Act Two, Scene One
SCENE
The same. It is around quarter to one. No sunlight comes into the room now through the windows at right. Outside the day is still fine but increasingly sultry, with a faint haziness in the air which softens the glare of the sun.
Edmund sits in the armchair at left of table, reading a book. Or rather he is trying to concentrate on it but cannot. He seems to be listening for some sound from upstairs. His manner is nervously apprehensive and he looks more sickly than in the previous act.
The second girl, CATHLEEN, enters from the back parlor. She carries a tray on which is a bottle of bonded Bourbon, several whiskey glasses, and a pitcher of ice water. She is a buxom Irish peasant, in her early twenties, with a red-cheeked comely face, black hair and blue eyes—amiable, ignorant, clumsy, and possessed by a dense, well-meaning stupidity. She puts the tray on the table. Edmund pretends to be so absorbed in his book he does not notice her, but she ignores this.
CATHLEEN
With garrulous familiarity.
Here’s the whiskey. It’ll be lunch time soon. Will I call your father and Mister Jamie, or will you?
EDMUND
Without looking up from his book.
You do it.
CATHLEEN
It’s a wonder your father wouldn’t look at his watch once in a while. He’s a divil for making the meals late, and then Bridget curses me as if I was to blame. But he’s a grand handsome man, if he is old. You’ll never see the day you’re as good looking—nor Mister Jamie, either.
She chuckles.
I’ll wager Mister Jamie wouldn’t miss the time to stop work and have his drop of whiskey if he had a watch to his name!
EDMUND
Gives up trying to ignore her and grins.
You win that one.
CATHLEEN
And here’s another I’d win, that you’re making me call them so you can sneak a drink before they come.
EDMUND
Well, I hadn’t thought of that—
CATHLEEN
Oh no, not you! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, I suppose.
EDMUND
But now you suggest it—
CATHLEEN
Suddenly primly virtuous.
I’d never suggest a man or a woman touch drink, Mister Edmund. Sure, didn’t it kill an uncle of mine in the old country.
Relenting.
Still, a drop now and then is no harm when you’re in low spirits, or have a bad cold.
EDMUND
Thanks for handing me a good excuse.
Then with forced casualness.
You’d better call my mother, too.
CATHLEEN
What for? She’s always on time without any calling. God bless her, she has some consideration for the help.
EDMUND
She’s been taking a nap.
CATHLEEN
She wasn’t asleep when I finished my work upstairs a while back. She was lying down in the spare room with her eyes wide open. She’d a terrible headache, she said.
EDMUND
His casualness more forced.
Oh well then, just call my father.
CATHLEEN
Goes to the screen door, grumbling good-naturedly.
No wonder my feet kill me each night. I won’t walk out in this heat and get sunstroke. I’ll call from the porch.
She goes out on the side porch, letting the screen door slam behind her, and disappears on her way to the front porch. A moment later she is heard shouting.
Mister Tyrone! Mister Jamie! It’s time!
Edmund, who has been staring frightenedly before him, forgetting his book, springs to his feet nervously.
EDMUND
God, what a wench!
He grabs the bottle and pours a drink, adds ice water and drinks. As he does so, he hears someone coming in the front door. He puts the glass hastily on the tray and sits down again, opening his book. Jamie comes in from the front parlor, his coat over his arm. He has taken off collar and tie and carries them in his hand. He is wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Edmund looks up as if his reading was interrupted. Jamie takes one look at the bottle and glasses and smiles cynically.
JAMIE
Sneaking one, eh? Cut out the bluff, Kid. You’re a rottener actor than I am.
EDMUND
Grins.
Yes, I grabbed one while the going was good.
JAMIE
Puts a hand affectionately on his shoulder.
That’s better. Why kid me? We’re pals, aren’t we?
EDMUND
I wasn’t sure it was you coming.
JAMIE
I made the Old Man look at his watch. I was halfway up the walk when Cathleen burst into song. Our wild Irish lark! She ought to be a train announcer.
EDMUND
That’s what drove me to drink. Why don’t you sneak one while you’ve got a chance?
JAMIE
I was thinking of that little thing.
He goes quickly to the window at right.
The Old Man was talking to old Captain Turner. Yes, he’s still at it.
He comes back and takes a drink.
And now to cover up from his eagle eye. He memorizes the level in the bottle after every drink.
He measures two drinks of water and pours them in the whiskey bottle and shakes it up.
There. That fixes it.
He pours water in the glass and sets it on the table by Edmund.
And here’s the water you’ve been drinking.
EDMUND
Fine! You don’t think it will fool him, do you?
JAMIE
Maybe not, but he can’t prove it.
Putting on his collar and tie.
I hope he doesn’t forget lunch listening to himself talk. I’m hungry.
He sits across the table from Edmund—irritably.
That’s what I hate about working down in front. He puts on an act for every damned fool that comes along.
EDMUND
Gloomily.
You’re in luck to be hungry. The way I feel I don’t care if I ever eat again.
JAMIE
Gives him a glance of concern.
Listen, Kid. You know me. I’ve never lectured you, but Doctor Hardy was right when he told you to cut out the redeye.
EDMUND
Oh, I’m going to after he hands me the bad news this afternoon. A few before then won’t make any difference.
JAMIE
Hesitates—then slowly.
I’m glad you’ve got your mind prepared for bad news. It won’t be such a jolt.
He catches Edmund staring at him.
I mean, it’s a cinch you’re really sick, and it would be wrong dope to kid yourself.
EDMUND
Disturbed.
I’m not. I know how rotten I feel, and the fever and chills I get at night are no joke. I think Doctor Hardy’s last guess was right. It must be the damned malaria come back on me.
JAMIE
Maybe, but don’t be too sure.
EDMUND
Why? What do you think it is?
JAMIE
Hell, how would I know? I’m no Doc.
Abruptly.
Where’s Mama?
EDMUND
Upstairs.
JAMIE
Looks at him sharply.
When did she go up?
EDMUND
Oh, about the time I came down to the hedge, I guess. She said she was going to take a nap.
JAMIE
You didn’t tell me—
EDMUND
Defensively.
Why should I? What about it? She was tired out. She didn’t get much sleep last night.
JAMIE
I know she didn’t.
A pause. The brothers avoid looking at each other.
EDMUND
That damned foghorn kept me awake, too.
Another pause.
JAMIE
She’s been upstairs alone all morning, eh? You haven’t seen her?
EDMUND
No. I’ve been reading here. I wanted to give her a chance to sleep.
JAMIE
Is she coming down to lunch?
EDMUND
Of course.
JAMIE
Dryly.
No of course about it. She might not want any lunch. Or she might start having most of her meals alone upstairs. That’s happened, hasn’t it?
EDMUND
With frightened resentment.
Cut it out, Jamie! Can’t you think anything but—?
Persuasively.
You’re all wrong to suspect anything. Cathleen saw her not long ago. Mama didn’t tell her she wouldn’t be down to lunch.
JAMIE
Then she wasn’t taking a nap?
EDMUND
Not right then, but she was lying down, Cathleen said.
JAMIE
In the spare room?
EDMUND
Yes. For Pete’s sake, what of it?
JAMIE
Bursts out.
You damned fool! Why did you leave her alone so long? Why didn’t you stick around?
EDMUND
Because she accused me—and you and Papa—of spying on her all the time and not trusting her. She made me feel ashamed. I know how rotten it must be for her. And she promised on her sacred word of honor—
JAMIE
With a bitter weariness.
You ought to know that doesn’t mean anything.
EDMUND
It does this time!
JAMIE
That’s what we thought the other times.
He leans over the table to give his brother’s arm an affectionate grasp. Listen, Kid, I know you think I’m a cynical bastard, but remember I’ve seen a lot more of this game than you have. You never knew what was really wrong until you were in prep school. Papa and I kept it from you. But I was wise ten years or more before we had to tell you. I know the game backwards and I’ve been thinking all morning of the way she acted last night when she thought we were asleep. I haven’t been able to think of anything else. And now you tell me she got you to leave her alone upstairs all morning.
EDMUND
She didn’t! You’re crazy!
JAMIE
Placatingly.
All right, Kid. Don’t start a battle with me. I hope as much as you do I’m crazy. I’ve been as happy as hell because I’d really begun to believe that this time—
He stops—looking through the front parlor toward the hall—lowering his voice, hurriedly.
She’s coming downstairs. You win on that. I guess I’m a damned suspicious louse.
They grow tense with a hopeful, fearful expectancy. Jamie mutters.
Damn! I wish I’d grabbed another drink.
EDMUND
Me, too.
He coughs nervously and this brings on a real fit of coughing. Jamie glances at him with worried pity. Mary enters from the front parlor. At first one notices no change except that she appears to be less nervous, to be more as she was when we first saw her after breakfast, but then one becomes aware that her eyes are brighter, and there is a peculiar detachment in her voice and manner, as if she were a little withdrawn from her words and actions.
MARY
Goes worriedly to Edmund and puts her arm around him.
You mustn’t cough like that. It’s bad for your throat. You don’t want to get a sore throat on top of your cold.
She kisses him. He stops coughing and gives her a quick apprehensive glance, but if his suspicions are aroused her tenderness makes him renounce them and he believes what he wants to believe for the moment. On the other hand, Jamie knows after one probing look at her that his suspicions are justified. His eyes fall to stare at the floor, his face sets in an expression of embittered, defensive cynicism. Mary goes on, half sitting on the arm of Edmund’s chair, her arm around him, so her face is above and behind his and he cannot look into her eyes.
But I seem to be always picking on you, telling you don’t do this and don’t do that. Forgive me, dear. It’s just that I want to take care of you.
EDMUND
I know, Mama. How about you? Do you feel rested?
MARY
Yes, ever so much better. I’ve been lying down ever since you went out. It’s what I needed after such a restless night. I don’t feel nervous now.
EDMUND
That’s fine.
He pats her hand on his shoulder. Jamie gives him a strange, almost contemptuous glance, wondering if his brother can really mean this. Edmund does not notice but his mother does.
MARY
In a forced teasing tone.
Good heavens, how down in the mouth you look, Jamie. What’s the matter now?
JAMIE
Without looking at her.
Nothing.
MARY
Oh, I’d forgotten you’ve been working on the front hedge. That accounts for your sinking into the dumps, doesn’t it?
JAMIE
If you want to think so, Mama.
MARY
Keeping her tone.
Well, that’s the effect it always has, isn’t it? What a big baby you are! Isn’t he, Edmund?
EDMUND
He’s certainly a fool to care what anyone thinks.
MARY
Strangely.
Yes, the only way is to make yourself not care.
She catches Jamie giving her a bitter glance and changes the subject.
Where is your father? I heard Cathleen call him.
EDMUND
Gabbing with old Captain Turner, Jamie says. He’ll be late, as usual.
Jamie gets up and goes to the windows at right, glad of an excuse to turn his back.
MARY
I’ve told Cathleen time and again she must go wherever he is and tell him. The idea of screaming as if this were a cheap boardinghouse!
JAMIE
Looking out the window.
She’s down there now.
Sneeringly.
Interrupting the famous Beautiful Voice! She should have more respect.
MARY
Sharply—letting her resentment toward him come out.
It’s you who should have more respect! Stop sneering at your father! I won’t have it! You ought to be proud you’re his son! He may have his faults. Who hasn’t? But he’s worked hard all his life. He made his way up from ignorance and poverty to the top of his profession! Everyone else admires him and you should be the last one to sneer—you, who, thanks to him, have never had to work hard in your life!
Stung, Jamie has turned to stare at her with accusing antagonism. Her eyes waver guiltily and she adds in a tone which begins to placate.
Remember your father is getting old, Jamie. You really ought to show more consideration.
JAMIE
I ought to?
EDMUND
Uneasily.
Oh, dry up, Jamie!
Jamie looks out the window again.
And, for Pete’s sake, Mama, why jump on Jamie all of a sudden?
MARY
Bitterly.
Because he’s always sneering at someone else, always looking for the worst weakness in everyone.
Then with a strange, abrupt change to a detached, impersonal tone.
But I suppose life has made him like that, and he can’t help it. None of us can help the things life has done to us. They’re done before you realize it, and once they’re done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you’d like to be, and you’ve lost your true self forever.
Edmund is made apprehensive by her strangeness. He tries to look up in her eyes but she keeps them averted. Jamie turns to her—then looks quickly out of the window again.
JAMIE
Dully.
I’m hungry. I wish the Old Man would get a move on. It’s a rotten trick the way he keeps meals waiting, and then beefs because they’re spoiled.
MARY
With a resentment that has a quality of being automatic and on the surface while inwardly she is indifferent.
Yes, it’s very trying, Jamie. You don’t know how trying. You don’t have to keep house with summer servants who don’t care because they know it isn’t a permanent position. The really good servants are all with people who have homes and not merely summer places. And your father won’t even pay the wages the best summer help ask. So every year I have stupid, lazy greenhorns to deal with. But you’ve heard me say this a thousand times. So has he, but it goes in one ear and out the other. He thinks money spent on a home is money wasted. He’s lived too much in hotels. Never the best hotels, of course. Second-rate hotels. He doesn’t understand a home. He doesn’t feel at home in it. And yet, he wants a home. He’s even proud of having this shabby place. He loves it here.
She laughs—a hopeless and yet amused laugh.
It’s really funny, when you come to think of it. He’s a peculiar man.
EDMUND
Again attempting uneasily to look up in her eyes.
What makes you ramble on like that, Mama?
MARY
Quickly casual—patting his cheek.
Why, nothing in particular, dear. It is foolish.
As she speaks, Cathleen enters from the back parlor.
CATHLEEN
Volubly.
Lunch is ready, Ma’am, I went down to Mister Tyrone, like you ordered, and he said he’d come right away, but he kept on talking to that man, telling him of the time when—
MARY
Indifferently.
All right, Cathleen. Tell Bridget I’m sorry but she’ll have to wait a few minutes until Mister Tyrone is here.
Cathleen mutters, “Yes, Ma’am,” and goes off through the back parlor, grumbling to herself.
JAMIE
Damn it! Why don’t you go ahead without him? He’s told us to.
MARY
With a remote, amused smile.
He doesn’t mean it. Don’t you know your father yet? He’d be so terribly hurt.
EDMUND
Jumps up—as if he was glad of an excuse to leave.
I’ll make him get a move on.
He goes out on the side porch. A moment later he is heard calling from the porch exasperatedly.
Hey! Papa! Come on! We can’t wait all day!
Mary has risen from the arm of the chair. Her hands play restlessly over the table top. She does not look at Jamie but she feels the cynically appraising glance he gives her face and hands.
MARY
Tensely.
Why do you stare like that?
JAMIE
You know.
He turns back to the window.
MARY
I don’t know.
JAMIE
Oh, for God’s sake, do you think you can fool me, Mama? I’m not blind.
MARY
Looks directly at him now, her face set again in an expression of blank, stubborn denial.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
JAMIE
No? Take a look at your eyes in the mirror!
EDMUND
Coming in from the porch.
I got Papa moving. He’ll be here in a minute.
With a glance from one to the other, which his mother avoids—uneasily.
What’s happened? What’s the matter, Mama?
MARY
Disturbed by his coming, gives way to a flurry of guilty, nervous excitement. Your brother ought to be ashamed of himself. He’s been insinuating I don’t know what.
EDMUND
Turns on Jamie.
God damn you!
He takes a threatening step toward him. Jamie turns his back with a shrug and looks out the window.
MARY
More upset, grabs Edmund’s arm—excitedly.
Stop this at once, do you hear me? How dare you use such language before me!
Abruptly her tone and manner change to the strange detachment she has shown before.
It’s wrong to blame your brother. He can’t help being what the past has made him. Any more than your father can. Or you. Or I.
EDMUND
Frightenedly—with a desperate hoping against hope.
He’s a liar! It’s a lie, isn’t it, Mama?
MARY
Keeping her eyes averted.
What is a lie? Now you’re talking in riddles like Jamie.
Then her eyes meet his stricken, accusing look. She stammers.
Edmund! Don’t!
She looks away and her manner instantly regains the quality of strange detachment— calmly.
There’s your father coming up the steps now. I must tell Bridget.
She goes through the back parlor. Edmund moves slowly to his chair. He looks sick and hopeless.
JAMIE
From the window, without looking around.
Well?
EDMUND
Refusing to admit anything to his brother yet—weakly defiant.
Well, what? You’re a liar.
Jamie again shrugs his shoulders. The screen door on the front porch is heard closing. Edmund says dully.
Here’s Papa. I hope he loosens up with the old bottle.
Tyrone comes in through the front parlor. He is putting on his coat.
TYRONE
Sorry I’m late. Captain Turner stopped to talk and once he starts gabbing you can’t get away from him.
JAMIE
Without turning—dryly.
You mean once he starts listening.
His father regards him with dislike. He comes to the table with a quick measuring look at the bottle of whiskey. Without turning, Jamie senses this. It’s all right. The level in the bottle hasn’t changed.
TYRONE
I wasn’t noticing that.
He adds caustically.
As if it proved anything with you around. I’m on to your tricks.
EDMUND
Dully.
Did I hear you say, let’s all have a drink?
TYRONE
Frowns at him.
Jamie is welcome after his hard morning’s work, but I won’t invite you. Doctor Hardy—
EDMUND
To hell with Doctor Hardy! One isn’t going to kill me. I feel—all in, Papa.
TYRONE
With a worried look at him—putting on a fake heartiness.
Come along, then. It’s before a meal and I’ve always found that good whiskey, taken in moderation as an appetizer, is the best of tonics.
Edmund gets up as his father passes the bottle to him. He pours a big drink. Tyrone frowns admonishingly.
I said, in moderation.
He pours his own drink and passes the bottle to Jamie, grumbling.
It’d be a waste of breath mentioning moderation to you.
Ignoring the hint, Jamie pours a big drink. His father scowls—then, giving it up, resumes his hearty air, raising his glass.
Well, here’s health and happiness!
Edmund gives a bitter laugh.
EDMUND
That’s a joke!
TYRONE
What is?
EDMUND
Nothing. Here’s how.
They drink.
TYRONE
Becoming aware of the atmosphere.
What’s the matter here? There’s gloom in the air you could cut with a knife.
Turns on Jamie resentfully.
You got the drink you were after, didn’t you? Why are you wearing that gloomy look on your mug?
JAMIE
Shrugging his shoulders.
You won’t be singing a song yourself soon.
EDMUND
Shut up, Jamie.
TYRONE
Uneasy now—changing the subject.
I thought lunch was ready. I’m hungry as a hunter. Where is your mother?
MARY
Returning through the back parlor, calls.
Here I am.
She comes in. She is excited and self-conscious. As she talks, she glances everywhere except at any of their faces.
I’ve had to calm down Bridget. She’s in a tantrum over your being late again, and I don’t blame her. If your lunch is dried up from waiting in the oven, she said it served you right, you could like it or leave it for all she cared.
With increasing excitement.
Oh, I’m so sick and tired of pretending this is a home! You won’t help me! You won’t put yourself out the least bit! You don’t know how to act in a home! You don’t really want one! You never have wanted one—never since the day we were married! You should have remained a bachelor and lived in second-rate hotels and entertained your friends in barrooms!
She adds strangely, as if she were now talking aloud to herself rather than to Tyrone.
Then nothing would ever have happened.
They stare at her. Tyrone knows now. He suddenly looks a tired, bitterly sad old man. Edmund glances at his father and sees that he knows, but he still cannot help trying to warn his mother.
EDMUND
Mama! Stop talking. Why don’t we go in to lunch.
MARY
Starts and at once the quality of unnatural detachment settles on her face again. She even smiles with an ironical amusement to herself.
Yes, it is inconsiderate of me to dig up the past, when I know your father and Jamie must be hungry.
Putting her arm around Edmund’s shoulder—with a fond solicitude which is at the same time remote.
I do hope you have an appetite, dear. You really must eat more.
Her eyes become fixed on the whiskey glass on the table beside him— sharply.
Why is that glass there? Did you take a drink? Oh, how can you be such a fool? Don’t you know it’s the worst thing?
She turns on Tyrone.
You’re to blame, James. How could you let him? Do you want to kill him? Don’t you remember my father? He wouldn’t stop after he was stricken. He said doctors were fools! He thought, like you, that whiskey is a good tonic! A look of terror comes into her eyes and she stammers.
But, of course, there’s no comparison at all. I don’t know why I—Forgive me for scolding you, James. One small drink won’t hurt Edmund. It might be good for him, if it gives him an appetite.
She pats Edmund’s cheek playfully, the strange detachment again in her manner. He jerks his head away. She seems not to notice, but she moves instinctively away.
JAMIE
Roughly, to hide his tense nerves.
For God’s sake, let’s eat. I’ve been working in the damned dirt under the hedge all morning. I’ve earned my grub.
He comes around in back of his father, not looking at his mother, and grabs Edmund’s shoulder.
Come on, Kid. Let’s put on the feed bag.
Edmund gets up, keeping his eyes averted from his mother. They pass her, heading for the back parlor.
TYRONE
Dully.
Yes, you go in with your mother, lads. I’ll join you in a second.
But they keep on without waiting for her. She looks at their backs with a helpless hurt and, as they enter the back parlor, starts to follow them. Tyrone’s eyes are on her, sad and condemning. She feels them and turns sharply without meeting his stare.
MARY
Why do you look at me like that?
Her hands flutter up to pat her hair.
Is it my hair coming down? I was so worn out from last night. I thought I’d better lie down this morning. I drowsed off and had a nice refreshing nap. But I’m sure I fixed my hair again when I woke up.
Forcing a laugh.
Although, as usual, I couldn’t find my glasses.
Sharply.
Please stop staring! One would think you were accusing me—
Then pleadingly.
James! You don’t understand!
TYRONE
With dull anger.
I understand that I’ve been a God-damned fool to believe in you!
He walks away from her to pour himself a big drink.
MARY
Her face again sets in stubborn defiance.
I don’t know what you mean by “believing in me.” All I’ve felt was distrust and spying and suspicion.
Then accusingly.
Why are you having another drink? You never have more than one before lunch.
Bitterly.
I know what to expect. You will be drunk tonight. Well, it won’t be the first time, will it—or the thousandth?
Again she bursts out pleadingly.
Oh, James, please! You don’t understand! I’m so worried about Edmund! I’m so afraid he—
TYRONE
I don’t want to listen to your excuses, Mary.
MARY
Strickenly.
Excuses? You mean—? Oh, you can’t believe that of me! You mustn’t believe that, James!
Then slipping away into her strange detachment—quite casually.
Shall we not go into lunch, dear? I don’t want anything but I know you’re hungry.
He walks slowly to where she stands in the doorway. He walks like an old man. As he reaches her she bursts out piteously.
James! I tried so hard! I tried so hard! Please believe—!
TYRONE
Moved in spite of himself—helplessly.
I suppose you did, Mary.
Then grief-strickenly.
For the love of God, why couldn’t you have the strength to keep on?
MARY
Her face setting into that stubborn denial again.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have the strength to keep on what?
TYRONE
Hopelessly.
Never mind. It’s no use now.
He moves on and she keeps beside him as they disappear in the back parlor.
CURTAIN
Act Two, Scene Two
SCENE
The same, about a half hour later. The tray with the bottle of whiskey has been removed from the table. The family are returning from lunch as the curtain rises. Mary is the first to enter from the back parlor. Her husband follows. He is not with her as he was in the similar entrance after breakfast at the opening of Act One. He avoids touching her or looking at her. There is condemnation in his face, mingled now with the beginning of an old weary, helpless resignation. Jamie and Edmund follow their father. Jamie’s face is hard with defensive cynicism. Edmund tries to copy this defense but without success. He plainly shows he is heartsick as well as physically ill.
Mary is terribly nervous again, as if the strain of sitting through lunch with them had been too much for her. Yet at the same time, in contrast to this, her expression shows more of that strange aloofness which seems to stand apart from her nerves and the anxieties which harry them.
She is talking as she enters—a stream of words that issues casually, in a routine of family conversation, from her mouth. She appears indifferent to the fact that their thoughts are not on what she is saying any more than her own are. As she talks, she comes to the left of the table and stands, facing front, one hand fumbling with the bosom of her dress, the other playing over the table top. Tyrone lights a cigar and goes to the screen door, staring out. Jamie fills a pipe from a jar on top of the bookcase at rear. He lights it as he goes to look out the window at right. Edmund sits in a chair by the table, turned half away from his mother so he does not have to watch her.
MARY
It’s no use finding fault with Bridget. She doesn’t listen. I can’t threaten her, or she’d threaten she’d leave. And she does do her best at times. It’s too bad they seem to be just the times you’re sure to be late, James. Well, there’s this consolation: it’s difficult to tell from her cooking whether she’s doing her best or her worst.
She gives a little laugh of detached amusement—indifferently.
Never mind. The summer will soon be over, thank goodness. Your season will open again and we can go back to second-rate hotels and trains. I hate them, too, but at least I don’t expect them to be like a home, and there’s no housekeeping to worry about. It’s unreasonable to expect Bridget or Cathleen to act as if this was a home. They know it isn’t as well as we know it. It never has been and it never will be.
TYRONE
Bitterly without turning around.
No, it never can be now. But it was once, before you—
MARY
Her face instantly set in blank denial.
Before I what?
There is a dead silance. She goes on with a return of her detached air.
No, no. Whatever you mean, it isn’t true, dear. It was never a home. You’ve always preferred the Club or a barroom. And for me it’s always been as lonely as a dirty room in a one-night stand hotel. In a real home one is never lonely. You forget I know from experience what a home is like. I gave up one to marry you—my father’s home.
At once, through an association of ideas she turns to Edmund. Her manner becomes tenderly solicitous, but there is the strange quality of detachment in it.
I’m worried about you, Edmund. You hardly touched a thing at lunch. That’s no way to take care of yourself. It’s all right for me not to have an appetite. I’ve been growing too fat. But you must eat.
Coaxingly maternal.
Promise me you will, dear, for my sake.
EDMUND
Dully.
Yes, Mama.
MARY
Pats his cheek as he tries not to shrink away.
That’s a good boy.
There is another pause of dead silence. Then the telephone in the front hall rings and all of them stiffen startledly.
TYRONE
Hastily.
I’ll answer. McGuire said he’d call me.
He goes out through the front parlor.
MARY
Indifferently.
McGuire. He must have another piece of property on his list that no one would think of buying except your father. It doesn’t matter any more, but it’s always seemed to me your father could afford to keep on buying property but never to give me a home.
She stops to listen as Tyrone’s voice is heard from the hall.
TYRONE
Hello.
With forced heartiness.
Oh, how are you, Doctor?
Jamie turns from the window. Mary’s fingers play more rapidly on the table top. Tyrone’s voice, trying to conceal, reveals that he is hearing bad news.
I see—
Hurriedly.
Well, you’ll explain all about it when you see him this afternoon. Yes, he’ll be in without fail. Four o’clock. I’ll drop in myself and have a talk with you before that. I have to go uptown on business, anyway. Goodbye, Doctor.
EDMUND
Dully.
That didn’t sound like glad tidings.
Jamie gives him a pitying glance—then looks out the window again. Mary’s face is terrified and her hands flutter distractedly. Tyrone comes in. The strain is obvious in his casualness as he addresses Edmund.
TYRONE
It was Doctor Hardy. He wants you to be sure and see him at four.
EDMUND
Dully.
What did he say? Not that I give a damn now.
MARY
Bursts out excitedly.
I wouldn’t believe him if he swore on a stack of Bibles. You mustn’t pay attention to a word he says, Edmund.
TYRONE
Sharply.
Mary!
MARY
More excitedly.
Oh, we all realize why you like him, James! Because he’s cheap! But please don’t try to tell me! I know all about Doctor Hardy. Heaven knows I ought to after all these years. He’s an ignorant fool! There should be a law to keep men like him from practicing. He hasn’t the slightest idea— When you’re in agony and half insane, he sits and holds your hand and delivers sermons on will power!
Her face is drawn in an expression of intense suffering by the memory. For the moment she loses all caution. With bitter hatred.
He deliberately humiliates you! He makes you beg and plead! He treats you like a criminal! He understands nothing! And yet it was exactly the same type of cheap quack who first gave you the medicine—and you never knew what it was until too late!
Passionately.
I hate doctors! They’ll do anything—anything to keep you coming to them. They’ll sell their souls! What’s worse, they’ll sell yours, and you never know it till one day you find yourself in hell!
EDMUND
Mama! For God’s sake, stop talking.
TYRONE
Shakenly.
Yes, Mary, it’s no time—
MARY
Suddenly is overcome by guilty confusion—stammers.
I— Forgive me, dear. You’re right. It’s useless to be angry now.
There is again a pause of dead silence. When she speaks again, her face has cleared and is calm, and the quality of uncanny detachment is in her voice and manner.
I’m going upstairs for a moment, if you’ll excuse me. I have to fix my hair.
She adds smilingly.
That is if I can find my glasses. I’ll be right down.
TYRONE
As she starts through the doorway—pleading and rebuking.
Mary!
MARY
Turns to stare at him calmly.
Yes, dear? What is it?
TYRONE
Helplessly.
Nothing.
MARY
With a strange derisive smile.
You’re welcome to come up and watch me if you’re so suspicious.
TYRONE
As if that could do any good! You’d only postpone it. And I’m not your jailor. This isn’t a prison.
MARY
No. I know you can’t help thinking it’s a home.
She adds quickly with a detached contrition.
I’m sorry, dear. I don’t mean to be bitter. It’s not your fault.
She turns and disappears through the back parlor. The three in the room remain silent. It is as if they were waiting until she got upstairs before speaking.
JAMIE
Cynically brutal.
Another shot in the arm!
EDMUND
Angrily.
Cut out that kind of talk!
TYRONE
Yes! Hold your foul tongue and your rotten Broadway loafer’s lingo! Have you no pity or decency?
Losing his temper.
You ought to be kicked out in the gutter! But if I did it, you know damned well who’d weep and plead for you, and excuse you and complain till I let you come back.
JAMIE
A spasm of pain crosses his face.
Christ, don’t I know that? No pity? I have all the pity in the world for her. I understand what a hard game to beat she’s up against—which is more than you ever have! My lingo didn’t mean I had no feeling. I was merely putting bluntly what we all know, and have to live with now, again.
Bitterly.
The cures are no damned good except for a while. The truth is there is no cure and we’ve been saps to hope—
Cynically.
They never come back!
EDMUND
Scornfully parodying his brother’s cynicism.
They never come back! Everything is in the bag! It’s all a frame-up! We’re all fall guys and suckers and we can’t beat the game!
Disdainfully.
Christ, if I felt the way you do—!
JAMIE
Stung for a moment—then shrugging his shoulders, dryly.
I thought you did. Your poetry isn’t very cheery. Nor the stuff you read and claim you admire.
He indicates the small bookcase at rear.
Your pet with the unpronounceable name, for example.
EDMUND
Nietzsche. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You haven’t read him.
JAMIE
Enough to know it’s a lot of bunk!
TYRONE
Shut up, both of you! There’s little choice between the philosophy you learned from Broadway loafers, and the one Edmund got from his books. They’re both rotten to the core. You’ve both flouted the faith you were born and brought up in—the one true faith of the Catholic Church—and your denial has brought nothing but self-destruction!
His two sons stare at him contemptuously. They forget their quarrel and are as one against him on this issue.
EDMUND
That’s the bunk, Papa!
JAMIE
We don’t pretend, at any rate.
Caustically.
I don’t notice you’ve worn any holes in the knees of your pants going to Mass.
TYRONE
It’s true I’m a bad Catholic in the observance, God forgive me. But I believe!
Angrily.
And you’re a liar! I may not go to church but every night and morning of my life I get on my knees and pray!
EDMUND
Bitingly.
Did you pray for Mama?
TYRONE
I did. I’ve prayed to God these many years for her.
EDMUND
Then Nietzsche must be right.
He quotes from Thus Spake Zarathustra.
“God is dead: of His pity for man hath God died.”
TYRONE
Ignores this.
If your mother had prayed, too— She hasn’t denied her faith, but she’s forgotten it, until now there’s no strength of the spirit left in her to fight against her curse.
Then dully resigned.
But what’s the good of talk? We’ve lived with this before and now we must again. There’s no help for it.
Bitterly.
Only I wish she hadn’t led me to hope this time. By God, I never will again!
EDMUND
That’s a rotten thing to say, Papa!
Defiantly.
Well, I’ll hope! She’s just started. It can’t have got a hold on her yet. She can still stop. I’m going to talk to her.
JAMIE
Shrugs his shoulders.
You can’t talk to her now. She’ll listen but she won’t listen. She’ll be here but she won’t be here. You know the way she gets.
TYRONE
Yes, that’s the way the poison acts on her always. Every day from now on, there’ll be the same drifting away from us until by the end of each night—
EDMUND
Miserably.
Cut it out, Papa!
He jumps up from his chair.
I’m going to get dressed.
Bitterly, as he goes.
I’ll make so much noise she can’t suspect I’ve come to spy on her.
He disappears through the front parlor and can be heard stamping noisily upstairs.
JAMIE
After a pause.
What did Doc Hardy say about the Kid?
TYRONE
Dully.
It’s what you thought. He’s got consumption.
JAMIE
God damn it!
TYRONE
There is no possible doubt, he said.
JAMIE
He’ll have to go to a sanatorium.
TYRONE
Yes, and the sooner the better, Hardy said, for him and everyone around him. He claims that in six months to a year Edmund will be cured, if he obeys orders.
He sighs—gloomily and resentfully.
I never thought a child of mine— It doesn’t come from my side of the family. There wasn’t one of us that didn’t have lungs as strong as an ox.
JAMIE
Who gives a damn about that part of it! Where does Hardy want to send him?
TYRONE
That’s what I’m to see him about.
JAMIE
Well, for God’s sake, pick out a good place and not some cheap dump!
TYRONE
Stung.
I’ll send him wherever Hardy thinks best!
JAMIE
Well, don’t give Hardy your old over-the-hills-to-the-poorhouse song about taxes and mortgages.
TYRONE
I’m no millionaire who can throw money away! Why shouldn’t I tell Hardy the truth?
JAMIE
Because he’ll think you want him to pick a cheap dump, and because he’ll know it isn’t the truth—especially if he hears afterwards you’ve seen McGuire and let that flannel-mouth, gold-brick merchant sting you with another piece of bum property!
TYRONE
Furiously.
Keep your nose out of my business!
JAMIE
This is Edmund’s business. What I’m afraid of is, with your Irish bog- trotter idea that consumption is fatal, you’ll figure it would be a waste of money to spend any more than you can help.
TYRONE
You liar!
JAMIE
All right. Prove I’m a liar. That’s what I want. That’s why I brought it up.
TYRONE
His rage still smouldering.
I have every hope Edmund will be cured. And keep your dirty tongue off Ireland! You’re a fine one to sneer, with the map of it on your face!
JAMIE
Not after I wash my face.
Then before his father can react to this insult to the Old Sod, he adds dryly, shrugging his shoulders.
Well, I’ve said all I have to say. It’s up to you.
Abruptly.
What do you want me to do this afternoon, now you’re going uptown? I’ve done all I can do on the hedge until you cut more of it. You don’t want me to go ahead with your clipping, I know that.
TYRONE
No. You’d get it crooked, as you get everything else.
JAMIE
Then I’d better go uptown with Edmund. The bad news coming on top of what’s happened to Mama may hit him hard.
TYRONE
Forgetting his quarrel.
Yes, go with him, Jamie. Keep up his spirits, if you can.
He adds caustically.
If you can without making it an excuse to get drunk!
JAMIE
What would I use for money? The last I heard they were still selling booze, not giving it away.
He starts for the front-parlor doorway.
I’ll get dressed.
He stops in the doorway as he sees his mother approaching from the hall, and moves aside to let her come in. Her eyes look brighter, and her manner is more detached. This change becomes more marked as the scene goes on.
MARY
Vaguely.
You haven’t seen my glasses anywhere, have you, Jamie?
She doesn’t look at him. He glances away, ignoring her question but she doesn’t seem to expect an answer. She comes forward, addressing her husband without looking at him.
You haven’t seen them, have you, James?
Behind her Jamie disappears through the front parlor.
TYRONE
Turns to look out the screen door.
No, Mary.
MARY
What’s the matter with Jamie? Have you been nagging at him again? You shouldn’t treat him with such contempt all the time. He’s not to blame. If he’d been brought up in a real home, I’m sure he would have been different. She comes to the windows at right—lightly.
You’re not much of a weather prophet, dear. See how hazy it’s getting. I can hardly see the other shore.
TYRONE
Trying to speak naturally.
Yes, I spoke too soon. We’re in for another night of fog, I’m afraid.
MARY
Oh, well, I won’t mind it tonight.
TYRONE
No, I don’t imagine you will, Mary.
MARY
Flashes a glance at him—after a pause.
I don’t see Jamie going down to the hedge. Where did he go?
TYRONE
He’s going with Edmund to the Doctor’s. He went up to change his clothes.
Then, glad of an excuse to leave her.
I’d better do the same or I’ll be late for my appointment at the Club.
He makes a move toward the font-parlor doorway, but with a swift impulsive movement she reaches out and clasps his arm.
MARY
A note of pleading in her voice.
Don’t go yet, dear. I don’t want to be alone.
Hastily.
I mean, you have plenty of time. You know you boast you can dress in one- tenth the time it takes the boys.
Vaguely.
There is something I wanted to say. What is it? I’ve forgotten. I’m glad Jamie is going uptown. You didn’t give him any money, I hope.
TYRONE
I did not.
MARY
He’d only spend it on drink and you know what a vile, poisonous tongue he has when he’s drunk. Not that I would mind anything he said tonight, but he always manages to drive you into a rage, especially if you’re drunk, too, as you will be.
TYRONE
Resentfully.
I won’t. I never get drunk.
MARY
Teasing indifferently.
Oh, I’m sure you’ll hold it well. You always have. It’s hard for a stranger to tell, but after thirty-five years of marriage—
TYRONE
I’ve never missed a performance in my life. That’s the proof!
Then bitterly.
If I did get drunk it is not you who should blame me. No man has ever had a better reason.
MARY
Reason? What reason? You always drink too much when you go to the Club, don’t you? Particularly when you meet McGuire. He sees to that. Don’t think I’m finding fault, dear. You must do as you please. I won’t mind.
TYRONE
I know you won’t.
He turns toward the front parlor, anxious to escape.
I’ve got to get dressed.
MARY
Again she reaches out and grasps his arm—pleadingly.
No, please wait a little while, dear. At least, until one of the boys comes down. You will all be leaving me so soon.
TYRONE
With bitter sadness.
It’s you who are leaving us, Mary.
MARY
I? That’s a silly thing to say, James. How could I leave? There is nowhere I could go. Who would I go to see? I have no friends.
TYRONE
It’s your own fault—
He stops and sighs helplessly—persuasively.
There’s surely one thing you can do this afternoon that will be good for you, Mary. Take a drive in the automobile. Get away from the house. Get a little sun and fresh air.
Injuredly.
I bought the automobile for you. You know I don’t like the damned things. I’d rather walk any day, or take a trolley.
With growing resentment.
I had it here waiting for you when you came back from the sanatorium. I hoped it would give you pleasure and distract your mind. You used to ride in it every day, but you’ve hardly used it at all lately. I paid a lot of money I
couldn’t afford, and there’s the chauffeur I have to board and lodge and pay high wages whether he drives you or not.
Bitterly.
Waste! The same old waste that will land me in the poorhouse in my old age! What good did it do you? I might as well have thrown the money out the window.
MARY
With detached calm.
Yes, it was a waste of money, James. You shouldn’t have bought a secondhand automobile. You were swindled again as you always are, because you insist on secondhand bargains in everything.
TYRONE
It’s one of the best makes! Everyone says it’s better than any of the new ones!
MARY
Ignoring this.
It was another waste to hire Smythe, who was only a helper in a garage and had never been a chauffeur. Oh, I realize his wages are less than a real chauffeur’s, but he more than makes up for that, I’m sure, by the graft he gets from the garage on repair bills. Something is always wrong. Smythe sees to that, I’m afraid.
TYRONE
I don’t believe it! He may not be a fancy millionaire’s flunky but he’s honest! You’re as bad as Jamie, suspecting everyone!
MARY
You mustn’t be offended, dear. I wasn’t offended when you gave me the automobile. I knew you didn’t mean to humiliate me. I knew that was the way you had to do everything. I was grateful and touched. I knew buying the car was a hard thing for you to do, and it proved how much you loved me, in your way, especially when you couldn’t really believe it would do me any good.
TYRONE
Mary!
He suddenly hugs her to him—brokenly.
Dear Mary! For the love of God, for my sake and the boys’ sake and your own, won’t you stop now?
MARY
Stammers in guilty confusion for a second.
I—James! Please!
Her strange, stubborn defense comes back instantly.
Stop what? What are you talking about?
He lets his arm fall to his side brokenly. She impulsively puts her arm around him.
James! We’ve loved each other! We always will! Let’s remember only that, and not try to understand what we cannot understand, or help things that cannot be helped—the things life has done to us we cannot excuse or explain.
TYRONE
As if he hadn’t heard—bitterly.
You won’t even try?
MARY
Her arms drop hopelessly and she turns away—with detachment.
Try to go for a drive this afternoon, you mean? Why, yes, if you wish me to, although it makes me feel lonelier than if I stayed here. There is no one I can invite to drive with me, and I never know where to tell Smythe to go. If there was a friend’s house where I could drop in and laugh and gossip awhile. But, of course, there isn’t. There never has been.
Her manner becoming more and more remote.
At the Convent I had so many friends. Girls whose families lived in lovely homes. I used to visit them and they’d visit me in my father’s home. But, naturally, after I married an actor—you know how actors were considered in those days—a lot of them gave me the cold shoulder. And then, right after we were married, there was the scandal of that woman who had been your mistress, suing you. From then on, all my old friends either pitied me or cut me dead. I hated the ones who cut me much less than the pitiers.
TYRONE
With guilty resentment.
For God’s sake, don’t dig up what’s long forgotten. If you’re that far gone in the past already, when it’s only the beginning of the afternoon, what will you be tonight?
MARY
Stares at him defiantly now.
Come to think of it, I do have to drive uptown. There’s something I must get at the drugstore.
TYRONE
Bitterly scornful.
Leave it to you to have some of the stuff hidden, and prescriptions for more! I hope you’ll lay in a good stock ahead so we’ll never have another night like the one when you screamed for it, and ran out of the house in your nightdress half crazy, to try and throw yourself off the dock!
MARY
Tries to ignore this.
I have to get tooth powder and toilet soap and cold cream—
She breaks down pitiably.
James! You mustn’t remember! You mustn’t humiliate me so!
TYRONE
Ashamed.
I’m sorry. Forgive me, Mary!
MARY
Defensively detached again.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing like that ever happened. You must have dreamed it.
He stares at her hopelessly. Her voice seems to drift farther and farther away.
I was so healthy before Edmund was born. You remember, James. There wasn’t a nerve in my body. Even traveling with you season after season, with week after week of one-night stands, in trains without Pullmans, in dirty rooms of filthy hotels, eating bad food, bearing children in hotel rooms, I still kept healthy. But bearing Edmund was the last straw. I was so sick afterwards, and that ignorant quack of a cheap hotel doctor— All he knew was I was in pain. It was easy for him to stop the pain.
TYRONE
Mary! For God’s sake, forget the past!
MARY
With strange objective calm.
Why? How can I? The past is the present, isn’t it? It’s the future, too. We all try to lie out of that but life won’t let us.
Going on.
I blame only myself. I swore after Eugene died I would never have another baby. I was to blame for his death. If I hadn’t left him with my mother to join you on the road, because you wrote telling me you missed me and were so lonely, Jamie would never have been allowed, when he still had measles, to go in the baby’s room.
Her face hardening.
I’ve always believed Jamie did it on purpose. He was jealous of the baby. He hated him.
As Tyrone starts to protest.
Oh, I know Jamie was only seven, but he was never stupid. He’d been warned it might kill the baby. He knew. I’ve never been able to forgive him for that.
TYRONE
With bitter sadness.
Are you back with Eugene now? Can’t you let our dead baby rest in peace?
MARY
As if she hadn’t heard him.
It was my fault. I should have insisted on staying with Eugene and not have let you persuade me to join you, just because I loved you. Above all, I shouldn’t have let you insist I have another baby to take Eugene’s place, because you thought that would make me forget his death. I knew from experience by then that children should have homes to be born in, if they are to be good children, and women need homes, if they are to be good mothers. I was afraid all the time I carried Edmund. I knew something terrible would happen. I knew I’d proved by the way I’d left Eugene that I wasn’t worthy to have another baby, and that God would punish me if I did. I never should have borne Edmund.
TYRONE
With an uneasy glance through the front parlor.
Mary! Be careful with your talk. If he heard you he might think you never wanted him. He’s feeling bad enough already without—
MARY
Violently.
It’s a lie! I did want him! More than anything in the world! You don’t understand! I meant, for his sake. He has never been happy. He never will be. Nor healthy. He was born nervous and too sensitive, and that’s my fault. And now, ever since he’s been so sick I’ve kept remembering Eugene and my father and I’ve been so frightened and guilty—
Then, catching herself, with an instant change to stubborn denial.
Oh, I know it’s foolish to imagine dreadful things when there’s no reason for it. After all, everyone has colds and gets over them.
Tyrone stares at her and sighs helplessly. He turns away toward the front parlor and sees Edmund coming down the stairs in the hall.
TYRONE
Sharply, in a low voice.
Here’s Edmund. For God’s sake try and be yourself—at least until he goes! You can do that much for him!
He waits, forcing his face into a pleasantly paternal expression. She waits frightenedly, seized again by a nervous panic, her hands fluttering over the bosom of her dress, up to her throat and hair, with a distracted aimlessness. Then, as Edmund approaches the doorway, she cannot face him. She goes swiftly away to the windows at left and stares out with her back to the front parlor. Edmund enters. He has changed to a ready-made blue serge suit, high stiff collar and tie, black shoes.
With an actor’s heartiness.
Well! You look spic and span. I’m on my way up to change, too.
He starts to pass him.
EDMUND
Dryly.
Wait a minute, Papa. I hate to bring up disagreeable topics, but there’s the matter of carfare. I’m broke.
TYRONE
Starts automatically on a customary lecture.
You’ll always be broke until you learn the value—
Checks himself guiltily, looking at his son’s sick face with worried pity.
But you’ve been learning, lad. You worked hard before you took ill. You’ve done splendidly. I’m proud of you.
He pulls out a small roll of bills from his pants pocket and carefully selects one. Edmund takes it. He glances at it and his face expresses astonishment. His father again reacts customarily—sarcastically.
Thank you.
He quotes.
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is—”
EDMUND
“To have a thankless child.” I know. Give me a chance, Papa. I’m knocked speechless. This isn’t a dollar. It’s a ten spot.
TYRONE
Embarrassed by his generosity.
Put it in your pocket. You’ll probably meet some of your friends uptown and you can’t hold your end up and be sociable with nothing in your jeans.
EDMUND
You meant it? Gosh, thank you, Papa.
He is genuinely pleased and grateful for a moment—then he stares at his father’s face with uneasy suspicion.
But why all of a sudden —?
Cynically.
Did Doc Hardy tell you I was going to die?
Then he sees his father is bitterly hurt.
No! That’s a rotten crack. I was only kidding, Papa.
He puts an arm around his father impulsively and gives him an affectionate hug.
I’m very grateful. Honest, Papa.
TYRONE
Touched, returns his hug.
You’re welcome, lad.
MARY
Suddenly turns to them in a confused panic of frightened anger.
I won’t have it!
She stamps her foot.
Do you hear, Edmund! Such morbid nonsense! Saying you’re going to die! It’s the books you read! Nothing but sadness and death! Your father shouldn’t allow you to have them. And some of the poems you’ve written yourself are even worse! You’d think you didn’t want to live! A boy of your age with everything before him! It’s just a pose you get out of books! You’re not really sick at all!
TYRONE
Mary! Hold your tongue!
MARY
Instantly changing to a detached tone.
But, James, it’s absurd of Edmund to be so gloomy and make such a great to-do about nothing.
Turning to Edmund but avoiding his eyes— teasingly affectionate.
Never mind, dear. I’m on to you.
She comes to him.
You want to be petted and spoiled and made a fuss over, isn’t that it? You’re still such a baby.
She puts her arm around him and hugs him. He remains rigid and unyielding. Her voice begins to tremble.
But please don’t carry it too far, dear. Don’t say horrible things. I know it’s foolish to take them seriously but I can’t help it. You’ve got me—so frightened.
She breaks and hides her face on his shoulder, sobbing. Edmund is moved in spite of himself. He pats her shoulder with an awkward tenderness.
EDMUND
Don’t, mother.
His eyes meet his father’s.
TYRONE
Huskily—clutching at hopeless hope.
Maybe if you asked your mother now what you said you were going to—
He fumbles with his watch.
By God, look at the time! I’ll have to shake a leg.
He hurries away through the front parlor. Mary lifts her head. Her manner is again one of detached motherly solicitude. She seems to have forgotten the tears which are still in her eyes.
MARY
How do you feel, dear?
She feels his forehead.
Your head is a little hot, but that’s just from going out in the sun. You look ever so much better than you did this morning.
Taking his hand.
Come and sit down. You musn’t stand on your feet so much. You must learn to husband your strength.
She gets him to sit and she sits sideways on the arm of his chair, an arm around his shoulder, so he cannot meet her eyes.
EDMUND
Starts to blurt out the appeal he now feels is quite hopeless.
Listen, Mama—
MARY
Interrupting quickly.
Now, now! Don’t talk. Lean back and rest.
Persuasively.
You know, I think it would be much better for you if you stayed home this afternoon and let me take care of you. It’s such a tiring trip uptown in the dirty old trolley on a hot day like this. I’m sure you’d be much better off here with me.
EDMUND
Dully.
You forget I have an appointment with Hardy.
Trying again to get his appeal started.
Listen, Mama—
MARY
Quickly.
You can telephone and say you don’t feel well enough.
Excitedly.
It’s simply a waste of time and money seeing him. He’ll only tell you some lie. He’ll pretend he’s found something serious the matter because that’s his bread and butter.
She gives a hard sneering little laugh.
The old idiot! All he knows about medicine is to look solemn and preach will power!
EDMUND
Trying to catch her eyes.
Mama! Please listen! I want to ask you something! You— You’re only just started. You can still stop. You’ve got the will power! We’ll all help you. I’ll do anything! Won’t you, Mama?
MARY
Stammers pleadingly.
Please don’t—talk about things you don’t understand!
EDMUND
Dully
All right, I give up. I knew it was no use.
MARY
In blank denial now.
Anyway, I don’t know what you’re referring to. But I do know you should be the last one—Right after I returned from the sanatorium, you began to be ill. The doctor there had warned me I must have peace at home with nothing to upset me, and all I’ve done is worry about you.
Then distractedly.
But that’s no excuse! I’m only trying to explain. It’s not an excuse!
She hugs him to her—pleadingly.
Promise me, dear, you won’t believe I made you an excuse.
EDMUND
Bitterly.
What else can I believe?
MARY
Slowly takes her arm away—her manner remote and objective again.
Yes, I suppose you can’t help suspecting that.
EDMUND
Ashamed but still bitter.
What do you expect?
MARY
Nothing, I don’t blame you. How could you believe me—when I can’t believe myself? I’ve become such a liar. I never lied about anything once upon a time. Now I have to lie, especially to myself. But how can you understand, when I don’t myself. I’ve never understood anything about it, except that one day long ago I found I could no longer call my soul my own.
She pauses—then lowering her voice to a strange tone of whispered confidence.
But some day, dear, I will find it again—some day when you’re all well, and I see you healthy and happy and successful, and I don’t have to feel guilty any more—some day when the Blessed Virgin Mary forgives me and gives me back the faith in Her love and pity I used to have in my convent days, and I can pray to Her again—when She sees no one in the world can believe in me even for a moment any more, then She will believe in me, and with Her help it will be so easy. I will hear myself scream with agony, and at the same time I will laugh because I will be so sure of myself.
Then as Edmund remains hopelessly silent, she adds sadly.
Of course, you can’t believe that, either.
She rises from the arm of his chair and goes to stare out the windows at right with her back to him—casually.
Now I think of it, you might as well go uptown. I forgot I’m taking a drive. I have to go to the drugstore. You would hardly want to go there with me. You’d be so ashamed.
EDMUND
Brokenly.
Mama! Don’t!
MARY
I suppose you’ll divide that ten dollars your father gave you with Jamie. You always divide with each other, don’t you? Like good sports. Well, I know what he’ll do with his share. Get drunk someplace where he can be with the only kind of woman he understands or likes.
She turns to him, pleading frightenedly.
Edmund! Promise me you won’t drink! It’s so dangerous! You know Doctor Hardy told you—
EDMUND
Bitterly.
I thought he was an old idiot. Anyway, by tonight, what will you care?
MARY
Pitifully.
Edmund!
Jamie’s voice is heard from the front hall, “Come on, Kid, let’s beat it.”
Mary’s manner at once becomes detached again.
Go on, Edmund. Jamie’s waiting.
She goes to the front-parlor doorway.
There comes your father downstairs, too.
Tyrone’s voice calls, “Come on, Edmund.”
EDMUND
Jumping up from his chair.
I’m coming.
He stops beside her—without looking at her.
Goodbye, Mama.
MARY
Kisses him with detached affection.
Goodbye, dear. If you’re coming home for dinner, try not to be late. And tell your father. You know what Bridget is.
He turns and hurries away. Tyrone calls from the hall, “Goodbye, Mary,”
and then Jamie, “Goodbye, Mama.”
She calls back.
Goodbye.
The front screen door is heard closing after them. She comes and stands by the table, one hand drumming on it, the other fluttering up to pat her hair. She stares about the room with frightened, forsaken eyes and whispers to herself.
It’s so lonely here.
Then her face hardens into bitter self-contempt.
You’re lying to yourself again. You wanted to get rid of them. Their contempt and disgust aren’t pleasant company. You’re glad they’re gone.
She gives a little despairing laugh.
Then Mother of God, why do I feel so lonely?
