Ideal, page 15
KAY GONDA: [Calmly] Thank you. [She throws her bag on a table, takes off her hat and gloves, indifferently, as if she were quite at home. He keeps staring at her]
PERKINS: You mean . . . they’re really after you?
KAY GONDA: The police. [Adds] For murder.
PERKINS: I won’t let them get you. If there’s anything I can . . . [He stops short. Steps are heard approaching, behind the door Left]
MRS. PERKINS’ VOICE: [Offstage] George!
PERKINS: Yes . . . dovey?
MRS. PERKINS’ VOICE: Who was that who rang the bell?
PERKINS: No . . . no one, dovey. Somebody had the wrong address. [He listens to the steps moving away, then whispers:] That was my wife. We’d better keep quiet. She’s all right. Only . . . she wouldn’t understand.
KAY GONDA: It will be dangerous for you, if they find me here.
PERKINS: I don’t care. [She smiles slowly. He points to the room helplessly] Just make yourself at home. You can sleep right here, on the davenport, and I’ll stay outside and watch to see that no one . . .
KAY GONDA: No. I don’t want to sleep. Stay here. You and I, we have so much to talk about.
PERKINS: Oh, yes. Sure . . . that is . . . about what, Miss Gonda?
[She sits down without answering. He sits down on the edge of a chair, gathering his bathrobe, miserably uncomfortable. She looks at him expectantly, a silent question in her eyes. He blinks, clears his throat, says resolutely:]
Pretty cold night, this is.
KAY GONDA: Yes.
PERKINS: That’s California for you . . . the Golden West . . . Sunshine all day, but cold as the . . . but very cold at night.
KAY GONDA: Give me a cigarette.
[He leaps to his feet, produces a package of cigarettes, strikes three matches before he can light one. She leans back, the lit cigarette between her fingers]
PERKINS: [He mutters helplessly] I . . . I smoke this kind. Easier on your throat, they are. [He looks at her miserably. He has so much to tell her. He fumbles for words. He ends with:] Now, Joe Tucker—that’s a friend of mine—Joe Tucker, he smokes cigars. But I never took to them, never did.
KAY GONDA: You have many friends?
PERKINS: Yes, sure. Sure I have. Can’t complain.
KAY GONDA: You like them?
PERKINS: Yes, I like them fine.
KAY GONDA: And they like you? They approve of you, and they bow to you on the street?
PERKINS: Why . . . I guess so.
KAY GONDA: How old are you, George Perkins?
PERKINS: I’ll be forty-three this coming June.
KAY GONDA: It will be hard to lose your job and to find yourself in the street. In a dark, lonely street, where you’ll see your friends passing by and looking past you, as if you did not exist. Where you will want to scream and tell them of the great things you know, but no one will hear and no one will answer. It will be hard, won’t it?
PERKINS: [Bewildered] Why . . . When should that happen?
KAY GONDA: [Calmly] When they find me here.
PERKINS: [Resolutely] Don’t worry about that. No one will find you here. Not that I’m afraid for myself. Suppose they learn I helped you? Who wouldn’t? Who’d hold that against me? Why should they?
KAY GONDA: Because they hate me. And they hate all those who take my side.
PERKINS: Why should they hate you?
KAY GONDA: [Calmly] I am a murderess, George Perkins.
PERKINS: Well, if you ask me, I don’t believe it. I don’t even want to ask you whether you’ve done it. I just don’t believe it.
KAY GONDA: If you mean Granton Sayers . . . No, I do not want to speak about Granton Sayers. Forget that. But I am still a murderess. You see, I came here and, perhaps, I will destroy your life—everything that has been your life for forty-three years.
PERKINS: [In a low voice] That’s not much, Miss Gonda.
KAY GONDA: Do you always go to see my pictures?
PERKINS: Always.
KAY GONDA: Are you happy when you come out of the theater?
PERKINS: Yes. Sure. . . . No, I guess I’m not. That’s funny, I never thought of it that way. . . . Miss Gonda, you won’t laugh at me if I tell you something?
KAY GONDA: Of course not.
PERKINS: Miss Gonda, I . . . I cry when I come home after seeing a picture of yours. I just lock myself in the bathroom and I cry, every time. I don’t know why.
KAY GONDA: I knew that.
PERKINS: How?
KAY GONDA: I told you I am a murderess. I kill so many things in people. I kill the things they live by. But they come to see me because I am the only one who makes them realize that they want those things to be killed. Or they think they do. And it’s their whole pride, that they think and say they do.
PERKINS: I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Miss Gonda.
KAY GONDA: You’ll understand someday.
PERKINS: Did you really do it?
KAY GONDA: What?
PERKINS: Did you kill Granton Sayers? [She looks at him, smiles slowly, shrugs] I was only wondering why you could have done it.
KAY GONDA: Because I could not stand it any longer. There are times when one can’t stand it any longer.
PERKINS: Yes. There are.
KAY GONDA: [Looking straight at him] Why do you want to help me?
PERKINS: I don’t know . . . only that . . .
KAY GONDA: Your letter, it said . . .
PERKINS: Oh! I never thought you’d read the silly thing.
KAY GONDA: It was not silly.
PERKINS: I bet you have plenty of them, fans, I mean, and letters.
KAY GONDA: I like to think that I mean something to people.
PERKINS: You must forgive me if I said anything fresh, you know, or personal.
KAY GONDA: You said you were not happy.
PERKINS: I . . . I didn’t mean to complain, Miss Gonda, only . . . I guess I’ve missed something along the way. I don’t know what it is, but I know I’ve missed it. Only I don’t know why.
KAY GONDA: Perhaps it is because you wanted to miss it.
PERKINS: No. [His voice is suddenly firm] No. [He rises and stands looking straight at her] You see, I’m not unhappy at all. In fact, I’m a very happy man—as happiness goes. Only there’s something in me that knows of a life I’ve never lived, the kind of life no one has ever lived, but should.
KAY GONDA: You know it? Why don’t you live it?
PERKINS: Who does? Who can? Who ever gets a chance at the . . . the very best possible to him? We all bargain. We take the second best. That’s all there is to be had. But the . . . the God in us, it knows the other . . . the very best . . . which never comes.
KAY GONDA: And . . . if it came?
PERKINS: We’d grab it—because there is a God in us.
KAY GONDA: And . . . the God in you, you really want it?
PERKINS: [Fiercely] Look, I know this: let them come, the cops, let them come now and try to get you. Let them tear this house down. I built it—took me fifteen years to pay for it. Let them tear it down, before I let them take you. Let them come, whoever it is that’s after you . . . [The door Left is flung open. MRS. PERKINS stands on the threshold; she wears a faded corduroy bathrobe and a long nightgown of grayish-pink cotton]
MRS. PERKINS: [Gasping] George! . . .
[KAY GONDA rises and stands looking at them]
PERKINS: Dovey, keep quiet! For God’s sake, keep quiet . . . Come in . . . Close the door!
MRS. PERKINS: I thought I heard voices . . . I . . . [She chokes, unable to continue]
PERKINS: Dovey . . . this . . . Miss Gonda, may I present—my wife? Dovey, this is Miss Gonda, Miss Kay Gonda! [KAY GONDA inclines her head, but MRS. PERKINS remains motionless, staring at her. PERKINS says desperately:] Don’t you understand? Miss Gonda’s in trouble, you know, you’ve heard about it, the papers said . . . [He stops. MRS. PERKINS shows no reaction. Silence. Then:]
MRS. PERKINS: [To KAY GONDA, her voice unnaturally emotionless] Why did you come here?
KAY GONDA: [Calmly] Mr. Perkins will have to explain that.
PERKINS: Rosie, I . . . [Stops]
MRS. PERKINS: Well?
PERKINS: Rosie, there’s nothing to get excited about, only that Miss Gonda is wanted by the police and—
MRS. PERKINS: Oh.
PERKINS: —and it’s for murder and—
MRS. PERKINS: Oh!
PERKINS: —and she just has to stay here overnight. That’s all.
MRS. PERKINS: [Slowly] Listen to me, George Perkins: either she goes out of the house this minute, or else I go.
PERKINS: But let me explain . . .
MRS. PERKINS: I don’t need any explanations. I’ll pack my things, and I’ll take the children, too. And I’ll pray to God we never see you again. [She waits. He does not answer] Tell her to get out.
PERKINS: Rosie . . . I can’t.
MRS. PERKINS: We’ve struggled together pretty hard, haven’t we, George? Together. For fifteen years.
PERKINS: Rosie, it’s just one night. . . . If you knew . . .
MRS. PERKINS: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know why my husband should bring such a thing upon me. A fancy woman or a murderess, or both. I’ve been a faithful wife to you, George. I’ve given you the best years of my life. I’ve borne your children.
PERKINS: Yes, Rosie . . .
MRS. PERKINS: It’s not just for me. Think of what will happen to you. Shielding a murderess. Think of the children. [He doesn’t answer] And your job, too. You just got that promotion. We were going to get new drapes for the living room. The green ones. You always wanted them.
PERKINS: Yes . . .
MRS. PERKINS: And that golf club you wanted to join. They have the best of members, solid, respectable members, not men with their fingerprints in the police files.
PERKINS: [His voice barely audible] No . . .
MRS. PERKINS: Have you thought of what will happen when people learn about this?
PERKINS: [Looks desperately for a word, a glance from KAY GONDA. He wants her to decide. But KAY GONDA stands motionless, as if the scene did not concern her at all. Only her eyes are watching him. He speaks to her, his voice a desperate plea] What will happen when people learn about this?
[KAY GONDA does not answer]
MRS. PERKINS: I’ll tell you what will happen. No decent person will ever want to speak to you again. They’ll fire you, down at the Daffodil Company, they’ll throw you right out in the street!
PERKINS: [Repeats softly, dazedly, as if from far away] . . . in a dark, lonely street where your friends will be passing by and looking straight past you . . . and you’ll want to scream . . . [He stares at KAY GONDA, his eyes wide. She does not move]
MRS. PERKINS: That will be the end of everything you’ve ever held dear. And in exchange for what? Back roads and dark alleys, fleeing by night, hunted and cornered, and forsaken by the whole wide world! . . . [He does not answer or turn to her. He is staring at KAY GONDA with a new kind of understanding] Think of the children, George. . . . [He does not move] We’ve been pretty happy together, haven’t we, George? Fifteen years. . . .
[Her voice trails off. There is a long silence. Then PERKINS turns slowly away from KAY GONDA to look at his wife. His shoulders droop; he is suddenly old]
PERKINS: [Looking at his wife] I’m sorry, Miss Gonda, but under the circumstances . . .
KAY GONDA: [Calmly] I understand.
[She puts on her hat, picks up her bag and gloves. Her movements are light, unhurried. She walks to the door Center. When she passes MRS. PERKINS, she stops to say calmly:]
I’m sorry. I had the wrong address.
[She walks out. PERKINS and his wife stand at the open door and watch her go]
PERKINS: [Putting his arm around his wife’s waist] Is Mother asleep?
MRS. PERKINS: I don’t know. Why?
PERKINS: I thought I’d go in and talk to her. Make up, sort of. She knows all about raising babies.
CURTAIN
SCENE 2
When the curtain rises, another letter is projected on the screen. This one is written in a small, uneven, temperamental handwriting:
Dear Miss Gonda,
The determinism of duty has conditioned me to pursue the relief of my fellow men’s suffering. I see daily before me the wrecks and victims of an outrageous social system. But I gain courage for my cause when I look at you on the screen and realize of what greatness the human race is capable. Your art is a symbol of the hidden potentiality which I see in my derelict brothers. None of them chose to be what he is. None of us ever chooses the bleak, hopeless life he is forced to lead. But in our ability to recognize you and bow to you lies the hope of mankind.
Sincerely yours,
Chuck Fink
. . . Spring Street
Los Angeles, California
Lights go out, screen disappears, and stage reveals living room in the home of CHUCK FINK. It is a miserable room in a run-down furnished bungalow. Entrance door upstage in wall Right; large open window next to it, downstage; door to bedroom in wall Center. Late evening. Although there are electric fixtures in the room, it is lighted by a single kerosene lamp smoking in a corner. The tenants are moving out; two battered trunks and a number of grocery cartons stand in the middle of the room; closets and chests gape open, half emptied; clothes, books, dishes, every conceivable piece of household junk are piled indiscriminately into great heaps on the floor.
At curtain rise, CHUCK FINK is leaning anxiously out of the window; he is a young man of about thirty, slight, anemic, with a rich mane of dark hair, a cadaverous face, and a neat little mustache. He is watching the people seen hurrying past the window in great agitation; there is a dim confusion of voices outside. He sees someone outside and calls:
FINK: Hey, Jimmy!
JIMMY’S VOICE: [Offstage] Yeah?
FINK: Come here a minute!
[JIMMY appears at the window outside; he is a haggard-looking youth, his clothes torn, his eyes swollen, blood running down the side of his face from a gash on his forehead]
JIMMY: Oh, that you, Chuck? Thought it was a cop. What d’you want?
FINK: Have you seen Fanny down there?
JIMMY: Huh! Fanny!
FINK: Have you seen her?
JIMMY: Not since it started.
FINK: Is she hurt?
JIMMY: Might be. I seen her when it started. She threw a brick plumb through their window.
FINK: What’s happened out there?
JIMMY: Tear gas. They’ve arrested a bunch of the pickets. So we beat it.
FINK: But hasn’t anyone seen Fanny?
JIMMY: Oh, to hell with your Fanny! There’s people battered all over the place. Jesus, that was one swell free-for-all!
[JIMMY disappears down the street. FINK leaves the window. Paces nervously, glancing at his watch. The noise subsides in the street. FINK tries to continue his packing, throws a few things into cartons halfheartedly. The entrance door flies open. FANNY FINK enters. She is a tall, gaunt, angular girl in her late twenties, with a sloppy masculine haircut, flat shoes, a man’s coat thrown over her shoulders. Her hair is disheveled, her face white. She leans against the doorjamb for support]
FINK: Fanny! [She does not move] Are you all right? What happened? Where have you been?
FANNY: [In a flat, husky voice] Got any Mercurochrome?
FINK: What?
FANNY: Mercurochrome. [Throws her coat off. Her clothes are torn, her bare arms bruised; there is a bleeding cut on one forearm]
FINK: Jesus!
FANNY: Oh, don’t stand there like an idiot! [Walks resolutely to a cabinet, rummages through the shelves, produces a tiny bottle] Stop staring at me! Nothing to get hysterical over!
FINK: Here, let me help.
FANNY: Never mind. I’m all right. [Dabs her arm with Mercurochrome]
FINK: Where have you been so late?
FANNY: In jail.
FINK: Huh?!
FANNY: All of us. Pinky Thomlinson, Bud Miller, Mary Phelps, and all the rest. Twelve of us.
FINK: What happened?
FANNY: We tried to stop the night shift from going in.
FINK: And?
FANNY: Bud Miller started it by cracking a scab’s skull. But the damn Cossacks were prepared. Biff just sprung us out on bail. Got a cigarette? [She finds one and lights it; she smokes nervously, continuously throughout the scene] Trial next week. They don’t think the scab will recover. It looks like a long vacation in the cooler for yours truly. [Bitterly] You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart? It will be a nice, quiet rest for you here without me.
FINK: But it’s outrageous! I won’t allow it! We have some rights . . .
FANNY: Sure. Rights. C.O.D. rights. Not worth a damn without cash. And where will you get that?
FINK: [Sinking wearily into a chair] But it’s unthinkable!
FANNY: Well, don’t think of it, then. . . . [Looks around] You don’t seem to have done much packing, have you? How are we going to finish with all this damn junk tonight?
FINK: What’s the hurry? I’m too upset.
FANNY: What’s the hurry! If we’re not out of here by morning, they’ll dump it all, right out on the sidewalk.
FINK: If that wasn’t enough! And now this trial! Now you had to get into this! What are we going to do?
FANNY: I’m going to pack. [Starts gathering things, hardly looking at them, and flinging them into the cartons with ferocious hatred] Shall we move to the Ambassador or the Beverly-Sunset, darling? [He does not answer. She flings a book into the carton] The Beverly-Sunset would be nice, I think. . . . We shall need a suite of seven rooms—do you think we could manage in seven rooms? [He does not move. She flings a pile of underwear into the carton] Oh, yes, and a private swimming pool. [Flings a coffeepot into the carton viciously] And a two-car garage! For the Rolls-Royce! [Flings a vase down; it misses the carton and shatters against a chair leg. She screams suddenly hysterically] Goddamn them! Why do some people have all of that!
