Affliction

CREDITS:

Still-life tableaus. Lawford, N.H., a town of fifty buildings

on a glacial ridge, neither mountain nor plateau. Developed

as 1880's forestland, discarded in the Depression. Winter

has set in. Halloween day. Snowy fields yield to overcast

skies:
oppressive, horizonless, flourescent.

-- Wickham's Restaurant. Where Route 29 bends. 24-hour diner.

Margie Fogg works here.

-- Trailer park in shadow of Parker Mountain. Home of Wade

Whitehouse.

-- Toby's Inn. Roadhouse three miles from town on the river

side of Route 29. Everything not tied down ends up here.

-- Glen Whitehouse farm. White clapboard.

-- First Congregational Church. North on the Common from

City Hall.

-- LaRiviere Co. Ramshackle well-digging firm embarrassingly

near the town center. Wade works here.

-- Merritt's Shell Station. Cinder-block.

-- Alma Pittman's house. Like so many others.

-- Town Hall.

ROLFE WHITEHOUSE'S VOICE, thirtiesh, articulate, speaks over

credit tableaus:

ROLFE (V.O.)

This is the story of my older

brother's strange criminal behavior

and disappearance. We who loved him

no longer speak of Wade. It's as if

he never existed. By telling his

story like this, as his brother, I

separate myself from his family and

those who loved him. Everything of

importance -- that is, everything

that gives rise to the telling of

this story -- occurred during a single

deer-hunting season in a small town

in upstate New Hampshire where Wade

was raised and so was I. One night

something changed and my relation to

Wade's story was different from what

it had been since childhood. I mark

this change by Wade's tone of voice

during a phone call two nights after

Halloween. Something I had not heard

before. Let us imagine that around

eight o'clock on Halloween Eve,

speeding past Toby's, Route 29, comes

a pale green eight-year-old Ford

Fairlane with a police bubble on

top. A square-faced man wearing a

trooper's cap is driving the vehicle.

Beside him sits a child, a little

girl with a plastic tiger mask

covering her face. The man is driving

fast --

-- Route 29 tableau dissolves to night. A pale green police

Ford Fairlane drives past.

END CREDITS:

INT./EXT. POLICE CAR - NIGHT

WADE WHITEHOUSE, driving, sits beside JILL, his daughter,

ten years-old, wearing a black-and-yellow tiger plastic mask.

WADE:

I'm sorry for the screw-up. But I

couldn't help it it's too late to go

trick-or-treating now. I couldn't

help it I had to stop at Penny's for

the costume. And you were hungry,

remember.

JILL:

Who's fault is it then if it's not

yours? You're the one in charge,

Daddy.

WADE:

(shakes cigarette

from pack)

Yeah.

JILL:

Look. Those kids are still trick-or-

treating. They're still out.

Wade watches boys in the headlights, lights cigarette.

WADE:

Those are the Hoyts.

JILL:

I don't care. They're out.

WADE:

Can't you see... look out there.

Nobody's got their porch lights on

anymore. It's too late. Those Hoyt

kids are just out to get in trouble.

See, they put shaving cream all over

that mailbox there. They chopped

down Herb Crane's new bushes. Little

bastards. Jesus H. Christ.

Wade grimaces, holds his jaw. The Fairlane swerves around

broken pumpkins under a caution light.

JILL:

Why do they do that?

WADE:

Do what?

JILL:

You know.

WADE:

Break stuff?

JILL:

Yeah. It's stupid.

WADE:

I guess they're stupid.

JILL:

Did you do that when you were a kid?

WADE:

Well, yeah. Sort of. Nothing really

mean. Me and my pals, me and my

brothers. It was kind of funny then.

Stealing pumpkins, soaping windows.

Stuff like that.

JILL:

Was it funny?

WADE:

To us it was.

JILL:

But it's not funny now.

WADE:

It's not funny now. I'm a cop and I

gotta listen to all the complaints

people make. I'm not a kid anymore.

You change.

JILL:

I bet you did lots of bad things.

WADE:

What are you talking about?

JILL:

I just think you used to be bad.

WADE:

No. I didn't used to be bad. No sir.

Where do you get this stuff? From

your mother?

JILL:

No. She doesn't talk about you

anymore.

Wade looks at her, wanting to lift her mask, see her face.

CUT TO:

EXT. TOWN HALL - NIGHT

The Fairlane approaches Town Hall, a square two-story building

on the north side of the Common. Exhaust billows from idling

cars as parents and children come and go.

CUT TO:

INT. TOWN HALL - NIGHT

Clowns, tramps, angels and vampires fill the brightly lit

room. Parents watch from the walls as GORDON LARIVIERE, a

beefy fiftiesh man with a silver flat-top, announces the

costume contest. Wade nods to various townspeople.

LARIVIERE:

We're looking for the funniest

costume! And the scariest! And the

most imaginative! And the best costume

of all!

WADE:

(nudges Jill)

Got here just in time. Go ahead.

Jump in line. Maybe you'll win a

prize.

Jill steps forward, retreats. Wade looks at her flaxen hair,

her blue sneakers protruding from her pathetic costume. His

heart aches he loves her so.

WADE:

Go on, Jill. Some of those kids you

still know.

JILL:

I don't want to.

WADE:

Why? Why not? You know these kids

from when you went to school here.

It hasn't been that long.

JILL:

It's not that.

WADE:

What then?

JILL:

It's stupid.

WADE:

It's fun.

JILL:

(voice breaking)

I want to go home.

(Wade kneels down)

I don't like it here.

WADE:

Oh, Jesus, come on, will you? Don't

mess this up anymore than it's already

been messed up. Join the other kids.

Do that and before you know it you'll

be as happy as a goddamned clam.

Wade inches her toward the circle of children. Gordon spots

them:

LARIVIERE:

Wade! And who's that tiger? Is that

Jill? Come and join us.

Jill in the spotlight, joins the costumed children. A former

classmate calls her name. Wade, relieved, watches, then steps

outside for a smoke.

CUT TO:

EXT. TOWN HALL - NIGHT

Wade steps outside, lights a cigarette. JACK HEWITT, 23,

clean-cut, handsome, cocky, stands with CHICK WARD and FRANKIE

LACOY, local boys.

WADE:

What are you boys up to?

CHICK:

Same old sh*t.

FRANKIE:

You see the damage these little sons-

of b*tches been raising tonight?

WADE:

(to Jack)

You're going to have to move your

pickup.

JACK:

I know.

CHICK:

(offers whiskey pint)

Take a bite.

WADE:

Don't mind if I do.

JACK:

LaRiviere's having a hell of a time

in there. Master of f***ing

ceremonies.

WADE:

Where's that gun you were bragging

on today?

Jack stops over to his double-parked burgandy pickup, removes

a Browning BAR .30/06 with a scope, hands it to Wade.

JACK:

No brag. Just fact.

WADE:

(admires gun)

Got you for -- 450, 500 bucks?

(passes it to Frankie)

FRANKIE:

Nice.

JACK:

(to Wade)

See you got Jill tonight. How'd you

manage that?

WADE:

(turns)

Don't forget to move your truck.

(walks inside)

CUT TO:

INT. TOWN HALL - NIGHT

On stage, LaRiviere arranges the contest winners. A fairy

godmother with a wand beams while, nearby, a hobo writhes in

his mother's grip -- a hard loser.

Wade looks for Jill, first among the winners, then among the

losers; she's nowhere to be found. He heads toward a hall

leading to the restrooms.

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