WHEN REAL LIFE BEGINS was written for Claire Higgins to produce, developed with Richard Edelman, first produced at the Connelly Theatre, New York, by Chain Lightning, featuring Raye Lankford, directed by Ken Marini, and subsequently produced by Fun(d)Raising Players, Cape Cod, and Actors Stock Company/New York.
WHAT THE CRITICS SAID
“Tour-de-force…a passionate hour of theatrical magic … simultaneously funny and moving monologue about facing death and embracing life. we vividly see their exhilarating time together. Chain Lightning has launched this thrilling play into a life which will outlast its creators, as performers vie to play this showy role. Tish Dace, PLAYS INTERNATIONAL
“Illuminating a Broken Heart To Build a Loving Memorial”…”the sense of loss is transformed by Anne's sense of humor… great emotional upheaval and growth... In the end the woman who tells the story is a great deal more than a survivor. Unforgettable. You wish it would stop, but know you’d feel robbed if it did.” NEW YORK TIMES
“When Real Life Begins is an extraordinary solo play about passion, love, and theatre…. Her discovery, within herself, of a passionate, artistic visionary is startling and uplifting. … moving and resonate … a very special play indeed … breathtaking in their simplicity and specificity…. the purity of the piece’s vision … packs an undeniable wallop. This is a play you won’t soon forget.” NYTheatre.com – Top Recommendation of the Week
" …powerfully moving …rich and dynamic portrayal that reaches deep within … well-placed laughs … depth of emotion and energy runs through this performance like electricity…a woman's enduring love, and a man's desperate reach for the final, ultimate performance.” BACKSTAGE, New York
TAGS: plays, one-woman play, case study, cancer, care giver, hospice, theatre, National Institutes of Health, NIH, actor, producer, acting, theatre company, biographical play, monologue, performance technique, plays by women, plays about Chekhov, Synge, In the Shadow of the Glen, Claire Higgins, Kricker James, Chain Lightning Theatre
WHEN REAL LIFE BEGINS
By
Karen Sunde
Based on the life of Claire Higgins
Smashwords Edition
Copyright Karen Sunde
For all rights to perform this play, apply to:
130 Barrow #412
New York, NY
10014
212/366-1124
WHEN REAL LIFE BEGINS
Anne stands in window light. Only a table and chair, bed platform, journal, small chain, and lighting are necessary. Anne speaks to the audience like a close friend, and becomes all the characters she needs to tell her story. To the Tramp, she often speaks with an Irish brogue (indicated by underlining) Anne’s warmth, crisp humor and passion are everything. She never cries.
ANNE:
(In a teasing mood) Mmmm, that rich deep first swallow of coffee. Leaning by the sink, soft morning sun... (Irish bagpipe. Startled, Anne looks into audience, moves downstage) There he is. The Tramp. (To audience) You see? I know exactly who he is. He’s from the play In the Shadow of the Glen. It’s this misty Irish play we did by Synge. This tramp shows up at the door where a woman’s sitting with her dead husband, and says (Brogue- ) “Good evening to you, lady of the house.” (Looking around audience) You don’t see him. Do you? That’s what I was afraid of. (To Tramp) But why am I seeing you now? Can I talk to you? Are you Sam? No, scratch that. That would be crazy. Because I was just…
…leaning by the sink, soft morning sun. Behind me I feel–
it won’t be an ass-squeeze, closer than that,
soft breath approaching, my head tips to meet–
yes! That delicate tingle, kiss on my neck, sweeps down my spine,
scrunching the smile I can’t hold back– (Joy) Sam.
(Spins, surprised he’s not there)
Sam? I felt you just now. I thought you were up, I...
(She moves, “sees” him lying on the platform in separate light)
Are you breathing. Sam?
(Anger) Come back here! You said you wouldn’t go without me.
I said “just a minute; I’ll be right back; I’ll get a cup of...”
(Beat) But I’m awake. And that was the deal:
”Promise you won’t go when I’m sleeping.”
And I’m not. Sleeping. Am I?
Was that what that neck kiss was? “Goodbye.”
Oh God. (Not sad, just “here we go”)
(Looks at Tramp) So that’s how I got to this place, where (Brogue- ) I’m after seeing you, you mangy Tramp! (Calm) Sam, are you gone?
It’s only been a minute. Or less. You can go “weeks without food, days without water, minutes without air.” Breathing’s hard for you. You’re resting up for a few last words. I could use one, Sam. Oxygen’s off. It was drying you out. I’d switch it on again if... I need help here.
(To audience) Not 911. Only hospice. (Dialing) Make a call. They’ll come in two minutes. I just wish Jill... Hello? Sam’s not breathing. We’re Jill’s patient. The actor on Spring Street. Just since I woke. I left the room for just a... No. Yes, it was audible before, and now there’s nothing. (Beat) What? But... No, I’m fine. (Hangs up, shocked. Laugh, punch drunk, to audience) Wait, she says. 20 minutes. Then call back.
Wait for what? He’s not in his eyes. Oh, Sam, (Happy) those ravishing eyes; gold specks in deep green. So devilish – he catches me with them, locks into mine, till we gently lay bare the soul. Aha, that’s it! (Brogue- ) Now, isn’t it. In your play, the woman thinks her husband’s dead, but the husband’s only pretending! And the Tramp understands...everything.
Like last night.
Jill, he’s not eating. For two days. (Stunned by what she hears) Let go?
(She bravely speaks to Sam-that-was) “You can go, Sam, if you need to. Shall I cancel the rehearsal?” What did I think he’d say? He never cancels.
“How do they sound?”
“Great.” But each actor knows this goodbye is for good. “See you tomorrow.” And he winks! His lids can’t shut, but he winks. It’s absurd: “See you tomorrow” when we know...
Got to be near him. Have to climb over. Him at the edge of the bed, me by the wall with the cats. (To Audience) When you’re getting married, people tell you what you’re supposed to do, and that you won’t remember it, cause it’s such a frenzied day.
Picture this actor dropping onto Spring Street. Picture me a part-time New York super who returns from pastel San Francisco, decides to paint the masonry faces climbing from my stoop to my door arch. No male can resist – “Did you prime that?” “You need a sander.” “Scared of heights, eh?”– till I swear the next is getting a faceful of paint. “That looks great. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” His green eyes dance above a crooked grin; his arm’s in a cast. Coffee? Sure. Every hour. My life turns over. I’m a speech pathologist – no big thrill, but it suits me; it’s steady; I’m at home in the city; and I wasn’t looking for a man. Didn’t think any one guy could do it for me. He’s my first actor.
And he’s broke. What with his smashed elbow, the medical bills, all he can offer is coffee. But he’s so warm and full of fun, we can’t stop talking. I hate cooking for myself – (Lights imaginary candle) “Come, I’ll feed you.” He’s had a hard past, yet looks younger than he is. On stage l see another man, but still real. I’m enchanted – destined to love an alcoholic, like the rest of my gene pool, so thank God he’s eight years sober – “Want to get married?” (Blows out candle)
A lot of things in life they tell you, but nobody tells you this. It’s only been seven years, Sam. “Can’t swallow? Let’s try ice chips. Need morphine?” I leap the bed like it’s a hot tin roof. He’s slipping; can’t hold him back. “Look, the cats are taking shifts. Here comes the Guy.” They said cats desert when death is coming. Not these. “You can’t take ice?” His body’s shutting down.
(On phone) Jill? He’s not talking anymore. How do I know he’s not in pain?”
“You’ll know.”
“If I give him morphine every few hours?”
“That’s fine, Anne. Do you want me to come over?”
(Lowers receiver) Why didn’t I say yes?
(Raises receiver to ear) “Mom, I’m scared.”
My sisters come. Can’t tell if he even knows. Darlene takes his hand. He smiles. The thrill shakes the room. If he’s going now, he needs the best time ever. I play guitar, joke, sing, everything but dance. But I can’t hold him. And I’m so hungry to be held, to hear him talk to me. I put my hand in his – he can’t even squeeze it. If there can’t be another never-let-you-go hug, I... (Fierce) I can’t bear it if he can’t touch me! (Gasps, shocked at herself, and sees Tramp) That’s when I saw him. (Brogue) “Good evening, kindly stranger, it’s a wild night, God help you, to be out in the rain falling.” Might as well come the hell in. (Extends her hand, inviting him to lie by her on the platform) Come close. If you’re him, I want to know. (Arm across him, she sleeps. Dark. Head up again) 4AM; I’m too tired to breathe, but now he talks, a stream of sound. “Sam. I don’t understand.” He rumbles on. (Pretending to understand) “Really? Can you see where you’re going? Are you talking to them?” It’s only ten days since he climbed the stairs, and...
Show before last he ran two miles a day. Now he clutches the railing, white knuckles, both hands. Below, I grab his foot, take its weight, place it on the next higher stair, so he can pull his body after. At each of five landings he collapses to breathe. Why am I letting him do this? I just want to be together, but he plans the next production, jams the appointment book, “write these letters, call this funder, hold an open call.” It’s his life. If he stops... “I have to keep working, to have my mind, and to still have sex. When those things go...”
Up I jump. Find a ground floor apartment, an elevator building, a wheelchair. I search the street like a wild thing, wheedle landlords, call everyone I know, stomp down my pride and ask his parents – would they could they help with rent? A friend has a co-op to sublet uptown. Shall I sign; are you sure you want to move? “Do it.”
(Slowly builds) Do it? What are you thinking? That I need this? I’m not ready for you to die? I’ll never be ready. I’ll pack us up, clear out in a day, anything! I’m fighting to keep you alive; how can I be ready. Why don’t you say “stop? Anne, I’m dying. Just hold me.” We could have had these days quietly talking, not frantic, like... (Fury) Damn you! There you lie dying, and who am I now? Tell me; who am I !
(Instant of shock, then proud she let fly) Ooo, never dare say that if he could hear me. (Seeing Tramp, in brogue- ) Was that it then? Is that why I’m seeing you? You’re after hanging here to catch me in a sin? Well good luck to you. (Deep breath ) Whoo, it’s a long time since... It’s so peaceful.
(Looks at, reaches for journal like it’s Pandora’s box) Maybe I can... Sam’s journal. I’m dying to know what he’s writing, but... (Barely peeks) There’s the season line-up, from... (Finds a note he’s written that insults her) “Anne’s scared”? (Slams it shut) Ok, I was. It was so fucking ambitious. I mean look what he planned! First the new play about Chekhov, US premiere, gigantic undertaking; then O’Neill – The Great God Brown – neglected masterpiece, him directing; then Woman of Paris – French satire – at least it’s only a small part for him; then Two by Synge, a double bill. Four major productions!
“Renal cell carcinoma with metastases in the liver and both lungs.”
What is he saying?
“You’ve been accepted into a research protocol at the National Institutes of Health.”
Not us. “I didn’t apply”
(Tops, interrupting-) You should have seen the fuck-me pumps. High spike heels in the window. Couldn’t resist, on our way to meet the oncologist. “Imagine, with me in my short red robe.” We give the finger to fate, buy them, dress to kill – for the party at NBC studios, chic night on the town, only one little stop to make–
“You won’t live till next month if that kidney isn’t removed.”
“I have a show next month. I won’t give it up.”
The shoes look great at NBC. We cover great, tuck it away.
“They’ll get rid of the tumor!”
“Try to shrink.” He said they’ll “try to shrink” the tumor. Didn’t you hear right? Wrong. He hears what he needs; I hear the rest. How can I tell him what was really said? “Sam...?” (She reaches, wanting to tell him, can’t: the barrier is up)
I’m alone. Scared to leave him, scared to go far. And I cry, all the time, till he explodes– “You’ve got to stop crying. Makes me feel like I’m dead!” Woo. So the crying stops. Next day, a CAT scan. In New York?! They jump – CAT scan, MRI, Bone Scans, Brain Scan, Thallium Stress Test, Breathing Tests, tests I’ve never heard of – they move so fast it scares me to death. (Lying on the table)
“Don’t let me die in a hospital. I want to be home with you and the cats.”
“I promise.”
“And don’t send me to Ohio.”
“I’ll die before I send you there.”
“Don’t let them hook me to a machine. And no chemo!”
“All right, but write it down, get it notarized. Don’t leave me in a spot where a doctor offers me something you don’t want.”
(To Audience) Oh, yeah, spring into action, automatic pilot. Like “if I’m really good, Mommy and Daddy won’t split up,” if I do everything right, he’ll live. (To the Tramp, in brogue- ) Perfect. Pile it all on me. And what are you good for?! Silent as stone, hanging there in the mist with mud sucking your shoes. I should invite you in, pour you a drop? There’s nothing to say!
I hate driving! He knows it; he always drives. But we’ve got this journey–
Maryland? I swallow my fear, rent a car, five in the morning, know only “take I-95,” head south, don’t have a map, just go, keep going... The National Institutes of Health. Like I’ve been beamed into it. Impressive. Frightening. Brutally honest, the picture they paint. One in three patients respond, and their tumors get smaller. Sam’s a good candidate; got a monstrous cancer, and it’s already spread. From kidney to liver to lungs. And chemo doesn’t work on kidneys. So, immunotherapy: they’ll fight cancer by boosting his immune system. Three treatment phases, his level of dosage selected at random. No choice; take it or leave it. Sam wants the high dose, but a possible side effect is coma. I hope for the middle dose. Before anything, the tumor and his kidney have to go.
We put his name in a hat, like a lottery, and go to lunch. Totally surreal. Wandering in a corridor, the wall’s filled with plaques. Look closer: all Nobel Prizes. It’s a pat of comfort. We’re caught in a dreamscape, but we have to go through this. Then my wish comes true – he draws the middle dose.
Surgery’s terrifying. Nine hours I wait. Think good things. “I come bouncing home from school, hoping Daddy will be sober.” No, good things! “Want to get married, Sam?”
“I didn't do well at that.”
“I don’t want kids.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Sam, I’m one of 14; I’m with kids all day; I’ve got 39 nieces and nephews I adore; I don’t want any. We’ve got two cheap apartments. We don't change anything, just make it legal, and you'll have health insurance. So when you're ready, ask me. You know my answer.”
Out of my frigging mind! An actor? An old actor? I always loved theatre, but from the decorous audience. Here he is, born with a passion that’s only brought abuse– “You should have been a doctor, like your father, like your uncle; you’re a disgrace.” (Suddenly stops) Oh my god, that’s it. He’s my first inside taste of desire that won’t be denied. And I want more! (Then doubt) But everyone knows I backed into this. I’m a fake! “If the work isn’t happening make it happen.” I know nothing! “All the seeds are here. You want to work; I want to see you onstage. Look at the theatre I found.” I push, watch them bloom, their ideas sparking – “Man, I can move these people.”
“Anne, you don’t know theatre.”
I flush red, but don’t answer back. I’m the volunteer, the hanger-on, a groupie. So what, if he’s my husband. If what I do makes him happy, what do I care? Besides, it’s nothing. Logical – get a lawyer, get incorporated, do a contract with Equity... But they’re right. I don’t belong.
(Phone rings) Can’t breathe; raw fear. (Picks up phone) It’s the operating room. They’re after the guy that started it all, the one in the kidney. Funny how they compare these things to fruit – it’s a big ugly grapefruit. I want to ask “What color?” I don’t know why. (Hangs up) “Hey, one tumor down, two to go. Boy, are we gonna celebrate!” Not quite. Trauma. Day four, I’m scared. He’s crying so much. “Let’s talk about the season.”
“There’s no way I can play Chekhov. I’m finished, Anne.”
I stagger into the hall. That wasn’t him. I’ve never seen anyone... This is despair. (Fear) I need air. Run! I collapse on lush grass. If I don’t do something he’ll drown. (Realization) Choose! I suck in air. I run back in...
“You know what, Sam, this is our company. We don’t have to cancel. We postpone the play.” I make the calls; lots of people get pissed at me, but Mr Despair, que pase? (Spins chain) In 24 hours, a miracle – he’s laughing, eating, spinning his chain. One little decision takes him from despair to – that’s it – life! The actor in him will fight for life with a ferocity unknown in other animals.
So? Immunotherapy. First two days aren’t bad, but day three come the side effects, like flu, rashes, tight sausage fingers. A loud-speaker blares “Patients are welcome to the 8th floor recreation room for games and petting guinea pigs.”
“Petting Guinea Pigs?”
Next month, treatment 2. “You’re stronger.”
“I’m out. Shit!”
“You took a whole handful.”
“Get me another bottle.”
“I just opened that one, Sam. You’re taking too many.”
“Too many Tylenol?”
“Mixed with treatment injections, you don’t know what could...”
“I’ve got a headache, for Christ’s sake!“
“Tell the nurse how much you’ve taken.”
“Get the fuck out of here!!”
I hurry down the hall, blinking hard. “Those little hammers with green felt ends hit the fat strings. I count them, memorize their pattern, on my back here, under the piano, hiding. I’ll stay here till the shouting stops, till it’s quiet, till Daddy’s asleep.”
(Holds herself) My old terror. The one time he fell off the wagon, I was so frightened my past would repeat, I wrote it out and made him read it. Much as I could remember. I’ve got very big blanks. “I can live with an alcoholic, but not with you drinking.”
He hit bottom long before we met, after founding a company – directing, acting –must have been heaven. He’s dedicated, absolute, intolerant of even five minutes lateness. Only once I’ve seen him yell in rehearsal, at an actor who lacks faith in himself. But there’s a trail of disappointments too painful to talk about. He clashes with his partner. By the time he’s fired, there’s debate and defense of him in the papers. He’s not tall, with no commanding voice or devastating handsomeness; he never got on Broadway; now he’s not even fresh. Whatever his dreams were, all he asks is to work and be proud of it. But he’s haunted. “There’s a real performance in me, Anne, but I never can give it.” And he knows now, alcohol will kill him.
(Spirited) By treatment 3, he’s jogging again. It’s working! I pack for five days, eager to be going back. The halls are comforting, like home. First, a series of tests. After, we wait like proud “A” students. Here comes Henry in high spirits. “I’m dropped on account of success!” There are no longer any active tumors in Henry’s lungs. Treatment left him comatose for three days, so they won’t risk a third round. Good news! But wait – only one in three win – “We find no shrinkage of your lung tumors. And there’s growth in the liver.”
“But he’s stronger.”
“By our measure, the treatment failed.” Slam. We’re cut off. No third treatment.
“They’re sending me home to die.” We don’t speak of it for a month. Hope dies. (Silence. Dark- ) And theatre...? It revived him before. This new play, Chekhov’s life and loves rolled into the birth of the Moscow Art Theatre, it’s perfect for Sam – funny, passionate... I can make it happen. So I’m an amateur producer; I’ve been faking it five seasons now. What do doctors know about life?
(To Tramp, in brogue- ) And don’t give me that squinty-eyed smirk. I don’t give a flying fart what you think. Of course I was lonely on his first tour! I was a new bride, and... Yes, I went to visit him, and... So what if I was afraid he was sorry we married. Look, he’s an artist. They’re all obsessed with their... But I was never jealous of his work. Wasn’t it that that snared me? What nobody gets is – something holy goes on. (Brogue- ) Sure, it was clever of me to start working with him - why not? I never felt used. No. Would he do the same for me? That’s not relevant. I’m not the artist. I’m in love with the artist. And he’s going to live! (Spins chain)
He can do weights at home – smashed elbow therapy, rotations with both arms – “tuning his instrument.” He coughs up blood, can’t run any more. “So walk.” We still have a love life. In some ways it isn’t till hope is gone that real life begins. Yoga he does at the theatre, vocalizing every which way, even upside-down, resonating his hip to his head bones. He’s not Olivier, but he works each day to reach his pinnacle. Sometimes he’s stiff, the voice needs help, he has trouble concentrating if his fellow actor isn’t giving, but I’ve also seen instants of brilliance, so I’ve every hope...
Yes! In his scenes with Brenda, the chemistry’s deep, natural. I fling my arm round Brenda’s husband. “Aren’t they beautiful together?” Forget jealousy; cause it’s not him up there; it’s Chekhov...who dies on stage of a lung disease.
“How can you watch?!”
“Acting’s keeping him alive.” That’s Chekhov coughing blood.
“Damn Kurt, he’s inaudible. We’ll never get there!”
But when To Moscow opens he’s happier than I’ve ever seen him. My heart leaps. I try what I never had nerve for – write commercial producers so passionately one responds, wanting to read the script, then calls to say he loves it. So we lost with cancer? With theatre, we’ll win.
The play thrills audiences, gets published, the Village Voice dubs it a “Voice Choice.” No one calls Sam a star; but only one review hurts, says he looks too sick – to play the dying Chekhov? “I blew it, Anne! Didn’t get there, didn’t go deep enough. My last chance. And I blew it.”
“No. We’re going to remount To Moscow Off-Broadway.” Am I nuts?! Yes. I have to project a dream so big he’ll refuse to die. Don’t think. Call producers. “Here’s how much bond you’ll need. Here’s the kind of budget.” Take steps. I have to ward off panic, because our sex life is faltering. Work, sex, mind. One of three is leaving.
(Climbs into hot bath, hears Sam- ) “God is healing me now.” (To Tramp, in brogue- ) I’m a traitor! You see? 7 AM, I sit bathing; he chants. Don’t look at me like that. All right, he believes it! And I don’t. Never did. How’s that for betrayal? (Upset) Why? Can you tell me that? Here, I walked away from my own death, a 17-day coma, because I believed I could. Caught a freak encephalitis, 90% fatal; they told my family they’d isolate the virus at my autopsy. And I never, for even a second, doubted I’d walk away. Where’s my faith now? Is the lack of it killing him? (Breathes, tries- ) “God is healing him now. God...”
“The cancer’s spread to your pelvis.” No! It’s moving, out of control. Radiation. Immediately, five days a week. This is worse, so much...
“This is great. They’re treating me again!”
Directing The Great God Brown, his pain is incessant.
“I’m starting voice lessons.”
He’s shrinking and growing at once. How much more can I…? He’s dropping weight fast. I pick up gorgeous steaks. We could never afford to eat like this. Now we can’t afford not to. If he can eat. We use pot for the nausea. Only I can’t buy it, cause I’m a city employee. If I get caught I lose my job and our health insurance. A friend gets it for a couple hundred dollars an ounce. When he’s out, my teacher friend knows a cop who’s got some. So here’s two teachers making this connection, a drug deal at school. “It’s a good cause.”
And it works. His pelvic tumor is toast! “So radiate my liver, too.”
And the money? Debt isn’t what I’m afraid of. But I’ve got to work. They’ve docked me for days off. (Scared) I can do this. No way am I gonna run.
“I come bouncing home from school, hoping...”not that Daddy will be sober, but that Sam will be “up.” That I’ll hear music, that with my key in the door he’ll break into a show-tune, grab one of the cats, tango across the kitchen...
No. I hear his sigh. Used to be an orgy, like clockwork, every day at four, grand rollicking sex in the afternoon. It recharged me; I’d leap up, set for another eight hours. Sweep past the memory. Got a “Moscow Seven” meeting tonight. Fund-raising committee I started for Off-Broadway. Cat catches a mouse. (Jumps onto chair) Eeee, I don’t want to see it clawed or, ohmigod, eaten! Mouse gets away. No, it’s dead behind a cabinet. Oouuu. Sam – here’s the broom, you gotta get it. “You got it! Man, I’d have used the illness. You could have pleaded cancer and got off.”
“Anne. You’re too young to go through this. Promise me you’ll love again.”
No crying, right? (Hoarse) “OK.”
“No. Promise me. Come on, promise!”
“All right - if you promise you’ll haunt the guy if he’s a shit.”
(Brogue- ) You think I want to run? Of course it’s hard! There’s caring for him, there’s work every day, there’s radiation, keeping the theatre alive, pretending it’s all all right...and there’s no one taking care of me. I drag up the stairs. (Sam calls) “We’ve got to get this mailing out tonight.”
“I have to sleep.”
“Can’t you get someone to help?”
How! I don’t have time to use the toilet, let alone make phone calls. I want to be six years old, climb into my mother’s lap. I don’t know who it is in the mirror. She’s swollen like a sausage, but she doesn’t eat. Her skin’s ravaged; her clothes don’t fit; her only fluid intake is caffeine. Her whole back’s broken out; her face is a mess.
“You should see a dermatologist.” (Beat) Sure. He’s dying and I have pimples.
“Darlene called. They want to stop by on Sunday.”
“Please Anne, no family.”
My chest tightens. I need them desperately, but he only wants me.
Stop! Somebody hold me! Tell me “slow down, take care.” Sometimes he touches me, reaching for comfort, but where’s my comfort? I can’t even cry, because he might hear. I can’t sleep, and sleep was my best friend. Fire engines would scream by, dogs bark, the bar downstairs would be jumping, and nothing would wake me. I’d set the alarm on high, and Sam would still have to get me up. But now he’s sick my ear’s tuned, like a mother to her newborn. He’s got this peaceful purr, his lips go pppoo. I can’t sleep till I hear it. If he wakes, his breathing changes, and, boom, I’m awake. “Are you ok? Stay, I’ll get it.”
When he’s in pain, I’m up half the night. My nerves fray. I fall in bed exhausted, but he’s restless. (Furious) “What can I get you. What do you need?” He goes on tossing, turning, groaning, knowing I’ll get up. “Sam, I’ve got to be at work in four hours. If you need me to stay awake, say something. If you don’t, let me sleep!”
(Brogue- ) This what you want to hear? Yes, I’m angry at him!
I’m furious. My life is hell. If I complain I’m a shit. After all, he’s dying. And if he suddenly...dropped dead, sure, I’d be out of hell, but... No. I never wished that. Never. (Brogue- ) Because life, no matter how little of it, is so precious... (Suddenly admits) I want to run. Away from death. I want my life back. He’s dying and I want out. (Pause) I go to work to cry. When they see me they say “Just sleep.” I grab a pillow, sleep an hour, then do my sessions. Getting pissed saves me from a crack-up.
“Recast my part. I can’t do Woman of Paris.” The contract I’m writing blurs. Does he mean it? He never quits, no matter what. My hands shake. “Here’s headshots.” Is work going now? Sex, work... But Sam’s eyes glitter. “I’ve called a meeting – playwrights, designers, directors – to explore new forms, fresh ideas.” I stare: “We need new forms?” He’s playing Chekhov! He thinks this is his mission, and it’s still to do. (A try) “Let’s cast To Moscow for Off-Broadway.” He won’t discuss it. He’ll never play Chekhov again.
(Doctor) “I recommend hospice.”
“You mean I’m dying.”
“There’s a point where any more treatment...”
“What about chemo?” (Her take)
Nurse Jill climbs our five flights two days later. Hospice – at-home pain management for patients expected to live no more than six months. Jill’s flushed from the climb, has a warm smile, but… (Harsh) “I’m not ready to die. I still have to act.”
“If I have to push you onstage.” (Choked) But he won’t. We’re through with theatre. Not soon enough. It derailed my life. And for what? I had a normal, happy existence with regular hours, a pension plan, leisure time! What’s become of me? Who am I?
Jill checks pulse, heart rate, breathing, cuts the medication – a low dose of morphine – gives him pills for break-through pain, brings up a reclining chair. Jill means comfort, relief. After months of non-stop adrenaline, suddenly I’m not solely responsible for his care. I have a partner, a friend, a counselor, who knows what to do, lays to rest my frantic questions, lets me say what I can’t to Sam, lets me talk about dying.
“I don’t want morphine.” Even Jill can’t understand. An alcoholic terrified of addiction, and the child of one, left to settle this between us? So here’s the deal: I don’t touch his morphine. Don’t look at it, don’t count it. If I think I see pain–
“Should I get you something? Tell me which ones to give you.” I play dumb. But I’m scared. He has less and less strength. “See how the sun hits that building? That’s summer.” (Hugs journal to her) Sam’s thoughts. So precious. They’re all in here, waiting for me to... He never said I couldn’t look... (Tries to open it, but can’t) …but I can’t. Still.
(Brogue- ) Think I’m a coward, do you? I should pry on his private thoughts? I’ll do it when I’m good and ready, thank you. You’ll find no coward in this house.
He will go to my mother’s 80th birthday no matter what – a Jersey affair, all fourteen kids and their families; long train ride, terrible seats, and sitting’s not easy, he’s so thin, but I know how to pack so it’s one person carrying two. I’m not ready for the shock at the station – he can’t climb stairs. (Stops stunned; swallowing her fear, rushes on) There’s an elevator somewhere, got to be. Then, getting on and off trains, making the transfer with me loaded down, plus, ready to catch him when he loses his balance. Then, pushed by the summertime crowd rushing to the beach...“Help!”
His beloved beach; but the sand undermines him, and children stare – at his skin stretched over bones, his cave-cheeks, the hollow eyes my loving gaze never reflects. “I don’t look good, do I?” Later he leans toward a mirror. It doesn’t lie. This is endgame. He comes for bits and pieces of Mom’s party, then lies down. He’s not a dancer. If there’s good music and a dance floor, my whole family’s out on the floor. In nine years together we’ve never danced, expect for little spins round the kitchen. But I ask “Will you dance with me?” And when something slow comes on, he gets up, takes me in his arms, and dances. I think every last person in the family takes our picture. But none knows it’s our first, and our last, dance.
I’m afraid he’ll die on the train, but he pins me with his eyes. “You found that Irish play on a train.”
“Mmhmm. Fell in love with it.”
“The Tramp who comes knocking; the woman who sits with her dead husband...”
“First time through I thought the Tramp wasn’t real. A ghost or something.”
“I can still play him, Anne.”
No. He can’t.
“I have to.”
I can’t speak. I won’t do it. I’m through with it. He can’t even stand.
(To herself, demanding- ) If you think so. Figure it out. Like when you didn’t know what a press release was? Make a call.
(On the phone) “Hello, drama desk?”
“Yes, I’m the editor.”
“Listen, this is my first press release. Can I read it to you, and you tell me if it’s ok?”
He not only says “That’s fine,” he gives us an article on Sunday!
(Suddenly fierce, to Tramp in brogue, hand out, inviting him in) All right, you’re on! “It’s a wild night, God help you, to be out in the rain falling.” Come in.
Rehearsal’s in the hull of an old shipwreck. It’s treacherous going below. His balance is off to start with. But he won’t complain. He’s in heaven. The company braces for catastrophe. “Cast an understudy.” “You’ve got to stop him; make him stop!”
How do I tell him “no”? This is too much. You’re finished. (To Audience) Yes! He’s demanding to die on stage, no matter what it costs anyone else.
“Here’s water, protein bars, a can of Ensure. You have enough morphine? Ok.” Can’t watch, can’t show worry, can’t be waiting to catch him. Got designer meetings anyway, publicity, schedules... He can’t do it. (Moved, she speaks the opening in brogue- ) “Good evening to you, kindly stranger.”
(To Tramp, in brogue- ) Yes, you’re at the door. The tramp enters. But this is farce – the husband pretends to be dead to catch his wife with her lover, but in the end she... “You’ve a fine bit of talk, stranger” ...she leaves with the Tramp. Have you come for me? When he falters, they call a break, but he won’t stop. At night I collect the wreckage of a man.
By opening week I’m so scared I can’t sleep at all. When he doesn’t eat I die inside, but it has to be his decision – to live as long as life serves him. (Gasping) “I’ve got to do this.” He believes the Tramp will be his greatest work. How can I deny an artist that?
Jim’s pissed when he says “It’s my last show.”
“Shut up! Don’t say that.”
The stage manager’s honest. “I’m in my twenties; when I say ‘how you doing,’ and Sam tells me…jeez, I’m not used to this.”
“Just be yourself, Keith. He’s dying.”
“I wish he wouldn’t say it.”
Some friends walk away completely. “Why don’t you come see him, give him a call?”
“What if he’s not feeling well?”
“Then he won’t pick up. But he needs to hear from you.” Some never come. We need his protégé, Brenda, to stand by for the lead. Just the final performance; two days to learn it. “No no no.” It’ll be great for her career. “No no no.”
“It’s my last time on stage. I want you there.”
“Ok.”
Opening night; terror, but Sam’s eyes are bright. Even his step is light. But no! Sam’s chain. On the dressing table. It started in childhood, by an airbase sending planes to war. He’d grab a couple sox for propellers, spin stories for his little brother. Now this chain “Spins my imagination” – learning lines, or directing, or getting in character. When the work goes well, there’s a look he gets; Brenda says “That’s the face I want when he directs me!” So when the work flies, the chain spins very very fast, and now...it just lies there.
Then I see his face...panicked. He can’t do it. I drop to tie his shoes. He can’t bend; any movement is painful; getting out of a chair, a major challenge; bearing his weight, too much. And he doesn’t want morphine. Jim says “Cut a pill in half?” But Sam has a look of terror I’ve never seen. I take his hand. “Take strength out of me.” We sit there silent. (Quiet) “I’ve got to get up stairs.”
“I’ll help you.”
“No. I’ll do it alone.”
He can barely move. “Have a great show.” (Picks up limp chain)
Fifteen steps to climb, alone. There’s a chair backstage. There’s time before the house opens. Please God, let him not fall. “Are they all in? Don’t hold for late-comers. Brenda’s hem’s fixed? Pre-set’s on. Go with music. Tell Keith to call places. Have a great show.” Who am I kidding, “a great show.”
It’s quiet in the balcony. How can I breathe? I extend my hands, open them...and suddenly, through all the stress, sweeps a shiver of...(Whisper of wonder) I made this happen – got the space, the designers, this director, these actors; my hands are on every part, every piece of print that went out. (Beat; bewildered- ) And it’s not only for him! For me too, this is an act of passion. I’m astounded by what actors do, love to watch them, to hear a great play, but the deepest thrill comes now – standing in the balcony, putting out my hands, and knowing...
“What’s a producer do, Sam?”
He kinda shrugs. “What you’re doing.”
“What am I doing?”
“What aren’t you doing?” He’d never tell me. Why? Was he afraid I’d stop?
He’s on. (Murmur) Dear God, don’t let him fall. He’s... (Pause, watching) He’s not... He’s doing it. Talking, walking as though he’s not even hurt, like the first time I saw him on stage. I blink. It can’t be so. But like a dream, it is. There’s no pain, no weakness, no trouble with a scuffle. Just the Tramp. He’s cold, he’s hungry, he’s lonely, but he doesn’t have cancer. (Angry) “Why now, why can’t you be whole offstage?!” Yes, he’s making-believe, but it’s more. I feel it low in my gut where true and terrible things make themselves known. It isn’t him up there. He’s crossed over, discarded the dry husk, and emerged with piercing clarity, simply...the Tramp. He could walk off the stage, through the city, (Brogue- ) taking every breath and step as you. Is that what he’s done? Are you him? What are you telling me?
“I give it to God.” Actors know you “don’t carry it onstage.” They drop their sprained back, their heartache, anything that interferes with the show. But this? He’s desperate to tell Brenda. (Gasping) “I found a new level, but…” (Fighting for focus) “My mind, I can’t hold... I’ve got to tell you the step. (Quick) Take it, give it all away – everything you’ve ever been or known – give it away to the people out there, and you’re no longer you; you’re the character with the audience. There’s nothing else. Let go, knowing nothing...nothing can hurt you, and you’ll get the real performance. The one you were meant to give.”
I don’t breathe at all. He’s doing it. And it’s brilliant. Sheer joy. How much Sam wants this is clear in its absolute beauty. When it’s over, his voice is still strong: he’s been there, every beat. The audience is elated, the bows triumphant. Then actors grab him, and my heart breaks. His joy carried them through the show; now he slumps in their embrace.
I watch the faces of the unsuspecting, come to congratulate him in the dressing room. Their smiles fade to shock, fear. The Tramp they saw was lusty, agile; here’s only a near corpse. Jill’s awestruck. “The man onstage was not my patient.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
His reviews are unanimous; Sam grins, New York Times in hand. “Twenty years I waited for this! I’m flying.” So now, when the critics hear he’s dead, they needn’t fear their last words; they reported a performance “like Becket himself,” with no idea how it was achieved.
Those eyes – empty now, black, like his pupil just...blew up. Nothing reflects; no light, color, compassion, mischief. He’s gone.
“Are you dying, Sam?”
“I think so.”
“Try to listen to me. I do know who I am. And I’ll never stop. You gave me my work. It’s who I needed to be. (Beat) Sam?”
(Beat) “That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.”
(Startled laugh) “Don’t joke, you shit.”
“I want to be cremated.”
“Oh. Yes. And...”
Put me under the stage. Tell Bill I don’t want an open casket.”
“All right, but don’t get me mad, or I’m opening the box.” (Giddy laugh. Sudden Irish bagpipe. Startled, to Tramp in brogue- ) Wait! Don’t go; not you too. I’m not ready, I... (Stops, not knowing how to hold him, then- ) All right, I’ll open it. I’ll look. There’s got to be something I can... (Opens journal) “Buy a card for my genius wife”? Birthday. (Paging) That’s the end. Go back. (Pages back) “In this vague twilight...” Here. “In this vague twilight I feel a bit intimidated. Anne truly has genius as a…producer. She’s all faith and perseverance.” Faith and... (Weeps, hard, then pulls out of it with a yell, in brogue- ) “It’s a wild night, God help us, but it’ll pass surely.” (Beat, to Tramp) All right, go. Go. (Watches him go) Shit! No one tells us. No one says dying isn’t necessarily a bad thing. (Pause) Bye bye, green eyes. Gotta make that call.
So you see? (Moves down, Lights dim to tight spot on her)
It’s that rich deep first swallow of coffee.
Leaning by the sink, soft morning sun. Behind me I feel...
(Quiet joy) Sam.
I felt you just now. I always will, won’t I.
Dim to blackout.
THE END
Karen Sunde, a playwright and screenwriter, lives in New York
ASTERISKS in play list below indicate published plays available for purchase at:
www.broadwayplaypubl.com/alphlist.htm * www.dramaticpublishing.com **
PLAYS BY KAREN SUNDE
LIBERTY
BALLOON *
DARK LADY **
TO MOSCOW **
SWEET LAND OF FIRE
HAITI: A DREAM (in Facing Forward) *
NATIVE LAND
OH WILD WEST WIND (in Rowing to America) **
ANTON, HIMSELF
MASHA, TOO
PLEASE GOD, NO WEDDING OR SHOOTING AT THE END
IN A KINGDOM BY THE SEA (in Plays by Karen Sunde) *
HOW HIS BRIDE CAME TO ABRAHAM *
TRUTH TAKES A HOLIDAY (in Plays by Karen Sunde) *
GENTLEMAN JOHNNY
ME & JOAN (of Arc)
WHEN REAL LIFE BEGINS
TRACKING BLOOD WHITE
DEBORAH: THE ADVENTURES OF A SOLDIER
2020 SEXCARE
THE FASTEST WOMAN ALIVE **
KABUKI OTHELLO **
KABUKI MACBETH
KABUKI KING RICHARD
ACHILLES
KABUKI LADY MACBETH **
QUASIMODO (a musical)
SPA (an opera)
THE SOUND OF SAND
SCREENPLAYS BY KAREN SUNDE
UNDERCOVER PATRIOT
COUNTDOWN
OVER THE RAINBOW
BOULE DE SUIF
SECRET SHIP
HOW HIS BRIDE CAME TO ABRAHAM
IN A KINGDOM BY THE SEA
THE LINE
PARALLEL LOVES
DREAM HOUSE
FINAL QUEST: THE MOUNTAIN OF THE GODS
TRIPPING TAMMY
THE FASTEST WOMAN ALIVE
LOVE HITS EARTH (& Other Disasters)
NEXT!
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