The Bedroom

           LatethatafternoonJackgotacotfromthefirst-floorstorageroomandputitinthecorneroftheirbedroom.Wendyhadexpectedthattheboywouldbehalfthenightgettingtosleep,butDannywasnoddingbefore"TheWaltons"washalfover,andfifteenminutesaftertheyhadtuckedbiroinhewasfardowninsleep,moveless,onebandtuckedunderhischeek.Wendysatwatchinghim,holdingherplaceinafatpaperbackcopyofCashelmarawithonefinger.Jacksatathisdesk,lookingathisplay.

           "Ohshit,"Jacksaid.

           WendylookedupfromhercontemplationofDanny."What?"

           "Nothing."

           Helookeddownattheplaywithsmolderingill-temper.Howcouldhehavethoughtitwasgood?Itwaspuerile.Ithadbeendoneathousandtimes.Worse,hehadnoideahowtofinishit.Onceithadseemedsimpleenough.Denker,inafitofrage,seizesthepokerfrombesidethefireplaceandbeatssaintlyGarytodeath.Then,standingspread-leggedoverthebody,thebloodypokerinonehand,hescreamsattheaudience:"It’sheresomewhereandIwillfindit!"Then,asthelightsdimandthecurtainisslowlydrawn,theaudienceseesGary’sbodyfacedownontheforestageasDenkerstridestotheupstagebookcaseandfeverishlybeginspullingbooksfromtheshelves,lookingatthem,throwingthemaside.Hebadthoughtitwassomethingoldenoughtobenew,aplaywhosenoveltyalonemightbeenoughtoseeitthroughasuccessfulBroadwayrun:atragedyinfiveacts.