PAM: I’m sorry.
PHYLLIS: No one ever asked me.
PAM: Was it terrible?
PHYLLIS: It wasn’t that the sky went on forever, it was seeing the nature of things. The way things really are. It was being watched at night and seeing how the world really is.
PAM: You don’t have to talk about it.
(Bishop enters behind them, unnoticed.)
PHYLLIS: I was always the pretty one and my sister Marie was the smart one. And I was nice. Before I met Howard, I was. I was a nice person. I was pretty then. I thought that mattered.
PAM: You’re still pretty.
PHYLLIS: No, my feet are too big. I’m an eight.
PAM: I don’t think so.
PHYLLIS: No, I know I am. I’ve had my feet measured. I’m an eight.
PAM: That’s not what I meant.
PHYLLIS: What did you mean? By what? When?
PAM: Forget it.
PHYLLIS: I’m confused. I want to leave the room. I do. I want to leave for Howard. Because he wants me to. And even though he wants me to for his own reasons, like he wants to sleep with the domestic help, I want to for him, because I don’t hate him. Really. And I want to do it for me. Because I know people do. And I know that’s what I should want. I should want to leave here and go shopping and have a life, and change my clothes—I think I’ve been wearing this dress forever—do I smell funny?—I know I should want these things, but I don’t seem to be able to make myself. When I close my eyes all I see is the high high sky and the birds flying stupidly around Katharine Hepburn’s face the way she looked in Summertime or The Rainmaker or Sea of Grass. And what scares me most of all—and this is really embarrassing—is I think I miss it.
PAM: What?
PHYLLIS: And that makes me want to just stop. And I cry. And Bishop comforts me. He protects me. And he holds me. When no one is looking. Late at night, when you’re in your closet and Howard’s in bed. Bishop comes to me and makes me feel all right for a minute. And I hold him against myself and pretend that she’s watching and we’re on the sand by the sea . . . and it’s really very beautiful—when we can pretend.
PAM: Oh my God!
PHYLLIS: What?
PAM: I can’t believe it! The two of you—that’s terrible—
PHYLLIS: You shouldn’t judge.
PAM: You poor—
PHYLLIS: No, no, it’s not his fault.
PAM: We’ll send him away.
PHYLLIS: No.
PAM: Howard doesn’t know this, does he?
PHYLLIS: Please—
PAM: We’ll send him away! He will.
PHYLLIS: Don’t tell him—
PAM: Don’t worry, Phyllis. He’ll take care of it.
PHYLLIS: He won’t understand.
PAM: I’ve got to go.
BISHOP (Lunging at Pam with a knife): NO!
(Pam screams. Blackout.)
SCENE 2
The lights come up on Phyllis frantically packing shoes, trying to get all her shoes into a suitcase.
PHYLLIS: Bishop! Bishop!
(Bishop enters, eating a sandwich and dragging what must obviously be Pam’s leg.)
BISHOP: What?
PHYLLIS: What are you doing?
BISHOP: Eating. I’m hungry.
PHYLLIS: Please. Don’t get blood on the chair.
BISHOP: Yeah yeah yeah.
PHYLLIS: Help me.
BISHOP: T’sorta dry. It could use some barbecue sauce. D’ya think we have any?
PHYLLIS: I don’t know. Help me. We’ve got to pack.
BISHOP: Or soy sauce. Soy sauce would be good.
PHYLLIS: What are you talking about?
BISHOP: I’m talking about condiments!
PHYLLIS: We’ve got to pack. We’ve got to get out of here.
BISHOP: Why?
PHYLLIS: You killed someone, Bishop.
BISHOP: Yeah so and.
PHYLLIS: Don’t you understand?
BISHOP: You want some?
PHYLLIS: God no.
BISHOP (Out): It’s good but it’s dry.
PHYLLIS: Not “It’s good,” Bishop. “She’s good.”
BISHOP: Maybe ketchup.
PHYLLIS: You’ve committed murder!
BISHOP: Or mayo.
PHYLLIS: We have to get out of here.
BISHOP: You overreact.
PHYLLIS: Someone will find out! They’ll find out and put you away! We need disguises. Can you grow a mustache? Do I have a wig? They’ll catch you!
BISHOP: Who?
PHYLLIS: The police!
BISHOP: Morons.
PHYLLIS: You can’t just murder people willy-nilly—
BISHOP: I can.
PHYLLIS: Where can we go? Have you ever been to Detroit?
BISHOP: We don’t have to.
PHYLLIS: I’ll dye my hair. Can you grow a beard?
BISHOP (Threatening): Do you like your shoes?
PHYLLIS: Help me think. Where can we hide?
BISHOP: Do you?
PHYLLIS: What’s that got to do with anything?
BISHOP: Just answer the fucking question!
PHYLLIS: Yes.
BISHOP: Where do you get them?
PHYLLIS: You bring them to me.
BISHOP: And where do you think I get ’em?
PHYLLIS: I don’t know.
BISHOP: Where!
PHYLLIS: Shoe stores?
BISHOP: Wrong, crapnoodle.
PHYLLIS: The garbage?
BISHOP: Wrong, pissnoggin.
PHYLLIS: You steal them?
BISHOP: WRONG, sewageconk.
PHYLLIS: I don’t want to know.
BISHOP: Why not?
PHYLLIS: I’d rather not—
BISHOP: People don’t just give up their shoes!
PHYLLIS (Realizing): Oh my. Oh my God.
BISHOP: There are barefoot bodies all over town.
PHYLLIS (Frightened): Bishop, all these shoes?
BISHOP: I take care of you.
PHYLLIS: You did this?
BISHOP: For you.
PHYLLIS: You had no right. Bishop: Why not?
PHYLLIS: I don’t know. It’s not right. It’s not moral.
BISHOP (Indicating the leg): With her it’s moral (Indicating the shoes), with them, it’s not?
PHYLLIS (A confidence): Well, I never really cared for her.
BISHOP: Some morals.
PHYLLIS: I feel sick.
BISHOP: Have a bromo.
PHYLLIS: We have to go. Now. Before your father comes home.
BISHOP: He can be dessert.
PHYLLIS: You shouldn’t have killed her. I think he liked her. He’s bound to notice.
BISHOP: Leave it to me, assholehead.
PHYLLIS: Don’t call me that!
BISHOP: What?
PHYLLIS: What do you want to take?
BISHOP: You hate me. You wish I’d died in the plane crash.
PHYLLIS: Don’t be absurd.
BISHOP: You hate me. I can tell!
PHYLLIS: You should not have murdered her. It showed poor judgment. You act in haste.
BISHOP: I had to!
PHYLLIS: Why?
BISHOP: You told her. She knew about us—she’d get them to put me away—you told her! It’s your fault!
PHYLLIS: Don’t blame me!
BISHOP: Why not? It’s your fault!
PHYLLIS: You just wait until your father gets home—
BISHOP: You want them to catch me, admit it. You want to be alone with him again. You prefer him to me, don’t you? It’s obvious!
PHYLLIS: I didn’t kill his little concubine, you did! It’s fine as long as you do away with random strangers—you were fine when you couldn’t be traced—but now you’ll get caught. You never think ahead,
