Southern Mexico, 1987
The dig sight. It is very late, just before the first bit of light begins to turn the darkness over. Gil is sitting near a fire. He has loosely assembled a section of the pot. Sounds of rustling in the darkness.
GIL (Under his breath): Oh Shit! Forget it! (Shouting into the darkness) Go. Olvida! Aqui muy peligroso. Hay una pistola. Jesus. Go! There’s nothing here. (Beat)
PATRICE (Running on): What’s happening?
GIL: It’s the return of my looter. He’s gone to figure out his next move. We’ll be okay.
(Beat.)
PATRICE: I couldn’t sleep anyway.
GIL: It’s almost time. It’ll be morning soon.
PATRICE (Surprised): It’s so dark still.
GIL: It gets light all of a sudden.
(Pause) I’ll walk you to the road.
PATRICE: Sometimes, in Georgetown, I stay up through the night. Right through the night. Watching the Potomac. In the dark. And then the first planes starting to come down at National. Jogging congressional aids. Georgetown students who’ve been up all night, wandering home . . .
(Pause.)
GIL (Hesitant): When did you last see him?
PATRICE: Your father? Ten months ago.
GIL: I imagine he was alone.
PATRICE: There was a girlfriend. Named Goldie. Really. She was sweet. She took care of him. She was a waitress. She did okay. She did enough for the both of them.
(Beat. She shrugs) We took him out to dinner in Ocean Park, at some Mexican place right before he got sick, and he cried for a minute, but it was really just the margaritas.
GIL: Was there . . . God forbid . . . an epiphany before he died?
PATRICE: No. Just that he loved you both very much.
GIL: That’s very small beer, isn’t it, Mom?
(She nods. There is a moment.)
PATRICE: You know how I got my old job back at The Phillips? I just walked in, and someone actually remembered me. That I had once had “promise.” I work with people who are half my age. I like them. They’re unafraid. They are fearless . . .
(Beat) In this light, you look like Alec.
GIL (Shakes his head): Do I? I hope not. He didn’t look very . . . the last time I saw him, he—
PATRICE: Tell me. Gil. I have to know.
GIL: You have to name it? You have to be able to see the detail?
PATRICE: I have to name it. Yes.
GIL: You know it was a bullet . . . (Patrice nods) . . . to the back of the neck. Behind a grocery store in Soweto. I imagine it was painless. So you don’t have to worry about that.
(Beat) I think it was a simple assassination. I was in Kenya with him a few days before, and begged him not to keep going down there. He knew there were many people, with great, vast reasons to kill him. But he kept going anyway. It reached the point where I simply could not stop him. Even Carly couldn’t stop him. God knows she stuck it out.
(Beat) He kept going back to South Africa again and again and again. They might have just let him fade away but he wouldn’t allow them.
(Beat) And that was that. At least in the end, he got what he wanted.
(Beat) I left Kenya, got to Jo’burg at four in the morning, went to their morgue, and I said “Yes. This is my brother, Alec Dalton Burgess.” They gave me his stuff. And I left.
(There is a great, long silence. Neither can speak. Gil turns away.)
PATRICE: If your father could have died in Alec’s place, he would have done so without thinking.
GIL: How do you do it? How do you get through the day, Mom? Knowing what you know? Being around people. Because I can’t now. I end up in places like this. Look around you. How do you manage to get by, smiling, seeing people, being alive, whatever?
PATRICE: I don’t. I’m not. Where I am is as scary as this place, Gil.
(Pause.)
GIL: Have you got your stuff together? If there’s a truck . . . You’ll have to flag him down. They come by fast. They shoot by and you don’t want to miss them. It could be a long wait between rides . . .
(He stops, he’s miserable.)
PATRICE: Gil. The way people ask for forgiveness is so meaningless. The little prayers of everyday life. The small print nobody even reads. It’s not even part of my language anymore. I eradicated it. I watch myself. In small ways, not able to say “I’m sorry.” Something happens. I knock over someone’s pencil at work or I cut them off crossing the street and I cannot look at them and say “My mistake.” I know that if I begin, I’ll just . . .
(Beat) There is nothing, at a certain point, that, I would not have done differently.
(Pause. He looks at her. He nods. He thinks for a moment before speaking.)
GIL: That’s something. That’s a start.
PATRICE: Is it? Gil?— I hope . . .
(There is rustling from the darkness again.)
GIL: Tenemos nada aqui! Go away! There’s nothing here!
(Beat. He looks at Patrice) Could you maybe just shout a little?
PATRICE: Shout?
GIL: So he knows it’s not just me. He knows me. I don’t scare him.
(Yells) Just give up, can’t you.
PATRICE: All right. (Tentative) Go away!
GIL: We don’t have anything!
PATRICE (Reluctant, out into the darkness): I swear to God, you’d better get out of here if you know what’s good for you.
GIL (Smiling): Can’t you do a little better than that, Patrice? You used to be the scariest white woman in Africa.
(Yells) Get out of here!
PATRICE (Shouts; a great driving rage): Listen you people, I swear to God, I’m giving you a minute to get out of here and then we’re coming after you. Did you hear me?
(Beat) I’m counting! I’m counting to three!
GIL (Laughs, admiring her): Oh, that’s good. I remember that. That’s scary.
PATRICE (A roar): One!
GIL AND PATRICE: Two!
(Pause.)
PATRICE (Very softly, looking at Gil): Three.
(Beat. Sound of footsteps running off) It worked. He’s gone.
GIL: He’ll be back. Tomorrow night. He’ll bring his pals.
PATRICE (Worried for him): What’ll you do?
(Pause. He looks at her.)
GIL: Well. We could scare him again.
(Beat.)
PATRICE: We could. (She smiles, understanding what he is actually saying)
GIL: It’s getting lighter . . .
PATRICE: Is it?
GIL: . . . daylight . . .
(Gil shrugs—a throw away—sits down by the fire, looks out. Patrice sits across the fire from him.
The lights come up slowly and then fade.)
END OF PLAY