by Tracy Letts
IVY: Why do you feel it—?
MATTIE FAE: I could kill that kid—
IVY: Why do you feel it necessary to insult me?
VIOLET: Stop being so sensitive.
MATTIE FAE: He overslept? For my brother-in-law’s funeral? A noon service?
IVY: I’m sure there’s more to the story than—
MATTIE FAE: You shouldn’t make excuses for him. That’s what Charlie does, has always done. Just, “Oh, he overslept, ladi-da, I’ll go pick him up at the bus station.”
IVY: You’re so hard on him.
MATTIE FAE: Boy’s thirty-seven years old and can’t drive?
VIOLET: He’s a little different, I’ll give you that.
IVY: I think you’re being—
MATTIE FAE: Who can’t drive?
IVY: I don’t think you’re very—
MATTIE FAE: I’ve seen a chimp drive.
VIOLET: Will you take off that cheap suit and try this on for me, please?
IVY: Cheap?! Did you call this—?!
MATTIE FAE: Is this the kind of thing you had in mind, Vi?
VIOLET: No, it’s to go on the sideboard for the meal, so it should be something we easily recognize—
MATTIE FAE: You mean something big.
VIOLET: Yes. I have a frame we can—
IVY: This is the most expensive item of clothing I own.
VIOLET: I don’t see what difference that makes, how much you paid for it. A suit of armor is expensive, too, but that doesn’t make it appropriate—
MATTIE FAE: Well, this one’s big, but it’s of the two of you—
IVY: Why are you trying to give away your clothes?
MATTIE FAE: Do you mind if it’s of the two of you?—VIOLET: All this shit’s going. I’m downgrading.
IVY: “Downgrading.”
VIOLET: Downsizing, I’m downsizing.
IVY: You’re “downsizing”—
MATTIE FAE: Vi, do you think this is—?
VIOLET: I’m serious, it’s all going. I don’t plan to spend the rest of my days walking around and looking at what used to be. I want that shit in the office gone, I want all these clothes I’m never going to wear gone, I want it all gone! I mean look at these fucking shoes. (Holds up the high heels) Can you picture me in these? Even if I didn’t fall on my face, can you imagine anything less attractive, my swollen ankles and varicose veins? And my toenails, good God, anymore they could dig through cement.
(Mattie Fae holds a photograph in front of Violet.)
MATTIE FAE: Is this the idea?
VIOLET (Takes the photograph): Look at me. (Shows the photograph to Ivy) Look at me.
IVY: You’re beautiful, Mom.
VIOLET: I was beautiful. Not anymore.
MATTIE FAE: Oh, now—
IVY: You’re still beautiful.
VIOLET: No. One of those lies we tell to give us comfort, but don’t you believe it. Women are beautiful when they’re young, and not after. Men can still preserve their sex appeal well into old age. I don’t mean those men like you see with shorts and those little purses around their waists. Some men can maintain, if they embrace it . . . cragginess, weary masculinity. Women just get old and fat and wrinkly.
MATTIE FAE: I beg your pardon.
VIOLET: Think about what makes a young woman sexy. Think about the last time you went to the mall and saw some sweet little gal and thought, “She’s a cute trick.” What makes her that way? Taut skin, firm boobs, an ass above her knees—
MATTIE FAE: I’m still very sexy, thank you very much.
VIOLET: You’re about as sexy as a wet cardboard box, Mattie Fae, you and me both. Don’t kid yourself. Look . . . can we all just stop kidding ourselves? Wouldn’t we be better off, all of us, if we stopped lying about these things and told the truth? “Women aren’t sexy when they’re old.” I can live with that. Can you live with that?
MATTIE FAE: I can live with it, but I disagree. What about Sophia Loren? What about Lena Horne? She stayed sexy until she was eighty.
VIOLET: The world is round. Get over it. Now try this dress on.
IVY: I’m sorry, I won’t.
VIOLET: Ivy.
IVY: All right, the heat in here is getting just stupid now—
VIOLET: Now listen to me: you don’t know how to attract a man. I do. That’s something I’ve always—
IVY: It’s a funeral! We just buried my father, I’m not trying to attract—!
VIOLET: I’m not talking about today, dummy, this is something you can wear some—
IVY: I have a man. All right? I have a man.
(Mattie Fae turns her attention to Ivy.)
VIOLET: You said . . . you told me you weren’t looking for a man—
IVY: And I’m not. Because I have one. Okay? Now will you leave it alone?
(Pause.)
VIOLET: No, I won’t leave it alone. MATTIE FAE: No, let’s not leave it alone.
IVY: I wish you both could see the brainsick looks on your faces—
VIOLET: Who is it?
IVY: Nobody. Forget it—
VIOLET: No, no you don’t, I want to know who you’re—
IVY: I’m not talking about this—
MATTIE FAE: Ivy, please tell us—
IVY: No.
MATTIE FAE: Is he someone from school?
VIOLET: Tell me you’re not back with Loser Barry.
IVY: No, it isn’t Barry.
VIOLET: Thank you, Jesus.
MATTIE FAE: Tell us something, how old is he, what does he do?—
IVY: I’m not telling you anything, either of you, so you might as well—
MATTIE FAE: You have to tell us something!
IVY: No, I really don’t.
VIOLET: Are you in love, Ivy?
IVY (Stunned): I . . . I don’t . . . I’m . . .
(She bursts into awkward laughter and exits down the second-floor hallway. Violet and Mattie Fae squeal and follow Ivy off.
Lights crossfade to the front porch as Jean zips inside. She races to the TV, turns it on, finds a channel, and sits improbably close. Bill and Steve Heidebrecht follow, dressed in dark suits and laden with paper grocery bags.)
STEVE: No, we maintain the accounts offshore, just until we get approvals.
BILL: To get around approvals?
STEVE: To get around approvals until we get approvals. There’s a lot of red tape, a lot of bureaucracy. I don’t know how much you know about Florida, Florida politics—
BILL: Only what I read and that’s—
STEVE: Right, right, and this kind of business in particular—
BILL: I’m sorry, what is the business again? I don’t—
STEVE: You know, it’s essentially security work. The situation in the Middle East is perpetually dangerous, so there’s a tremendous amount of money involved—
BILL: Security work. You mean . . . mercenary?
(Barbara enters from the kitchen.)
BARBARA: Give. Me. The wine.
(She pulls a bottle of wine from Bill’s grocery bag.)
STEVE: I think of it more like “missionary” than “mercenary.”
BARBARA (To Jean, regarding the TV): Is that what you were in such a hurry to get home for?
JEAN: Yeah.
BARBARA: What the hell is on TV that’s so important you can’t—?
JEAN: Phantom of the Opera, 1925. Lon Chaney.
BILL: Cool.
BARBARA: For God’s sake, Jean, you can get it at any video store.
JEAN: No, but they’re showing it with the scene in color restored.
BILL: Oh, no kidding, from the . . . what’s that scene called again, sweetie? “The Masked Ball”?
JEAN: Yeah.
BARBARA: Let me make sure I’ve got this: when you threw a fit about going to the store with your father—hey. Look at me.
(She does.)
And you were so very distraught over the start time of your grandpa’s funeral. Was this your concern? Getting back here in time to watch the Phantom of
the Fucking Opera?
JEAN: I guess.
(Barbara gives Jean a withering look, exits.)
BILL (To Steve): I’ll take these into the kitchen.
STEVE: No, I can.
BILL: I’ve got it.
(Bill takes Steve’s grocery bag and follows Barbara into the kitchen.)
STEVE: Movie buff?
JEAN: Yeah.
STEVE: Right, right, me too. You ever seen this?
JEAN: Huh-uh.
STEVE: It’s a great one. You know Chaney designed his own makeup.
JEAN: I know.
STEVE: Apparently very painful. He ran these fishing lines from under his nostrils and pulled them up under his—
JEAN: Yeah, I know.
STEVE: You see any of the remakes? They’re pretty bad.
JEAN: I’ve seen the one with Claude Rains.
STEVE: Right, right, pretty bad, right? Phantom’s queer. That’s a problem.
JEAN: I don’t remember it so hot, I was just a kid.
STEVE: Yeah . . .
(Steve sits on the couch behind her. They watch the movie for a moment.)
You’re not a kid anymore, I guess.
JEAN: What?
STEVE: I say you’re not a kid anymore.
JEAN: No. I mean, yeah.
STEVE: How old are you, about, seventeen?
JEAN: Fifteen.
STEVE: Right, right. Fifteen. That’s no kid.
(They watch TV.)
You’re no kid. (Beat) You know what I was doing when I was fifteen?
JEAN: What?
STEVE: Cattle processing. You know what that is?
JEAN: It doesn’t sound good.
STEVE: Slaughterhouse. Sanitation. Slaughterhouse sanitation.
JEAN: That’s disgusting.
STEVE: I don’t recommend it. But hey. Put food on the table. Get it?
(He sniffs the air.)
Whoa, whoa. Wait now. What’s that smell?
JEAN: Food, from the kitchen.
STEVE: Nah, that’s not what I’m smelling.
(He continues to sniff the air, follows his nose, until he is on the floor, above her. He smells her.)
JEAN: What are you doing?
STEVE: Do I smell what I think I smell?
JEAN: What do you smell?
STEVE: What do you think I smell?
JEAN: I think you smell food from the kitchen.
STEVE: Guess again.
(He whiffs, hard, breathing her in.)
JEAN: What are you—?
STEVE: Is that—is that pot?
JEAN: Oh. I don’t know.
(She smells her sleeve.)
STEVE: You smoking pot?
JEAN: No.
STEVE: You can tell me.
JEAN: No.
STEVE: Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here?
JEAN: It’s hot.
STEVE: You’re hot?
JEAN: Yeah . . .
STEVE: How hot are you?
JEAN: Really hot.
STEVE: Really hot.
JEAN: Yeah.
STEVE: Yeah . . . you a little dope smoker?
(No response.)
Well then you are in luck. Because I just happen to have some really tasty shit. Because I just happen to have some really good connects. And I am going to hook you up.
JEAN: That would be great ’cause I just smoked my last bowl, and I really need to get fucked up.
STEVE: You what?
JEAN: I really need to get fucked up—
STEVE: You need to get what?
JEAN: Fucked up—
STEVE: What? You need to get fucked what?
(She snort-laughs, pushes him away.)
JEAN: You’re bad.
STEVE: I’m just goofin’ with you.
(Karen enters from the kitchen, finds Steve on the floor, looming over Jean.)
Hi, sweetheart.
KAREN: What are you doing?
STEVE: Goofin’ with your niece.
KAREN: I think we’re getting ready to eat.
STEVE: Right, right, I’m starving.
KAREN: Did you remember to get cigarettes?
STEVE: Damn it. (To Jean) Didn’t I ask you what I was forgetting? I knew I was forgetting something—
KAREN: I’ll have to borrow from Momma.
JEAN: I’ve got cigarettes.
KAREN: You’ve got cigarettes.
JEAN: Camel Lights?
STEVE: She’s got our brand.
KAREN: Jean, honey, you’re too young to smoke.
STEVE (Faux stern): Yeah.
KAREN (Whacks him playfully): Stop it now, don’t encourage her—
STEVE: Hey, she’s no kid—
KAREN: Can we borrow a couple of cigarettes?
JEAN: Yep-per.
(Jean gets cigarettes from her purse.)
STEVE: Now let’s not encourage her—
KAREN: Oh, hush. (Takes cigarettes) Thanks, doll. Now stop smoking.
(Jean watches TV. Karen snuggles with Steve, speaks in a baby voice.)
Hi, doodle.
STEVE: Hey, baby.
KAREN (In a super baby voice): Hi, doodle!
(Steve embraces her. They kiss. His hands wander, squeeze her ass. She giggles, then breaks it.)
Come into the backyard, I want to show you our old fort. Man, the air in here just doesn’t move . . .
(She goes ahead of him. He follows, but stops . . . )
STEVE (Privately, to Jean): Hook you up, later.
( . . . rubs his hand over the entirety of Jean’s face. He exits.
Lights crossfade to the front porch as Charlie and Little Charles arrive.)
LITTLE CHARLES: I’m sorry, Dad.
CHARLIE: Stop apologizing to me. Hold on a second, comb your hair.
(Charlie gives Little Charles a comb.)
LITTLE CHARLES: I know Mom’s mad at me.
CHARLIE: Don’t worry about her.
LITTLE CHARLES: What did she say?
CHARLIE: You know your mother, she says what she says.
LITTLE CHARLES: I set the alarm. I did.
CHARLIE: I know you did.
LITTLE CHARLES: I wanted to be there.
CHARLIE: You’re here now.
LITTLE CHARLES: I loved Uncle Bev, you know that—
CHARLIE: Stop apologizing.
LITTLE CHARLES: The power must’ve gone out. I woke up and the clock was blinking noon. That means the power went out, right?
CHARLIE: It’s okay.
LITTLE CHARLES: I missed his funeral!
CHARLIE: It’s a ceremony. It’s ceremonial. It doesn’t mean anything compared to what you have in your heart.
LITTLE CHARLES: Uncle Bev must be disappointed in me.
CHARLIE: Your Uncle Bev has got bigger and better things ahead of him. He doesn’t have time for spite. He wasn’t that kind of man anyway—