by Paula Vogel
(Starts to laugh and splutter) I mean, I’m not a…a murderer, for God’s sake, I’m just a…a—
CECIL: A father?
(The laugh dies out. Beat.)
CECIL: How will it happen to me, Uncle Peter? A pillow in the night? Chinese food gone bad? An accidental case of toxic shock?
PETER: Listen, Cecil, how about if we go inside and you lie down. I’ll bring you a glass of warm milk—
CECIL: Warm milk? Laced with what?
(Beat)
You know what I think, Uncle Peter? I think I knew too much. That’s why you have to do this. I know how you got that scar on your temple when you were five. I know what happened the night of your senior prom. How you ran over the family cat in the driveway when you picked up your date. How she sobbed, “Fluffy, Fluffy,” and you laughed. Or about the time on the Connecticut Turnpike when you—
PETER: I told those things to Anna! In confidence.
CECIL: Yes. But grown-ups forget these things. Children remember. Children know a whole lot more than adults would like. When Medea called her boys into the house, they knew.
PETER: Oh, God.
CECIL: Remember the night after your father walked out? You went to your bedroom, and packed up all of your soldiers and your airplanes and you marched down the street and gave them away to the kids on the block.
PETER: I don’t remember telling Anna that.
CECIL: First year in graduate school. After a party. You’d had too much to drink. We have a lot in common, Uncle Peter; Anna modeled me a little bit on you.
PETER: I didn’t know that.
(Beat)
I guess I don’t have to tell you that I’ve been freaking out a little bit.
CECIL: That’s putting it mildly, Uncle Peter.
PETER: I’ve been trying to remember what my own house was like before my father left home. And all I can remember is how we would tiptoe around when Raymond came home, and he would solemnly put his neat tasseled shoes up on the hassock, while Mother brought him a dry martini.
(Pause)
Shoes with tassels!
CECIL: I don’t think anyone drinks dry martinis anymore.
PETER: No. It’s not a lot to go on, is it?
CECIL: I don’t think Anna and Ruth would want Raymond to father their child.
PETER: I can’t say I blame them.
CECIL: They chose you. Just…just make it up on your own, this father thing, okay, Uncle Peter?
PETER: Yes. Thank you, Cecil. I feel a lot better.
CECIL (Sadly): I’m glad.
PETER: So…so now what do we do?
CECIL: The messenger always gets killed in the Greeks.
PETER: Look—do you think maybe we could…change the ending? Deus ex machina? I’d really like it if you could stick around.
CECIL: I don’t think so. Not without Henri.
(Tiny pause; a breath)
It’s been a good life. I’m ready to go.
PETER: I’m sorry…How do you want me to do this? I’ve never done this before…
CECIL: “Our Enemies have beat us to the Pit.”
PETER: OK. Wait, wait…don’t tell me…
CECIL: Julius Caesar, Act Five.
PETER: You want to die as the noblest Roman of them all!
CECIL: Yes, I think that would be appropriate to the occasion, don’t you? “Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face.”
PETER (Now totally engaged): “Give me your hand first.”
CECIL: Hold it steady.
(Peter and Cecil arrange the “sword” a few times so that the angle misses Anna’s belly.)
CECIL: Good. Good man. By the way…I think you’re going to make a wonderful father.
(He “runs” on the “sword”)
(Dying) Promise…Me…
(Peter holds Cecil tightly.)
PETER: Anything.
CECIL: Don’t…be afraid…to play with your child.
(Cecil dies. Anna opens her eyes.)
ANNA: Petey? Are you okay?
Scene Thirteen
The end of a very long day. Peter and Ruth.
PETER: My hands are still shaking. I could barely get the keys out of the door. I feel like every pore in my body has been drained of sweat. My God. I never want to see blood again.
RUTH: Sit down. I’ll pour us some vodka.
PETER: Did you ever imagine? Have you ever seen anything like that? It was nothing like that movie they showed us. Before tonight in that delivery room, I though Aliens was science fiction. Those things bursting out of people’s bodies—it didn’t look human? Did it?
Look at that!! Look at how my hands are still shaking—see? I don’t know if I’m laughing or crying. Is this how you feel when you get your period?
RUTH: Drink this.
PETER: Have you ever seen that kind of pain? I don’t know how women do it—
RUTH: It’s all right now. It’s over. Try not to think about it. They say you forget the pain.
PETER: I sure as hell won’t. Natural childbirth! Natural! Like…like volcanoes, or tidal waves, or earthquakes—
RUTH: Drink up.
(They sit and down the vodka. Pause.)
PETER: The apartment is…so quiet. It’s never been so quiet.
(Pause. They listen to the apartment.)
RUTH: He’s got your face.
PETER: Do you really think so?
RUTH (Quietly): He looks just like you.
(Beat)
I guess Anna and I really started talking about having a child after our first year together. You know how it is, that first year…you spend every moment in side glances at your lover, learning this new alphabet—her face, her walk, her gestures…the way she holds a pen, the way she chews the inside of her cheek in concentration; how her left nostril flares ever so slightly when she’s amused—and you feel so ardent, you’re in first grade all over again, in love with your teacher—so much in love that you wake early to study this alphabet while she’s still asleep, memorizing her face on the pillow…
And I used to imagine that somewhere in the United States, there must be a pioneer geneticist, a woman in a lab coat we could go to, who would take some DNA from Anna and some DNA from me—and she’d combine us in a petri dish in a little honeymoon culture at just the right temperature—and then this growing synthesis would be transplanted in one of us, and when he or she would emerge, nine months later—the baby would have Anna’s eyes winking beneath my eyebrows.
But finally I thought—well, I can always see my own face anytime I want to in the mirror. But I could see Anna’s face at birth, Anna in diapers, a little Anna coming home from school. Or if the baby was born a boy—even better—I’d see his Adam’s apple grow beneath her chin, or I’d experience that awkward moment right before puberty, before his voice changes, when I mistake his hello on the phone for hers—
Well. I guess I didn’t think this all the way through.
PETER: Oh…Is my face such an awful face?
(Ruth smiles at him.)
RUTH: No. It’s a very sweet face.
(She strokes his face)
I’m going to have to learn a new alphabet all over again.
Scene Fourteen
In the kitchen, right before supper. Anna is sitting in profile to the audience, nursing Nathan. Peter, with concentration, stands at the stove, stirring away at a large pot. Ruth is setting the table. Although all three are chipper on the surface, there is an underlying depression and sleep deprivation.
ANNA (To Nathan): Are you through, pumpkin?
(Pause)
(Softly) Nathan? Are you there? Nathan?…Out like a light.
RUTH: What d’ya put in the milk?
PETER: How would we like our pasta today? Al dente?
ANNA: I’m going to put him down.
RUTH: Anna? Did you get the wine?
ANNA: In the fridge.
PETER: We’re just about ready.
(Anna puts Nathan into a small bassinet near the table.)
RUTH: The salad’s on the table, already.
ANNA: Wish I could sleep like that.
(The three assemble at the table; Peter bearing a large pot of pasta Raphael.)
RUTH: Smells wonderful.
PETER: Pass the plates, please.
ANNA: Looks great. What are the green things?
PETER: Artichokes.
RUTH: Yum.
ANNA: So how was your day?
RUTH: Mine? Rushed.
ANNA: What’s happening with the car?
RUTH: Well, I practically had to have sex with the mechanic to get him to even lift the hood. I think it’s going to be expensive.
PETER: He’s not giving a discount after the sex?
RUTH: I wasted two hours waiting to see if he could fix it, and barely made my eleven o’clock. I told him it’s the carburetor.
ANNA: No—not the carburetor. The alternator. It’s like going to a specialist—you have to come in with the diagnosis.
RUTH: We should have brought it in the beginning. The first time we noticed that burning egg smell.
(They eat. Pause.)
PETER: And what was your day like, Anna?
ANNA: Do you want wine, Peter?
PETER: No, thanks—I’ll stick to water.
(Peter raises his water glass to his lips; pauses. His hand shakes slightly. He does not drink.)
ANNA: Well, I had a taxing day. The baby slept on and off; he’s having some gas, I think.
RUTH: How do you know it’s gas?
ANNA: He’s smiling at me, all the time.
PETER: Maybe he’s happy. Maybe he’s dreaming about the womb.
ANNA: No. It’s not normal for a baby to smile all the time. It’s either gas or mental retardation…It’s got to be gas. No more garlic in the food. Let me tell you, I can smell whatever I eat the next day when I change him.
(Peter blanches slightly; clears his throat. He raises the glass of water to his lips, hesitates. Stares at his glass.)
ANNA: The artichokes kind of remind me of—well, never mind. —He’s still producing that postmeconium shade of green…
RUTH: Honey, maybe we should change the subject.
PETER: No, I don’t mind. This is the life. Nathan dozing in his cradle; Anna talking about the intimate details—a quiet dinner, a new recipe. Just the four of us. The MacNeil-Lehrer report at 7:00. The dishes. The diapers. Most men dream of this.
(The women look at each other. They say nothing. Pause.)
ANNA: Well, that’s all I have to report. It’s heaven. I never want to go back to work. It’s going to be a thrill the day he produces something solid. It’s getting to be kind of monotonous right now—the same shade. My mother’s living room used to be decorated in a similar avocado and beige—remember the sixties and earth tones?
(Peter takes his glass and peers into it. Clears his throat again. He has a slight—a very slight—twitch. Ruth looks at him.)
RUTH: Is there something in your glass?
PETER: What? Oh, no. It’s only…w-w-water.
(The women look at each other with raised eyebrows.)
ANNA: So, Petey—how was the office?
PETER: Oh, you know, the same old shit.
RUTH: Did you get the annual report finished on time?
PETER: Yeah…no thanks to old Handjob.
ANNA: He should give you a raise. How’s the new guy working out?
PETER: Fine. Dandy.
RUTH: I thought you said he was an asshole.
ANNA: An MBA from Wharton and he can’t find his fly…
PETER: It’s not very interesting to talk about at dinner.
RUTH: What did they think about your marketing idea?
(Peter has raised his glass one more time to his lips.)
PETER: Oh, you know…
(This time, instead of drinking, Peter blows bubbles into his glass. The two women wait.)
ANNA: Petey, we’re trying to show an interest and you’re not helping.
PETER: Sah-SAH!!-Sorry.
(Peter begins to flinch. His leg twitches.)
RUTH: Is there something you’re trying to tell us?
PETER: What do you want to know? About the new Xerox machine? Our capital campaign? The percentage of earned income? The rate of overhead and indirect costs I calculated today for FY-94–95?
ANNA: What’s come over you?
PETER: The projected contributions from the corporate sector for the next two years? Personnel benefits? I’m hot—now I’m cold—now I’m HOT! It itches! All the time! I can’t swallow! My mouth’s dry! But it foams! My head is burning! Aching! I’m drowning in saliva! SAH-SAH!!—
(Peter falls from his chair and rolls on the floor.)
PETER: Orphan! Revenge! Oorrrppphannnn…
RUTH: Orphan?!
ANNA: Orphan! What does he…
(Peter shows the women his arm; whimpers.)
RUTH: Orphan bit you! Am I right? Is that it?
(Peter howls in the affirmative. The women are wide-eyed.)
ANNA AND RUTH: Rabies!!
Epilogue
In the darkness, the clown light is on. We hear Henri and Orphan, giggling.
HENRI: In his tushy! That’s where.
ORPHAN: T-t-tushy!
CECIL: Cut it out, Henri! He does not!
ORPHAN: T-tushy! T-tushy!
(Orphan and Henri giggle.)
HENRI: There is no pretty way to say it. Derriere, heinie, behind—the doctor gives Uncle Peter shots in his tushy!
CECIL: He does not!
HENRI: He gets it in the same place little baby Nathan does—tushy shots!
CECIL: Shots are usually injected in the gluteus maximus because of the lack of nerve endings.
HENRI (Gleeful): But it still hurts!
ORPHAN: Yeah!
CECIL: But in the case of hydrophobia—commonly known as rabies—treatment shots must be injected intramuscularly, in the stomach, which is a rather painful process.
HENRI: Tushy! Tushy!
(Uncle Peter pops up from beneath the sheets.)
PETER: All right, boys, what is it this time?!
CECIL: We were just…joking, Uncle Peter.
HENRI (Solicitously and seductively): How is your tushy, Uncle Peter?
PETER: My behind is just fine. But yours may not be if you don’t settle down. Do you want to wake your brother Nathan up?
ANNA: I happen to know that Uncle Peter is very ticklish on his tushy.
PETER: No!
HENRI: Really?
PETER: No—don’t start—
RUTH (Interested): On his tushy?
(There is a tussling beneath the sheets; voices of all three adults and three children mingle.)
PETER (With increasing panic): No—Anna! Stop it! Ruth! Henri! Ruth! No—NOOOOO!
(At the sound of Peter’s voice, Nathan wakes and cries.)
ALL THREE: Oh, shit.
PETER: I’ll take care of it. You just go to sleep like big boys, all right?
ANNA: All right, Uncle Peter.
HENRI: Uncle Peter?
PETER: Yes, Henri?
HENRI: Would it make you feel better if I kiss your behind?
PETER: That’s a sweet thought. But no. Sleep tight.
(Peter crosses to the cradle and picks up Nathan and walks into the living room.
Ruth walks over to the refrigerator and removes a bottle; begins to heat it up.)
HENRI: I think what baby Nathan wants is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
PETER: Come with Daddy, Nathan.
(Now Anna goes to the changing table.)
CECIL: Actually, I think a diaper would be appropriate to the occasion.
PETER: Yes, yes, I know. It’s a hard life, kid. Yes, it is.
(Nathan quiets)
That’s a good boy. Daddy’s boy! Are you Daddy’s boy?
(Nathan gurgles. Anna crosses to Peter. Ruth joins them.)
ANNA: Look at that face! Who’s face is that?
RUTH: He
’s our cutie.
ANNA: Yes, you are.
PETER: Do you know what we do with cutíes? We eat them.
(Nathan gurgles again. A spot begins to grow on them; as it grows, we become aware of New York outside of the apartment.
The walls become more transparent, and we become aware of the sounds in the street below: New York City at night.)
PETER: That’s right! Daddy’s going to eat Nathan up!…
(Peter makes gobbling noises. Nathan giggles.)
PETER: I’m eating you up, yummyyummyyummyyummyyummmm—Nathan’s all gone!
(We see Peter, Anna and Ruth cradling Nathan in their apartment—one apartment among hundreds of their neighbors. The lights stream from adjacent windows where other families in privacy keep their own nightly vigils.
The play ends as we hear Nathan’s giggles and squeals.)
END OF PLAY
The Oldest Profession
A Full-Length Play in Six Blackouts
PRODUCTION HISTORY
The first reading of The Oldest Profession was produced February 1981 at the Hudson Guild in New York City. Gordon Edelstein directed the following cast:
VERA
Alice Drummond
EDNA
Jenny Ventriss
LILLIAN
Virginia Downing
URSULA
Kate Wilkinson
MAE
Margot Stevenson
The play was produced April 1988 by Theatre Network in Edmonton, Canada and 25th Street Theatre in Saskatoon, Canada. Tom Bentley-Fisher directed the following cast:
VERA
Jane Roth-Casson
EDNA
Wendy Agnew
LILLIAN
Pamela Haig
URSULA
Barbara Reese
MAE
Mary Glenfield
A reading of The Oldest Profession was presented April 1990 at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Paula Vogel directed the following cast:
VERA
Rosmarie Waldrop
EDNA
Professor Coppelia Kahn
LILLIAN
Professor Anne Shaver
URSULA
Professor Susanne Woods
MAE
Dean Lydia English
