WOMAN: Perhaps I will surprise you by using it some day.
MAN: Nothing would surprise me. [He drinks again.]
WOMAN: No. I guess nothing would. Are you really alive?
MAN: I think so.
WOMAN: But you’re not absolutely sure of it?
MAN: One can’t be sure of anything these days.
WOMAN: Do you have sensations?
MAN: Yes.
WOMAN: Likes and dislikes?
MAN: Yes.
WOMAN: What do you like, George?
MAN: Hmm. The faint spicy fragrance of a carnation, good whiskey, and—
WOMAN: And being untrue to your wife!
MAN [giving her a quick, cold glance]: Yes, that most of all.
WOMAN: You’re admirably frank about it.
MAN: Why shouldn’t I be?
WOMAN: You might wish to spare my feelings.
MAN: Your feelings are yours, not mine.
WOMAN: You loved me once.
MAN: Did I?
WOMAN: Yes. Once.
MAN: How do you know?
WOMAN: You told me that you did.
MAN: Perhaps I was lying.
WOMAN [violently]: If you were you ought to be hanged for it!
MAN: Why?
WOMAN: Because I believed you!
MAN: You were much too credulous in your younger days.
WOMAN: I guess I never belonged to this generation of fish, which you’re so proud of representing!
MAN: No, my dear. You’re a hopeless anachronism.
WOMAN: I thank God for that if it means having red blood in my veins!
MAN: Do you?
WOMAN: Yes.
MAN: Even though it makes you miserable?
WOMAN: Yes, even though it makes me miserable.
MAN: Ah, well.
WOMAN: I can’t live without something to care for.
MAN: Then care for something.
WOMAN: I haven’t got anything.
MAN: Get something.
WOMAN: What?
MAN: A lover perhaps.
WOMAN: That sort of thing is disgusting.
MAN: You see how contradictory you are. You say you’re miserable without something to care for and when I suggest something you say that is disgusting.
WOMAN: I want something real. I don’t want any trumped-up affair.
MAN: After all that’s your problem. I can’t solve it for you. [He turns the radio on again.]
WOMAN: Will you leave that radio off?
MAN: No.
WOMAN: It’s driving me to distraction!
MAN: I like this orchestra.
WOMAN: You know that I can’t stand jazz.
MAN [stretching himself]: I love it. It’s America, my dear. Our native land!
WOMAN: Maybe yours, not mine.
MAN: It’s the gold fish bowl that we swim in.
WOMAN: I hate it.
MAN: Because of its barbarism?
WOMAN: It isn’t barbaric. It’s ultra-civilized. It’s neurotic.
MAN: So is America. So am I. So are you. We’re all of us inmates of a vast asylum, bordered on the north by the Arctic Ocean, on the South by the Straits of Magellan, on the East by the—
WOMAN [screaming]: Stop! [Pause.]
MAN [quietly]: Your nerves, my dear.
WOMAN [rising slowly]: Yes, my nerves.
MAN: You’d better go to your room and sleep it off.
WOMAN: Yes. Sleep it off. That’s good! [She laughs bitterly and goes toward the door.]
MAN: Would you mind leaving me a cigarette?
WOMAN: Here.
MAN: Thank you.
WOMAN: Not at all. [She goes to the inner door.]
WOMAN: Is there anything else I can do for you, George?
MAN: Nothing.
WOMAN: Are you quite sure?
MAN: Nothing.
WOMAN [screaming]: Nothing, nothing!
[She goes in and slams door. Man gazes at it mildly for a moment.]
THE END
HONOR THE LIVING
CHARACTERS
JOHN
MARY
PRISON GUARD
PRIEST
PART I
Scene: a small apartment in an American city. Time: winter, 1918. A young man and his wife are discovered in a living room, seated together on sofa. The man is still in uniform, having just returned from “overseas.”
MARY: It’s marvelous, darling!
JOHN [absently]: Marvelous? What’s marvelous!
MARY: Having you back—like this!
JOHN [with a short laugh, not entirely pleasant]: Marvelous, is it? [He kisses her.] What do you mean, like this?
MARY: Why, like you are, darling! Uninjured! Completely safe and sound. Oh, if you only knew how frightened I was the whole time, the whole time, John, my heart in my mouth whenever the paper came in the evening, or a letter, or the telephone rang—day in and day out, night after night, that terrible pain, it seemed like, in my heart! That feeling of—of . . .
JOHN [impatiently]: I know, I know! Let’s not speak of it now. It’s over! [There is an almost desperate ring to his voice. He gets up, lighting a cigarette, and fretfully pacing the small room.]
MARY: That’s why I say—it’s so marvelous! Marvelous, John! To think that you’re back without a wound, without a scar—without a single scratch. When I look at those other men—
JOHN [with abrupt passion]: When you look at those other men, yes! When you see the empty coat—sleeves dangling! When you see the eyeless sockets, the wooden legs, the crutches, the scarred, ruined faces! Yes! You think it is terrible, terrible! But when you look at me you clasp your hands and you say—how marvelous, how marvelous! He’s back without a scratch! [Goes over to the window and flings it up.] There should be some kind of an X-ray, Mary, that looks into the minds of men and sees the things there that don’t show on their faces and bodies. Some kind of a powerful light that would expose the horrible, unspeakable wounds and scars that men have on the insides of their brains! [Clutching his head.] The thoughts that they have at night when they can’t sleep. The recollections, Mary! The voices that they hear crying out. The strange, inhuman voices. And the faces they see. The eyes of men with bayonets stuck in their bellies. Yes, that for instance. And the eyes of men strangling with gas. The sound of a young boy whimpering with half his face blown off! Yes—that for instance, Mary! I’ve seen those things, heard them—and dreamed about them afterwards. Dreamed and dreamed. Now I’m tired of dreaming, Mary. Take me into a dark room and put me to sleep, Mary. But don’t let me dream anymore!
MARY [shocked almost speechless]: John—John—I didn’t know. . . .
[The lights are extinguished.]
PART II
[Ten years later. A much more luxurious apartment. the height of the post-war prosperity. Mary and John are discovered in living room. Children’s playthings on floor. John smoking cigar and restlessly pacing floor. Mary listening to radio.]
JOHN: Cut that damned thing off!
MARY [frowning]: No, I won’t! I’m listening to it!
JOHN: Cut it off, I say! [He dashes over to radio and turns it off.] I can’t stand it, Mary. It gets on my nerves! God, I wish something would happen. I’m tired of waiting, waiting!
MARY [astonished]: John! What’s the matter?
JOHN: Oh, that Hogan mob! They’re trying to pin something on me! Think I squealed, see? Me, a squealer! I’ve always played this game straight! But by God if they want dirty work . . .
MARY: John! The children. . . . [She lifts finger to her lips.] Oh, I can’t understand why you don’t get out of it, John. If I’d ever dreamed you’d get into a racket like this—a dishonest, dirty, ugly . . .
JOHN: Shut up! It makes you a living, don’t it? Look at this! The cream of everything! That’s what I’ve got you living on, Mary, the cream! What other girls you used to run around with are living like this? Most expensive apartment in this end of town! Your own car, your own account at
the bank! And trips to Florida and California! Fur coats and diamonds! Yeah, and swell schools for the kiddies! You got everything, Mary!
MARY: Everything but what I most want—security, John! That’s what every mother wants most! John—ever since you came back from the war—you’ve been restless and wild—like there was a fever inside of you—something that wouldn’t let you be still—it’s been ten years, John—surely you can quiet down now—get into something decent and live a quiet, normal life!
[Just then there is the rattle of a machine gun and the window is smashed.]
MARY [screaming]: What’s that?
JOHN [in a shrill whisper]: DUCK! THE LIGHTS! [He switches them off.] There! [Another burst of machine gun fire. A child’s voice is heard.]
CHILD’S VOICE: Mama! Mama! What’s that? [Another burst of fire. A child screams. Then Mary screams.]
JOHN [rushing to window]: I’ll get the sons of bitches!
MARY [turning on light]: John! John! It’s the baby!
[The child is discovered on the floor, struck down by machine gun fire. Loud cries from the neighbors; a policeman’s whistle; general confusion. John stands at the window with his pistol cocked, his eyes wildly gleaming.]
JOHN: Machine guns, eh? Been a long time, Mary, since I’ve heard that sound—dodged bullets—raised a gun to shoot back! Ten years. The last time—Argonne—and Belleau Woods—and Château-Thierry—the war’s not over, Mary—the armistice was a fake! [He laughs wildly.] The whole thing was just a big fake!
[The lights are extinguished.]
PART III
[Scene: a cell in the state penitentiary, several years later. Condemned Man’s Row. John is in prison uniform seated on cot, a newspaper in his hands. Mary is weeping.]
JOHN [harshly]: I see by the paper that Mayor Kelly made an armistice speech today—yeah, out at Memorial Park—swell speech—you oughta read it, Mary—it would give you a damned good laugh—He has a fine gift for language—very eloquent, as they say— Listen to this, for instance! Down here at the bottom, he says, “We come here today to Honor the dead—But at the same time we must not forget to bestow some measure of praise and appreciation upon the living! We must not forget to honor the living—as well as the dead!” [To Mary.] That’s very fine, ain’t it? Yeah, that’s swell stuff! They’ve honored the living, all right. Remember those years right after the war, Mary, when I was so broken up inside that I couldn’t hold down a job, when I went practically begging from door to door, when I showed them my medals and my soldier’s cap and they said, Yeah, we can buy those things at the ten cents store? That was honoring the living, wasn’t it! Oh, I’m not whining, Mary! I guess I’ve got what’s coming to me all right! But I’d like to tell that Mayor a thing or two. I’d like to write him a farewell letter! Honor the living—yeah! Don’t even give them a fighting chance. . . . [He gets up and advances to the bars.] Honor the living! Honor the living! What a laugh that gives me! [He roars with laughter.] Tell us to get down on our knees and lick your bloody boots, that’s the honor you give us!
GUARD [advancing to cell door]: What’s the matter there, Riley? Pipe down! Here’s the Father come to speak to you again. . . .
JOHN: Aw, I got nothing to say to you, Father.
PRIEST: Have you made your peace with God?
JOHN: My what?
PRIEST [raising his voice and producing a cross]: I said, my son, have you made your peace with God!
JOHN [roaring with laughter]: My peace with God! My peace with God! Yeah! You bet! Long ago! When they signed the armistice, Father! That’s when I made my peace with God! When the war was over and all I had to do was to come back and be honored—Honor the living, Father! Honor the living as well as the dead!
[He laughs wildly as the lights are extinguished.]
THE END
THE CASE OF THE CRUSHED PETUNIAS
A LYRICAL FANTASY
This play is respectfully dedicated to the talent and charm of Miss Helen Hayes
—Key West, February, 1941
The Case of the Crushed Petunias was performed at Karamu House in the Karamu Theatre, Cleveland, Ohio, opening on February 26, 1957. It was directed by Reuben Silver; the costumes were designed by Shirley White; the set design was by Helen Coonley; the lighting design was by William T. Brown; and the stage manager was Twila McAlonan. The cast was as follows:
DOROTHY SIMPLE Susan B. Heinrich
POLICE OFFICER Philip De Oreo
YOUNG MAN Dennis M. Tate
MRS. DULL Dorothy Washington
Scene: The action of the play takes place in the Simple Notion Shop, owned and operated by Miss Dorothy Simple, a New England maiden of twenty-six, who is physically very attractive but has barricaded her house and her heart behind a double row of petunias.
The town is Primanproper, Massachusetts, which lies within the cultural orbit of Boston.
The play starts in the early morning. Miss Simple, very agitated for some reason, has just opened her little shop. She stands in the open door in a flood of spring sunlight, but her face expresses grief and indignation. She is calling to a police officer on the corner.
DOROTHY: Officer?—Officer!
OFFICER [strolling up to her]: Yes, Miss Simple?
DOROTHY: I wish to report a case of deliberate and malicious sabotage!
OFFICER: Sabotage of what, Miss Simple?
DOROTHY: Of my petunias!
OFFICER: Well, well, well. Now what do you mean by that?
DOROTHY: Exactly what I said. You can see for yourself. Last night this house was surrounded by a beautiful double row of pink and lavender petunias. Look at them now! When I got up this morning I discovered them in this condition. Every single little petunia deliberately and maliciously crushed under foot!
OFFICER: My goodness! Well, well, well!
DOROTHY: “Well, well, well” is not going to catch the culprit!
OFFICER: What do you want me to do, Miss Simple?
DOROTHY: I want you to apprehend a petuniacidal maniac with a size eleven D foot.
OFFICER: Eleven D?
DOROTHY: Yes. That is the size of the footprints that crushed my petunias. I just now had them measured by a shoe clerk.
OFFICER: That’s a pretty large foot, Miss Simple, but lots of men have got large feet.
DOROTHY: Not in Primanproper, Massachusetts. Mr. Knowzit, the shoe clerk, assured me that there isn’t a man in town who wears a shoe that size. Of course you realize the danger of allowing this maniac to remain at large. Any man who would crush a sweet petunia is equally capable in my opinion of striking a helpless woman or kicking an innocent child!
OFFICER: I’ll do my best, Miss Simple. See yuh later.
DOROTHY [curtly]: Yes. Goodbye. [Slams door. She returns behind her notion counter and drums restively with her pale pink-polished nails. The canary cheeps timidly. Then tries an arpeggio. Dorothy, to canary.] Oh, hush up! [Then contritely.] Excuse me, please. My nerves are all to pieces!
[She blows her nose. The doorbell tinkles as a customer enters. He is a young man, shockingly large and aggressive looking in the flower-papered cubicle of the shop.]
Gracious, please be careful. You’re bumping your head against my chandelier.
YOUNG MAN [good-humoredly]: Sorry, Miss Simple. I guess I’d better sit down. [The delicate little chair collapses beneath him.]
DOROTHY: Heaven have mercy upon us! You seem to have a genius for destruction! You’ve broken that little antique chair to smithereens!
YOUNG MAN: Sorry, Miss Simple.
DOROTHY: I appreciate your sorrow, but that won’t mend my chair. —Is there anything I can show you in the way of notions?
YOUNG MAN: I’d like to see that pair of wine-colored socks you have in the window.
DOROTHY: What size socks do you wear?
YOUNG MAN: I keep forgetting. But my shoes are eleven D.
DOROTHY [sharply]: What size did you say? Eleven? Eleven D?
YOUNG MAN: That’s right, Miss Sim
ple. Eleven D.
DOROTHY: Oh. Your shoes are rather muddy, aren’t they?
YOUNG MAN: That’s right, Miss Simple, I believe they are.
DOROTHY: Quite muddy. It looks like you might have stepped in a freshly watered flower bed last night.
YOUNG MAN: Come to think of it, that’s what I did.
DOROTHY: I don’t suppose you’ve heard about that horrible case of petunia crushing which occurred last night?
YOUNG MAN: As a matter of fact, I have heard something about it.
DOROTHY: From the policeman on the corner?
YOUNG MAN: No, ma’am. Not from him.
DOROTHY: Who from, then? He’s the only man who knows about it except—except—except—the man who did it! [Pause. The canary cheeps inquiringly.] You—you—you—are the man who did it!
YOUNG MAN: Yes, Miss Simple. I am the man who did it.
DOROTHY: Don’t try to get away!
YOUNG MAN: I won’t, Miss Simple.
DOROTHY: Stand right where you are till the officer comes!
YOUNG MAN: You’re going to call the officer?
DOROTHY: Yes, I am, I certainly am. —In a minute. First I’d like to ask you why you did it? Why did you crush my petunias?
YOUNG MAN: Okay. I’ll tell you why. First, because you’d barricaded your house—and also your heart—behind that silly little double row of petunias!
DOROTHY: Barricaded? My house—my heart—behind them? That’s absurd. I don’t know what you mean.
YOUNG MAN: I know. They’re apparently such delicate, fragile creatures, these petunias, but they have a terrible resistance.
DOROTHY: Resistance to what, may I ask?
YOUNG MAN: Anything big or important that happens to come by your house. Nothing big or important can ever get by a double row of petunias! That is the reason why you are living alone with your canary and beginning to dislike it.
DOROTHY: Dislike my canary? I love it!
YOUNG MAN: Secretly, Miss Simple, you wish the birdseed would choke it! You dislike it nearly as much as you secretly disliked your petunias.