SCENE THREE

As Val finishes the song, Lady descends the stair. He rises and turns on a green-shaded light bulb.

VAL [to Lady]: You been up there a long time.

LADY: —I gave him morphine. He must be out of his mind. He says such awful things to me. He says I want him to die.

VAL: You sure you don’t?

LADY: I don’t want no one to die. Death’s terrible, Val. [Pause. She wanders to right front window. He takes his guitar and crosses to the door.] You gotta go now?

VAL: I’m late.

LADY: Late for what? You got a date with somebody?

VAL: —No. . . .

LADY: Then stay a while. Play something. I’m all unstrung. . . . [He crosses back and leans against counter; the guitar is barely audible, under the speeches.] I made a terrible fool of myself down here today with—

VAL: —That girl’s brother?

LADY: Yes, I—threw away——— pride. . . .

VAL: His sister said she’d come here to give me a warning. I wonder what of?

LADY [sitting in shoe-fitting chair]: —I said things to him I should of been too proud to say. . . .

[Both are pursuing their own reflections; guitar continues softly.]

VAL: Once or twice lately I’ve woke up with a fast heart, shouting something, and had to pick up my guitar to calm myself down. . . . Somehow or other I can’t get used to this place, I don’t feel safe in this place, but I—want to stay. . . . [Stops short; sound of wild baying.]

LADY: The chain-gang dogs are chasing some runaway convict. . . .

VAL: Run boy! Run fast, brother! If they catch you, you never will run again! That’s— [He has thrust his guitar under his arm on this line and crossed to the door.] —for sure. . . . [The baying of the dogs changes, becomes almost a single savage note.] —Uh-huh—the dogs’ve got him. . . . [Pause.] They’re tearing him to pieces! [Pause. Baying continues. A shot is fired. The baying dies out. He stops with his hand on the door; glances back at her; nods; draws the door open. The wind sings loud in the dusk.]

LADY: Wait!

VAL: —Huh?

LADY: —Where do you stay?

VAL: —When?

LADY: Nights.

VAL: I stay at the Wildwood cabins on the highway.

LADY: You like it there?

VAL: Uh-huh.

LADY: —Why?

VAL: I got a comfortable bed, a two-burner stove, a shower and icebox there.

LADY: You want to save money?

VAL: I never could in my life.

LADY: You could if you stayed on the place.

VAL: What place?

LADY: This place.

VAL: Whereabouts on this place?

LADY [pointing to alcove]: Back of that curtain.

VAL: —Where they try on clothes?

LADY: There’s a cot there. A nurse slept on it when Jabe had his first operation, and there’s a washroom down here and I’ll get a plumber to put in a hot an’ cold shower! I’ll—fix it up nice for you. . . . [She rises, crosses to foot of stairs. Pause. He lets the door shut, staring at her.]

VAL [moving downstage center]: —I—don’t like to be—obligated.

LADY: There wouldn’t be no obligation, you’d do me a favor. I’d feel safer at night with somebody on the place. I would; it would cost you nothing! And you could save up that money you spend on the cabin. How much? Ten a week? Why, two or three months from now you’d—save enough money to— [Makes a wide gesture with a short laugh as if startled.] Go on! Take a look at it! See if it don’t suit you! —All right. . . .

[But he doesn’t move; he appears reflective.]

LADY [shivering, hugging herself]: Where does heat go in this building?

VAL [reflectively]: —Heat rises. . . .

LADY: You with your dog’s temperature, don’t feel cold, do you? I do! I turn blue with it!

VAL: —Yeah. . . .

[The wait is unendurable to Lady.]

LADY: Well, aren’t you going to look at it, the room back there, and see if it suits you or not?!

VAL: —I’ll go and take a look at it. . . . [He crosses to the alcove and disappears behind the curtain. A light goes on behind it, making its bizarre pattern translucent: a gold tree with scarlet fruit and white birds in it, formally designed. Truck roars; lights sweep the frosted window, Lady gasps aloud; takes out a pint bottle and a glass from under the counter, setting them down with a crash that makes her utter a startled exclamation: then a startled laugh. She pours a drink and sits in chair right of counter. The lights turn off behind alcove curtain and Val comes back out. She sits stiffly without looking at him as he crosses back lazily, goes behind counter, puts guitar down. His manner is gently sad as if he had met with a familiar, expected disappointment. He sits down quietly on edge of counter and takes the pint bottle and pours himself a shot of the liquor with a reflective sigh. Boards creak loudly, contracting with the cold, Lady’s voice is harsh and sudden, demanding:]

LADY: Well, is it okay or—what!

VAL: I never been in a position where I could turn down something I got for nothing in my life. I like that picture in there. That’s a famous picture, that “September Morn” picture you got on the wall in there. Ha ha! I might have trouble sleeping in a room with that picture. I might keep turning the light on to take another look at it! The way she’s cold in that water and sort of crouched over in it, holding her body like that, that—might—ha ha!—sort of keep me awake. . . .

LADY: Aw, you with your dog’s temperature and your control of all functions, it would take more than a picture to keep you awake!

VAL: I was just kidding.

LADY: I was just kidding too.

VAL: But you know how a single man is. He don’t come home every night with just his shadow.

[Pause. She takes a drink.]

LADY: You bring girls home nights to the Wildwood cabins, do you?

VAL: I ain’t so far. But I would like to feel free to. That old life is what I’m used to. I always worked nights in cities and if you work nights in cities you live in a different city from those that work days.

LADY: Yes. I know, I—imagine. . . .

VAL: The ones that work days in cities and the ones that work nights in cities, they live in different cities. The cities have the same name but they are different cities. As different as night and day. There’s something wild in the country that only the night people know. . . .

LADY: Yeah, I know!

VAL: I’m thirty years old!—but sudden changes don’t work, it takes—

LADY: —Time—yes. . . . [Slight pause which she finds disconcerting. He slides off counter and moves around below it.]

VAL: You been good to me, Lady. —Why d’you want me to stay here?

LADY [defensively]: I told you why.

VAL: For company nights?

LADY: Yeah, to, to!—guard the store, nights!

VAL: To be a night watchman?

LADY: Yeah, to be a night watchman.

VAL: You feel nervous alone here?

LADY: Naturally now! —Jabe sleeps with a pistol next to him but if somebody broke in the store, he couldn’t git up and all I could do is holler! —Who’d hear me? They got a telephone girl on the night shift with—sleepin’ sickness, I think! Anyhow, why’re you so suspicious? You look at me like you thought I was plottin. —Kind people exist: Even me! [She sits up rigid in chair, lips and eyes tight closed, drawing in a loud breath which comes from a tension both personal and vicarious.]

VAL: I understand, Lady, but. . . . Why’re you sitting up so stiff in that chair?

LADY: Ha! [Sharp laugh; she leans back in chair.]

VAL: You’re still unrelaxed.

LADY: I know.

VAL: Relax. [Moving around close to her.] I’m going to show you some tricks I learned from a lady osteopath that took me in, too.

LADY: What tricks?

VAL: How to manipulate joints and bones in a way that makes you feel like a loose piece of string. [Moves behind her chair. She watches him.] Do you trust me or don’t you?

LADY: Yeah, I trust you completely, but—

VAL: Well then, lean forward a little and raise your arms up and turn sideways in the chair.

[She follows these instructions.]

Drop your head. [He manipulates her head and neck.] Now the spine, Lady. [He places his knee against the small of her backbone and she utters a sharp, startled laugh as he draws her backbone hard against his kneecap.]

LADY: Ha, ha! —That makes a sound like, like, like! —boards contracting with cold in the building, ha, ha!

[She relaxes.]

VAL: Better?

LADY: Oh, yes!—much . . . thanks. . . .

VAL [stroking her neck]: Your skin is like silk. You’re light skinned to be Italian.

LADY: Most people in this country think Italian people are dark. Some are but not all are! Some of them are fair . . very fair. . . . My father’s people were dark but my mother’s people were fair. Ha ha!

[The laughter is senseless. He smiles understandingly at her as she chatters to cover confusion. He turns away, then goes above and sits on counter close to her.]

My mother’s mother’s sister—come here from Monte Cassino, to die, with relations! —but I think people always die alone . . . with or without relations. I was a little girl then and I remember it took her such a long, long time to die we almost forgot her. —And she was so quiet . . . in a corner. . . . And I remember asking her one time, Zia Teresa, how does it feel to die? —Only a little girl would ask such a question, ha ha! Oh, and I remember her answer. She said—“It’s a lonely feeling.” I think she wished she had stayed in Italy and died in a place that she knew. . . . [Looks at him directly for the first time since mentioning the alcove.] Well, there is a washroom, and I’ll get the plumber to put in a hot and cold shower! Well— [Rises, retreats awkwardly from the chair. His interest seems to have wandered from her.] I’ll go up and get some clean linen and make up that bed in there.

[She turns and walks rapidly, almost running, to stairs. He appears lost in some private reflection but as soon as she has disappeared above the landing, he says something under his breath and crosses directly to the cashbox. He coughs loudly to cover the sound of ringing it open; scoops out a fistful of bills and coughs again to cover the sound of slamming drawer shut. Picks up his guitar and goes out the front door of store, Lady returns downstairs, laden with linen. The outer darkness moans through the door left open. She crosses to the door and a little outside it, peering both ways down the dark road. Then she comes in furiously, with an Italian curse, shutting the door with her foot or shoulder, and throws the linen down on counter. She crosses abruptly to cashbox, rings it open and discovers theft. Slams drawer violently shut.]

Thief! Thief!

[Turns to phone, lifts receiver. Holds it a moment, then slams it back into place. Wanders desolately back to the door, opens it and stands staring out into the starless night as the scene dims out. Music: blues—guitar.]