Work Text:
WATCH VERY CLOSELY
A DRAMA AS TOLD IN ONE ACT.
Dramatis personae
Trucy Wright — A ten-year-old magician and daughter
Kristoph Gavin — A twenty-seven-year-old lawyer and friend
Phoenix Wright — A twenty-seven-year-old travesty and father
Zak Gramarye — ?
Black. Footsteps in the dark. We see the WRIGHTS' APARTMENT'S LIVING ROOM, formerly Wright and Co. Law Offices. Two couches face one another, separated by a glass coffee table piled high with sheets of homework, stationary, and magician's paraphernalia; wands, rings, cups. Two empty wine bottles stand on the ground next to one of the couches. The room is a mess, but homely — we get the impression that its residents do not exactly have a mind for tidiness. Cars from the street outside can be heard faintly in the background. The room's sole occupant, a ten-year-old girl wearing a t-shirt, shorts, and a top hat, looks up from her homework as the scene comes into light.
The door unlocks and two men enter from STAGE RIGHT. One is leaning heavily on the other. They slowly shuffle through the room. The leaning man waves vaguely at the girl, who waves back; the supporting man grunts and they carry on, disappearing through a door on the other side of the stage. They slam it shut behind them. Some time passes. The girl, TRUCY WRIGHT, goes back to her homework, scribbles vaguely into the margins of her paper before answering a math problem.
The door creaks open at last. The supporting man, KRISTOPH GAVIN, emerges. Not a single hair is out of place. There is nary a wrinkle on his waistcoat.
The pair regard each other for a moment. The lights dim at the edges of the room, but not over them.
Kristoph:
Good evening, Trucy.
Trucy:
Good evening, Mr. Gavin! Is Daddy okay?
Kristoph:
For the most part, yes. He will be ill for a day or two. Nothing more.
Trucy:
A day or two?
Kristoph:
With a mild fever. Maybe some vomiting. You really shouldn't concern yourself with it, Trucy.
Trucy (frowning):
He's my Daddy. Of course I'm going to concern myself.
Kristoph:
I just meant that you shouldn't concern yourself any extra.
KRISTOPH wanders around the apartment for a moment, lets his hand drift covetously over the bookshelves and the old desk, all stuffed with dusty textbooks. He comes up short in front of the piano. He picks up the pack of cigarettes lying on top of it.
Kristoph, cont'd:
I was not aware that Wright still smoked.
Trucy:
He doesn't. Those are old. He stopped when I said I didn't like the smell.
KRISTOPH pauses; he had been about to light one of the cigarettes with his Zippo.
Kristoph:
Would you mind much if I had one? Old vices, you understand.
Trucy (smiling a winning smile):
Go on ahead!
He leans against the piano and lights the cigarette, takes a long drag and exhales an exaggerated plume of smoke. TRUCY watches the cloud and sets down her pencil, leans back on the couch.
Kristoph:
These are foul.
Trucy:
He didn't like the taste, either. I think that was the biggest reason he quit. How are you, Mr. Gavin?
Kristoph:
I'm just fine, Trucy. And yourself?
Trucy:
Peachy! Will you be staying the night?
Kristoph:
Would you like me to?
Trucy:
Would you like to?
Kristoph:
I wouldn't want to impose. Besides, Vongole would be lonely. I'm sorry to disappoint.
Trucy (giggling):
You make it sound so important! I don't really care. I don't think Daddy will, either. (KRISTOPH'S eye twitches subtly.) But while you're around, do you want to help me with my math?
KRISTOPH walks over to where TRUCY is sitting and seats himself on the couch opposite her. He pulls her problem sheet over and looks down at it for a moment. She watches him, not closely, but close enough.
Kristoph:
Multiplying fractions? I always thought these were quite fun. Very procedural. (He picks up her pencil and begins filling in the answers.) You have trouble with these?
Trucy:
Oh, a whole bunch. (She casually picks up a piece of paper and tucks it into a bright blue duotang. We can see that this paper, too, is full of the same kinds of problems, each one solved in her handwriting.) Is—
A fit of intense coughing from off-stage, followed by the sounds of dry heaving.
Trucy, cont'd:
—I thought you said it wasn't that bad.
Kristoph:
I told you it was mild.
Trucy:
What did you say was wrong with him?
Kristoph:
It must have been something in his drink. He really should pay more mind to what he puts into his body; anyone could have slipped anything into his glass without him noticing. (He smiles wide.) Your father and his illnesses. It reminds me of his first trial.
Trucy:
Daddy was sick during his first trial?
Kristoph:
No, not his first trial as acting defense. By 'first trial' I mean the first time he stepped foot into a courtroom. I don't suppose he ever told you the story?
Trucy (raising a finger to her cheek in thought):
I don't think so.
Kristoph:
I don't see why he would. He didn't tell me, either. Would you like to hear it? It can be our little secret.
Trucy:
Sure!
Kristoph:
He was a very young man. Still in university. Can you imagine that, your father in university?
Trucy:
I've seen pictures! (She has not. In her head she is imagining her father, cheeks more rounded out, maybe, but otherwise the same as he is now. She cannot imagine her father in the time before her, despite having had seen him; it can be argued that perhaps none of us can. Fathers are mysteries until they start dying in hospital and all the secrets come flooding shamefully out, if there's enough time for it.) He was cute.
Kristoph:
He was not the murderer in that case, though they thought he was for a time. They thought he had killed a fellow student in a bit of a lover's quarrel. The other student had been, you see, the former boyfriend of his then-girlfriend, a Ms. Dahlia Hawthorne.
He carefully searches her face for recognition, and smiles when he sees none.
Kristoph, cont'd:
She was also the murderer, but I won't bore you with the specifics. He ate glass for her.
Trucy (genuinely shocked by the brutal implications of this):
What?
Kristoph:
She had gifted him a glass necklace. There were traces of poison inside. He ate it to protect her, so convinced was he of her innocence. Can you imagine that? He loved her so deeply that he crushed the glass and swallowed it all down like you or I might take down cough syrup. Nobody did anything of the sort when his own innocence was called into question; though I suppose that there was no question as to his guilt. What he did is not the sort of thing that can be covered up so easily, if at all, once it has been pointed out.
Trucy (recovered):
Oh, Mr. Gavin, what a silly thing to say! You can cover anything up. I can do it right now. (She picks up a few cards lying on the edge of the coffee table.) Are you watching closely?
KRISTOPH takes another pull off his cigarette and watches as she fans the collection of cards out, shuffles them with a skill far surpassing the level any ten-year-old should have. She moves her palm over them and half the cards vanish; she moves it again and the rest disappear very tidily as well.
Trucy, cont'd:
Ta-da! (She does a flourish and very deliberately moves her hand into a certain angle. The movement appears entirely accidental. The cards come spilling out of a seam in her glove.) Oh. Whoops!
Kristoph (laughing softly):
Not so easy after all. (He fills in another math question.) I found that anecdote quite interesting. Do you think your father would eat glass for you, Trucy?
Trucy:
Which one?
A beat. KRISTOPH looks up at her.
Kristoph:
The one in the same apartment as us.
Trucy (looking at the portrait of ZAK GRAMARYE over the piano):
Would he do it for you?
Kristoph:
No. Not yet, no.
Trucy:
Daddy's a weird guy. He does all kinds of silly stuff like that. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe for me. Maybe for you. Maybe for Auntie Maya, maybe for Mr. Eldoon. Why'd you stop with the math? It's due tomorrow morning, you know.
Kristoph:
It's awfully late for a girl your age to be up, no?
Trucy:
It's show business. My other Daddy taught me all about how to put on shows after just a few hours of sleep. It's pretty easy. Besides, I have to kiss Daddy goodnight or he gets nightmares. Magician's touch!
Kristoph:
I see. (He answers another question.)
Trucy:
He... (A beat. She plays at hesitating to say what she next says.) He wouldn't eat glass for you because you're not very nice to him, Mr. Gavin.
Kristoph:
I'm sorry?
Trucy:
Don't apologize to me, silly. Apologize to him.
Kristoph:
I don't know what you're talking about.
TRUCY thoughtlessly fiddles with one of the fallen cards for a moment. KRISTOPH watches her from behind the shine of his glasses. In the background, we can hear PHOENIX'S dry heaving start back up.
Trucy:
You say nice things to him, but you don't really mean it, right?
Kristoph:
Why wouldn't I?
Trucy:
I don't know. I'm just ten, Mr. Gavin. It's my girlish intuition. My other Daddy said women can tell these things.
Kristoph:
Are you a woman, then?
Trucy:
Not yet!
Kristoph:
Then why would you bring that up here?
Trucy (shrugging):
I might be one. Or I might not be.
Kristoph:
Why not? All girls grow up to be women eventually.
Trucy:
I could decide to stay a kid forever! Being a kid is nice. Daddy was a kid when he ate the glass, and things were a lot simpler for him then.
Kristoph:
I'd say they're simple for him now, too. Bang out some tunes on a piano, play a few rounds of poker. Nothing more to it. No offense.
Trucy:
None taken!
Kristoph:
There is, I suppose, a symmetry to his life. Directionless, directionless, but with a brief stretch of purpose in the middle there. A badge can get you all kinds of places in life.
Trucy:
It's okay if he's directionless! It means he has enough time to come see all my shows. I'm his cutest, smartest daughter, and he loves me, Mr. Gavin, in a different way from my old Daddy. My old Daddy was weird, too. And he taught me different things! Parlour tricks, mostly. And he taught me how to make people vanish. I could even make you vanish!
TRUCY dazzles him with her best, most charming smile. Her top hat is perched jauntily atop her head, her gloves almost shine in the encroaching dark. She is cute. She's used to this. The worst tragedies of her life can be punchlines if she spins them just the right way.
Kristoph:
You're his only daughter, Trucy. (A beat.) He would be devastated if he lost you. He would do something very drastic.
His words linger in the air, along with the smoke from his cigarette.
Kristoph, cont'd:
It's funny how things work like that. I'm sure he thinks he is a good father. He is a good father, I guess, because he loves you, and many fathers do not love their children. You lucked out. Both of yours did. But the best fathers don't put their children in harm's way. They don't, for example, drink to excess. They don't leave cigarettes within the reach of children. They don't leave strange men alone with their daughters.
Trucy:
You're not a strange man, Mr. Gavin. You're Mr. Gavin!
Kristoph:
As an example.
Trucy:
My old Daddy didn't have any kind of problem leaving me alone with strange men. He knew I could handle myself. I still can!
Kristoph:
I am sure that you can. Trucy?
Trucy:
Yeah?
Kristoph:
What if your mother came home for you right now? Or your father? Your old father. Would you go off with them?
Trucy:
People want a lot of things, Mr. Gavin. That doesn't mean that it's okay to get them all the time. My Daddy's right here. I love my old Mommy and my old Daddy, but I love this Daddy, too. A whole lot. (Her expression grows suddenly fierce.) Magicians aren't supposed to reveal their tricks, Mr. Gavin, and Daddy doesn't know all my tricks, and that's okay, too, because he's my favourite Daddy. I saw him in half and I stitch him back together. I fix him up and keep him good. I know what he needs.
Kristoph:
I see. (He lets ash fall onto the cushions.) You are a very formidable young— girl.
Trucy:
I know I am! I'm the very best there could possibly be!
Kristoph;
And how lucky Wright is to have you. Who knows where he would be without. (He slides the paper back to her.) All done.
Trucy:
Gee, thanks! I sure owe you one.
Kristoph:
I'll cash that one in now: make sure your father doesn't choke on his own vomit in the night, will you?
Trucy:
He never does! I kiss him goodnight, remember?
KRISTOPH stands up and walks over to the window. He snubs his cigarette out with the kind of brutal efficiency that suggests the concrete of the ledge is not the surface he wants to grind the burning embers into. He throws the butt out into the Los Angeles night.
Kristoph:
That can be our secret, too. You won't tell, will you?
Trucy:
A magician never tells.
He smooths a minute wrinkle out of his pants, walks over to her and hesitates before dropping a hand onto her head as if he is going to ruffle her hair; instead, he just squeezes once, lightly.
Kristoph:
Goodnight, Trucy.
Trucy:
Goodnight, Mr. Gavin! Give Vongole lots of kisses for me, okay?
KRISTOPH smiles and leaves from STAGE RIGHT. TRUCY waits until she is sure he is gone and then allows herself to collapse, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. She bends down, lets her arms dangle loosely from their sockets, and she shudders, once, twice. More retching from PHOENIX off-stage.
Trucy:
Let's make these problems disappear!
She straightens herself out, shakes each limb once and with vigour, and then leaves from STAGE LEFT. When she comes back, she has a glass of water and a cold compress. She troops into PHOENIX'S ROOM and comes back out a few minutes later. She leaves from STAGE LEFT again. The lights dim, and go dark.
END—
PHOENIX WRIGHT stumbles from STAGE RIGHT into the empty LIVING ROOM. The clock above the door indicates three hours have passed. His face is pale; the stench of death wafts off of him like a fog; he looks wasted. He sniffs, winces at the sweet reek of smoke still hanging in the air. He picks the cigarette packet up and trips over to the portrait of ZAK GRAMARYE watching, beatific, almost angel-like, over the scene. The lights shut off. A single spotlight beams down on him.
He coughs.
Phoenix (voice faint and rough and weak):
When you made me play that game with you, I thought it would be easy. Nothing's easy, is it? Kids aren't easy. Love isn't easy. Jesus.
It is unclear what he means. It is unclear if he knows what he means by the word 'kids' or the word 'love'; it is unclear if he even knows his own name. He believes he can love. He definitely loves his Trucy. That must count for something.
He coughs, harder.
Phoenix, cont'd:
Am I doing right by her? Can you just tell me if I'm doing the right fucking thing? Though I guess— who am I even asking, right? She's my daughter. She's my smart daughter. She's so alive. She smiles and it's like watching the yolk come out of an egg.
He coughs, hardest. He coughs so much and so hard that he bends over with the force of it, clutches at his abdomen, a tree in hurricane-force winds. Something red and wet and fleshy falls out of his mouth and lands with a squelch on the floor.
Phoenix, finally:
oh
oh
oh
END.