enter from various points in the house. Violet sees them, continues her tight little dance.)
Idn’t it’s good beat? Inna good beats. Mmm, I been on the music . . . pell-man onna sheriff. C. J.’s boy. Right? Donna two inna school? Armen in tandel s’lossle, s’lost? Lost?! From the day, the days. Am Beerly . . . and Beverly lost?
(Violet abandons her dance, separates invisible threads in the air. The others stand frozen, staring at her.)
And then you’re here. And Barbara, and then you’re here, and Beverly, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here . . .
(Blackout.)
ACT TWO
The house has been manifestly refreshed, presumably by Johnna’s hand. The dull, dusty finish has been replaced by the transparent gleam of function.
Of note:
The study has been reorganized. Stacks of paper are neater, books are shelved. The dining room table is set with the fine china, candles, a floral centerpiece. In a corner of the dining room, a “kid’s table,” with seating for two, is also set. The warm, clean kitchen now bubbles and steams, redolent of collard and kale.
At rise:
Three o’clock of an eternal Oklahoma afternoon. The body of Beverly Weston has just been buried.
Violet, relatively sober now, in a handsome modern black dress, stands in Beverly’s study, a bottle of pills in her hand.
Elsewhere in the house: Karen and Barbara are in the dining room. Johnna is in the kitchen.
VIOLET: August . . . your month. Locusts are raging. “Summer psalm become summer wrath.” ’Course it’s only August out there. In here . . . who knows?
All right . . . okay. “The Carriage held but just Ourselves,” dum-de-dum . . . mm, best I got . . . Emily Dickinson’s all I got . . . something something, “Horse’s Heads Were Toward Eternity . . .”
(She takes a pill.)
That’s for me . . . one for me . . .
(She picks up the hardback copy of Meadowlark , flips to the dedication.)
“Dedicated to my Violet.” Put that one in marble.
(She drops the book on the desk. She takes a pill.)
For the girls, God love ’em. That’s all I can dedicate to you, sorry to say. Other than them . . . not one thing. No thing. You think I’ll weep for you? Think I’ll play that part, like we played the others?
(She takes a pill.)
You made your choice. You made this happen. You answer for this . . . not me. Not me. This is not mine.
(Lights crossfade to the dining room. Barbara and Karen, wearing black dresses, fold napkins, munch food from a relish tray, etc.)
KAREN: The present. Today, here and now. I think I spent so much of my early life thinking about what’s to come, y’know, who would I marry, would he be a lawyer or a football player, would he be dark-haired and good-looking and broad-shouldered. I spent a lot of time in that bedroom upstairs pretending my pillow was my husband and I’d ask him about his day at work and what was happening at the office, and did he like the dinner I made for him and where were we going to vacation that winter and he’d surprise me with tickets to Belize and we’d kiss—I mean I’d kiss my pillow, make out with my pillow, and then I’d tell him I’d been to the doctor that day and I’d found out I was pregnant. I know how pathetic all that sounds now, but it was innocent enough . . .
Then real life takes over because it always does—
BARBARA:—uh-huh—
KAREN:—and things work out differently than you’d planned. That pillow was a better husband than any real man I’d ever
Idn’t it’s good beat? Inna good beats. Mmm, I been on the music . . . pell-man onna sheriff. C. J.’s boy. Right? Donna two inna school? Armen in tandel s’lossle, s’lost? Lost?! From the day, the days. Am Beerly . . . and Beverly lost?
(Violet abandons her dance, separates invisible threads in the air. The others stand frozen, staring at her.)
And then you’re here. And Barbara, and then you’re here, and Beverly, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here . . .
(Blackout.)
ACT TWO
The house has been manifestly refreshed, presumably by Johnna’s hand. The dull, dusty finish has been replaced by the transparent gleam of function.
Of note:
The study has been reorganized. Stacks of paper are neater, books are shelved. The dining room table is set with the fine china, candles, a floral centerpiece. In a corner of the dining room, a “kid’s table,” with seating for two, is also set. The warm, clean kitchen now bubbles and steams, redolent of collard and kale.
At rise:
Three o’clock of an eternal Oklahoma afternoon. The body of Beverly Weston has just been buried.
Violet, relatively sober now, in a handsome modern black dress, stands in Beverly’s study, a bottle of pills in her hand.
Elsewhere in the house: Karen and Barbara are in the dining room. Johnna is in the kitchen.
VIOLET: August . . . your month. Locusts are raging. “Summer psalm become summer wrath.” ’Course it’s only August out there. In here . . . who knows?
All right . . . okay. “The Carriage held but just Ourselves,” dum-de-dum . . . mm, best I got . . . Emily Dickinson’s all I got . . . something something, “Horse’s Heads Were Toward Eternity . . .”
(She takes a pill.)
That’s for me . . . one for me . . .
(She picks up the hardback copy of Meadowlark , flips to the dedication.)
“Dedicated to my Violet.” Put that one in marble.
(She drops the book on the desk. She takes a pill.)
For the girls, God love ’em. That’s all I can dedicate to you, sorry to say. Other than them . . . not one thing. No thing. You think I’ll weep for you? Think I’ll play that part, like we played the others?
(She takes a pill.)
You made your choice. You made this happen. You answer for this . . . not me. Not me. This is not mine.
(Lights crossfade to the dining room. Barbara and Karen, wearing black dresses, fold napkins, munch food from a relish tray, etc.)
KAREN: The present. Today, here and now. I think I spent so much of my early life thinking about what’s to come, y’know, who would I marry, would he be a lawyer or a football player, would he be dark-haired and good-looking and broad-shouldered. I spent a lot of time in that bedroom upstairs pretending my pillow was my husband and I’d ask him about his day at work and what was happening at the office, and did he like the dinner I made for him and where were we going to vacation that winter and he’d surprise me with tickets to Belize and we’d kiss—I mean I’d kiss my pillow, make out with my pillow, and then I’d tell him I’d been to the doctor that day and I’d found out I was pregnant. I know how pathetic all that sounds now, but it was innocent enough . . .
Then real life takes over because it always does—
BARBARA:—uh-huh—
KAREN:—and things work out differently than you’d planned. That pillow was a better husband than any real man I’d ever
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