Meaningful Dialog

"Hello?"

"Willy?"

"Yes."

"Willy, this is Jake. I've just killed Moira."

"Say that again?"

"Moira. I've just murdered her."

"Where are you?"

"At home."

"Does anybody else know about this?"

"No. What shall I do?"

"Don't do anything. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Shouldn't I call the police? Give myself up? Plead for clemency? Claim insanity? Throw myself on the mercy of the court?"

"In a word, no."

"In a word, why not?"

"In a word, because, as your legal counsel, I advise you to, A, stay put; B, shut your mouth; and, C, let me handle this."

"All right, Willy. Anything you say."

Willy arrived in even less than the promised 20 minutes. He saw Moira, on the living-room floor, dreadfully still. He saw, next to her inert form, a white-porcelain poodle, its head snapped off. Another poodle, but reversed like a mirror image of its broken twin, stood on the mantelpiece. Near it was a framed photograph of a handsome teenage boy with dark eyes and curly hair.

Pointing to the broken dog, Willy asked, "Is that what you hit her with?"

Jake nodded. "She loved those dogs. They were a set, been up there on the mantel for years. Staffordshire."

"What?"

"Staffordshire porcelain, that's the name of it."

"Where's David?"

"Out, thank God."

"When did it happen, Jake?"

"Just before I called you."

"Tell me about it."

"What's to tell? We had a fight. I hit her with the dog."

"Why did you fight? What was the provocation? Did you black out? As your attorney, I'm trying to establish----"

"We fought because I made a ten-cent call from a phone booth."

"Go on."

"We went out tonight. Dinner and a movie. We don't go to movies much anymore, we don't like the kind they're making nowadays, but Guido recommended this one--you know Guido, don't you?--and we can usually trust Guido's taste, so we went. Well, it was just terrible. I mean, bad. Rotten-awful-lousy-bad. We both hated it. We're walking out of the theater, back to the car, and we happen to pass this phone booth, and I take out a dime and drop it into the slot and dial Guido and when he answers, I give him a big juicy raspberry and hang up. That's all there was to it."

"And that's why you fought with Moira?"

"That's why she fought with me. She says, 'That was a silly thing to do. What was the point of calling Guido from a booth? You could have waited till we got home.'

"'I didn't feel like waiting,' I told her. 'I wanted to do it now.'

"She said, 'Well, I just think it's childish.'

"'Look,' I said, 'what is it that bothers you? Is it the dime?'

"'No, of course not.'

"'Is it the ten seconds I took?'

"'No.'

"'Then if it's not the dime and it's not the time, then what the hell is it?'

"'I just think you could have waited till we got home.'

"'I didn't want to wait till we got home, don't you understand that?'

"'No, I don't. It's just silly.'

"By this time, we're in the car and I've started the motor. And I'm mad. I tell her, 'A man does one little harmless, spontaneous act, and you nag him to death. Christ, you should be grateful. You should be grateful that you've got a husband who, although he's pushing forty and blunted and dulled by his own failure and mediocrity, yet has just enough spark and youth left in him to occasionally--and God knows, it is very occasionally--do an antic little thing like that. A thing which harms no one, costs ten lousy cents and wastes less than ten seconds of time. Pure impulse. Innocent fun. I don't expect you to applaud it as a brilliant stroke of wit--which I certainly don't claim it to be--but I do think you should quietly, internally, offer a little prayer of thanks that there's some life in the old boy yet. How many husbands of my age or of any age, how many used-car-salesman husbands, how many drugstore-manager husbands, how many chairman-of-the-board husbands, how many cabdriver husbands have even the shadow of that much zest and spirit of fun left in them?'

"'Let's drop it,' she says.

"'No,' I say. By this time, we're about halfway home. 'No, we will not drop it. The trouble with you, my ladylove, is that you bear not the slightest resemblance to the woman I married. That woman was fun-loving. That woman had spontaneity. That woman loved to do wild, crazy things on the spur of the moment. But that woman, rest her soul, is dead, my dear. And the woman who took her place, rising like a phoenix from her ashes, is rigid, tight-lipped and ultraconservative--in every way, including the political and not excluding the sexual. You know what you have become? You have become a woman who, if I took off my shoes and rolled up my trousers and waded into the surf, not only would not join me in my romp--I don't ask or expect you to join me anymore; you can stay back there on the beach with your shoes on, that's OK with me--you would sneer at me and say, "What a silly thing to do; goodness, if you want to dip your feet in water, you can wait till we get home and I'll bring you a pail of nice warm suds and you can sit in an easy chair and watch TV and soak your feet to your heart's content." That's what you have become.'

"'Thanks a lot,' she says.

"'When I think of the woman you were,' I say, 'when I think of the dear little nut who ran away from her husband and flew down to Mexico with me for a quickie divorce and marriage, and when I compare that lovely kook with----'"

Willy cut in to say, "Well, that's not precisely accurate, you know, Jake. Moira didn't really act on spur-of-the-moment impulse when she went down to Mexico with you. She discussed it with me for quite a long time before that, very calmly and intelligently, and we both decided that, well, our marriage hadn't been very good for quite a while, and if she wanted to marry you, maybe the best way would be for her to fly down to Mexico with you, and I promised not to interfere or put any obstacles in her path. The only problem, the only real problem, was our daughter, Linda. She was only a baby at the time, which made it pretty difficult, but we worked it all out that I would keep the baby and----"

"Isn't all that beside the point, under the circumstances?"

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry. But, you know, that business about her being--how did you put it?--you stated it very well--'ultraconservative sexually,' that's it--well, Jake, that was no new development. Moira was always that way. Even with me. Why did you think I let her go without a struggle? There had been nothing between us--and I mean nothing--for at least a year before she left me."

"A year? Come on, Willy, don't make me laugh. There was something between the two of you not three months before she left you, because six months after we were married, she gave birth to David, your child----"

"My child?"

"Don't be a bore, Willy. You know David is your child. You've always known it. Moira has always known it. We've all known it. Except David, of course. I'll never forget the way she put it, the day before we took off for Mexico. 'I don't want that man to be the father of my child,' she said. 'I'm carrying his child right now, Jake,' she said, 'but I don't want him to be its father. I want you.' So I raised David as my own. But you knew. You must have known."

Willy was shaking his head and uttering a mirthless, almost soundless little laugh. "Jake, Jake, Jake. All these years you thought David was mine? You mean you really didn't know?"

"Know what? I knew he couldn't have been mine, because----"

"Yes, yes, yes, I know all that, but not mine, Jake, David wasn't mine, surely you knew that? Maybe you didn't know at first, but later, when the kid got older, didn't you realize? That curly black hair, those brown eyes, that Roman nose? Did you really think they came from my Scandinavian loins?"

"They sure as hell didn't come from my red-headed, freckle-faced, snub-nosed Irish loins!"

"Of course not. Jake, excuse me, but I'm really stunned. I thought you knew all along. Do you mean to sit there and tell me that in all these years, you never once tumbled to the fact that David's father is Guido?"

"That's a hell of a thing to say."

"It's true!"

"I don't believe it."

"Look at the kid." Willy waved at the photo on the mantel. "Just look at that kisser. It's the map of Italy. He doesn't look like me. He doesn't look like you. He doesn't even look very much like Moira, except around the mouth. He looks like Guido."

Jake looked at the photo for several moments. "He does, at that," he said. "But...."

"But what?"

"Guido. You know what he's like. He'd never go for a girl who was ... how did I put it?"

"Ultraconservative sexually. But don't you see, Jake? That was Moira's pattern, always, with every new man. For the first few weeks, the first few months, the first year, maybe, fantastic! Sheena, Queen of the Jungle! Totally without inhibitions! And then it would invariably begin to set in, like arthritis. The reserve. The withdrawing. The cooling off. Don't ask me why, I don't know, I'm not an analyst. It happened with me. It happened with Guido. It happened with you. And I'm sure it must have happened with Paul."

Jake looked up from the carpet at which he had been staring. "Paul? Who's Paul?"

"What do you mean, who's Paul? Paul-Paul in your office."

"Oh, that Paul. But what about him?"

"What about him? Oh. I see. The husband is always the last to learn and all that. Well, I just assumed you were aware that about a year or so after you were married, Moira started meeting Paul for lunch. Then it was drinks after work. And motels. The whole routine. You really didn't know what was going on?"

"No."

"I'm surprised. I was sure you knew. In fact, I thought that was why you started fooling around with Paul's wife--sort of like for revenge."

"You knew about me and Edna?"

"Everybody knew. Frankly, I never understood what you saw in her--she's so mannish--and that's why I simply assumed you were doing it to get back at Paul."

"Did Moira know?"

Willy shrugged. "It seems likely. Moira and Edna were very ... close. I'm sure they told each other everything."

"They weren't close."

"Of course they were. Edna could hardly keep her eyes off Moira, not to mention her hands. Moira was flattered, in a way. Why do you think they spent those long afternoons together in town, 'shopping,' they called it."

"Moira wasn't that way."

"Not really, no, but Edna is. I doubt if Moira ever, well, did anything--I imagine she was passive and just allowed things to be done to her. Anyway, that's water under the bridge and it doesn't matter. I only mentioned it because I'm sure Edna must have told Moira about her little thing with you and Moira must have told Edna about her thing with Paul. That's the way some people get their kicks, you know that, by telling. But that's beside the point, too. It's in the past."

"Everything about Moira is in the past now."

"Right. So now we have to start thinking about you." Willy touched Jake's shoulder. "I know this isn't the time for it, Jake, but do you mind if I say something?"

"No, I don't mind if you say something. Say something."

"Moira was a beautiful creature. She could be a lot of fun for a while. Stimulating. No doubt about that. But she was no good, Jake. She was a man user. She drained us dry, literally, then threw us away and went on to the next...."

"Well, Willy, I'll take that opinion with a little grain of salt, if you don't mind."

"Grain of salt?"

"I mean, I'll consider the source. You do have an ax to grind, after all."

"What ax?"

"I mean, it's only natural you should form that opinion of Moira, of all women, considering your tastes----"

"Tastes?"

"Willy, you don't have to pretend with me. I know. All your friends know about you and Greg----"

"Greg!"

"And that other one, that Hilary or Ellery or whatever his name was, with the eye patch. We all know, Willy. And it doesn't matter. We don't mind. You're good old Willy and we love you--I mean, don't misinterpret that, when I say love, I mean----"

"Now, hold it. Just hold it right there. Just watch out who you're calling names. Greg and Mallory--Mallory, not Hilary, not Ellery, Mallory--Greg and Mallory are friends, that's all. Friends. Cronies. Buddies. Pals. Chums."

"Sure, Willy."

"Don't take that tone with me, son! 'Sure, Willy,' I'll 'sure' you, you damned eunuch!"

"Damned what? What was that?"

"You heard me!"

"I heard you, yes, loud and clear, and now you'd better explain exactly what you meant by that, that, that----"

"Epithet."

"Epithet, yes."

"I'm sorry, Jake. It just slipped out. It was cruel of me. It was like ... mocking a cripple."

"Cripple!!!",

"I said I'm sorry. And I am. Sorry I said it and sorry for you, as well. I've always been sorry for you, ever since I knew about your ... affliction."

"What affliction?"

"Oh, Christ, Jake, it's too late in the day to keep up the facade. Everybody knows you're impotent. We've known for years."

"I'm not impotent!"

"I had it on the very best authority."

"What authority?"

"Moira, who else?"

"I ... am ... not ... impotent!"

"Have it your way."

"I'm sterile."

"Oh."

"There's a difference!"

"I know. I'm sorry, buddy."

"Forget it. So Moira told you I was----"

"Now, don't go blaming her. I may have misunderstood her. She may have told me about the other thing, the sterile business, and I confused it with----"

"She had no business telling you."

"Well, hell, I was her husband once. A sympathetic ear. 'A good listener,' she always called me. So, when there were no children after David--and we all knew who David's father really was--she told me about your unfortunate ... ailment? condition? She just wanted someone to talk to. A shoulder to cry on. And I was there."

"You were there. You and your shoulder. And maybe a little more than your shoulder, right, Willy?"

"Make up your mind, pal. First I'm a pansy, then I'm a wife stealer. You can't have it both ways."

"Why can't I have it both ways? You probably have it both ways, you A.C-D.C. freak!"

The phone rang.

"You want me to get that?" Willy asked.

"No. Yes, maybe you'd better."

Willy picked it up on the second ring. "Hello.... No, it's Willy.... What's new, buddy? ... Hold on a minute." Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he asked, "Want to talk to Guido?"

"Why not?" Taking the phone from Willy, Jake said, "Guido, you boob, that was an absolute skunk of a picture! A dumb script, badly acted, nondirected, silly, boring, stupid, even the color was bad! What on earth did you see in it? I mean, it was even badly edited, the cutter didn't know when to cut, every scene went on for about twenty frames too long! What the hell has happened to your taste? ... No, Moira hated it, too. Unlike you, she has good taste. I mean had. I mean, look, Guido, I can't talk now, we're having a little problem here, I'll get back to you tomorrow, OK? Bye-bye."

"It's getting late," said Willy. "We'd better call the police. But first, let's rehearse your story a little. You and Moira had just come back from a movie and you had been having a little squabble, and then, standing right here at the mantelpiece, next to David's picture and between the two porcelain dogs, Moira tells you Guido is David's father----"

"No, Willy----"

"You're right. No sense dragging David through this. It'll be tough enough on the lad as it is. Let's see. Moira tells you about her affair with Paul, that's it. Not to mention her 'shopping' expeditions with Paul's wife. You're shocked, hurt, enraged, then suddenly, everything goes black, and when you come to your senses, Moira is there on the floor and the porcelain dog is beside her, broken."

"That's not the way it happened."

"Jake, we have to give you a motive the jury will sympathize with. We can't tell them you killed her because of an argument about a call from a phone booth. In the first place, they'd never believe that. And even if they did, it would be no justification for murder. But a harlot wife, taunting you with her unfaithfulness, her perversion! Don't groan -- believe me, it's the best way."

"I didn't groan."

"All right, moan. Don't get technical."

"I didn't moan either. Quiet. Listen. There! Did you hear it?"

"Yes. It came from----"

"Oh, my God. It's Moira. Moira, darling!" Jake knelt beside her and rubbed her wrists.

In a blurred voice, she said, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Rubbing your wrists, dear."

"What I need is an aspirin. What a headache." She touched her head. "Oooooh! I'm going to have a lump there the size of an ostrich egg."

"Oh. my dear, my dear, you're all right."

"All right? I'm half dead, you idiot. Get me a drink."

Willy said, "I'll get it. Where do you keep the booze?"

"In there," said Jake.

"In where?"

"The kitchen, the kitchen."

Willy left the room. In the kitchen, he poured three stiff tumblers of Scotch. When he returned to the living room, Moira was sitting up on the couch and Jake was beside her, his arm around her, talking to her in lulling, gentle tones.

"Moira, baby, all that matters is that you're alive. I know about Guido and Paul and Edna, but none of that matters, I haven't been a saint myself; all that matters is that I've got you back and that you forgive me. You do forgive me, don't you, sweetness?"

"Hell, honey, I've been a bitch. I'm the one who should be begging forgiveness."

"No, no----"

"Yes."

Willy handed them their drinks. "Anybody know a good toast?" he asked.

"I do," Moira said with a giggle. She raised her glass and recited: "Here's to it. The birds do it. The bees do it and die. The dogs do it and get hung to it. Why don't you and I?"

"I'll drink to that," said Willy, and he did. "Do you want me to call a doctor?"

"No," said Moira. "I had worse cracks on the head than this when I was a kid and lived through them without any doctors." She tapped her skull. "Solid marble."

Willy put down his glass. "I'll be going. Tough day in court tomorrow, need my sleep. Sure you'll be all right, Moira?"

"Positive."

"Splendid. Good night, then, you two."

Willy left the house and walked briskly up the street to his car. On the way, he passed another car, in the front seat of which two persons were welded together in a prolonged and profound kiss. He looked away and tried to walk past them as softly as possible, so as not to disturb them, but they pulled apart suddenly at his approach and looked at him with startled faces. He recognized them as David and his daughter, Linda.

"Hi, kids," he said casually and continued toward his car.

"Daddy, wait!" the girl called. She got out of the car and ran toward him, barefoot, her waist-length yellow hair fanning in all directions. "Daddy, I've got to talk to you. Can we sit in your car for a minute?"

"Does it have to be now?"

"Yes, it does."

They got into his car.

"Daddy, before you say anything, before you pass judgment, I want you to promise to remember that we belong to two different worlds with two different sets of moral values. Your generation has all kinds of hang-ups about sex, you invent a whole lot of words like normal and abnormal and deviate and incest and pervert, but we, I mean me and my generation, we reject all those labels, an I getting through to you? You're uptight because you saw me making it with David and he's my half brother, and know you can't help feeling that way because of your puritanical upbringing and Queen Victoria and all that scene, but try to understand that we don't recognize those things, freedom is the name of the game, love is where it's at, and the only way this world is going to be saved is for everybody to stop bugging each other and just let it all hang out, with each beautiful human person grooving in his own bag. And anyway, Daddy, it's hypocritical of you to put down incest; I mean, I see the way you look at me when I'm dashing out of the bathroom in a towel, and I know you have too many hang-ups to actually do anything, poor baby, but I want you to know that you do turn me on, Daddy, and I know '. turn you on, so try not to be a drag and please understand about the feeling I have for David."

When she stopped for a breath, Willy tried to reassure her: "Sweetie," he said "David isn't----"

"Isn't, isn't, isn't! Negative words, put down words, is that all your hung-up generation knows? Don't walk, No Smoking, Keep off the Grass?"

"Tell David to have you home by twelve, dear. Tomorrow is a school day.'

"Typical, typical," she said, leaving the car.

Willy turned on the radio to an all-night classical-music station and headed for home, accompanied by the dungeon scene from Fidelio.

In Jake and Moira's house, the reconciliation was blossoming. Jake was saying, "I'll get you that aspirin."

"No, don't bother, honey," said Moira "The Scotch is fine." She took a long sip "That was one lousy movie tonight wasn't it?"

"Bottom of the barrel."

She began to titter. "And you phoning Guido like that and giving him the bronx cheer! Just marvelous!"

They both began to laugh at the memory of it.

Then Moira's laugh was abruptly choked off by another emotion.

"What is it?" Jake said quickly.

She was staring down at the floor "You bastard," she said, her voice shrill. with outrage. "You rotten bastard. You broke my dog!"

At home, Willy had just slipped into his bed and turned off the light when his phone rang. He sighed with deep fatigue. It rang a second time and a third, and at last he picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Willy? Moira. I've just killed Jake."