back for the right one.
T
:
But why this reaction of yours? You trembled, you shook, you had the shivers. You hid in the cellar.
(8-second interval.)
A
:
That was my first reaction. Later I got myself under control and tried to be reasonable about it all. There had to be a simple explanation. But—
T
:
But what?
A
:
But I wondered, Why did he keep the birth certificate if it was wrong, had the wrong date? And why did he keep it sealed?
T
:
What did you do about it?
(5-second interval.)
A
:
I’m tired. I’ve got a headache.
T
:
What did you do about it?
A
:
It’s late. I want to go to bed.
T
:
What did you do about it?
A
:
I can’t remember. It’s too hazy.
T
:
What did you do about it?
(6-second interval.)
A
:
Nothing …
But he did do something. He became a spy, a secret agent in his own home, listening at doorways, eavesdropping on telephone conversations, watchful and wary and suspicious.
“What’s the matter—don’t you feel well?” his mother asked. She was always solicitous about him, concerned and worried, emerging from her sad cocoon to fuss over him.
“I’m all right, Mom,” he answered.
But he would study his mother, even though she was so sweet and innocent that he felt guilty for his doubts. He wondered what secrets she harbored, what dark knowledge she kept hidden within her. Was this what made her sad, what kept her in her room during the day, closeted in the house all the time, seldom venturing into the outside world? And his father—what about his father? In his proper clothes, his suit and vest, his morning newspaper. What secrets lurked in him? Or am I dramatizing? Adam wondered. He wanted to be a writer, to capture drama on paper. Was he really manufacturing mysteries to satisfy his literarylongings, finding mysteries where they did not in fact exist?
Although Amy was the most important person in his life, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about the doubts that tormented him. He was afraid she would laugh. He was afraid to lessen himself in her eyes. She had brought brightness and gaiety to his life and he didn’t want to risk losing it all. That’s why he submitted to the Numbers, accompanying her on those heady and hilarious but somehow terrible trips to the A&P and the Holiday Inn. When he thought of telling her what was bothering him and anticipating her reaction—Amy who never took anything seriously—he drew back and remained silent. A tortured silence. And he continued to spy, to probe, to watch …
T
:
And what did you find out, finally?
A
:
Too much. And not enough.
T
:
Do you really believe that or are you merely being clever?
(5-second interval.)
T
:
I am sorry to be so blunt. Please explain what you mean.
A
:
I wasn’t trying to be a wise guy. I was telling the truth. I found out, for instance, about my mother’s Thursday night telephone calls. And when I realized what the calls were all about, it was both too much and not enough. It was worse than just knowing about the birth certificates.
T
:
Tell me about the telephone calls.
(10-second interval.)
A
:
I have a feeling you already know about them. I have a feeling you know everything, even my blank spots.
T
:
Then why should I make you go through it all? Why should I carry on this charade?
A
:
I don’t know.
T
:
You disappoint me. Can’t you think of the one person who will benefit?
(5-second interval.)
A
:
Me. Me. Me. That’s what you said at the beginning. But I never asked for it. I never asked to benefit by it.
(4-second interval.)
A
:
I have a headache.
T
:
Don’t retreat now. Don’t retreat. Tell me about the phone calls your mother made.
(5-second interval.)
A
:
There really isn’t very much to tell.
Actually, there was a lot to tell but he didn’t want to speak anymore, he wanted only to say the minimum, to say the words that would satisfy Brint and then go back to his room, to rest and relax. He didn’t want to pick up the burden of remembering any longer. He wanted to coast awhile, float,
T
:
But why this reaction of yours? You trembled, you shook, you had the shivers. You hid in the cellar.
(8-second interval.)
A
:
That was my first reaction. Later I got myself under control and tried to be reasonable about it all. There had to be a simple explanation. But—
T
:
But what?
A
:
But I wondered, Why did he keep the birth certificate if it was wrong, had the wrong date? And why did he keep it sealed?
T
:
What did you do about it?
(5-second interval.)
A
:
I’m tired. I’ve got a headache.
T
:
What did you do about it?
A
:
It’s late. I want to go to bed.
T
:
What did you do about it?
A
:
I can’t remember. It’s too hazy.
T
:
What did you do about it?
(6-second interval.)
A
:
Nothing …
But he did do something. He became a spy, a secret agent in his own home, listening at doorways, eavesdropping on telephone conversations, watchful and wary and suspicious.
“What’s the matter—don’t you feel well?” his mother asked. She was always solicitous about him, concerned and worried, emerging from her sad cocoon to fuss over him.
“I’m all right, Mom,” he answered.
But he would study his mother, even though she was so sweet and innocent that he felt guilty for his doubts. He wondered what secrets she harbored, what dark knowledge she kept hidden within her. Was this what made her sad, what kept her in her room during the day, closeted in the house all the time, seldom venturing into the outside world? And his father—what about his father? In his proper clothes, his suit and vest, his morning newspaper. What secrets lurked in him? Or am I dramatizing? Adam wondered. He wanted to be a writer, to capture drama on paper. Was he really manufacturing mysteries to satisfy his literarylongings, finding mysteries where they did not in fact exist?
Although Amy was the most important person in his life, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to her about the doubts that tormented him. He was afraid she would laugh. He was afraid to lessen himself in her eyes. She had brought brightness and gaiety to his life and he didn’t want to risk losing it all. That’s why he submitted to the Numbers, accompanying her on those heady and hilarious but somehow terrible trips to the A&P and the Holiday Inn. When he thought of telling her what was bothering him and anticipating her reaction—Amy who never took anything seriously—he drew back and remained silent. A tortured silence. And he continued to spy, to probe, to watch …
T
:
And what did you find out, finally?
A
:
Too much. And not enough.
T
:
Do you really believe that or are you merely being clever?
(5-second interval.)
T
:
I am sorry to be so blunt. Please explain what you mean.
A
:
I wasn’t trying to be a wise guy. I was telling the truth. I found out, for instance, about my mother’s Thursday night telephone calls. And when I realized what the calls were all about, it was both too much and not enough. It was worse than just knowing about the birth certificates.
T
:
Tell me about the telephone calls.
(10-second interval.)
A
:
I have a feeling you already know about them. I have a feeling you know everything, even my blank spots.
T
:
Then why should I make you go through it all? Why should I carry on this charade?
A
:
I don’t know.
T
:
You disappoint me. Can’t you think of the one person who will benefit?
(5-second interval.)
A
:
Me. Me. Me. That’s what you said at the beginning. But I never asked for it. I never asked to benefit by it.
(4-second interval.)
A
:
I have a headache.
T
:
Don’t retreat now. Don’t retreat. Tell me about the phone calls your mother made.
(5-second interval.)
A
:
There really isn’t very much to tell.
Actually, there was a lot to tell but he didn’t want to speak anymore, he wanted only to say the minimum, to say the words that would satisfy Brint and then go back to his room, to rest and relax. He didn’t want to pick up the burden of remembering any longer. He wanted to coast awhile, float,
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