"I won't."
"Then I'll cut you down where you stand. Defend yourself, sir!"
Valentine raised his sword and began walking slowly toward his son. The blade hissed through the air, once, twice. Then a quiet, mild voice came from the wings.
"All right, that's enough of that, Mr. Valentine. Not one more step."
Sparky and Valentine both jerked in surprise, and turned to see a tall, lanky form walk slowly from behind the curtain. He wore a beige, wide-brimmed felt Stetson, a homespun blue shirt and leather vest, and baggy gray pants. His boots were dusty and broken in. Strapped low around his waist was a gunbelt and holsters, and in them could be seen the butts of two revolvers.
"Who the hell are you?" Valentine thundered.
"Elwood, stay out of this," Sparky said.
"My name is Tom Destry, Mr. Valentine. I'm a friend of—"
"You look just like Jimmy Stewart."
"I've been told that. Don't know the gentleman. Sparky and I go way back, though. Clear back to his first day at the studio."
"My son's name is Kenneth."
Elwood shook his head. "Not right now, it isn't. You see, Mr. Valentine, right about then, that first day when you left him alone all day while you were off on your audition, or whatever it was, your boy needed a friend. And that's what I've been to him, as well as I can be."
"Elwood, please..."
"Sparky, somebody has to do this."
They made a rough triangle, the three of them. Sparky mostly looking down at the floor, darting quick glances from one man to the other. Elwood stood at his ease, his hands dangling at his sides. Valentine could not stand still. He paced, two steps to the right, three steps back, in no pattern. His eyes blazed, and they never wavered from Elwood.
"Who is this man, Kenneth?" he asked, his voice dangerously low. "Some extra you've befriended?"
"This is Elwood P. Dowd, Father. He's my friend."
"Elwood P.—" Valentine cut a quick glance at his son, then looked back at Elwood, threw his head back, and roared with laughter.
"Well, Mr. Dowd, it's a pleasure, sir. I feel like I've known you all my life. And Kenneth, pray tell, where is your other... why, there he is now!" Valentine strode lightly toward Elwood, who stood his ground, and made an elaborate show of throwing his arm over an invisible companion's shoulders. "Welcome, welcome, sir! It's been such a long time. Are you well? Are you happy? I must say your fur is looking exceptionally fine today. Where do you have it done? You don't say! What's that... well, I'm sorry, Harvey, I don't have any carrots with me. Didn't know you were coming, and all that. But how about a martini? That's your drink, isn't it? A dry martini..."
He dropped his arm, looked sadly at his son, and shook his head.
"Your friend is a nut, Kenneth. I see it now. Tom Destry, of all people. He dresses up like a Tom Mix cowboy, and strides forth to protect you from your own father. That is what you're here for, isn't it, Mister... Dowd? Destry? Are you sure who you are?"
"The drink is milk, sir, and the name is still Destry."
"Or Stewart. Tell me, Jimmy, if you're here as a tough guy of some sort, why not that marshal, Guthrie McCabe, in Two Rode Together? Or that outlaw in Bandolero!—what was his name... Mace Bishop. Or even that lawyer fella, Ransom Stoddard, the one who shot Liberty Valance. What's the matter, tenderfoot? Law books no damn good? Is that why you're packing?"
Elwood/Tom seemed bemused by the speech. He looked at Sparky.
"You told me he had a photographic memory for plots and cast lists," he said. "I don't know if I'da remembered all of those m'self."
"Dramatis personae," Valentine said. "That's the term we actors use."
"Meaning I'm not one," Destry said. "No, I don't reckon I am, sir, not of your caliber, certainly. You can mock me all you want, Mr. Valentine. I can take it. It's the boy over there who can't take it anymore. I know everything about you there is to know, sir. Every small-minded deed, every slight you've ever given him. Every blow you've ever landed."
"I'm his teacher," Valentine growled.
"And a good one, too, so far as that goes. If all a teacher's for is to develop a skill, why, you're a darn good one. But I happen to think being a teacher, and a father, means a lot more than that, Mr. Valentine. And by that standard, you've completely failed him. He lives in fear of you. He's a man's size, but he's still a boy when he faces you. You won't let him go, and he can't break away from you."
Valentine looked astonished.
"And why would he want to? He and I are joined at the hip, sir. It has always been that way, and it will always remain so. We are united by our art, something a pathetic gesticulator like yourself could never understand, and by something a great deal deeper than that. Kenneth, tell him." He turned to his son. "I have been strict with you, I've never denied it. It takes strictness, discipline, and an artist suffers it willingly. But everything I have ever done has been done from love. Tell him, son."
Sparky, his clothing tattered and soaked in blood, swayed and thought once more that he would pass out. He looked helplessly from his father to Elwood, and back again.
For the first time a furrow of doubt creased John Valentine's brow as he saw his son's battered condition. He held out his hand, started to say something, then turned away from them both. When he faced them again, there were tears in his eyes. He grimaced, rubbed his face.
"Listen to me," he said, sadly. "And look at you. I've done it again, haven't I?"
"Father..."
"No, son, don't say anything. I stand revealed, once more, as a coward and a poltroon. Look what I've done to you."
"Father, I know you never mean—"
"Sparky!" Elwood warned.
"You stay out of this!" Valentine bellowed. "Kenneth, do you understand that I love you, more than life itself?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then all I can do is apologize again. I have overplayed my role, and there is no forgiveness for that, but I hope I still have your love."
"You do, Father."
Valentine held out his hand toward his son.
"Then let's go get you to a medic, and after that, to the police. You can file charges against me."
"No, Father."
"It's your decision. I'll abide by it. Perhaps it would be best for me. I can't seem to control my temper. Maybe there is some way I can be helped."
"Father, I—"
"You know I've never had much use for psychiatry. It seems to me they know less about the human mind than I do. But maybe there is some form of medication, some pill or brain treatment...."
"That's an awful idea," Sparky said. "You know how those pills you used to take after that... after the time you... well, you know what I mean. You could hardly remember your lines after a walk across the stage."
Valentine smiled. "You remember that, do you? Oh, it wasn't so bad. And if I have to, we'll just cast someone else in my role. I'll stay on as director." He laughed. "Who ever said a director needs to remember lines?"
He still had his hand extended toward his son, and now there was a hint of edginess in his eyes, as if he knew the gesture had gone on too long, with no response from Sparky. The boy had not said no, but he hadn't taken the hand, either.
"Come on, son. Let's get out of here. We'll put the whole show on hiatus if we have to. We'll get you up to snuff on the fencing. No more cutting, I promise. We can talk about the rest of it, too. I'm going to change, Kenneth, I promise you."
After a momentary hesitation Sparky started toward his father.