LAURA [faintly]: Not—Jim!
AMANDA: Yes, that was it, it was Jim! I've never known a Jim, that wasn't nice!
[The music becomes ominous.]
LAURA: Are you sure his name is Jim O'Connor?
AMANDA: Yes. Why?
LAURA: Is he the one that Tom used to know in high school?
AMANDA: He didn't say so. I think he just got to know him at the warehouse.
LAURA: There was a Jim O'Connor we both knew in high school—[then, with effort] If that is the one that Tom is bringing to dinner—you'll have to excuse me, I won't come to the table.
AMANDA: What sort of nonsense is this?
LAURA: You asked me once if I'd ever liked a boy. Don't you remember I showed you this boy's picture?
AMANDA: You mean the boy you showed me in the year book?
LAURA: Yes, that boy.
AMANDA: Laura, Laura, were you in love with that boy?
LAURA: I don't know, Mother. All I know is I couldn't sit at the table if it was him!
AMANDA: It won't be him! It isn't the least bit likely. But whether it is or not, you will come to the table. You will not be excused.
LAURA: I'll have to be, Mother.
AMANDA: I don't intend to humour your silliness, Laura. I've had too much from you and your brother, both! So just sit down and compose yourself till they come. Tom has forgotten his key so you'll have to let them in, when they arrive.
LAURA [panicky]: Oh, Mother—you answer the door!
AMANDA [lightly]: I’ll be in the kitchen—busy!
LAURA: Oh, Mother, please answer the door, don't make me do it!
AMANDA [crossing into kitchenette]: I've got to fix the dressing for the salmon. Fuss, fuss—silliness!—over a gentleman caller!
[The door swings shut. Laura is left alone. She utters a low moan and turns off the lamp—sits stiffly on the edge of the sofa, knotting her fingers together.
Tom and Jim appear on the fire-escape steps and climb to landing. Hearing their approach, Laura rises with a panicky gesture. She retreats to the portières. The doorbell, Laura catches her breath and touches her throat. Low drums sound.]
AMANDA [calling]: Laura, sweetheart! The door!
[Laura stares at it without moving.]
JIM: I think we just beat the rain.
TOM: Uh-huh. [He rings again, nervously. Jim whistles and fishes for a cigarette.]
AMANDA [very, very gaily]: Laura, that is your brother and Mr. O'Connor! Will you let them in, darling?
[Laura crosses toward the kitchenette door.]
LAURA [breathlessly]: Mother—you go to the door!
[Amanda steps out of kitchenette and stares furiously at Laura. She points imperiously at the door.]
LAURA: Please, please!
AMANDA [in a fierce whisper]: What is the matter with you, you silly thing?
LAURA [desperately]: Please, you answer it, please!
AMANDA: I told you I wasn't going to humour you, Laura. Why have you chosen this moment to lose your mind?
LAURA: Please, please, please, you go!
AMANDA: You'll have to go to the door because I can't!
LAURA [despairingly]: I can't either!
AMANDA: Why?
LAURA: I'm sick!
AMANDA: I'm sick, too—of your nonsense! Why can't you and your brother be normal people? Fantastic whims and behaviour!
[Tom gives a long ring.]
Preposterous goings on! Can you give me one reason—[Calls out lyrically] COMING! JUST ONE SECOND!—why you should be afraid to open a door? Now you answer it, Laura!
LAURA: Oh, oh, oh... [She returns through the portières. Darts to the victrola and winds it frantically and turns it on.]
AMANDA: Laura Wingfield, you march right to that door!
LAURA: Yes—yes, Mother!
[A faraway, scratchy rendition of 'Dardanella' softens the air and gives her strength to move through it. She slips to the door and draws it cautiously open.
Tom enters with the caller, Jim O'Connor.]
TOM: Laura, this is Jim. Jim, this is my sister, Laura.
JIM [stepping inside]: I didn't know that Shakespeare had a sister!
LAURA [retreating stiff and trembling from the door]: How—how do you do?
JIM [heartily extending his hand]: Okay!
[Laura touches it hesitantly with hers.]
JIM: Your hand's cold, Laura!
LAURA: Yes, well—I've been playing the victrola....
JIM: Must have been playing classical music on it! You ought to play a little hot swing music to warm you up!
LAURA: Excuse me—I haven't finished playing the victrola... [She turns awkwardly and hurries into the front room. She pauses a second by the victrola. Then catches her breath and darts through the portières like a frightened deer.]
JIM: [grinning]: What was the matter?
TOM: Oh—with Laura? Laura is—terribly shy.
JIM: Shy, huh? It's unusual to meet a shy girl nowadays. I don't believe you ever mentioned you had a sister.
TOM: Well, now you know. I have one. Here is the Post Dispatch. You want a piece of it?
JIM: Uh-huh.
TOM: What piece? The comics?
JIM: Sports! [He glances at it.] Ole Dizzy Dean is on his bad behaviour.
TOM [disinterested]: Yeah? [He lights a cigarette and goes back to the fire-escape door.]
JIM: Where are you going?
TOM: I'm going out on the terrace.
JIM [goes after him]: You know, Shakespeare—I'm going to sell you a bill of goods!
TOM: What goods?
JIM: A course I'm taking.
TOM: Huh?
JIM: In public speaking! You and me, we're not the warehouse type.
TOM: Thanks—that's good news. But what has public speaking got to do with it?
JIM: It fits you for—executive positions!
TOM: Awww.
JIM: I tell you it's done a helluva lot for me.
TOM: In what respect?
JIM: In every! Ask yourself what is the difference between you an' me and men in the office down front? Brains?—No! –Ability?—No! Then what? Just one little thing—
TOM: What is that one little thing?
JIM Primarily it amounts to—social poise! Being able to square up to people and hold your own on any social level!
AMANDA [from the kitchenette]: Tom?
TOM: Yes, Mother?
AMANDA: Is that you and Mr. O'Connor?
AMANDA: Well, you just make yourselves comfortable in there.
TOM: Yes, Mother.
AMANDA: Ask Mr. O'Connor if he would like to wash his hands.
JIM Aw, no—no—thank you—I took care of that at the warehouse. Tom—
TOM: Yes?
JIM: Mr. Mendoza was speaking to me about you.
TOM: Favourably?
JIM: What do you think?
TOM: Well—
JIM: You're going to be out of a job if you don't wake up.
TOM: I am waking up—
JIM: You show no signs.
TOM: The signs are interior.
TOM: I' m planning to change. [He leans over the rail speaking with quiet exhilaration. The incandescent marquees and signs of the first-run movie houses light his face from across the alley. He looks like a voyager.] I'm right at the point of committing myself to a future that doesn't include the warehouse and Mr. Mendoza or even a night-school course in public speaking.
JIM: What are you gassing about?
TOM: I'm tired of the movies.
JIM: Movies!
TOM: Yes, movies! Look at them—[A wave toward the marvels of Grand Avenue.] All of those glamorous people—having adventures—hogging it all, gobbling the whole thing up! You know what happens? People go to the movies instead of moving! Hollywood characters are supposed to have all the adventures for everybody in America, while everybody in America sits in a dark room and watches them have them! Yes, until there's a war. That's when adventure bec
omes available to the masses! Everyone's dish, not only Gable's! Then the people in the dark room come out of the dark room to have some adventure themselves—goody, goody! - It's our turn now, to go to the South Sea Islands—to make a safari—to be exotic, far-off! But I'm not patient. I don't want to wait till then. I'm tired of the movies and I am about to move!
JIM [incredulously]: Move?
TOM: Yes.
JIM: When?
TOM: Soon!
JIM: Where? Where?
[The music seems to answer the question, while Tom thinks it over. He searches in his pockets.]
TOM: I'm starting to boil inside. I know I seem dreamy, but inside—well, I'm boiling! Whenever I pick up a shoe, I shudder a little thinking how short life is and what I am doing! Whatever that means, I know it doesn't mean shoes—except as something to wear on a traveler’s feet! [He finds what he has been searching for in his pockets and holds out a paper to Jim.] Look—
JIM: What?
TOM: I'm a member.
JIM [reading]: The Union of Merchant Seamen.
TOM: I paid my dues this month, instead of the light bill.
JIM: You will regret it when they turn the lights off.
TOM: I won't be here.
JIM: How about your mother?
TOM: I'm like my father. The bastard son of a bastard! Did you notice how he’s grinning in his picture in there? And he's been absent going on sixteen years!
JIM: You're just talking, you drip. How does your mother feel about it?
TOM: Shhh!—Here comes mother! Mother is not acquainted with my plans!
AMANDA [coming through the portières]: Where are you all?
TOM: On the terrace, Mother.
[They start inside. She advances to them. Tom is distinctly shocked at her appearance. Even Jim blinks a little. He is making his first contact with girlish Southern vivacity and in spite of the night-school course in public speaking is somewhat thrown off the beam by the unexpected outlay of social charm.
Certain responses are attempted by Jim but are swept aside by Amanda's gay laughter and chatter. Tom is embarrassed but after the first shock Jim reacts very warmly. He grins and chuckles, is altogether won over.]
AMANDA [coyly smiling, shaking her girlish ringlets]: Well, well, well, so this is Mr. O'Connor. Introductions entirely unnecessary. I've heard so much about you from my boy. I finally said to him, Tom—good gracious!—why don't you bring this paragon to supper? I’d like to meet this nice young man at the warehouse!—instead of just hearing you sing his praises so much! I don't know why my son is so stand-offish—that's not Southern behaviour!
Let's sit down and—I think we could stand a little more air in here! Tom, leave the door open. I felt a nice fresh breeze a moment ago. Where has it gone to? Mmm, so warm already! And not quite summer, even. We're going to burn up when summer really gets started. However, we're having—we're having a very light supper. I think light things are better fo' this time of year. The same as light clothes are. Light clothes an' light food are what warm weather calls fo'. You know our blood gets so thick during th' winter—it takes a while fo' us to adjust ou'selves!—when the season changes... It's come so quick this year. I wasn't prepared. All of a sudden—heavens! Already summer! I ran to the trunk an' pulled out this light dress—terribly old! Historical almost! But feels so good—so good an' co-ol, y' know....
TOM: Mother—
AMANDA: Yes, honey?
TOM: How about—supper?
AMANDA: Honey, you go ask Sister if supper is ready! You know that Sister is in full charge of supper! Tell her you hungry boys are waiting for it.
[To Jim]
Have you met Laura?
JIM: She—
AMANDA: Let you in? Oh, good, you've met already! It's rare for a girl as sweet an' pretty as Laura to be domestic! But Laura is, thank heavens, not only pretty but also very domestic. I'm not at all. I never was a bit. I never could make a thing but angel-food cake. Well, in the South we had so many servants. Gone, gone, gone. All vestige of gracious living! Gone completely! I wasn't prepared for what the future brought me. All of my gentlemen callers were sons of planters and so of course I assumed that I would be married to one and raise my family on a large piece of land with plenty of servants. But man proposes and woman accepts the proposal! —To vary that old, old saying a little bit - I married no planter! I married a man who worked for the telephone company! —That gallantly smiling gentleman over there! [Points to the picture.] A telephone man who fell in love with long distance I—Now he travels and I don't even know where!—But what am I going on for about my—tribulations?
Tell me yours? I hope you don't have any! Tom?
TOM [returning]: Yes, Mother?
AMANDA: Is supper nearly ready?
TOM: It looks to me like supper is on the table.
AMANDA: Let me look—[She rises prettily and looks through portières.] Oh, lovely!—But where is Sister?
TOM: Laura is not feeling well—and she says that she thinks she'd better not come to the table.
AMANDA: What?—Nonsense!—Laura? Oh, Laura!
LAURA [off stage, faintly]: Yes, Mother.
AMANDA: You really must come to the table. We won't be seated until you come to the table!
Come in, Mr. O'Connor. You sit over there, and I'll—Laura—Laura Wingfield! You're keeping us waiting, honey! We can't say grace until you come to the table!
[The back door is pushed weakly open and Laura comes in. She is obviously quite faint, her lips trembling, her eyes wide and staring. She moves unsteadily toward the table.
Outside a summer storm is coming abruptly. The white curtains billow inward at the windows and there is a sorrowful murmur and deep blue dusk.
Laura suddenly stumbles—she catches at a chair with a faint moan.]
TOM: Laura!
AMANDA: Laura!
[Despairingly] Why, Laura, you are sick, darling! Tom, help your sister into the living-room, dear!
Sit in the living-room, Laura—rest on the sofa. Well!
[To the gentleman caller.]
Standing over the hot stove made her ill! I told her that was just too warm this evening, but—
[Tom comes back in. Laura is on the sofa.]
Is Laura all right now?
TOM: Yes.
AMANDA: What is that? Rain? A nice cool rain has come up!
[She gives Jim a frightened look.]
I think we may—have grace—now...
[Tom looks at her stupidly.]
Tom, honey—you say grace!
TOM: Oh… 'For these and all thy mercies—'
[They bow their heads, Amanda stealing a nervous glance at Jim. In the living-room Laura, stretched on the sofa, clenches her hand to her lips, to hold back a shuddering sob.]
God's Holy Name be praised—
THE SCENE DIMS OUT
SCENE SEVEN
[It is half an hour later. Dinner is just being finished in the dining area. Laura is still huddled upon the sofa, her feet drawn under her, her head resting on a pale blue pillow, her eyes wide and mysteriously watchful. The new floor lamp with its shade of rose-coloured silk gives a soft, becoming light to her face, bringing out the fragile, unearthly prettiness which usually escapes attention. There is a steady murmur of rain, but it is slackening and soon stops; the air outside becomes pale and luminous as the moon breaks out through the clouds. A moment after the curtain rises, the lights in both rooms flicker and go out.]
JIM: Hey, there, Mr. Light Bulb!
[Amanda laughs nervously.]
AMANDA: Where was Moses when the lights went out? Ha-ha. Do you know the answer to that one, Mr. O'Connor?
JIM: No, Ma'am, what's the answer?
AMANDA: In the dark!
[Jim laughs appreciatively.]
Everybody sit still. I'll light the candles. Isn't it lucky we have them on the table? Where's a match? Which of you gentlemen can provide a match?
JIM: Here.
AMANDA:
Thank you, Sir.
JIM: Not at all, Ma'am!
AMANDA: I guess the fuse has burnt out. Mr. O'Connor, can you tell a burnt-out fuse? I know I can't and Tom is a total loss when it comes to mechanics.
[Voices recede a little to kitchenette.]