by Sam Shepard
HALIE, mid-sixties, is the matriarch of a disintegrating farm family in rural Illinois. She laments the loss of ANSEL, her “heroic” son, and what he could have done.
Scene
The family’s dilapidated farmhouse in rural Illinois.
Time
The present.
HALIE
He would’ve took care of us, too. He would’ve seen to it that we were repaid. He was like that. He was a hero. Don’t forget that. A genuine hero. Brave. Strong. And very intelligent. Ansel could’ve been a great man. One of the greatest. I only regret that he didn’t die in action. It’s not fitting for a man like that to die in a hotel room. A soldier. He could’ve won a medal. He could’ve been decorated for valor. I’ve talked to Father Dewis about putting up a plaque for Ansel. He thinks it’s a good idea. He agrees. He knew Ansel when he used to play basketball. Went to every game. Ansel was his favorite player. He even recommended to the City Council that they put up a statue of Ansel. A big, tall statue with a basketball in one hand and a rifle in the other. That’s how much he thinks of Ansel.
Of course, he’d still be alive today if he hadn’t married into the Catholics. The Mob. How in the world he never opened his eyes to that is beyond me. Just beyond me. Everyone around him could see the truth. Even Tilden. Tilden told him time and again. Catholic women are the Devil incarnate. He wouldn’t listen. He was blind with love. Blind. I knew. Everyone knew. The wedding was more like a funeral. You remember? All those Italians. All that horrible black, greasy hair. The smell of cheap cologne. I think even the priest was wearing a pistol. When he gave her the ring I knew he was a dead man. I knew it. As soon as he gave her the ring. But then it was the honeymoon that killed him. The honeymoon. I knew he’d never come back from the honeymoon. I kissed him and he felt like a corpse. All white. Cold. Icy blue lips. He never used to kiss like that. Never before. I knew then that she’d cursed him. Taken his life. I saw it in her eyes. She smiled at me with that Catholic sneer of hers. She told me with her eyes that she’d murdered him in his bed. Murder my son. She told me. And there was nothing I could do. Absolutely nothing. He was going with her, thinking he was free. Thinking it was love. What could I do? I couldn’t tell him she was a witch. I couldn’t tell him that. He’d have turned on me. Hated me. I couldn’t stand him hating me and then dying before he ever saw me again. Hating me on his death bed. Hating me and loving her! How could I do that? I had to let him go. I had to. I watched him leave. I watched him throw gardenias as he helped her into the limousine. I watched his face disappear behind the glass.