FLORA: I sure do wish you would.
VICARRO: It’s no use crying over a burnt-down gin. This world is built on the principle of tit for tat.
FLORA: What do you mean?
VICARRO: Nothing at all specific. Mind if I . . . ?
FLORA: What?
VICARRO: You want to move over a little an’ make some room? (Flora edges aside on the swing. He sits down with her.) I like a swing. I’ve always liked to sit an’ rock on a swing. Relaxes you . . . You relaxed?
FLORA: Sure.
VICARRO: No, you’re not. Your nerves are all tied up.
FLORA: Well, you made me feel kind of nervous. All of them questions you ast me about the fire.
VICARRO: I didn’ ask you questions about the fire. I only asked you about your husband’s leaving the house after supper.
FLORA: I explained that to you.
VICARRO: Sure. That’s right. You did. The good-neighbor policy. That was a lovely remark your husband made about the good-neighbor policy. I see what he means by that now.
FLORA: He was thinking about President Roosevelt’s speech. We sat up an’ lissened to it one night last week.
VICARRO: No, I think that he was talking about something closer to home, Mrs. Meighan. You do me a good turn and I’ll do you one, that was the way that he put it. You have a piece of cotton on your face. Hold still—I’ll pick it off. (He delicately removes the lint.) There now.
FLORA: (nervously) Thanks.
VICARRO: There’s a lot of fine cotton lint floating round in the air.
FLORA: I know there is. It irritates my nose. I think it gets up in my sinus.
VICARRO: Well, you’re a delicate woman.
FLORA: Delicate? Me? Oh, no. I’m too big for that.
VICARRO: Your size is part of your delicacy, Mrs. Meighan.
FLORA: How do you mean?
VICARRO: There’s a lot of you, but every bit of you is delicate. Choice. Delectable, I might say.
FLORA: Huh?
VICARRO: I mean you’re altogether lacking in any—coarseness. You’re soft. Fine-fibered. And smooth.
FLORA: Our talk is certainly taking a personal turn.
VICARRO: Yes. You make me think of cotton.
FLORA: Huh?
VICARRO: Cotton!
FLORA: Well! Should I say thanks or something?
VICARRO: No, just smile, Mrs. Meighan. You have an attractive smile. Dimples!
FLORA: No . . .
VICARRO: Yes, you have! Smile, Mrs. Meighan! Come on—smile! (Flora averts her face, smiling helplessly.) There now. See? You’ve got them! (He delicately touches one of the dimples.)
FLORA: Please don’t touch me. I don’t like to be touched.
VICARRO: Then why do you giggle?
FLORA: Can’t help it. You make me feel kind of hysterical, Mr. Vicarro. Mr. Vicarro—
VICARRO: Yes?
FLORA: I hope you don’t think that Jake was mixed up in that fire. I swear to goodness he never left the front porch. I remember it perfeckly now. We just set here on the swing till the fire broke out and then we drove in town.
VICARRO: To celebrate?
FLORA: No, no, no.
VICARRO: Twenty-seven wagons full of cotton’s a pretty big piece of business to fall in your lap like a gift from the gods, Mrs. Meighan.
FLORA: I thought you said that we would drop the subjeck.
VICARRO: You brought it up that time.
FLORA: Well, please don’t try to mix me up any more. I swear to goodness the fire had already broke out when he got back.
VICARRO: That’s not what you told me a moment ago.
FLORA: You got me all twisted up. We went in town. The fire broke out an’ we didn’t know about it.
VICARRO: I thought you said it irritated your sinus.
FLORA: Oh, my God, you sure put words in my mouth. Maybe I’d better make us some lemonade.
VICARRO: Don’t go to the trouble.
FLORA: I’ll go in an’ fix it direckly, but right at this moment I’m too weak to get up. I don’t know why, but I can’t hardly hold my eyes open. They keep falling shut. . . . I think it’s a little too crowded, two on a swing. Will you do me a favor an’ set back down over there?
VICARRO: Why do you want me to move?
FLORA: It makes too much body heat when we’re crowded together.
VICARRO: One body can borrow coolness from another.
FLORA: I always heard that bodies borrowed heat.
VICARRO: Not in this case. I’m cool.
FLORA: You don’t seem like it to me.
VICARRO: I’m just as cool as a cucumber. If you don’t believe
it, touch me.
FLORA: Where?
VICARRO: Anywhere.
FLORA: (rising with great effort) Excuse me. I got to go in. (He pulls her back down.) What did you do that for?
VICARRO: I don’t want to be deprived of your company yet.
FLORA: Mr. Vicarro, you’re getting awf’ly familiar.
VICARRO: Haven’t you got any fun-loving spirit about you?
FLORA: This isn’t fun.
VICARRO: Then why do you giggle?
FLORA: I’m ticklish! Quit switching me, will yuh?
VICARRO: I’m just shooing the flies off.
FLORA: Leave ‘em be, then, please. They don’t hurt nothin’.
VICARRO: I think you like to be switched.
FLORA: I don’t. I wish you’d quit.
VICARRO: You’d like to be switched harder.
FLORA: No, I wouldn’t.
VICARRO: That blue mark on your wrist—
FLORA: What about it?
VICARRO: I’ve got a suspicion.
FLORA: Of what?
VICARRO: It was twisted. By your husband.
FLORA: You’re crazy.
VICARRO: Yes, it was. And you liked it.
FLORA: I certainly didn’t. Would you mind moving your arm?
VICARRO: Don’t be so skittish.
FLORA: Awright. I’ll get up then.
VICARRO: Go on.
FLORA: I feel so weak.
VICARRO: Dizzy?
FLORA: A little bit. Yeah. My head’s spinning round. I wish you would stop the swing.
VICARRO: It’s not swinging much.
FLORA: But even a little’s too much.
VICARRO: You’re a delicate woman. A pretty big woman, too.
FLORA: So is America. Big.
VICARRO: That’s a funny remark.
FLORA: Yeah. I don’t know why I made it. My head’s so buzzy.
VICARRO: Fuzzy?
FLORA: Fuzzy an’—buzzy . . . Is something on my arm?
VICARRO: No.
FLORA: Then what ‘re you brushing?
VICARRO: Sweat off.
FLORA: Leave it alone.
VICARRO: Let me wipe it. (He brushes her arm with a handkerchief.)
FLORA: (laughing weakly) No, please, don’t. It feels funny.
VICARRO: How does it feel?
FLORA: It tickles me. All up an’ down. You cut it out now. If you don’t cut it out I’m going to call.
VICARRO: Call who?
FLORA: I’m going to call that nigger. The nigger that’s cutting the grass across the road.
VICARRO: Go on. Call, then.
FLORA: (weakly) Hey! Hey, boy!
VICARRO: Can’t you call any louder?
FLORA: I feel so funny. What is the matter with me?
VICARRO: You’re just relaxing. You’re big. A big type of woman. I like you. Don’t get so excited.
FLORA: I’m not, but you—
VICARRO: What am I doing?
FLORA: Suspicions. About my husband and ideas you have about me.
VICARRO: Such as what?
FLORA: He burnt your gin down. He didn’t. And I’m not a big piece of cotton. (She pulls herself up.) I’m going inside.
VICARRO: (rising) I think that’s a good idea.
FLORA: I said I was. Not you.
VICAR
RO: Why not me?
FLORA: Inside it might be crowded, with you an’ me.
VICARRO: Three’s a crowd. We’re two.
FLORA: You stay out. Wait here.
VICARRO: What’ll you do?
FLORA: I’ll make us a pitcher of nice cold lemonade.
VICARRO: Okay. You go on in.
FLORA: What’ll you do?
VICARRO: I’ll follow.
FLORA: That’s what I figured you might be aiming to do. We’ll both stay out.
VICARRO: In the sun?
FLORA: We’ll sit back down in th’ shade. (He blocks her.) Don’t stand in my way.
VICARRO: You’re standing in mine.
FLORA: I’m dizzy.
VICARRO: You ought to lie down.
FLORA: How can I?
VICARRO: Go in.
FLORA: You’d follow me.
VICARRO: What if I did?
FLORA: I’m afraid.
VICARRO: You’re starting to cry.
FLORA: I’m afraid!
VICARRO: What of?
FLORA: Of you.
VICARRO: I’m little.
FLORA: I’m dizzy. My knees are so weak they’re like water. I’ve got to sit down.
VICARRO: Go in.
FLORA: I can’t.
VICARRO: Why not?
FLORA: You’d follow.
VICARRO: Would that be so awful?
FLORA: You’ve got a mean look in your eyes and I don’t like the whip. Honest to God he never. He didn’t, I swear!
VICARRO: Do what?
FLORA: The fire . . .
VICARRO: Go on.
FLORA: Please don’t!
VICARRO: Don’t what?
FLORA: Put it down. The whip, please put it down. Leave it out here on the porch.
VICARRO: What are you scared of?
FLORA: You.
VICARRO: Go on. (She turns helplessly and moves to the screen. He pulls it open.)
FLORA: Don’t follow. Please don’t follow! (She sways uncertainly. He presses his hand against her. She moves inside. He follows. The door is shut quietly. The gin pumps slowly and steadily across the road. From inside the house there is a wild and despairing cry. A door is slammed. The cry is repeated more faintly.)
CURTAIN
SCENE III
It is about nine o’clock the same evening. Although the sky behind the house is a dusky rose color, a full September moon of almost garish intensity gives the front of the house a ghostly brilliance. Dogs are howling like demons across the prostrate fields of the Delta.
The front porch of the Meighans is empty.
After a moment the screen door is pushed slowly open and Flora Meighan emerges gradually. Her appearance is ravaged. Her eyes have a vacant limpidity in the moonlight, her lip are slightly apart. She moves with her hands stretched gropingly before her till she has reached a pillar of the porch. There she stops and stands moaning a little. Her hair hangs loose and disordered. The upper part of her body is unclothed except for a torn pink band about her breasts. Dark streaks are visible on the bare shoulders and arms and there is a large discoloration along one cheek. A dark trickle, now congealed, descends from one corner of her mouth. These more apparent tokens she covers with one hand when Jake comes up on the porch. He is now heard approaching, singing to himself.
JAKE: By the light—by the light—by the light—Of the sil-very mo-o-on! (Instinctively Flora draws back into the sharply etched shadow from the porch roof. Jake is too tired and triumphant to notice her appearance.) How’s a baby? (Flora utters a moaning grunt.) Tired? Too tired t’ talk? Well, that’s how I feel. Too tired t’ talk. Too goddam tired t’ speak a friggin’ word! (He lets himself down on the steps, groaning and without giving Flora more than a glance.) Twenty-seven wagons full of cotton. That’s how much I’ve ginned since ten this mawnin’. A man-size job.
FLORA: (huskily) Uh-huh. . . . A man-size—job. . . .
JAKE: Twen-ty-sev-en wa-gons full of cot-ton!
FLORA: (senselessly repeating) Twen-ty sev-en wa-gons full of cot-ton! (A dog howls. Flora utters a breathless laugh.)
JAKE: What’re you laughin’ at, honey? Not at me, I hope.
FLORA: No. . . .
JAKE: That’s good. The job that I’ve turned out is nothing to laugh at. I drove that pack of niggers like a mule-skinner. They don’t have a brain in their bodies. All they got is bodies. You got to drive, drive, drive. I don’t even see how niggers eat without somebody to tell them to put the food in their moufs! (She laughs again, like water spilling out of her mouth.) Huh! You got a laugh like a— Christ. A terrific day’s work I finished.
FLORA: (slowly) I would’n’ brag—about it. . . .
JAKE: I’m not braggin’ about it, I’m just sayin’ I done a big day’s work, I’m all wo’n out an’ I want a little appreciation, not cross speeches. Honey. . . .
FLORA: I’m not—(She laughs again.)—makin’ cross speeches.
JAKE: To take on a big piece of work an’ finish it up an’ mention the fack that it’s finished I wouldn’t call braggin’.
FLORA: You’re not the only one’s—done a big day’s—work.
JAKE: Who else that you know of? (There is a pause.)
FLORA: Maybe you think that I had an easy time. (Her laughter spills out again.)
JAKE: You’re laughin’ like you been on a goddam jag. (Flora laughs.) What did you get pissed on? Roach poison or citronella? I think I make it pretty easy for you, workin’ like a mule-skinner so you can hire you a nigger to do the wash an’ take the house-work on. An. elephant woman who acks as frail as a kitten, that’s the kind of a woman I got on m’ hands.
FLORA: Sure. . . . (She laughs.) You make it easy!
JAKE: I’ve yet t’ see you lift a little finger. Even gotten too lazy t’ put you’ things on. Round the house ha’f naked all th’ time. Y’ live in a cloud. All you can think of is “Give me a Coca-Cola!” Well, you better look out. They got a new bureau in the guvamint files. It’s called U.W. Stands for Useless Wimmen. Tha’s secret plans on foot t’ have ‘em shot! (He laughs at his joke.) FLORA: Secret—plans—on foot?
JAKE: T’ have ‘em shot.
FLORA: That’s good. I’m glad t’ hear it. (She laughs again.)
JAKE: I come home tired an’ you cain’t wait t’ peck at me. What ‘re you cross about now?
FLORA: I think it was a mistake.
JAKE: What was a mistake?
FLORA: Fo‘ you t’ fool with th’ Syndicate—Plantation. . . .
JAKE: I don’t know about that. We wuh kind of up-against it, honey. Th’ Syndicate buyin’ up all th’ lan’ aroun’ here an’ turnin’ the ole croppers off it without their wages—mighty near busted ev’ry mercantile store in Two Rivers County! An’ then they build their own gin to gin their own cotton. It looked for a while like I was stuck up high an’ dry. But when the gin burnt down an’ Mr. Vicarro decided he’d better throw a little bus’ness my way—I’d say the situation was much improved!
FLORA: (She laughs weakly.) Then maybe you don’t understand th’ good-neighbor—policy.
JAKE: Don’t understand it? Why, I’m the boy that invented it.
FLORA: Huh-huh! What an—invention! All I can say is—I hope you’re satisfied now that you’ve ginned out—twenty-seven wagons full of—cotton.
JAKE: Vicarro was pretty well pleased w’en he dropped over.
FLORA: Yeah. He was—pretty well—pleased.
JAKE: How did you all get along?
FLORA: We got along jus’ fine. Jus’ fine an’—dandy.
JAKE: He didn’t seem like a such a bad little guy. He takes a sensible attitude.
FLORA: (laughing helplessly) He—sure—does!
JAKE: I hope you made him comfo’table in the house?
FLORA: (giggling) I made him a pitcher—of nice cold—lemonade!
JAKE: With a little gin in it, huh? That’s how you got pissed. A nice cool drink don’t sound bad to me right now. Got any left?
FLORA: Not a bit, Mr. Meighan. We drank it a-a-ll up! (She flops onto the swing.)
JAKE: So you didn’t have such a tiresome time after all?
FLORA: No. Not tiresome a bit. I had a nice conversation with Mistuh—Vicarro. . . .
JAKE: What did you all talk about?
FLORA: Th’ good-neighbor policy.
JAKE: (chuckling) How does he feel about th’ good-neighbor policy?
FLORA: Oh—(She giggles.)—He thinks it’s a—good idea! He says—
JAKE: Huh? (Flora laughs weakly.) Says what?
FLORA: Says—(She goes off into another spasm of laughter.)
JAKE: What ever he said must’ve been a panic!
FLORA: He says—(controlling her spasm)—he don’t think he’ll build him a new cotton gin any more. He’s gonna let you do a-a-lll his ginnin’—fo’ him!
JAKE: I told you he’d take a sensible attitude.
FLORA: Yeah. Tomorrow he plans t’ come back—with lots more cotton. Maybe another twenty-seven wagons.
JAKE: Yeah?
FLORA: An’ while you’re ginnin’ it out—he’ll have me entertain him with—nice lemonade! (She has another fit of giggles.)
JAKE: The more I hear about that lemonade the better I like it. Lemonade highballs, huh? Mr. Thomas Collins?
FLORA: I guess it’s—gonna go on fo’—th’ rest of th’—summer. . . .
JAKE: (rising and stretching happily) Well, it’ll . . . it’ll soon be fall. Cooler nights comin’ on.
FLORA: I don’t know that that will put a—stop to it—though. . . .
JAKE: (obliviously) The air feels cooler already. You shouldn’t be settin’ out here without you’ shirt on, honey. A change in the air can give you a mighty bad cold.
FLORA: I couldn’t stan’ nothin’ on me—nex’ to my—skin.
JAKE: It ain’t the heat that gives you all them hives, it’s too much liquor. Grog-blossoms, that’s what you got! I’m goin’ inside to the toilet. When I come out—(He opens the screen door and goes in.)—We’ll drive in town an’ see what’s at th’ movies. You go hop in the Chevy! (Flora laughs to herself. She slowly opens the huge kid purse and removes a wad of Kleenex. She touches herself tenderly here and there, giggling breathlessly.)
FLORA: (aloud) I really oughtn’ t’ have a white kid purse. It’s wadded full of—Kleenex—to make it big—like a baby! Big—in my arms—like a baby!
JAKE: (from inside) What did you say, Baby?