by Tracy Letts
BARBARA: Ah, she’s a nymphomaniac.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Really.
BARBARA: “Jean.” That’s a stupid name.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I like it.
BARBARA: You know why we named her that? Bill’s a big Jean Seberg fan. Now that’s ironic.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I don’t get it.
BARBARA: Jean Seberg killed herself. With a massive over-blah of . . . blah-biturates.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Oh.
BARBARA: So.
(Silence.)
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Barbara? Are you okay?
BARBARA (Softly): I’m fine. Just got the Plains.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I thought . . . I thought if you were going to be staying here a while we might get some lunch someday. Catch up? Been a long time.
BARBARA: Mm.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Would you like to get some lunch someday?
BARBARA: Mm-hm.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: The other reason I came. I got a call from a woman named Chitra Naidu, who runs the Country Squire Motel. She was throwing out some old newspapers and she saw a photo of Mr. Weston that ran with his obituary. And she recognized him as the man who stayed in Room 17 for two nights, the first two nights of his absence. (Beat) She said he checked in and she didn’t see him again until he checked out. He made no phone calls. She has no way of telling if he received any phone calls. But I can have a check run on the line to find out if he did.
BARBARA: Do you have a . . . cigarette?
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Yeah, sure. (Fishes for a cigarette) I can check with the phone company, is what I mean.
(He lights her smoke.)
BARBARA: That’s not. No one knew where he was. I suppose he was, what . . . just trying to build up the courage to jump in the water, I guess.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Or overcoming the courage not to.
BARBARA: Right? I don’t follow that, but it doesn’t matter.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: In any case. I thought you should know.
(A sad, still moment.)
So . . . I can call you sometime? About having lunch?
BARBARA: Come here.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Barbara?
BARBARA: Sh. Come here . . .
(He does not.)
Come here . . .
(He does. She touches his face.)
Sweet . . .
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Barbara . . .
BARBARA: Mm . . . just . . . touches . . .
(She kisses him. He begins to take her arms but she moves away.)
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Barbara.
BARBARA: I’m . . .
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I’m sorry?
BARBARA: I . . .
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Barbara? Barbara, did you say something?
BARBARA: I’ve forgotten what I look like.
SCENE 5
Barbara, still wearing her nightgown, and Ivy, in the dining room. The house has taken on a ghostly cast.
Elsewhere in the house: Johnna prepares dinner in the kitchen.
IVY: Is she clean?
BARBARA: Clean-ish.
IVY: So she’s not clean.
BARBARA: The woman’s got brain-damage, dummy. If you think I’m going to strip-search her every time she slurs a word—
IVY: You know the difference.
BARBARA: She’s moderately clean.
IVY: “Moderately”?
BARBARA: You don’t like “moderately”? Then let’s say tolerably.
IVY: Is she clean, or not?
BARBARA: Back off. We’re trying to get by here, okay?
IVY: I’m nervous.
BARBARA: Why? Oh, Christ, Ivy, not tonight.
IVY: Why not?
BARBARA: We’re only just now settling into some kind of rhythm around here. Now you come in here with your little issues—
IVY: I have to tell her, don’t I? We’re leaving for New York tomorrow.
BARBARA: That’s not a good idea.
IVY: “A good idea.”
BARBARA: For you and Little Charles to take this thing any further.
IVY: Where is this coming from?
BARBARA: I just got to thinking about it, and I think it’s a little weird, that’s all.
IVY: It’s not up to you.
BARBARA: Lot of fish in the sea. Surely you can rule out the one single man in the world you’re related to.
IVY: I happen to love the man I’m related—
BARBARA: Fuck love, what a crock of shit. People can convince themselves they love a painted rock.
(Johnna brings food from the kitchen.)
Looks great. What is it?
JOHNNA: Catfish.
BARBARA: Bottom feeders, my favorite.
(Johnna retires to the kitchen.
Violet enters from the second-floor hallway, heads slowly for the dining room.)
IVY: You think I shouldn’t tell her.
BARBARA: You should rethink the whole proposition. New York City is a ridiculous idea. You’re almost fifty years old, Ivy, you can’t go to New York, you’ll break a hip. Eat your catfish.
IVY: You’re infuriating.
BARBARA: I ain’t the one fuckin’ my cousin.
IVY: I have lived in this town, year in and year out, hoping against hope someone would come into my life—
BARBARA: Don’t get all Carson McCullers on me. Now wipe that tragic look off your face and eat some catfish.
IVY: Who are you to speak to me like this?
(Violet enters the dining room.)
BARBARA: Howdy, Mom.
VIOLET: What’s howdy about it?
BARBARA: Look, catfish.
VIOLET: Catfish.
BARBARA (Calling off): Johnna! (To Violet) You hungry?
VIOLET: Ivy, you should smile. Like me.
(Johnna enters.)
BARBARA: Mom needs her dinner, please.
(Johnna exits.)
VIOLET: I’m not hungry.
BARBARA: You haven’t eaten anything today. You didn’t eat anything yesterday.
VIOLET: I’m not hungry.
BARBARA: You’re eating. You do what I say. Everyone do what I say.
IVY: May I ask why neither of you is dressed?
BARBARA: What is it with you?
VIOLET: Yeah.
BARBARA: We’re dressed. We’re not sitting here naked, are we? Or did you want us to dress up?
VIOLET: Right, ’cause you’re coming over for fish.
BARBARA: Right, ’cause you’re coming over for fish we’re supposed to dress up.
(Johnna reenters with two plates of food.)
JOHNNA: I’ll eat in my room.
BARBARA: That’s fine, thank you.
(Johnna exits with her plate of food.)
(To Violet) Eat.
VIOLET: No.
BARBARA: Eat it. Mom? Eat it.
VIOLET: No.
BARBARA: Eat it, you fucker. Eat that catfish.
VIOLET: Go to hell!
BARBARA: That doesn’t cut any fucking ice with me. Now eat that fucking fish.
IVY: Mom. I have something to talk to you about.
BARBARA: No, you don’t.
IVY: Barbara—
BARBARA: No, you don’t. Shut up. Shut the fuck up.
IVY: Please—
VIOLET: What’s to talk about?
IVY: Mom—
BARBARA: Forget it. Mom? Eat that fucking fish.
VIOLET: I’m not hungry.
BARBARA: Eat it.
VIOLET: NO!
IVY: Mom, I need to—!
VIOLET: NO!
IVY: Mom!
BARBARA: EAT THE FISH, BITCH!
IVY: Mom, please!
VIOLET: Barbara . . . !
BARBARA: Okay, fuck it, do what you want.
IVY: I have to tell you something.
BARBARA: Ivy’s a lesbian.
VIOLET: What?
IVY: Barbara—
VIOLET: No, you’re not.
IVY: No, I’m not—
BARBARA: Yes, you ar
e. Did you eat your fish?
IVY: Barbara, stop it!
BARBARA: Eat your fish.
IVY: Barbara!
BARBARA: Eat your fish.
VIOLET: Barbara, quiet now—
IVY: Mom, please, this is important—
BARBARA: Eatyourfisheatyourfisheatyourfish—
(Ivy hurls her plate of food, smashes it.)
What the fuck—
IVY: I have something to say!
BARBARA: Are we breaking shit?
(Barbara takes a vase from the sideboard, smashes it.)
’Cause I can break shit—
(Violet throws her plate, smashes it.)
See, we can all break shit.
IVY: Charles and I—
BARBARA: You don’t want to break shit with me, muthahfuckah!
IVY: Charles and I—
BARBARA: Johnna?! Little spill in here!
IVY: Barbara, stop it! Mom, Charles and I—
BARBARA: Little Charles—
IVY: Charles and I—
BARBARA: Little Charles—
IVY: Charles and I—
BARBARA: Little Charles—
IVY: Charles and I—
BARBARA: Little Charles—
IVY: Barbara—
BARBARA: You have to say “Little Charles” or she won’t know who you’re talking about.
IVY: Little Charles and I . . .
(Barbara relents. Ivy will finally get to say the words.)
Little Charles and I are—
VIOLET: Little Charles and you are brother and sister. I know that.
BARBARA: Oh . . . Mom.
IVY: What? No, listen to me, Little Charles—
VIOLET: I’ve always known that. I told you, no one slips anything by me.
IVY: Mom—
BARBARA: Don’t listen to her.
VIOLET: I knew the whole time Bev and Mattie Fae were carrying on. Charlie shoulda known too, if he wasn’t smoking all that grass.
BARBARA: It’s the pills talking.
VIOLET: Pills can’t talk.
IVY: Wait . . .
VIOLET: Your father tore himself up over it, for thirty some-odd years, but Beverly wouldn’t have been Beverly if he didn’t have plenty to brood about.
IVY: Mom, what are you . . . ?
BARBARA: Oh, honey . . .
VIOLET: It’s better you girls know now, though, now you’re older. Never know when someone might need a kidney. Better if everyone knows the truth.
IVY: Oh my God . . .
VIOLET: Though I can’t see the benefit in Little Charles ever knowing, break his little heart. (Tell Ivy) Tell me though, honey: how’d you find out?
(Ivy looks from Violet to Barbara . . . suddenly lurches away from the table, knocking over her chair.)
BARBARA: Ivy?
IVY: Why did you tell me? Why in God’s name did you tell me this?
VIOLET: Hey, what do you care?
IVY: You’re monsters.
VIOLET: Come on now—
IVY: Picking the bones of the rest of us—
VIOLET: You crazy nut.
IVY: Monsters.
VIOLET: Who’s the injured party here?
(Ivy staggers out of the dining room, into the living room. Barbara pursues her.)
BARBARA: Ivy, listen—
IVY: Leave me alone!
BARBARA: Honey—
IVY: I won’t let you do this to me!
BARBARA: When Mattie Fae told me, I didn’t know what to do—
IVY: I won’t let you change my story!
(Ivy exits. Barbara chases after her and catches her on the front porch.)
BARBARA: Goddamn it, listen to me: I tried to protect you—
IVY: We’ll go anyway. We’ll still go away, and you will never see me again.
BARBARA: Don’t leave me like this.
IVY: You will never see me again.
BARBARA: This is not my fault. I didn’t tell you, Mom told you. It wasn’t me, it was Mom.
IVY: There’s no difference.
(Ivy exits. Barbara reenters the house. She finds Violet lighting a cigarette in the living room.)
VIOLET: You know well’s I do, we couldn’t let Ivy run off with Little Charles. Just wouldn’t be right. Ivy’s place is right here.
BARBARA: She says she’s leaving anyway.
VIOLET: Nah. She won’t go. She’s a sweet girl, Ivy, and I love her to death. But she isn’t strong. Not like you. Or me.
BARBARA: Right. (Beat) You’ve known about Daddy and Mattie Fae all these years.
VIOLET: Oh, sure. I never told them I knew. But your father knew. He knew I knew. He always knew I knew. But we never talked about it. I chose the higher ground.
BARBARA: Right.
VIOLET: Now if I’d had the chance, there at the end, I would’ve told him, “I hope this isn’t about Little Charles, ’cause you know I know all about that.” If I’d reached him at the motel, I would’ve said, “You’d be better off if you quit sulking about this ancient history. And anyway, just ’cause you feel cast down doesn’t let you off the hook.”
BARBARA: If you had reached him at the motel.
VIOLET: I called the motel, the Country Squire Motel—
BARBARA:—the Country Squire Motel, right—
VIOLET:—but it was too late, he must’ve already checked out.
I called over there on Monday, after I got into that safety deposit box. I told you I had to wait until Monday morning for the bank to open so I could get into that safety deposit box. I should’ve called him sooner, I guess, should’ve called the police, or Ivy, someone. But Beverly and I had an arrangement. You have to understand, for people like your father and me, who never had any money, ever, as kids, people from our generation, that money is important.
BARBARA: How’d you know where he was?
VIOLET: He left a note. Said I could call him at the Country Squire Motel. And I did, I did call him, called him on Monday.
BARBARA: After you got into your safety deposit box.
VIOLET: We had an arrangement.
BARBARA: If you could’ve stopped Daddy from killing himself, you wouldn’t have needed to get into your safety deposit box.
VIOLET: Well, hindsight’s twenty-twenty, isn’t it.
BARBARA: Did the note say Daddy was going to kill himself?
(No response.)
Mom?
VIOLET: If I’d had my wits about me, I might’ve done it different. But I was, your father and me both, we were . . .
BARBARA: You were both fucked-up. (Beat) You were fucked-up. (Beat) You’re fucked-up.
VIOLET: You had better understand this, you smug little ingrate, there is at least one reason Beverly killed himself and that’s you. Think there’s any way he would’ve done what he did if you were still here? No, just him and me, here in this house, in the dark, left to just ourselves, abandoned, wasted lifetimes devoted to your care and comfort. So stick that knife of judgment in me, go ahead, but make no mistake, his blood is just as much on your hands as it is on mine.