August: Osage County

by Tracy Letts

  BEVERLY: No.

  VIOLET: Is this a window? Am I looking through window? A window?

  BEVERLY: Can you come here?

  (Violet considers, then clomps down the stairs, into the study, nonplussed by Johnna.)

  VIOLET: Oh. (Vaguely) Hello.

  JOHNNA: Hello.

  VIOLET (To Beverly): I didn’t know you were entertaaaaaaining.

  BEVERLY: This is Johnna, the young woman I told you about.

  VIOLET: You’re tell me’s a woman.

  BEVERLY: Pardon?

  VIOLET: A woman. Wo-man. Whoa-man.

  BEVERLY: Yes, dear, the young woman I’m hiring. To watch the place.

  VIOLET: Oh! You’re hiring women’s now the thing. I thought you meant the other woman.

  BEVERLY: What other woman?

  VIOLET (Pause; then, ugly): Huh?!

  BEVERLY: I hope to hire her to cook and clean and take you to the clinic and to the—

  VIOLET (Attempting to over-articulate): In the int’rest of . . . civil action . . . your par-tic-u-lars ways of speak-king, I thought you meant you had thought a whoa-man to be HIRED!

  BEVERLY: I don’t understand you.

  VIOLET (Suddenly winsome, to Johnna): Hello.

  JOHNNA: Hello.

  VIOLET: I’m sorry. (Curtsies) Like this.

  JOHNNA: Yes, ma’am.

  VIOLET: I’m Violet. What’s your name?

  JOHNNA: Johnna.

  VIOLET: You’re very pretty.

  JOHNNA: Thank you.

  VIOLET: Are you an Indian?

  JOHNNA: Yes, ma’am.

  VIOLET: What kind?

  JOHNNA: Cheyenne.

  VIOLET: Do you think I’m pretty?

  JOHNNA: Yes, ma’am.

  VIOLET (Curtsies again): Like . . . this? (Curtsies again) Like this . . . (Curtsies lower, stumbles, catches herself)

  BEVERLY: Careful.

  VIOLET (Still to Johnna): You’re the house now. I’m sorry, I . . . I took some medicine for my musssss . . . muscular.

  BEVERLY: Why don’t you go back to bed, sweetheart?

  VIOLET: Why don’t you go fuck a fucking sow’s ass?

  BEVERLY: All right.

  VIOLET (To Johnna): I’m sorry. I’ll be sickly sweet. I’m sooooooooooo sweet. In-el-abrially sweet.

  (She stubs out her cigarette on Beverly’s desk ashtray . . . stares at Johnna as if she might say something else . . . then suddenly exits.)

  BEVERLY: I think I mentioned on the phone that Dr. Burke recommended you. He feels you’re qualified to handle the needs of our household.

  JOHNNA: I have a year toward my nursing certificate at Tulsa Community College, but I had to drop out when Daddy died. And I saw my mom and grandma through bad times.

  BEVERLY: Dr. Burke says you’ve been struggling for work.

  JOHNNA: I’ve been cleaning houses and babysitting.

  BEVERLY: He did tell you we wanted a live-in.

  JOHNNA: Yes, sir.

  BEVERLY: We keep unusual hours here. Try not to differentiate between night and day. I doubt you’ll be able to maintain any sort of a healthy routine.

  JOHNNA: I need the work.

  BEVERLY: The work itself . . . pretty mundane. I myself require very little personal attention. Thrive without it, in fact, sort of a human cactus. My wife has been diagnosed with a touch of cancer, so she’ll need to be driven to Tulsa for her final chemotherapy treatments. You’re welcome to use that American-made behemoth parked in the carport. You’re welcome to make use of anything, everything, all this garbage we’ve acquired, our life’s work. If you’re going to live here, I want you to live here. You understand?

  JOHNNA: Yes, sir.

  BEVERLY: Please call me Beverly. Do you have any questions?

  JOHNNA: What kind of cancer?

  BEVERLY: I didn’t say? My God, I nearly neglected the punch line: mouth cancer.

  JOHNNA: What pills does she take?

  BEVERLY: Valium. Vicodin. Darvon, Darvocet. Percodan, Percocet. Xanax for fun. OxyContin in a pinch. Some Black Mollies once, just to make sure I was still paying attention. And of course Dilaudid. I shouldn’t forget Dilaudid.

  (Beverly studies her. Finishes his drink.)

  My wife. Violet. Violet, my wife, doesn’t believe she needs treatment for her habit. She has been down that road once before, and came out of it clean as a whistle . . . then chose for herself this reality instead.

  You were about to ask why she isn’t currently seeking treatment. Weren’t you?

  JOHNNA: No, sir.

  BEVERLY: Oh, good, that relieves me. Now hold on a second . . .

  (Beverly wobbles to his feet unsteadily, as much from weariness as drink, explores his bookshelf.)

  My last refuge, my books: simple pleasures, like finding wild onions by the side of a road, or requited love.

  (He takes a book from his bookshelf and gives it to Johnna.)

  JOHNNA: T. S. Eliot.

  BEVERLY: Read it or not. It isn’t a job requirement. That’s just for your enjoyment. Feel free to read any of my books.

  Here we go round the prickly pear

  Prickly pear prickly pear

  Here we go round the prickly pear . . .

  ACT ONE

  SCENE 1

  Ivy, Mattie Fae and Charlie are in the living room. Mattie Fae drinks a glass of scotch. Charlie has the TV tuned to a baseball game, the sound low, and he keeps an eye on the score as he nurses a bottle of beer.

  Elsewhere in the house: Violet talks on the telephone in the sitting room; Johnna cooks and cleans in the kitchen.

  MATTIE FAE: Beverly’s done this before.

  IVY: I know.

  MATTIE FAE: You remember he used to just take off, no call, nothing. You remember, Charlie?

  CHARLIE: They’ve always had trouble—

  MATTIE FAE: One time, this one time, he just up and left without a word, I told Vi, I said, “You pack that son-of-a-bitch’s bags and have them waiting for him on the front porch.” And you know I always liked your father.

  IVY: I know.

  MATTIE FAE: No, I always liked your father, you know that. I introduced Vi and Bev, for God’s sake.

  CHARLIE: You did not introduce them.

  MATTIE FAE: The hell I didn’t.

  CHARLIE: You had a date with him and stood him up and sent your sister instead.

  MATTIE FAE: That’s an introduction. That’s what an introduction is.

  CHARLIE: I just don’t think it’s accurate to say—

  MATTIE FAE: He was too old for me and anyway, Violet? “Shrinking Violet?” She couldn’t meet a man on her own.

  CHARLIE: No one ever called her “Shrinking Violet”—

  MATTIE FAE: And Charlie and your father always got on real well. They used to go on fishing trips together.

  IVY: I know.

  MATTIE FAE: But when Beverly just took off like that, without saying anything, without a note even, my first obligation was to look after my sister, don’tcha know.

  CHARLIE: You don’t have an obligation to do anything.

  MATTIE FAE: I have an obligation to look after my sister.

  CHARLIE: You’re not obliged to get involved in somebody else’s marriage.

  MATTIE FAE: Not any marriage, but when they’re married to my big sister, I sure as hell do. Ivy has sisters, she knows what I mean. I told her, I said, “Vi, you pack that son-of-a-bitch’s bags and put them on the front porch. You take all those goddamn books he’s so fond of and you make a big pile in the front yard and you have yourself a bonfire. Take all his papers too, just everything and throw it in—”

  CHARLIE: You don’t burn a man’s books.

  MATTIE FAE: Will you stop? You keep contradicting—

  CHARLIE: The man’s books didn’t do anything. His possessions aren’t responsible.

  MATTIE FAE: Well, she didn’t do it, so it doesn’t make any—

  CHARLIE: Of course she didn’t do it.

  MATTIE FAE: Let me tell you so
mething, Charlie Aiken: you ever get any ideas about just up and taking off, you better believe—

  CHARLIE: I’m not going anywhere—

  MATTIE FAE: I’m saying if you did, you better believe I’m gonna give you about three days to get your head straight and then it’s all going up in a blaze of glory.

  CHARLIE: I’m not going anywhere!

  MATTIE FAE: If you did!

  CHARLIE: I’m not!

  MATTIE FAE: Not that Charlie has any books lying around. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Charlie read a book in my life.

  CHARLIE: Is that a criticism? Does that bother you?

  MATTIE FAE: Well, I haven’t. What’s the last book you read?

  CHARLIE: Goddamn it—

  MATTIE FAE: Just tell me the last book you read.

  CHARLIE: Beverly was a teacher; teachers read books. I’m in the upholstery business; people in the upholstery business—

  MATTIE FAE: You can’t tell me the last book you read.

  CHARLIE: This girl is concerned about her daddy’s whereabouts. She doesn’t need to sit here and listen to us—

  MATTIE FAE: I think we’re all concerned about Beverly.

  CHARLIE: Then what the hell are you needling me for?

  MATTIE FAE: He came back though, you know, and they worked things out, and he’ll come back again, I know he will.

  IVY: I think this time is different.

  MATTIE FAE: I think so too.

  CHARLIE: Why?

  MATTIE FAE: Because back then—

  CHARLIE: I’m not asking you. (To Ivy) Why do you think this time is different?

  IVY: Because I think back then they were trying.

  MATTIE FAE (To Charlie): Which is what I was gonna say. (To Ivy) Beverly was a very complicated man.

  IVY: I know.

  CHARLIE: Stop saying “was.”

  MATTIE FAE: Well, he was. He is, very complicated.

  CHARLIE: But in a kind-y quiet way.

  IVY: Kind of like Charles.

  CHARLIE: Yes, like Little Charles. Exactly—

  MATTIE FAE: Oh. He’s nothing like Little Charles.

  CHARLIE: She just means in their sort of quiet complicated ways—

  MATTIE FAE: Little Charles isn’t complicated.

  CHARLIE: I think—

  MATTIE FAE: No, Little Charles isn’t complicated, he’s just unemployed.

  CHARLIE: He’s an observer.

  MATTIE FAE: All he observes is the television.

  CHARLIE: So you can’t even see Ivy’s point?

  MATTIE FAE: No.

  CHARLIE: That Little Charles and Beverly share some kind of . . . complication.

  MATTIE FAE: Honey, you have to be smart to be complicated.

  CHARLIE: That’s our boy. Are you saying our boy isn’t smart?

  MATTIE FAE: Yes, that’s what I’m saying.

  CHARLIE: What’s the matter with you? (To Ivy) Your cousin is very smart.

  MATTIE FAE: I’m sweating. Are you sweating?

  CHARLIE: Hell, yes, I’m sweating, it’s ninety degrees in here.

  MATTIE FAE: Feel my back.

  CHARLIE: I don’t want to feel your back.

  MATTIE FAE: Feel it. Sweat is just dripping down my back.

  CHARLIE: I believe you.

  MATTIE FAE: Feel it.

  CHARLIE: No.

  MATTIE FAE: Come on, put your hand here—

  CHARLIE: Goddamn it—

  MATTIE FAE: Sweat’s just dripping—

  CHARLIE: Ivy. Let me ask you something. When did this start? This business with the shades, taping the shades?

  IVY: That’s been a couple of years now.

  MATTIE FAE: My gosh, has it been that long since we’ve been here?

  CHARLIE: Do you know its purpose?

  MATTIE FAE: You can’t tell if it’s night or day.

  IVY: I think that’s the purpose.

  CHARLIE: Well, I don’t know, but I don’t think that’s healthy.

  MATTIE FAE: It’s not. You need sunlight.

  CHARLIE: Do you know which one of them decided on this?

  IVY: I can’t really see Dad taking the initiative.

  CHARLIE: No, I suppose not. I don’t know about you, but I find this whole setup depressing. Y’know, a person’s environment . . . (Points to the stereo) And what the hell, is that an Eric Clapton album? Vi’s a Clapton fan?

  (Mattie Fae starts to peel the tape from one of the shades.)

  Don’t do that.

  MATTIE FAE: The body needs sunlight.

  CHARLIE: It’s nighttime. And this isn’t your place, you can’t come into somebody else’s home and start changing—

  MATTIE FAE: Do you believe we haven’t been here in two years?

  (Violet enters.)

  VIOLET: He said they checked the hospitals but no Beverly.

  MATTIE FAE: This is the highway patrol?

  VIOLET: No, not the highway patrol, the sheriff, the Gilbeau boy.

  MATTIE FAE: Gilbeau. Don’t tell me C. J. Gilbeau is the sheriff here now.

  VIOLET: Not C. J., his boy Deon.

  MATTIE FAE: I was gonna say—

  VIOLET: He went to school with the girls, Deon did. Was he in your class, Ivy?

  IVY: Barbara’s class, I think.

  MATTIE FAE: Is that right?

  CHARLIE: Who’s this now?

  MATTIE FAE: C. J. Gilbeau was a boy we grew up with. Mean little son-of-a-bitch, juvenile delinquent—

  VIOLET: His boy Deon’s the sheriff now.

  MATTIE FAE: C. J. was the preacher’s son and you know—

  CHARLIE: Say no more.

  MATTIE FAE:—and you know how they are.

  VIOLET: You remember he went to the penitentiary.

  MATTIE FAE: Yes, I remember that, for killing what was it?

  VIOLET: A boxer.

  MATTIE FAE: Right, for killing this man’s boxer dog.

  VIOLET: His boy Deon’s the sheriff. I sent you that subscription to the Pawhuska Journal-Capital. Don’t you read it?

  MATTIE FAE: No, I don’t read it.

  VIOLET: So you Tulsa big shots could keep up with us small-town folks.

  MATTIE FAE: No, I don’t read it.

  VIOLET: Well, if you read it you’d know that his boy Deon is the sheriff here now.

  IVY: What hospitals did they check?

  VIOLET: He rattled off a bunch of them.

  IVY: What else did he say?

  VIOLET: The boat’s missing.

  (Pause.)

  IVY: Mom?

  VIOLET: He sent a patrolman out to the dock to check if anybody had seen him and Beverly’s pontoon boat is gone.

  MATTIE FAE: Oh, no.

  VIOLET: He said they’ve had a couple of boats stolen in the last little while so he didn’t think it proved anything, but he was worried about it.

  (Violet starts to ascend the stairs.)

  CHARLIE: Vi, you think there’s a chance Bev loaded that boat onto his trailer and took it out of there? I mean if he was going somewhere’s else.

  MATTIE FAE: Trailer’s out by the shed, I saw it when we pulled up.

  (Violet exits. Ivy follows her. Johnna enters, occupied with housework. Charlie holds up his empty beer bottle.)

  CHARLIE: ’Scuse me, dear . . . could I trouble you for another beer?