The Magic Tower and Other One-Act Plays

  LAURA: Oh, Lord.

  AMANDA: On the pretext of buying some bedroom slippers. I liked his appearance very, very much, clean-cut type of boy who studies radio engineering at night school. Impresses me as worth investigation!

  LAURA: You make it seem like we were setting a trap.

  AMANDA: All pretty girls are a trap, a pretty trap, and men expect them to be. I was amused when boys came bumbling around, and I had no pangs of conscience when it seemed like one would have the trap sprung on him!

  LAURA: I feel so ashamed of being pushed at strangers.

  AMANDA: You wouldn’t have to be pushed if you weren’t such a shrinking violet of a girl, more old-fashioned than I am! I don’t know how you do it, but you’re eighteen and never been out with a boy! Never out with one even. If you were an awkward, homely, stupid girl, that would be natural, Laura. But you’re like a young green tree that’s beginning to flower, and is it so evil to have somebody look at you?

  LAURA: You make it seem so important. That’s why I’m nervous about it.

  AMANDA: Well, it might be important, you can never tell. I’m not only the practical member of this family, but the romantic one, too. . .

  LAURA: What has romance got to do with this boy coming over?

  AMANDA: Nothing if you’re a nit-wit! Nothing if you’re just going to sit there with your teeth in your mouth, like you did the night that I took you over to the Young People’s league at the church, speaking to nobody so nobody spoke to you! Your sort of prettiness can’t be depended on, Laura. It might go out as quickly as it came and leave you stranded in this little apartment. I put you in business college, worked like a trooper so I could pay the tuition. What did you do? Claimed it made you nervous, and so you quit.

  LAURA: I’m always being pushed into something, something I don’t want.

  AMANDA: What do you want, then? Tell me.

  LAURA: To be left alone. I’d like to live by myself.

  AMANDA: Two courses are open to girls in your circumstances. Either they have a business career or get married. And I’ve given up on you ever getting a job!

  LAURA: Well, give up on getting me a husband, too.

  AMANDA: All right, very well, then. I won’t live forever to make provisions for you. You’ll wind up one of those—barely tolerated spinsters who live with their brothers’ families and eat the crust of humility all their lives! That’s the future you cut out for yourself when you take no advantage of anything done for you.

  [Laura bursts into tears. She runs out of the room.]

  LAURA [calling back]: I’m going into my room and I won’t come out. I won’t come out for dinner. And you can have the gentleman caller yourself!

  AMANDA: Don’t come out, then! Stay in that little mousetrap of a room the rest of your days as far as I am concerned. I’ll make no effort if everything’s resisted! I’ll call no more old women up to buy the Home Beautiful! I’ll work in no more bargain basements either! I’ll be just as neurotic as you, young lady, stay and keep my nose in books all the time and let the world pass by!

  [The doorbell rings.]

  AMANDA [looking panicky]: Oh, my heavens, and I’m still in my house-dress! [Crosses back.] Laura, Tom’s lost his door-key again and is ringing the bell. You’ll have to let them in.

  LAURA: I won’t do it, let them in yourself.

  AMANDA: I can’t go to the door. Just look at me, will you!

  LAURA: I can’t either.

  AMANDA: You’ll have to!

  LAURA: Well, I won’t. I absolutely won’t.

  [Bell rings again.]

  AMANDA: Laura Wingfield, I do not intend to answer that door. And that is final. If you don’t open the door and let your brother and Mr. Delaney in, the bell will go on ringing till Doomsday and I’ll not budge an inch! You know me well enough to be quite certain I mean it! [Pause. Another ring. Laura’s door opens and she slips out.]

  LAURA: I’ve been—crying.

  AMANDA: I don’t care what you’ve been, you will go to the door!

  LAURA: Well, then, get out of sight if you don’t want to be seen, and I don’t blame you! You really look like a witch!

  AMANDA: Is that so!— Young lady. You—serpent’s tooth! I have you children to thank for a faded appearance! Making myself a slave, doing menial labor, cooking in a high-school cafeteria, working in a dirty bargain basement, selling subscriptions to horrible magazines over the phone! And you throw at me such—such—

  LAURA: If you want me to answer the door, you’ll have to let go of my arm!

  AMANDA: I don’t want you to do anything ever!— Believe me! [She bursts into tears and crosses out rear door.]

  LAURA: I’ll let them in, but I won’t come to the table! [Crosses downstairs to front door as Tom starts knocking.]

  LAURA: All right, all right! You don’t have to break the door down. [She opens the front door, admitting Tom and Jim. She stares coldly at Tom, ignoring Jim altogether.]

  LAURA: Did you forget your key?

  TOM: I lost it.

  LAURA: You’d lose your head if it wasn’t fastened on.

  TOM: Laura, this is—Jim.

  LAURA: How do you do?

  JIM [heartily]: Hello, there. I didn’t know Shakespeare had a sister.

  LAURA [barely touching the hand he extends]: Excuse me. [She turns quickly and goes out.]

  JIM: What was the matter?

  TOM: She’s very shy.

  JIM: Oh! It’s unusual to meet a shy girl. She looks a little like you except she’s pretty.

  TOM: Thanks.

  JIM [following him into living room]: This is a nice little place.

  TOM: Ha—ha!

  JIM: Well, it’s home-like.

  TOM: Look at the paper?

  JIM: Give me the comic section.

  [Amanda calls from the rear.]

  AMANDA: Tom?

  TOM: Yes?

  AMANDA: Is that you and Mr. Delaney?

  tom [ironically]: No, Mother, it’s Napoleon and Joan of Arc! [He is evidently as little pleased by his part in the business as Laura.]

  AMANDA: Ask the young man if he’d like to wash his hands?

  TOM: Would you?

  JIM: I took care of that at the warehouse.

  TOM: He says his hands aren’t dirty, Mother.

  AMANDA [musically]: Well, dinner is nearly ready. I’ll be right in.

  TOM: Don’t break your neck. [Jim glances over the paper.]

  JIM: Your mother has a nice voice. Southern.

  TOM: She’s sort of a perennial southern belle. [Picks up front page of paper.] Hitler’s bit off another hunk of Europe. [Jim laughs heartily.]

  TOM: What’s funny?

  JIM: It’s Sadie Hawkins day!

  AMANDA [off]: Laura, dear, I hope you’re nearly ready. I’m putting things on.

  [Amanda enters the dining room with a salad bowl. She has changed into a summery, girlish frock that is sprinkled with flowers. The hair net is removed, and her head is a mass of ringlets, which are distinctly too youthful for her present appearance.]

  AMANDA [musically]: Somebody seems to be having a mighty good laugh in here! This is Mr. Delaney, I presume? Oh, don’t get up! I’ve heard such a lot of wonderful things about you! Only you haven’t got the comfo’table chair. Tom, you’re such a poor host, seating Mr. Delaney in that straight chair. You sit there on the sofa! I’m not going to say “Mr.,” I’m going to skip formalities and call you—

  JIM [a little stunned by her animation]: —Jim.

  AMANDA: Jim! I’ve known so many nice Jims—in days gone by. In fact I’ve never known a Jim that wasn’t a darling! So you must be one too! Now tell me—Tell me all your hopes and dreams! Don’t be frightened of me, I know I’m a rattle-trap, I have all the vivacity in this house! And I’m greedy for information, just—just—greedy for it! So tell me everything! Everything all at once! You work in the warehouse? Of course—I know you do! But what’s your position there? The same as Tom’s? Oh, no, it’s better than To
m’s, Tom’s told me that already! A shipping—shipping—?

  JIM: —Clerk. Yes—shipping clerk.

  AMANDA: Oh! That must be—nice! You—handle—shipping. Tom, go tell Miss Wingfield to put the rest of the dinner on the table. You’ve met Laura, my pretty little daughter?

  JIM: She let us in.

  AMANDA: Oh, yes! You’ll have to excuse her for making a late appearance. We have no servant and Laura prepared the dinner. Thank heavens my daughter is more domestic than I was! I was a giddy young thing, as pretty as Laura. A little prettier even, if you can believe it!

  JIM: It’s not hard to believe.

  AMANDA: Well, I was, and I married a handsome man. A very remarkably good-looking man. His picture’s there! So you can see for yourself. Tom Wingfield the First, that gallantly smiling gentleman over the Victrola! [Jim rises to look.]

  JIM: He certainly was good looking.

  AMANDA: No doubt about that! A girl can do no worse than put herself at the mercy of—a handsome appearance! Character’s what to look for in a man. Sterling qualities, that’s what counts in the world! What was I telling you? Oh, yes Tom Wingfield, the children’s father. They hardly remember his face! He just disappeared, walked off one morning and didn’t come back that night. A few months later I received a postcard from Hawthorne, California, saying on it—“Working on a squab ranch!” Tell me, what is a squab ranch, do you know?

  JIM: I guess it’s a—

  AMANDA: Place where they raise pigeons! Something like that! The most improbable statement in the world! And went on to say “I’ll send you some money as soon as I get paid!” But, Mr. Delaney—the man was never paid! Ha-ha-ha! Must have never been paid. . . ha-ha-ha! Well, five years later another post-card came, this one from Mexico. Ha-ha-ha! The capital city of Mexico, with a picture of—parrots or something! Well—“Dear Amanda. Hope you’re well and happy. Much love. Tom!” Ha-ha-ha! That was the last we heard of Tom Wingfield the First. So you can see that Tom Wingfield the Second has a lot to live up to, and let me tell you—I’ve had to scratch for existence! Don’t let anyone tell you a woman deserted with children to take care of has a bed of roses! A bed of—briers I’ve lived in! But why am I telling you all my earthly sorrows, when there’s so much that’s pleasant to talk about? Tom—is Laura getting the dinner on the table?

  TOM: No, she isn’t.

  AMANDA: What?—Oh!—Please excuse me. I guess that Laura hasn’t finished—dressing. I must see. [She flounces prettily out, her musical laughter still ringing.]

  TOM [gloomily]: You see what I mean? A perennial southern belle.

  JIM [recovering slowly]: She can—talk!

  TOM: Oh, yes.

  JIM [wiping his forehead]: Wonderful—a woman like that!

  TOM: Would you like to live with her?

  JIM: Like to? Why not!

  TOM: Well— [Amanda trips back in the upstage area with some dishes.]

  AMANDA: Are you talking about me? Am I the subject of discussion in there? Mr. Delaney, do you think I’m awful? Do you think I’m a—Laura, dear? Everything’s ready!

  LAURA [off]: I’m not coming out! [Amanda laughs quickly to cover up.]

  AMANDA: My children compare me to—No, I won’t say, I won’t tell you! You’d think they were cruel, and they don’t mean to be cruel. It’s just that I’m of a—different generation, a different background. I still belong to the South, to Mississippi, where there was—gentle—living! Gracious living! Kindness! I ought to learn to be cold in the northern way, but I much prefer to stay the way that I am! My children will have to put up with a silly old mother they say looks like a witch! [Enters portieres.] Mr. Delaney—Jim!— Do I look like a witch?

  JIM [abashed]: A—what?

  AMANDA: A witch! That’s what they call me! I guess you wonder what I’ve done to deserve such—castigation! Well, I’ll tell you! I’ve pushed, I’ve driven, I’ve given myself no rest! I’ve sold subscriptions over the telephone. I’ve worked as an artist’s model at the Washington Art School, standing in cruel positions for hours of time! I’ve taken in sewing, I’ve cooked at the high school cafeteria down on Newstead. I’ve modeled for matron’s dresses at Famous & Barr. I’ve hired myself out as a practical nurse to horrible invalid women who’ve pinched and scratched me and made me ashamed to be human! I’ve done all those things, which was very bad of me, and so I am now like a witch!—And my children tell me I am and— [She nearly bursts into tears. Turning quickly.] Dinner is—served! [Composing herself, she turns quickly and makes a little cringing courtesy.] Gentlemen—dinner is served!

  [Tom closes his eyes for a moment. Jim gets up awkwardly, quite at a loss.]

  AMANDA [meltingly]: Jim—Jim, Jim! I’m going to take your arm into dinner, just as if the band was playing and this was a banquet hall! Let’s imagine it is a banquet hall, all decorated with—palms! And beveled glass around the ivory walls! And chandeliers, all blazing to blind our eyes! I made my debut in Vicksburg at such an affair! And in New Orleans I was presented to society in the old Saint Charles hotel. I happened to have rich relatives in both cities who made things lovely, lovely! The Cartwrights were the Cotton Kings of the South! That’s all gone now, all changed—all fallen to pieces, and here I am—on Maple Street in Saint Louis. Now I’ll relinquish your arm! You sit over there, that side of our little table. Laura?—Laura, dear! Tom, sit at the head of the table. It isn’t a pheasant, it’s just a—salmon loaf!

  JIM: It sure looks good, Mrs. Wingfield. It sure does smell good, too.

  AMANDA: Laura?— Oh, Laura, we’re waiting to say grace for you! Please hurry dear! [To Jim.] Laura’s my chief cook and bottle washer!

  JIM: And what’s Shakespeare?

  AMANDA: Shakespeare?— Oh! You mean Tom. [She gurgles and leans over to catch Tom’s arm and presses her head prettily against his shoulder.]

  AMANDA: Why, Tom is my right-hand bower! Only I’m sorry to hear you call him Shakespeare. I’m afraid that means he’s been writing down at the warehouse. He’s already lost five jobs from not devoting himself to his work. And if he’s going to lose this one— Well, I give up! Laura! We can’t say Grace until you come to the table! [Her eyes flashing.] We won’t say Grace until you come to the table!

  [The rear door opens and Laura comes shyly and haughtily into the dining room. Her face is flushed with nervousness and anger and she walks very stiffly, looking at no one.]

  LAURA [coldly]: Where is my place, please?

  AMANDA: Next to our gentleman caller—the place of honor.

  LAURA: —Oh. Is there room for two places on this side of the table?

  AMANDA: It’s such a tiny table, but we’ll make room, don’t worry. We just have to be chummy, and if our feet get tangled under the table, nobody’s going to think anybody is flirting!

  TOM [enduring no more]: Mother, if you’ll keep still—I’ll say the Grace!

  AMANDA [clutching her throat]: Excuse me! [She winks at Jim, then prettily folds her hands and bows her head.]

  TOM [in a rapid mumble]: “For these and all thy mercies, God’s Holy Name be praised—Through Christ our Lord, Amen.”

  AMANDA [catching her breath]: Oh, how you race through it! Let’s be seated, all. I’m kind of hungry. How about you all?

  JIM: I can sure eat something.

  AMANDA: I never saw a man that couldn’t eat. [Serving the peas.] Laura, what pretty crystal beads you’re wearing! [Laura says nothing.] Where did you get them, Laura?

  LAURA [angrily]: I got them at the five and ten cent store!

  AMANDA: Why, Laura, I thought—Why, I thought surely some rich old man had given them to you! [To Jim.] Neither of my children have any humor. In spite of the fact that I was always laughing as a girl, so much so that the Presbyterians in Blue Mountain thought my soul was damned! And their father—well—excessive sobriety was never his characteristic! He had charm, I’ll have to say that for him. One poor girl was certainly swept off her feet. Tom, give Mr. Delaney that nice crisp piece off the end,
and put a little parsley on each plate. It isn’t put there just for ornamentation. My grandfather used to say, “Grass is only for cows!”—when given lettuce. A brilliant old gentleman!— Ran for Senator of Alabama! But—drank! Laura, please sit up straight at the table, don’t hunch over like that! Both of you children, sit up straight at the table. [Reaches over to give them each a pat.]

  LAURA [icily]: Mother—please!

  AMANDA: Just look at Mr. Delaney and copy his posture. See how straight he is sitting! I think it’s a mark of character, sitting up straight at the table. Mr. Delaney—Jim—I bet you’ve had some military training.

  JIM: I haven’t yet, Mrs. Wingfield. But from what you see in the papers, it looks like I might get some pretty soon.

  AMANDA [throwing up her hands]: Oh! Don’t talk about it! If there’s a war and this country’s drawn into it, I’ll just die!— Just!—die!

  TOM: Don’t make rash promises, Mother.

  AMANDA: No, I mean it. If Tom had to go off to war—!

  JIM: I don’t think Shakespeare would ever get in the army.

  AMANDA: No? Why not?

  JIM: Well—he’s the dreamy type that wouldn’t be useful.

  AMANDA: The dreamy type! Oh, Tom—your reputation! And I so wanted my son to be known as a real live wire, the go-getter type!— Not dreamy. I tell you, we could use a wide-awake man in this establishment. Are you wide-awake, Mr. Delaney?

  JIM: Me? I’m an old workhorse.

  AMANDA: You and I! The workhorses of the world! My children are dreamers. I know you are wide-awake. I’ll tell you a secret. I went down and looked at you.

  JIM: Me?— Where?

  AMANDA: At the warehouse. [Laura drops her fork.] I’d heard Tom speak of a nice young man at the warehouse, so when I was down to buy some bedroom slippers, I made him point you out! My, how you were working! It did me good to see such—application! For that’s such a valuable thing the way things are! You can’t—underestimate it. And Tom—so slow, so dreamy—not quite seeming to know where anything was! While you were bustling around with such—assurance. . .

  JIM: The way I look at it is—