Archive of Our Own ^beta

The action takes place in New York during the autumn of 1955.

SCENE I. Wednesday evening.
SCENE II. Thursday afternoon, two weeks later.
SCENE III. Friday afternoon.
SCENE IV. Saturday morning.
SCENE V. Sunday afternoon.

SCENE I

CARSON'S living room. A telephone sits on a small table next to the sofa. CARSON stands beside it, silent, holding the receiver to his cheek.

CARSON [after a while]: All right . . . Yes . . . Goodbye. [He hangs up the phone, waits a moment, then slowly sits down on the edge of sofa.]
[The sound of the front door opening can be heard offstage. NANCY enters, still in her coat. She is struggling with a large paper bag of groceries.]

NANCY: All right, dad. That's it. Time to find a new deli. I waited in line for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes! And you know what happened? They were out of the ham you like. Again. It's a miracle they even had pickles. Is turkey okay? I also got a little bit of that— [She stops halfway across the room.] What's wrong?

CARSON: Frank called.

NANCY: Frank?

CARSON: Frank Hardy.

NANCY: He called here?

CARSON: Maybe a minute ago.

NANCY: Why?

CARSON: Maybe longer. I don't know.

NANCY: Something's wrong. What's wrong?

CARSON: Frank said he'd call you. I told him you were out. You wouldn't be home. I'm sure he called you anyway.

NANCY [clutching the bag to her chest]: Dad . . .

CARSON: He was driving back from the city.

NANCY: Frank was?

CARSON: He lost control of the car.

NANCY: Is . . . Is he all right?

CARSON: No.

NANCY: But he called—

CARSON: Not Frank.

NANCY: I don't understand.

CARSON: He only called to tell me . . . Frank said it might have been a heart attack. He didn't know. The doctors . . . He didn't know.

NANCY: Dad—

CARSON: Fenton. Fenton was driving.

NANCY: Oh my god . . . Is he all right? . . . I mean . . . [CARSON shakes his head and the grocery bag slips from NANCY'S arm. A jar of pickles tumbles from the top and shatters across the floor. She rushes through the debris to her father's side.] Oh, dad. [CARSON covers his eyes with his hand.] Oh, daddy . . .

CARSON [after a moment]: I thought he was calling to talk to you. That he couldn't reach you at your apartment so he thought he'd try here. Except all he said was my name. Just my name. Like he didn't know what to do after that. I didn't want to ask. All I could think was, "God. When has Frank ever wanted to talk to me?"

NANCY: Dad . . .

CARSON: I know Frank doesn't like me. He never has. For him to call . . .

NANCY: Of course Frank likes you, dad. Of course he'd call. How could he not? [With hesitation] . . . I'm sure he knew what you meant to his father.

CARSON [tensely]: Fenton was my friend.

NANCY: I know he was. I just . . .

CARSON: What?

NANCY: I only meant . . . I'm sure he understood.

CARSON: Understood what?

NANCY: Dad . . . Dad, you don't have to—

CARSON: Understood what, Nancy?

NANCY: You don't have to pretend.

CARSON: I'm not.

NANCY: Not anymore.

CARSON: Nancy—

NANCY: Not with me.

CARSON: You don't know what you're saying.

NANCY: Please, dad. It's okay.

CARSON: No.

NANCY: Really, it's okay.

CARSON: That's enough.

NANCY: Why won't you trust me?

CARSON: I said that's enough!

NANCY: For god's sake, I'm your daughter!

CARSON [after a moment]: God.

NANCY: Please. It's all right.

CARSON: It's not all right.

NANCY: It is.

CARSON: Christ, Nancy.

NANCY: Dad, please—

CARSON: Tell me Frank doesn't know.

NANCY: Dad—

CARSON: Tell me he doesn't know!

NANCY: I don't know! I don't know what Frank—I don't know. I'm sorry . . . But he wouldn't have called if . . . God, dad. You knew before I did.

CARSON: No . . . No, he must have assumed you were here.

NANCY: Please. It's okay.

CARSON: He can't know about that. He can't. I can take his indifference, Nancy. I can live with his contempt. But if he hates his father because of me—

NANCY: How could you think that? How could you ever think that?

CARSON: Fenton was married! He had a family! Do you know what that means? Do you? If they knew . . . If they ever knew—

NANCY: Dad—

CARSON: Everything I risked . . . My clients, my good name, the last of my mother's worthless indifference . . . It was nothing compared to what Fenton stood to lose. She would have left him, Nancy. She would have taken his sons away. They were the world to him, and they would have hated him.

NANCY: You're wrong.

CARSON: They wouldn't have forgiven him for destroying their family. They wouldn't have understood.

NANCY: Did you think I wouldn't understand?

CARSON: Nancy.

NANCY: Did you think I'd hate you too?

CARSON [quietly, after a moment]: I don't know.

NANCY: How could you believe for a second—

CARSON: I didn't tell you because it wouldn't have made a difference.

NANCY: You're wrong.

CARSON: Am I? What would it have changed? Really. In the end, what would it have changed?

NANCY: You could have been honest with someone. You could have been yourself.

CARSON: Do you think I enjoyed lying to you? Do you? Do you think it was easy living like that? Constantly wondering? Wondering if today was the day I'd ruin your life? Was it easy for you? I wouldn't have shared that burden with you for anything in the world. I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to know.

NANCY: But you're my father . . . How could I not? I only had to see how happy he made you. [CARSON covers his mouth with his hand. She tries to meet his eyes.] . . . Didn't he?

CARSON: I promised I'd never come between him and his family. I told him I'd leave before I'd let him sacrifice the life he already had. But I couldn't keep my word, could I? Not in the end. What a terrible promise to make. I wonder if I ever meant it to begin with.

NANCY: Oh, dad. When have you ever broken a promise to anyone? I don't think Frank would have called if you had.

CARSON [after a long silence]: We were supposed to have dinner tomorrow.

NANCY: Dinner?

CARSON: Lamb chops. The best in the city.

NANCY: Oh.

CARSON: I remember the first time we went there. He was annoyed because I wouldn't say if I'd invited him to discuss business or simply to eat. Honestly, he of all people should have been able to figure it out. [He laughs humorlessly.] God, what am I saying?

NANCY: What?

CARSON: You don't want to hear this.

NANCY: Sure I do.

CARSON: Listening to your own father . . . Why would you?

NANCY: It doesn't change anything. I've known . . . Dad, I've always known. It never changed anything.

CARSON: You didn't . . . After all this time, you never let on.

NANCY: Neither did you.

CARSON: Well, you were so young. In the beginning, I mean. I wondered if you hadn't guessed at some point. Even so . . . [A pause.] What could I possibly say to you?

NANCY: Anything.

CARSON: Nancy.

NANCY: Tell me something now then.

CARSON: What?

NANCY: Tell me something now.

CARSON: Like what?

NANCY: Whatever you want.

CARSON [laughing softly]: I never thought I'd be talking about this. Not with you. Not with anyone.

NANCY: It isn't too late to start. Tell me anything. Well . . . Maybe not anything. [She smiles as CARSON swats her arm.]

CARSON: Did you know I nearly got him fired from a case?

NANCY: You're joking.

CARSON: This was years ago. Late July, maybe August. I'd gone out to meet him in Colorado.

NANCY: Wait a second. I remember when you went to Colorado. You said you'd been asked to sort out the legal affairs of some distant cousin.

CARSON: Did I really? I don't remember saying that.

NANCY: I'm merely repeating what you told me. All I know is that you returned in a considerably worse mood than when you left.

CARSON: Then it was surely the same trip. Fenton had been tailing a gang of art thieves for the better part of two weeks. It was a private case. The Thorndike family—

NANCY: I know their son! Well, knew their son. He invited me to one of their silly balls one summer during college. A group of us went to have a look at his swimming pool and before I knew what had happened, everyone had vanished except for that repulsive boy. He tried to get fresh with me. I nearly split his forehead open with the spike of my heel.

CARSON [frowning]: You never told me any of this.

NANCY: Didn't I? Hmm. I remember his name was Mortimer or something equally unappealing. But I've interrupted your story. Do go on.

CARSON: Well, Mortimer, Sr. possessed much of the same charm. I don't know why Fenton ever agreed to take that case in the first place. I'd just as soon have spit in his face.

NANCY: You could have, too. Mortimer, Jr. was very much afraid of you.

CARSON: Nancy, if you didn't like this boy, why on earth did you accept his invitation?

NANCY [shrugging]: I wanted to see the inside of his house.

CARSON: You alarm me sometimes.

NANCY: Wait! His name was Terrence. Why on earth did I think it was Mortimer? Anyway, what happened in Colorado?

CARSON: Well, by the time I arrived, Fenton was at a standstill. He was sure the paintings would appear on the black market the following morning, but there was nothing he could do in the meantime except wait. I only mentioned that to forsake the beautiful weather would be a crime, and that we should go horseback riding.

NANCY: Oh dear.

CARSON: Your deductive skills are still top notch, Nancy.

NANCY: Did you expect anything less?

CARSON: Never. Now, pay attention, because I'm about to share with you some timeless words of advice.

NANCY: Yes?

CARSON: Never trust a horse named Stinkeye.

NANCY: What?

CARSON: Fenton was surprisingly receptive to my suggestion, but when an aggressive family of rabbits refused to leave our trail, Stinkeye threw him from his saddle without hesitation. We spent the better part of the evening in the emergency room, only to be informed that Fenton's arm was broken in no less than three places. He was not pleased, to say the least. And neither was Mr. Thorndike.

NANCY: Good grief, dad. You really bungled that one. Did he still catch the thieves?

CARSON: Only because he convinced Thorndike to arrange for police backup. As you can imagine, the cast had rendered him rather ineffectual.

NANCY: I'll bet. Was he angry with you? About the horse, I mean.

CARSON [smiling]: He was, though I made it up to him quite spectacularly. [NANCY cringes.] No, no, no! I only meant that after the little incident with Stinkeye, Mr. Thorndike wasn't very keen on paying him the full commission they had agreed upon. He claimed that Fenton had jeopardized the entire operation and that his unprofessionalism would be well-publicized by the time he returned to New York. I merely assured him that to renege on their contract would not be in his best interest.

NANCY: Meanwhile, a chill ran down little Mortimer's spine.

CARSON: Indeed. [Both are quiet for a moment.] We certainly did that a lot.

NANCY: What, visited the hospital?

CARSON: No. Although, that was quite brazen, now that I think about it. No, I meant how often we would sneak away together. How lying so easily became second nature . . . God, we lied to everyone.

NANCY [reaching across his lap to take his hand]: I knew why you had to lie. If I'd wanted the truth, I would have asked. Maybe I should have.

CARSON: No. I only would have denied it. To burden you with that kind of knowledge . . . I couldn't have done that to you.

NANCY: Maybe that's why I could never bring myself to ask. What could I have expected in return? Watching you smile through your half-hearted alibi as the walls around you crumbled? I didn't want to burden you either.

CARSON [laughing softly]: You've always been your father's daughter. I suppose it doesn't matter now. He's out of danger. That's all I ever really cared about.

NANCY: I never told anyone. Not even Frank.

CARSON: I guess we made it then.

NANCY: I guess you did.

CARSON [after a long silence]: No.

NANCY: No?

CARSON: No. If I could go back . . . If I could go back, I'd tell you. I'd tell you in an instant. I wish I had. [His voice breaks.] Then at least . . . At least someone else would have known that I loved him.

NANCY [shaking her head]: Oh, dad. If that's your only regret . . . You didn't need to say it for me to know.
[Overcome with sadness, CARSON cradles his head in his hands. NANCY slides her arms around his shoulders, resting her cheek against his hair as he continues to cry.]

CARSON [softly, after a while]: I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't remember what my life was like before I met him.

NANCY: Who says you have to?

CARSON [kissing the top of her head]: Sometimes I wonder where you came from. You're so much stronger than I'll ever be. You always have been.

NANCY: That's not true.

CARSON: Maybe you don't realize it, but you are. [He kisses her again, then rises from the sofa.]

NANCY: Do you want something to eat? I bought all that turkey.

CARSON: No, I'm not very hungry. I think . . . I think I just want to be alone for a while. [NANCY nods.] Thank you for asking though. And I don't mean about the sandwich.

NANCY [softly]: You're welcome.
[CARSON exits. NANCY rises from the sofa and removes her coat, laying it over the armrest. Turning around, she sees that the broken pickle jar has leaked vinegar all over the floor. Her eyes fill with despair.] Those fucking pickles. [She exits briefly and returns with a small dustpan and broom. Falling to her knees, she lays them down on the floor, then covers her face with her hands and begins to cry.]

CURTAIN

SCENE II

Fenton Hardy's study. FRANK and NANCY are seated on opposite sides of a desk, surrounded by boxes, books, and stacks of paper. NANCY slowly turns the pages of an album of stamps as FRANK sets several books of coins to the side. A comfortable silence pervades the room.

FRANK [after a while]: Thanks again.

NANCY: For what?

FRANK: For helping me.

NANCY: You asked. I came.

FRANK: It's just . . . You know, there's so much of it. And I'm afraid if I don't do it soon, if I don't do it now, then . . . Then one day all it will be is the carefully preserved evidence of his life. Buried beneath years of dust and cobwebs because we can't bring ourselves to carry it away. I say deal with it while you still have the nerve.

NANCY: You grieve in undeniably strange ways.

FRANK: You think I'm being cold.

NANCY: I didn't say that.

FRANK: Someone in this family has to get through this without falling apart.

NANCY: Is that strictly a Bayport law, or does that cover all of New York?

FRANK: Nancy, if there was any allowance for emotional breakdowns in this family, any at all, Joe already used it. He was against this, you know. Sorting through dad's things. He put on this whole production, complaining about all the files we had to catch up on at the office.

NANCY: Sounds like he overestimated your fondness for paperwork.

FRANK: He couldn't have cared less a week ago.

NANCY: Ah, I see now. Joe wouldn't cooperate, so you called me. Trying to buy my help with lunch.

FRANK: If that were the case I would have asked Chet.

NANCY: I can't believe you're still making fun of Chet's weight. How long have you known each other, twenty-five years? I hope I'm around when he finally socks you in the face.

FRANK: He's given me a black eye three on three separate occasions. Sorry you weren't there to enjoy them.

NANCY: Well, that's disappointing. How about your mom?

FRANK: My mother is not a violent person.

NANCY: Also disappointing. I meant is she helping us? I haven't seen her.

FRANK: She shouldn't have to deal with this.

NANCY: I don't know if I'm impressed by your chivalry or repulsed by your selfishness. Both, I think.

FRANK: I'm sorry you think that sparing my mother the emotional torment of sorting through her husband's things is selfish.

NANCY: Well, it is.

FRANK: Well, Nancy, she's my mother, not yours, so I'm afraid what you think doesn't matter.

NANCY: Oh god, Frank. Just forget it.

FRANK: I know you think I'm being heartless. I know you think it doesn't even seem like I miss him, but I do. I miss him more than you could possibly imagine, and honestly Nancy, I don't have to prove that to you or anyone else.

NANCY: I didn't ask you to.

FRANK: No, but you've got judgment stamped clear across your face. Did you ever think that maybe it's easier for me this way? Maybe it's easier if I take all the shit we've been dealt and sort through it as quickly and as painlessly as I possibly can? Because if I'm the one dealing with it, that means that no one else has to. So you can either stay and help me and try to understand, or you can go find my mother and drag her in here and wait and see if she thanks you for it later.

NANCY [tersely, after a moment]: Pass me that book. [FRANK hands it to her and they continue to sort in silence. NANCY looks up after a while.] So how is your mom?

FRANK: It's funny. Looking at her, you can hardly tell that anything's wrong. She's been putting on a brave face for forty years. I'm not sure that she remembers how to break down and cry.

NANCY: Really? She hasn't cried?

FRANK: A little. When the doctor told us. I don't know. I was going to say that maybe she lets it out when no one else is around, but I don't think Aunt Gertrude has left her alone since the funeral. They're having lunch together as we speak.

NANCY: She's probably too annoyed to grieve.

FRANK: I swear, my aunt is going to live forever.

NANCY: I wouldn't bet against it.

FRANK: Aunt Gertrude treats her like such a child sometimes. She always has. I don't think she means to be condescending, though she certainly excels at it. It just comes out that way.

NANCY: Must run in the family.

FRANK: You're just a fountain of wit today.

NANCY: I try.

FRANK: Aunt Gertrude likes to tell my mom that she got cheated out of half a husband. A bold criticism, really, coming from someone who never even married. But you know, he was gone so often. Out tailing bank robbers and intercepting smuggling rings. Meanwhile, mom got to stay home and do our laundry.

NANCY: Hoping that you and Joe wouldn't do the same.

FRANK: Which we inevitably did. I don't think we ever realized how hard it was for her. How much she worried about us. About him.

NANCY: Do you think she was unhappy?

FRANK: As strange as it sounds, I don't think she was. [He takes a wooden box from the desk and sets it in his lap.] She loved him so much. She loved him even when it would have been easier not to. I think maybe she just accepted that that was the way of things. That there were times when he wasn't going to be around. That maybe one day he'd leave on a case and never come back.

NANCY: If that's true then your mother is deceptively brave.

FRANK: Maybe that's why I haven't seen her cry.

NANCY: Or maybe she's weeping into Aunt Gertrude's blouse right now.

FRANK [chuckling]: Maybe. [He reaches into the box and removes a bundle of letters. As he reads the first page, his expression slowly changes from one of amusement to one of contempt. He lays them on the desk and flips through several other pages.] Oh, for Christ's sake.

NANCY [looking up]: What?

FRANK: Nothing.

NANCY: The look on your face says otherwise.

FRANK: Forget it.

NANCY: Are you sure? You're obviously upset.

FRANK: It's none of your business, all right?

NANCY: Fine. I was only asking if everything was okay. It's not like I'm going to publish your family secrets.

FRANK: Don't ask me again, Nancy.

NANCY: Okay, I won't.

FRANK [losing his composure]: God, you never did outgrow your ridiculous need to know everything about everybody. [He turns the page face down on the pile, staring at the papers with disgust.]

NANCY: You're infuriating sometimes, you know that? If you didn't want me to ask then you shouldn't have said anything. [She goes back to her book of stamps. FRANK's expression remains unchanged.] . . . What do you want me to do with all these stamps? Are you keeping them? Selling them?

FRANK: Selling them? Do know how long it took my dad to collect those? Why the fuck would I sell them?

NANCY: Jesus Christ, Frank! It was just a question! If you're going to sit here being pissed off and not even tell me what's wrong, then I might as well go home.

FRANK [looking up angrily]: You want to know what's wrong, Nancy? Do you? You want me to show you what my dad had stuffed in a box, sitting here in his desk like they're nothing? Like they're last year's electric bills? Do you? Fine. But I promise you, you're going to wish you'd never asked. [He thrusts a page at her. She begins to read.]

NANCY: Oh.

FRANK: "Oh?" Is that all you can say?

NANCY: Frank—

FRANK: I can't believe—What if someone had found them? What if my mother had found them? What the hell am I supposed to do with these? I should burn the whole—

NANCY: Wait! [Bringing her hand down over the stack of papers] Please, Frank. Don't . . . Don't destroy them.

FRANK: Are you crazy? Are you actually crazy? [He snatches one of the pages from the desk.] Did you read this? Did you see who it was from?

NANCY: Yes, but—

FRANK: I didn't know your father had such a filthy mouth. Of all the disgusting—

NANCY: Oh, stop it! You're the one who's being disgusting.

FRANK: How can you defend this . . . This—There must be over a hundred—

NANCY [angrily]: God, Frank! They loved each other! Can't you see that? I know you're too picky and neurotic to know what that means—

FRANK [with venom]: You absolute bitch. If you weren't a woman, I swear to god I'd hit you.

NANCY: I'd like to see you try.
[FRANK glares at her for a moment, then looks down at the letter in his hands.]

FRANK [with less anger]: 1935. Twenty goddamn years. [A short pause.] You knew. You knew, I can tell.

NANCY: You didn't?

FRANK: I—no . . . Joe and I . . . We suspected.

NANCY: I don't believe you.

FRANK: What?

NANCY: I don't believe you. Give me a break, Frank. You're the fucking Hardy Boys. Of course you knew.

FRANK [grimly, after a moment]: Why didn't you say anything?

NANCY: Why didn't you? [FRANK looks at her, but doesn't respond.] It's not exactly everyday conversation.

FRANK: You could have—Of all people, I mean . . . You could have at least talked to me. [He places the letter on top of the others.] When did you know?

NANCY: When? [She laughs.] God, I don't know. When I was thirteen.

FRANK: Thirteen?!

NANCY: I mean, I wasn't completely sure until much later, but I always knew there was something there. I knew the first time I saw them together.

FRANK: Jesus Christ. Why don't I just leave the business to you and Joe?

NANCY [smiling]: I have been told that I was an unusually perceptive child. I don't know. I could just . . . tell. I could always tell.

FRANK: And you weren't bothered by the fact that your dad . . . That he was carrying on with other men the second your back was turned?

NANCY: He's my father, Frank. What do you think? Just because some people believe that homosexuals are going to burn in hell, doesn't mean I have to agree with them. And there was one man. One. One who made him incredibly happy for twenty years. They loved each other, Frank. Why can't you see that?

FRANK: I don't want to hear this.

NANCY: Then I guess you shouldn't have brought it up.

FRANK: It isn't right. What they did . . . It isn't right.

NANCY: How can you say that when your own brother—

FRANK: This isn't about Joe.

NANCY: What difference does it make? I would have thought that you, of all people, would understand.

FRANK: It's not . . . It isn't because of what he was.

NANCY: Sure seems like it to me.

FRANK: I told you it's not.

NANCY: Oh no? Then what is it?

FRANK: I'm sorry I can't be as open-minded as you. I'm sorry it bothers me that my brother jeopardizes his career every time he goes home with someone he meets at a bar. I'm sorry I don't like to think about the fact that my father's friend—our family friend for all those years—did . . . did things I don't even want to imagine with the man I admired more than anyone else in the world. I don't like any of it, Nancy, but I can live with it. I do live with it. That isn't it.

NANCY: If that isn't it, then what is?

FRANK: He lied to us.

NANCY [after a moment]: Yes, he did.

FRANK: He lied to us for all those years.

NANCY: He had to.

FRANK: How, Nancy? How can you lie to the people you're supposed to love? You know, all I ever wanted—all I ever wanted my whole life—was to be like him. I thought, this man has the greatest life in the whole fucking universe. The prestigious career. The beautiful wife. The perfect family. But we weren't enough, were we?

NANCY: It had nothing to do with you and you know it.

FRANK: Then why did he keep the truth from us for twenty years? How could he do that to the people he loved? My mother deserved better than that. We all did.

NANCY: But were you unhappy? Was your mother? When I asked you before, you told me she wasn't.

FRANK: That's because she didn't know.

NANCY: But she loved him just the same, Frank. Just because . . . I don't believe for a second that he didn't care about her. He cared about all of you.

FRANK: He lied to us. He never stopped lying.

NANCY: And would you have preferred the truth?

FRANK [pauses]: I don't know.

NANCY: What did you think would happen? What did you expect him to do? He couldn't help who he was, Frank. He didn't ask to feel that way.

FRANK: Nancy—

NANCY: At least he was being honest with himself. If that was the only thing he ever hid from you—

FRANK: Having an affair—A twenty-year affair with a male lover. How am I supposed to accept that?

NANCY: But how could—

FRANK: I don't know, all right! I don't know! He was my father. He wasn't supposed to— . . . I don't know what you expect me to say.

NANCY: I . . . I don't expect you to say anything. [A pause.] I'm sorry.

FRANK: Forget it.

NANCY: Fine. [After a moment, she touches his hand from across the desk.] I'm sorry . . . About what I said earlier. I didn't mean it.

FRANK: That's because you know it isn't true. Or maybe you're just too fickle yourself to know the difference.

NANCY: Frank.

FRANK: How could you think I don't know what it means to love someone?

NANCY: I told you I didn't mean it.

FRANK: How could you even think that for a second? I loved you, Nancy.

NANCY: Frank, please.

FRANK: And you loved me too. Didn't you?

NANCY: Frank . . .

FRANK: Didn't you?

NANCY: Yes.

FRANK: Then how did we get here?

NANCY [after a short silence]: You want everything to be so simple, Frank. So black and white. You think the natural consequence of love is to get married and have children and live happily together for the rest of your life. You want people to be so . . . so blissfully uncomplicated. But don't you see? It doesn't always work that way, no matter how much you want it to. It isn't always that simple.

FRANK: You made it complicated, Nancy. I asked you to marry me. You said no.

NANCY: You asked when I was already engaged.

FRANK: Ah yes, that worked out well. How long were you engaged for? I can't remember. Five years or six?

NANCY: God! You fucking hypocrite! You act so self-righteous about your father, but how many times did you ask me to help on a case when you obviously didn't need it? Well? How many times did we end up alone together at some hotel while poor, clueless Callie was back in Bayport, checking the mailbox every day for some sign that you hadn't forgotten her? Or how about all those nights when Ned was out of town. How I tore the bedroom apart later, hoping to god he wouldn't find out that someone had been where he slept.

FRANK [derisively]: Ah, Ned. Your very own glorified doormat. What girl doesn't want a Ned Nickerson in her life?

NANCY: That's not fair.

FRANK: Come on, Nancy. It was me you wanted to be with. It was always me. You never even loved him.

NANCY: You have no right to tell me who I did or didn't love. You have no right to tell that to anyone! [She covers her eyes with her hands, breathing shallowly as FRANK stares at the box of letters. A long moment passes before she looks at him again. Her voice is quiet.] Don't you understand, Frank? . . . This. This is why we could never work.

FRANK: Nancy—

NANCY: We ruined your fantasy long ago. You know I'm right.

FRANK [shaking his head]: No . . . No, not about everything. [Leaning forward, he carefully places the bundle of letters back inside their box, then closes the lid and latches it. NANCY looks up at him sadly.] I can't keep these. [He slides the box across the desk.] So don't forget them when you leave.

CURTAIN

SCENE III

FRANK'S office at Hardy Investigations. FRANK and JOE are seated on opposite sides of the desk. Both are eating a pastrami sandwich.

JOE [brushing the crumbs from a file]: Did Lou Thompson ever pay us?

FRANK: I mailed him a reminder yesterday.

JOE: A reminder? What good is that going to do?

FRANK: It reminds him that he needs to pay us.

JOE: That guy's a pain in the ass. If he thinks the first job is free, we're going to have to personally straighten out his misconceptions.

FRANK: You sound like Aunt Gertrude.

JOE: Now there's a thought. She isn't still staying with mom, is she?

FRANK: No, she took the train back this morning. How mom ever convinced her to leave is going to be a mystery for the ages.

JOE [taking a bite of his sandwich]: That's too bad.

FRANK: What is?

JOE: Thompson would have fainted when he opened the door. You think Aunt G. still has that antique pistol?

FRANK: We could always get her back on the next train.

JOE: That would punish us more than anyone. [Chewing his sandwich] Pastrami's a little dry today.

FRANK: I didn't go to the usual place.

JOE: Oh. [He lifts up the top slice of rye and stares at the sandwich with disappointment.] Why not?

FRANK: They were closed. Someone drove a car through the window.

JOE: What?

FRANK: That was my reaction.

JOE: A car?

FRANK: Through the window.

JOE: Why would somebody do that?

FRANK: The cop on duty wasn't being very chatty, but from what I could piece together it was an elderly lady out on her mid-morning drive. I suspect her eyesight is no longer in its prime.

JOE: And now I'm stuck with this mediocre sandwich. See, this is why old people shouldn't drive.

FRANK [laughing]: Joe.

JOE: What? Remember when Mr. Lawrence took that detour through our front yard? Dad would have killed him if he hadn't already been eighty-seven.

FRANK: Well, dad must have helped him along. I seem to recall him kicking the bucket shortly thereafter.

JOE: Or remember that time in college when Nancy invited us to Martha's Vineyard for the weekend to visit her grandmother? Remember how the old bat wouldn't let anyone touch her car, so she drove us to the cinema and nearly ran over that kid on his bicycle?

FRANK: She might have done that on purpose. I'm pretty sure Nancy's grandmother was actually crazy.

JOE: Very possible. [He takes another bite of his sandwich and makes a face.] I don't know how Carson and his sister grew up to be so normal. [FRANK gives a low snort as he takes a drink from his soda. JOE looks at him impatiently.] What?

FRANK: Nothing.

JOE: You made a face.

FRANK: I did not.

JOE [sighing]: Fine. [He brings his sandwich to his mouth, studies FRANK for a moment, then lowers it.] Why don't you just get over it already?

FRANK: Get over what?

JOE [rolling his eyes]: Don't play dumb. You're not very good at it. Dad was a homosexual, Frank. He always was. I know you like to keep up the fantasy that he was just in constant need of legal advice—

FRANK: We deal with attorneys all the time.

JOE [exasperated]: Oh my god. Don't you ever get tired of this?

FRANK [after a moment]: Nancy's known all this time.

JOE: Nancy? I figured she must have. She always looked like she wanted to say something. I should have asked.

FRANK: You can't be serious.

JOE: What?

FRANK: You couldn't seriously have thought that talking to Nancy about . . . about any of that was a good idea.

JOE: Well, shit, Frank. You never wanted to talk about it. Nobody in this family ever wants to talk about anything. [FRANK tenses visibly but does not speak.] I mean, you change the subject every time I try to tell you about my personal life. Mom was beside herself when I got a divorce. I didn't have the heart to tell her why. And dad, god. I deluded myself into thinking he might actually open up to me when I told him. That maybe he'd be honest about who he was when he'd seen that I'd finally done the same.

FRANK: Joe, stop.

JOE: But that was expecting too much, wasn't it? I should have known better. Do you know what he did instead? Do you? He stared at me with this look on his face like I'd told him I was dying. For an entire minute he stood there. I wouldn't make him say it. I wouldn't ask. And when he finally opened his mouth, when he finally put his arm around my shoulders and found the words to speak, do you know what he said?

FRANK: No.

JOE: "Let's not tell your mother."

FRANK: She wouldn't have understood.

JOE: That's not the point.

FRANK: He was trying to protect you.

JOE: No, he just didn't want to talk about it anymore. He knew I was a homosexual. He'd known for years. I mean, Jesus, he'd even walked in on it.

FRANK [surprised]: When?

JOE: Remember that crime ring we busted in Pennsylvania? I was probably twenty.

FRANK: Farringdon. You befriended that panicky mess of a reporter.

JOE [smiling slightly in remembrance]: Horace Bolton. I think he has a Pulitzer now. Anyway, dad absolutely refused to talk to him about the case. After Horace's third request for an interview, dad told him rather bluntly that providing the paper with any details would seriously compromise our efforts and that if he ever saw him or his little notebook again, he was going to dispose of both of them in the deep end of the river.

FRANK: In dad's defense, that was an incredibly stressful case.

JOE: Poor Horace. I ran into him the next day while I was out investigating on my own. He looked terrified until he realized that I was by myself. I had to buy him lunch, I felt so guilty.

FRANK: I'll bet he said yes to that. Probably thought he could squeeze a story out of you while your guard was down.

JOE [with a small laugh]: Well, he would have been a lousy reporter if he hadn't tried. I told him no, of course, though I remember being mildly in awe of his uniquely insecure persistence. We actually had a good time once he put his notebook away. Apparently he'd solved more than a few mysteries with his sister over the years. Nothing terribly impressive, or so he said. He was very modest about everything. Like it embarrassed him to be sharing it with me. He'd tell me a story and then run his fingers through his hair and laugh. He'd mess it up quite spectacularly. His hair, I mean. Not that it mattered. For a grown man, he was remarkably pretty.

FRANK: You know, I'd almost forgotten why we were taking this little stroll down memory lane. God only knows where I was during your fleeting courtship of Horace Bolton, but feel free to spare me the rest of the details.

JOE: Don't act like such a prude. And anyway, there isn't much more to tell. I invited Horace to our room for a drink—

FRANK: Wait, wait, wait. Let me see if I have this right. Dad and I were out working, you know, doing our jobs—

JOE: Dad's job. I don't recall getting paid for that case.

FRANK: You know what I mean. We were being productive while you were out seducing the locals.

JOE [with a wink]: Bet I had more fun than you did.

FRANK: You're disgusting.

JOE: Hey, we're all entitled to a night off. The only reason I invted Horace over was because I knew that you and dad were going to be out for the rest of the evening. How could I have known that dad had changed his plans? He opened the door and there we were half undressed, sitting on the bed with our hands down the front of each other's pants.

FRANK: Oh, for Christ's sake.

JOE: Dad looked like he'd just witnessed a murder. I think he even apologized. Horace wanted to jump out the window.

FRANK: I'm tempted to do the same.

JOE: At this point I wouldn't stand in your way.

FRANK: You know very well you'd lose three quarters of our clients. So what did dad say?

JOE: That's the best part, isn't it? He didn't say anything. He turned around and left. Shut the door and everything. I checked the hallway five minutes later so Horace could leave, but dad wasn't even around.

FRANK: I won't ask what took five minutes.

JOE: I thought he'd talk to me about it later. Dad, I mean. I waited all night for him to come back to the hotel. I wasn't even scared.

FRANK: Now I know why Horace wouldn't look me in the eye for the rest of that trip.

JOE: I'd already pieced it together, you know. The nights in the city. The weekends out of town. The way he'd disappear into his office whenever Carson phoned. I thought, what could he possibly say to me that I'd have to be afraid of? What could he possibly say that wouldn't make him a hypocrite? [He brushes some crumbs from the desk.] Turns out it was the one thing I didn't want to hear.

FRANK: What?

JOE: Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He acted like it never happened. I fell asleep waiting for the two of you to get back. The next morning we went out for breakfast and all we did was listen to you go on about some bracelet you wanted to get for Callie. He didn't even glance up from his paper until you went to wash your hands. I looked at him. He looked at me. Then he asked me if my pancakes were any good.

FRANK: You have an abnormally good memory.

JOE: It was an abnormally memorable trip.

FRANK: Maybe that was his way of telling you that it was all right.

JOE: I didn't want his silence. Silence is worse than disapproval. You wouldn't believe the relief on his face when I told him I was getting married. He probably thought I'd discovered the cure.

FRANK [after a moment]: Why did you get married?

JOE: I didn't think you were interested in the details of my romantic life.

FRANK: I would hardly classify your marriage as romantic. I'm really asking.

JOE: Please. You were just as happy as dad was.

FRANK: I was happy that someone finally said yes to one of us.

JOE: Oh no. You're not throwing another pity party for yourself. I've attended enough of those.

FRANK: You're not answering my question.

JOE [smiling grimly]: Honestly . . . I just wanted a family. Children. The kind of life that we had. I guess I've finally accepted that I'll never have any of that.

FRANK: You'll never be a liar either.

JOE [with a sad laugh]: Everyone's a liar, Frank. In one way or another. I never loved my wife. At least dad did.

FRANK: You really think so?

JOE: Yes, I do. [A pause.] I just wish he had told me. I mean, me of all people. He had no reason to keep it from me.

FRANK: He couldn't only tell you, Joe. He couldn't admit it to you and not the rest of us.

JOE: Maybe not.

FRANK: Would you have been able to tell mom?

JOE [softly, after some thought]: I don't know.

FRANK: At least . . . At least we could still be a family. We were still his family. Even Carson Drew couldn't take that away.

JOE: No, he loved dad too much to have tried. [FRANK looks away uncomfortably. A long moment passes.] . . . No, I don't think I would have been able to tell mom. She would have been heartbroken. [He gives a self-deprecating laugh.] How could I have told her about dad when I can't even tell her about myself? [He wraps his sandwich up and stuffs it into the bag on the desk.] This pastrami is tragic. Let's go see if they fixed that window.

FRANK [somewhat rigidly]: Joe. I know it might not always seem like it . . . but I was always glad that you told me.
[JOE smiles slightly as he rises and takes his coat from the rack.]

JOE: Don't I feel special.

CURTAIN

SCENE IV

The Hardys' dining room. JOE is seated at the table, reading the morning paper. LAURA enters carrying two mugs of coffee. She sets these on the table before sitting down across from her son.

JOE: Thanks.

LAURA: You're here so early. I thought you'd have slept in.

JOE: Oh, I would have, believe me. Except someone, I won't say who, neglected to inform me that he canceled our breakfast plans.

LAURA: Hmm.

JOE: He told you, I see.

LAURA: I'm sorry. He only phoned this morning. If I'd known he—

JOE: Forgot to call me? God, Frank drives me nuts.

LAURA: He did sound busy.

JOE: He's still coming for dinner, isn't he?

LAURA: He said that if he's not here by five o'clock, we should eat without him.

JOE: That doesn't sound like Frank. He was testing your loyalty.

LAURA: He said he'd heat his plate up in the oven.

JOE: More like burn down your kitchen. Frank's talents are both numerous and diverse, but cooking isn't one of them. Have you ever had his lasagna?

LAURA: Really, Joe. It isn't that bad.

JOE: I'd like to know just what he does to render it so inedible. It seems like it would take a great deal of effort to ruin cheese, pasta, and sauce.

LAURA: At least he tries.

JOE: You wouldn't say that if you had to deal with his leftovers.

LAURA: Who says you have to eat them?

JOE : You don't understand, mom. He brings them to the office. "Now we don't have to get lunch," he tells me, like I'm supposed to thank him.

LAURA: And do you eat it?

JOE: Only so it'll be gone. [He cringes, taking a drink from his coffee.] Did Frank say why he'd be late?

LAURA: I think he had to meet with a client.

JOE: Really? I can't think who it would be. Especially on a Saturday.

LAURA: Oh, what was the name . . . Thorn . . . Thorndike? Does that sound familiar?

JOE [making a face]: Oh god, not Terrence Thorndike. No wonder he didn't tell me. He knows I can't stand that idiot.

LAURA: Why don't you like him?

JOE: Oh, he's an overgrown, weasel-faced little daddy's boy. Now that he's the man of the house he thinks the rest of the world exists solely to cater to his whims. He came in last week—without an appointment, of course—and insisted that we start tailing his wife. Thought she might be canoodling with her bridge partner's husband during the day. I told him very bluntly that we don't take those kinds of cases, but of course, Frank interrupted and said he'd see what we could do.

LAURA: I'm sure he was just trying to be sensible. Why would you turn a client away?

JOE: Frank can do what he wants. I say anyone who marries into that family is perfectly entitled to . . . Well . . . [He trails off, smiling faintly into his coffee.]

LAURA: I think the word you used was "canoodle."

JOE: My brother would be mortified that I implied such a crime in your presence.

LAURA: Well, I've never been as naïve as Frank would like to believe. [JOE remains silent as she drinks from her coffee.] . . . I suppose I'd prefer you pursue rich, careless wives than take the kind of cases you did when you were younger. [She frowns.] Oh, your father used to make my head hurt.

JOE: We were a bit reckless.

LAURA: I told him that if either of my sons were ever returned to me in a body bag, I'd never forgive him. Not that I had to, of course. I don't think he would have forgiven himself. [She shakes her head.] All three of you. I don't know how I didn't lose my mind.

JOE: Why didn't you try to stop us?

LAURA: How could I? You'd go camping and accidentally uncover the secret hideout of some infamous gang of thieves. You'd trip over a rock in the backyard and find twenty sacks of stolen coins. It took me years to accept the fact that your father wasn't going to stop. By the time you and Frank grew up, all I could do was sit back and hope that there was enough common sense between the three of you to keep each other alive.

JOE: We could have done worse.

LAURA [smiling faintly]: I'm sure I don't know the half of it . . . [Her smile slowly fades.] He always seemed to think that I was better left in the dark. That I wouldn't worry if I never saw the danger he was in. [Shaking her head] The way he'd come home covered in bruises . . . It was almost worse having to imagine it for myself. Do remember the first case he took after he retired from the police department? You couldn't have been older than eight. Dr. Fletcher—

JOE: That senile old kook. Frank and I hated him. And he smelled like garlic.

LAURA: Garlic?

JOE: Not a good smell for someone who's breathing in your face.

LAURA: I never noticed.

JOE: Raw garlic. Ask Frank.

LAURA: Garlic? Really?

JOE: Multiple cloves.

LAURA: Well, in any case, Dr. Fletcher suspected that one of his nurses was stealing from him—medical supplies, not money—but he was reluctant to involve the police because he lacked any real evidence. They were just these tiny bottles of chemicals. Nothing very obvious. He might simply have misplaced them.

JOE: Well, the man was nearing a hundred and twenty. I don't know why you ever trusted him with our health.

LAURA: Let's see if you live to be a hundred and twenty.

JOE: That doesn't sound remotely appealing.

LAURA: Anyway, your father agreed right away that the nurse was guilty, so he followed her home one night to see if he could figure out why. Knowing your father, he must have suspected an even greater crime was at stake than one of a few missing bottles. He hid in the bushes outside her house for hours, hoping to witness something, well . . . incriminating, I guess.

JOE: Dad's early methods were a little suspect.

LAURA [smiling]: Luckily for him, the girl didn't notice, and neither did the man who came by to collect the bottles. It turned out that her boyfriend was in a gang of bootleggers that needed the chemicals to neutralize the toxins in industrial alcohol. They'd steal the bottles off government trucks, render them fit for consumption and then sell them to speakeasies in the city. In your father's reckless excitement, he got in his car and followed him all the way to their hideout in Brooklyn. I didn't know any of this at the time, of course. I was at home with you and Frank, assuming he was still peering through the window of some young woman's house.

JOE: That doesn't sound any less objectionable.

LAURA: It would have been, believe me. A few of the men caught him listening at the back door when they went to load their trucks. They dragged him inside . . . [She hesitates, closing her eyes.] Who knows what they did to him. He wouldn't tell me. His only saving grace was that he'd called a friend at the department before he went to check out the building. Police backup arrived just in time.

JOE: Now I remember that case. You let me and Frank stay up and wait for him. It had to have been past midnight. But god, when he finally came home . . . Those dark spots beneath his eyes. The way he was cradling his arm. I woke up crying in the middle of the night. I couldn't stop. Dad had to come in and sit with me, holding me in the dark so I wouldn't see the bruises on his face. [He goes quiet for a moment.] I'd forgotten how scared I was. For some reason dad being a cop had never bothered me. I knew this wasn't the same.

LAURA: He asked me, after that first case, if I was going to be all right. If this was going to be all right. "It isn't the police department," he told me, and I knew immediately that it wasn't meant to be a comfort. I wanted to tell him no. I wanted to run my fingers over the cuts on his face and tell him no, to beg him to do anything else in the world . . . [She shakes her head.]

JOE: But you didn't.

LAURA: How could I? How could I bring myself to stand in the way of something he so clearly loved? I asked if it made him happy, and when he took my hand and nodded, what else could I do? I squeezed his hand. I smiled. I told him that my answer was the same.

JOE [after a moment]: Do you ever regret it?

LAURA: What?

JOE: Telling him you were okay when you weren't. Deciding to say yes when he gave you the chance to say no.

LAURA: Why should I regret it?

JOE: Think of all the worry you could have saved yourself. He would have been around more. He would have been safe. Your life could have been different.

LAURA: Different doesn't necessarily mean better.

JOE: I suppose it doesn't.

LAURA: If I'd stopped your father from doing what he loved, you and Frank wouldn't have had the life you did. You might have grown up differently.

JOE: So what? You would have loved us just the same. Different doesn't necessarily mean worse, either.

LAURA: No, it doesn't. [She looks down at her coffee.] We want life to be so simple, don't we? We want the right choice to be obvious. But honesty can be selfish. Lying can be a kindness. Sometimes the only thing you care about is the happiness of somebody else. You feel like you'd do anything to protect them from the pain the truth would bring.

JOE: But don't you think . . . If people love you—if they love you that much—don't you think they'd have the strength to accept what you had to tell them? Don't you think they'd find the strength to understand?

LAURA: I don't know. I don't know that everyone would. It would be nice to think so, wouldn't it? . . . [Smiling weakly] I suppose I never had the courage to find out.

JOE [after a long silence]: Do you know why I finally stopped crying? That night that dad came home. Do you know what he said that finally made me stop?

LAURA: What?

JOE: He asked if I'd like to help him solve mysteries one day. Me and him. We'd catch the bad guys together. He said I'd probably be a natural. For some reason that made me feel better. Maybe I thought I'd be able to protect him. [He laughs sadly.] Who knows.

LAURA: But you did protect him. You both did. I don't think you realize how much that meant to him. [JOE looks down at his coffee.] . . . Your father was so proud of you, Joe. We both were. I wouldn't have had you grow up any other way.

JOE: I wish he was still here.

LAURA: I know . . . I know. I do too.

JOE [quietly]: I have to tell you something.

LAURA: What is it? . . . [JOE gazes at the table for a long moment. When he finally looks up again, his eyes are filled with tears.] . . . Joe?

JOE: I—I'm a homosexual. [LAURA says nothing, her expression unreadable as she brings one hand to her mouth. JOE'S face crumples.] I'm sorry, mom . . . I'm—I'm sorry . . .

LAURA [tearfully]: Don't be sorry. You have no reason to be sorry.

JOE [weakly]: But you . . . You look like I just broke your heart.

LAURA: No . . . Oh, no . . . Never, Joe. You could never do that.

JOE: Mom . . . You—You're crying.

LAURA: I know . . . It's just—I was wrong. Joe, I was wrong. Can you—Can you forgive me?

JOE [shaking his head]: For what?

LAURA [with despair]: I didn't think you'd ever tell me.
[Speechless, JOE blinks back his tears as she falls to her knees beside his chair. He slides his arms around her shoulders, staring into the distance as she weeps into his shirt.]

CURTAIN

SCENE V

A cemetery. CARSON stands alone at a grave, hands in the pocket of his coat as he looks at the ground. A long moment passes. LAURA enters, unnoticed by CARSON. She stops when she realizes who it is, studying him from a distance before turning her eyes to her husband's grave.

LAURA: November changes so quickly, doesn't it? [CARSON turns, startled.] A few weeks ago it could have been spring. [Their eyes meet. She walks towards him.]

CARSON: Autumn is funny like that. It can never quite decide what it wants to be. How are you?

LAURA: If I said I was fine, would you assume I was lying?

CARSON: Yes, probably.

LAURA: Of course, no one expects the truth. They only ask to be polite. Anything longer than a two-word response suddenly requires a much greater investment than they were willing to give.

CARSON: It's an inane question anyway. I'm sorry.

LAURA: No. It's all right.

CARSON: Insincerity has forever marred those three words. If it helps, I wasn't asking to be polite.

LAURA: Then I won't lie to you. [A slight pause.] You know, I didn't think the empty house would bother me as much as it does. For all the time he spent away . . . I suppose this isn't the same.

CARSON: No, I wouldn't think so.

LAURA: You can't imagine how relieved I was when he retired. I should have known better, of course. Fenton was always sticking his nose in the boys' cases. Offering up his services to anyone who would have him. I'm sure you know that better than anyone. He even helped you with that land dispute. Was that really only this summer?

CARSON: End of August.

LAURA: It seems so long ago.

CARSON: I can't believe he ever agreed to go to Virginia. The heat was oppressive. Actually, Fenton's research turned out to be quite invaluable.

LAURA: You see? He joined the police force before we were even married. I don't believe the domestic life ever really appealed to him.

CARSON: I'm sure that's not true.

LAURA: You don't have to feel guilty on his behalf.

CARSON: I only meant . . . You make it sound as though your family was second to his career. He would have hung it up in a second if you'd asked.

LAURA: Is that what you really think?

CARSON: I know he would have.

LAURA: Well, I never asked—I wouldn't have. I don't think it's fair to expect that of someone, do you? [She continues before he can answer.] People were disappointed enough when he retired.

CARSON: I know. My postman still pesters me for anecdotes.

LAURA: And what do you tell him?

CARSON: How Fenton got chucked from a horse in Colorado and nearly broke his neck.

LAURA [with a small laugh]: You'll really have to enlighten me one of these days. I don't believe I ever heard the full story regarding that particular mishap. But of course, Fenton was never one for details. Really, Carson. For such an intelligent man, he took some truly idiotic risks. All those undercover operations and nationwide manhunts . . . The reward money was only worth it if you overlooked his alarming tendency to land in the hospital.

CARSON: I have a feeling the hospital didn't mind.

LAURA: I always thought that private detectives were supposed to help find long lost siblings and research suspicious will testimonies. Even Joe used to ask why it wasn't like his Agatha Christie stories.

CARSON: Fenton wouldn't have had the patience for the living room confession.

LAURA: I never knew whether to prepare for the worst or try my best to remain blindly optimistic. I guess in the end it didn't matter . . . Heart failure seems so benign by comparison, doesn't it? It never even entered my mind.

CARSON: No . . . I don't know if that makes it better or worse.

LAURA: I don't know either. [A moment passes.] You were quite young when you lost your wife.

CARSON: I was thirty. Is that still considered young? I suppose so. But Nancy was only three. That's what ages it in my mind. Nancy. She was so small.

LAURA: Does she remember her mother?

CARSON: No . . . No, I don't think so. At least, not anymore. She cried endlessly at the time, the way all children cry for their mothers, but she was much too young to remember any of that now. It's always been the two of us in her eyes.

LAURA: And you? What do you remember? A wife and mother in name alone?

CARSON: Of course not.

LAURA: I don't know that I've ever heard you mention her.

CARSON: Our marriage wasn't exactly the most joyous of unions.

LAURA: Then I suppose you've forgotten her as well.

CARSON: I never said that. You have to understand, Laura. My wife and I were together for four years, not forty. We spent the better part of the last burdened with the knowledge that there wasn't going to be a fifth. Our marriage . . . It wasn't like yours.

LAURA: Carson—

CARSON: It wasn't. It was never that strong. I wed too quickly to a woman I hardly knew, blinded by my own foolish insecurity as I watched her do the same. She was the mother of my child—I'll never forget that—but I realized long ago that love is so much more than a hollow set of vows. Not everyone is as lucky as you.
[LAURA regards him for a moment, then turns her eyes to her husband's grave.]

LAURA: I used to wonder if Fenton and I hadn't made the same mistake.

CARSON: What do you mean?

LAURA: That we'd married too quickly . . . That maybe we shouldn't have married at all. We met at a wedding, you know. My cousin's. I hadn't been allowed to bring a date, my father was so incredibly overprotective.

CARSON: A wise man. Daughters are nothing but trouble.

LAURA: But I was twenty years old! I sat at the table with my younger sister while everyone else danced, picking at my dessert as we discussed the various evils of high-heeled shoes. I was still inspecting our feet when I noticed one of the groomsmen hovering over our table. He asked me to dance, clutching his glass of wine like he needed it to stand. In all my life, I'd never seen anyone so handsome look so perfectly uncomfortable. His friends were all crowded around the next table, waiting to see what I would say. I looked up at him and asked how he expected me to join him when he wouldn't let go of that glass. He gave this awkward little laugh, then spilled half his wine on my foot.

CARSON: You must have been endlessly infatuated.

LAURA: My sister used to joke that Fenton had the looks of a film star and the charm of a couch cushion. He was so solemn the night he proposed, I spent the better part of dinner wondering who had died.

CARSON: Enthusiasm doesn't come naturally to everyone.

LAURA: Perhaps if I'd been a bank robber. [Her smile fades.] . . . That's why I had to wonder, though, if we'd made the right decision in getting married. Oh, he enjoyed my company well enough, and I never doubted that he cared for me, but Fenton . . . Fenton was only ever politely affectionate at best. I don't think he did more than kiss my cheek the entire time I was pregnant with Frank.

CARSON: That first child can be terrifying for a husband. I was a complete wreck before Nancy was born. And arguably afterwards.

LAURA: Carson Drew, the very model of courtroom composure?

CARSON: I was lost when her mother died. Having to raise Nancy alone . . . I was afraid I'd do something wrong. That I'd destroy what little family we had left.

LARUA: We all feel that way sometimes.

CARSON: You were stronger than most.

LAURA: Hardly.

CARSON: Supporting the careers of three private detectives? I'd say you were.

LAURA: Is that what you call strength? Watching your family risk their lives for something you'll never understand? Saying nothing for years because you can't bear to stand in their way? Don't mistake fear for something more admirable.

CARSON: The last thing Fenton wanted was for you to be afraid.

LAURA: Which is why he pretended that nothing ever went wrong. That he never had to draw his gun. That Frank and Joe would never be in any danger.

CARSON: He couldn't bear the thought of you worrying all the time. Sitting there at home, wondering if everything was all right.

LAURA: I'm not sure there's anything that could have changed that . . . [She turns to him imploringly.] Why can't we just trust each other, Carson? Why can't we trust each other to . . . to be okay? Why do we always think we can cope better than everyone else around us?

CARSON: I don't know. Maybe it comes with having a family.

LAURA: Sometimes . . . Sometimes, Carson, I think the more we love, the less we trust ourselves to hold on to it. The less we can bare to challenge it. One little mistake. . . That much disappointment, and everything falls apart.

CARSON: It feels that way, doesn't it?

LAURA: I used to wonder if real bravery even existed. If what we thought was courage wasn't just the sudden fear of having nowhere else to turn, the terrifying reality of our own last resort. But that's not true, is it? It's incredible how much we can learn from our children. We work so hard to protect them, we don't even realize they've been trying to do the same. [A short pause.] . . . Tell me something, Carson.

CARSON: Yes?

LAURA: Do you remember when Fenton took the boys to Pennsylvania? It was over ten years ago.

CARSON: I remember. Frank asked Nancy to join them, but we already had plans to visit my mother. Surely the less exciting of the two. I would have preferred Pennsylvania.

LAURA: They thought they'd be gone a few days at most, but when two of the men Fenton was investigating washed up on the riverbank early the second morning, it ended up being a lot more involved than any of them had anticipated. Fenton called the house long distance the next afternoon, frantically trying to collect information on the two who had been murdered. You see, he'd suspected all along that they were part of a different gang back in New York, one he'd been trailing for years but could never successfully convict.

CARSON: Right, I remember.

LAURA: A friend of his from the police department was supposed to have sent the report to his hotel in Farringdon, but he misunderstood and mailed it to our house instead. In his desperation, Fenton told me to read him the information over the phone. Of course, I had no idea what I was looking for. I picked up an envelope with no return address, assuming that his contact with the police might be putting his career in jeopardy if it were traced back to him. [She stops, then laughs sadly.] Such a careless mistake, really, mailing it to the wrong address. We try so hard to protect each other from the obvious, but it's the little things like that that'll betray you every time.

CARSON: What happened?

LAURA: The letter I opened wasn't from the police . . . It was from you. [CARSON goes very still. She doesn't look at him.] I tried not to read it, not when I saw who it was from, but the way you signed it—

CARSON: Laura—

LAURA: The way you signed it, Carson. What else could I think?

CARSON: Laura—

LAURA: Fenton was still waiting for me to read the report to him over the phone. When I finally found the letter from Detective Johnson, I almost laughed. The New York Police Department emblem was right there on the envelope. Can you believe it?

CARSON: Laura, please—

LAURA: Fenton was so grateful. "Thank you, sweetheart"—he called me sweetheart, he always did when he was away—and I just looked down at the pages in my hand and asked him to say hello to the boys. [Her face hardens.] I felt so utterly stupid. The things you said. The things you called him. Those silly terms of endearment I'd used so many times before, scattered across the page in his best friend's handwriting. I didn't even have the strength to cry. All I could think was, why hadn't I realized it before? How could I possibly have been so blind?

CARSON: Laura, I'm sorry—

LAURA: Don't apologize, Carson. I don't want your pity. Yours or anyone else's. I never have.

CARSON: You knew. [With growing panic] God, you knew. How? How could you not say anything?

LAURA: I was going to. As soon as he got back from Pennsylvania, I was going to throw that letter in his face. Read him every last one of your tender little pet names and ask him what he called you in return. I was so anxious. I couldn't eat, I couldn't do anything. I even tried reading one of Joe's old mystery novels to distract myself. Miss Marple and her ridiculous living room accusations. [She smiles grimly.] The irony was wasted on me. It was after midnight when they finally came home. The front door opened. My heart must have stopped in my chest. And then Frank walked in, and all he could talk about was what a wonderful time they'd had. He reached into his coat and showed me the bracelet he'd bought for his girlfriend. Antique silver with these tiny spots of turquoise. I remember telling him how pretty it was. And Joe, he looked so exhausted. There were lines on his cheek from where he'd fallen asleep in the car. He didn't care. He just leaned against his suitcase and told me how much fun they'd had, how it was one of the most interesting cases they'd ever solved. And after they went to bed, Fenton sat beside me on the sofa and took my hand. I hadn't been able to look at him when he came in—I hadn't wanted to—but now that he was right there next to me I could see how bruised his face was. Those terrible sores beneath his eyes. The cracks in his lips. I didn't want him to see me cry. I'd spent ten years teaching myself not to, but I couldn't help it. His lip had cracked down the center when he smiled at me, this horrible little sliver of blood. He hadn't thought enough to be careful. I started to cry, it was all I could do. I cried until there weren't any tears left in my body, and when I finally stopped, when I finally looked at him again and asked what had happened, do you know what he said?

CARSON: No.

LAURA: "Just a little quality time with my boys." Then he took me in his arms and whispered how much they'd missed me. [She says nothing for a moment.] I was terrified that he didn't want children. When I was pregnant . . . I couldn't imagine how he could possibly want this. But then we had Frank. We had Frank, and I knew that I'd been wrong. It was one of those harsh, bitter days in November. Colder than today, even. When the nurse let Fenton in to see his son . . . The way his face lit up, Carson. The joy in his eyes when he held our child in his arms. I'll always remember the way he looked that day. It was the same as when Joe was born. And when he solved his first case as a private detective instead of a New York City cop. And when he came home from Pennsylvania after putting eighteen men behind bars, holding me as I cried over the bruises on his face. That kind of happiness doesn't deserve to be destroyed. [Her voice breaks.] I would have destroyed everything.

CARSON: No—

LAURA [crying]: Yes, I would have. I forged a new envelope and sent your letter again. I pretended I'd never read it. He loved those boys so much, Carson. More than his career. More than me. I would have ruined everything if I'd told him. It would have destroyed him.

CARSON: He wouldn't have left you.

LAURA: I don't think he would have had a choice.

CARSON: You . . . You must despise me.

LAURA: I couldn't even think about it in the beginning. I couldn't imagine how something so . . . so immoral could have threatened our family. How my own husband could crave something I could never give him. I wanted to hate you, Carson, believe me. I asked for the strength to hate you. But god, how could I? How could I when I realized what you meant to him? He loved you, Carson. He loved you even when it would have been easier not to. [A short pause.] And you loved him.

CARSON: Yes . . . Yes, very much.

LAURA: I'm glad. I decided that you must have, to have written what you did in that letter. I'm glad I wasn't wrong.

CARSON: What did I write? I . . . I don't remember.

LAURA [laughing softly]: Fenton Hardy, the nation's most brilliant private detective. Crack shot with a pistol and twice as dangerous behind a desk. Funny, isn't it, how we had to protect the one man who should have needed it the least? You told him you'd never forgive him if he ever left his family to be with you.

CARSON: Laura, you know he never— . . . It didn't need to be said.

LAURA: Even so. I always appreciated that you said it.

CARSON: He loved you too, Laura. You were never just the mother of his children.

LAURA: I suppose you would know that better than anyone.

CARSON [after a long silence]: Why did you tell me? Why tell me now, after all these years?

LAURA [thinking]: I don't know. Maybe because I wanted to be as brave as everyone seems to think I am. Maybe because we do incredibly foolish things for the people we love. We lie, we pretend. We bear the pain they never know they've caused us, hoping with everything we have that they'll never find out. Maybe I told you because I thought you deserved to know. [CARSON meets her eyes but says nothing. After a moment, LAURA looks away, inhaling deeply. She gives a small, sad smile before looking up again.] It's cold and my hands are numb. Goodbye, Carson. [She turns as if to leave.]

CARSON: Wait. You didn't come here to see me. You don't have to go.
[She stops. Both are quiet for a moment.]

LAURA: Do you remember when we first met?

CARSON: It was Fenton's birthday.

LAURA: Yes. I was the one who'd invited you. Silly of me, really. But then, how could I have known?

CARSON: He didn't want me there.

LAURA: He didn't want us there together. He never did. This would have terrified him.

CARSON: The two of us. Talking like this. You must have wondered why our family get-togethers were so infrequent.

LAURA: It was just as well, wasn't it?

CARSON [quietly, after a moment]: Laura, I'm so sorry.
[LAURA remains expressionless, staring into the distance as if she hasn't heard him.]

LAURA [after a moment]: Maybe I told you because you're the only one I can tell. The sad, tired confession of a widow with nothing else to lose.

CARSON: That isn't true.

LAURA: What isn't?

CARSON: I'm not the only one you can tell.

LAURA: I'd have thought that you, more than anyone, would want it to stay buried.

CARSON: There was a time when I would have agreed.

LAURA: What's changed?

CARSON: It's true, what you said. About how much we can learn from our children.
[LAURA looks down at her husband's grave. A long moment passes before she speaks. When she does, her voice is calm.]

LAURA: No one gives them credit for it, but Frank and Joe are far more talented than their father ever was. Everyone always assumed that Fenton was the strong one. Handsome, intelligent, invincible Fenton Hardy. [Smiling faintly] But he'd be nowhere without them.

CARSON: What would they say if you told them?

LAURA: Honestly, Carson, I don't know . . . [She looks away.] I suppose there's only one way to find out.
[CARSON moves as if to lay his hand against against her shoulder. Unaware, LAURA turns to look at him. CARSON holds her gaze, then slowly lowers his arm. They stand together in silence, eyes cast downward at the stone in the grass.]

CURTAIN