pp. 16–24 (DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.)
Jessie: I don’t want anybody else over here. Just you and me. If Dawson comes over it’ll make me feel stupid for not doing it ten years ago.
Mama: I think we better call the doctor. Or how about the ambulance. You like that one driver, I know. What’s his name, Timmy? Get you somebody to talk to.
Jessie: (Going back to her chair.) I’m through talking, Mama. You’re it. No more.
Mama: We’re just going to sit around like every other night in the world and then you’re going to kill yourself? (JESSIE doesn’t answer.) You’ll miss. (Again, there is no response.) You’ll just wind up a vegetable. How would you like that? Shoot your ear off? You know what the doctor said about getting excited. You’ll cock the pistol and have a fit.
Jessie: I think I can kill myself, Mama.
Mama: You’re not going to kill yourself, Jessie. You’re not even upset! (And JESSIE smiles, or laughs quietly, and MAMA tries a different approach.) People don’t really kill themselves, Jessie. No, Mam, doesn’t make sense, unless you’re retarded or deranged and you’re as normal as they come, Jessie, for the most part. We’re all afraid to die.
Jessie: I’m not, Mama. I’m cold all the time anyway.
Mama: That’s ridiculous.
Jessie: It’s exactly what I want. It’s dark and quiet.
Mama: So is the back yard, Jessie! Close your eyes. Stuff cotton in your ears. Take a nap! It’s quiet in your room. I’ll leave the TV off all night.
Jessie: So quiet I don’t know it’s quiet. So nobody can get me.
Mama: You don’t know what dead is like. It might not be quiet at all. What if it’s like an alarm clock and you can’t wake up so you can’t shut it off. Ever.
Jessie: Dead is everybody and everything I ever knew, gone. Dead is dead quiet.
Mama: It’s a sin. You’ll go to hell.
Jessie: Uh-huh.
Mama: You will.
Jessie: Jesus was a suicide, if you ask me.
Mama: You’ll go to hell just for saying that. Jessie!
Jessie: (Genuine surprise.) I didn’t know I thought that.
Mama: Jessie! (JESSIE doesn’t answer. She puts the now loaded gun back in the box and crosses to the kitchen. But MAMA is afraid she is headed for the bedroom. MAMA, in panic.) You can’t use my towels! They’re my towels. I’ve had them for a long time. I like my towels.
Jessie: I asked you if you wanted that swimming towel and you said you didn’t.
Mama: And you can’t use your father’s gun either. It’s mine now too. And you can’t do it in my house.
Jessie: Oh come on.
Mama: No. You can’t do it. I won’t let you. The house is in my name.
Jessie: I have to go in the bedroom and lock the door behind me so they won’t arrest you for killing me. They’ll probably test your hands for gunpowder anyway, but you’ll pass.
Mama: Not in my house!
Jessie: If I’d known you were going to act like this, I wouldn’t have told you.
Mama: How am I supposed to act? Tell you to go ahead? O.K. by me, sugar. Might try it myself. What took you so long?
Jessie: There’s just no point in fighting me over it, that’s all. Want some coffee?
Mama: Your birthday’s coming up, Jessie. Don’t you want to know what we got you?
Jessie: You got me dusting powder, Loretta got me a new housecoat, pink probably and Dawson got me new slippers, too small, but they go with the robe, he’ll say. (MAMA cannot speak.) Right? (Apparently JESSIE is right.) Be back in a minute. (JESSIE takes the gun box, puts it on top of tite stark of towels and garbage bags and takes them into her bedroom. MAMA, alone for a moment, goes to the phone, picks up the receives looks toward the bedroom, starts to dial anal then replaces the receiver in its cradle as JESSIE walks back into the room. JESSIE wonders, silently. They have lived together for so long, there is very rarely any reason for one to ask what the other was about to do.)
Mama: I started to, but I didn’t. I didn’t call him.
Jessie: Good. Thank you.
Mama: (Starting over, a new approach.) What’s this all about, Jessie?
Jessie: About? (JESSIE now begins the next task she had “on the schedule,” which is refilling all the candy jars, taking the empty papers out of the boxes of chocolates, etc. MAMA generally snitches when JESSIE does this. Not tonight, though. Nevertheless, JESSIE offers.)
Mama: What did I do?
Jessie: Nothing. Want a caramel?
Mama: (Ignoring the candy.) You’re mad at me.
Jessie: Not a bit. I am worried about you, but I’m going to do what I can before I go. We’re not just going to sit around tonight. I made a list of things.
Mama: What things?
Jessie: How the washer works. Things like that.
Mama: Did you grow up wearing dirty clothes?
Jessie: No.
Mama: I know how the washer works. You put the clothes in. You put the soap in. You turn it on. You wait.
Jessie: You do something else. You don’t just wait.
Mama: Whatever else you find to do you’re still mainly waiting. The waiting’s the worst part of it. The waiting’s what you pay somebody else to do, if you can.
Jessie: (Nodding.) O.K. Where do we keep the soap?
Mama: I could find it.
Jessie: See?
Mama: If you’re mad about doing the wash, we can get Loretta to do it.
Jessie: Oh now, that might be worth staying to see.
Mama: She’d never in her life, would she?
Jessie: Nope.
Mama: What’s the matter with her?
Jessie: She thinks she’s better than we are. She’s not.
Mama: Maybe if she didn’t wear that yellow all the time.
Jessie: The washer repair number is on a little card taped to the side of the machine.
Mama: Loretta doesn’t ever have to come over here again. Dawson can just leave her at home when he comes. And we won’t ever see Dawson either if he bothers you. Does he bother you?
Jessie: Sure he does. Be sure you clean out the lint tray every time you use the dryer. But don’t ever put your house shoes in, it’ll melt the soles.
Mama: What does Dawson do, that bothers you?
Jessie: He just calls me Jess like he knows who he’s talking to. He’s always wondering what I do all day. I mean, I wonder that myself, but it’s my day, so it’s mine to wonder about, not his.
Mama: Family is just accident, Jessie. It’s nothing personal, hon. They don’t mean to get on your nerves. They don’t even mean to be your family, they just are.
Jessie: They know too much.
Mama: About what?
Jessie: They know things about you, and they learned it before you had a chance to say whether you wanted them to know it or not. They were there when it happened and it don’t belong to them, it belongs to you, only they got it. Like my mail order bra got delivered to their house.
Mama: By accident!
Jessie: All the same . . . they opened it. They saw the little rosebuds on it. (Offering her another candy.) Chewy mint?
Mama: (Shaking her head no.) What do they know about you? I’ll tell them never to talk about it again. Is it Ricky or Cecil or your fits or your hair is falling out or you drink too much coffee or you never go out of the house or what?
Jessie: I just don’t like their talk. The account at the grocery is in Dawson’s name when you call. The number’s on a whole list of numbers on the back cover of the phone book.
Mama: Well! Now we’re getting somewhere. They’re none of them ever setting foot in this house again.
Jessie: It’s not them, Mother. I wouldn’t kill myself just to get away from them.
Mama: You leave the room when they come over, anyway.
Jessie: I stay as long as I can. Besides, it’s you they come to see.
Mama: That’s because I stay in the room when they come.
Jessie: It’s not them.
Mama: Then what is it?
Jessie: (Checking the list on her notepad.) The grocery won’t deliver on Saturday amymore. And if you want your order the same day, you have to call before 10. And they won’t deliver less than 15 dollars’ worth. What I do is tell them what we need and tell them to add on cigarettes until it gets to 15 dollars.
Mama: It’s Ricky. You’re trying to get through to him.
Jessie: If I thought I could do that, I would stay.
Mama: Make him sorry he hurt you, then. That’s it, isn’t it?
Jessie: He’s hurt me, I’ve hurt him. We’re about even.
Mama: You’ll be telling him killing is O.K. with you, you know. Want him to start killing next? Nothing wrong with it. Mom did it.
Jessie: Only a matter of time anyway, Mama. When the call comes, you let Dawson handle it.
Mama: Honey, nothing says those calls are always going to be some new trouble he’s into. You could get one that he’s got a job, that he’s getting married, or how about he’s joined the army, wouldn’t that be nice?
Jessie: If you call The Sweet Tooth before you call the grocery, that Susie will take your fudge next door to the grocery and it’ll all come out together. Be sure you talk to Susie, though. She won’t let them put it in the bottom of a sack like that one time, remember?
Mama: Ricky could come over, you know. What if he calls us?
Jessie: It’s not Ricky, Mama.
Mama: Or anybody could call us, Jessie.
Jessie: Not on Saturday night, Mama.
Mama: Then what is it? Are you sick? If your gums are swelling again, we can get you to the dentist in the morning.
Jessie: No. Can you order your medicine or do you want Dawson to? I’ve got a note to him. I’ll add that to it if you want.
Mama: Your eyes don’t look right. I thought so yesterday.
Jessie: That was just the ragweed. I’m not sick.
Mama: Epilepsy is sick, Jessie.
Jessie: It won’t kill me. (A pause.) If it would, I wouldn’t have to.
Mama: You don’t have to.
Jessie: No, I don’t. That’s what I like about it.
Mama: Well, I won’t let you!
Jessie: It’s not up to you.
Mama: Jessie!
Jessie: I want to hang a big sign around my neck, like Daddy’s on the barn. Gone Fishing.
Mama: You don’t like it here.
Jessie: (Smiles.) Exactly.
Mama: I meant here in my house.
Jessie: I know you did.
Mama: You never should have moved back in here with me. If you’d kept your little house or found another place when Cecil left you, you’d have made some new friends at least. Had a life to lead. Had your own things around you. Give Ricky a place to come see you. You never should’ve come here.
Jessie: Maybe.
Mama: But I didn’t force you, did I?
Jessie: If it was a mistake, we made it together. You took me in. I appreciate that.
Mama: You didn’t have any business being by yourself right then, but I can see how you might want a place of your own. You could be as close or as far away as you wanted. A grown woman should . . .
Jessie: Mama. . . I’m just not having a very good time and I don’t have any reason to think it’ll get anything but worse. I’m tired. I’m hurt. I’m sad. I feel used.
Mama: Tired of what?
Jessie: It all.
Mama: What does that mean?
Jessie: I can’t say it any better.
Jessie: Well, you’ll have to say it better because I’m not letting you alone til you do. What were those other things. Hurt . . . (Before JESSIE can answer.) You had this all ready to say to me, didn’t you? Did you write this down? How long have you been thinking about this?
Jessie: Off and on, ten years. On all the time, since Christmas.
Mama: What happened at Christmas?
Jessie: Nothing.
Mama: So why Christmas?
Jessie: That’s it. On the nose. (A pause. MAMA knows exactly what JESSIE means. She was there, too, after all. JESSIE, putting the candy sacks away.) See where all this is? Red hots up front, sour balls and horehound mixed together in this one sack. New packages of toffee and licorice right in back there.
Mama: Go back to your list. You’re hurt by what?
Jessie: (MAMA knows perfectly well.) Mama. . .
Mama: O.K. Sad about what? There’s nothing real sad going on right now. If it was after your divorce or something, that would make sense.
Jessie: (Looks at her list, then opens the drawer.) Now, this drawer has everything in it that there’s no better place for. Extension cords, batteries for the radio, extra lighters, sand paper, masking tape, Elmer’s glue, thumbtacks, that kind of stuff. The mousetraps are under the sink, but you call Dawson if you’ve got one and let him do it.
Mama: Sad about what?
Jessie: The way things are.
Mama: Not good enough. What things?
Jessie: Oh, everything from you and me to Red China.
Mama: I think we can leave the Chinese out of this.
Jessie: (Crosses back into the living room.) There’s extra lightbulbs in a box in the hall closet. And we’ve got a couple of packages of fuses in the fuse box. There’s candles and matches in the top of the broom closet, but if the lights go out, just call Dawson and sit tight. But don’t open the refrigerator door. Things will stay cool in there as long as you keep the door shut.
Mama: I asked you a question.
Jessie: I read the paper. I don’t like how things are. And they’re not any better out there than they are in here.
Mama: If you’re doing this because of the newspapers, I can sure fix that!
Jessie: There’s just more of it on TV.
Mama: (Kicks the television.) Take it out then!
Jessie: You wouldn’t do that.
Mama: Watch me.
Jessie: What would you do all day?
Mama: (Desperate.) Sing. (JESSIE laughs.) I would too. You want to watch? I’ll sing til morning to keep you alive, Jessie, please!
Jessie: No. (Then affectionately.) It’s a funny idea, though. What do you sing?
Mama: (Has no idea how to answer this.) We’ve got a good life here!
Jessie: (Going back into the kitchen.) I called this morning and cancelled the papers, except for Sunday, for your puzzles, you’ll still get that one.
Mama: Let’s get another dog, Jessie! You liked a big dog, didn’t you, that King dog, didn’t you?
Jessie: (Washing her hands.) I did like that King dog, yes.
Mama: I’m so dumb. He’s the one run under the tractor.
Jessie: That makes him dumb, not you.
Mama: For bringing it up.
Jessie: It’s O.K. Handi-wipes and sponges under the sink.
Mama: We could get a new dog and keep him in the house. Dogs are cheap!
Jessie: (Now getting big pill jars out of the cabinet.) No.
Mama: Something for you to take care of.
Jessie: I’ve had you, Mama.
Mama: (Frantically starts filling pill bottles.) You do too much for me. I can fill pill bottles all day, Jessie, and change the shelf-paper and wash the floor when I get through. You just watch me. You don’t have to do another thing in this house if you don’t want to. You don’t have to take care of me, Jessie.
The following is the monologue created from the previous scene.
MAMA (to JESSIE), age 40s to 60s.
pp. 16–24 (DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.)
We’re just going to sit around like every other night in the world and then you’re going to kill yourself? You’ll miss. You’ll just wind up a vegetable. How would you like that? Shoot your ear off? You’ll cock the pistol and have a fit. You’re not going to kill yourself, Jessie. You’re not even upset! People don’t really kill themselves, Jessie. No, Mam, doesn’t make sense, unless you’re retarded or deranged and you’re as normal as they come, Jessie, for the most part. We’re all afraid to die. Close your eyes. Stuff cotton in your ears. Take a nap! It’s quiet in your room. I’ll leave the TV off all night. You don’t know what dead is like. It might not be quiet at all. What if it’s like an alarm clock and you can’t wake up so you can’t shut it off. Ever. It’s a sin. You’ll go to hell. And you can’t use your father’s gun either. It’s mine now too. And you can’t do it in my house. I won’t let you. The house is in my name. How am I supposed to act? Tell you to go ahead? Okay by me, sugar. Might try it myself. What took you so long? Your birthday’s coming up, Jessie. Don’t you want to know what we got you? What is it? Are you sick? If your gums are swelling again, we can get you to the dentist in the morning. Your eyes don’t look right. You don’t have to kill yourself. I won’t let you! You never should have moved back in here with me. If you’d kept your little house or found another place when Cecil left you, you’d have made some new friends at least. Had a life to lead. Had your own things around you. Give Ricky a place to come see you. You never should’ve come here. I didn’t force you, did I? You had this all ready to say to me, didn’t you? Did you write this down? How long have you been thinking about this? There’s nothing real sad going on right now. If it was after your divorce or something, that would make sense. We’ve got a good life here! Let’s get another dog, Jessie! You liked a big dog, didn’t you, that King dog, didn’t you? I’m so dumb. He’s the one run under the tractor. We could get a new dog and keep him in the house. Dogs are cheap! Something for you to take care of. You do too much for me. I can fill pill bottles all day, Jessie, and change the shelf paper and wash the floor when I get through. You just watch me. You don’t have to do another thing in this house if you don’t want to. You don’t have to take care of me, Jessie.
Fighting for your daughter’s life is the same as fighting for your own life. This is a living nightmare. Your child tells you she plans to shoot herself. She no longer wants to live. Don’t forget the humor! Yes, humor! There is nothing funny about this situation. But there is humor here. You need it desperately. It’s in the words. Be aware of it. Don’t allow this to be a soap-opera performance.
What you are going through is pure hell. This is the very worst event of your life. What you are fighting for is to stop your daughter from killing herself. R is a positive thing to fight for. So be aware of the negatives but work off your positives. You are indeed coming up with all those nice positive solutions. Another dog. Relieving Jessie of doing things for you. See the future as being much improved for Jessie and play off this wonderful future you are planning for her. It is not just her life that will be over. If she dies, you will be alone. You will be the one left behind. You have depended on Jessie in your life. She has needed you. You cannot give that up. You are fighting for your life.
pp. 21–26 (DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.)
Jessie: I want to hang a big sign around my neck, like Daddy’s on the barn. Gone Fishing.
Mama: You don’t like it here.
Jessie: (Smiles.) Exactly.
Mama: I meant here in my house.
Jessie: I know you did.
Mama: You never should have moved back in here with me. If you’d kept your little house or found another place when Cecil left you, you’d have made some new friends at least. Had a life to lead. Had your own things around you. Give Ricky a place to come see you. You never should’ve come here.
Jessie: Maybe.
Mama: But I didn’t force you, did I?
Jessie: If it was a mistake, we made it together. You took me in. I appreciate that.
Mama: You didn’t have any business being by yourself right then, but I can see how you might want a place of your own. You could be as close or as far away as you wanted. A grown woman should . . .
Jessie: Mama . . . I’m just not having a very good time and I don’t have any reason to think it’ll get anything but worse. I’m tired. I’m hurt. I’m sad. I feel used.
Mama: Tired of what?
Jessie: It all.
Mama: What does that mean?
Jessie: I can’t say it any better.
Mama: Well, you’ll have to say it better because I’m not letting you alone til you do. What were those other things. Hurt . . . (Before JESSIE can answer.) You had this all ready to say to me, didn’t you? Did you write this down? How long have you been thinking about this?
Jessie: Off and on, ten years. On all the time, since Christmas.
Mama: What happened at Christmas?
Jessie: Nothing.
Mama: So why Christmas?
Jessie: That’s it. On the nose. (A pause MAMA knows exactly what JESSIE means. She was there, too, after all. JESSIE, putting the candy sacks away.) See where all this is? Red hots up front, sour balls and horehound mixed together in this one sack. New packages of toffee and licorice right in back there.
Mama: Go back to your list. You’re hurt by what?
Jessie: (MAMA knows perfectly well.) Mama. . .
Mama: O.K. Sad about what? There’s nothing real sad going on right now. If it was after your divorce or something, that would make sense.
Jessie: (Looks at her list, then opens the drawer.) Now, this drawer has everything in it that there’s no better place for. Extension cords, batteries for the radio, extra lighters, sand paper, masking tape, Elmer’s glue, thumbtacks, that kind of stuff. The mousetraps are under the sink, but you call Dawson if you’ve got one and let him do it.
Mama: Sad about what?
Jessie: The way things are.
Mama: Not good enough. What things?
Jessie: Oh, everything from you and me to Red China.
Mama: I think we can leave the Chinese out of this.
Jessie: (Crosses back into the living room.) There’s extra lightbulbs in a box in the hall closet. And we’ve got a couple of packages of fuses in the fuse box. There’s candles and matches in the top of the broom closet, but if the lights go out, just call Dawson and sit tight. But don’t open the refrigerator door. Things will stay cool in there as long as you keep the door shut.
Mama: I asked you a question.
Jessie: I read the paper. I don’t like how things are. And they’re not any better out there than they are in here.
Mama: If you’re doing this because of the newspapers, I can sure fix that!
Jessie: There’s just more of it on TV.
Mama: (Kicks the television.) Take it out then!
Jessie: You wouldn’t do that.
Mama: Watch me.
Jessie: What would you do all day?
Mama: (Desperate.) Sing. (JESSIE laughs.) I would too. You want to watch? I’ll sing til morning to keep you alive, Jessie, please!
Jessie: No. (Then affectionately.) It’s a funny idea, though. What do you sing?
Mama: (Has no idea how to answer this.) We’ve got a good life here!
Jessie: (Going back into the kitchen.) I called this morning and cancelled the papers, except for Sunday, for your puzzles, you’ll still get that one.
Mama: Let’s get another dog, Jessie! You liked a big dog, didn’t you, that King dog, didn’t you?
Jessie: (Washing her hands.) I did like that King dog, yes.
Mama: I’m so dumb. He’s the one run under the tractor.
Jessie: That makes him dumb, not you.
Mama: For bringing it up.
Jessie: It’s O.K. Handi-wipes and sponges under the sink.
Mama: We could get a new dog and keep him in the house. Dogs are cheap!
Jessie: (Now getting big pill jars out of the cabinet.) No.
Mama: Something for you to take care of.
Jessie: I’ve had you, Mama.
Mama: (Frantically starts filling pill bottles.) You do too much for me. I can fill pill bottles all day, Jessie, and change the shelf-paper and wash the floor when I get through. You just watch me. You don’t have to do another thing in this house if you don’t want to. You don’t have to take care of me, Jessie.
Jessie: I know that. You’ve just been letting me do it so I’ll have something to do, haven’t you?
Mama: (Realizing this was a mistake.) I don’t do it as well as you, I just meant if it tires you out or makes you feel used. . .
Jessie: Mama, I know you used to ride the bus. Riding the bus and it’s hot and bumpy and crowded and too noisy and more than anything in the world you want to get off and the only reason in the world you don’t get off is it’s still 50 blocks from where you’re going? Well, I can get off right now if I want to, because even if I ride 50 more years and get off then, it’s the same place when I step down to it. Whenever I feel like it, I can get off. As soon as I’ve had enough, it’s my stop. I’ve had enough.
Mama: You’re feeling sorry for yourself!
Jessie: The plumber’s helper is under the sink, too.
Mama: You’re not having a good time! Whoever promised you a good time? Do you think I’ve had a good time?
Jessie: I think you’re pretty happy, yeah. You have things you like to do.
Mama: Like what?
Jessie: Like crochet.
Mama: I’ll teach you to crochet.
Jessie: I can’t do any of that nice work, Mama.
Mama: Good times don’t come looking for you, Jessie. You could work some puzzles or put in a garden or go to the store. Let’s call a taxi and go to the A & P.
Jessie: I shopped you up for about two weeks already. You’re not going to need toilet paper til Thanksgiving.
Mama: (Interrupting.) You’re acting like some little brat, Jessie. You’re mad and everybody’s boring and you don’t have anything to do and you don’t like me and you don’t like going out and you don’t like staying in and you never talk on the phone and you don’t watch TV and you’re miserable and it’s your own sweet fault.
Jessie: And it’s time I did something about it.
Mama: Not something like killing yourself. Something like . . . buying us all new dishes! I’d like that. Or maybe the doctor would let you get a driver’s license now, or I know what let’s do right this minute, let’s rearrange the furniture.
Jessie: I’ll do that. If you want. I always thought if the TV was somewhere else, you wouldn’t get such a glare on it during the day. I’ll do whatever you want before I go.
Mama: (Badly frightened by those words.) You could get a job!
Jessie: I took that telephone sales job and I didn’t even make enough money to pay the phone bill, and I tried to work at the gift shop at the hospital and they said I made people real uncomfortable smiling at them the way I did.
Mama: You could keep books. You kept your Dad’s books.
Jessie: But nobody ever checked them.
Mama: When he died, they checked them.
Jessie: And that’s when they took the books away from me.
Mama: That’s because without him there wasn’t any business, Jessie!
Jessie: (Puts the pill bottles away now.) You know I couldn’t work. I can’t do anything. I’ve never been around people my whole life except when I went to the hospital. I could have a seizure any time. What good would a job do? The kind of job I could get would make me feel worse.
Mama: Jessie!
Jessie: It’s true!
Mama: It’s what you think is true!
Jessie: (Struck by the clarity of that.) That’s right. It’s what I think is true.
Mama: (Hysterical.) But I can’t do anything about that!
Jessie: (Quietly.) No. You can’t. (MAMA slumps, if not physically, at least emotionally.) And I can’t do anything either, about my life, to change it, make it better, make me feel better about it. Like it better, make it work. But I can stop it. Shut it down, turn it off like the radio when there’s nothing on I want to listen to. It’s all I really have that belongs to me and I’m going to say what happens to it. And it’s going to stop. And I’m going to stop it. So. Let’s just have a good time.
Mama: Have a good time.
Jessie: We can’t go on fussing all night. I mean, I could ask you things I always wanted to know and you could make me some hot chocolate. The old way.
The following is the monologue created from the previous scene.
JESSIE (to MAMA), age 30 to late 40s.
pp. 21–26 (DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.)
I want to hang a big sign around my neck, like Daddy’s on the barn: Gone Fishing. Mama . . . I’m just not having a very good time and I don’t have any reason to think it’ll get anything but worse. I’m tired. I’m hurt. I’m sad. I feel used. I’m tired of it all. I can’t say it any better. I’ve been thinking about this off and on, ten years. On all the time, since Christmas. I read the paper. I don’t like how things are. And they’re not any better out there than they are in here.
Mama, I know you used to ride the bus. Riding the bus and it’s hot and bumpy and crowded and too noisy and more than anything in the world you want to get off and the only reason in the world you don’t get off is it’s still fifty blocks from where you’re going? Well, I can get off right now if I want to, because even if I ride fifty more years and get off then, it’s the same place when I step down to it. Whenever I feel like it, I can get off. As soon as I’ve had enough, it’s my stop. I’ve had enough. I think you’re pretty happy, yeah. You have things you like to do. Like crochet. I can’t do any of that nice work, Mama. I took that telephone sales job and I didn’t even make enough money to pay the phone bill, and I tried to work at the gift shop at the hospital and they said I made people real uncomfortable smiling at them the way I did. I kept Dad’s books. When he died; they checked them. And that’s when they took the books away from me. You know I couldn’t work. I can’t do anything. I’ve never been around people my whole life except when I went to the hospital. I could have a seizure any time. What good would a job do? The kind of job I could get would make me feel worse. It’s true! And I can’t do anything either, about my life, to change it, make it better, make me feel better about it, like it better, make it work. But I can stop it—shut it down, turn it off like the radio when there’s nothing on I want to listen to. It’s all I really have that belongs to me and I’m going to say what happens to it. And it’s going to stop. And I’m going to stop it. So. Let’s just have a good time. We can’t go on fussing all night. I mean, I could ask you things I always wanted to know and you could make me some hot chocolate. The old way.
What are you desperately fighting for from your mother? Do you need her permission to kill yourself? Do you need her approval? Do you need her acceptance? The answer is a huge no! These choices are not big enough for you to make and play off. First of all you are fighting for her love. You may think this is silly. After all, she is your mother. She loves you. But what you are communicating to her now is something very powerful and epic. She may not ever be able to love you enough to condone what you are about to do. But you are still fighting for just this. Fight for what you wish to get, not what you have to settle for. Fight through your fantasies. You are going to go through with your plan no matter how she tries to stop you. It is the first time in your life that you have control over your fate. This is important. You mean to do away with yourself. You’ve got to know that she will not crumble and fall apart and die herself. This too is important to you. You certainly want to try to explain to her why you are going to kill yourself, to share your feelings with her so that she will see that you have thought this out and you know you are right. All of this is true—and you want her to convince you not to kill yourself! You do not get this from the playwright. She may or may not have thought of this or even now believe that this could be true. But it is for you, the actress, to create opposites for yourself. It’s not in the dialogue. But it does not negate one thing on the page. This choice will simply help you to have a stronger emotional reach-out to Mama. You will be communicating with another layer. You will be exposing more of your humanity. It will be more of a life-and-death performance. Yes, you are fighting for your life. You have not given up hope. Not until the moment you pull the trigger. If you do! Because at this time, you do not know if you will or will not. You are only planning to do it. You are fighting for a miracle. Why not!
pp. 47–49 (DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.)
Mama: Everything you do has to do with me, Jessie. You can’t do anything, wash your face or cut your finger, without doing it to me. That’s right! You might as well kill me as you, Jessie, it’s the same thing. This has to do with me, Jessie.
Jessie: Then what if it does! What if it has everything to do with you! What if you are all I have and you’re not enough? What if I could take all the rest of it if only I didn’t have you here? What if the only way I can get away from you for good is to kill myself? What if it is? I can still do it!
Mama: (In desperate tears.) Don’t leave me, Jessie! (JESSIE stands for a moment, then turns for the bedroom.) No! (MAMA grabs her arm.)
Jessie: (Carefully takes her arm away.) I have a box of things I want people to have. I’m just going to go get it for you. You . . . just rest a minute. (And JESSIE is gone and MAMA heads for the telephone, but she can’t even pick up the receiver this time, and instead, stoops to clean up the bottles that have spilled out of the tray. JESSIE returns carrying a box that groceries were delivered in. It probably says Hershey Kisses or Starkist Tuna. MAMA is still down on the floor cleaning up, hoping that maybe if she just makes it look nice enough, JESSIE will stay.)
Mama: Jessie, how can I live here without you? I need you! You’re supposed to tell me to stand up straight and say how nice I look in my pink dress and drink my milk. You’re supposed to go around and lock up so I know we’re safe for the night, and when I wake up, you’re supposed to be out there making the coffee and watching me get older every day and you’re supposed to help me die when the time comes. I can’t do that by myself, Jessie. I’m not like you, Jessie. I hate the quiet and I don’t want to die and I don’t want you to go, Jessie. How can I . . . (Has to stop a moment.) How can I get up every day knowing you had to kill yourself to make it stop hurting and I was here all the time and I never even saw it. And then you gave me this chance to make it better, convince you to stay alive and I couldn’t do it. How can I live with myself after this, Jessie?
Jessie: I only told you so I could explain it, so you wouldn’t blame yourself, so you wouldn’t feel bad. There wasn’t anything you could say to change my mind. I didn’t want you to save me. I just wanted you to know.
Mama: Stay with me just a little longer. Just a few more years. I don’t have that many more to go, Jessie. And as soon as I’m dead, you can do whatever you want. Maybe with me gone, you’ll have all the quiet you want, right here in the house. And maybe one day you’ll put in some begonias up the walk and get just the right rain for them all summer. And Ricky will be married by then and he’ll bring your grandbabies over and you can sneak them a piece of candy when their Daddy’s not looking and then be real glad when they’ve gone home and left you to your quiet again.
Jessie: Don’t you see, Mama, everything I do winds up like this. How could I think you would understand? How could I think you would want a manicure? We could hold hands for an hour and then I could go shoot myself? I’m sorry about tonight, Mama, but it’s exactly why I’m doing it.
Mama: If you’ve got the guts to kill yourself, Jessie, you’ve got the guts to stay alive.
The following is the monologue created from the previous scene.
MAMA (to JESSIE), age 40s to 60s.
pp. 47–49 (DRAMATISTS PLAY SERVICE, INC.)
Everything you do has to do with me, Jessie. You can’t do anything, wash your face or cut your finger, without doing it to me. That’s right! You might as well kill me as you, Jessie, it’s the same thing. This has to do with me, Jessie. Don’t leave me, Jessie! Jessie, how can I live here without you? I need you! You’re supposed to tell me to stand up straight and say how nice I look in my pink dress and drink my milk. You’re supposed to go around and lock up so I know we’re safe for the night, and when I wake up, you’re supposed to be out there making the coffee and watching me get older every day and you’re supposed to help me die when the times comes. I can’t do that by myself, Jessie. I’m not like you, Jessie. I hate the quiet and I don’t want to die and I don’t want you to go, Jessie. How can I . . . how can I get up every day knowing you had to kill yourself to make it stop hurting and I was here all the time and I never even saw it? And then you gave me this chance to make it better, convince you to stay alive and I couldn’t do it. How can I live with myself after this, Jessie? Stay with me just a little longer. Just a few more years. I don’t have that many more to go, Jessie. And as soon as I’m dead, you can do whatever you want. Maybe with me gone, you’ll have all the quiet you want, right here in the house. And maybe one day you’ll put in some begonias up the walk and get just the right rain for them all summer. And Ricky will be married by then and he’ll bring your grandbabies over and you can sneak them a piece of candy when their Daddy’s not looking and then be real glad when they’ve gone home and left you to your quiet again. If you’ve got the guts to kill yourself, Jessie, you’ve got the guts to stay alive.
Of course, you are fighting for your daughter’s life. You must stop her from wanting to kill herself. You can’t imagine what your life would be like if she were to actually take her own life. Or for that matter, what it would be like if she died from natural causes. Just having her dead and gone is too much to bear. But at least now you can stop her. If you can just find the right combination of words. If you can convince her somehow by finding the magic words. And then of course, if Jessie really loved you, she would not do such a thing—make you suffer through a tragedy like this. And you would have to live without her, knowing you were unable to stop her. So what are you fighting for? For Jessie’s love. If she really loved you, she would be more sensitive to you and not do this to you! You love and need her. She is there for you. You depend on her. She is part of you. She is part of your life and very being. She is you! You are fighting for the rest of your life. She is trying to kill you!