Affliction Page #5

WADE:

I don't want her to go, Lillian.

LILLIAN:

Don't cause a scene. No one's trying

to win any 'rounds'. Don't make it

any worse.

WADE:

I'm not making it any worse. You

are. Me and Jill could've worked

this thing out. It's normal, it's

even normal for me to get a little

touchy about it. Believe it or not.

How do you think this makes me look,

treating her like some tragic victim

or something?

Horner opens the car door for Jill, shuts it. Wade shoves

him:

WADE:

Just wait till we're through,

goddamnit!

Horner's hat falls. Lillian, icy, stares at Wade. He backs

off. Wade sometimes wonders: how'd Lillian Pittman of Lawford,

N.H., get so much class?

WADE:

Don't you say a word. I didn't hit

him. I'm not going to hit anybody.

Horner sits behind the wheel. Lillian silently stares Wade

up and down, gets in the car beside Jill. The automatic locks

latch as the Audi drives away. Its taillights merge with

vanishing traffic.

Wade looks down, picks up Horner's dark green Tyrolean hat,

examines it, as if unsure of its function.

Wade walks toward Town Hall. MARGIE FOGG, exiting, greets

him:

MARGIE:

New hat?

(no answer)

Jill's up, I see.

WADE:

(vague)

For a while.

MARGIE:

How's she doing?

WADE:

Okay. She's fine.

MARGIE:

You two want to do anything tomorrow

and need a third party, give me a

call, okay? I'm off.

NICK WICKHAM, 45, Marg's boss, passes by:

WICKHAM:

Like hell you are. Tomorrow's first

day of deer season. I'll need you at

least in the morning.

MARGIE:

(shrugs)

Well, that's that.

NICK:

(walks off)

Take care, Wade.

WADE:

You be careful of that little bastard.

He's dying to get in your pants, you

know.

MARGIE:

(laughs)

Don't worry. I can protect my virtue.

I mean, c'mon, Wade, give me a break.

WADE:

See you tomorrow, maybe.

MARGIE:

You okay?

WADE:

Yeah.

Wade, lost in thought, continues toward Town Hall. At the

door, LaRiviere, one of the last to leave, eyes him. Wade

tosses Horner's hat inside.

WADE:

Tomorrow, Gordon.

LARIVIERE:

Watch this snow. It's coming down

tonight.

Wade nods as he lights a cigarette. Alone, he watches the

last cars pull out. He holds his jaw.

CUT TO:

EXT. WADE'S TRAILER HOME - DAWN

Pre-dawn light silhouettes a dozen weather-beaten mobile

homes set off Route 29. Snow continues to fall. A sheet of

white stretches down Parker mountain.

CUT TO:

INT. WADE'S TRAILER - DAWN

6:
40. A clock radio pierces the silence with classic rock.

Wade Whitehouse rolls over, runs his tongue across mossy

teeth, shuts off the music. He looks out the window, grunts:

"Sh*t!" He steps over to the phone by the frayed plaid couch,

dials.

Wade's trailer is surprisingly neat, considering its owner

smokes too much, drinks too much, eats take-out and rarely

cleans up.

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