by Tracy Letts
JOHNNA: No, not these days.
JEAN: Me neither. I did go with this boy Josh for like almost a year but he was retarded. Are your parents still together?
JOHNNA: They passed away.
JEAN: Oh. I’m sorry.
JOHNNA: That’s okay. Thank you.
JEAN: Oh, fuck, no, I’m really sorry, I feel fucking terrible now.
JOHNNA: It’s okay.
JEAN: Oh God. Okay. Were you close with them?
JOHNNA: Yeah.
JEAN: Okay, another stupid question there, Jean, real good. Wow. Like: “Are you close to your parents?”
JOHNNA: Not everybody is.
JEAN: Yeah, right? So that’s what I meant. Thanks.
(Johnna takes a framed photograph from her nightstand and hands it to Jean.)
Oh, wow. This is them.
JOHNNA: Mm-hm, their wedding picture.
JEAN: That’s sweet. Their costumes are fantastic.
(Johnna smiles. Jean hands the photograph back, walks around the room.)
This is a great room. Very Night of the Hunter. This used to be my room when we’d come and stay.
JOHNNA: I’m sorry.
JEAN: Oh. No, I . . . it doesn’t matter to me. It’s just a room. (Beat) What are you reading?
JOHNNA: T. S. Eliot.
JEAN: That’s cool.
JOHNNA: Your grandfather loaned it to me.
JEAN: Grandpa’s weird. Mom freaked when she got the call from Aunt Ivy this morning, just like . . . freaked. I’ve never seen her like that. I couldn’t get her to calm down. It was weird. I guess it’s not weird that she freaked out, but like, to see your mom freak like that, like you’ve never seen before, y’know? And we’re real close. Did you ever see your parents freak out?
JOHNNA: They weren’t really the type.
JEAN: Yeah, right? So like imagine if you did just one day see them like totally lose their shit, just like, “Whoa.”
(Jean reaches, touches a beaded pouch in the shape of a turtle hanging from Johnna’s neck.)
I like your necklace.
JOHNNA: Thank you.
JEAN: Did you make that?
JOHNNA: My grandma.
JEAN: It’s a turtle, right?
JOHNNA: Mm-hm.
JEAN: It feels like there’s something in it. JOHNNA: My umbilical cord.
(Jean recoils, wipes her hand on her pant’s leg. Johnna laughs.)
JEAN: Ewww, are you serious?
JOHNNA: Yes.
JEAN: Oh my God. That’s kind of gross.
JOHNNA: It’s not unsanitary.
JEAN: Why would you do that, is it some kind of . . . ?
JOHNNA: It’s a Cheyenne tradition.
JEAN: You’re Cheyenne.
JOHNNA: Mm-hm.
JEAN: Like that movie Powwow Highway. Did you see that?
JOHNNA: When a Cheyenne baby is born, their umbilical cord is dried and sewn into this pouch. Turtles for girls, lizards for boys. And we wear it for the rest of our lives.
JEAN: Wow.
JOHNNA: Because if we lose it, our souls belong nowhere and after we die our souls will walk the Earth looking for where we belong.
JEAN: Don’t say anything about Mom and Dad splitting up, okay? They’re trying to play this kind of low-key.
SCENE 3
Barbara unfolds the hide-a-bed in the living room. Bill enters from the study, carrying a thin hardback book.
BILL: Look what I found. Isn’t that great?
BARBARA: We have copies.
BILL: I don’t think I remember a hardback edition. I forgot there was ever a time they published poetry in hardback. Hell, I forgot there was ever a time they published poetry at all.
BARBARA: I’m not going to be able to sleep in this heat.
BILL: I wonder if this is worth something.
BARBARA: I’m sure it’s not.
BILL: You never know. First edition, hardback, mint condition? Academy Fellowship, uh . . . Wallace Stevens Award? That’s right, isn’t it?
BARBARA: Mm-hm.
BILL: This book was a big deal.
BARBARA: It wasn’t that big a deal.
BILL: In those circles, it was.
BARBARA: Those are small circles.
BILL (Reads from the book): “Dedicated to my Violet.” That’s nice. Christ . . . I can’t imagine the kind of pressure he must’ve felt after this came out. Probably every word he wrote after this, he had to be thinking, “What are they going to say about this? Are they going to compare it to Meadowlark?”
BARBARA: Did Jean go to bed?
BILL: She just turned out the light. You would think, though, at some point, you just say, “To hell with this,” and you write something anyway and who cares what they say about it. I mean I don’t know, myself—
BARBARA: Will you please shut up about that fucking book?!
BILL: What’s the matter?
BARBARA: You are just dripping with envy over these . . . thirty poems my father wrote back in the fucking sixties, for God’s sake. Don’t you hear yourself?
BILL: You’re mistaken. I have great admiration for these poems, not envy—
BARBARA: Reciting his list of awards—
BILL: I was merely talking about the value—
BARBARA: My father didn’t write anymore for a lot of reasons, but critical opinion was not one of them, hard as that may be for you to believe. I know how important that stuff is to you.
BILL: What are you attacking me for? I haven’t done anything.
BARBARA: I’m sure that’s what you tell Sissy, too, so she can comfort you, reassure you: “No, Billy, you haven’t done anything.”
BILL: What does that have to do—why are you bringing that up?
BARBARA: They’re all symptoms of your male menopause, whether it’s you struggling with the “creative question,” or screwing a girl who still wears a retainer.
BILL: All right, look. I’m here for you. Because I want to be with you, in a difficult time. But I’m not going to be held hostage in this room so you can attack me—
BARBARA: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you hostage. You really should go then.
BILL: I’m not going anywhere. I flew to Oklahoma to be here with you and now you’re stuck with me. And her name is Cindy.
BARBARA: I know her stupid name. At least do me the courtesy of recognizing when I’m demeaning you.
BILL: Violet really has a way of putting you in attack mode, you know it?
BARBARA: She doesn’t have anything to do with it.
BILL: Don’t you believe it. You feel such rage for her that you can’t help dishing it my direction—
BARBARA: I swear to God, you psychoanalyze me right now, I skin you.
BILL: You may not agree with my methods, but you know I’m right.
BARBARA: Your “methods.” Thank you, Doctor, but I actually don’t need any help from my mother to feel rage.
BILL: You want to argue? Is that what you need to do? Well, pick a subject, all right, and let me know what it is, so I can have a fighting chance—
BARBARA: The subject is me! I am the subject, you narcissistic motherfucker! I am in pain! I need help!
(Jean enters from the second-floor hallway, sits on the stairway, listens.)
BILL: I’ve copped to being a narcissist. We’re the products of a narcissistic generation.
BARBARA: You can’t do it, can you? You can’t talk about me for two seconds—
BILL: You called me a narcissist! And when I try to talk about you, you accuse me of psychoanalyzing you—!
BARBARA: You do understand that it hurts, to go from sharing a bed with you for twenty-three years to sleeping by myself.
BILL: I’m here, now.
BARBARA: Men always say shit like that, as if the past and the future don’t exist.
BILL: Can we not make this a gender discussion?
BARBARA: Do men really believe that here and now is enough? It’s just horseshit, to avoid talking about the
things they’re afraid to say.
BILL: I’m not necessarily keen on the notion of saying things that would hurt you.
BARBARA: Like what?
BILL: Don’t.
BARBARA: What? Say it. You must realize there’s nothing you can say that would hurt me any more than I’m already hurting. The damage is done.
BILL: I think you’re wrong. I think you get in this masochistic frame of mind that actually desires to be hurt more than—
BARBARA: What?!
BILL: Barbara, please, we have enough on our hands with your parents right now. Let’s not revisit all this.
BARBARA: Revisit, when did we visit this to begin with? You pulled the rug out from under me. I still don’t know what happened. Do I bore you, intimidate you, disgust you? Is this just about the pleasures of young flesh, teenage pussy? I really need to know.
BILL: You need to know now? You want to have this discussion with Beverly missing, and your mother as crazy as a loon, and our daughter twenty feet away? Do you really want to do this now?
BARBARA: No. You’re right. I’ll just hunker down for a cozy night’s sleep. Next to my husband.
(She calmly gets under the covers.)
BILL: This discussion deserves our care. And patience. We’ll both be in a better frame of mind to talk about this once your father’s come home.
BARBARA: My father’s dead, Bill.
(She rolls onto her side, her back to Bill.)
SCENE 4
Red and blue police flashers bounce across the exterior of the house. Sheriff Gilbeau stands on the front porch. The rest of the house is dark.
Johnna, wearing a robe, quietly knocks on the stereo cabinet in the living room.
BARBARA: Mm . . . what?
JOHNNA: Excuse me . . . it’s Johnna.
BARBARA: What?
JOHNNA: Excuse me—
BARBARA: What is it?
JOHNNA: The sheriff’s here.
BILL: Turn on the light.
(Johnna turns on a lamp, temporarily blinding Bill and Barbara.)
JOHNNA: The sheriff is here.
(Pause. This sinks in. Then Bill and Barbara scramble out of bed.)
Should I wake Mrs. Weston?
BARBARA: I don’t know. Bill?
BILL: Yeah, you better get her up.
(Johnna leaves the room. Jean enters the second-floor landing, bleary-eyed, as Bill and Barbara scurry into clothes. Barbara climbs the stairs.)
JEAN: What’s going on?
BARBARA: The sheriff is here.
JEAN: What?
BARBARA: Go back to bed, honey.
JEAN: Why are the police here?
BARBARA: I don’t know, sweetheart, please go back to bed.
(Offstage, an attempt to alert Violet. Johnna knocks on Violet’s bedroom door.)
JOHNNA: Mrs. Weston? (Knocks again) Mrs. Weston.
(Barbara knocks loudly.)
BARBARA: Mom? . . . Mom, wake up.
VIOLET: Huh?
BARBARA: Wake up, the sheriff’s here.
VIOLET: Did you call them?
BARBARA: No.
VIOLET: I dig in call them.
BARBARA: Mom. The sheriff is here. You need to wake up and come downstairs.
VIOLET: Inna esther?
BARBARA: What?
VIOLET: Inna esther broke. ’N’ pays me ’em . . . sturck . . . struck.
BILL (From the bottom of the stairs): Come on.
BARBARA (To Bill): What . . . ?
BILL: Come on. Leave her there.
(Barbara halfway descends the stairs, trailed by Johnna, as Bill admits Sheriff Gilbeau, shakes hands.)
Bill Fordham, Barbara’s husband.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Hello. Hi, Barbara.
BARBARA: Oh my God, I know you. Oh my God, Deon . . .
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you folks.
BARBARA: Okay—
SHERIFF GILBEAU: We found your father. He’s dead.
BILL: Oh dear God.
(Barbara keens immediately, sinks to her knees on the stairway. Johnna wraps one hand around Barbara’s middle, places the other hand firmly on Barbara’s forehead. Jean sits down on a step.)
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I am sorry.
BILL: What happened?
SHERIFF GILBEAU: We got a call from the lake patrol a few hours ago that Mr. Weston’s boat was found washed up on a sandbar. We were planning to drag the lake this morning around that area, southeast, when we got another call. Couple old boys running jug lines in the cove, uh . . . hooked . . . Mr. Weston. And pulled him up.
BILL: Now? This time of night?
SHERIFF GILBEAU: These guys run those lines early.
BILL: He drowned. That’s how he died, from drowning.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Yes, sir.
BILL: Is there any possibility . . . any possibility that it’s not him?
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Given the proximity of the boat to where the body was found, we’re pretty sure it’s Mr. Weston.
(Barbara suddenly dries her eyes, shrugs Johnna’s grasp, stands.)
BARBARA: All right. Okay. So what happens? What do we do now?
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I need a relative to come with me to positively identify the body.
BILL: To your station house.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: No, sir, he’s still at the lake.
BARBARA: Oh God, I don’t think I can do this.
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I’m sorry.
BILL: I’ll go. Can I go? Can I do it?
SHERIFF GILBEAU: I need a blood relative. But if Barbara is the one to identify him, I suggest you come along.
BARBARA: Bill, I can’t do it.
BILL: Honey, what choice do we have?
JEAN: I can do it. I’m a blood relative.
BARBARA: No, no. No, I’ll do it. I will.
(Johnna exits to the kitchen, turns on the lights, starts a pot of coffee.)
BILL: Can we have a couple of minutes to get ready?
SHERIFF GILBEAU: Yes, sir. Barbara?
(She turns to him.)
I’m very sorry. This is the hardest part of my job. And I’m . . . to do it for someone you know . . . I’m just . . . very sorry.
(She nods.)
BILL: What do you want to do about your mother?
BARBARA: I . . . I . . . fuck it. (Laughs) Fuck it. I’ll go . . . put some clothes on.
BILL: I’ll be right up. Jean, help your mother, okay?
(Barbara and Jean exit down the second-floor hallway. Bill pulls Sheriff Gilbeau into the study.)
Is there any way to determine if he—I mean, is this an accident, or suicide?—
SHERIFF GILBEAU: There’s really no way to tell.
