building.
Robert’s father is in the hospital: a stroke.
Robert makes the long drive back to Manhattan, getting caught in late day traffic. It is past dark when he reaches the hospital where he meets NORMAN KONRAD, 67, in the waiting room. His father had the stroke late this morning. He is not expected to live.
“He’s been asking for you,” Konrad says.
Robert goes to his father’s room and sits beside the bed. His father’s eyes are closed, a labyrinth of wires and tubes protruding from him; clearly he is close to the end.
Robert stares at his father’s pale, drawn face. QUICK SHOTS show his memory of what Francis Allright looked like in his prime—a handsome, vigorous man. The contrast to his present state is extreme.
Unexpectedly, his father’s eyes open. He stares at the ceiling. Robert stands and takes his hand. The old man looks at him.
“I’m sorry,” whispers Robert.
The old man’s throat moves. He tries to speak. The words are garbled. Robert leans over to his father’s lips.
“Arizona,” whispers the dying man. “Go… to Arizona.”
Robert stares into his father’s eyes. They glisten as though the old man is about to cry. “My life,” he whispers raggedly. “Wrong… all wrong. No time…” He sucks in air, the sound a liquid gurgling.
“Don’t try to speak, Dad,” Robert says.
Even dying, Francis Allright summons rage. His teeth clench. “You… must go,” he says. “Im
… portant!”
His hand squeezes weakly at Robert’s. “If there was…” A ragged breath. “… anyone else…
Robert stares at him, his own eyes glistening now.
“Promise,” says his father. “Help…”
Robert draws in trembling breath. “All right,” he says. “All right.”
The breath his father draws in is released. “My… journal,” he begins.
Then his eyes close and his face contorts with pain. The expression holds, then flattens out, the hand goes limp.
Robert turns and hurries to the hall. “Nurse!” he cries. They rush to the room but it is too late.
He stares at his father’s face, hearing him say, again, “Arizona.”
SUDDEN CUT TO Arizona. The desert sand like white silver. A steady wind. CAMERA PANS UP to a hilltop. Framed by a giant moon, the tall, dark figure stands immobile.
Waiting.
September 20. Robert parks beside a mortuary and starts for the front door. As he does, a cab pulls up to the curb and his brother JOHN, 44, gets out. Robert moves to greet him and they shake hands.
“Hello, Bobby,” John says. He accepts his brother’s hug perfunctorily.
“I thought you couldn’t make it,” Robert says.
“I worked it out,” John replies.
“You should have phoned me, I’d have picked you up,” says Robert.
John gestures vaguely; no matter. He’s been drinking on the flight from San Francisco. “So who’s paying for this?” he asks as they start up the mortuary walk.
“I’ll take care of it,” Robert tells him.
“We’ll split it,” says John. “I don’t suppose Ruth offered to help.”
“Didn’t ask her,” Robert says.
“She wouldn’t have anyway,” John responds. He winces. “God, this isn’t open casket, is it?”
They go inside. RUTH ALLRIGHT is already there. The only other person present is Konrad. “Super turnout,” mutters John. “All his friends.” Robert pats him on the back.
They sit beside Ruth, Robert closest to her; he kisses her offered cheek. She is the oldest of the three, 46, a heavy-set woman. Whatever genes in the Allright family gave Robert and John their good looks (John’s less in evidence now due to years of drinking) Ruth did not partake of them.
She smiles a thin, obligatory smile at Robert. “This could have been in my church, you know,” she says.
“For
Dad?”
says Robert, smiling faintly.
Ruth and John exchange cool smiles. “John,” she says.
He nods. “How ya doin’, Ruth?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
When she speaks about their father “moving on”, he turns away from her.
Robert’s father is in the hospital: a stroke.
Robert makes the long drive back to Manhattan, getting caught in late day traffic. It is past dark when he reaches the hospital where he meets NORMAN KONRAD, 67, in the waiting room. His father had the stroke late this morning. He is not expected to live.
“He’s been asking for you,” Konrad says.
Robert goes to his father’s room and sits beside the bed. His father’s eyes are closed, a labyrinth of wires and tubes protruding from him; clearly he is close to the end.
Robert stares at his father’s pale, drawn face. QUICK SHOTS show his memory of what Francis Allright looked like in his prime—a handsome, vigorous man. The contrast to his present state is extreme.
Unexpectedly, his father’s eyes open. He stares at the ceiling. Robert stands and takes his hand. The old man looks at him.
“I’m sorry,” whispers Robert.
The old man’s throat moves. He tries to speak. The words are garbled. Robert leans over to his father’s lips.
“Arizona,” whispers the dying man. “Go… to Arizona.”
Robert stares into his father’s eyes. They glisten as though the old man is about to cry. “My life,” he whispers raggedly. “Wrong… all wrong. No time…” He sucks in air, the sound a liquid gurgling.
“Don’t try to speak, Dad,” Robert says.
Even dying, Francis Allright summons rage. His teeth clench. “You… must go,” he says. “Im
… portant!”
His hand squeezes weakly at Robert’s. “If there was…” A ragged breath. “… anyone else…
Robert stares at him, his own eyes glistening now.
“Promise,” says his father. “Help…”
Robert draws in trembling breath. “All right,” he says. “All right.”
The breath his father draws in is released. “My… journal,” he begins.
Then his eyes close and his face contorts with pain. The expression holds, then flattens out, the hand goes limp.
Robert turns and hurries to the hall. “Nurse!” he cries. They rush to the room but it is too late.
He stares at his father’s face, hearing him say, again, “Arizona.”
SUDDEN CUT TO Arizona. The desert sand like white silver. A steady wind. CAMERA PANS UP to a hilltop. Framed by a giant moon, the tall, dark figure stands immobile.
Waiting.
September 20. Robert parks beside a mortuary and starts for the front door. As he does, a cab pulls up to the curb and his brother JOHN, 44, gets out. Robert moves to greet him and they shake hands.
“Hello, Bobby,” John says. He accepts his brother’s hug perfunctorily.
“I thought you couldn’t make it,” Robert says.
“I worked it out,” John replies.
“You should have phoned me, I’d have picked you up,” says Robert.
John gestures vaguely; no matter. He’s been drinking on the flight from San Francisco. “So who’s paying for this?” he asks as they start up the mortuary walk.
“I’ll take care of it,” Robert tells him.
“We’ll split it,” says John. “I don’t suppose Ruth offered to help.”
“Didn’t ask her,” Robert says.
“She wouldn’t have anyway,” John responds. He winces. “God, this isn’t open casket, is it?”
They go inside. RUTH ALLRIGHT is already there. The only other person present is Konrad. “Super turnout,” mutters John. “All his friends.” Robert pats him on the back.
They sit beside Ruth, Robert closest to her; he kisses her offered cheek. She is the oldest of the three, 46, a heavy-set woman. Whatever genes in the Allright family gave Robert and John their good looks (John’s less in evidence now due to years of drinking) Ruth did not partake of them.
She smiles a thin, obligatory smile at Robert. “This could have been in my church, you know,” she says.
“For
Dad?”
says Robert, smiling faintly.
Ruth and John exchange cool smiles. “John,” she says.
He nods. “How ya doin’, Ruth?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
When she speaks about their father “moving on”, he turns away from her.
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