<\/p>\n
Scene 1<\/strong><\/p>\n <\/p>\n (A young man, Peter, enters the rundown, old chapel from the cemetery. He is dripping with rain and looking for Reverend Matthews. The Reverend is sitting in the first pew, gazing up at the large crucifix hanging above the altar. He sees Peter, and beckons him forward with a sad smile. He embraces him.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Reverend, I\u2026 I just wanted to thank you for organizing, y\u2019know, the service. And the arrangements, flowers, the grave\u2026 and everything. I know Mom wasn\u2019t feeling up for it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Of course. It\u2019s the least I could have done. I know it must be difficult. (Peter nods awkwardly.)<\/em> I heard you\u2019re graduating art school soon. Congratulations. You\u2019ve come a long way. (He shakes Peter\u2019s hand firmly, warmly.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Thank you. (He shuffles his feet, and looks up at the huge crucifix hanging behind the altar.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER (cont.). Is this\u2026?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. It is. His last work, a gorgeous piece. I insisted on paying, but he wouldn\u2019t take it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (chuckles bitterly, shaking his head.<\/em>) That doesn\u2019t sound like him. (He looks out the door, at the slowly emptying cemetery.<\/em>)<\/p>\n REVEREND. Shouldn\u2019t you be going to the reception? He is<\/em> your father.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Was <\/em>my father.<\/p>\n \u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n REVEREND. Was. My apologies. (He bows his head.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. It\u2019s fine. I don\u2019t really think my mom wants me around anyways. I only came home to pay my respects. To say goodbye. I\u2019m driving back up to school tomorrow. Thought I might stay at the church a little longer, see how much it\u2019s changed. I grew up here, after all. (He takes a look around, guiltily<\/em>). I guess you didn\u2019t renovate after all.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (shakes his head.<\/em>) Peter, she\u2019s your mother. Of course she\u2019d want you to be with her. The church isn\u2019t going anywhere, while she needs you more than ever.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. She doesn\u2019t, trust me. And besides, I don\u2019t want to be there either. I doubt he\u2019d<\/em> want me there. Especially when my last words to him were\u2026 (A long pause.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. He was a hard man, Peter. He had his gifts, it\u2019s true, but people never really came easy to him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. He was an asshole.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (smiles sadly.<\/em>) Yes. And yet you grieve for him all the same. (Silence. Peter turns away.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (scoffs<\/em> angrily<\/em>) I can\u2019t believe she buried him at a church cemetery. A fucking church. Of all people\u2026 (he glares at the cross.<\/em>) \u2026 him? Should\u2019ve cremated him, and thrown his ashes away. I don\u2019t remember the last time he came here willingly. Mom always had to drag him to the doors. (laughs<\/em>) Hey, he used to corner you after service and try to debate theology with you, remember? As if he could win against an ordained minister. For someone who called himself a Christian, he sure hated God\u2019s guts. Though my mom tried pretty damn hard to change that.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Your mother\u2019s determination is<\/em> truly something to be admired.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. They\u2019re both so stubborn. (laughs mirthfully<\/em>) Made for each other, really. (pause.<\/em>) She wanted to save him so badly, you know. She wants to save everybody, including me. Well, I ran away from home because of him, because she couldn\u2019t give up on saving him. Stole from the both of them. Broke her heart. I guess neither of us really deserves saving. (turns away from the Reverend, smirking.<\/em>) She prayed all fucking week, Rev. From the moment he got hospitalized, until they pulled the plug. You know she didn\u2019t sleep? Or eat? Crazy woman. He treated her like shit, but I bet she\u2019s still praying for his soul right now. What\u2019s the use? I bet God wouldn\u2019t even let him in—even if there is a God. And I don\u2019t really think there is. (stares defiantly at the Reverend.<\/em>) What do you think of that, huh Rev?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Well, I think you\u2019re wrong on that one. I wouldn\u2019t be a very good minister if I agreed with you, would I?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. You\u2019d be a minister with a sense of humor.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (smiles<\/em>) Those are hard to come by.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (laughs heartily.<\/em>) Aw, jeez, I\u2019m awful, aren\u2019t I? My old man\u2019s dead, I broke his heart, and I\u2019m cracking jokes. Cursing in a church. Spouting blasphemy. I\u2019m almost as bad as he is. (pause<\/em>.) Was. (He looks away. They stand in silence for a minute.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. He loved you, Peter.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. He never showed it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. He did. In his own way. A painful, stunted way, but it was love regardless.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. It wasn\u2019t enough. (He sits down, heavily. He gazes up at the cross.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. We can only repeat the love that we are shown, Peter. That\u2019s all we are, echoes. His brand of loving was cruel, but it was never your fault.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (sneers.<\/em>) Oh, I\u2019m sure he\u2019d disagree. He reminded me every single day that it was my fault. I wasn\u2019t smart enough, I was lazy, I was selfish, I was an ungrateful little shit. I\u2019d amount to nothing. I was nothing. Sometimes I wished I was one of his stupid sculptures. They were more like his children than I ever was. And they didn\u2019t even have to do<\/em> anything. Just sit there and exist.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (pause<\/em>.) I saw him in his studio once. Pounding away at a piece of marble like it had done something horrible to him. I wouldn\u2019t want to be one of his sculptures, if it took that kind of abuse to become so beautiful.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. At least they didn\u2019t feel anything. They just became whatever shape he wanted them to be without complaint. Mom should have given him a rock instead of a human baby. He\u2019d have been much happier.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Biologically impossible, unfortunately. And I doubt it would have made a difference; men like him tend to stay perpetually unsatisfied. It\u2019s what made him a great artist, and a\u2026 not-so-great father.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (chuckles.<\/em>) You can say that<\/em> again. Bastard never should\u2019ve had a kid. Or gotten married. He should\u2019ve just stayed in his workshop, hammering and drilling away until he croaked. It\u2019s what he deserves. (Peter stops abruptly, and looks ashamed.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (gently.<\/em>) He would have caused considerably less damage, yes. But he did<\/em> marry, and he did<\/em> have you. (he looks Peter up and down, smiling.<\/em>) So out you came into this glorious world, with all your soft impressionable flesh and soft human emotions.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (half-jokingly.<\/em>) I should have been born a rock.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (laughingly<\/em>) No need to beat yourself up over it. Becoming a father was his choice; becoming his son wasn\u2019t yours.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Sometimes I wonder how important \u201cchoice\u201d really is, in the grand scheme of things. I could say he chose<\/em> to be a cruel man, but I doubt he knew any other way.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. That\u2019s kind of you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Not kind, just the truth.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. The truth is oftentimes a form of kindness. Or love. Or cruelty. Whichever you will it to be.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. I guess that\u2019s the way he thought of it. Always being honest to me, about me. I guess he thought he was being kind. That if he hurt me enough, I could be<\/em> enough.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. That was his style. A true perfectionist, through and through. (pause.<\/em>) I remember seeing the steel beams he had bought for this. (he gestures at the cross above them.<\/em>) I touched it, knocked on it; it was the coldest, most unforgiving metal I\u2019d ever felt. I wondered, How on earth is he going to make art out of this? Why would he choose something so difficult to work with, when we would have been satisfied with much less<\/em>? As if he was punishing himself. But somehow, he, he\u2026 here, I\u2019ll just show you. (he gets up and gestures to Peter to follow him. They walk up to the altar and stand in front of the giant crucifix. Peter slowly reaches out a finger and traces the lines.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (In awe, despite himself.<\/em>) It looks just like wood. He even got the splinters down.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (laughs.<\/em>) And the tragedy is that the congregation sits too far away to even appreciate it. The only one who ever has reason to see it up close is me. (he looks up at the cross.<\/em>) I still don\u2019t understand how he got the face to look like that<\/em>. The sorrow. From a hunk of steel. (He turns to look at Peter.<\/em>) It was his way of loving, I suppose. Beautification.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (bitterly.<\/em>) Perfection.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Yes, you\u2019re right.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (pause.<\/em>) He saw potential in everything, Rev. Not just metal, but wood, and rocks, and people<\/em>. I could never understand his vision, and he hated me for it. He\u2019d bring home a boulder, and sit me down in front of it. Look at this, son<\/em>, he would say. Do you see what I see? I see angels. <\/em>All I saw was a boring old rock. But I would try to please him, I would lie to make him think I understood\u2026 I\u2019d tell him I saw a lion, or an eagle, or, or something<\/em>. Somehow, he always saw through me. He\u2019d shake his head and spit out, Useless<\/em>. And then he\u2019d retreat into that fucking studio of his and pound away, all through the night. Wham, wham, wham, wham, wham<\/em>. It kept me awake, I didn\u2019t dare sleep (through gritted teeth<\/em>) because every blow felt like it was hitting my own skin—I could feel<\/em> his wrath through the walls, so I bled for his goddamn art. Every night, I bled. (He clenches his hands into fists. Breathing heavily, he continues in a harsh whisper<\/em>) The rocks never disappointed him, those unyielding, ugly old things, things he loved more than his only son. He could beat a lump of fucking metal into perfect submission, pry his precious vision out with his bare fingers. Wham, wham, wham, wham.<\/em> He would have hit me like that too, if mom would ever let him. But she didn\u2019t. Until that<\/em> night. She couldn\u2019t stop him then. (Chokes back a sob<\/em>.) Why did I lie? I\u2019m not him.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (shakes his head slowly, sadly.<\/em>) How childish. How childish.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (mirthfully<\/em>) I know, Rev, I should\u2019ve told the truth and made him swallow it. None of my paintings could make him happy, I might as well have stopped pretending. I don\u2019t have his talent. I was a disappointment either way. An honest idiot makes for a better son than a fraud.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. I meant your father, not you. You\u2019re not a block of marble, Peter. You couldn\u2019t meet his vision even if you tried. I doubt he<\/em> satisfied his vision. And that never should\u2019ve been your job.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (awkward pause.<\/em>) I guess. I was<\/em> a burden to him, though. He hated his office job, being forced to sculpt only at night. He worked to keep me fed and clothed, and made sure to remind me of that every day—to be grateful. And I repaid him by running away. And stealing his money, like the prodigal fucking son that I am. Just like the story. (laughs heavily.<\/em>) I have to hand it to him, though. He was<\/em> fucking brilliant. (gazes sadly at the cross<\/em>). His attention to detail\u2026<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. His love for detail was unmatched, yes. A true, honest artist. His personality shines right through his work. See—the church would have forgiven him if he hadn\u2019t put that little twig under Christ\u2019s left arm, if he hadn\u2019t given Him a single chipped toenail, if he had neglected to carve such a fine grain on the beams. He chose to go the extra mile.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. The church would have forgiven him, but he wouldn\u2019t have.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Ah. Well, there\u2019s your answer. (They look at the cross for a bit longer. Christ\u2019s face stares mournfully down at them. Peter violently turns away.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. God, I can\u2019t look at it anymore. It makes me sick.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n (The Reverend bows his head.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. I–I\u2019m glad I left when I did.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. I\u2019m glad too. It wasn\u2019t good for your soul to stay. All men have to leave the shadows of their fathers eventually.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. What was your dad like, Rev?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (smiles.<\/em>) I don\u2019t know. I\u2019ve never known him. He left before I was born.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (silence.<\/em>) I wonder what\u2019s worse. A shitty father, or an absent one.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Oh, I don\u2019t know. I suppose I was lucky in that he left so early—I couldn\u2019t blame myself even if I tried. It was easier to be angry with him that way. (hums and looks up at the cross<\/em>) I used to try to fill in the blanks when I was little. It was like a game to me; late at night, I would stay up and try to picture his face. Why he had to leave. What his voice might have sounded like. Where he was, right then and there. What he had for dinner. Who he was eating with. If he had a new family, one that was enough to stay for. If he was happy. It\u2019s a strange feeling, to miss what you never had.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. You didn\u2019t look for him?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. I did, for a long time. After my mother died, I felt there was nothing left for me in my old life. And yet, I couldn\u2019t move past it without at least knowing if he was alive or dead. There were just so many questions that gnawed at me without pause. I couldn\u2019t find peace because his emptiness was everywhere around me, crushing me. If I could have a shred of proof, the tiniest confirmation that he could love me\u2026 It was hard growing past a shadow that didn\u2019t exist. But I did, eventually.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. How?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. (smiles<\/em>) I learned to be loved.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. I don\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. We are creatures that are designed to be loving, Peter. All resounding echoes of one heavenly song, and I have devoted my life to its maker. Everyone feels the need to sing that very melody, but sometimes it gets distorted. In many cases, such as your father, people grow up listening to a very painful, corrupted kind of love. It becomes all that they know, what they think they deserve. And they won\u2019t accept anything else. I was stuck in a very similar boat as you, you know. Other people\u2019s demons were alive, and they could confront them and make peace with themselves. Mine had never existed, I couldn\u2019t confront a blank space. Luckily, I found God (smiles<\/em>) and I learned to be alright with the state of my life. And once I stopped being angry at me, I just stopped being angry at others. I could be kind to myself, and let others be kind to me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (in disbelief<\/em>) So that\u2019s your advice then, just be religious? Just find<\/em> God?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. It was what worked for me. It might help you, but there are always different routes to healing. People turn to therapy, or music, or art, or preaching. Your father sculpted, your mother prays, and I talk to troubled young people. (laughs<\/em>). I wouldn\u2019t dare tell you what to do with your life. That\u2019s not my burden to carry, only His and yours. (turns to Peter<\/em>) You paint. It must have improved your life somewhat if you chose to make it your career.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Yea, I like it enough. It was my only escape at home.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. What do you think about when you paint?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. I don\u2019t. Think, I mean. The silence is what I love about it. There was always noise at home—fights with Mom, fights with Dad, fights with Mom and Dad—but once I picked up that brush, it all melted away. Nothing but white noise, and the canvas in front of me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. I see. I\u2019m glad you at least had that. (pause<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Yea, I wouldn\u2019t have survived without it. Which is why I had to go. Being at home was hard, but having to sit through service every week looking at THAT (points.<\/em>) would\u2019ve been harder. He would\u2019ve been so smug; I\u2019d have to look at fucking Jesus<\/em> hanging up there, knowing he<\/em> was the one who made it–shaped the face of God. His last, beautiful, perfect<\/em> work. God, I\u2019m glad I left. (bitterly<\/em>).<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Strangely, he couldn\u2019t stand it either. You\u2019d think he\u2019d be proud, since he created it—but when he did come to service, he was always looking angrily down at his feet. As if he was ashamed.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. Probably felt like he was being judged. He couldn\u2019t take the tiniest hint of criticism without losing his shit.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. We are all sinners, and aware of that\u2026 to an extent. No one likes when a finger is pointed at him, especially when the finger is a blameless one.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (shifts uncomfortably<\/em>.) Reverend, I–I didn\u2019t come back here just to look at that, you know. Just to be, well, sentimental with you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Oh? What are you here for then?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n (Peter shifts uncomfortably. He looks everywhere except at the Reverend, wringing his hands, and takes a few deep breaths.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. To–to apologize, Reverend. I waited too long to apologize to him, and now he won\u2019t ever hear it. He didn\u2019t deserve it, no, but\u2026but you\u2019re here, and I–I did a horrible thing to you. After you were so good to me. He wasn\u2019t good to me, but you were. It\u2019s killing me. It\u2019s been killing me.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Peter—<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (pacing nervously up and down the pews.<\/em>) Rev, the money I stole from my parents, it was enough for the train ticket, and it got me a place to stay, but\u2026 but art school costs more than that, especially in the city. Tuition, it-it costs a lot. (He pauses, and bites his lip. He looks the Reverend in the eye, and bows his head.<\/em>) It was me. It was me that took the money Rev.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n (The Reverend is silent.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER (cont.) But I guess you knew all along, didn\u2019t you? That night, that night when Dad and I had the really bad fight–remember? I was crying so damn hard, and I hadn\u2019t cried in years–when you let me sleep here, in your own office, on the pull-out bed while you—you slept on the floor. God, he wasn\u2019t gonna let me go. I had worked so hard on that portfolio, spent hours every night drawing, brought each drawing to you because you<\/em> were the only one who liked them. I had to escape him, and he wasn\u2019t going to let me go. Told me he wouldn\u2019t pay a cent for my education. Ripped up my best work, my masterpiece. And then I showed up here, lip and hands bleeding and you took me in without question\u2026 (He angrily wipes the tears out of his eyes.<\/em>) You sat on the floor with me as we tried to piece the painting back together\u2026 you said, Even ruined, it\u2019s the best damn painting I\u2019ve ever seen.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Peter—<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. I lay there that night, holding the ice pack to my eye, glancing around the room until I saw it, the safe, the door slightly ajar. A light went off in my brain. And I agonized. Fucking hell, if it makes it any<\/em> better, just thinking about it tore me up inside. Doing that to you. But I had worked so fucking hard<\/em> to get in, and I just couldn\u2019t find the strength to wait a year and do it again. I knew<\/em> everyone was saving up to rebuild the church. To renovate. And I knew what would happen if I stole it from you. What it would imply. (He stops. He breathes heavily and looks wildly at the Reverend.<\/em>) God, Rev, even if I stole the money, I could\u2019ve left a note on the bulletin, told<\/em> someone, made sure that they knew who the bad guy was. But I didn\u2019t want to be the bad guy. I was so fucking sick of being the bad guy at home—I wanted to be $20,000 richer, I wanted to be at my dream school, and I didn\u2019t want to be the bad guy anymore. I couldn\u2019t stand being hated. (His voice cracks, and he starts to sob<\/em>). So, I fucked you over Rev. I crucified<\/em> you.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Peter—<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. My mother knew. She didn\u2019t say it outright, but I could feel<\/em> her shame from the one letter she sent me. She said nothing about the money I stole from them, about home, about dad, but wrote so painstakingly about how half the congregation had angrily left the church, disgusted with you. About the Johnsons and Greens suing you. The newspapers, the speculation, the town gossip—and most shockingly, how you didn\u2019t even deny it. You covered<\/em> for me. I was a dumb kid; there\u2019s no way they wouldn\u2019t have suspected when I had mysteriously disappeared at the same time as half the town\u2019s money. But you took the fall. Said you made a bad investment. (He buries his face in his hands.<\/em>) Mom told me that renovations would have to wait. That there wasn\u2019t much point, with half the members gone. (He removes the creased, yellow letter from inside his jacket<\/em>.) I reckon I read this a million times. It hurt each time I read it, like being stabbed, but it\u2019s what I deserve. All this time you knew. And it took–it took my damn father\u2019s death for me to have the courage to come and ask you for forgiveness. (He falls on his knees. The letter floats to the ground, and falls open at the Reverend\u2019s feet.<\/em>) I don\u2019t deserve it. I\u2019ve spent all my life vowing to never be like my father, but I\u2019m even worse. Still—I have to ask. I don\u2019t deserve it, but I have to ask. I have to. (The Reverend is silent for another minute, watching Peter trembling on the ground.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. Stand up, Peter. I\u2019ll trade you a letter for a letter. (He picks the letter up, and walks back to the cross. He squeezes his hand behind it, pulls out a dusty piece of paper, and hands it to Peter.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (examining it.<\/em>) That\u2019s—that\u2019s Dad\u2019s handwriting. It\u2019s a—<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. A receipt. The cost of the metal, tools, hours spent creating it.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. $20,000. I don\u2019t understand— (He suddenly looks up, stricken.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. His last work. In his own way, he made peace with God, while trying to make peace with you. (Waiting.) Flip it over.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n PETER. (reading out loud, shakily through tears.<\/em>) \u201cMatthews. A solatium.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n REVEREND. I had forgiven you the moment I realized. (He smiles at him.<\/em>) He knew that. He didn\u2019t build it for me. You know, at the fellowship dinner where he unveiled it, he told everyone I had commissioned it with my own savings, to make up for the money lost. Wouldn\u2019t accept anyone\u2019s compliments, replying with only four words: \u201cHe paid for it.\u201d (pause.<\/em>)\u00a0 Many who had left this church returned after we installed it, you know. A local newspaper article about it directed newcomers our way. Sometimes in the mornings, I see your mother kneeling in front of it, praying. Receiving strength. (He takes Peter\u2019s hands and helps him to his feet.)<\/em> When I examine this monument, I try to imagine what went through your father\u2019s mind as he carved away at it. Every wrinkle, line, and curve all teeming with\u2026 what? Some days it feels like repentance. Other days, passion. All the time, it rings with love. Words he didn\u2019t have the courage to say, but couldn\u2019t deny in his own mind. Peter, whether years of pain can be healed with one last gesture, I don\u2019t know. He was a great artist, but ultimately his sacrifice\u2019s worth is completely in your hands. At your mercy. If it\u2019s enough, if you<\/em> can let it be enough—let it be enough. Not for him, but for you. You won\u2019t find your peace with me, here. (He points up at the crucifix in front of them, at Christ\u2019s face.<\/em>) You\u2019ll find your peace there<\/em>.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n (Peter looks up at the cross in wonder, as if he\u2019s seeing it for the very first time. His face collapses into despair.<\/em>)<\/p>\n <\/p>\n End scene<\/em>.<\/p>\n
\n