DAN O’BRIEN  

The Dear Boy

1a.

(Tall, effete, brownsuited; cheeks like crabapples and the rest gray pallor so that he seems one almost always chapped by wind and rain and on winter days—like this—outright pneumonic; when he smiles he bares his Celtic teeth; when he speaks he drapes his weight on one leg back as an actor plays to the balcony, his eyes cast up, as if searching a high, dark shelf for something very small, very valuable, very lost.)

FLANAGAN
My dear boy.

What were you thinking?

You’re no James Joyce. You’re not even Will Faulkner. —You’re seventeen! Not a saint, though I know you think you are. I know your type: mother’s milk, father bereft, half-repressed literary tendencies—O yes, I know who you are . . . .

I am not a kind teacher . . . I’m not cruel, either. Am I a good teacher? I like to think so, on my good days, and we all have our good days—even you, my dear boy, though you’re not a very good student . . . Too shy to be a hooligan; not a clown though you can be quite sharp: my “brown suit would suit a mortician better”? —And what was that crack you made about the St. Paddy’s Day parade?, that I would be up front this year marching with the interlopers . . . ?

I understand: I accept: I take your disdain upon my back as a kind of penance, my cross to carry, a question wrought from God: What to do with the likes of you . . . .

The others don’t see it . . . They bring your name up whilst brightening their coffee with a dollop of cream: O yes, Jimmy Doyle—isn’t he sweet?

And darkly I reply, Pass the sugar, Ms. Kane . . . .

Because you see you lie—you do; you lie well, I’ll grant you that. —I know you didn’t read past the crime in Crime and Punishment, and yet you deserved every bit of that B minus—you did!—and that’s your talent, my boy! You have that most Irish of gifts, of being most convincing when least informed. And while I can’t fault you your arrogance—it’s the privilege of the young, that is, the ignorant—I’ve often wondered, in the cocoon of my commute, suspended in my car inside the Henry Hudson Bridge, or reading late at night in my apartment above the shoe factory—yes?; I often feel I want nothing more before I retire than to teach you a lesson.

But a lesson about what?

. . .

I could teach you how to write.

You are not ungifted as a writer.

You write as one speaks, though not as you speak yourself.

You seem to channel another voice, another person’s voice altogether, and this voice seems to be that of a middle-aged, overly chatty housewife. It’s a nifty trick, considering your prose speaks not of normal housewifely concerns, but rather darker things, things you’ve no business knowing . . . .

Is she your mother?, this voice? Never mind . . .

Our first assignment had been to write in the style of William Faulkner. My mistake. Because the story you wrote, that first story you gave me back in—September was it?, made no sense to me at all. In fact it struck me as alarmingly schizophrenic, at least latently so: windows were said to “breathe,” trees “watched” or “wept” or actually spoke, if I’m not mistaken, from time to time, in oracular fashion (there is no other word)—in italics, of course, thank you so very much.

Further, your main character, a young woman (of all things!) manifests an untoward fascination with feces, and in particular one steaming pile that flops out the backside of a nearby black carriage-horse, tethered to the bottom of your page one . . . .

My dear boy . . . Have you ever even seen a horse?

The time throughout, one almost needn’t note, is the present.

The incident with the feces is the only occurrence in this twenty-plus-page opus that might possibly be misconstrued as plot. And indeed the horse itself may not have been there at all, may have been an illusion, an equine specter haunting the streets of the young madgirl’s mind, as she wends her way to a clinic in “the city” for an “abortion,” by the way, though who can be sure of anything in the dark falling light of your
prose . . .

My dear boy this is not stream-of-consciousness but drowning.

Your sentences are overly long—some overspill a page; punctuation is perverse: parenthetical after (within!) parenthetical threaten to swallow sense—what sense there is—like a whale its own tail, like a snake eats itself unto abstraction, the words slithering and slippery and venomous—that’s the word, yes: your prose is poisoned, my boy, capable of poisoning, reading your words like digging in a graveyard at night . . .

. . .

—I gave you a B minus.

And without a single note of encouragement, your twenty-two single-spaced pages stark naked of notes, I dropped the B minus down to your desk as if the story itself might soil my hands.

You suffered silently, but I knew I’d stung your pride.

. . .

Or so I thought.

Until today.

Until I read this—your most recent retaliation:

A story meant to be told in the style of James Joyce—again, my mistake. —It’s longer than the first, thank you very much; but there had been a twist: “Write about a hero of yours” . . .

I return these twenty-six typewritten pages to you as you have given them to me: the margins, again, white and dumb. There is no grade this time. As I drop the other childrens’ stories down to desk—heartwarming tales of grandmothers blessed with endearingly wise dementia; precocious entertainments of eligible aunts, wily cousins, cigarsmoking coaches—I watch out the corner of my eye as you open your story to the very last page, only to discover there a single, scrawled, page-sprawling question mark.

And beneath the symbol an invitation:

1b.

(Skin pale, translucent temples; scattershot of acne spoils the pallor; shoots of rough beard blemish sideburns and upper lip; severe Irish cheekbones—two, asymmetrical; punched up nose, tipped out ears, cowlicks unruly despite too much hair gel; skinny, embarrassed, heartbreaking if not aggravating; a varsity jacket—soccer—with white thread enstitched “Jim”:)

JAMES (knocks)

(Still writing and not looking.)

One moment, please; I’m just now at the end of something . . .

(JAMES strands himself at the window: blue winter light, sun low already.

FLANAGAN (Lays aside his pen.)

It’s good for them.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
The trees: if you cut the limbs in winter, they grow back better in the spring.
           
JAMES (as if impressed)
Wow.

FLANAGAN
I noticed that image—all over your story: trees with their limbs cut off.
I knew where you’d got it from.

JAMES
. . .

(As he stands close to the door.)

FLANAGAN (offering)

(JAMES does sit; withdrawn, almost regal; he crosses his legs in the macho manner.)

FLANAGAN (cont'd)

(sits again, he pulls his chair beneath and neatly under)

I suppose you know why you’re here.

JAMES
You asked me to come.
           
FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
In my story. The question mark.

You told me to come —here—

FLANAGAN
Yes.

(Smiles; hides teeth.)

That’s true: I did ask you to come. To see me in my office.
And do you know why?

JAMES

FLANAGAN
We have a problem here, don’t we James.

JAMES
Do we . . . ?

FLANAGAN
Don’t we?

JAMES
. . . What kind of problem?

FLANAGAN
What kind of problem . . .

JAMES
I don’t know if we have / a problem . . .

FLANAGAN
You don’t know . . .

JAMES
No. Not really.

FLANAGAN
—Do you enjoy class?

JAMES
This class?

FLANAGAN
Let’s start there / yes.

JAMES
Sure.

FLANAGAN
Why?

JAMES (shrugs)

I don’t know . . .
I like books. I like English. It’s my favorite language.

FLANAGAN
You like reading.

JAMES
Sure. 

FLANAGAN
And writing?

JAMES
Who doesn’t?

FLANAGAN (leaning in across desk)

Then why aren’t you happy here, my boy?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
You seem all right in class, in person; it’s in these stories you write I think I see someone who’s deeply, deeply disturbed . . .  

JAMES
. . . I’m not disturbed.

FLANAGAN
You’re not . . . ?

JAMES
I’m happy.

FLANAGAN (sits back)
. . . Do you have a girlfriend?, what’s her name? I’ve seen you with her: short hair, petite; quite striking. —Does she read your stories?

FLANAGAN
Does she like them . . . ?
She would have to like them, wouldn’t she, if she likes you . . .

(He smiles; hides teeth.)

JAMES (looks away)
. . .

FLANAGAN
Do you like me, James?

JAMES (a hesitation; a smile)
. . . What do you mean?

FLANAGAN
Do you like me; your teacher.

JAMES
Why wouldn’t I like you, Mr. Flanagan?

FLANAGAN
Because I don’t like your stories. Very much.

JAMES (a moment; he shrugs)
. . . They rejected Jesus too.

FLANAGAN
I beg your pardon?

JAMES
They rejected Jesus; in his home town.

FLANAGAN (sits forward across desk)
—And do you consider yourself Jesus in some way?

FLANAGAN
This—is fascinating. Do you think this town rejects / you—?
                                               
JAMES (strongly)
—I don’t know why you don’t like my stories, Mr. Flanagan.

Okay . . . ?

I don’t care . . .

FLANAGAN
That’s not what I asked, my boy . . .

(Tight smile; hides teeth.)

—And it’s not that I don’t like your stories. I do like them—I like what it is I think I see you’re trying to pull off. —It’s ambitious. —It’s precocious. But I can’t say I understand them. —And you do want me to understand you, don’t you? It’s important to you that I understand . . . ?

JAMES
I guess.

FLANAGAN
Then help me, James. Help me understand this your latest masterwork.

What’s it called / again?

JAMES
“Saint James.”

FLANAGAN
—Saint James! Of course! —That’s my name too, you know.

JAMES
“Saint—”?

FLANAGAN
“James,” yes . . . Aha ha. . . .

I understand you better than you think: both of us Irish, yes?, or Irish-American, God help us; both with our—artistic dispositions, living lives surrounded by gratuitous wealth—in a culture very different from one we can claim to understand, or appreciate. —It’s natural we’d feel put / upon.
                                               
JAMES
I’m not Irish.

FLANAGAN
You’re not?

JAMES
No.

FLANAGAN
I see . . .

Well it must be very difficult, then, with a name like “Doyle,” never being Irish; always correcting people . . .

JAMES (looks to window)
. . .

FLANAGAN
Is “Saint James” an autobiographical title, do you / think?

JAMES
It’s a church—

FLANAGAN
Is it now . . . ?

JAMES
—an Episcopal church I used to go to as a kid.

FLANAGAN (smiling darkly)
That long time ago . . . ?
                                                           
JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
Are you Episcopal then, James?

JAMES (the window)
. . .

FLANAGAN
—What does that title mean then, do you suppose: “Saint / James”?

JAMES (shrugs)
I don’t know.

FLANAGAN
You don’t know what your own title means?

JAMES
Not really no.

FLANAGAN
You should know what your own title means.—You should know what you’re writing before you’ve written it down——else the world will tear you apart.

—Your intentions, you see?

JAMES (a minor explosion)
—Who cares about the fucking title? —I don’t care about the title . . .

FLANAGAN (cowed, momentarily)
. . . Who cares indeed . . .

. . . Let’s push on then, shall we? Let’s forget the title and discuss the story proper:

JAMES
Fine . . .

FLANAGAN
Fine. —What does it mean?

JAMES
—Jesus . . .

FLANAGAN
Hmn . . . ?

JAMES
—I don’t know.

FLANAGAN
—“You don’t know” or you don’t / care?

JAMES
—I wrote it, it came out of me, I had to say it—

FLANAGAN
—But what did you end up saying? That’s what I’m asking you here—what does your story say, about life?, about poor put-upon “James”?, about the other characters in your imagination . . . ?

JAMES
What did I end up “saying”?

FLANAGAN
—Exactly!

JAMES
—Who gives a shit?

FLANAGAN (sighs; he watches the boy intently)
. . .

JAMES
. . . Okay?

God . . .

FLANAGAN
I don’t mean to upset you, James

. . . Lord knows the last thing I want to do is to upset you here today . . .

I am a fair man. —Let’s take this one step—let’s back up a step then / shall we?

JAMES
Fine with / me.

FLANAGAN
Fine . . . What was the original assignment?

JAMES
—Write a story.

FLANAGAN
Yes, and—?

JAMES
In the style of “James Joyce.”

FLANAGAN
And:

JAMES
Write about a hero of yours.

FLANAGAN
—Why do you say it like that?

JAMES
Like what?

FLANAGAN
With a “sashay” in your voice . . .

JAMES
(shrugs; smiles)
. . .

FLANAGAN
—Do you believe in heroes?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
There are “heroes” ready to die for you now, liberating Kuwait—. You may very well be drafted in the spring—you may find yourself fighting for your country—then I promise you you will find out about heroes . . . !

(His pointing white finger quivers in the gloom . . . The room is growing dark.)

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (pulling his finger back)
. . . And who have you chosen as the hero of your story, “Saint James”?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
You know I like to read these stories to my wife . . .

(He crosses his legs behind and beneath the desk.)

I like her to see what my students are up to. And I can tell you right now I would not dare show her this story—would not dare.

JAMES (the window, again)
. . .

JAMES
. . .  

FLANAGAN
Hmn . . . ?

JAMES
It’s not you—

FLANAGAN
Is / it not?

JAMES
—in the story—I made that up: it’s fiction.

FLANAGAN (uncrossing his legs)
—But no, I don’t think that’s true: I think you’re hiding from that—behind—“fiction”—.

Do you have it with you please? Let’s look at it together.

JAMES
What.

FLANAGAN
—your titular character—do you find that word amusing, Mr. Doyle?

JAMES (smirking still; he looks away) . . .
                       
FLANAGAN
—James is more a cipher than a boy, isn’t he?—more your Steve Dedalus, which is more Ulysses than Dubliners /any day—

JAMES
I’ve read Ulysses.

FLANAGAN
Have you?, that’s special.

(Thumbing through pages:)

Stephen—“James,” sorry—goes to Scarsdale Public High School . . . hates school . . . has an English teacher—this is rare—named “Mr. Flyswatter.”

(He looks up.)

JAMES
. . .

(Flanagan pretends to swat a fly upon his desk.

He smiles; hides teeth; looking back to story:)

FLANAGAN
. . . Flyswatter wears brown suits. Every day. “Like a mortician” . . .

(Up again:)

Morticians wear black, Mr. Doyle: the better to hide the blood, I think.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (rolls the story shut)
—Let’s stop playing games now, shall we?

JAMES
. . . I’m not playing a / game—

FLANAGAN
Who’s “Flyswatter” then? You whipped him up out of your what, your / imagination?

JAMES (shrugs)
Maybe.

FLANAGAN (reads)
“ . . . a pretentious accent, half-English, half-Irish, all Nothing . . . ”

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
“ . . . the hands of a spinster and the eyes of a lecher . . . ”

JAMES (the window, again)
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

JAMES
It’s not you.

FLANAGAN
That’s a relief, my wife will be glad of it . . .

(Skimming again:)

. . . Teaches Honors English twelfth grade, Joyce Faulkner and Virginia Woolf . . . lives alone in a garret above a shoe factory in the Bronx—this is all quite funny, Mr. Doyle, very creative! —How Dickensian! —Have you ever even been to the Bronx, my boy . . . ?

—And what are these decomposing shoes on page one supposed to be a symbol of?, impotence? . . . Harms your case of lechery, I’d wager.

—Whatever could you find funny in what I’m saying?

JAMES
I’m not / laughing—

FLANAGAN (almost smiling too)
Yes you most certainly are—

JAMES
I’m just—

FLANAGAN
What:

JAMES
—nervous. I guess.

FLANAGAN
Good.

(He turns to a specific page:)

—And the worst part, Mr. Doyle . . . the worst thing you could have possibly said about me is right here in your story on page sixteen I believe into seventeen where you describe Mr. Flyswatter’s “internally treasured”—your phrase—memory of his dead uncle . . . The very same memory I shared with you and the class in a story of my own only a week ago today.  

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Now you know, James, I like to complete these assignments in advance of the students. It gives me great sense of sympathy. Not all teachers would risk losing face so. But if I am going to ask my students to bare their souls, I shall bare mine first.

So when I thought to write about a hero, the first person I thought of was my uncle, who died in the Second World War, at the age of eighteen; and I hold this memory of him quite dear to me.—

And you have stolen that memory and put it in your story in the old and addled brain of “Mr. Flyswatter,” trumping up disgusting if not incestuous innuendo—

JAMES
It was in there already.

FLANAGAN
. . . ?

JAMES
The story you read in class: it had “innuendo” in it.

FLANAGAN
. . . My dear boy . . . I don’t pretend to understand what it is you think you’re saying—

JAMES
You went camping with your uncle. You were twelve, you fell asleep. When you woke up it was late and the moon was full and you looked down from the “dying fire to the water’s edge”—your sentence—and you saw him stripping off his clothes . . . The surface of the water was like a mirror. And he “slipped his body through.”

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
I didn’t add anything to your story—

FLANAGAN (astonished; confused)
—That was a memory of his death—a premonition of it—!

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—Do you know anyone who’s died, Mr. Doyle . . . ?

JAMES
—I thought it was beautiful.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
That’s why I stole it . . .

FLANAGAN
. . . So you / admit—

JAMES
I took it, but—Flyswatter isn’t you: it’s a story.

FLANAGAN (recovering, somewhat)

. . . Let’s pretend then, for a moment, for the sake of argument—let’s say this story which will on page sixteen into seventeen devolve into something quite dark and then page twenty-five, I believe, is it?, darker still—let’s pretend for the time being that your story is as you say “just a story.” It has nothing whatever to do with either you or me.

JAMES
Fine.

FLANAGAN
Fine: plot.

JAMES
What?

FLANAGAN
—Exactly! —Where’s your plot, my boy? Throw theme out the window—what’s really going on here?

JAMES
I don’t know—

FLANAGAN
—The eternal rejoinder!

JAMES
—I can’t spew it out just like that—it’s complicated—

FLANAGAN
Life is complicated—!

JAMES
—Exactly—!

FLANAGAN
—You’re afraid of making sense? Are you? Don’t you want to be understood?  

JAMES
—I don’t care who gets it—okay? I don’t care if it “makes sense” to everyone in the entire fucking world—I’m not writing for them.

FLANAGAN
—Who’s “them”?, your readers? —There won’t be any readers, Saint James, until you start making sense . . . !

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
So tell me: I want to know: what’s really going on here . . . ?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—This follows this follows—

JAMES
No.

FLANAGAN
“No.”

Why not?

JAMES
I don’t want / to.

FLANAGAN
—You don’t want to or you don’t know how / to?

JAMES
I know how—

FLANAGAN
—Then why won’t you—?

JAMES
—I don’t even have to be here, you know—with the door closed—.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES (the window)
. . .

FLANAGAN (suddenly quite gentle)
. . . I’m confused . . .

That’s all; I’m your reader, and you’ve got me wondering. And lost; lost and wandering in a darkness of your own making. And I need to know what all this darkness is for . . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (waiting)
. . . ?

JAMES
. . . There’s this guy—

FLANAGAN
A boy: how old is he?

JAMES
Seventeen. He lives with his mother.

FLANAGAN
—Where’s his father?

JAMES
Gone.

FLANAGAN
Does he have a / father?

JAMES
He did at one time . . .

FLANAGAN
But not anymore . . . Is he dead?

JAMES
He could be.

And it’s winter—in the story—the beginning of winter, like now—and it reminds the boy of another winter when his father abused him.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
And the boy remembers this abuse—in the story? —He remembers it in graphic detail—?

JAMES
That’s the / idea . . .

FLANAGAN
—But, you see, this is where I get lost, James—this is precisely where I can go no further with you: I understand he has this memory—we all have these memories—but do we need to see them in such graphic detail . . . ?

JAMES
Who’s “we”?

FLANAGAN
The readers.

JAMES
I have readers now?

FLANAGAN
Why not?

JAMES
—Absolutely.

FLANAGAN
Absolutely / what?

JAMES
You need to see the memory in such graphic detail.

FLANAGAN
Why . . . ?

JAMES
It’s more honest that way.

FLANAGAN
My dear boy, do you know what “fiction” means . . . ?

(Smiles, failing to cover teeth:)

There are ugly things in life. No one will quarrel you that point: people—children are hurt . . .

But it is not the business of art to replicate the ugliness of life.

JAMES
Hold a mirror up to life.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
That’s Hamlet.

FLANAGAN
Thank you . . . But you should know that Shakespeare said a lot of stupid things. He’s like the Bible that way. —And the Devil can cite scripture for his own purpose.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
That’s Merchant of Venice.

Now: mirrors notwithstanding, this story, like all your stories, is a lie—wait, yes, you are lying, because you don’t yet know what it is you ought to be writing about! You’re borrowing other tragedies—other people’s suffering, out the newspaper, off TV—simply because, and I hope you don’t mind me saying but it’s painfully obvious to anyone who cares to see, that you don’t want to write about yourself because you have nothing yet to write about!

JAMES
—How do you know I don’t have anything to write about?

FLANAGAN
Well do you?

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
Do you, James . . . ?

JAMES (the window)
. . .

FLANAGAN (slumps slowly back in his chair; sighs)
. . .

JAMES
. . . Can I turn a light on in / here?

FLANAGAN
No . . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . I find this time of day, this time of year . . . the shortest day of the year . . . it’s very sad, isn’t it . . .

—And beautiful . . . I find sad things quite beautiful, don’t you?
           
JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
—So the boy lives with his mother—

JAMES
Forget it—

FLANAGAN
—it’s winter—

JAMES
I don’t want to talk about it / anymore—

FLANAGAN
No no no no please!—this boy remembers—the abuse at the hands of a father is remembered by “Saint James” in graphic detail—

—Now where are we now?, in the story?

JAMES
I have soccer practice.

FLANAGAN
Soccer season’s over, Mr. Doyle, even I know that . . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (flipping through pages, he murmurs)

. . . and by way of Howth Castle and Environs . . .

JAMES (quietly)
. . . What are you even talking about?

FLANAGAN
—we come to the climactic confrontation between Flanagan and James.

JAMES
—You said Flanagan.

FLANAGAN
Did I? imagine that . . . I look down at the page in question: page twenty-five stoneface of text no paragraphs quotes one breathless interminable

I don’t understand a word of this.

JAMES
How many times have you read it?

FLANAGAN (exploding)
—You’re arrogant, you’re conceited, you hate your father terrifically—! It’s lovely, really . . . !

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN (calmly, eyes back in the page, as if posing a normal question)
Why does James kill his teacher, do you think?

JAMES
. . .

   FLANAGAN
On page twenty-five—no, twenty-six, here: he kills him with a gun, I presume—it’s / unclear.

JAMES
It’s a handgun.

FLANAGAN
. . . And where does he / get this—?

JAMES
It’s his father’s.

FLANAGAN
—His father’s around?

JAMES
Sometimes.

FLANAGAN
Why does his father have a gun?

JAMES
His father has lots of guns: because his father is a cop.

FLANAGAN
An Episcopal cop . . . ?

JAMES
. . .
                                               
FLANAGAN
And where does he keep this gun?—James:

When he comes to see his teacher in the office after school; does he keep the gun in his jacket . . . ?

JAMES
It’s in his bag. With his books.

FLANAGAN
. . .

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
May I see it, please . . . ?

(JAMES hesitates, leans forward, unzips the bag at his feet, digs around, comes up with a handgun.

He lays it gently on the desk between them.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)

(James sits back calmly, breathlessly, eyes on the gun.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . What are we going to do about this, James . . . ?

JAMES
. . . I don’t know . . .

FLANAGAN
You don’t—.

JAMES
. . .

FLANAGAN
. . . Would you like to kill me . . . ?

—I ask you that in all sincerity—

FLANAGAN
Why?

JAMES
Because you hate me. You hate all your students. Especially the boys.

(JAMES turns his gaze to the window.)

(FLANAGAN is speechless, shaken . . .

After a moment:)

JAMES (cont’d.)
I’ve got to go—

(He stands abruptly and reaches for the gun on the desk.

—But FLANAGAN is quicker: he takes the gun first.)

FLANAGAN (still seated)
I’m sorry I can’t let you have / that—

JAMES
It’s my father’s / gun—

FLANAGAN
—I can’t give it back to you / now, James—

JAMES
I promise / I won’t use it—

FLANAGAN (hugging the gun to himself)
—I’m sorry James but my hands are tied—!

(For a moment it looks like JAMES might cry.

Then as if he might try to wrest the gun from FLANAGAN.

But just as quickly he’s become disinterested . . .

He opens the office door.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)
. . . James?

(The boy turns around.)

FLANAGAN (cont’d.)

Will you turn the light on as you go . . . ?

(JAMES does so, as he exits.)

(FLANAGAN sits, breathing, gun in hand.)

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