August: Osage County Page 6

  BILL: What do you think happened? I mean . . . what’s your guess?

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: Suicide. I would guess suicide. But the official cause of death is “drowning.” And that’s the extent of it.

  BILL: I understand.

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: I should warn you. That body has been in the water for all of three days.

  BILL: Right.

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: I think you should try to prepare your wife, if you can.

  BILL: “Prepare her . . .”

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: What happens to a body. It’s very bloated. It’s an ugly color. And fish have eaten the eyes.

  BILL: Oh Christ. How does a person jump in the water . . . and choose not to swim?

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: I don’t think you do unless you really mean business.

  BILL: Choose not to swim.

  (Lights shift to the second-floor landing as Barbara and Jean enter. Jean sits on the window seat as Barbara rakes a brush through her hair.)

  JEAN: What about Aunt Ivy?

  BARBARA: I guess we’ll stop there on the way back and tell her. Christ, I need to call Karen, too. What the fuck am I brushing my hair for?

  (She throws the brush. She slumps on the window seat next to Jean.)

  I used to go out with that boy. With that man.

  JEAN: What man?

  BARBARA: The sheriff.

  JEAN: You did?

  BARBARA: Yeah, in high school. He was my prom date.

  JEAN: You’re kidding.

  BARBARA: The day of the prom, his father got drunk and stole his car. Stole his own son’s car and went somewhere. Mexico. Deon showed up at the door, wearing this awful tuxedo. He’d been crying, I could tell. And he confessed he didn’t have a way to take me to the prom. I just felt awful for him, so I told him we’d walk. About three miles. I busted a heel and we both got so sweaty and dirty. We gave up . . . got a six-pack and broke into the chapel, stayed up all night talking and kissing. And now he’s here telling me . . . oh, it’s just surreal. Thank God we can’t tell the future. We’d never get out of bed.

  (She fixes Jean with a look.)

  Listen to me: die after me, all right? I don’t care what else you do, where you go, how you screw up your life, just . . . survive. Outlive me, please.

  JEAN: I’ll do my best.

  (Bill enters.)

  BILL: You ready?

  BARBARA: Give me a second.

  (Lights shift to the study, where Sheriff Gilbeau waits. Violet, wearing silk pajamas, shakily descends the stairs, crosses into the study.)

  VIOLET: Izza story.

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: Hello, Violet.

  VIOLET: Barely’s back.

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: I beg your pardon?

  VIOLET: Did sum Beer-ley come home?

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: Ma’am.

  (Violet shuffles up to Sheriff Gilbeau.)

  VIOLET: Gizza cig . . . some cigezze? Cig-zezz, cig-zizz, ciguhzzz.

  (She laughs at her own inability to speak. Sheriff Gilbeau takes a Pall Mall from his shirt pocket, hands it to her. She stands, sways, holding the cigarette in her mouth. He lights it.)

  In the archa, archa-tex? I’m in the bottom. Izza bottom of them. Inna . . . ell.

  (She shuffles to the stereo in the living room . . . )

  His master’s voice.

  ( . . . and plays a song: “Lay Down, Sally,” by Clapton. Sheriff Gilbeau trails her into the living room.)

  Mm, good beat. Right?

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: Yes, ma’am.

  (She does a jerky little dance, puffing on her cigarette.)

  VIOLET: Barbara?! Is Barbara here?!

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: She’s upstairs.

  VIOLET: Barbara?! Izza time in duhh . . . izza time? What’s time?!

  SHERIFF GILBEAU: It’s about 5:45.

  VIOLET: BARB’RA! BARB’RA!

  (Barbara, Bill, Jean and Johnna enter from various points in the house. Violet sees them, continues her tight little dance.)

  Idn’t it’s good beat? Inna good beats. Mmm, I been on the music . . . pell-man onna sheriff. C. J.’s boy. Right? Donna two inna school? Armen in tandel s’lossle, s’lost? Lost?! From the day, the days. Am Beerly . . . and Beverly lost?

  (Violet abandons her dance, separates invisible threads in the air. The others stand frozen, staring at her.)

  And then you’re here. And Barbara, and then you’re here, and Beverly, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here, and then you’re here . . .

  (Blackout.)

  ACT TWO

  The house has been manifestly refreshed, presumably by Johnna’s hand. The dull, dusty finish has been replaced by the transparent gleam of function.

  Of note:

  The study has been reorganized. Stacks of paper are neater, books are shelved. The dining room table is set with the fine china, candles, a floral centerpiece. In a corner of the dining room, a “kid’s table,” with seating for two, is also set. The warm, clean kitchen now bubbles and steams, redolent of collard and kale.

  At rise:

  Three o’clock of an eternal Oklahoma afternoon. The body of Beverly Weston has just been buried.

  Violet, relatively sober now, in a handsome modern black dress, stands in Beverly’s study, a bottle of pills in her hand.

  Elsewhere in the house: Karen and Barbara are in the dining room. Johnna is in the kitchen.

  VIOLET: August . . . your month. Locusts are raging. “Summer psalm become summer wrath.” ’Course it’s only August out there. In here . . . who knows?

  All right . . . okay. “The Carriage held but just Ourselves,” dum-de-dum . . . mm, best I got . . . Emily Dickinson’s all I got . . . something something, “Horse’s Heads Were Toward Eternity . . .”

  (She takes a pill.)

  That’s for me . . . one for me . . .

  (She picks up the hardback copy of Meadowlark, flips to the dedication.)

  “Dedicated to my Violet.” Put that one in marble.

  (She drops the book on the desk. She takes a pill.)

  For the girls, God love ’em. That’s all I can dedicate to you, sorry to say. Other than them . . . not one thing. No thing. You think I’ll weep for you? Think I’ll play that part, like we played the others?

  (She takes a pill.)

  You made your choice. You made this happen. You answer for this . . . not me. Not me. This is not mine.

  (Lights crossfade to the dining room. Barbara and Karen, wearing black dresses, fold napkins, munch food from a relish tray, etc.)

  KAREN: The present. Today, here and now. I think I spent so much of my early life thinking about what’s to come, y’know, who would I marry, would he be a lawyer or a football player, would he be dark-haired and good-looking and broad-shouldered. I spent a lot of time in that bedroom upstairs pretending my pillow was my husband and I’d ask him about his day at work and what was happening at the office, and did he like the dinner I made for him and where were we going to vacation that winter and he’d surprise me with tickets to Belize and we’d kiss—I mean I’d kiss my pillow, make out with my pillow, and then I’d tell him I’d been to the doctor that day and I’d found out I was pregnant. I know how pathetic all that sounds now, but it was innocent enough . . .

  Then real life takes over because it always does—

  BARBARA:—uh-huh—

  KAREN:—and things work out differently than you’d planned. That pillow was a better husband than any real man I’d ever met; this parade of men fails to live up to your expectations, all of them so much less than Daddy or Bill (you know I always envied you finding Bill). And you punish yourself, tell yourself it’s your fault you can’t find a good one, you’ve only deluded yourself into thinking they’re better th
an they are. I don’t know how well you remember Andrew . . .

  BARBARA: No, I remember.

  KAREN: That’s the best example: here’s a guy I loved so intensely, and all the things he did wrong were just opportunities for me to make things right. So if he cheated on me or he called me a cunt, I’d think to myself, “No, you love him, you love him forever, and here’s an opportunity to make an adjustment in the way you view the world.” And I can’t say when the precise moment was that I looked in the mirror and said, “Okay, moron,” and walked out, but it kicked off this whole period of reflection, just swamped in this sticky recollection. How had I screwed it up, where’d I go wrong, and before you know it you can’t move forward, you’re just suspended there, you can’t move forward because you can’t stop thinking backward, I mean, you know . . . years! Years of punishment, self-loathing. And that’s when I got into all those books and discussion groups—

  BARBARA: And Scientology, too, right, or something like that?—

  KAREN: Yes, exactly, and finally one day, I threw it all out, I just said, “No, it’s me. It’s just me, here and now, with my music on the stereo and my glass of wine and Bloomers my cat, and I don’t need anything else, I can live my life with myself.” And I got my license, threw myself into my work, sold a lot of houses, and that’s when I met Steve. That’s how it happens, of course, you only really find it when you’re not looking for it, suddenly you turn around and there it is. And then the things you thought were so important aren’t really important. I mean, when I made out with my pillow, I never imagined Steve! Here he is, you know, this kinda country club Chamber of Commerce guy, ten years older than me, but a thinker, you know, someone who’s been around, and he’s just so good. He’s a good man and he’s good to me and he’s good for me.

  BARBARA: That’s great, Karen—

  KAREN: He’s got this great business and it’s because he has these great ideas and he’s unafraid to make his ideas realities, you know, he’s not afraid of doing. I think men on the whole are better at that than women, don’t you? Doing, just jumping in and doing, right or wrong, we’ll figure out what it all means later. And the best thing about him, the best thing about him for me, is that now what I think about is now. I live now. My focus, my life, my world is now. I don’t give a care about the past anymore, the mistakes I made, the way I thought, I won’t go back there. And I’ve realized you can’t plan the future, because as soon as you do, you know, something happens, some terrible thing happens—

  BARBARA: Like your father drowning himself.

  KAREN: Exactly! Exactly, that’s exactly what I mean! That’s not something you plan for! There’s no contingency; you take it as it comes, here and now! Steve had a very important presentation today, for some bigwig government guys who could be very important for his business, something he’s been putting together for months, and as soon as we heard about Daddy, he called and canceled his meeting. He has his priorities straight. And you know what the kicker is?

  (Barbara waits.)

  Do you know what the kicker is?

  BARBARA: What’s the kicker?

  KAREN: We’re going to Belize on our honeymoon.

  (Johnna enters from the kitchen, bringing in a pitcher of iced tea.)

  BARBARA: Sorry. Hot flash.

  KAREN: I never told him my little Belize fantasy, he just up and surprised me with tickets for after the wedding.

  BARBARA (To Johnna): God, that smells good, what are we having?

  JOHNNA: Um . . . baked chicken, fried potatoes, green bean casserole . . . some greens . . .

  BARBARA: Did Mattie Fae bring her green bean casserole?

  JOHNNA: Oh. I don’t know. Should I not have made it?

  BARBARA: No, it’s good you did, hers is inedible.

  (Johnna exits.)

  KAREN: I mean, can you believe that about Belize?

  BARBARA: That’s terrific.

  KAREN: I know you only just met him, but did you get a read off him? Did you like him?

  BARBARA: We said two words to each other—

  KAREN: But you still get a feel, don’t you? Did you get a feel?

  BARBARA: He seemed very nice, sweetheart—

  KAREN: He is, and—

  BARBARA:—but what I think about him doesn’t matter. I’m not marrying him—

  KAREN: You’ll come to the wedding, won’t you?

  BARBARA: Yeah, when is it again?

  KAREN: New Year’s Day. One reason we chose New Year’s is because I know you and Bill have a break from school and it’s important to me that you’re there.

  BARBARA: It’s in Sarasota?

  KAREN: Miami. Didn’t you know I moved to Miami?

  BARBARA: Wait, yes, I did know that—

  KAREN: That’s where Steve’s business—

  BARBARA:—right, right.

  KAREN: I guess what I’m telling you is that I’m finally happy. I’ve been really unhappy for most of my life, my adult life. I doubt you’ve been aware of that. I know our lives have led us apart, you, me and Ivy, and maybe we’re not as close as we . . . as close as some families—

  BARBARA: Yeah, we really need to talk about Mom, what to do about Mom—

  KAREN:—but I think at least one reason for that is that I haven’t wanted to live my unhappiness in full view of my family. But now I’m . . . well, I’m just really happy. And I’d really like us to maybe get to know each other a little better.

  BARBARA: Yes. Yes.

  (Karen wraps her arms around Barbara.)

  Okay. Yes.

  (They separate.)

  Christ, where are they with the wine already?

  KAREN: And see, there’s another example, Steve doesn’t know a soul here, but he jumped right in the car with Bill and Jean to go get the wine. He’s family!

  (Lights crossfade to the second-floor landing. Ivy enters, pursued by Violet, who carries a dress and a pair of high heels. Mattie Fae follows, rooting through a box of photographs.

  Like Violet, Mattie Fae wears a black dress; Ivy wears a black suit. During the following, Barbara and Karen exit to the kitchen.)

  IVY: I really don’t want to.

  VIOLET: It won’t kill you to try it on—

  MATTIE FAE (Regarding photographs): Oh, this is a sweet one, Vi—

  IVY: I find all this a tidge morbid, quite frankly—

  MATTIE FAE:Look at this, Ivy— VIOLET: What’s morbid about it?

  IVY:—and I’m really not prepared to look at these photographs right now—

  VIOLET: This is a beautiful dress and it’s very modern.

  IVY: It’s not my style, Mom—

  MATTIE FAE: Where was this taken?—

  VIOLET: You don’t have a style, that’s the whole point—

  MATTIE FAE: Vi?

  VIOLET (Glancing at the photo): New York City. That’s from the first book tour, New York—

  IVY: You mean I don’t have your style. I have a style of my own—

  MATTIE FAE: “New York City, 1964”—

  VIOLET: Honey, you wore a suit to your father’s funeral. A woman doesn’t wear a suit to a funeral—

  IVY: God, you’re weird; it’s a black suit.

  VIOLET: You look like a magician’s assistant.

  IVY: You know—

  MATTIE FAE: Little Charles has been talking about moving to New York.

  IVY:—why do you feel it necessary to—? MATTIE FAE: Can you picture that?

  VIOLET: Don’t discourage him now—

  MATTIE FAE: He wouldn’t last a day in that city. They’d tear him apart.