The Prince of Tides Page #3

I don't know.

I have to get back to the hospital.

It's late.

I can't see you tomorrow

till about 7:
30. Okay?

Lowenstein!

What's your first name?

Why?

Why not?

It's just that my patients

call me Dr. Lowenstein.

But I'm not your patient.

Susan.

Thank you, doctor. I won't use your

name. I just wanted to know it.

Be on time.

- Eight bucks a pound.

- Eight bucks a pound? For shrimp?

- Are they fresh?

- Yeah!

They're today's. They're gorgeous.

- I'll take a pound.

- Let me at the scale.

Shrimp Newburg? For chrissakes,

Lila, it's got wine in it!

It's garbage!

It's elegant food, Henry. And it's

gonna get me into Colleton League.

That's a joke. Why do you think

they got a Colleton League?

To keep people like you out.

Joop!

Why do you want to join anyway, Mama,

if they don't want you?

Of course they want me.

They just don't know it yet.

Even the dog won't eat it.

Goddamn it! I work hard all day long

to come home and eat this sh*t?

I think it's good.

- Who asked you?

- Nobody.

Nobody.

Tip your head up, boy.

You ain't gonna cry, are you?

What did I tell you about crying?

What did I tell you about

crying in this house?

Put the hands in your lap.

Sit up straight!

Come on, sit up straight.

You gonna cry now?

Savannah, get this little girl

one of your dresses.

Why are you so mean?

Henry, why don't I get you

another supper?

There's leftover hash and rice.

I'll heat it up.

Give me a hand, Tom.

You go out in the kitchen

with the rest of the girls.

Bully on somebody your own size.

Can't anyone take a joke around here?

I'll help, Mama.

I want you to melt

this butter, Savannah.

Heat up this rice. You chop that

onion into fine little pieces, Tom.

And the Yankees are back out in front.

I'm sorry, Mama.

There's nothing to be sorry for.

Marry into nothing, you get nothing.

Add some pepper, Tom.

Hand me that Worcestershire sauce.

Your mouth is hanging open, child.

Nice and spicy.

All I want is a good,

plain American meal!

Here you go, darling.

Now, this is food, Lila.

Eat up, children.

So your mother fed him dog food, huh?

He even asked for a second helping.

Maybe you got your sense

of humor from your mother.

Very funny.

She called today, very concerned

about Savannah.

Don't believe a word she says.

She's a liar.

That's interesting. She said

you'd tell lies about her.

That figures.

I saw Herbert Woodruff come out of your

office. He sure can play the fiddle.

You're changing the subject.

What's wrong with him?

Just kidding.

I can't believe anybody

with that kind of money has troubles.

Are you really that provincial?

Oh, hell, yes. So is Savannah.

When we were kids, the only way to

get off our island was by boat.

We grew up on a tidal plain.

A tidal plain? What does that mean?

Tides mean everything, Lowenstein.

They measure everything.

Moods, seasons,

the time to plant...

...to fish, to mate.

It's primitive. Biological clocks

ticking all over the place.

Sounds like a nice way to live.

What else did she say, my mother?

She said that she was the one who

encouraged Savannah to become a poet.

Is that true?

Jesus Christ!

That woman has no shame.

Wanna know how

she encouraged Savannah?

- By burning her childhood journals.

- Why'd she burn them?

Because Savannah was being disloyal,

writing about our hideous family.

What's hideous about your family?

Are you asking me to be disloyal?

If that's what it takes

to help Savannah, yes.

Aren't we about done?

What time is it?

We still have a few more minutes.

What did Savannah do after your

mother burned her journals?

She took her fingers, and she

wrote in the sand.

And then she wrote in the air.

She wrote poetry so mother

wouldn't understand it.

In a sense, your mother

helped to create a poet.

Bullshit, Lowenstein.

She created a schizophrenic.

My mother should've raised cobras,

not children.

Can you tell me anything good

about your parents?

No.

Try.

They did two really good things:

Luke and Savannah.

Incredible people.

Passionate, defiant, not for sale.

What about you?

Oh, I was a courteous Southern boy

that did what he was told.

I was responsible and normal and dull.

I don't know what normal is,

and you're anything but dull.

Compared to them, I was.

Your sister's in the hospital,

and your brother's dead.

You must be doing something right.

You can go now.

Time's up.

Good night.

"Women and men

Both little and small

Cared for anyone not at all

They sowed their isn't

They reaped their same

Sun, moon, stars, rain

Children guessed

But only a few

And down they forgot

As up they grew. "

So this began a series

of confessional days...

...when I spun out the history

of Savannah's past...

...in order to keep her alive.

By the second week,

I'd developed the New York willies.

The guilt that every

out-of-towner feels...

...if he's not improving his mind

every goddamn second.

I made a list of things I should do.

Museums, plays, run six miles

in under 50 minutes.

See three foreign films

all at the same time.

Anything not to feel guilty.

Tom, how old was Savannah when you

first realized...

...something was wrong with her?

About 7 or 8.

Anything specific happen?

My mother had a baby at home.

It was stillborn.

She told us it died

because we were bad.

Anyway, we were gonna bury it

the next day...

...so Dad wrapped it in some towels

and put it in the freezer.

That night, I got up

to get a drink of water...

...and I saw Savannah sitting

in the rocking chair...

...with the dead baby in her arms.

She was saying...

..."You're the lucky one because you

don't have to live with us. "

Did you say anything to her?

The next day I did, but she didn't

remember anything about it.

When I told her, she said...

..."Why would anyone do a crazy thing

like that?"

So you were her memory even then?

I guess so.

Goddamn locks!

I'm coming! I'm coming!

What was that again?

I'm learning to speak the language

of the natives here. Hi, Sally.

How's it going down there?

It's just sort of blowing up a storm.

I got the girls' drawings.

- Did they get my letters?

- Yes, and they loved them.

Good! Did you get my letter?

Tom?

It's not a good idea for you

to come home this weekend.

Why not?

I'm just not sure that I want

to see you right now.

I have a lot to figure out.

What's the point, Tom?

I mean, let's face it...

...we don't make each other

feel good anymore.

Right.

Look...

...I didn't want to tell you this

on the telephone.

I wanted to tell you before you left.

But the way you left...

...there wasn't any time.

What did you want to tell me, Sally?

What's his name?

What's his name, Sally?

The man must have a name.

Jack Cleveland.

Oh, no. Oh, no!

Oh, Jesus, Sally!

Jack Cleveland?

That aging, pompous hippie from the

hospital who still rides a motorcycle?

Oh, for chrissakes, Sally!

Why him?

Why him?

Because he knows how he feels about me.

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