FLORA: Huh!
JAKE: I ain’t been off th’ front po’ch! Not since supper! Understand that, now?
FLORA: Jake, honey, you’ve gone out of you’ mind!
JAKE: Maybe so. Never you mind. Just get that straight an’ keep it in your haid. I ain’t been off the porch of this house since supper.
FLORA: But you sure as God was off it! (He twists her wrist.) Ouuuu! Stop it, stop it, stop it!
JAKE: Where have I been since supper?
FLORA: Here, here! On th’ porch! Fo’ God’s sake, quit that twistin’!
JAKE: Where have I been?
FLORA: Porch! Porch! Here!
JAKE: Doin’ what?
FLORA: Jake!
JAKE: Doin’ what?
FLORA: Lemme go! Christ, Jake! Let loose! Quit twisting, you’ll break my wrist!
JAKE: (laughing between his teeth) Doin’ what? What doin’? Since supper?
FLORA: (crying out) How in hell do I know!
JAKE: ‘Cause you was right here with me, all the time, for every second! You an’ me, sweetheart, was sittin’ here together on th’ swing, just swingin’ back an’ forth every minute since supper! You got that in your haid good now?
FLORA: (whimpering) Le’-go!
JAKE: Got it? In your haid good now?
FLORA: Yeh, yeh, yeh—leggo!
JAKE: What was I doin’, then?
FLORA: Swinging! For Christ’s sake—swingin’! (He releases her. She whimpers and rubs her wrist but the impression is that the experience was not without pleasure for both parties. She groans and whimpers. He grips her loose curls in his hand and bends her head back. He plants a long wet kiss on her mouth.)
FLORA: (whimpering) Mmmm-hmmmm! Mmmm! Mmmm!
JAKE: (huskily) Tha’s my swee’ baby girl.
FLORA: Mmmmm! Hurt! Hurt!
JAKE: Hurt?
FLORA: Mmmm! Hurt!
JAKE: Kiss?
FLORA: Mmmm!
JAKE: Good?
FLORA: Mmmm . . .
JAKE: Good! Make little room.
FLORA: Too hot!
JAKE: Go on, make little room.
FLORA: Mmmmm . . .
JAKE: Cross patch?
FLORA: Mmmmmm.
JAKE: Whose baby? Big? Sweet?
FLORA: Mmmmm! Hurt!
JAKE: Kiss! (He lifts her wrist to his lips and makes gobbling sounds.)
FLORA: (giggling) Stop! Silly! Mmmm!
JAKE: What would I do if you was a big piece of cake?
FLORA: Silly.
JAKE: Gobble! Gobble!
FLORA: Oh, you—
JAKE: What would I do if you was angel food cake? Big white piece with lots of nice thick icin’?
FLORA: (giggling) Quit!
JAKE: Gobble, gobble, gobble!
FLORA: (squealing) Jake!
JAKE: Huh?
FLORA: You tick-le!
JAKE: Answer little question!
FLORA: Wh-at?
JAKE: Where I been since supper?
FLORA: Off in the Chevy! (He instantly seizes the wrist again. She shrieks.)
JAKE: Where’ve I been since supper?
FLORA: Po’ch! Swing!
JAKE: Doin’ what?
FLORA: Swingin'! Oh, Christ, Jake, let loose!
JAKE: Hurt?
FLORA: Mmmmm . . .
JAKE: Good?
FLORA: (whimpering) Mmmmm . . .
JAKE: Now you know where I been an’ what I been doin’ since supper?
FLORA: Yeah . . .
JAKE: Case anybody should ask?
FLORA: Who’s going to ast?
JAKE: Never mind who’s goin’ t’ ast, just you know the answers! Uh-huh?
FLORA: Uh-huh. (lisping babyishly) This is where you been. Settin’ on th’ swing since we had supper. Swingin’—back an’ fo’th—back an’ fo’th. . . . You didn’ go off in th’ Chevy. (slowly) An’ you was awf’ly surprised w’en th’ syndicate fire broke out! (Jake slaps her.) Jake!
JAKE: Everything you said is awright. But don’t you get ideas.
FLORA: Ideas?
JAKE: A woman like you’s not made to have ideas. Made to be hugged an’ squeezed!
FLORA: (babyishly) Mmmm. . . .
JAKE: But not for ideas. So don’t you have ideas. (He rises.) Go out an’ get in th’ Chevy.
FLORA: We goin to th’ fire?
JAKE: No. We ain’ goin’ no fire. We goin’ in town an’ get us a case a dopes because we’re hot an’ thirsty.
FLORA: (vaguely, as she rises) I lost m’ white—kid—purse . . .
JAKE: It’s on the seat of th’ Chevy whe’ you left it.
FLORA: Whe’ you goin’?
JAKE: I’m goin in t’ th’ toilet. I’ll be right out. (He goes inside, letting the screen door slam. Flora shuffles to the edge of the steps and stands there with a slight idiotic smile. She begins to descend, letting herself down each time with the same foot, like a child just learning to walk. She stops at the bottom of the steps and stares at the sky, vacantly and raptly, her fingers closing gently around the bruised wrist. Jake can be heard singing inside.)
‘My baby don’ care fo’ rings
or other expensive things—
My baby just cares—fo’—me!’
CURTAIN
SCENE II
It is just after noon. The sky is the color of the satin bows on the window curtains—a translucent, innocent blue. Heat devils are shimmering over the flat Delta country and the peaked white front of the house is like a shrill exclamation. Jake’s gin is busy; heard like a steady pulse across the road. A delicate lint of cotton is drifting about in the atmosphere.
Jake appears, a large and purposeful man with arms like hams covered with a fuzz of fine blond hair. He is followed by Silva Vicarro who is the Superintendent of the Syndicate Plantation where the fire occurred last night. Vicarro is a rather small and wiry man of dark Latin looks and nature. He wears whipcord breeches, laced boots, and a white undershirt. He has a Roman Catholic medallion on a chain about his neck.
JAKE: (with the good-natured condescension of a very large man for a small one) Well, suh, all I got to say is you’re a mighty lucky little fellow.
VICARRO: Lucky? In what way?
JAKE: That I can take on a job like this right now! Twenty-seven wagons full of cotton ‘s a pretty big piece of bus’ness, Mr. Vicarro. (stopping at the steps) Baby! (He bites off a piece of tobacco plug.) What’s yuh firs’ name?
VICARRO: Silva.
JAKE: How do you spell it?
VICARRO: S-I-L-V-A.
JAKE: Silva! Like a silver lining! Ev’ry cloud has got a silver lining. What does that come from? The Bible?
VICARRO: (sitting on the steps) No. The Mother Goose Book.
JAKE: Well, suh, you sure are lucky that I can do it. If I’d been busy like I was two weeks ago I would ‘ve turned it down. BABY! COME OUT HERE A MINUTE! (There is a vague response from inside.)
VICARRO: Lucky. Very lucky. (He lights a cigarette. Flora pushes open the screen door and comes out. She has on her watermelon pink silk dress and is clutching against her body the big white kid purse with her initials on it in big nickel plate.)
JAKE: (proudly) Mr. Vicarro—I want you to meet Mrs. Meighan. Baby, this is a very down-at-the-mouth young fellow I want you to cheer up fo’ me. He thinks he’s out of luck because his cotton gin burnt down. He’s got twenty-seven wagons full of cotton to be ginned out on a hurry-up order from his most impo’tant customers in Mobile. Well, suh, I said to him, Mr. Vicarro, you’re to be congratulated—not because it burnt down, but because I happen to be in a situation to take the business over. Now you tell him just how lucky he is!
FLORA: (nervously) Well, Í guess he don’t see how it was lucky to have his gin burned down.
VICARRO: (acidly) No, ma’am.
JAKE: (quickly) Mr. Vicarro. Some fellows marry a girl when she’s little an’ tiny. They like a small figure. See? Then, when the girl gets comfo’tably settled
down—what does she do? Puts on flesh—of cou’se!
FLORA: (bashfully) Jake!
JAKE: Now then! How do they react? Accept it as a matter of cou’se, as something which ‘as been ordained by nature? Nope! No, suh, not a bit! They sta’t to feeling abused. They think that fate must have a grudge against them because the little woman is not so little as she used to be. Because she’s gone an’ put on a matronly figure. Well, suh, that’s at the root of a lot of domestic trouble. However, Mr. Vicarro, I never made that mistake. When I fell in love with this baby-doll I’ve got here, she was just the same size then that you see her today.
FLORA: (crossing shyly to porch rail) Jake . . .
JAKE: (grinning) A woman not large but tremendous! That’s how I liked her—tremendous! I told her right off, when I slipped th’ ring on her finger, one Satiddy night in a boat-house on Moon Lake—I said to her, Honey, if you take off one single pound of that body—I’m going to quit yuh! I’m going to quit yuh, I said, the minute I notice you’ve started to take off weight!
FLORA: Aw, Jake—please!
JAKE: I don’t want nothing little, not in a woman. I’m not after nothing petite, as the Frenchmen call it. This is what I wanted —and what I got! Look at her, Mr. Vicarro. Look at her blush! (He grips the back of Flora’s neck and tries to turn her around.)
FLORA: Aw, quit, Jake! Quit, will yuh?
JAKE: See what a doll she is? (Flora turns suddenly and spanks him with the kid purse. He cackles and runs down the steps. At the corner of the house, he stops and turns.) Baby, you keep Mr. Vicarro comfo’table while I’m ginnin’ out that twenty-seven wagons full of cotton. Th’ good-neighbor policy, Mr. Vicarro. You do me a good turn an’ I’ll do you a good one! Be see’n’ yuh! So long, Baby! (He walks away with an energetic stride.)
VICARRO: The good-neighbor policy! (He sits on the porch steps.)
FLORA: (sitting on the swing) Izzen he out-ray-juss! (She laughs foolishly and puts the purse in her lap. Vicarro stares gloomily across the dancing brilliance of the fields. His lip sticks out like a pouting child’s. A rooster crows in the distance.)
FLORA: I would’n’ dare to expose myself like that.
VICARRO: Expose? To what?
FLORA: The sun. I take a terrible burn. I’ll never forget the burn I took one time. It was on Moon Lake one Sunday before I was married. I never did like t’ go fishin’ but this young fellow, one of the Peterson boys, insisted that we go fishin’. Well, he didn’t catch nothin’ but jus’ kep’ fishin’ an’ fishin’ an’ I set there in th’ boat with all that hot sun on me. I said, Stay under the willows. But he would’n’ lissen to me, an’ sure enough I took such an awful burn I had t’ sleep on m’ stummick th’ nex’ three nights.
VICARRO: (absently) What did you say? You got sun-burned?
FLORA: Yes. One time on Moon Lake.
VICARRO: That’s too bad. You got over it all right?
FLORA: Oh, yes. Finally. Yes.
VICARRO: That must ‘ve been pretty bad.
FLORA: I fell in the lake once, too. Also with one of the Peterson boys. On another fishing trip. That was a wild bunch of boys, those Peterson boys. I never went out with ‘em but something happened which made me wish I hadn’t. One time, sunburned. One time, nearly drowned. One time—poison ivy! Well, lookin’ back on it, now, we had a good deal of fun in spite of it, though.
VICARRO: The good-neighbor policy, huh? (He slap his boot with the riding crop. Then he rises from steps.)
FLORA: You might as well come up on th’ po’ch an’ make you’-self as comfo’table as you can.
VICARRO: Uh-huh.
FLORA: I’m not much good at—makin’ conversation.
VICARRO: (finally noticing her) Now don’t you bother to make conversation for my benefit, Mrs. Meighan. I’m the type that prefers a quiet understanding. (Flora laughs uncertainly.) One thing I always notice about you ladies . . .
FLORA: What’s that, Mr. Vicarro?
VICARRO: You always have something in your hands—to hold onto. Now that kid purse . . .
FLORA: My purse?
VICARRO: You have no reason to keep that purse in your hands. You’re certainly not afraid that I’m going to snatch it!
FLORA: Oh, God, no! I wassen afraid of that!
VICARRO: That wouldn’t be the good-neighbor policy, would it? But you hold onto that purse because it gives you something to get a grip on. Isn’t that right?
FLORA: Yes. I always like to have something in my hands.
VICARRO: Sure you do. You feel what a lot of uncertain things there are. Gins burn down. The volunteer fire department don’t have decent equipment. Nothing is any protection. The afternoon sun is hot. It’s no protection. The trees are back of the house. They’re no protection. The goods that dress is made of—is no protection. So what do you do, Mrs. Meighan? You pick up the white kid purse. It’s solid. It’s sure. It’s certain. It’s something to hold on to. You get what I mean?
FLORA: Yeah. I think I do.
VICARRO: It gives you a feeling of being attached to something. The mother protects the baby? No, no, no—the baby protects the mother! From being lost and empty and having nothing but lifeless things in her hands! Maybe you think there isn’t much connection!
FLORA: You’ll have to excuse me from thinking. I’m too lazy.
VICARRO: What’s your name, Mrs. Meighan?
FLORA: Flora.
VICARRO: Mine is Silva. Something not gold but—Silva!
FLORA: Like a silver dollar?
VICARRO: No, like a silver dime! It’s an Italian name. I’m a native of New Orleans.
FLORA: Then it’s not sun-burn. You’re natcherally dark.
VICARRO: (raising his undershirt from his belly) Look at this!
FLORA: Mr. Vicarro!
VICARRO: Just as dark as my arm is!
FLORA: You don’t have to show me! I’m not from Missouri!
VICARRO: (grinning) Excuse me.
FLORA: (She laughs nervously.) Whew! I’m sorry to say we don’t have a coke in the house. We meant to get a case of cokes las’ night, but what with all the excitement going on—
VICARRO: What excitement was that?
FLORA: Oh, the fire and all.
VICARRO: (lighting a cigarette) I shouldn’t think you all would of been excited about the fire.
FLORA: A fire is always exciting. After a fire, dogs an’ chickens don’t sleep. I don’t think our chickens got to sleep all night.
VICARRO: No?
FLORA: They cackled an’ fussed an’ flopped around on the roost—took on something awful! Myself, I couldn’t sleep neither. I jus’ lay there an’ sweated all night long.
VICARRO: On account of th’ fire?
FLORA: An’ the heat an’ mosquitoes. And I was mad at Jake.
VICARRO: Mad at Mr. Meighan? What about?
FLORA: Oh, he went off an’ left me settin’ here on this ole po’ch last night without a Coca-Cola on the place.
VICARRO: Went off an’ left you, did he?
FLORA: Yep. Right after supper. An’ when he got back the fire ‘d already broke out an’ instead of drivin’ in to town like he said, he decided to go an’ take a look at your burnt-down cotton gin. I got smoke in my eyes an’ my nose an’ throat. It hurt my sinus an’ I was in such a wo’n out, nervous condition, it made me cry. I cried like a baby. Finally took two teaspoons of paregoric. Enough to put an elephant to sleep. But still I stayed awake an’ heard them chickens carryin’ on out there!
VICARRO: It sounds like you passed a very uncomfortable night.
FLORA: Sounds like? Well, it was.
VICARRO: So Mr. Meighan—you say—disappeared after supper? (There is a pause while Flora looks at him blankly.)
FLORA: Huh?
VICARRO: You say Mr. Meighan was out of the house for a while after supper? (Something in his tone makes her aware of her indiscretion.)
FLORA: Oh—uh—just for a moment.
VICARRO: Just for a moment, huh
? How long a moment? (He stares at her very hard.)
FLORA: What are you driving at, Mr. Vicarro?
VICARRO: Driving at? Nothing.
FLORA: You’re looking at me so funny.
VICARRO: He disappeared for a moment! Is that what he did? How long a moment did he disappear for? Can you remember, Mrs. Meighan?
FLORA: What difference does that make? What’s it to you, anyhow?
VICARRO: Why should you mind me asking?
FLORA: You make this sound like I was on trial for something!
VICARRO: Don’t you like to pretend like you’re a witness?
FLORA: Witness of what, Mr. Vicarro?
VICARRO: Why—for instance—say—a case of arson!
FLORA: (wetting her lips) Case of—? What is—arson?
VICARRO: The willful destruction of property by fire. (He slaps his boots sharply with the riding crop.)
FLORA: (startled) Oh! (She nervously fingers the purse.) Well, now, don’t you go and be getting any—funny ideas.
VICARRO: Ideas about what, Mrs. Meighan?
FLORA: My husband’s disappearin’—after supper. I can explain that.
VICARRO: Can you?
FLORA: Sure I can.
VICARRO: Good! How do you explain it? (He stares at her. She looks down.) What’s the matter? Can’t you collect your thoughts, Mrs. Meighan?
FLORA: No, but—
VICARRO: Your mind’s a blank on the subject?
FLORA: Look here, now— (She squirms on the swing.)
VICARRO: You find it impossible to remember just what your husband disappeared for after supper? You can’t imagine what kind of errand it was that he went out on, can you?
FLORA: No! No, I can’t!
VICARRO: But when he returned—let’s see . . . The fire had just broken out at the Syndicate Plantation?
FLORA: Mr. Vicarro, I don’t have the slightest idear what you could be driving at.
VICARRO: You’re a very unsatisfactory witness, Mrs. Meighan.
FLORA: I never can think when people—stare straight at me.
VICARRO: Okay. I’ll look away, then. (He turns his back to her.) Now does that improve your memory any? Now are you able to concentrate on the question?
FLORA: Huh . . .
VICARRO: No? You’re not? (He turns around again, grinning evilly.) Well . . . shall we drop the subject?
27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays Page 2
