A Doll’s Confession
by Henrik Eger
Synopsis
Sarah, an artist of exquisite small drawings, resembling the poetry of Emily Dickinson, and living in Philadelphia almost like the famous “recluse of Amherst,” gets ostracized by her family because she married the love of her life—Jack, a bi-racial goy, a successful carpenter who makes unusual doll’s houses and puppet theaters. When she discovers that her husband of 22 years has cheated on her with numerous women throughout their marriage, she takes revenge that almost destroys her, gets disgusted with herself, and then finds herself maturing, no longer just the talented artist whom her husband calls his “beautiful and intelligent doll,” but a woman who is coming into her own.
Characters
Sarah: Jewish female, about 42. A sensitive, lonely, and introspective artist, married and in love with Jack, mother of their two adult sons, but unaware of life outside her art and her home.
Jack: Non-Jewish male with multi-ethnic background, about 57. A cheerful, talented carpenter and puppet-player who makes exquisite doll’s houses and puppet theaters, loves his wife, but also cheats on Sarah frequently when away on business.
Jack: Non-Jewish male with multi-ethnic background, about 57. A cheerful, talented carpenter and puppet-player who makes exquisite doll’s houses and puppet theaters, loves his wife, but also cheats on Sarah frequently when away on business.
Setting And Time
ACT: Home of a wealthy art dealer on Philadelphia’s Mainline. House decorated patriotically, but tastefully, ready for the upcoming presidential election, Jimmy Carter vs Ronald Reagan. Philadelphia, PA, 1980. Saturday, November 1st, 1980, three days before the election.
ACT II: A year later. Adams’ residency.
ACT II: A year later. Adams’ residency.
Excerpt, Scene 5
“What did the doctor say?” I asked. Jack said nothing and just shook his head.
“Jack, what’s going on? Did you get the lab results? Don’t keep anything away from me. I can take it. I love you. Talk to me!”
I can’t remember whether I hugged him or whether he hugged me. I can’t remember who cried first. I just remember his cold hands—even though it was a beautiful warm day. I knew he had bad news.
He just nodded, like someone who didn’t know how to get the words out. I put my arms around him, trying to understand what he was saying, holding my ears to his lips as close as I could. I found myself turning into an echo chamber, repeating bits and pieces of information that were falling out of his mouth.
He said something in Latin that I didn’t understand, except I knew that even that word sounded dangerous, deadly dangerous. Jack, please, I said, Dr. Goldstein must have made a mistake. What did she really tell you? But, no matter what Jack said, I felt confused. All I wanted was to comfort him.
Jack, I said, you can have whatever you want—your favorite meal . . . a weekend at any place of your choice . . . the most passionate lovemaking ever . . . anything, and I mean anything you want. I want you to be happy. I want you to live. Just tell me what you really want.
We both cried. And just when I thought he wanted me to give up my artwork and nurse him, something that I would’ve done without any hesitation, he said something that floored me. What did you say? I asked him. . . . You want to make what? . . . You want to make a confession? . . .
And then he whispered things that I didn’t comprehend, things I didn’t want to believe. Things that shook me to the core of my innermost being. This time, I became my own echo chamber.
You did what? . . . You did what? . . . You did not . . . You did not . . . Jack, please tell me that it is not true . . . . I started to cry. Uncontrollably. I felt as if my tears were like rusty old razor blades that were cutting into my skin.
You had affairs with different women all these years? . . . Many? . . . Many affairs? Where? . . . At your trade shows? Who were these women? . . . Lonely women who bought your doll’s houses? . . . Jack . . . I want to scream . . . What? You “accidentally” had more kids during our marriage? Clearly, you spawned those brats. Apparently, our wonderful two children were not good enough for you. Frankly, I want to run away. But you . . . you . . . you said you only have a few months left. . . . What? Perhaps only one month? Oh, Jack. Jack . . . I don’t want to be selfish. Let’s make this thing work. Your health must come first. I’m sure, we’ll work it out.
(Lights out, heartbeat, but music or sounds that suggest hope.)
If you are interested in producing or adapting this copyrighted play, please contact the playwright.
“Jack, what’s going on? Did you get the lab results? Don’t keep anything away from me. I can take it. I love you. Talk to me!”
I can’t remember whether I hugged him or whether he hugged me. I can’t remember who cried first. I just remember his cold hands—even though it was a beautiful warm day. I knew he had bad news.
He just nodded, like someone who didn’t know how to get the words out. I put my arms around him, trying to understand what he was saying, holding my ears to his lips as close as I could. I found myself turning into an echo chamber, repeating bits and pieces of information that were falling out of his mouth.
He said something in Latin that I didn’t understand, except I knew that even that word sounded dangerous, deadly dangerous. Jack, please, I said, Dr. Goldstein must have made a mistake. What did she really tell you? But, no matter what Jack said, I felt confused. All I wanted was to comfort him.
Jack, I said, you can have whatever you want—your favorite meal . . . a weekend at any place of your choice . . . the most passionate lovemaking ever . . . anything, and I mean anything you want. I want you to be happy. I want you to live. Just tell me what you really want.
We both cried. And just when I thought he wanted me to give up my artwork and nurse him, something that I would’ve done without any hesitation, he said something that floored me. What did you say? I asked him. . . . You want to make what? . . . You want to make a confession? . . .
And then he whispered things that I didn’t comprehend, things I didn’t want to believe. Things that shook me to the core of my innermost being. This time, I became my own echo chamber.
You did what? . . . You did what? . . . You did not . . . You did not . . . Jack, please tell me that it is not true . . . . I started to cry. Uncontrollably. I felt as if my tears were like rusty old razor blades that were cutting into my skin.
You had affairs with different women all these years? . . . Many? . . . Many affairs? Where? . . . At your trade shows? Who were these women? . . . Lonely women who bought your doll’s houses? . . . Jack . . . I want to scream . . . What? You “accidentally” had more kids during our marriage? Clearly, you spawned those brats. Apparently, our wonderful two children were not good enough for you. Frankly, I want to run away. But you . . . you . . . you said you only have a few months left. . . . What? Perhaps only one month? Oh, Jack. Jack . . . I don’t want to be selfish. Let’s make this thing work. Your health must come first. I’m sure, we’ll work it out.
(Lights out, heartbeat, but music or sounds that suggest hope.)
If you are interested in producing or adapting this copyrighted play, please contact the playwright.
