A Wolf by Any Other Name

by Marina J. Neary

1916, California. An enclosed patio of ranch house. JACK is half-asleep under a pile of blankets, shivering and tossing in his sleep, a shadow of the robust man he once was. Perspiration and pallor indicate that his internal organs are failing. There is a bottle of morphine on a nightstand.

CHARMIAN, his second wife, is sitting on the edge of his bed, smoking. As JACK’s movements become more erratic, his hands kneading the blankets, she sits down on the bed and traps his hands. JACK gasps and opens his eyes.

CHARMIAN: Another train chase?

JACK: I was dreaming of my negro wet nurse, Mrs. Prentiss. I can feel my fingers and teeth sink into her sooty flesh. An Anglo-Saxon parasite ... (He gives CHARMIAN a chance to react, but when she doesn’t, he lets out a dispirited sigh.) You aren’t laughing.

CHARMIAN: I did, the first two times.

JACK: I’m becoming redundant, eh?

CHARMIAN: Well, it’s one of the symptoms: forgetfulness.

JACK (winces and fumbles with his blankets): You have that look. That ... I-spoke-to-the-doctor look.

CHARMIAN: I’d be lying if I said the conversation was comforting.

JACK: We have syphilis. Congratulations, Mate Woman! Now we can truly call ourselves Bohemians.

CHARMIAN: Nothing exciting like that. The medical term is uremia.

JACK: English, please.

CHARMIAN: You have blood in your piss, Jack. Or piss in your blood? Either way, your bodily fluids are all mixed up.

JACK: Nothing a few shots of rum won’t cure. There should be a bottle of J. Wray’s in the cellar.

CHARMIAN: The cellar is empty. The last bottle was donated to the whorehouse down the road.

JACK: You ... you wouldn’t do that to me.

CHARMIAN: I did. That cocktail of rum and morphine is killing you, Jack. Disease doesn’t care how many copies of The Sea-Wolf you’ve sold. Royalties won’t buy you another set of kidneys.

JACK: You’re starting to sound like my first wife. Good old Bessie, Mother Girl... So devoted to purity and temperance.

CHARMIAN: What did you see in that frigid cow?

JACK: A promise of sturdy offspring, perhaps.

CHARMIAN: Something I clearly failed to provide.

JACK: Did I ever hold that against you?

CHARMIAN: Oh, no. (Brushes off the ashes from her skirt) You were the model of stoicism at our daughter’s funeral. You didn’t even get drunk that day.

JACK: Someone had to supervise the undertakers. Grave-digging is an art.

CHARMIAN: The moment they lowered the casket, you ran off to shake hands with your reporter friends from the San Francisco Examiner. It took you two whole seconds to recover from Joy’s death!

JACK: I simply don’t argue with superior forces. I don’t subscribe to that mystical bosh about angels, but I do believe in natural selection. Our daughter just wasn’t among the selected. She had a hole in her heart.

CHARMIAN: And your piggish behavior throughout my pregnancy had nothing to do with it.

JACK: My piggish behavior is what made me so appealing in your eyes. Let’s be candid. Dull, pious men bore you. Just like my saintly first wife bored me. I got two brats out of that marriage, whom I barely see. All they do is pester me for money.

CHARMIAN: Adolescent girls have costly needs.

JACK: I’ve noticed. First Joan wanted dance lessons. Then Becky fancies herself an actress.

CHARMIAN: I could teach them music, but their mother won’t let them near me. I can picture Bessie gloating: “God punished that Kittredge harlot by rendering her childless.”

JACK: Stop it. Bessie wouldn’t compromise her eternal salvation by gloating. I’m sure she prayed for you and your wretched baby. We both know the truth, darling. It’s not God’s wrath or my bastard antics. It’s your age.

CHARMIAN: My age...

JACK: I knew you were past your breeding prime when I married you. And you were so keen on procreation, you wouldn’t have waited until your mid-thirties. You spent your most fertile years studying opera. Nature is cruel to women.

CHARMIAN: Thank you for the reminder.

JACK: So, you’re barren! I made my peace with it. Why can’t you? I took you halfway across the world on a yacht. Does that count for anything? I’ve shown you Australia and Hawaii. Not to mention, immortalized you in my last novel.

CHARMIAN: Now that’s a questionable compliment. You exposed our home life to the world.

JACK: A small price to pay for being Mrs. London. If you wanted quiet domestic bliss and anonymity, you shouldn’t have married a writer. Berkeley is swarming with clever, adventurous girls who’d give anything for a moment in your shoes. I could have a new mistress every day.

CHARMIAN: That would be exhausting. Don’t do this to yourself, Jack. You aren’t that fond of women.

JACK: Not if they give away my finest rum. (Chuckles) You must admit, I’m an amusing drunk. Pink elephants and blue mice...

CHARMIAN: I’ve always had my doubts about your tastes.

JACK: Do elaborate.

CHARMIAN: All your female characters have boyish figures. They are all flat-chested, with knobby knees and coltish mannerisms.

JACK: So?

CHARMIAN: You don’t seem to admire the womanly form. It strikes you as foreign. Can you deny that your most sensual passages are dedicated to men? I’ve transcribed enough of your works, darling. You reserve your ardor for your own sex. Be truthful now. It wasn’t Mabel Applegarth who broke your heart, was it? It wasn’t even that Strunsky girl you tried to recruit as a co-author. It was that Danish oyster pirate who got shot by the police. A bit older than you, bold and strapping.

JACK (innocently): Nielsen? That was quarter of a century ago.

CHARMIAN: Yet you kept the article announcing his death. I dare not imagine what went on between the two of you aboard that sloop. Clearly, that Scandinavian giant left quite an imprint on your heart. His ghost keeps reappearing in your books. Nielsen became Wolf Larsen.

JACK: For the record, the captain was based on Alex McLain.

CHARMAIN: Another broad-chested brute! You mixed the elements and molded your idol. A wolf by any other name—

JACK: You’re delirious!

CHARMIAN: Quite the opposite. I’m perceptive. I know why you marinade your kidneys in alcohol. Your unorthodox leanings come through in your prose. Tell me I’m wrong.

JACK: And if I tell you that you’re not wrong, will you pour me a shot of rum?

CHARMIAN: I told you: the cellar is empty.

JACK: It’s not. I can smell rum on your breath... even through the tobacco. Yes, my senses are still sharp enough. You reek like a skipper.

CHARMIAN: And that excites you, doesn’t it?

JACK: Just get me the bloody drink, will you? I’m glad we’re having this candid talk. I don’t have much time left, so here’s your chance to voice your grievances and beat any confession out of me. You win, Mate Woman. I’m in no position to bite the hand that holds the cellar key. Just one shot of J. Wray’s, for old time’s sake.

CHARMIAN nods, reluctantly slips of his bed and walks out, throwing one last fearful glance over her shoulder. Left alone, JACK picks up a bottle of morphine from the nightstand and drinks the content in one gulp. He falls back against the pillows, eyes closed, with an expression of relief upon his gaunt face. Gradually, his breathing gets shallow and faint.