by Tracy Letts
(Violet sits, exhales. Karen picks up a hand cream from the bedside table, rubs it on her hands.)
You girls all together in this house. Just hearing your voices outside the door gives me a warm feeling. These walls must’ve heard a lot of secrets.
KAREN: I get embarrassed just thinking about it.
VIOLET: Oh . . . nothing to be embarrassed about. Secret crushes, secret schemes . . . province of teenage girls. I can’t imagine anything more delicate, or bittersweet. Some part of you girls I just always identified with . . . no matter how old you get, a woman’s hard-pressed to throw off that part of herself. (To Karen, regarding the hand cream) That smells good.
KAREN: Doesn’t it? It’s apple. You want some?
VIOLET: Yes, please.
(Karen passes the hand cream to Violet.)
I ever tell you the story of Raymond Qualls? Not much story to it. Boy I had a crush on when I was thirteen or so. Real rough-looking boy, beat-up Levis, messy hair. Terrible underbite. But he had these beautiful cowboy boots, shiny chocolate leather. He was so proud of those boots, you could tell, the way he’d strut around, all arms and elbows, puffed-up and cocksure. I decided I needed to get a girly pair of those same boots and I knew he’d ask me to go steady, convinced myself of it. He’d see me in those boots and say, “Now there’s the gal for me.” Found the boots in a window downtown and just went crazy: I’d stay up late in bed, praying for those boots, rehearsing the conversation I was going to have with Raymond when he saw me in my boots. Must’ve asked my momma a hundred times if I could get those boots. “What do you want for Christmas, Vi?” “Momma, I’ll give all of it up just for those boots.” Bargaining, you know? She started dropping hints about a package under the tree she had wrapped up, about the size of a boot box, real nice wrapping paper. “Now, Vi, don’t you cheat and look in there before Christmas morning.” Little smile on her face. Christmas morning, I was up like a shot, boy, under the tree, tearing open that box. There was a pair of boots, all right . . . men’s work boots, holes in the toes, chewed-up laces, caked in mud and dog shit. Lord, my momma laughed for days.
(Silence.)
BARBARA: Please don’t tell me that’s the end of that story.
VIOLET: Oh, no. That’s the end.
KAREN: You never got the boots?
VIOLET: No, huh-uh.
BARBARA: Okay, well, that’s the worst story I ever heard. That makes me wish for a heartwarming claw hammer story.
(Elsewhere in the house: Jean and Steve win the card game with an exclamation of triumph. The players disperse.)
VIOLET: No, no. My momma was a nasty, mean old lady. I suppose that’s where I get it from.
(An awkward moment.)
KAREN: You’re not nasty-mean. You’re our mother and we love you.
VIOLET: Thank you, sweetheart.
(Karen kisses Violet’s cheek.)
BARBARA: Hey you all, I need to talk to Mom for a minute.
KAREN: Sure.
(Ivy and Karen exit.)
BARBARA: How’s your head?
VIOLET: I’m fine, Barb. Don’t worry about that.
BARBARA: I’m sorry.
VIOLET: Please, honey—
BARBARA: No, it’s important that I say this. I lost my temper and went too far.
VIOLET: Barbara. The day, the funeral . . . the pills. I was spoiling for a fight and you gave it to me.
BARBARA: So . . . truce?
VIOLET (Laughs): Truce.
BARBARA: What do you want to do?
VIOLET: How do you mean?
BARBARA: Don’t you think you should consider a rehab center, or—?
VIOLET: Oh, no. I can’t go through that. No, I can do this. I’m pretty sure I can.
BARBARA: Really?
VIOLET: Yes. Well, look, you got rid of my pills, right?
BARBARA: All we could find.
VIOLET: I don’t have that many hiding places.
BARBARA: Mom, now, come on.
VIOLET: You wanna search me?
BARBARA: Uh . . . no.
VIOLET: If the pills are gone, I’ll be fine. Just take me a few days to get my feet under me.
BARBARA: I can’t imagine what all this must be like for you right now. I just want you to know, you’re not alone in this.
(No response.)
How can I help?
VIOLET: I don’t need help.
BARBARA: I want to help.
VIOLET: I don’t need your help.
BARBARA: Mom.
VIOLET: I don’t need your help. I’ve gotten myself through some . . . (Stops, collects herself) I know how this goes: once all the talking’s through, people go back to their own nonsense. I know that. So don’t you worry about me. I’ll manage. I get by.
(Lights crossfade to the living room where Little Charles watches TV. Ivy enters the room guardedly.)
IVY: Is the coast clear?
LITTLE CHARLES: Never very.
IVY: What are you watching?
LITTLE CHARLES: Television.
IVY: Can I watch it with you?
LITTLE CHARLES: I wish you would.
(She sits beside him on the couch. They watch TV.)
I almost blew it, didn’t I?
IVY: Yeah.
LITTLE CHARLES: Are you mad at me?
IVY: Nope.
(They hold hands.)
LITTLE CHARLES: I was trying to be brave.
IVY: I know.
LITTLE CHARLES: I just . . . I want everyone to know that I got what I always wanted. And that means . . . I’m not a loser.
IVY: Hey. Hey.
(He turns to look at her.)
You’re my hero.
(He considers this . . . then beams a huge smile. He goes to the electric piano, turns it on.)
LITTLE CHARLES: Come here. You can help me push the pedals.
(She sits beside him on the piano bench.)
I wrote this for you.
(He plays, and quietly sings a gentle but quirky love song. Midway through, Mattie Fae enters from the kitchen, breaking the spell, Charlie in tow.)
MATTIE FAE: Liberace. Get yourself together, we’re heading back.
IVY: Are you all staying at my place? LITTLE CHARLES: Okay . . .
MATTIE FAE: No, we have to get home and take care of those damn dogs.
IVY: You know you’re welcome.
MATTIE FAE (To Charlie): Oh, look, honey, Little Charles has got the TV on. CHARLIE: Thanks, Ivy.
LITTLE CHARLES: No, I was just—
MATTIE FAE (To Ivy): This one watches so much television, it’s rotted his brain.
IVY: I’m sure that’s not true.
MATTIE FAE (To Little Charles): What was it I caught you watching the other day?
LITTLE CHARLES: I don’t remember. CHARLIE: Mattie Fae—
MATTIE FAE: You do so remember, some dumb game show about people swapping wives.
LITTLE CHARLES: I don’t remember.
MATTIE FAE: You don’t remember.
CHARLIE: C’mon, Mattie Fae—
MATTIE FAE: Too bad there isn’t a job where they pay you to sit around watching television.
CHARLIE: Mattie Fae, it’s been a long day.
MATTIE FAE: I suppose you wouldn’t like TV then, not if watching it constituted getting a job.
CHARLIE: Mattie Fae—
MATTIE FAE (To Ivy): Did I tell you he got fired from a shoe store?
CHARLIE: Mattie Fae, we’re gonna go get in the car right now and go home and if you say one more mean thing to that boy I’m going to kick your fat Irish ass onto the highway. You hear me?
(She wheels on Charlie, stung.)
MATTIE FAE: What the hell did you say?—
CHARLIE: You kids go outside.
(Ivy and Little Charles exit the house.
Barbara, who had started to enter during the previous exchange, stops short, unseen by Charlie or Mattie Fae.)
I don’t understand this meanness. I look at you and your sister and the wa
y you talk to people and I don’t understand it. I just can’t understand why folks can’t be respectful of one another. I don’t think there’s any excuse for it. My family didn’t treat each other that way.
MATTIE FAE: Well maybe that’s because your family is a—
CHARLIE: You had better not say anything about my family right now. I mean it.
We buried a man today I loved very much. And whatever faults he may have had, he was a good, kind, decent person.
And to hear you tear into your own son on a day like today dishonors Beverly’s memory.
We’ve been married for thirty-eight years. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. But if you can’t find a generous place in your heart for your own son, we’re not going to make it to thirty-nine.
(He leaves. Mattie Fae becomes aware of Barbara.)
BARBARA: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I froze.
MATTIE FAE: That’s. Do you have a cigarette, hon?
BARBARA: No, I quit years ago.
MATTIE FAE: So did I. It just sounded good to me. Barbara. I thought today at dinner . . . at that horrible dinner, it seemed like . . .
BARBARA: What?
MATTIE FAE: It seemed as if something might be going on between Ivy and Little Charles. Do you know if that’s true?
BARBARA: Oh, this is . . . I’m not sure what to say here, it’s—
MATTIE FAE: Look, just. Can you tell me if that’s true.
BARBARA: Yes. It’s true.
MATTIE FAE: Okay. That can’t happen.
BARBARA: This is going to be difficult to explain. Um. You know, Ivy and Little Charles have always marched to their own—and obviously, I would expect this to be toughest on you—
MATTIE FAE: Barb—?
BARBARA: I think they’re very much in love. Or at least they think they are. What’s the difference, right? And I’m sure they must be terrified of you and Mom—
MATTIE FAE: Honey—
BARBARA: I realize it’s pretty unorthodox for cousins to get together, at least these days—
MATTIE FAE: They’re not cousins.
BARBARA:—but believe it or not, it’s not as uncommon as you might—
MATTIE FAE: Barbara. Listen to me. They’re not cousins.
BARBARA: Beg pardon?
MATTIE FAE: Little Charles is not your cousin. He’s your brother. He’s your blood brother. He is not your cousin. He is your blood brother. Half-brother. He’s your father’s child. Which means that he is Ivy’s brother. Do you see? Little Charles and Ivy are brother and sister.
BARBARA: No, that’s not—no.
MATTIE FAE: Listen—
(Karen and Steve enter.)
BARBARA: No. Go back.
KAREN: We’re just going to—
BARBARA: Go back into the kitchen. Now! Just . . . everyone stay in the kitchen!
(Karen and Steve retreat to the kitchen.)
No, that’s wrong. You. Okay, well this may be—are you sure?
MATTIE FAE: Yes.
BARBARA: You and Dad.
MATTIE FAE: Yes.
BARBARA: Who knows this?
MATTIE FAE: I do. And you do.
BARBARA: Uncle Charlie doesn’t suspect.
MATTIE FAE: We’ve never discussed it.
BARBARA: What?!
MATTIE FAE: We’ve never discussed it. Okay?
BARBARA: Did Dad know?
(Mattie Fae nods.)
MATTIE FAE: Y’know, I’m not proud of this.
BARBARA: Really. You people amaze me. What, were you drunk? Was this just some—?
MATTIE FAE: I wasn’t drunk, no. Maybe it’s hard for you to believe, looking at me, knowing me the way you do, all these years. I know to you, I’m just your old fat Aunt Mattie Fae. But I’m more than that, sweetheart . . . there’s more to me than that.
Charlie’s right, of course. As usual. I don’t know why Little Charles is such a disappointment to me. Maybe he . . . well, I don’t know why. I guess I’m disappointed for him, more than anything.
I made a mistake, a long time ago. Well, okay. Fair enough. I’ve paid for it. But the mistake ends here.
BARBARA: If Ivy found out about this, it would destroy her.
MATTIE FAE: I’m sure as hell not gonna tell her. You have to find a way to stop it. You have to put a stop to it.
BARBARA: Why me?
MATTIE FAE: You said you were running things.
SCENE 2
Giggling from the kitchen. Jean and Steve quietly scamper from the kitchen into the dining room, sharing a joint. She wears a knee-length T-shirt and white socks; he wears sweatpants and a sleeveless T-shirt.
The rest of the house is sleeping. Karen sleeps in the living room on the unfolded hide-a-bed. Bill sleeps on the mattress in the study.
STEVE: Shhh . . .
(Jean snort-laughs.)
You’re gonna get me busted, you.
JEAN: I thought you weren’t doing anything wrong.
STEVE: We’re not, but some folks may not be crazy about me smoking pot with a girl born during the Clinton administration.
JEAN: First Bush.
STEVE: Great. Stop talking about your bush, all right? You’re gonna get me hot and bothered—
JEAN (Laughing): You are sick—
STEVE:—and I won’t be able to control myself.
JEAN: God, you weren’t kidding, this stuff is strong.
STEVE: Florida, baby. Number one industry.
JEAN: Who cares?
STEVE: Number one, by far. You want a shotgun?
JEAN: Huh?
STEVE: You don’t know what a shotgun is?
JEAN: I know what a shotgun is.
STEVE: Not that kind of shotgun—here. Just put your lips right next to mine and you inhale while I exhale.
JEAN: Okay.
(He puts the joint in his mouth, lit end first. Their lips nearly touch as he blows marijuana smoke into her mouth in a steady stream. She nearly chokes.)
STEVE: Hold it. Don’t let it out.
(She finally gasps, exhales, coughs.)
JEAN: Whoa.
STEVE: That’s a kick, huh?
JEAN: Whoa, shit, man.
STEVE (Laughs): That’s what I’m talkin’ about.
JEAN: Whoa, Jesus—
(She takes an off-balance step, sways. He catches her, holds her.)
STEVE: Careful, now—
JEAN: Oh, man, what a head rush.
STEVE: You okay? You’re not passing out on me, are you?
JEAN: No, I’m cool. Oh God . . . (Coughs deeply) I really feel that in my chest.
(He reaches for her breasts.)
STEVE: Here, let me feel.
(Unperturbed, she pushes him away.)
JEAN: You’re just an old perv.
STEVE: No shit. Christ, you got a great set. How old are you?
JEAN: I’m fifteen, perv.
STEVE: Show ’em to me.
JEAN: No, perv.
STEVE: Shhh. Yeah, show ’em to me. I won’t look.
