(Beat.)
JEFF (Mortified): I’m so sorry
JULIE: That’s
JEFF: God, I can’t believe I
JULIE: Jeff!
Believe it or not, I remember that I had a son named Scott.
You haven’t done anything wrong
. . .
You think of him sometimes.
JEFF: . . . Sure. Of course.
Sometimes
when I see someone
you know
“in public life,”
a judge or senator even
someone our age
and already distinguished
I’ll think—and be absolutely certain—
That would have been Scott.
Do you ever do that?
JULIE: I don’t.
He really didn’t have all that much potential.
(Jeff looks at her.)
People have their seasons and Scotty’s was extreme youth.
He lacked some kind of focus. That drop of ruthlessness.
He would have had a fine life, a very happy life,
but he would have disappointed some people.
His father. Oh Ben would have been crushed,
I think— But then he was himself so very . . .
. . .
I had this idea you were the one.
JEFF: . . . I don’t know what that means.
JULIE: You see this so often, don’t you?
Pairs of young people.
And one is all feathered and aglow and the other . . . hangs back.
But you get that one alone . . . and there’s a sort of sneak stardom . . . and a cunning . . . that you can glean if you know how these things go.
And in time the peacock fades and the one in the shadows shines and you tell people of their beginnings and everyone is so surprised: Really, they thought that mild guy was it and this one not so much?
There was this moment . . . I thought that was you and Scotty.
I thought you would . . . flourish.
JEFF: Really?
JULIE: Yes.
I saw the most dazzling life for you.
JEFF: My God.
(Beat.)
JULIE: What happened?
(Jeff thinks about this. When he speaks, it’s not an evasion but the factual and complete answer, delivered plainly.)
JEFF: Nothing happened.
(Julie takes him in.)
JULIE: What am I going to do with you?
JEFF (Agreeably): I know. I know. I’m impossible!
JULIE: Jeff.
JEFF: Yes?
JULIE: That was not a rhetorical question.
(Faye enters.)
FAYE: I am such an old woman. I can’t think what it is.
JULIE: No luck napping?
FAYE: No: I keep trying to remember
JULIE: Vodka?
FAYE: Yes, sweetie, thanks.
(Julie goes to get it.)
What is missing from this apartment? I cannot figure it out.
JULIE: Vigor? Promise? Fresh paint? Functional plumbing?
FAYE: But what else?
JULIE (Hands her the drink): I don’t know.
FAYE: Ugh! It’s driving me crazy.
I—
Timmy? What’s / up with him?
JULIE: He had to go to the restaurant. It’s Christmas so they’re only working Jews and agnostics.
FAYE: . . . I’ll let that pass without comment.
I assume you’ve all been discussing how democracy in this country is now at its lowest ebb in our lifetime.
JULIE: Yes. And stew.
FAYE: Mm, this cheese puff is supernal.
Do you believe this new idiot? Is he depressing? I mean, the President of the United States?
I’m starting to get nostalgic for his father. Who always felt to me like middle management in a fluffernutter factory but I mean. What a way to start a century!
JEFF: Yes
JULIE (Simultaneous with above): Well
FAYE: “Who’s the Prime Minister of India?” they ask him.
“Jeepers, let me look that up!”
The Prime Minister of India!
That’s not Postmaster General of Trinidad-Tobago.
I have never in my life been so grateful that politics mean nothing to me.
Remember how Bernice and Moishe used to get?
JULIE: I feel as though I do.
FAYE: Ugh: senile! You never met Bernice and
JEFF: They were your sister and
FAYE: Yeah. The ones who died young.
The ones who died extremely young.
JEFF: Commies?
FAYE: Fanatics.
JEFF: I like to read about those thirties’ street-corner pamphleteers.
FAYE: It makes great reading. Living with it!
I remember Friday night dinner where they wouldn’t hand each other the chicken because one’s a Trotskyist, one’s a Leninist and how can you pass chicken across such a divide? . . . As if that was going to be the issue for eternity there on Van Buren Street.
Funny though.
That’s all disappeared from the family. Without a trace.
JEFF: I think Scott had some of
FAYE: Oh right, didn’t he used to hold up signs with that meshuggenah girlfriend of his? What was her name? / Devora?
JULIE: I don’t remember her name.
JEFF: Ilana
JULIE: Yes.
FAYE: That wasn’t the same thing, trust me.
Nostalgia.
A waste of time.
It’s the future that matters.
(Pause. A bit melancholy. It worsens. The phone rings.)
JULIE: Oh good! We needed the phone to ring just then. (As she goes to it:) A few seconds earlier would have been even better.
FAYE (Something of an undertone): Are you being her chargé d’affaires?
JEFF: To a degree: starting to.
FAYE: We’ll talk.
JULIE (Referring to the phone ID): Oh good.
Oh I’m so delighted.
Faye, you’re going to be very glad you’re awake!
FAYE: What’s she done?
JULIE (On phone): Sweetie?
Oh, sweetie, I’m so glad you called back.
Wait a minute, I’m gonna put you on speaker. (Does so)
Your mother’s here.
FAYE: Oh Jesus, oh God
JULIE: And you remember our friend Jeff Bornstein.
JEFF: Hi, Shelley.
SHELLEY (Simultaneous with above): I don’t know nobody named Jeff Bornstein.
FAYE (Undertone): I don’t know anybody named Jeff / Bornstein.
JEFF: She does / though
JULIE (To Faye): I did this. I hope it’s
SHELLEY: Aunt Julie?
JULIE: Yes, sweetie?
(From the speaker, in the background: a man speaking Spanish.)
JEFF: Who’s that?
FAYE: Don’t ask.
SHELLEY: How did you get my number?
JULIE: Well, I—I just have it; you’re listed
SHELLEY: Why are you calling me?
JULIE: Oh! Well—to wish you a Merry Christmas and because
I simply thought:
Enough of this nonsense
this . . .
incommunicado between you and your mother.
And it’s the holidays and it seemed absurd
to let this meaningless estrangement continue
SHELLEY: Stop butting into everybody’s business!
This is none of your business!
You’re always trying to make people do what you want them to do!
FAYE: Shelley!
This is Mom—shut up!
SHELLEY: You don’t even like me!
You never liked me!
You always made fun of me!
JULIE: That isn’t so— Who? Which one of us do you mean, darling?
FAYE: Both. She means both.
I’m going to have a break / down
&nb
sp; JULIE: I’m—so—sorry—
FAYE: I wish I were still on Digilene, / I swear it
SHELLEY: You think you’re so special because you were in the movies!
You think you’re the boss of us
FAYE: Shelley—stop this at once!
SHELLEY: Stop calling me, Aunt Julie!
You run out my tape!
I need my tape for my potholder orders!
Stop thinking you’re special!
I know nobody ever wanted me at the holidays!
You just dragged me along like garbage in a suitcase.
JULIE: None of this is true, of course we / wanted
SHELLEY: I gotta sell potholders!
Stop running out my tape!
Stop calling me!
I’m a grown-up!
I don’t gotta talk to you no more!
(Someone wrests the phone from Shelley. Hector speaks:)
HECTOR: Que se larguen todos a la mierda . . . déjenla quieta . . . ¡¡Coño, que se vayan al carajo!! (A little confusion as they try to hang up) ¿Bueno, hemos acabado?
SHELLEY (Crying): ¿Hector, por qué no me dejan quieta? Que tengo . . .
HECTOR: They’ll leave you, they’ll leave you. Hang up, Shelley, hang
(And they hang up. Long silence.)
JULIE: She really has become quite independent, hasn’t she?
FAYE: This is excessive.
I understand resentment.
But this is more than her share.
I made mistakes but only to an extent.
No, I won’t have this, I refuse.
JULIE: I’m so terribly sorry
(Faye goes to the phone, dials. It’s still on speaker. We hear: “If you wanna order a potholder, leave your name and address and phone number after the noise.”)
FAYE: Shelley? So nu, you’re not picking up?
Fine.
Shelley, what a monster,
what a little dybbuk you’ve become.
Listen, thank God you never had children
but if you had, you would know that to err is
parenthood and I was within the requisite limits.
We’re all resenters but your portion is excessive.
You were always like this.
You always helped yourself to too much; you
think you were so easy?
You were a shonda at every holiday with the potatoes!
If we never speak again and you don’t hear from me
till I’m dead rest assured that’s not what killed me.
Good-bye and ganug.
HECTOR (His voice picking up): Carajo,
FAYE: And screw you, too, you Puerto Rican prick. (Hangs up. Breathes heavily) I’m not a prejudiced woman but racial slurs come in handy at times of high emotion.
(Beat.)
JULIE: 718.
So is it Brooklyn
or Queens that she’s
FAYE: Brooklyn.
JULIE: I see. Do you know what neighbor / hood
FAYE: One of them.
I don’t give a damn.
Gei gesundheit.
JULIE: I wanted to make you a little treat.
FAYE: I know, sweetie.
You always think the best of everyone.
It’s not useful, sweetie.
JULIE: Forgive me.
FAYE: No, sweetie, no.
Your intentions were delightful.
. . .
I’m going to try that nap again, I think.
It’s rude but I plead old age.
JULIE: All right, yes, good idea.
FAYE: Wake me if . . . you’re afraid I’ve perished or something.
(Julie and Jeff alone.)
JEFF: It . . . was a delightful . . . attempt.
JULIE: I really don’t have time to be this incompetent.
My learning curve . . . can’t even curve really.
I have too much to do
. . .
Well. I’ll just develop the skills I need and that’s all there is to it!
I’m checking on the dinner in all its absurd abundance.
JEFF: May I help you?
JULIE: No.
(Softening) Give me a little while.
You can . . . amuse yourself, yes?
Of course you can.
It must be what you do.
(She walks off, leaving him alone.
Fade.)
Some terrible drone of a tired Christmas classic.
It runs down like a failing battery.
Lights: Jeff alone on his cell phone.
JEFF: Tim, if you’re there, pick up. Oh shit, you’re not there.
Listen—I understand your situation—I get the “imperatives” here—I really do—but you can spare the evening.
Nothing will happen—and if it does—it’s not as if you’re living in an oasis-less desert or something—assistance is available—everywhere.
You have to come.
You have to.
You can’t imagine . . . how much it—
You don’t have a choice, it’s the only thing to do.
And Tim? When I tell you, “You don’t have a choice,”
I advise you to remember there are things I could say.
I’m . . . a time-bomb here. (Hangs up)
Even I don’t believe that.
(Jeff has been decorating the Christmas tree, returns to it. Faye enters.)
FAYE: Where’s Julie?
JEFF: Her turn to nap.
She checked on the dinner; it made her tired.
Things do now.
FAYE: Ah. What is dinner, anyway?
JEFF: Boeuf bourguignon.
Very well done boeuf bourguignon.
And many accompaniments.
I’m hungry.
FAYE: So much food, so little eating.
Timmy’s not yet
JEFF: He’s still . . .
FAYE: at work with the other Jews and agnostics?
JEFF: Yes.
FAYE: What is that? Bistro apartheid?
You don’t believe that story, do you?
JEFF: Why not?
FAYE: How I adore that little boy. But he’s twenty-four years old and calling him “little boy” is not a conceit.
What’s going to be with him?
He’ll be all alone.
JEFF: It would seem so, wouldn’t it?
FAYE: I don’t wanna think about it.
Let me help with that. (She joins him decorating)
By the way, I was an excellent mother.
JEFF: I’m sure.
FAYE: I was a dedicated and loving mother. And believe me, it wasn’t easy because Shelley was such a lump.
This “I hate you” was something she decided one day.
Her version of a career choice.
You never know.
JEFF: No.
FAYE: There’s no predicting.
Look at Scotty.
Straight. Never took a drug. Who’d think he’s gonna end up an AIDS victim?
JEFF: They don’t like when you call them victims.
FAYE: Who’d think he’s gonna end up an AIDS beneficiary?
JEFF: I take your point.
FAYE: “He’s caught Timmy’s cold, oh it’s not Timmy’s cold, it’s some weird bug he picked up in his travels—don’t worry, he’s in New York City now, we’ll take care of it.”
Do yourself a favor: Never have a blood transfusion in 1981.
JEFF: If I can possibly avoid it
FAYE: Even the good kids.
You haven’t broadcast your seed, have you? No little illegitimates dotting the land?
JEFF: No.
FAYE: Smart thinking: I salute you.
And your parents? How are
JEFF: They’ve moved south.
FAYE: South?
JEFF: Yes.
FAYE: You mean like Boca?
(Jeff blushes.)
HA!
You must find that very embarrassing.
Listen: Igno
re them.
JEFF: I do . . .
FAYE: Is it me or does this tree get uglier with every piece of struhlkes we hang on it?
JEFF: It’s most hideous.
(They pause, then continue.)
FAYE: My goal for this party was Meet Me in St. Louis, I think we’re falling short.
JEFF: Mm-hm.
FAYE (Quits): Ach. (As she gets a vodka) So you’re in charge here?
JEFF: I’m . . . helping out.
FAYE: There’s no other place you need to be this Christmas?
JEFF: Not my holiday, really . . .
Even if it were . . .
FAYE: I see.
So what’s next for you?
Are you ditching the corporate law thing and becoming,
I don’t know, good?
Setting up some storefront—
JEFF: I’m not a lawyer anymore.
FAYE: . . . Disbarred? Interesting.
JEFF: I’m in good standing in both New York and Illinois
FAYE: Then
JEFF: I am not working as a lawyer now; I will not be working as a lawyer again; therefore: I’m not a lawyer . . .
What about you?
FAYE: Me? I’m a merry widow.
JEFF: Are you merry?
FAYE: I’m okay.
I have my house, my . . . pursuits.
Lively friendships with a small group of un-husbanded ladies; it’s not much to have in common but we pretend.
JEFF: Do you miss Mr.—
FAYE: It’s surprising how that happens.
JEFF: . . . Sorry.
FAYE: No it’s good.
So.
If you’re not to be a lawyer . . . what are you to be?
JEFF: Oh! (Then his voice sounds a little far away) There are so many possibilities.
(He at last gives up on the tree.)
May I ask you something about Ben?
FAYE: Go. Ask.
JEFF: There were some rumors
FAYE: They’re all true.
JEFF: You know this?
FAYE: In my heart-of-hearts.
JEFF: That would make him, of course, a criminal.
FAYE: Listen, he modeled himself on Joseph P. Kennedy;
why leave that part out?
JEFF: . . . And did he manage somehow to pay an enormous penalty to avoid going to jail?
FAYE: So I’ve always believed
JEFF: Because there’s nothing left.
FAYE: . . . Yes.
JEFF: How could he have allowed that
FAYE: For convenience sake, we say that after Scotty died, he lost his bearings . . .
JEFF: Did he?
FAYE: Why not?
JEFF: But . . . did he?
FAYE: He was my brother; I really didn’t know him very well.
JEFF: I had no idea—I mean, I was astonished to discover that they were renters—this seemed to me the antithesis of a rental—I thought it was a fortress!
The Assembled Parties Page 7
