American Pies, Happy Lives, Blue Skies and Other Lies by David Christner
ACT ONE
SCENE: The interior of a lovely American home in a fashionable section of Cambridge, MA is visible on a dimly illuminated stage.
Four rooms are at least partially visible-a master bedroom and nursery upstairs; downstairs there is a dining room and an
adjacent den/family room. In the dining room the table is set elegantly for three with fine crystal and china, and in the den a gun case
is visible along with a bar and an abundance of green plants
The flavor of the furnishings in the house is distinguished by an air of patriotism
In the dim light, VOICES can be heard coming from the bedroom
SAM: What's wrong?
ANGEL: Nothing. Nothing's wrong!
(Bed sounds, silence, then:)
SAM: You're not concentrating.
ANGEL: I shouldn't have to concentrate; it's supposed to be natural.
SAM: Then be natural.
ANGEL: I can't.
SAM: Why not?
ANGEL: I'm concentrating.
SAM: Jesus!
(SAM switches on a bedside lamp, and the lights come up. He is in bed with ANGEL, his wife.
Both are about thirty. He is plump; she, thin, a very attractive blue eyed blond, cut from the Miss America mold.)
SAM: What the hell?
ANGEL: I'm sorry, Sam, but I just can't do it like this. I have to feel something.
SAM: Feel this.
ANGEL: Stop it!
(Angel gets up, slips on a robe, and goes to her dressing table.)
SAM: Come here, baby. Come to uncle Sam.
ANGEL: No! This is insane; there isn't time; I'm nervous. And I don't understand why you came home demanding sex.
SAM: There's plenty of time.
ANGEL: No, there isn't. He'll be early. I remember that; he always came early.
SAM: That's too bad.
ANGEL: He always arrived early.
SAM: Oh, well, he won't be early tonight. (A beat.) Nine years is a long time.
You don't even know what he's like now. He could have changed. Come here.
ANGEL: No.
SAM: Angel. Baby.
ANGEL: Why? Why?
SAM: I want you.
ANGEL: Why now? (Silence.) I know why . . . you want him to catch us, don't you?
That's it, isn't it, Sam?
SAM: What are you talking about?
ANGEL: Oh, I see it clearly now. You want to answer the door while you're pulling up
your pants so he'll know. You want to rub it in.
SAM: He does know. We're married.
ANGEL: But you have to rub it in. Don't you?
SAM: You're crazy!
ANGEL: Why do you hate him so much?
SAM: Hate him?
(Sam gets up and pulls on a robe.)
SAM: Hate him! We grew up together, went through hell together. See these?
(Displays scars on back of legs and buttocks.) I owe him my life.
ANGEL: So do I!
SAM: What is that supposed to mean?
ANGEL: Just that if it weren't for Tom Charles, I wouldn't be where I am today.
SAM: And just where is that?
ANGEL: Under the limitless blue skies of Cambridge, Massachusetts.
SAM: You go to hell!
ANGEL: I already have!
SAM: God, I see you're going to be your own sweet self tonight.
ANGEL: I'll try.
SAM: I don't give a damn how you treat me, but the least you can do is to treat Tom like a guest.
ANGEL: Because he's such a dear friend?
SAM: Yes! Because he's a friend, an old and dear friend.
ANGEL: Then why didn't you see him before now? Why did you wait all these year to
get together with your old and dear friend Tom?
SAM: You know why. Because-because I didn't know how he'd react to my-
ANGEL: Marrying me? Marrying his girl, his lover?
SAM: You weren't his girl when I married you, Angel. You weren't anybody's girl, or
is that what you were-anybody's girl?
ANGEL: No, I guess I wasn't Tom's girl. If he had wanted me, he'd have come home.
SAM: You just keep that in mind tonight. Okay?
(Angel just stares at him.)
SAM: Anyway, I lost contact with him when I got back. I didn't even know where to begin looking for him.
ANGEL: Or you didn't want to find him.
SAM: Because of you?
ANGEL: No, because of you-or him.
SAM: Don't be ridiculous. Tom was my best friend, the best friend I ever had.
ANGEL: Was? Had?
SAM: Is! Okay? Have.
ANGEL: Okay. (A beat.) He certainly has you upset; I'll say that for him.
SAM: Me? What about you? When you can't even screw there's definitely
something wrong. And I'm not upset-just-anxious.
ANGEL: To see your dear friend, Tom?
SAM: Yeah, yeah! To see my friend, Tom. Okay? (Angel smiles.) Angel, you don't know what
war does to men-being that close to dying, to have your friends dying all around you. It-it means
something; it . . . I can't explain it. It's something you have to experience, something you have to live through.
ANGEL: Sam, please, spare me the macho Hemingway crap. Before-before Tom stopped writing he told
me what the war was like for both of you. Until the TET offensive you'd had a pretty easy time of it.
SAM: That's a lie! We were into all kinds of bad shit from day one. He-he just didn't want you to worry.
ANGEL: Ha! Didn't want me to worry. He didn't give a damn whether I worried or not.
SAM: What else did he tell you . . . before he stopped writing?
ANGEL: Oh, he wrote often of his love and adoration for me. Of plans for our future, of how we
would love each other, grow old and finally die together because neither of us would want to go on
living without the other. Tom always had a way with words.
SAM: Things changed.
ANGEL: Dammit, I know that! And I want to know what changed them. I want to
know what happened over there!
SAM: A war happened, a great big beautiful war. The men that left here weren't the same
one that came back. Some men it made better, some-
ANGEL: It made you better?
SAM: It made a man out of me, made me grow up.
ANGEL: And what did it do to Tom Charles? He was already a man. What did that “great big
beautiful war” of yours do to the men that didn't need to grow up?
SAM: I don't know. Check with Tom on that one.
ANGEL: I intend to.
SAM: Well, let me tell you something first, for your own good.
ANGEL: Something about Tom?
SAM: And you. (A beat.) If he loved you, he sure as hell didn't show it, not over there anyway?
ANGEL: Liar!
SAM: Tom had more whores than supply chits.
ANGEL: I don't believe that . . . besides, why should I care? We weren't married. I didn't expect him to
abstain from sex for a year. (A beat.) I didn't. Did I?
SAM: You sure didn't.
ANGEL: Oh no, while your best friend, no-no, your-your war buddy was still in
Nha Trang, you were shacked up with his best girl in Boston.
SAM: It was just one of those things.
ANGEL: Just one of those wonderful things-you got me pregnant!
SAM: And an abortion. Don't forget the good part.
ANGEL: After we were married!
SAM: I didn't want you to be stuck with a kid and a husband you didn't want.
ANGEL: But you didn't mind getting stuck with a woman you didn't love, but also one
that you still refuse to give up. (A beat.) Why did you marry me, Sam? (Silence.) To hurt
Tom? Why?
SAM: Darling, I married you for love.
ANGEL: You don't know what love is. You didn't then; you don't now.
SAM: What about you, Angel? You didn't have to marry me.
ANGEL: But I did have to. I was pregnant. That was almost nine years ago; things were
different then, and I was a respectable, if slightly tarnished, young woman from a good family.
I had to that's all. You don't think I married you for love?
SAM: Why did you then? Or do you even know?
ANGEL: I know. I know all right.
SAM: My charm, huh? Or was it my body? Just couldn't get enough of it, could you? (A beat.)
At least there's the money now-this house, the club, that BMW you drive, nice clothes. You could
have done a lot worse.
ANGEL: You could have too.
SAM: Jesus! Why don't we quit this? Nothing changes.
ANGEL: Only because you won't let it.
SAM: And because you don't want things to get better.
ANGEL: Better! Better than what? Sam, I can't love a man who doesn't love me!
SAM: Does the tennis pro at the club love you? I know all about that, you know. Been
working overtime on your backhand, Angel darling?
ANGEL: And I know all about your . . . lady friends.
SAM: You don't know jack squat!
ANGEL: I know what I am to you-a receptacle, nothing more.
SAM: And you love it.
ANGEL: Like hell I do. I want . . . to be needed, cared for. There's nothing here but sex. No need, no commitment-
SAM: No, “love, sweet love.”
ANGEL: Bastard! (A beat.) I have a surprise for you, Sam.
SAM: Great! I love surprises.
ANGEL: You won't love this one.
SAM: No?
ANGEL: No. (A beat.) I'm pregnant, again. Surprise.
SAM: What?
ANGEL: I'm pregnant, knocked up, heavy with child. I'm going to have a little baby, a child.
SAM: How the hell could-
ANGEL: It's not yours.
SAM: Bitch! Slut! You'd better be lying. (Sam slaps her.) If you're not-
ANGEL: Not what? Pregnant? Or lying?
SAM: Whose is it?
ANGEL: I don't know. Could be almost anyone's.
(He slaps her again.)
SAM: Liar! Whose?
ANGEL: Tom's.
SAM: Liar! Bitch! Slut! Tell me the truth.
ANGEL: Yours.
(Sam slaps her again and again. Angel is laughing and crying almost hysterically at the same time.)
SAM: Damn you! Bitch! Whore!
ANGEL: You talk so nice.
SAM: Shut up! (He thinks while her laughter/crying fades.) Angel-Angel! Are you pregnant?
Dammit, don't you lie to me; I'm warning you. Don't you lie to me.
ANGEL: No.
SAM: You're a liar! By god, I'm telling you this kid had better have blue eyes and my blood type.
ANGEL: What about skin? Almond? Chocolate brown? Yellow?
SAM: You're such a sweet bitch. No wonder I love you so.
ANGEL: Don't flatter me so, Sam. It just makes me all weak and wet inside.
SAM: I love you so.
ANGEL: You're so good to me, always hitting me with your open hand. In all these
years of marriage you've never left a mark. I really appreciate that.
SAM: I do what I can. We're such a great team. (Checks time.) Almost seven.
Shall we get ready to greet our guest?
ANGEL: Your guest, darling. He's your friend.
SAM: But he's an old friend of yours too, a close friend.
ANGEL: But not a war buddy; that makes a difference.
SAM: You bet it does. It's like-
ANGEL: Don't try to explain. I wouldn't understand. You have to live through that sort of thing. (A beat.)
What are you going to wear, Sam? (Pause.) I know. Your uniform! Why don't you wear your uniform just
for old time's sake?
SAM: I don't think that's a good idea.
ANGEL: Yes, yes of course. Your uniform! Full dress with medals-Purple Heart, Cross of
Gallantry, everything. That would be splendid.
SAM: No, Angel.
ANGEL: Oh, come on Sam; you're no fun at all. Are you ashamed? Sorry you defended American
democracy from the yellow peril? Or was it the red peril?
SAM: No! I'm not ashamed.
ANGEL: Wear it then. You look so-heroic; and I just melt when I see a man in uniform. You want to
wear it; I know you do. You had the coat on just yesterday, studying yourself in front of the mirror. I saw
you. Chest out, head up, chin down-is that the way it goes? I'll put on some marching tunes, and you
nd Tom can march around, call cadence, just have a grand ole time. And I'll even act like the whore
that I am for you two soldier boys.
SAM: That's enough! I'll wear the uniform if it will make you shut up, but nothing else. No music, no
marching. And you just be yourself-that's whore enough for both of us.
ANGEL: I'll be with the two men who would know best.
(Silently they begin dressing. He drags a Marine dress uniform from the closet; Angel removes an ao-dai
from her dresser. She places it on the bed as Sam almost unconsciously begins humming the Marine Corps
Hymn. After a moment he turns and sees the ao-dai.)
SAM: What the hell is that?
ANGEL: An ao-dai; it's what the women in Vietnam wear.
SAM: I know that!
ANGEL: Then why did you ask me what it was?
SAM: Where did it come from?
ANGEL: Saigon. A shop called Gay-
SAM: Shit! Where did you get it?
ANGEL: From Tom. He sent it to me years ago. (She holds it up to her body.)
You like soldier?
SAM: You're not wearing it! I won't have you looking like some gook whore.
Not in my house.
ANGEL: Don't tell me what clothes to wear. If you can play soldier then I can
play my game too.
SAM: Jesus! Why tonight? Why did you have to drag it out tonight?
ANGEL: For Tom. I want to wear it for Tom, if he was so fond of Vietnamese women.
And I want to wear it because-because tonight is going to be a very special night.
I can feel it.
SAM: Special? How?
ANGEL: Tonight is going to be special because I'm going to find out what happened
over there. I'm going to find out why Tom didn't come home, and why I married you
instead of him.
SAM: Tom didn't come back because he didn't want to, because he didn't
want you.
ANGEL: I don't believe that.
SAM: He's not here is he? Hasn't been here for nine years, has he?
(Silence.) Angel?
ANGEL: No. No! He's not!. (A beat.) And I want to know why.
SAM: You just keep your mouth shut. What happened over there happened
to us; it happened to the guys who fought the war.
ANGEL: No. It happened to me too; it happened to all of us. How can you say it
didn't happen to us? We . . . what is it, Sam? Does this talk of the war frighten you?
SAM: No, it doesn't frighten me. It's just that-that some things are best not
remembered. If Tom wants to talk, I'll let him, but don't push him. It would be hard
on him because-because he was-different from the rest of us. He didn't like-to
talk about it.
ANGEL: Oh, I've never pushed Tom. If I had maybe he'd married me before he left, and-
SAM: Well, aren't you the lucky one?
ANGEL: Oh, I get down on my knees and thank God every night.
SAM: Is that what you're doing down there?
ANGEL: You go to hell!
SAM: Show me the way, Angel. You seem to think you know it.
ANGEL: You know why I detest you so much?
SAM: Can't be my charm.
ANGEL: Because you make me hate myself. You've made me such a bitch.
SAM: I have a knack for bringing out the best in people.
ANGEL: How about, Tom? Did you bring out the best in Tom?
SAM: Oh, yeah. I brought out the best in Tom, the very best. I made us both
heroes-Tom terrific and Sam-
ANGEL: The sham!
SAM: Very funny.
ANGEL: So, Tom's a hero too? You never told me that.
SAM: I don't like to talk about it.
ANGEL: What? The war!
SAM: Yeah! The war! I don't like to talk about it.
ANGEL: But that's practically all you ever talk about. Your glory days as a
Cong killer. You've never mentioned Tom though, except in a derogatory sense.
SAM: That's a lie! Tom . . .
ANGEL: Tom . . . what?
SAM: Tom was a good soldier; he just didn't-fit in all the time. I already told you he was different.
ANGEL: I know he was different. But you fit in just fine, an exemplary grunt.
SAM: I did my job.
ANGEL: Which was what?
SAM: To do what I was told, to keep my mouth shut. To serve my country. I'm not
ashamed; I can hold my head up.
ANGEL: To whom?
SAM: God, you are a bitch. You can't see the good side of anything.
ANGEL: Good side! My God, Sam, you know how many kids on both sides died in that war?
And for what?
(The bell rings below.)
SAM: There he is.
ANGEL: You get it. I'll be down in a while.
SAM: Don't be long. I know he'll be anxious to see you.
ANGEL: Oh, yes, I know he's very anxious to see me-after all these years.
SAM: You just keep that in mind, okay? Nine years. Nine years!
ANGEL: I can count, Sam. Just get the door.
SAM: Don't be long.
ANGEL: I'll just give you boys a chance to reminisce about all those things a wife and former lover
wouldn't want to hear about. You know-man talk. I mean, Jesus, how many super bowls did you
boys miss seeing together?
(Bell rings again, longer.)
SAM: I'll get the door now.
ANGEL: Do that, Sam. I'll be down indirectly.
(Sam goes below while Angel continues dressing. She sits down at a dressing table with her
back to the audience and begins applying makeup. Downstairs, Sam goes to the bar, pours
some scotch, gulps it down, and starts for the door. The bell rings again. Sam hesitates at the
door and then finally opens it.)
SAM: Tom! Tom Charles! Goddammit man! Come in; come in here!
(TOM CHARLES, a thin sullen but attractive man of about 30 enters. Somehow he
looks used, almost broken.)
SAM: Son-of-a-bitch, it's good to see you! Come on in. Get in here. Let
me look at you for chrissake!
TOM: Hello, Sam.
SAM: Goddamn. Gooooodamn! You look. . . great, a little on the thin side maybe, but great.
Let me get you a drink. Son-of-a-bitch! Nine years. Nine fucking years! Haven't changed a bit.
TOM: I've changed.
SAM: Well, we all have. So, how has life been treating you?
TOM: Indifferently. SAM: Honey. Honey! Come on down. He's here. Tom's here!
(Sam goes to bar.) Scotch, Tom? Still drinking scotch?
TOM: Never did. Rum. You drink scotch. You and Hal, at least Hal used too.
SAM: Right, rum. You used to say, “Right as rum, right?” How could I forget?
TOM: Just slipped your mind, I guess.
SAM: Yeah, well . . . one rum-coco coming up. (A beat.) Hal drank scotch, yeah.
How the hell is ole Hal?
TOM: Dead.
SAM: What?
TOM: He's dead; ole Hal is dead as a boot.
SAM: No shit?
TOM: No. Dead!
SAM: How?
TOM: Mortar frag took his face off a month after you got out.
SAM: Goddammit. That is some sorry shit. Lousy fucking war.
TOM: I thought you liked it, Sam?
SAM: No, no, I didn't like it. I mean it was a war, the only one we had.
You-you had to make the best of it. But shit. . . mortar frag, that's rough.
TOM: He may be better off than a lot of us.
SAM: His family all right? Didn't he have a wife, a couple of kids?
TOM: They got their check. . . and a flag. The government game them
the flag that the box was wrapped in-no charge.
SAM: Well, that's something. Ten grand, nothing to bitch about.
TOM: And they can use that flag for a bedspread, a beach towel - all kinds
of things.
SAM: Look, Tom, I'm serious.
TOM: So am I.
SAM: The gooks didn't give their people anything.
TOM: Gave'em hell. The same thing that we gave'em.
SAM: Still bitter, aren't you?
TOM: Me? Bitter?
SAM: Shit, Tom, let's not get off on that track. There's been too much of
that already. Let's remember the good times.
(Sam hands Tom a drink then pours himself another tumbler of scotch)
SAM: To the good times.
TOM: Jesus! There were so many of them I hardly know which one to toast.
To-all of them, all the good times.
SAM: Yeah . . . cheers.
(Silence. Then:)
TOM: You look . . . fit enough, Sam.
SAM: Yeah, I'm fine, great.
[end of extract]