From Song of the Bow

Wayne Harrel

 

The following is excerpted from the unpublished play Song of the Bow. Within the play, Marco Dionicio and Zach Johnson are two actors working together for the first time in an original production about the biblical characters David and Jonathan; Marco plays David and Zach plays Jonathan. Thus there is a play within the play, and the interior play is actually a collection of sonnets, arranged, produced and directed by Celia Quinn, a grande dame of the local theater. This is a pet project of hers, but all is not well because she has chosen two actors with profoundly different opinions on the text. Yet despite early friction, Marco and Zach have finally come to trust each other, both onstage and off, thanks primarily to a series of pie-making sessions in Marco's apartment, where this action begins.

Marco, wearing an apron with the words Shing-Tu! emblazoned across the breast, uses a pastry knife to cut shortening into flour in a mixing bowl. Zach watches.

Marco. I'm doing it right?

Zach. Keep cutting in the shortening. Cut and cut and cut until it starts to hold together on its own. Then add the water. Add the water now while you're still working the flour and you'll get a crust so hard it could dull a Shing-Tu knife. Which reminds me.

Zach reaches into a bag and pulls out his own Shing-Tu apron.

Marco. Brother!

Zach. I told you I was in that infomercial too.

Marco. I know you were. I caught it over the weekend.

Speaking with a stupid accent.

"Cat no dead?

Got nine lives?"

Zach, putting on apron, in meter. Stop or I use Shing-Tu knives!

Marco. You stop right there. I'm soloing now, remember?

Zach. Solo on the crust, which is the hardest part. I'll prepare the berries.

Marco. Blackberries?

Zach. Genuine, mid-September, back-pasture, bloodied-shins, purple-fingered, wild mountain blackberries. Plucked by moi, preserved by Frigidaire.

Pulls out a zip-lock freezer bag containing a large purple brick of frozen berries.

These are the real thing, Marco-man, not some store-bought Smuckerized variety.

Marco, raps bag with knuckles. Not even a Shing-Tu could dent those.

Zach. No, but a microwave will.

Marco. Over there.

Zach. Keep cutting.

Zach puts bag in microwave and Marco returns to mixing bowl.

Marco. Why am I doing this?

Zach. Binds the flour to the fat. That's what makes the crust so flaky.

Marco. Fat's a bad word.

Zach. So sue me for speaking the truth.

Pause while Marco continues working.

Marco. I like this, running the blades through this stuff, making the big lumps bunches of little bitty ones.

Zach. That's the goal.

Marco. It's like therapy. Gets the tension out.

Zach. I bake up a storm opening nights.

Marco. Can't wait.

Zach, checks bowl. You're ready for the water.

Marco takes a quarter cup of water and dribbles it into the bowl.

Marco. Like this?

Zach. All at once.

Marco dumps it all.

Except the ice cube. You can toss that.

Marco. Why'd I need it in the first place?

Zach. Ice water makes the dough easier to handle. Don't have to work it so much.

Marco. Which keeps it flakier, I got it.

Zach, directing. Stir that up with a fork.... Good, now dive in with your hands...gather it up into a ball...shouldn't be too sticky. If it is, there's too much water so add a little flour.

Marco. What if it falls apart?

Zach. Then you didn't cut in the shortening enough. But this one's fine.

They continue. Zach's increasing nearness becomes a distraction to Marco.

Now take half that ball...just pull it apart...roll it into a smaller ball...gently, gently, you're not making bread, here, or bricks...that's better...now put it on a well-floured board...lots of flour...squish it flat...more flour on top...and roll it into a twelve-inch circle with the rolling pin...ah-ah, only one roll per direction, then rotate, otherwise it looks like Africa.

Marco keeps rolling.

So, you were in Godspell?

Marco. Yeah. As Judas.

Zach. And John the Baptist.

Marco. Yeah. But I enjoyed Judas a lot more. You played it?

Zach. Not that part.

Marco. Which part?

Zach. The big guy.

Marco. Jesus.

Zach. You need some more flour there...good, that's enough. Now gently lift half the crust off the board...if it tears don't worry, lets people know it's homemade...fold it onto the other half...then carefully lift the whole thing up and center the edge in the pan...unfold...tuck it in...leave the edges long for now...and voilà!—time for the filling.

Zach retrieves the berries from the microwave and Marco lets out a big sigh. Zach opens the baggie and dumps the berries into the pie plate.

The flour and sugar's already in here so it's time for the top crust. Do it.

Marco takes the remaining crust and rolls it out while Zach cuts bits of butter and puts them on top of the berries.

Marco. What was your favorite song?

Zach. In Godspell?

Marco. No, in church.

Zach. "All for the Best." Yours?

Marco. Same.

Zach. Want to do it?

Marco. Do what?

Zach. The song.

Marco. Oh. No.

Zach, sings. "When you feel sad—"

Marco, forcefully. No.

Zach. Okay. More flour.

Marco. Damn!

He slams the roller down and starts to ball up the dough but Zach grabs his hands.

Zach. No! Stop! It's okay if it tears, we can fix it. But if you ball it up and start over, that's what makes it tough.

Gently unrolling dough and repairing tear.

We just lay it out...put a little water along the tear...press it together...sprinkle some flour on top...roll it over a few times...and there—all better.

Marco. I can see where it tore.

Zach. But it isn't torn anymore.

Marco. It's flawed.

Zach. It's a pie.

Marco. It's not perfect.

Zach. It's healed. Forgiven. It'll work just fine. Now slap it on there.

Marco carefully folds crust over, lifts and places on pie. When he succeeds, he smiles. Then frowns.

What?

Marco. There's nothing left for cinnamon-sugar crust.

Zach. Marky, Marky, Marky....

Zach uses a knife to trim the excess crust from around the rim and plops it beside the pie.

There you go. Now you scrunch the edges together with your fingers and thumbs, like this.

Zach shows him how to finish the piecrust edge, then Marco takes over and Zach rerolls the remaining crust.

Marco, scolding. That's going to make it tough!

Zach. Just this once won't hurt anything.

Marco. I've heard that before.

A look. Marco continues while Zach spreads the dough with butter, then sprinkles on cinnamon and sugar.

Zach. So, who produced your Godspell?

Marco. You were the big guy. You tell me.

Zach. Wasn't in my script.

Marco. Where'd you do yours?

Zach. College. In Ashland.

Pause.

And...?

Marco. And what?

Zach. And you did yours...where?

Marco. Saltshakers.

Zach. The Christian company? They let you in?

Marco. They were desperate for guys.

Zach. Obviously. Didn't Ed Kimbel play Jesus in that one?

Marco. He did.

Zach. I go to...went to church with him. You know he just died?

Marco. Ed Kimbel?

Zach. Yeah. Pneumonia, I think. That weird kind.

Marco. Oh.

Pause.

Zach. Did you learn anything?

Marco. What?

Zach. At Saltshakers? You learn anything?

Marco. Plenty.

Zach. Like what?

Marco. Like...Christians can put on a good show....

Zach. But...?

Marco. But that's all it is.

Zach. A show?

Marco. Yep.

Zach. Oh.

Marco. Not like you.

Zach. Me?

Marco. You don't put on a show.

Zach. Hey...

Holds up crust.

...I'm the biggest flake there is.

Marco. But oh-so-tasty.

Zach, putting crust in oven. Let's find out.

Marco. Why aren't you with someone?

Zach. Girls just want me for my pie.

Marco. They're so shallow.

Zach. And my deep-dish pizza: homemade crust, homemade sauce—

Marco. Serious.

Zach. You bet it's serious. "Pizza Pie man, won't you bake for me?"

Marco. I mean serious: why aren't you with someone?

Zach. It is serious, isn't it?

Marco. Goddamn it, answer me!

Zach. Well, Marco, the simple answer is...I don't know. We go out, there's a spark, she pulls out a calendar and I...pull out.

Marco. Maybe you're going out with the wrong type.

Zach. That may be. I've always been partial to short blondes but look where that's got me. Maybe I should try another hair color.

Marco. Or skin color.

Zach. Or height.

Marco. Or weight.

Zach. Or species.

Marco. Or gender.

Zach, pauses. That I am not partial to. Besides, it's against...uh...I mean...never mind.

Marco. Against what?

Zach. Nothing.

Marco. What's it against?

Zach. Nothing.

Marco. Against the law?

Zach. No.

Marco. Not yet it isn't. Against human nature?

Zach. Marco....

Marco. I don't think so.

Zach. You wouldn't.

Marco. Against what?

Zach. Nothing.

Marco. Don't wimp out on me, Zach. What's it against?

Zach, pauses. The rules.

Marco. What rules?

Zach. The rules of that lead guy in Godspell—not that rules are how he leads, but, anyway...against him.

Marco. Against Jesus?

Zach. Yes.

Marco. Really?

Zach. Yes.

Marco. And that's a problem?

Zach. Yes.

Marco. Zach, buddy, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but Jesus was gay.

Zach is silent.

Oh, yeah. Domineering mother. Absent father. Never married. Preferred the company of men.

Zach stares, then walks directly away from him.

It's all there.

He starts after Zach.

Zach. Stop.

Marco, not stopping. Look it up.

Zach. Stay away from me!

Marco, stopping. Because I said something you don't like?

Zach. Because when the lightning strikes, I don't want to get fried too.

Marco frowns, confused, then laughs.

Don't laugh. It's happened before.

Marco, returning to pie. I thought it was fire and brimstone.

Zach. Same effect.

Marco. Lightning. Then let me make it easier.

Takes knife and holds it above his head.

Yo, God! One blasphemous fag! Ready, aim, fire!

Pause; lowers knife.

Nothing. Nothing, Zach. You can't blaspheme what isn't there.

Zach. Don't mock what you don't know.

Marco. I don't?

Zach. No.

Marco. How do you know?

Zach. I.... Forget it.

Marco. Thing is, Zach, you don't know. Don't know anything about me. So let me tell you: I knew a Jesus once. Intimately. He taught me love; and my profit on it is, I know now I'll die.

Zach. I don't know what the hell you're talking about.

Marco. Neither do I. Can we finish this pie?

Zach. Whatever.

Marco. It's important. I want to finish this.

Zach. Fine.

Marco. What's left? What else do I have to do?

Zach. Bake it.

Marco. But the top, it's so...blasé. Yours had something on it.

Zach. A design.

Marco. That's right! So...?

Zach. So make a design.

Marco. How?

Zach. With that knife.

Marco. What kind of design?

Zach. Anything! Don't be so stupid.

Marco. Don't be so impatient.

Marco fiddles for a while, then decides to trace the outline of his hand with the knife.

Do I understand this right? You've never broken one of the lead guy's rules?

Zach. Oh, please...

Marco. Never?

Zach. Of course. All the time. Can't help it.

Marco. Then that would make you a bad man.

Zach. Yes it would, Marco, as bad as you, even. Except, of course, I don't know you, so I can't really say.

Marco. You're much worse, really. Me, I'm a saint. But don't worry 'cause you, I forgive.

Zach. Shut up and bake.

Marco. Even so, I still forgive you...you self-righteous prick.

Zach. I thought you liked pricks.

Marco. I do. That's why I forgive you.

Zach. Thanks, but I'm covered already.

Marco. By what?

Zach. By the blood of Jesus.

Marco. OH! Oh, my God! Did I hear right? Did you just say, "By the blood of Jesus?"

Zach. Uh....

Marco. I love that phrase! Love it! Never actually heard someone use it in normal conversation—always, you know, by those shits on television or in the park. But to actually be talking with someone in my own home and hear them say, "Covered by the blood of Jesus." God, what a country!

Zach. I think I'll go now.

Marco. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. You stay right there and tell me what the hell you're thinking when you say, "Covered by the blood of Jesus." Or should I say,

With a Southern drawl.

"Je-eee-sus!"

Zach, rising. I'm definitely going.

Marco. No, wait.

Zach. Goodnight, Marc.

Marco, blocking his way, brandishing the knife. Halt! Go back! Sit!

Zach doesn't move.

Please?

Zach grabs his wrist and takes the knife.

Oh!

Zach. It's not enough for you to just offend, is it?

Marco, backing away, leery of the knife. Wha...?

Zach. It's not enough for you to take a beautifully designed body and force it into places it doesn't belong.

Marco. You mean...like polyester?

Zach. To play David, God's favorite, masturbating on stage. To say Jesus, God's son, lusts like you do. To take the name of someone who died for you and turn it into a punchline!

Marco. Holy cow.

Zach. Shut up! Just shut up!

Marco. You really, really do believe all this, don't you?

Zach, cornering him, waving knife. No, Marco. It's just a show, remember? A show. Played out by amateurs. On cheap sets. With hokey lines. And phony props.

He thrusts the knife at Marco, stopping short. Marco grimaces, then gingerly takes the blade from him. Zach turns toward the exit and Marco returns to the pie.

Marco. Thanks, but I've already been circumcised.

Zach, whirling. Stop screwing with my sacred!

Startled, Marco cuts his hand; there's blood.

Marco. Oh...damn!

Zach. What?

Marco. Shit!

Zach. What happened?

Marco. Get out! Get out of my house!

Zach. You're bleeding? Did I do that?

Marco. It's blackberry juice. Get out!

Zach. Let me help you.

Marco. DON'T TOUCH ME! Leave! Now!!

Zach. But the pie....

Marco. Fuck the pie!

Throws it in garbage.

It's ruined, okay? Now leave!

Zach. Marco....

Marco. Leave!

Zach. Marco....

Marco. LEAVE!

Zach, at the door. There's crust in the oven!

Exits.

Marco. Christ!

Still grumbling profanely, Marco takes off the apron and uses it to wrap around his bleeding hand. Then, with bloody apron in one hand and Shing-Tu knife in the other, he stalks down to the front edge of the stage.

 

Scene Four

Center stage, Bridgeton Repertory Theatre Company. Continuing immediately from the previous scene. Marco is alone in the light with the knife and the bloody apron, which are his props.

Marco, as David, raging. A hundred times I cut. A hundred more!

Is that sufficient to appease the king?

What other token should I gamely score?

Name it. I'll fetch the bloody offering.

Perhaps the "jewels" of a pagan priest,

or priesthood, if you want; I'll geld the lot.

Sure that will tip your vengeful scale, at least,

if foreskins from two hundred men will not.

Or be that there, withal, sufficient flesh

to satisfy your everlasting scorn

for me, a man whom you chastise afresh

for simply seeking that for which I'm born?

A hand knit me within my mother's womb.

For such bold weaves must I embrace the tomb?

Celia, the director, approaches from the audience. Marco is careful to keep his distance.

Celia. Marco, my God, that was...incredible. So abject, so disdainful, so...real. You've been listening, haven't you? Listening to Zach.

Marco. Yes.

Celia. And it shows. Your work has reached a new level. But, Jesus, the props; we've got our own.

Marco. I wanted these, at least once, for touchpoints.

Celia. Well, get rid of them. Please. A Shing-Tu knife in Palestine? I like what you did on the apron though, the blood I mean. It looks real.

Marco. It is.

Celia. It...what?! Not yours?

He nods; she struggles to maintain her composure.

That's...diseased!

Marco. That's me.

Celia, still struggling. That is a violation of OSHA standards and practices.

Marco. Oops.

Celia, erupting. You get that out of my theatre right now and don't you ever pull a stunt like that again!

Marco, pauses, leaves. I'm gone.

Celia, watches him go, shudders. Jesus.

 

Scene Five

Marco's Apartment. Immediately following previous scene. Zach is at the

table making another pie. Marco is offstage.

Zach. I'm sorry about the other night, the accident I mean.

Marco, offstage. Forget it.

Zach. I, I never get that upset.

Marco, offstage. Wasn't your fault.

Zach. To actually hurt somebody, in anger—

Marco, offstage. You didn't do anything.

Zach. No, I, I, I don't know why I got so—

Marco, enters. You were provoked. Now forget it.

Zach. I—

Marco stops him with a glare, then sits heavily.

Marco. Your mama make pies?

Zach. Yes.

Marco. She teach you?

Zach. No.

Marco. Why not?

Zach. I didn't ask her.

Marco. Why not?

Zach. Grandma's were better.

Marco. Her mama's?

Zach. Yes.

Marco. Didn't they use the same recipe?

Zach. Not quite. Mom only uses two-thirds of a cup of shortening.

Marco. You said use a cup!

Zach. Like Grandma, which makes the crust exquisitely flakier and the pie that much better. Trust me.

Marco, pointing to shortening can. That's a third cup more pure fat! Might as well melt it down and pour it in through an IV drip.

Zach. I cut it out for a while, but it wasn't as good. And Grandma made Grandpa a pie a week for fifty-nine years, so I figured, one cup it is.

Marco. Fifty-nine years! How old are they?

Zach. Grandma died two years ago. Since then, Grandpa broke his hip, lost his bowels, lost his sight and most of his hearing. He's ninety-one.

Marco. You see him much?

Zach. He's in a home nearby. Yeah, we talk some.

Loudly.

GOTTA PROJECT TO THE BACK ROW WHEN YOU DO.

Marco. What about?

Zach. About Grandma, if we can. The rest of the family seriously frowns on it, so if anyone else is there, it's, "HI, GRAMPS! BROUGHT SOME TULIPS!" But if it's just him and me, we talk about him and her: about riding the train from Zillah to Weezer to propose; watching pear blossoms fall on the porch of their five-dollar-a-month first house; cracking nuts at the kitchen table while she made custard or mashed potatoes or a diced ham sandwich sprinkled with paprika. Everything she made was good, which just kills him now because the one sense he has left is taste and there he is eating paste in an old fart's home. So I sneak him pie when I can. They were so close, those two. I can still see them in church, her small shoulder tucked under his solid arm; fifty-nine years, they still sat that close. As kids my cousins and I would sit with them, but never between them. And you always wanted to be on her side because she had lemon drops in her purse. That's what Grandpa and I talk about and yes, it does bring tears—which is why others frown—but, doggone it, they were one, body and soul, and he's been less than half since.

Marco. Sex'll do that.

Zach. They had sex?

Marco. Or were you adopted?

Zach. Nope. Natural kids right on down the line. But it's more than physical, getting to be that close. Sex is intimacy, I know, but is it the culmination of intimacy or the instigator? The capstone or the cornerstone?

Marco. It's everything.

Zach. Which comes first?

Marco. The chicken.

Zach. You know what I sometimes think? This is bad, I know, and I'll probably go to hell for saying it, but you know what I think heaven is? Or at least a joyful byproduct of heaven is? Sex with anyone.

Marco. Because you've had it with no one.

Zach. Touché. Sanctified sex, that is. Being truly intimate with many, many, many. Knowing someone to her very core and being known in return. Adam and Eve in the garden.

Marco. Hugh Hefner in Bel Air.

Zach. But then again it wasn't Adam and the Four Eves. Or Adam with Dawn, Day, Dusk, and Eve. Just Adam and Eve, perfectly matched, head to toe, side to side, front to back.

Marco. You think they did it that way?

Zach. Perfectly matched in every way. I'd settle for that. Heck, I'd settle for just about anything.

Marco. Like me?

Zach. We don't match.

Marco. You sure?

Their eyes meet. Pause. DING! goes the microwave. Zach takes out the berries and mixes them with flour and sugar.

Marco. David didn't settle for that, for one perfect match.

Zach. David who?

Marco. Jonathan's David.

Zach. Oh. Yeah.

Marco. Had a whole truckload of women but still couldn't keep his hands off of one: one fresh-from-the-fountain rooftop lover.

Zach. Bathsheba, yeah, I'll bet she was a...you've been reading!

Marco. I've known this story for years.

Zach. You have?

Marco. And about David and Jonathan. And Saul.

Zach. You said you didn't.

Marco. For Celia's benefit. She's none too partial to people of your persuasion; may even have a bit of a grudge. Psalm 23 was new to me, though. I never got that far.

Zach. That far what?

Marco. Reading through the Bible.

Zach. You've read the whole Bible?

Marco. Now didn't I just say I hadn't?

Zach. How far did you get?

Marco. Genesis was good. Exodus was okay at first. Leviticus I threw across the room.

Zach. More rules.

Marco. Your religion seems to specialize in that.

Zach. Not really. But if you only got to Leviticus, how did you know about things that come after, like David?

Marco. I picked it up later and skimmed for sexy stuff. There's a lot of it, actually. More than I'd put in there.

Zach. You're such a prude.

Marco. I am, aren't I? I found it all very appalling: incest, prostitutes, adultery.

Zach. Song of Solomon.

Marco. Fuck!

Zach. You know I actually read that once—in church!

Marco. Pervert. Sitting next to your grandma, I suppose?

Zach. Oh, no. By then I was a back-row teen hoodlum.

Marco. Uh-huh. At least now I know why Christians are so fucked up.

Zach. Because...?

Marco. Because every person in their almighty exalted guide book is fucked up too.

Zach. They are, aren't they. Every stinking one.

Marco. Every fucking one.

Zach. Every one. Except one.

Marco, pauses. The big guy.

Zach. Yep.

Marco. You forget, Zach: he was gay.

Zach. In your interpretation.

Marco. He was.

Zach. So that makes him fucked up?

Marco pauses, perplexed.

You ever read about him, Marco? Ever get to know him?

Marco, turning away. Finish that pie.

Zach. I know I don't know you but I think you'd like him. Really. Hated rules, just like you. Loved to offend, for a good cause. Said what he wanted. Did what he wanted. Loved who he wanted. And believe me, he picked some losers. Ugly people. Folks you'd never look at and think, "Oh, my, there's a person of worth. There's somebody worth dying for." Liars, cheaters, hookers, lepers, all kinds of...of...

Notices Marco.

Marco?

Marco's rubbing an eye. Zach removes his apron and approaches but Marco waves him off. Zach continues on to center stage, looking back in wonder.

 

Scene Six

Center Stage. Continuing immediately from the scene before. Zach stands at the front of the stage.

Zach, as Jonathan, tenderly. There's honey dripping down, each golden drop

cascading to the mossy forest floor

like tears of joy; they prime the heart, unstop

a cleansing flood, unhinge the soul's locked door.

How wonderful their taste upon the tongue,

how marvelous the sweetly warm surprise!

How rare to touch my staff to comb, unstung,

and sip the nectar's flow. How bright my eyes!

Within the whispered quiet of the wood

a feast for yearning, famished souls is found,

where lilting leaf and limb say, "God is good,"

and even silent honey makes a sound.

So sing they thus, in sylvan words expressed,

a honeyed song, by which I'm sweetly blessed.

Again, Celia emerges from the audience, hand to mouth in wonder. Silently, she takes his hand, kisses it, places it upon her breast.

Celia, enraptured. Your words, Zachariah, they floated out to me, they lifted me, the room passed by beneath my feet and I was one with the air.

Back to earth.

Damn! We'll have to extend the run it was that good. You've worked hard.

Zach. Easiest thing I've ever done.

Celia. Marco help you?

Zach. Yes, in a way.

Celia. Could you deliver it to him, eye to eye, like you just did to me?

Zach. I was.

Celia. You're getting along, then?

Zach. Yes. We've...it's been good, working together. I think about him, David, Jonathan, us, all day.

Celia. Really?

Zach. Constantly.

Celia. Hmm...

Turning away.

If I didn't know better, I'd say you were in love.

Celia returns to the audience. Zach, meanwhile, doesn't move as the reality of her remark hits him. Lights fade on him as we move immediately to:

 

Scene Seven

Marco's Apartment. Marco stands alone at the table, legs spread wide, peeling apple after apple after apple. He checks his watch, looks to the door, checks his watch again, and continues to peel. Lots of peeling. Suddenly he looks up, grabs his stomach, sits abruptly, and groans. Lights fade from him as we move immediately to:

 

Scene Eight

Center stage. Zach stands as before, now dark and desperate.

Zach, as Jonathan. "Perverse, rebellious, woman's son" am I?

"Confusion to her very nakedness"?

Then come, father, take hold thy spear and fly

it heart-ward for thy true son's vile transgress.

Too late the rod, unused the rigid staff

by which an adolescent step is trained.

Unsheath thy blade! Come stick the fatted calf

'til all its desp'rate, unclean blood is drained.

We've battled side by side a hundred men,

bathed shield and sword in scarlet residue.

What stays your hand from doing so again?

Let fly the point. Let fly!

He's hit.

Your aim is true.

You taught me love, and honor all-exceeding.

Now for the same you leave me pierced and bleeding.

Once again, Celia emerges from the darkness.

Celia. You make me look a genius, and yet the honor, all, is yours. Zachariah Johnson... son...son....

She admires him for a moment, then turns to the audience.

Marco, you back yet?

Marco. Coming.

Marco shuffles in and Zach tenses up.

Zach. I'll be in back working my lines.

He exits. Marco steps on stage, gathers himself.

Celia. Whenever you're ready.

It takes a minute, but when Marco finally speaks, it's with amazing pain

and energy.

Marco, as David. What have I done? What is my crime? Tell me!

What sin demands I offer up my life?

Am I so loathed within his company

that now your father craves me for his knife?

I musicked him—and tenderly—with harp

and words hard-earned by tendering the flock;

defended him, with sling and saber sharp,

and slew ten thousand as they fled in shock.

For which of these, or other deeds unnamed,

am I the forsworn enemy of him

who prowls about in jackal's garb, untamed,

devouring life to satiate his whim?

As truly as the Lord and thou have breath,

there is at best a step 'twixt me and death.

By the end of the sonnet, Marco is on his knees, and remains there. Once more, Celia emerges from the shadows and approaches him.

Celia. Splendid, Marco, splendid. Now go, rest, conserve your strength.

Marco. I can't.

Celia. Why not?

Marco. Just did a Prior Walter.

Celia. Prior Walter?

Marco. Angels in America.

Celia, realizing. You saw a vision?

Marco, shifts uncomfortably. No, I shit my pants.

Lights out as we move immediately to:

 

Scene Nine

Marco's Apartment. Zach is outside the door, one hand behind his back, while the other knocks gently, persistently, continuously; it sounds like approaching footsteps until it stops suddenly.

Zach. Behold, I stand at the door and knock; if any man hears my voice, and opens the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him...

He reveals his other hand—which holds a pie.

...and he will have dessert.

Reluctantly, Marco enters from the other side, crosses the room and opens the door a crack.

Marco. Berry?

Zach. Apple.

Marco slams the door in Zach's face.

French apple! Buttered brown sugar topping!

Reaches into pocket and pulls out a baseball-sized lump of dough in a freezer bag, which he holds by the door.

Which means I've got extra dough for cinnamon-sugar crust!

The door opens enough for Marco to snatch the dough, then shuts again. Marco takes the dough to the table, holding it with both hands, and sits. Eventually, Zach tries the door, finds it unlocked, gently enters, and closes it behind him.

Celia said you're under the weather, so I....

Zach stops and sniffs an unpleasant odor.

Whew, Gucci-pucci-poo! When was the last time that litter box was changed? I can help with that.

Zach heads for a door.

Marco. Don't open that!

Zach. Sorry, Marco, it needs a—

Marco. DON'T OPEN THAT!

Zach stops short with his hand on the knob, shrugs, goes to the front door.

Zach. Maybe we can leave this open just a bit? Little air?

Marco. Whatever.

Zach. You want some pie?

Marco. Not hungry.

Zach. Still warm.

Marco. No. Thanks.

Long pause.

Zach. The other day, Marco, when I didn't come by and—

Marco. Forget it.

Zach. No, I said I would come by and—

Marco, stronger. Forget it.

Zach. That I would come by and—

Marco. I said forget it!

Zach. SHUT UP AND LET ME SAY THIS!

Pause.

The other day when I said I would come by, and I didn't, it was because I realized that, that...

Marco. Zach...

Zach. No, don't. It was because I realized that I...was thinking about you constantly, having all these conversations in my head with you—"ba-da-bing, ba-da-boo, yes? no, ha-ha, me too, exactly!"—all day this continual chat with you. Great fun. You're a very stimulating conversationalist.

Marco. I had no idea.

Zach. Trust me. And then I started thinking, Boy, this is wild, this is strange. I hardly ever have this sort of reaction to people and when I do they're always...girls. And then at rehearsal old Celia Bedelia's asking me about you and I'm flowing on and she says, "If I didn't know better I'd say you two were in love," and my head goes BOING! I even think my eyes crossed I was so totally, completely unhinged. The realization paralyzed my...everything. So I ran, I hid, I pulled a bag over my head, but God, he laughed at me. He said, "Get your dick out of your brain and love the man. I do." Marco, I'm not asking to have sex with you. It crossed my mind. It's possible. But not permissible, nor even desirable, for me.

Marco. It is for me.

Zach. I know. I know. What I don't know is, what I'm still unhinged about is, why the God who knit you in your mother's womb allows such things to be? Allows that yearning, real as mine, to grow in you, when from his word and ways he leaves no room, will not allow, that love's free exercise?

Marco. He won't?

Zach. Not the way I see it.

Marco. So you're asking me?

Zach. I'm asking anybody.

Marco. Try asking someone who believes in your God and his own peculiar point of view.

Zach. You don't?

Marco. No.

Zach. I was thinking earlier I saw a glimpse of...?

Marco. No.

Zach. Oh. Then, do what you do. But me, I take another way. Straight and narrow.

Marco. Others take another.

Zach. Huh?

Marco. There are other people believe in the same God you do, who don't think this is wrong.

Zach. Oh. I know.

Marco. Read the same Bible you do but don't think it's wrong.

Zach. I know.

Marco. Go to the same church you do.

Zach. I.... Really?

Marco. Yes.

Zach. Really?

Marco. Ed Kimbel.

Zach. Ed...from Godspell?!

Marco. He was a good man, Zach. Best I was ever with. And I didn't want to at first, him playing Jesus and all; even I thought that was a little perverse. But every night, in the show, singing with him, dancing with him, just being in his presence...he spoke to all of me, Zach, body, mind, and soul. Like you, only he was open. Encouraged it, even. Every night, upstage, I'd give him the kiss of death and he'd look at me with such love. Made me feel guilty as hell. So finally, I just gave in. Became one with the man. Me and Jesus.

Zach. You and Ed.

Marco. Me and Jesus.

Zach. Ed.

Marco. Jesus.

Zach. It was an actor, Marco, an actor.

Marco. He wore the shirt, Zach, the fucking Superman shirt! He wore the shirt, soared over me, and when he was done, I had a new cross to bear.

This startles Zach. He stares at Marco, goes to the bedroom door, opens it, grimaces at the stench, looks at Marco again, closes the door and quietly approaches Marco.

Zach. Ed didn't just die of pneumonia, did he?

Marco. No more than I'm going to.

Zach. I am so stupid.

Zach suddenly pounces on Marco with a huge hug, weeping.

Marco. He did me in, Zach. Jesus did me in.

Zach. Ed.

Marco. Jesus.

Zach. Ed!

Marco glares.

Jesus....

Marco. "Claimed by the blood of Jesus!"

Zach. What can I say?

Marco. Not a thing.

Very long pause. Eventually, Marco lets out a big sigh. Softly.

Now I'll never get you to make love to me.

Zach. Huh?

Marco. I said, "Now I'll never get you to make love to me."

Zach, after a long look. Don't be so sure.

Zach stands, goes to the bedroom offstage, then returns with a bathrobe. He goes to Marco and holds out the robe.

Strip.

Marco. Excuse me?

Zach. Take 'em off.

Marco. What, with all the lights on?

Zach. Do it.

Marco. Okay.

As Marco undresses, Zach goes to the counter, finds some large trash bags—which he sets on the counter—and a pair of dishwashing gloves. Then, staring at Marco, who stares back in wonder, he dons the gloves. SNAP! goes the first one as he puts it on; Marco quivers.

Marco. Oh...my....

SNAP! goes the second glove; Marco jumps.

God! What are you—?

Zach. No more talk. Time to act.

Approaches Marco.

Marco. Zach...darling...what do you have in mind?

Zach. Love.

Marco. True love?

Zach. All the way.

Marco. Wearing those?

Zach. Uh-huh.

Marco. Call me a novice. And what exactly are you going to do?

Zach. You don't know?

Marco shakes his head "no." Zach smiles, bends down, and—as Marco gasps—scoops up the clothes.

Laundry.

Zach wheels around, grabs the trash bags, stops at the bedroom door, takes a deep breath and enters. Marco collapses into the chair.

Marco. Fuck!