August: Osage County

  BARBARA: I love your hair, that looks great.

  VIOLET: She had it straightened.

  BARBARA: I know, it looks great.

  (Ivy and Jean wave.)

  IVY: Hi, Jean.

  JEAN: Hi.

  (Violet pulls Barbara into the living room. The others follow.)

  VIOLET: Barbara, or Bill, it doesn’t matter, I need you to go through Beverly’s things and help me with some of this paperwork.

  BARBARA: Well . . . we can do that, Mom, we’re here for a while. IVY: I was going to help with that—

  VIOLET: No, now that desk of his is such a mess and I get confused—

  BILL: I’ll take care of it, Violet—

  BARBARA (To Charlie): Which room are you in?

  MATTIE FAE: We’re headed back tonight.

  VIOLET: You’re going back?

  MATTIE FAE: We have to, Vi, we left in such a rush we didn’t get anyone to take care of those damn dogs.

  VIOLET: You want to drive that hour and a half tonight?

  MATTIE FAE: Not the way Charlie drives. Anyway, I know you want to spend some time with these girls.

  VIOLET: Can’t you call someone about the dogs? Or how about Little Charles, can’t he take care of them?

  CHARLIE: Well, yeah, I guess he could—

  MATTIE FAE: No, he can’t, either. We have to get back.

  CHARLIE: Maybe we should call him, Mattie Fae—

  MATTIE FAE: We talked about this.

  CHARLIE: I know, but—

  MATTIE FAE (To Violet): You’ve got all these people here and not enough beds—

  VIOLET: You can stay at Ivy’s place.

  IVY (Beat): Yeah, sure. I’ve got room.

  MATTIE FAE (To Charlie): We talked about this.

  BARBARA: You all can figure that out on your own. So, Mom? Jean can stay in the attic?

  VIOLET: No, that’s where what’s-her-name lives.

  IVY: Johnna.

  BARBARA: Who’s Johnna?

  VIOLET: She’s the Indian who lives in my attic.

  BARBARA: She’s the what?

  (Johnna enters.)

  JOHNNA: Hi, I’m Johnna. Welcome home.

  SCENE 2

  Barbara, Bill and Violet are in the dining room with coffee and pie. Violet’s pills are starting to kick in.

  Elsewhere in the house: Johnna reads a book in her attic bedroom; Jean listens to an iPod on the second-floor landing.

  VIOLET: Saturday. Saturday morning. That girl, the Indian girl made us biscuits and gravy. We ate some, we . . . he walked out the door, that door right there. And that was it.

  BARBARA: That was the last time you saw him.

  VIOLET: I went to bed Saturday night and got up Sunday morning . . . still no Beverly. I didn’t make much of it, thought he’d gone out on a bender.

  BARBARA: Why would he do that? Not like he couldn’t drink at home. Unless you were riding his ass.

  VIOLET: I never said anything to him about his drinking, never got on him about it.

  BARBARA: Really.

  VIOLET: Barbara, I swear. He could drink himself into obliv-uh, obliv-en-em . . .

  BARBARA: Oblivion.

  BILL: So Sunday, still no sign of him . . .

  VIOLET: Yes, Sunday, no sign. I started getting worried, don’tcha know, and that’s when I got so worked up about that safety deposit box. We kept an awful lot of cash in that box, some jewelry, expensive jewelry. I had a diamond ring in that box appraised at over seven thousand dollars—

  BARBARA: Wait, wait, wait, I’m missing something, why do you care about the safety deposit box?

  VIOLET: Well, I know what you’ll say about this, but. Your father and I had a urge-ment—arrangement. If something were to ever happen to one of us, the other one would go empty that safety deposit box.

  BARBARA: Because . . .

  BILL: It gets rolled into the estate, then goes to probate.

  VIOLET: Right, that’s right—

  BARBARA: You’re such a fucking cynic.

  VIOLET: I knew you would disapprove—

  BARBARA (Impatient): Okay, fine, so what about the safety deposit box?—

  VIOLET: I had to wait for the bank to open on Monday. And after I emptied that box, I called the police and reported him missing. Monday morning.

  BARBARA: And you’re just now calling me, today, on Thursday.

  VIOLET: I didn’t call you.

  BARBARA: You had Ivy call me. Five days later.

  VIOLET: I didn’t want to worry you, honey—

  BARBARA: Jesus Christ.

  BILL: Vi, you sure there wasn’t some event that triggered his leaving, some incident?

  VIOLET: You mean like a fight.

  BILL: Yes.

  VIOLET: No. And we fought enough . . . you know . . . but no, he just left.

  BARBARA: Maybe he just needed some time away from you.

  VIOLET: That’s nice of you to say.

  BARBARA: Hey, that’s no crime. Being married is hard.

  BILL: Under the best of circumstances.

  BARBARA: But nothing. Not, “See you later,” or “I’m taking a walk.”

  (Violet shakes her head.)

  Good old unfathomable Dad.

  VIOLET: Oh. That man. What I first fell of with—fell in love with, you know, was his mystery. I thought it was sexy as hell. You knew he was the smartest one in the room, knew if he’d just say something . . . knock you out. But he’d just stand there, little smile on his face . . . not say a word. Sexy. BARBARA: Yeah, that “mystery” can cut both ways.

  BILL: And you can’t think of anything different or unusual, or—

  VIOLET: He hired this woman. He didn’t ask me, just hired this woman to come here and live in our house. Few days before he left.

  BARBARA: You don’t want her here.

  VIOLET: I don’t know what she’s doing here. She’s stranger in my house. There’s an Indian in my house.

  BILL (Laughing): You have some problem with Indians, Violet? VIOLET: I don’t know what to say to an Indian.

  BARBARA: They’re called Native Americans now, Mom.

  VIOLET: Who calls them that? Who makes that decision?

  BARBARA: It’s what they like to be called.

  VIOLET: They aren’t any more native than me.

  BARBARA: In fact, they are.

  VIOLET: What’s wrong with “Indian”?

  BARBARA: Why is it so hard to just call people what they want?—

  VIOLET: Let’s just call the dinosaurs “Native Americans” while we’re at it.

  BARBARA: She may be an Indian, but she makes the best goddamn apple pie I ever ate in my life.

  BILL: It is good, isn’t it?

  BARBARA: Oh, man—

  VIOLET: A cook? So he hired a cook? It doesn’t make any sense. We don’t eat.

  BARBARA: That sounds healthy.

  VIOLET: We eat, cheese and saltines, or a ham sandwich. But I can’t tell you the last time that stove, oh . . . turned on. Years.

  BARBARA: And now you get biscuits and gravy. Kind of nice, huh?

  VIOLET: Nice for you, now. But you’ll be gone soon enough, never to return.

  BARBARA (A warning): Mom.

  VIOLET: When was the last time you were here?

  BARBARA: Don’t get started on that—

  VIOLET: Really, I don’t even remember.

  BARBARA: I’m very dutiful, Mom, I call, I write, I send presents—

  VIOLET: You do not write—

  BARBARA: I send presents on birthdays and Mother’s Day—

  VIOLET: Because you’re “dutiful.”

  BARBARA: Don’t you quote me.

  BILL: All right, now—

  VIOLET: You’re grown-up people, growed-ups. You go where you want—

  BARBARA: I have a lot of obligations, I have a daughter starting high school in a couple of—

  VIOLET: That right? Last time I saw her she’s grade school—

  BARBARA: I won’t talk about this— br />
  VIOLET: I don’t care about you two, really. I’d just like to see my granddaughter every now and again.

  BARBARA: Well, you’re seeing her now.

  VIOLET: But your father. You broke his heart when you moved away.

  BARBARA: That is wildly unfair.

  BILL: Am I going to have to separate you two?

  VIOLET: You know you were Beverly’s favorite; don’t pretend you don’t know that.

  BARBARA: I don’t want to know that. I’d prefer to think my parents loved all their children equally.

  VIOLET: I’m sure you’d prefer to think that Santy Claus brought you presents at Christmas, too, but it just isn’t so. If you’d had more than one child, you’d realize a parent always has favorites. Mattie Fae was my mother’s favorite. Big deal. I got used to it. You were your daddy’s favorite.

  BARBARA: Great. Thanks.

  (Pause.)

  VIOLET: Broke his heart.

  BARBARA: What was I supposed to do?! Colorado offered Bill twice the money he was making at TU—

  BILL: Why are you even getting into this?

  BARBARA:—and they were willing to hire me, too. Daddy knew we had to take those jobs. You think he wouldn’t have jumped at the chance Bill got?

  VIOLET: Now you’re wrong there. You never would’ve gotten

  Beverly Weston out of Oklahoma. And don’t think he didn’t have his opportunities, either, after Meadowlark came out.

  BILL: I’m sure.

  VIOLET: After Meadowlark was published, he got offers from everywhere in the country, lots better places than Colorado.

  BARBARA: Now you want to knock Colorado.

  VIOLET: It’s not hard to do.

  BILL: Barbara, Jesus—

  BARBARA: Daddy’s book came out forty years ago. Academia’s very different now, it’s extremely competitive.

  VIOLET: Please, tell me all about academia.

  BARBARA: Daddy gave me his blessing, and I didn’t even ask for it.

  VIOLET: ’Swhat he told you.

  BARBARA: Now you’re going to tell me the true story, some terrible shit Daddy said behind my back?

  BILL: Hey, enough. Everybody’s a little on edge—

  VIOLET: Beverly didn’t say terrible things behind your back—

  BILL: Vi, come on—

  VIOLET: He just told me he’s disappointed in you because you settled.

  BARBARA: Is that supposed to be a comment on Bill? Daddy never said anything like that to you—

  VIOLET: Your father thought you had talent, as a writer.

  BARBARA: If he thought that, and I doubt he did, he was wrong. Anyway, what difference does it make? It’s my life. I can do what I want. So he was disappointed in me because I settled for a beautiful family and a teaching career, is that what you’re saying? What a load of absolute horseshit.

  VIOLET: Oh, horseshit, horseshit, let’s all say horseshit. Say horseshit, Bill.

  BILL: Horseshit.

  (Bill exits to the kitchen.)

  BARBARA: Are you high?

  VIOLET: No.

  BARBARA: No, are you high? I mean literally. Are you taking something?

  VIOLET: A muscle relaxer.

  BARBARA: Listen to me: I will not go through this with you again.

  VIOLET: Go through what?

  BARBARA: These fucking pills.

  VIOLET: They’re muscle relaxers—

  BARBARA: I will not do this again.

  VIOLET: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  BARBARA: The psych ward? Calls at three A.M. about people in your backyard?

  VIOLET: You’re so much drama—

  BARBARA: The police, all the rest of it? You do know what I’m talking about. You spent a goddamn fortune on these fucking pills—

  VIOLET: Stop yelling at me!

  BARBARA:—and then you spent another fortune getting off them.

  VIOLET: It’s not the same thing, I didn’t have a reason.

  BARBARA: So now it’s okay to get hooked because you have a reason.

  VIOLET: I’m not hooked on anything.

  BARBARA: I don’t know if you are or not, I’m just saying I won’t go—

  VIOLET: I’m not. I’m in pain.

  BARBARA: Because of your mouth.

  VIOLET: Yes, because my mouth burns from the chemotheeeahh.

  BARBARA: Are you in a lot of pain?

  VIOLET (Starting to cry): Yes, I’m in pain. I have got . . . gotten cancer. In my mouth. And it burns like a . . . bullshit. And Beverly’s disappeared and you’re yelling at me.

  BARBARA: I’m not yelling at you.

  (Bill returns.)

  VIOLET: You couldn’t come home when I got cancer but as soon as Beverly disappeared you rushed back—

  BARBARA: I’m sorry, I . . . you’re right. I’m sorry.

  (Violet cries. Barbara kneels in front of her, takes her hand.)

  You know where I think he is? I think he got some whiskey . . . a carton of cigarettes, couple of good spy novels . . . aannnd I think he got out on the boat, steered it to a nice spot, somewhere in the shade, close to shore . . . and he’s fishing, and reading, and drinking, and if the mood strikes him, maybe even writing a little. I think he’s safe. And I think he’ll walk through that door . . . any time.

  (Lights down on the dining room, and up on the attic, where Johnna is reading. Jean has put away her iPod and now ascends the stairs.)

  JEAN: Hi.

  JOHNNA: Hello.

  JEAN: Am I bugging you?

  JOHNNA: No, do you need something?

  JEAN: No, I thought maybe you’d like to smoke a bowl with me?

  JOHNNA: No, thank you.

  JEAN: Okay. I didn’t know.

  (Jean stands, looking at her.)

  Am I bugging you?

  JOHNNA: No, huh-uh.

  JEAN: Okay. Do you mind if I smoke a bowl?

  JOHNNA: I. No, I—

  JEAN: ’Cause there’s no place I can go. Y’know, I’m staying right by Grandma’s room, and if I go outside, they’re gonna wonder—

  JOHNNA: Right—

  JEAN: Mom and Dad don’t mind. You won’t get into trouble or anything.

  JOHNNA: Okay.

  JEAN: Okay. You sure?

  (Johnna nods. From her pocket, Jean takes a small glass pipe and a clear cigarette wrapper holding a bud of marijuana. She fixes the pipe.)

  I say they don’t mind. If they knew I stuck this bud under the cap of Dad’s deodorant before our flight and then sat there sweating like in that movie Maria Full of Grace. Did you see that?

  JOHNNA: I don’t think so.

  JEAN: I just mean they don’t mind that I smoke pot. Dad doesn’t. Mom kind of does. She thinks it’s bad for me. I think the real reason it bugs her is ’cause Dad smokes pot, too, and she wishes he didn’t. Dad’s much cooler than Mom, really. Well, that’s not true. He’s just cooler in that way, I guess.

  (Jean smokes. She offers the smoldering pipe to Johnna.)

  (Holding her breath) You sure?

  JOHNNA: Yes. No. I’m fine.

  JEAN: No, he’s really not cooler. (Exhales smoke) He and Mom are separated right now.

  JOHNNA: I’m sorry.

  JEAN: He’s fucking one of his students which is pretty uncool, if you ask me. Some people would think that’s cool, like those dicks who teach with him in the Humanities Department because they’re all fucking their students or wish they were fucking their students. “Lo-liii-ta.” I mean, I don’t care and all, he can fuck whoever he wants and he’s a teacher and that’s who teachers meet, students. He was just a turd the way he went about it and didn’t give Mom a chance to respond or anything. What sucks now is that Mom’s watching me like a hawk, like, she’s afraid I’ll have some post-divorce freak-out and become some heroin addict or shoot everybody at school. Or God forbid, lose my virginity. I don’t know what it is about Dad splitting that put Mom on hymen patrol. Do you have a boyfriend?