ACT ONE

PHIL:

Yeah, I know, I know—you’d be turning in your grave if you had one—but, dammit, Larry, I now rise from your pathetic pile of ashes to speak the truth.

You kept us smothered in the closet for 22 years. I should say, closets, plural. Separate closets, separate rooms. We never—officially—shared one. You always made a point of telling friends, family—oh so casually—that we sure lucked out finding an affordable two-bedroom apartment.

For Chrissakes, by now we could have been 10 years legal. Even at the beginning—it was the post-AIDS era, for Chrissake!—there was no need for secrecy. Certainly, not amongst friends. As for family, your religion was just an excuse. Surely they would have accepted us in time, if not from the get-go. They are loving, reasonable people. They were—are!—by rights—my family too. It sickens me to think that they never knew it.

Ah, but do you really think they never knew, Larry? After all, you never married. Never once brought a girl home, not even for show. Your parents aren’t stupid, Larry. Even if they didn’t know about me, they had to have known about you.

How do you think I felt at your funeral, Larry, cast in my superfluous part of Just-one-of-so-so-many-friends-of-the-late-Larry-Morgan. No speaking part for Flat-mate Phil—not even a line—I was just an extra in the crowd scene: Many Mourners Milling; Take One-and-Only.

I am the tragic star, uncredited; the widow, unacknowledged. That you didn’t have a “real” widow to steal my show was a mere minor consolation; I was cheated of my rightful role regardless.

And so, Larry, as I make my way to pay a condolence call on your mother, I am rehearsing my finale. It’s shaping up to be Oscar-worthy.

ACT TWO
 
Mary’s house
 
Mary is on her sofa, reading. The doorbell rings. She opens it and sees Phil.

Phil: Sorry to just show up, but I realized I didn’t have your number. Good thing you didn’t paint your house.

Mary: Tell that to the neighbors. They can’t stand the coral and teal—block rules say black-and-white the length of the street. Even so, I'm surprised you remembered. Must have been at least six years—seven—since you were here. I felt bad that you couldn’t stop in that day that Larry came to return the book. I noticed you in the passenger seat and I told Larry to ask you in, but he said you had to rush back to see your sister.

Phil: My sister? Don’t have one.

Mary: Brother then?

Phil: Don’t have one of those either. I’m one-of-one.

Mary: Must have been a cousin then…whoever it was, all I recall is that Larry insisted that you had to get back for some reason.

Phil: (wryly) No doubt he had reason to say so.

Mary: I think I know why you came to see me. No need to feel embarrassed, none at all.  I wish I’d brought up the subject myself.

Phil: Larry wouldn’t have wanted me to.

Mary: Of course he would have. Why would he not? Surely he wouldn’t have wanted you to bear the burden. I’m so glad you finally decided to come to me.

Phil: I must say, I’m relieved not to have had to be the one to initiate this conversation.

Mary: Nor should you have been. I should have approached you before the funeral. For which thoughtlessness I beg your forgiveness. I was just—for lack of a fresher phrase—in a state of shock.

Phil: Of course you were! My God, losing Larry—especially so suddenly—and then to be hit with this.

Mary: This? This is nothing. This I can deal with. However long it takes till you find somebody else, you can count on me. I’m more than happy to—indeed, I insist!—chip in his half of the rent.

Phil: The rent? Is that why you think I came? To ask for money!

Mary: Well, I just assumed…whatever else could this be about?

Phil:  What it could be—what it is!—about is that Larry and I were—for 22 years we were—lovers.

Mary: We knew, of course—had always known—about Larry. You are the surprise. It was so over-the-top obviously you that, perversely, we figured it couldn’t have been. Since Larry was so determined to hide his nature from us—from everyone—we thought that you indeed were the rent-buddy Larry purported you to be. We assumed that Larry sought his secret comfort elsewhere, probably anonymously so.

How gratified am I to learn that my son did not die—or live—unloved! I’d been tormented by the thought of Larry lying on his bedroom floor, alone, as his fickle heart ticked-tocked itself out for good.

Phil: I was with Larry all the while: from the instant of collapse, into the ambulance, and throughout his ride to... eternity. 

Mary: How gratified I am to know that. And how devastated am I that my son did not see—feel—fit to share his full self. How much more full his life could have been had only he shared its fullness.

Mary adresses the audience:

I face, now, a dilemma. After someone dies, everyone always says, with pompous—if dubious—authority:  He would—or would not—have wanted…(blah, blah, blah). In Larry’s case it is writ large in his unmistakable hand that his secrets must be kept. Whence, then, you may wonder, my dilemma?

My quandary lies in the borderland between life and death. Regarding whether to reveal to family and friends what you revealed today: Do I honor this man who, for 22 years, so loved Larry, or do I respect Larry’s wish to not acknowledge this man who, for 22 years, so loved him?

To speak, or to remain silent: Which shall I choose?


Mary adresses Phil:

And that, my dear, is a rhetorical question!

Mary opens wide her arms and lunges forward to embrace Phil.