Carson McCullers

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: But what does it all fetch her? Without that three-letter word. Daintiness, charm, breeding avails us nothing. For that three-letter word makes the world go round.

  SISTER: Am I going out of my mind?

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: No! But you’re much too high-minded or dense to understand. S–E–X. Why must you flout me so?

  SISTER: How do I flout you?

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: When you were eighteen you came out at the Peachtree Cotillion. Best prepared debut of any girl in Georgia. White ball dress with a million teensy little tucks. I made it myself. When we went to the Cotillion, I had visions of princes and would-be presidents—I had such visions. And what happened?

  SISTER: I vomited.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: After all my hopes and dreams, she stood on the ballroom floor and there—right there—

  SISTER: I couldn’t help it, Mother, it was just excitement.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: That’s how you flout me, miss. In my day a girl didn’t have to depend on that three-letter word. Those were the days when charm, beauty and vivaciousness were appreciated. Just simple allure was enough. Gentlemen came from as far as Chattahoochee County and Joplin to court me. I was sought after, admired, proposed to, feted. I was the belle of Society City.

  SISTER: Then you met Father.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: On a blazing afternoon I was crossing the courthouse square, then what did I see?

  MOLLIE: Mr. Lovejoy?

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: A Greek god who was a total stranger. Although the afternoon was blazing hot, I was chilled from the top of my scalp to the soles of my feet.

  MOLLIE: You mean it was love at first sight?

  SISTER: Sex—I think it was—

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: Don’t use that word.

  SISTER: And then the catastrophe came.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: We won’t go into that.

  SISTER: He left you, Mother. He abandoned you with no funds and two children.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: Stop, Loreena.

  SISTER: You tried every way to find him. You practically advertised.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: My family made discreet inquiries.

  SISTER: But not a clue. Vanished he did and humiliated you as you try to humiliate me.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: Oh, there is that good-looking Mr. Tucker coming from the barn. I’d always set my cap for Sister to marry a doctor. Not that she is sick, but sometimes I’m ailing.

  SISTER: What are you talking about?

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: That watermelon-pink dress washes you out so.

  SISTER: I’m going back upstairs.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: You stay right here and be vivacious.

  (JOHN enters.)

  Speak of the devil! Mr. Tucker, we were just talking about you.

  JOHN: What were you saying?

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: Are you a single man?

  MOLLIE: Yes, divorced.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: Are you a professional man?

  JOHN: I’m an architect.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: Then you are professional. Come sit over here on the couch by Sister. Hold up your shoulders, Sister. Don’t poke your neck out like a turtle. Take off your glasses.

  SISTER: I can’t see without my glasses.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: When you were twelve, and I had to take you to the oculist, I whispered the letters to you. A belle with glasses is a lifetime ruined.

  SISTER: She did, too. Did you ever hear of such a thing?

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: But would you see the letters? Would you hear my whispers?

  SISTER: The oculist heard you first and sent you out of the room.

  MOTHER LOVEJOY: I’ll go up and leave them to themselves tactfully. I’ll go upstairs and cross-stitch. And Mollie, you go in the kitchen.

  (MOTHER LOVEJOY exits, as does MOLLIE.)

  SISTER: When things are arranged so obviously, it makes you feel flat, doesn’t it? No matter what I would do, it would be flat. My feet feel flat, my head feels flat, and I really can’t see without my glasses. I’m glad Mollie has you.

  JOHN: I’m glad I have Mollie.

  SISTER: How do people meet each other?

  JOHN: They just meet.

  SISTER: I mean as male and female who fall in love.

  JOHN: I knew what you meant.

  SISTER: But how?

  JOHN: I met Mollie on an empty road. My car had broken down.

  SISTER: Suppose your car hadn’t broken down?

  JOHN: I would have met Mollie somewhere else.

  SISTER: My best friend Alice met her intended on a street corner while they were waiting for a bus.

  JOHN: That’s one way it could happen.

  SISTER: Must I tramp on empty roads and wait for buses all my life? I am thirty-six years old. I can’t even make small talk.

  JOHN: Small talk?

  SISTER: Like the weather and a man’s hobbies. Unless a girl knows how to make small talk nothing big really happens to her.

  JOHN: Who told you that?

  SISTER: Mother. And nothing big has happened. For years I have prayed to meet the right man, in the right place, at the right time, in the right dress. I have even gone to a fortuneteller.

  JOHN: When I was a young man I went to a fortuneteller and she told me something awful.

  SISTER: What did your fortune say?

  JOHN: I was told for a long time, a very long time, I would only fall in love at first sight. And so I did. I fell in love at first sight a dozen times, and out of love as often.

  SISTER: What a predicament!

  JOHN: When I was in the Navy, I fell in love a hundred times. But nothing lasted, nothing stayed. It was only love at first sight.

  SISTER: Love at first sight is terrible.

  JOHN: Yes. I know.

  SISTER: Like in Romeo and Juliet. Murder, tombs, poison and death everywhere.

  JOHN: And practically no sex at all.

  SISTER: But what other love is there?

  JOHN: The gypsy said for many years I would only fall in love at first sight and that was so. Then she said I would fall in love at second sight, a hundred sight, a thousand sight. Right down the line. And that too was so.

  SISTER: What did you do, John?

  JOHN: I married the girl.

  (He pauses.)

  Then the gypsy said I would lose my love and I would have to start all over again.

  SISTER: Fortunetelling and table-turning give me the creeps. But I don’t let them scare me. The first thing I say is “Don’t tell me anything bad. If you see trouble, don’t tell me. Tell me only the good things.” That usually shuts them up. And truthfully, I’m forty years old.

  (MOLLIE enters.)

  JOHN: I’m glad to have you as a friend, Loreena.

  SISTER: Strange, we’re friendly already! It seldom happens to me in real life.

  (Hits her arm against banister.)

  Ouch!

  MOLLIE: What’s happened?

  SISTER: I hit my funny bone. I wonder why they call it a funny bone when it hurts so much.

  (SISTER exits upstairs.)

  MOLLIE: What were you talking about?

  JOHN: The logic of love.

  MOLLIE: But love isn’t logical. Suppose I hadn’t been on that empty road, that day, that hour?

  JOHN: We would have met somewhere else.

  MOLLIE: Where?

  JOHN: In the hand of the Statue of Liberty.

  MOLLIE: There?

  JOHN: It’s logical.

  MOLLIE: But—

  JOHN: Or in the Panama Canal.

  MOLLIE: Way down there?

  JOHN: That too is logical.

  MOLLIE: Seriously, what is this logic?

  JOHN: I am serious. The longer I know you, Mollie, the more I am aware of that zany, crazy logic of love.

  MOLLIE: There’s something I want to tell you, John.

  JOHN: What’s that?

  MOLLIE: I’m trying to tell you but I can’t.

  (She turns away.)

  Anyway Phillip is home.

  JOHN: You don’
t look very happy.

  MOLLIE: I’m not.

  (PARIS enters with a lot of blueprints.)

  PARIS: What are these, John?

  JOHN: Architect plans.

  PARIS: What are they for?

  JOHN: It’s a house I’m going to build. A home.

  MOLLIE (distracted): Where is it going to be?

  JOHN: You’ll decide. I want your help.

  PARIS: Mother doesn’t know doodley-squat about building houses.

  JOHN: I think of it as a house on a hill that overlooks the river. It’s a strong house, made from native stone. And the north wind, the east wind can howl and ricochet around the hill and the house will stand.

  MOLLIE: That sounds lovely, John.

  JOHN: The walls are almost entirely of glass so that the sunlight shafts through the rooms and there is a sense of sparkle and light everywhere. The floors are flagstones with hot water pipes running underneath.

  MOLLIE: Doesn’t it burn your feet?

  JOHN: No, Mollie, the flagstones are thick—and since the walls are glass we have to have a lot of trees and shrubs around for privacy.

  MOLLIE: Still, I imagine you can’t run around naked and you can’t throw stones.

  JOHN: And the kitchen . . .

  MOLLIE: Oh, that reminds me. I’ve got to tend to dinner.

  (She exits.)

  JOHN: The boy’s room is something super. There’s a special closet for fishing rods and athletic equipment and even a bar . . .

  PARIS: A bar?

  JOHN: Where you can chin yourself.

  PARIS: Oh.

  JOHN: Just wait till I describe the boy’s private bathroom. It’s beautiful, practical and just opposite the can there’s a TV set.

  PARIS: That’s practical. A boy always wants a private bathroom. Is the house going to be in Rockland County?

  JOHN: I don’t know. Don’t you like Rockland County?

  PARIS: I did—but something happened.

  JOHN: What happened?

  PARIS: My name—Paris.

  JOHN: I don’t quite get it.

  PARIS: There was this little runty screwball, Sonny Jenkins. He started singing, “Paris is a crazy name and Paris’ father’s crazy.” I fixed his clock for him all right.

  JOHN: Attaboy.

  PARIS: I broke his nose for him, and then when he was staggering, I punched his eyes. When both eyes were hanging out of his head on his cheeks, I stopped. You have seen that sort of thing, John.

  JOHN: Yes. But it’s rare.

  PARIS: Then his gang took it up and sang “Paris is a crazy name, Paris’ father’s crazy.” When everybody sings a thing enough, it begins to sound true, like television commercials. When the boys sang that my head began to swim and I cried—you understand, John, in front of everybody I cried—in public. This is what really happened, John. I couldn’t even fight. I cried.

  MOLLIE (entering from kitchen): I would never have believed it of Sonny Jenkins. If I had been there, I would have shook him until his teeth rattled.

  PARIS: Oh, Mother, you were eavesdropping.

  JOHN: Leave us alone, Mollie.

  MOLLIE: I am a woman who has lived and suffered.

  PARIS: There’s just no privacy.

  MOLLIE: Your mother is not shocked by anything. I, too, have cried in public.

  PARIS: Mother, you eavesdrop and read diaries. I don’t respect anybody who reads diaries. Sly people.

  MOLLIE: I’m not sly. I just wanted to know what you were thinking.

  (She exits into kitchen.)

  PARIS: John, were your feelings ever hurt?

  JOHN: Yes, I was about your age the year I had that awful acne. I was in love with this girl—very beautiful. But I idealized her so much I didn’t dare to kiss her. You know when you idealize a girl that much, you are very careful about her self-respect.

  PARIS (with world-wise air): I know.

  JOHN: Then one night we were sitting in the rumble seat of this car belonging to a pal of mine. He and his girl were smooching in the front seat and kissing, necking, and so forth. My pal wasn’t a bit worried about his girl’s self-respect. My girl and I were just pumping up a conversation about the moonlight and then suddenly I touched her face. I just stroked her face with my forefinger. Her skin was as soft as a flower petal. And then I wanted so much I couldn’t stand it.

  PARIS: What did you do, John?

  JOHN: I put my arms around her and kissed her. I wanted it to go on for ever—but it only lasted a second. She pushed me away and said, “They say your face is not catching—but I’m afraid I might catch those bumps.”

  PARIS: She shouldn’t have said that!

  JOHN: And I had to sit there in that rumble seat—until my friends stopped smooching and the moonlight was very bright.

  PARIS: Did you cry in public?

  JOHN: I waited until I got home.

  (Pause)

  PARIS (wants to comfort JOHN): You don’t have a bit of acne now. Your skin is smooth as smooth. I wish I had as heavy a beard as that.

  (Pause)

  JOHN: I’ve worked up my own theory about matters like this.

  PARIS: What’s your theory about?

  JOHN: The square root of sin.

  PARIS: The what?

  JOHN: The sin of hurting people’s feelings. Of humiliating a person. That is the square root of sin. It’s the same as murder.

  PARIS: The same as murder?

  JOHN: The square root is there. You just have to figure it to be a higher power. War is the square root of humiliation raised to the millionth power—

  PARIS: To the millionth power?

  JOHN: When you humiliate a person, it is a kind of murder. You are murdering his pride.

  PARIS: I do like man-to-man talks.

  JOHN: So do I.

  PARIS: They’re better than heart-to-heart. Heart-to-heart talks embarrass me.

  (MOLLIE enters from kitchen.)

  MOLLIE: Dinner is almost ready. Paris, if you look at your hands you’ll admit they’re potty.

  PARIS: They’ve been pottier.

  MOLLIE: That’s not the point. Go wash them before dinner.

  PARIS: Potty is such a potty word. I wish you wouldn’t use it, Mother.

  (He exits.)

  MOLLIE: It’s a perfectly good Anglo-Saxon word.

  (PHILLIP enters.)

  PHILLIP: Potty is as potty does. You must be the tenant in the barn.

  MOLLIE: John Tucker—Phillip Lovejoy. John—Phillip.

  PHILLIP: You were here a long time last night.

  JOHN: And many nights before.

  PHILLIP: That barn is where I work.

  JOHN: What work?

  PHILLIP: It’s where I sit on my can. And it’s my barn and my can. My quadge in fact.

  JOHN: Your what?

  PHILLIP: When I was a baby Mother put Sister in my carriage and I was supposed to walk. Instead I screamed all the way down the street, “It’s my quadge—my quadge.” Get it?

  JOHN: I get it.

  PHILLIP: My can, my barn, my wife, my quadge.

  MOLLIE: Don’t act ugly, Phillip.

  PHILLIP: I feel ugly. I hear ugly songs and see ugly visions.

  MOLLIE: Don’t blame us, Phillip.

  PHILLIP: Who’s us?

  MOLLIE: John and me.

  JOHN: I want to marry Mollie.

  PHILLIP: Well, twitch my twiddy. Have you two slept together?

  MOLLIE: No, we have not slept together.

  PHILLIP: Aren’t you going to sleep with him first to find out?

  MOLLIE: To find out what?

  PHILLIP: If he’s as good as me in the nighttime, Butterduck.

  MOLLIE: Please, Phillip.

  PHILLIP: Please, Phillip. You sound so prissy.

  MOLLIE: Me prissy?

  PHILLIP: You used to like it in a car, in ditches, in open fields.

  MOLLIE: I never liked it in ditches.

  JOHN: Don’t mind me. Don’t mind me.

  PHILLIP: I’m
not minding you. You come before me like a gnat.

  MOLLIE: John was a champion boxer in high school.

  PHILLIP: Oh, a tough guy—in high school.

  MOLLIE: John was in the Navy for four years.

  PHILLIP: And a hero, too.

  JOHN: No particular hero. We trained to land on beachheads and slip into secret, dangerous, vulnerable places.

  MOLLIE: Sounds downright sexy, John.

  PHILLIP: What did you do when you reached those dangerous, secret, vulnerable places?

  JOHN: We fought.

  MOLLIE: Phillip was in the Army—for only a short time.

  JOHN: What happened? Were you wounded?

  MOLLIE: Oh no, of course not! He got the mumps.

  PHILLIP: I got the mumps and married Mollie.

  MOLLIE: What a combination of ideas.

  PHILLIP: And I retreated to the most dangerous, secret, vulnerable place of all.

  JOHN: No doubt some bar and grill.

  MOLLIE: It was the Four Leaf Clover Bar and Grill in Brooklyn Heights.

  PHILLIP: That’s where, bub. Where’s the applejack, Mollie?

  MOLLIE: Should you, Phillip?

  PHILLIP: Damn well right. I distilled it myself. Three hundred gallons of it. Could have made a fortune with this apple farm. Where is it?

  MOLLIE: I drank it.

  PHILLIP: Three hundred gallons?

  (He exits into kitchen.)

  MOLLIE: I hid it, but if anybody can find it, he can.

  (PARIS enters.)

  PARIS: What’s for dinner?

  MOLLIE: We’re having cranberry juice cocktails, ham-hocks and greens, and snowball pudding.

  PARIS: Ham-hocks and greens, that is my death test. If you wave a plate of ham-hocks and greens over my nose and I don’t stir, just nail down the coffin because then you’ll know I’m truly dead.

  MOLLIE: When Paris was born I craved ham-hocks and greens. It was what they call a difficult confinement.

  PARIS: John, can you play chess?

  MOLLIE: I was screaming for eight solid hours. And when I was too tired to scream everything got on my nerves so.

  PARIS: My grandfather carved it. It’s very intricate.

  MOLLIE: There were golden and dark shadows lapping up and down the walls like waves. Mother Lovejoy had twisted the funny paper over the light bulb. And I hurt so and the whole room hurt. It was agony—and then—

  PARIS: Don’t Mother, I can’t bear it.

  MOLLIE: The agony part is all over, Lambie, you mustn’t be so tenderhearted.

  PARIS: I am not tenderhearted. It just embarrasses me.