My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” On a hanger, hung on a hook on the closet door beside the dresser, a suit coat and pants await.
Time: 1953
At Rise: PHILLIP DELLANEY, wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, leans forward on the edge of his chair, his forearms angled across his open thighs, his fingers dangling toward the floor. In contrast to his diminutive mother, MARGARET, who sits in the chair opposite him, PHILLIP resembles a giant. Her eyes are on the wall, beyond PHILLIP. She is smiling up at the crucifix.
MARGARET:
Ah, but your father loved that. We paid a pretty penny for it, I’ll tell ya.
(Shaking her head)
David, I says, there’s no way under high heaven we can afford that.
(inclining her shoulders to the right, as though she is speaking in the ear of an imaginary someone beside her, she adds, confidentially)
The price tag was over 400 dollars!
(Then addressing Phillip, as though he couldn’t hear what was spoken in the other’s ear)
Mama, your father says—God, I miss hearing your father call me that—Mama, he says, It’s not every day we got a boy graduating from Notre Dame. We’ll cut back on something.
PHILLIP:
(Turning, casting a glance behind him at the crucifix, then back to his mother)
You and Dad spent a fortune on getting me through.
MARGARET:
No, no … You pulled your load, too. Your scholarships and grants, and you working in the school library. The important thing …
(Beat)
… he got to see you cross that stage. I’ll swear, that night—that night, at home, he must’ve run his fingers across your diploma a hundred times, like it was braille or something. Him looking off into space. Grinning.
PHILLIP:
I know. I know it meant a lot to him. But … but it all just doesn’t seem right. Not in the balance. You know?
MARGARET:
No, I don’t know, dear. What balance?
PHILLIP:
Well, there’s Susan, for one. The medicines. The surgeries. The caregivers.
MARGARET:
Life goes on, dear. God provides.
PHILLIP:
Sometimes he makes it hard for us to see that, Mama.
MARGARET:
Phillip!
PHILLIP:
I mean it, Mama. Sometimes God’s providence comes only after we’ve exhausted all our resources and right at the point when we’re about to abandon him. At that moment, God looks into our hearts. He doesn’t make our problems disappear, no. But he steers us in ways to accept our suffering and grow stronger. That’s the God I know, Mama. Consider Job.
MARGARET:
You’ll make such a fine priest, Son. You know, maybe God whispered in your father’s ear every time he considered canceling his life insurance policy. He bought it late in life, so the premiums were costly. But whenever the choice came to spend that month’s premium so he could put steak on the table instead of chicken—
PHILLIP:
I know, Mother. And Dad’s insurance proceeds have kept everything going.
MARGARET:
Like a monthly gift from beyond the grave. God’s providence.
PHILLIP:
His ways are beyond understanding, but please don’t think I’m blind to the fact that the seminary would not have happened without Dad’s memory coming through every month to help pay the way? And at what cost to you, Mother? At what cost to Susan?
MARGARET:
You were worth it, Phillip—every penny of it. You know it was what your Dad would have done if he was alive. So no more about it.
(Beat)
Besides, That was only for the first year. Another example of God’s providence. See? The way Worcester Diocese granted your full tuition. God’s work, Son, God’s work.
PHILLIP:
(Lowering his chin to his chest for a moment and closing his eyes before looking up)
Mama, that’s because the Diocese expects me to accept a position in one of their parishes.
MARGARET:
That’s a good thing, Son—isn’t that a good thing?
(Suddenly distracted by something she sees behind him, she moves her head to the side to get a better look. She stands, still talking)
You won’t have to go looking for a parish on your own.
PHILLIP:
(Watching her pass by him)
Mother, what in the world are you—
MARGARET:
You never was my neatest boy. Your brother, James, took that, hands down.
PHILLIP:
(Rising, turning)
Mother!
MARGARET:
What? I’m just gonna close the drawer proper.
(She removes the magazine and closes the drawer, then glances down at the cover, turns to PHILLIP)
Oh … Oh … Confidential Magazine?*
(Laughing, then wagging her head side to side with each sing-song word)
Is this … the kind … of … thing … they … let … you … read … at … Seminary.
PHILLIP:
Mama, that’s kind of personal. It’s private, you know. I am twenty-six. Besides, it’s not—not like it’s a dirty magazine. And this is my room.
MARGARET:
(Visibly jarred)
You’re right, of course, Sweetheart. I really wasn’t trying to—
(Lays the magazine on the dresser and returns to the chair. She is trying to blink back rising tears)
I’m sorry. I’ll just—I should go down and check on Susan.
PHILLIP:
Give me a hug, Mama.
(He holds open his arms, and as she leans into him, he bends to embrace her small frame)
I am a bit of a slob. You’re right about that. I could learn something from James.
MARGARET:
(Sniffing, and pulling away, but still standing)
There are some things he could learn from you. He—he’s drinking again, you know.
PHILLIP:
Oh, dear God!
MARGARET:
Yes. He came in last night three sheets to the wind. Later I heard him heaving in the bathroom. Today, he was all gussied up as usual, but I could smell alcohol on his breath.
PHILLIP:
It might've been mouthwash. Is he—going tonight?
MARGARET:
He loves his big brother. Of course, he’ll be there. And I know the difference between mouthwash and liquor.
(Beat)
I was wondering … I was kinda hoping you could have a talk with him. You know … not priest to brother, but more brother to brother.
PHILLIP:
Is he here?
MARGARET:
He’s around here somewhere. Probably in his room. Shall I send him up?
PHILLIP:
Probably not a good idea. Not today. But I will talk with him. We just have to have faith that he’ll be all right tonight.
(Beat)
In the meantime, I need to shower and get dressed. Two girls I haven’t seen since high school were invited for tonight, but can’t make it. They wanted to stop by here and wish me well.
MARGARET:
That’s nice, Dear. I hope you have time to schedule everyone in. Dr. Fitzimonds is gonna stop by—he said to cover some last-minute details with you. And … and … oh dear! I’m so scatterbrained sometimes. One of the things I was coming up here for earlier was to tell you that one of the guests you invited, also wanted to come by here first. His name—what was it?—Arthur, De—De something-or-other—
PHILLIP:
Arthur DelaTurie? When did you tell him?—
MARGARET:
To come by? I told him your last visitor would be arriving at four. I figured that would take an hour, so I told him five o’clock.
PHILLIP:
(Looking troubled)
Darn! O … kay, that should work.
MARGARET:
I’m sorry to drop it on you like that, Son. I have his phone number. Do you want me to call him and—
PHILLIP:
No, no. We’ll—we’ll make it work. I’d best get showered and ready for guests.
[MARGARET gives him a weak, apologetic smile and crosses to the door, stage right. She exits. PHILLIP stands for a moment by his chair, looking at the floor, then up and to the left, his lips moving. After a moment he blinks away whatever thoughts might have accompanied the movement of his lips, and crosses to the dresser. Picking up the magazine, he glances at the cover, rifles through a few pages, then places it neatly in the drawer, closing it. He stares up at Jesus on the cross, nods, then clasps his hands under his chin, bows his head, and closes his eyes. Finished, he makes the sign of the cross, removes the hanger from the hook on the closet door, and makes his way, ponderously, to the exit.]
| Author Notes | Huge thanks for the photo by Mahdi Rezaei on Unsplash |
By Jay Squires
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.
BIRDSEYE VIEW OF PREVIOUS SCENE: Phillip meets two of his high school acquaintances and what begins as reminiscences and “catching up” soon takes a darker turn when we discover that the two women were, nine years earlier, part of a group of seven senior girls who had a plan and were intent on carrying it out.
CHARACTERS:
(As they appear, or when they make a strong presence in other characters’ dialogue):
Phillip Dellaney: Age 26, a behemoth of a man, at a height of 6' 7", and pushing 300 pounds, having thick, muscular shoulders and hips, and with thighs like sinewy, coiled springs, not just capable of carrying such a load through life, but carrying it at a lively pace. A recent seminary graduate, he will be an odd duck as a priest. He is searching for something with all his heart.
Marcia Mackie: One of a group of seven girls who figured significantly in Phillip’s mind whenever he thought of his tender years at his Catholic high school. Still young, at 25, and attractive, something troubles her. She teaches Spanish in that same Catholic high school.
Barbara Smith-Jacobs: Also one of the seven girls whose life impacted Phillip greatly during high school. An investment broker, already successful at 25, her demeanor exudes sexuality and self-assurance, and she faces life head-on. Men tend to fear her without knowing exactly why.
Margaret Dellaney: Phillip's Mother, only a supporting appearance; of no consequence to this scene.
Arthur DelaTourie: Phillip's acquaintance, introduced indirectly; not an active part of this scene.
Setting: Phillip Dellaney’s upstairs bedroom, tidied in readiness for guests. Entrance to room, upstage, right. Furniture is sparse: a very long bed, centerstage, right; several inexpensive chairs, downstage, center. On the wall above the dresser, upstage center, Jesus still keeps watch over the room from his two-foot-tall, highly-polished, dark, mahogany cross.
Time: 1953
At Rise: PHILLIP faces BARBARA and MARCIA. Of the three, only BARBARA seems about to embark on a high adventure. PHILLIP and MARCIA appear a bit anxious.
BARBARA:
(Looking at the door, then back at them)
I wanted to give your mother time to get down the stairs.
(She rubs her hands together and smiles down at her open palms, then carries her smile back to them)
Are we ready, children?
MARCIA:
We agreed to let you tell it, but don’t make a mockery of it.
BARBARA:
Point made and taken. Okay … we left you, Phillip, snuggled in Marcia’s bed, the bedroom door closed. Innocent enough, no? Marcia, me, and the other five girls—we were in our sleeping bags and under blankets in the living room, giggling, whispering, doing girl things until probably about midnight.
(Beat)
We were all in agreement about the plan, though there were a few who were getting …
(smiling at MARCIA)
…cold feet.
MARCIA:
(Slowly shaking her head)
No … no, I’ve got to own up to being part of it. It’s only now, when I look back at it, that I wish—
BARABARA:
Oh, Bull—Loney! We’re not here to play the wishing game.
PHILLIP:
But that’s okay, Barbara. In hindsight, maybe we all wish we’d have done differently.
BARBARA:
Even you, Father Dellaney?
PHILLIP:
Even me, Barbara.
[Both women’s heads whip to PHILLIP, who is blushing to the roots of his hair]
BARBARA:
How interesting! I guess I’m the only one who is perfectly happy today with my actions nine years ago.
MARCIA:
Just get on with the story, Barbara.
BARBARA:
Yes … well … so, the plan was agreed upon. By midnight, a few were drifting off. I had my alarm, set for three AM; I was holding it deep in my sleeping bag, wrapped in a towel, but pressed tightly to me so that I would feel it go off against my belly …
(offering what seemed an oddly-timed smile to PHILLIP)
… so that only I felt its vibrations through my body.
MARCIA:
(With a bitter chuckle)
So it woke you up without waking everyone else! That’s all you’re trying to say, right?
BARBARA:
(Still smiling)
Yes, I was roused at three AM, and I set about waking the other six ... though most of them were easily awakened. I imagine they’d hardly slept at all. I don’t think you know the power of seven normal, socially suppressed girls when their inhibitions have been unleashed by their imaginations—and opportunity.
PHILLIP:
(Evidencing some agitation, his breathing is visibly heightened)
You are dragging this out a lot, aren’t you, Barbara?
BARBARA:
You want me to get to the juicy stuff, right?
PHILLIP:
No, I didn’t say that.
BARBARA:
It’s okay, I’m almost there. … So, with a lot of forefingers crossing lips, all of us were trying to keep each other from waking you up as we approached Marcia’s bedroom door, each in various … stages … of … undress. One, we’d noticed, had gotten out of her jammies and slipped into a very sheer negligee, she’d probably swiped from her mother. A few were in panties and bras… and one of us—I can’t remember who—wore nothing at all.
PHILLIP:
(clearing his throat)
So you got to the door …
[STAGE DIRECTION: At this point, the stage lights continue on the three characters while the rest of the view of the bedroom, formerly in full light, now goes into deep shadow. As the dialogue continues, seven females and one male, almost in silhouette, play out the character roles in and around PHILLIP’S bed, so they can do their parts without being completely naked (though the closer to the actual dialogue description, the more authentic will be the presentation)]
BARBARA:
… And very quietly opened it. You were too deeply asleep to hear our intakes of breath as we gazed down at your beautiful body. You had pulled the blankets down to your waist and you were curled up on your side, facing us—the only way your six-foot-plus body could sleep, given the shortness of Marcia’s bed. With the door closed the room would be pitch-black, so I turned on Marcia’s little kitty nightlight, which gave the room a very warm glow.
[PHILLIP is hunched forward, hands cupped together and pressed to his mouth, his eyes closed. MARCIA scowls at BARBARA, who merely rolls her eyes and smiles]
BARBARA (continues):
As luck would have it, Marcia’s bed was several feet away from the wall. It allowed us to approach him from either side. I can’t remember which one of us—maybe Sandra—who, from the far side of the bed, ever so gently pulled the blankets and sheets down over Phillip’s hips and down to his feet. Phillip frowned in his sleep. Dang, but you were so cute! Then, I had the honor of being the first to actually make a move. Sitting on the bed, I bent over your body and planted a very soft kiss on your cheek. Wait! I remember now … I was the one who was completely naked. I know because I was aware that my breasts brushed your arms that were hugging your body as you were curled up there.
MARCIA:
Oh, for the love of Pete, Barbara—there has to be a shorter version. I’m taking over.
(To PHILLIP)
This will be what happened as I remember it, Phillip. I’m not proud of my part in it, but I think it’s pretty close to what happened. It just may not be as sexy as Barbara’s.
[PHILLIP sits up straighter in his chair, and nods]
MARCIA (continues):
I remember less about the details of how all seven of us set about to seduce you and more about how you reacted—what went on in your eyes.
BARBARA:
And you accused me of stalling!
MARCIA:
It’s enough to say that seven girls, worked up to a—a frenzy of anticipation and the thrill of—I don’t know—naughtiness? were all over you like flies on honey.
(Beat)
I remember more your eyes, though.
BARBARA:
Sure you do! Like you could see his eyes. But face it, Phillip … you were one strong kid as a senior. Big and powerful. You could’ve tossed us off like—well, we’d only have had honey on our feet. But … you … didn’t. Did you?
MARCIA:
Was I the only one who remembers the look in your eyes? First, there was the shock and bewilderment, but that was replaced by—you tell me—was it betrayal?
PHILLIP:
(Struggling)
I’ve replayed the memory a thousand … ten—ten thousand times over the years. The sudden shock and bewilderment were true. But betrayal? No, that came later when I could think. I remember—I remember feeling—God forgive me—feeling all those warm bodies … warm pressure-points here and there, moving … hot breaths … and it was not—unpleasant.
(Eyes brimming)
Precious Lord, it was not unpleasant!
MARCIA:
We had no right!
BARBARA:
Would you listen to him? Would you quit beating yourself up, Marcia? He was human. He was a kid. It … was not unpleasant! Besides if you weren’t spending so much time looking in his eyes, you’d have noticed something else.
(Smiling for a long moment at PHILLIP, until he looks at her)
Phillip was aroused!
MARCIA:
Barbara!
BARBARA:
It’s true! Do you want to borrow my copy of the Kinsey Report?¹
(Beat)
Phillip was hard as a rock, my dear.
PHILLIP:
(Exhaling loudly)
I was human. I was a kid. I—I think I felt somehow … flattered?
BARBARA:
And hard … as … a … rock.
MARCIA:
That’s enough! Shut up!
PHILLIP:
Barbara … You—There’s no rea… you’ve already made your point.
MARCIA:
And really, nothing happened—I mean, not really happened! A few girls climbed on the bed, some might have tried to steal a kiss ... cuddle you.
BARBARA:
Am I gonna throw up?! Cuddle? Steal a kiss? Like he was a big teddy bear you practice on at home.
MARCIA:
No … but I think we all realized, pretty much at the same time, how unsexual we were. And so, one by one we left the room, trying to cover ourselves.
BARBARA:
We see what we want to see, I guess.
(Beat)
At any rate, I have to be the one finishing this, seeing as I was the only one left with you, Phillip.
PHILLIP:
Then, there’s no need to finish it now, Barbara. You were there. I was there. We both know what happened. Why do you need to air it?
BARBARA:
Why did you invite us, Phillip, if not to air it all? Did you only want to hear the tiny part about what passions there were raging in seven hot, tender bodies just up to the moment you awoke? I could have mailed you that in a letter. Was I wrong? I thought you were looking for some kind of personal absolution.
[PHILLIP slowly nods]
BARBARA (continues):
With the bedroom door closed, you and I faced the ending of our little drama together.
(Beat)
For nine years, I’ve been forced to examine my mind about what happened during the next five or ten minutes. The only conclusion I could come to was that as long as you thought of me as one of an explosion of passion, your body responded in kind. You see? But the moment you were confronted with the fact that it was just you and me … your mind and your conscience started niggling with it. And your body delivered to me the biggest insult it could …
(Beat)
I turned off the nightlight and slipped out of the room.
[PHILLIP drops his head, then peeks up at an angle to BARBARA, a pained smile on his face]
MARCIA:
… Wait! What are you saying? You’re telling me you didn’t?
BARBARA:
I’m telling you I … uh … couldn’t.
MARCIA:
That’s not what you told us when you came out! You created quite a story for someone who didn’t do anything.
BARBARA:
I was embarrassed …. Okay?
MARCIA:
You were embarrassed …. That’s just great. You were embarrassed while six girls—now young women—carried nine years of shame and humiliation inside … thinking they—we—we were merely part of your foreplay.
BARBARA:
Oh, spare me the dramatics, Marcia. If my lie served any purpose, it was to close a circuit. All us girls felt humiliated and unfulfilled. And more. We were terrified that our parents, our teachers, the other kids would hear of it. We could be disowned by our parents, expelled by the school. Dreams of college would be dashed.
(Beat)
My lie forced us into an uneasy allegiance to our guilt. A kind of secret society. My lie closed the circuit.
PHILLIP:
(After a deep breath and a long exhale)
Ladies … Are we forgetting someone here? After the door was closed for the final time, one person remained in the dark.
MARCIA:
(Shamefaced)
I’m sorry, Phillip. I mean … I’m really sorry. For everything.
PHILLIP:
I know you are. And you too, Barbara. Though it may be harder for you to say it.
(Beat)
Until today, I’d never thought of it from your perspective. Over time … yes, I guess I did feel betrayed, Marcia. But I never considered the remorse that you girls felt. Never once. For days, weeks, months afterward … even into college, I was too busy questioning my own—I don’t know … my own—
MARCIA:
That’s okay, Phillip. You don’t need to explain.
BARBARA:
Let him explain. It’s obvious he wants to explain. I think he needs to explain. Isn’t that right, Phillip?
PHILLIP:
It might not be what you’re thinking ….
BARBARA:
What else could you be questioning? What else would I think?
[There is a light knocking on the door, which after an interval gets louder, and then, the door opens enough for MARGARET to stick her head in. She appears to intuit something of the mood in the room]
MARGARET:
Oh, dear … Am I …?
PHILLIP:
You’re fine, Mother. We just finished up.
BARBARA:
(Under her breath, and with little expression)
We have?
[PHILLIP looks at BARBARA AND MARCIA, and nods]
MARGARET:
Your other guest has arrived.
PHILLIP:
Arthur DelaTurie? Is he downstairs?
MARGARET:
(Opening the door a little wider and looking behind her)
No, he’s here.
[From behind MARGARET, a thin arm shoots up above her head and a handful of fingers, like tiny birds, suddenly released from a cage, flutter in a wave]
ARTHUR:
(Very musically)
Heh-looow, Phillip ....
[BARBARA and MARCIA, exchange knowing glances and scramble to their feet. MARCIA heads to the door, slowing to wait for BARBARA who takes a moment longer to smile back at PHILLIP, then leaves him with a wink]
By Jay Squires
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.
Previous Scene in a Nutshell: Phillip, Barbara, and Marcia share their memories of what really happened, from each one’s perspective, during the seduction attempt on Phillip by the 7 high school girls, nine years earlier.
CHARACTERS:
(As they appear, or when they make a strong presence in other characters’ dialogue):
Phillip Dellaney: Age 26, a behemoth of a man, at a height of 6' 7", and pushing 300 pounds, having thick, muscular shoulders and hips, and with thighs like sinewy, coiled springs, not just capable of carrying such a load through life, but carrying it at a lively pace. A recent seminary graduate, he will be an odd duck as a priest. He is searching for something with all his heart.
Arthur DelaTurie: Age 25, a very slim, willowy, young man who wears his effeminacy comfortably, even defiantly. His clothing is casual but flamboyant. A former art student at Notre Dame, he now works for a design company in New York City. He has a scar across his throat, still pink, and a bruise on his cheek.
Setting: Phillip Dellaney’s upstairs bedroom, tidied in readiness for guests. Entrance to room, upstage, right. Furniture is sparse: a very long bed, centerstage, right; several inexpensive chairs, downstage, center. On the wall above the dresser, upstage center, Jesus still keeps watch over the room from his two-foot-tall, highly-polished, dark, mahogany cross.
Time: 1953
At Rise: A very uncomfortable alliance: Sitting face-to-face, PHILLIP seems more protective of his space than does ARTHUR, who holds a half-cup of tea, in its saucer, balanced on his lap. His eyes are flitting about the room, little smiles appearing and as quickly disappearing from his lips.
ARTHUR:
Your mother is delightful, simply a delight. A little bit uncomfortable with me at first, I felt. Normally, I’d have put on my your loss face but for her, I figured I’d just go along, and sure enough, she warmed to me. She’s a keeper, my love.
PHILLIP:
Don’t!
ARTHUR:
Don’t? Oh …
PHILLIP:
She regretted having to do all that phoning and rescheduling.
ARTHUR:
No problema, mi amigo. I’d have otherwise merely wandered through the city.
(Beat)
I met your brother.
PHILLIP:
What? On the streets? In the city?
ARTHUR:
No, no, silly. Here. Downstairs, while your mother was preparing my tea.
(Downcast)
I don’t think your brother likes me.
PHILLIP:
He’s rather conservative.
ARTHUR:
Rather. But I think it goes deeper than that. Have you—have you talked to him?
PHILLIP:
We talk, Arthur. He is my brother. We talk.
ARTHUR:
No, I mean … have you—Does he know—
PHILLIP:
Arthur … look at me! There is nothing—nothing for him to know.
ARTHUR:
But surely …
PHILLIP:
Nothing.
[ARTHUR, avoiding PHILLIP’S eyes, his hands trembling, takes a sip of his tea and replaces the cup to the saucer]
PHILLIP (Continues):
You had to be so … over the top out there?
ARTHUR:
O-o-over the top? I’m afraid I don’t know what—Is that … is that some kind of seminary-speak, Phillip?
PHILLIP:
Sarcasm aside, you know what I’m talking about. Mom already told us you were standing behind her. There was no need to say anything at all.
ARTHUR:
(Eyes starting to brim)
My goodness! All I did was say hello and wave.
PHILLIP:
Oh, yes! Oh, yes, the wave.
(Dismissively)
Okay. I know. I know, Arthur …. Forget it.
ARTHUR:
I embarrassed you, didn’t I? Oh, dear, I believe I did … I did embarrass you.
PHILLIP:
Let’s just forget it, okay?
ARTHUR:
That’s what it is. I embarrassed you in front of your guests. You had those two young women in your room? And silly me—I went and-and-and interrupted it?
PHILLIP:
That’s enough!
ARTHUR:
(Stricken: his posture, his facial expression… everything … seems to collapse)
Phillip, please, I am trying. I’m sorry. Please!
(Extends his arms, palms open)
PHILLIP:
(Arms crossed, looks away)
For God’s sake, get hold of yourself!
ARTHUR:
(Trying to regain control: his head making quick, jerky nods, his eyes blinking frantically)
Give me a moment; I’ll be fine. This—this is not how—how I’d … envisioned it. It’s not how I’d p-planned it after I got the letter.
PHILLIP:
(Softening)
Maybe that’s the problem.
[PHILLIP holds out his right hand, palm up, and ARTHUR grasps it, greedily with both hands. After a moment PHILLIP tries to withdraw his, and ARTHUR resists. There is a palpable inner struggle before ARTHUR releases his hold]
PHILLIP:
You’ve done too much envisioning, Arthur. Too much planning. You’ve been too much in your head. You’ve magnified everything. You’ve invented things that never happened. You’re forcing past ghosts into the future and trying to breathe life into them.
ARTHUR:
Are you trying to say nothing happened—back then?
PHILLIP:
I’m trying to say it was back then. Eight years ago. And yes, yes, Arthur, nothing happened.
ARTHUR:
How can you say nothing happened, Phillip? How can you say that? We kissed.
PHILLIP:
(As though ARTHUR’S words were living things, PHILLIP flattens his palms against them)
No!
(Casting an over-the-shoulder glance at the door, he whispers, hoarsely,)
You kissed me!
ARTHUR:
(Speaking in a subdued voice)
You returned it. I’ll keep my voice down, but … but don’t tell me you didn’t return it. Don’t tell me that, Phillip.
PHILLIP:
(After a long moment of silence)
Yes. Yes, I returned it. I was just a kid. We were both just kids. A-a freshman in a university as big as a city. Scared. Confused. Lonely. I meet someone during registration who seems as confused as I—
ARTHUR:
I was … I was! But I was not confused—never!—I was never confused about who I was. I had long since tried to conceal who I was. And I wasn’t concealing it then. You knew ….
PHILLIP:
Yes, I knew.
ARTHUR:
I mean, what was not to know, right?
(A short, forced laugh)
And still, you befriended me.
PHILLIP:
I did. And I never, for one moment, thought it would be anything more than being a friend.
ARTHUR:
Well, I thought it would be more. And I think if you’ll be honest with yourself, only part of you tried to keep it a friendship. The other part of you, dear Phillip, kept peeking up through the friendship camouflage. I picked up on it soon enough.
PHILLIP:
This makes me very uncomfortable, Arthur.
ARTHUR:
Of course, it does. Because we’re talking about who we are. Who we really are. Identity.
(Beat)
We kissed, Phillip!
PHILLIP:
But it went no further than a kiss. I’m not ready—I’ve never been ready—I will never be ready to … casually throw on the—the cloak of homosexuality.
ARTHUR:
Casually! We kissed! And you enjoyed it.
(Desperately)
For God’s sake, don’t take that away from me!
PHILLIP:
(Raking his fingers through his hair)
Yes. I did. It was unexpected. Spontaneous. It-it-it was thrilling—and kind of … I don’t know, naughty? Forbidden. It was like—it had a little-children-playing-doctor feel about it.
ARTHUR:
Ooooh … noooooo, noooooo, Phillip. You can’t … I-I carried the warmth and the-the pressure of your lips against mine for eight years. Eight solid years. Don’t cheapen it now.
PHILLIP:
I’m not trying to cheapen anything. But before you—and I—
ARTHUR:
Kissed. You can say it.
PHILLIP:
There’d only been family kisses ... before.
ARTHUR:
That’s not what you told me eight years ago …
(Bitter laugh)
… Hearing it almost took away all my courage. Almost made me give up hope before I made my … first move. I mean … how could I compete with, what, six hot—girls?
PHILLIP:
Sev—um, seven, but that’s not the point.
ARTHUR:
Seven? Seven! I would’ve turned on my heel right then if I’d known there were seven!
PHILLIP:
That’s not the point, and you’re making light of something I told you in confidence back then. And I hardly considered being pawed and mauled by seven girls as a conquest—as a trophy incident.
ARTHUR:
Oh, love! Then why would you have confided in me about it?
PHILLIP:
Don’t!
ARTHUR:
I’m sorry … you’re breaking my heart, but I’m sorry. I—but why did you?
PHILLIP:
You really don’t remember? Arthur … you’ve managed to twist the sequence of events around. It was after my shame and embarrassment … of allowing myself to be vulnerable with you …
(Beat)
It was only then—afterward …
(Glancing at the door and lowering his voice)
…after we kissed that I confided in you about the seven girls. Not before.
[ARTHUR’S face takes on a strained look like he’s trying to remember]
PHILLIP (Continues):
Don’t you see? I was trying to justify to myself … to you … I was trying to explain away my reason for … for kissing you. That’s why I rushed in, at first to convince you I was not a homo—I was not like—
ARTHUR:
That’s how you saw me? A homo? And you made up a fantasy to-to distance yourself from just another fairy?
PHILLIP:
No! Oh, Jesus, no! Only for the length of time it took me to tell you about the incident. But I’d no sooner finished than I realized—I couldn’t deny I’d—
(Mouths the words “kissed you back.”)
It was precisely then I had such a need to convince you—and I have that need now to convince you—that my returned kiss was the end result of a year of doubting myself, wondering why I hadn’t responded differently to the girls’ advances.
(Beat)
I remember … clearly I remember, a tiny, flickering part of me that tried very hard, back then, to respond differently to the girls. I wanted to. God. I wanted to.
ARTHUR:
Those two … who were here when I arrived? Were they two of the—villainous seven?
[PHILLIP nods, his eyes closed]
ARTHUR (Continues):
Very attractive. If I were you and weren’t who I am … and nine years earlier weren’t who I was … I’d have pounced on 'em back then.
PHILLIP
(After a short laugh)
Sure you would!
ARTHUR:
Like a cat on a mouse! Mice. One-by-one. Like a harvest of seven mice, love.
PHILLIP:
I’ve asked you not to use that word.
ARTHUR:
I’ll try to not do it again.
(Beat)
But Phillip, listen to me. I am who I am. And eight years ago, I knew what I was. I’ve always known. I didn’t fight it. Because I was what I was.
(Beat)
I was lucky in that respect. Some of us are slower to recognize it—and even after that, are slower to accept it. There were—there are social consequences to accepting it.
(He lifts his chin and runs his forefinger across the pink scar on his neck)
PHILLIP:
You didn’t have that back then.
ARTHUR:
The bruise is recent.
(Presses his cheek and winces)
The other was botched surgery, performed in an alleyway by a young studly fellow I’d met—where else?—in a bar.
(Beat)
I tend to bring out the fear in men. Some of them feel it’s their duty to punish me on behalf of all of them.
PHILLIP:
I’m sorry that happens.
ARTHUR:
(Cautiously holds out his hand)
Phillip?
PHILLIP:
(Stares at ARTHUR’S hand a long, uncomfortable moment, before taking it, then answers in a low voice, without looking directly at him)
Yes?
ARTHUR:
Why did you send the letter?
PHILLIP:
(Looking up and holding ARTHUR’S gaze)
I wanted to ask—
(Struggling)
I needed to get your answer to a question.
[At this juncture, PHILLIP gently pulls his hand from ARTHUR’S, gets to his feet, and crosses to the dresser. He pauses to glance up at the crucifix, then opens the dresser drawer and removes the Confidential magazine. Returning to his chair, he sits and thumbs through the pages to find the one he is looking for.]
PHILLIP (Continues):
Have you read anything about … her?
ARTHUR:
(Taking the magazine and looking down at the picture)
But of course—how could I not have? It’s been in the papers. The New York Times. Christine Jorgensen is America’s first sex-change recipient. I haven’t read this one.
PHILLIP:
Want to take a moment?
ARTHUR:
(Setting it on the floor)
No. What’s your question?
PHILLIP:
(Holds out his hand and ARTHUR gathers it in)
Wouldn’t this solve most of your problems?
ARTHUR:
This? Do you think I consider what I am a problem?
PHILLIP:
(His free hand indicating ARTHUR’S neck)
Well? It almost got you killed—your attraction to men.
(Beat)
Women are attracted to men … naturally.
ARTHUR:
Not … all … women ….
(Wounded; fighting back tears, he yanks his hand from PHILLIP'S)
What you’re saying is my attraction is unnatural … I am unnatural … I’m a freak …. Is that what you’re saying?
PHILLIP:
According to God’s blueprint for procreation, yes, Arthur. Your attraction is unnatural. No, no, you’re not a freak.
ARTHUR:
I’m not … as long as I slip into a slinky dress, throw on a wig, paint my face? Oh, Phillip …
(Beat)
How dare you! How dare you … pontificate what I am—who I am—who I should be! How dare you!
[Emotionally spent, ARTHUR slumps forward in his chair, buries his face in his hands, and his thin shoulders spasm with his sobs. PHILLIP stares down at his back, his own eyes filling. Then, closing his eyes, he begins to move his lips. After a moment he places his hand on ARTHUR’S back. The silence continues a while longer]
PHILLIP:
(To ARTHUR’S back)
I have much to learn if I’m going to be a priest.
ARTHUR:
(Sitting up, wiping his face, sniffing)
If?
PHILLIP:
Did I say that?
ARTHUR:
Phillip, why did you bring out that magazine?
PHILLIP:
(Looking away, and then back)
Well … I wanted to show it to you. I thought it would help.
ARTHUR:
Why was it so important to hear my answer to your question? Truly … Why? And why did you buy the magazine in the first place?
PHILLIP:
Well, I thought—I figured the article might help—
ARTHUR:
No. No, no. Look.
(Recovers magazine from the floor and points to the bottom of the cover)
This magazine’s four months old. See? I remember passing by it on a newsstand back in the winter. It would have been off the shelves three months ago.
(smiling at PHILLIP)
You’ve had this magazine for some time, Love. I’m sure a long time before you sent your letter to me.
[PHILLIP studies his hands in his lap, and after a moment he slowly nods but continues to keep his eyes from ARTHUR’S]
ARTHUR (Continues):
It won’t be easy, you know.
[ARTHUR stands and looks down at PHILLIP who appears intrigued with his nails, running a thumb over the surface of each. ARTHUR bends down and gives PHILLIP’S cheek a kiss. He moves toward the door but stops a few feet from it, and turns]
ARTHUR (Continues):
I’ll be here for you. I’ll always be here for you, Love. You know how to reach me.
| Author Notes |
Thank you, Sayan Ghosh, on Unsplash for your very evocative picture
|
By Jay Squires
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Previous Scene, in a nutshell: Phillip Dellaney met with Arthur DelaTurie in his (Phillip’s), upstairs bedroom where they had an awkward conversation about a kiss they shared eight years earlier when they were freshmen at Notre Dame. It was a focal point upon which Phillip insisted the kiss was born of his confused, frightened, and lonely state in a new environment … while Arthur contended the kiss meant something and that Phillip was denying his true (homo)sexuality.
CHARACTERS:
Phillip Dellaney: Age 26, a behemoth of a man, at a height of 6' 7", and pushing 300 pounds, having thick, muscular shoulders and hips, and with thighs like sinewy, coiled springs, not just capable of carrying such a load through life, but carrying it at a lively pace. A recent seminary graduate, he will be an odd duck as a priest. He is at a cross-road in his life.
James Dellaney: Phillip’s brother, two years younger. Also tall, at 6' 4", but thin. James had mapped out his future from a young age to be a politician and as a start to his career, is already on the ballot for the Worcester city council. Alcohol seems a solution to recent stresses.
Margaret Dellaney: Phillip’s, James’s, and Susan’s mother. Very close to being the archetypal mother we all wish we had. Her family’s happiness is her happiness. Her tragic flaw is the exclusivity of her love.
Susan Dellaney: The youngest Dellaney sibling, at age 20. She is wheelchair-bound, a gentle soul. Her body is twisted; she can’t speak and she is under the constant care of her mother. Susan has enormous eyes that seem to take in everything, giving others the impression that she can see into their souls.
Setting: The Dellaney family front room. Upstage Right, seven or eight steps of the second-floor stairway, but with the remaining steps hidden above, offstage. Upstage left, door to kitchen, equipt with a wheelchair-friendly swinging door. Up Center, a door leading to the interior of the house, also with a swinging door. A comfy couch sits, Center Stage with a coffee table in front of it. Downstage Right, double-door entrance to the house from outside.
Time: 1953
At Rise: MARGARET stands between the coffee table and the wheelchair-bound SUSAN, her hand on her daughter’s arm. JAMES, his body swaying, faces his mother and sister.
MARGARET:
Such a sad boy.
JAMES:
(Standing, unsteadily, beside his mother and sister)
Queschun-a-bul.
MARGARET:
He seemed sad to me. Deep down.
JAMES:
S' not what I meant.
PHILLIP:
(Whose voice comes from above, from what would be the second story landing)
Mom?
MARGARET:
Yes, dear.
PHILLIP:
Has Arthur left?
MARGARET:
A few minutes ago. I was telling James—
PHILLIP:
(Interrupting in a louder voice)
I’m sorry—what?
MARGARET:
(Crossing to the foot of the stairs and looking up)
I was just telling James that Arthur looked so sad when he was leaving.
PHILLIP:
Oh … yes. Okay, I’ll be right down.
MARGARET:
Lovely. Susan and I will go brew some tea.
(Returning to Susan and wheeling her to the kitchen’s swinging door)
JAMES:
(Calling to her before she enters the kitchen)
None f' me, Mother.
MARGARET:
(Over her shoulder as she wheels SUSAN through the swinging door)
I figured as much, Jamie.
JAMES:
(Loudly, to the closed door)
Wha’s that supposed to mean?
[PHILLIP descends the stairs, stops briefly at the bottom, and catches JAMES eyes; he shakes his head]
PHILLIP:
It means …
(Waiting until he’s facing his brother, then lowering his voice)
It means she knows you don’t want to lose your buzz.
JAMES:
Tha’s ridic ’lus.
(Offering a crooked smile)
Ree-dick-you-lusss—ah, fuck it!
PHILLIP:
Watch your tongue!
MARGARET:
(From within the kitchen)
What’s that, dear? Cake? I don’t think we have … I think—I'll check, but I think we only have some cookies …
[The brothers stare at the door, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, then erupt in laughter. PHILLIP easily wrestles JAMES to the floor and they roll around like two puppies. At last, PHILLIP pins his brother’s arms to the floor]
PHILLIP:
Say it! Brother, say it!
JAMES:
(Struggling to pull out from under PHILLIP’S much larger body)
Ree-dick—
PHILLIP:
Oh, no, no! Say it, Jimmy-Jim.
JAMES:
(With a final burst of energy …)
Don’t call me that!
(… then in inevitable defeat)
Uncle, damn you! Uncle!*
[At that moment the kitchen door opens and MARGARET, pushes SUSAN’S wheelchair through, a tray containing tea, cups, and cookies sitting securely on SUSAN’S lap]
MARGARET:
No more roughhousing, boys. There’s still one more guest arriving. I don’t want you knocking over a lamp or something.
JAMES:
Tell that to this—this elephant on me!
[Standing, PHILLIP playfully brushes the dust off each shoulder, then helps his unsteady brother to his feet]
PHILLIP
Well, you did say Uncle …. Sometimes little brother needs to know his place.
MARGARET:
(Smiling down on SUSAN, she lifts the tray from her daughter’s lap, sits it on the coffee table, and speaks while she pours tea)
I certainly hope professor Fitzimonds won’t be late … and won’t stay long. We haven’t much time before the dinner.
PHILLIP:
It’ll be fine, Mother. It’ll give some of us …
(Giving JAMES a sidelong glance)
… time to take a cold shower and get ready.
JAMES:
Wha’s that s’posed to mean?—cold shower …
MARGARET:
Now boys!
(Beat)
So, drink your tea …
JAMES:
Said I didn’t want tea …
MARGARET:
You drink your tea, Phillip … and you have a cookie Jamie—couldn’t find cake, but you have a cookie. Phillip, if you wait here for Professor Fitzimonds, I’ll go and give Susan her shower …. Now …
(eying each of her sons)
You two be good, you hear?
PHILLIP:
(Smiling)
We’ll be good, Mother.
JAMES:
N’if we can't be good, we’ll name the first after you—
PHILLIP:
What the—! James! That’s just stupid …stupid!
JAMES:
(Scrunching up his face, turning beet-red)
I know … Sooor-ree! Jus’ kidding!
[As MARGARET wheels SUSAN toward the door exiting the room, PHILLIP stares at JAMES with a look of barely contained rage on his face. He waits until his mother pushes SUSAN through the swinging door]
PHILLIP:
Do you realize what you just said!? Do you, James!?
JAMES:
Truth hurts—don’ it?
PHILLIP:
I don’t even know how to respond to that! That you’re queer? That you’re homo?
JAMES:
Noooo … Noooo … Not me!
PHILLIP:
For God’s sake, James!
(Beat)
Listen to yourself, Brother.… Don’t you hear it? Don’t you see it? Don’t you see this isn’t you talking? This isn’t the one who’s running for the city council. This isn’t the one who would someday be President of the United States. Can’t you see that?
JAMES:
No, no, no, no, no! I’ll go take my col’ shower, brother. But when I come out all sober and smellin’ pretty … you’re still … gonna be … whooo you aaare.
[JAMES staggers to, and through, the same exit as his mother and sister. PHILLIP stands, staring at the door for a prolonged period. Then he stares down at the teacup. Slowly, deliberately, he drops two sugar cubes in the cup, picks up the spoon, and begins stirring. He glances back at the door, then to his cup, continuing to stir. There is a rapping at the door. Phillip straightens up, checks his watch, manufactures a smile, and goes to the front door]
END OF SCENE 4
* This has me wondering if “saying ‘uncle’” has any meaning to my friends across the pond, or whether it has any meaning anywhere, anymore. It was very popular when I was a kid as a playful (but real) declaration of defeat.
| Author Notes | Thanks to Unsplash for the image. |
By Jay Squires
| Author Notes |
It seems like I'm always apologizing for the length of a scene. The one to follow was supposed to be part of this scene. But it promises to be lively and would be better as a standalone scene. I think you'll agree when you read it.
I thank Unsplash for the perfect image. |
|
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