Read an Excerpt
ACT ONE
SCENE I
The stage is empty.
It is the downstairs of an old house in one of those semirespectable neighborhoods in a Midwestern city. The stage is divided into two rooms, the living room at right and the kitchen at left, with a stairway and a door between. At the foot of the stairway is a small table with a telephone on it. The time is about 8:00 A.M., a morning in the late spring.
At rise of curtain the sun hasn’t come out in full force and outside the atmosphere is a little gray. The house is extremely cluttered and even dirty. The living room somehow manages to convey the atmosphere of the twenties, decorated with cheap pretense at niceness and respectability. The general effect is one of fussy awkwardness. The furniture is all heavy and rounded-looking, the chairs and davenport being covered with a shiny mohair. The davenport is littered and there are lace antimacassars on all the chairs. In such areas, houses are so close together, they hide each other from the sunlight. What sun could come through the window, at right, is dimmed by the smoky glass curtains. In the kitchen there is a table, center. On it are piled dirty dishes from supper the night before. Woodwork in the kitchen is dark and grimy. No industry whatsoever has been spent in making it one of those white, cheerful rooms that we commonly think kitchens should be. There is no action on stage for several seconds.
DOC comes downstairs to kitchen. His coat is on back of chair, center. He straightens chair, takes roll from bag on drainboard, folds bag and tucks it behind sink. He lights stove and goes to table, fills dishpan there and takes it to sink. Turns on water, tucks towel in vest for apron. He goes to chair and says prayer. Then he crosses to stove, takes frying pan to sink and turns on water.
MARIE, a young girl of eighteen or nineteen who rooms in the house, comes out of her bedroom (next to the living room), skipping airily into the kitchen. Her hair is piled in curls on top of her head and she wears a sheer dainty negligee and smart, feathery mules on her feet. She has the cheerfulness only youth can feel in the morning.
MARIE
(Goes to chair, opens pocketbook there)
Hi!
DOC
Well, well, how is our star boarder this morning?
MARIE
Fine.
DOC
Want your breakfast now?
MARIE
Just my fruit juice. I’ll drink it while I dress and have my breakfast later.
DOC
(Places two glasses on table)
Up a little early, aren’t you?
MARIE
I have to get to the library and check out some books before anyone else gets them.
DOC
Yes, you want to study hard, Marie, learn to be a fine artist some day. Paint lots of beautiful pictures. I remember a picture my mother had over the mantelpiece at home, a picture of a cathedral in a sunset, one of those big cathedrals in Europe somewhere. Made you feel religious just to look at it.
MARIE
These books aren’t for art, they’re for biology. I have an exam.
DOC
Biology? Why do they make you take biology?
MARIE
(Laughs)
It’s required. Didn’t you have to take biology when you were in college?
DOC
Well … yes, but I was preparing to study medicine, so of course I had to take biology and things like that. You see—I was going to be a real doctor then—only I left college my third year.
MARIE
What’s the matter? Didn’t you like the pre-med course?
DOC
Yes, of course … I had to give it up.
MARIE
Why?
DOC
(Goes to stove with roll on plate—evasive)
I’ll put your sweet roll in now, Marie, so it will be nice and warm for you when you want it.
MARIE
Dr. Delaney, you’re so nice to your wife, and you’re so nice to me, as a matter of fact, you’re so nice to everyone. I hope my husband is as nice as you are. Most husbands would never think of getting their own breakfast.
DOC
(Very pleased with this)
… uh … you might as well sit down now and … yes, sit here and I’ll serve you your breakfast now, Marie, and we can eat it together, the two of us.
MARIE
(A light little laugh as she starts dancing away from him)
No, I like to bathe first and feel that I’m all fresh and clean to start the day. I’m going to hop into the tub now. See you later. (She goes upstairs.)
DOC
(The words appeal to him)
Yes, fresh and clean—
(DOC shows disappointment but goes on in businesslike way setting his breakfast on the table.)
MARIE
(Offstage)
Mrs. Delaney.
LOLA
(Offstage)
’Mornin’, honey.
(Then LOLA comes downstairs. She is a contrast to DOC’s neat cleanliness, and MARIE’s. Over a nightdress she wears a lumpy kimono. Her eyes are dim with a morning expression of disillusionment, as though she had had a beautiful dream during the night and found on waking none of it was true. On her feet are worn dirty comfies.)
LOLA
(With some self-pity)
I can’t sleep late like I used to. It used to be I could sleep till noon if I wanted to, but I can’t any more. I don’t know why.
DOC
Habits change. Here’s your fruit juice.
LOLA
(Taking it)
I oughta be gettin’ your breakfast, Doc, instead of you gettin’ mine.
DOC
I have to get up anyway, Baby.
LOLA
(Sadly)
I had another dream last night.
DOC
(Pours coffee)
About Little Sheba?
LOLA
(With sudden animation)
It was just as real. I dreamt I put her on a leash and we walked downtown—to do some shopping. All the people on the street turned around to admire her, and I felt so proud. Then we started to walk, and the blocks started going by so fast that Little Sheba couldn’t keep up with me. Suddenly, I looked around and Little Sheba was gone. Isn’t that funny? I looked everywhere for her but I couldn’t find her. And I stood there feeling sort of afraid. (Pause) Do you suppose that means anything?
DOC
Dreams are funny.
LOLA
Do you suppose it means Little Sheba is going to come back?
DOC
I don’t know, Baby.
LOLA
(Petulant)
I miss her so, Doc. She was such a cute little puppy. Wasn’t she cute?
DOC
(Smiles with the reminiscence)
Yes, she was cute.
LOLA
Remember how white and fluffy she used to be after I gave her a bath? And how her little hind-end wagged from side to side when she walked?
DOC
(An appealing memory)
I remember.
LOLA
She was such a cute little puppy. I hated to see her grow old, didn’t you, Doc?
DOC
Yah. Little Sheba should have stayed young forever. Some things should never grow old. That’s what it amounts to, I guess.
LOLA
She’s been gone for such a long time. What do you suppose ever happened to her?
DOC
You can’t ever tell.
LOLA
(With anxiety)
Do you suppose she got run over by a car? Or do you think that old Mrs. Coffman next door poisoned her? I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.
DOC
No, Baby. She just disappeared. That’s all we know.
LOLA
(Redundantly)
Just vanished one day … vanished into thin air.
(As though in a dream.)
DOC
I told you I’d find you another one, Baby.
LOLA
(Pessimistically)
You couldn’t ever find another puppy as cute as Little Sheba.
DOC
(Back to reality)
Want an egg?
LOLA
No. Just this coffee. (He pours coffee and sits down to breakfast. LOLA, suddenly) Have you said your prayer, Doc?
DOC
Yes, Baby.
LOLA
And did you ask God to be with you—all through the day, and keep you strong?
DOC
Yes, Baby.
LOLA
Then God will be with you, Docky. He’s been with you almost a year now and I’m so proud of you.
