FERN. Now he’s messed up my car! Now it won’t start!
MR. PALFREY. What did you do, Booger? Did you bust the solenoid? On the wrong car?
DUVALL. (Speaking over his shoulder) Me no savvy solenoid. Leave me alone. Don’t talk to me anymore.
MR. PALFREY. What’s wrong with that fellow?
MRS. VETCH. It’s better not to upset Duvall.
MR. MINGO. It’s best not to arouse Duvall. I suspect the green and blue confused him.
FERN. Now we are stuck. Well, I’ll just have to call Garland and tell him to come get us.
Fern exits to make telephone call. Enter Lenore and Tonya.
LENORE. Where’s the waitress? I want a piece of lemon ice box pie.
MR. PALFREY. I warn you, that girl is snippy.
MRS. VETCH. Hon, they haven’t had lemon pie here since Miss Eula left. Or banana pudding either.
LENORE. (Looking around) What’s going on? Are they closing up the Sunnyside?
MR. PALFREY. The old woman sold out. These new people are turning the place into a dance hall.
LENORE. (Looking at Niblis, Vetch, Mingo) Those people are running a dance hall?
MR. PALFREY. No, not them. They were living here and now they’ve been kicked out of their nice little rooms.
MR. MINGO. Evicted. Delray is showing us the door.
MRS. VETCH. We’re waiting for Ruth Buttress.
MR. MINGO. You are seated in the grand ballroom. Right here is where the dancers will glide about. The hypothetical elegant dancers.
MR. PALFREY. A van is coming to haul them off to Avalon.
LENORE. Avalon! Of all things! That’s just what Boyce wants to talk to you about, Daddy. He sent off and got some literature. (Rummages in purse, finds brochure, gives it to Mr. Palfrey) See? “Avalon. A New Concept in Twilight Care.”
MR. PALFREY. (Holding brochure loosely) What do I want with this?
LENORE. It won’t hurt you to look it over. (Points to brochure again) See? “The days are full at Avalon and before you know it, it’s bedtime.” Boyce thinks you might enjoy going to a place like that.
MR. PALFREY. (Crumples brochure, drops it on floor) Boyce can think again.
There is a sudden outburst from Duvall.
DUVALL. That guy was way out of bounds! With both feet! How can we ever hope to win against crooked crap like that!
The others look up but don’t respond. Fern enters.
FERN. Well, Garland said he would get up here as soon as he can. He’s got two or three errands to run first.
LENORE. I’ve just been talking to Daddy about a new arrangement, Fern. Boyce thinks he might want to cut his visits a little shorter. Back to a month, say. (To Mr. Palfrey) He thinks you might like it better, Daddy, not staying in one place so long.
MR. PALFREY. A month? Move twelve times a year?
LENORE. He thinks—
MR. PALFREY. Boyce has been thinking way too much.
LENORE. He’s thinking about what’s best for you.
MR. PALFREY. Boyce is thinking about Boyce.
LENORE. So if you don’t like the idea of the shorter stay, then Boyce thinks maybe we ought to look into this Avalon place. We can get you right in. There’s never any waiting.
FERN. I wonder how they manage that.
LENORE. There’s just one lump payment and then no more worries.
MRS. VETCH. On the Special Value Package. That’s what we’re on.
FERN. I wonder how they do it at the price.
MR. NIBLIS. Fast turnaround, that’s how. Accelerated disposal. When we check in the front door they’re dragging corpses out the back door. Out the door, into the dumpster and off the books.
MR. MINGO. And not much lamented.
FERN. Oh come on. Who would do such a thing?
MR. NIBLIS. A foul lump of grease named Lloyd Mole, that’s who. It’s the vital organs racket. They’re bootlegging vital organs out of Avalon. Dr. Mole and his accomplice Ruth Buttress.
MR. MINGO. You signed up for it.
MR. NIBLIS. I never signed up for anything. It was you, Mingo, who got sold a bill of goods. And now they’ve got your earnest money.
MRS. VETCH. Mr. Niblis thinks they’re going to cut out our vital organs and sell them to rich people. Sick rich people.
MR. MINGO. I’m afraid he flatters us there. They don’t even want our vital organs, so called.
MR. NIBLIS. That’s how much you know, Mingo. Mole is going to rip out our hearts and our kidneys and our big flopping brown livers.
MR. MINGO. No, you’re dramatizing yourself again. What would they want with our petrified livers? What would anybody want with an old heart like mine? An old sloshing and leaking bag of blood.
MR. NIBLIS. An old cankered bag of pride and fear and deceit, you mean. Nobody is interested in your opinions. (Points to Mr. Mingo’s two-tone shoes) Look at those shoes. Nobody wants to hear the opinions of a man wearing ludicrous shoes like that.
MR. MINGO. At one time they listened.
MR. NIBLIS. Pitiful shoes, just crying out for attention. A man your age should be done with all those little vanities.
MRS. VETCH. I just hope the place is clean.
MR. MINGO. They heeded my every word. I was a prophet too in my own way.
MR. NIBLIS. Here’s a prophecy for you, Mingo. In three months time we’ll be gone. We’ll be off Mole’s books. Mark my words.
MRS. VETCH. I hope the linens are clean. I hope the towels are soft. I hope they don’t have roaches at Avalon. I hope the bathroom floors are not wet. I hope they have large-print books. I hope they’re not cross with us. I hope they don’t scold us a lot. I’ve heard some bad things about that home called Gathering Shade. They hang a placard from your neck if you misbehave, and you must wear it in shame for a week. “I Spread Rumors.” Things like that. “I Talked Back to Staff.” “I Am a TV Hog.”
MR. MINGO. But we have to be realistic, Mrs. Vetch, and expect some indignities. Certain brutal familiarities.
MRS. VETCH. Do you think Ruth Buttress will be kind? I hope so. I hope they don’t have little spiders in the beds.
MR. NIBLIS. All vain hopes.
MRS. VETCH. I hope they don’t interfere with us. Those people at Avalon.
MR. NIBLIS. What do you mean?
MRS. VETCH. You know—interfere with us.
MR. NIBLIS. Tamper with us in some way? Mess with us?
MR. MINGO. Meddle with us? Annoy us?
MRS. VETCH. Interfere with us—you know.
MR. MINGO. No, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but the people at Sinking Embers, I’m told, do meddle with you. They sometimes wake you in the night. They rouse you from your deepest slumber. Some orderly on the night shift. Some young fellow like Duvall there. He sits by your bed in the dark and asks difficult questions in a soft voice.
MRS. VETCH. Difficult questions! Oh dear! Not that too! Not hard questions on top of everything else! I know I won’t be able to answer them properly!
MR. NIBLIS. That won’t be anything new to me. Indignities, mockery, scorn, hard questions, hunger—I’ve seen it all. Privations of every kind. You get used to that, living in apostolic poverty.
MR. MINGO. You exaggerate, as usual. You go too far, Mr. Niblis, in your comparison. Not one of the twelve apostles, as far as we know, was ever caught sneaking a bowl of banana pudding into his room at night. Or any other creamy yellow custard. Hardly a spiritual exercise. (Raising hand) No, please. No embarrassing denials. I’m not blind. I’ve seen you at your little pudding game too many times.
MR. NIBLIS. Where were you hiding, Mingo? You might as well tell us. It can’t make any difference now. Where was your peephole?
MR. MINGO. (Soft laughter) I had more than one.
MRS. VETCH. We did have some awfully good puddings and pies here at the Sunnyside. We must count our blessings.
MR. PALFREY. I think Mr. Niblis may be on to something. They do bootleg these kidneys and things, you know. I saw a show about i
t on TV.
MR. MINGO. Yes, but not in terms of old people. That’s nonsense. I don’t know where Mr. Niblis gets such bizarre ideas. There’s no real money to be made out of the tripes of an old man like me. They don’t even want our blood anymore.
MRS. VETCH. I was once a member of the Five Gallon Club.
MR. NIBLIS. You wait. Mole won’t be satisfied till he’s wet his hands good in our blood.
MR. MINGO. No, it will be bad enough but it won’t be that bad. We’ll just be sitting around all day in a big room. That’s all. Day after day we’ll sit there in Asiatic resignation.
MR. PALFREY. With your mouths open. Gone all slack-jawed.
MR. MINGO. Chapfallen, yes. Our poets have a word for everything. We’ll sit there slumped and gaping as we’re being methodically dried out.
FERN. Dried out?
MR. MINGO. Or dried up. You must have noticed—all these old folks homes have giant evaporators in their basements. You can hear the turbines roaring under the floors. Avalon will be no different. They’ll draw all the moisture out of our bodies, all the volatile components, until we’re reduced to living mummies. Little stick figures, just bits of bone and hair and leather. Until we’re not much bigger than spider monkeys. That’s how those places work. They dry old people up, by painless degrees. Death by slow desiccation. It’s virtually odorless, they say.
Pause. They think this over.
FERN. (To Lenore) And you would put your own father away in a place like that. But you don’t care, do you, Lenore? Whether they dry Daddy up or not.
LENORE. You’re so hateful to me. I love my Daddy. I don’t want to see my old Daddy dried up any more than you do, but it’s just not fair, the way things are now. You have a lot more room in your house and yet you only keep him half the time. A new arrangement is all I’m talking about.
FERN. But you’re only keeping him three months at a time now.
LENORE. Boyce thinks a month of Daddy is plenty.
FERN. It’s not Boyce’s Daddy.
LENORE. But we have to face facts. We have to plan ahead. Boyce thinks we’ll never find a better deal than this Avalon deal. There’s just one payment up front and no more worries.
MRS. VETCH. On the Special Value Package.
LENORE. (Recovers crumpled brochure from floor, smoothes it out, offers it again to Mr. Palfrey) It won’t hurt you to look it over, Daddy. Nobody’s going to mistreat you at Avalon. I wouldn’t stand for it a minute.
MR. PALFREY. (Knocks brochure from her hand with his stick) I ain’t going to no nursing home, Lenore! Get that through your head! I’d rather sleep in a corncrib with the rats. I’d rather sleep in a dumpster with the garbage.
MR. MINGO. I wonder. We say such things but I wonder if we would really prefer to sleep rough like that, on ketchup bottles and eggshells and rotting produce.
FERN. You think she cares? Lenore doesn’t care whether Daddy has to sleep on wet garbage or not.
LENORE. You’re so mean and spiteful to me. Because I’m still young and attractive and you’re not.
Enter Delray. He comes down the stairs in anger.
DELRAY. (Muttering) Daddy this and Daddy that. (Goes to Duvall and unplugs television set again) Do you know who’s up there, Duvall? In those rooms you said were clear? It’s those painters you said weren’t working today. The many sons of that alcoholic painter.
DUVALL. Working on Saturday?
DELRAY. No, they’re not working. They’re looking for their drunk Daddy. He didn’t come home last night. They’ve lost their Daddy. They won’t leave until they’ve found their Daddy. Where is Kate? Kate!
Enter Kate, from kitchen through swinging door. She has changed from her uniform into street clothes. She carries a small travel bag and is brushing her hair.
KATE. What?
DELRAY. (Noting change of clothes, bag) What is all this?
KATE. You told us to clear out. We’re clearing out.
DELRAY. Right. Is the painter back there?
KATE. What painter?
DELRAY. What painter, she says! Is the kitchen ready for my inspection?
KATE. I guess so. Anyway, Sammy’s gone. He carried off all the frozen steaks. And that big microwave oven too. Maybe some other things. Do you have my money?
DELRAY. All my steaks! I suppose you just stood by and watched him!
KATE. I was in the bathroom changing clothes. When I came out he was gone. I think he poked some rags or something down the drains too. All the sinks are stopped up.
DELRAY. I’ll put him behind bars! That microwave is not even paid for!
DUVALL. He may not be so easy to catch, Delray. A raging fry cook on the lam.
KATE. Can I have my money now?
DELRAY. You’ll get your check at the end of the month. Leave an address with Duvall. Is the painter back there?
KATE. Who?
DELRAY. The painter! The old man who paints! The Daddy of that family of painters!
KATE. Nobody’s back there. Look, Delray, I don’t know where I’ll be. I’m leaving town. I need my money now.
DUVALL. Off to meet a certain fugitive, are we?
KATE. None of your business.
DUVALL. A little rendezvous at some Pakistani motel? And then what? Off in the truck and the low-boy trailer?
KATE. Mind your own business.
DUVALL. Off on a five- or six-state crime spree?
KATE. Don’t mess with me, Duvall. You say another word about Prentice and I’ll slap you off that stool.
DUVALL. (Mock alarm, raises fists) Hey, I better put up my dukes then!
DELRAY. (Suddenly noticing, with a start, the continued presence of the old people and the Palfreys) No! Look! They’re all still here! There seems to be even more of them! Where is that van? What’s keeping Ruth Buttress?
KATE. Let me have a hundred, Delray, and we’ll call it even.
DELRAY. I’ll mail the check to your mother in due course.
KATE. All right, but twenty now, so I can buy a tank of gas.
DELRAY. No! I don’t do business that way. Now stop bothering me.
MR. NIBLIS. (Speaking up from across the room) Delray has thousands of dollars. And he won’t even pay his help.
DELRAY. This doesn’t concern you, Mr. Niblis.
MR. NIBLIS. He’s well connected. All the big banks in Little Rock are behind him.
DELRAY. Banks? What banks? Are you crazy? No bank in the world will lend money to a night club. For your information, Miss Eula herself is carrying the note for Delray’s New Moon.
MR. PALFREY. Better not take your dog to Little Rock. If you care anything about him. You’ll never see him again.
DELRAY. (Struck by an idea) Is that policeman still out there?
MR. PALFREY. That’s what I told that little Annabel girl too. Better leave Norris at home.
DELRAY. (Goes to window, peers through glass, down which water is streaming) Good, he’s still waiting. I’ll have him put out the alarm on Sammy.
Delray exits through front door. Duvall plugs in television set, resumes watching game. Kate goes to window, peers out.
MR. MINGO. Yes, now is your chance, Kate, to beat it out the back way. While the detective is occupied.
MRS. VETCH. But have you thought this through, Kate? I mean, don’t sell yourself short. I just know an attractive girl like you can find someone more suitable than Prentice. You really don’t have to keep low company, you know. You could take a business course by mail and learn how to—
Kate, not listening, walks across room, jerks down silver crescent moon, breaks it across her knee, then tramps on it. Kicks over cardboard dancers.
MRS. VETCH. —these business lessons by mail, you see, and learn how to—
KATE. Bye, y’all.
MRS. VETCH. —and learn how to—
MR. MINGO. A waste of breath, Mrs. Vetch.
MRS. VETCH. I just hope Prentice is kind to her.
MR. NIBLIS. If he knows what’s good for him he’ll be
kind to her.
MRS. VETCH. Well, you can’t tell girls anything. But you never know. It might even work out.
MR. NIBLIS. You think so? Here’s another prophecy for you. In three months time Kate will fling a skillet full of hot grease into Prentice’s face.
Pause.
MRS. VETCH. She might just squirt some hair spray in his eyes and walk out on him.
MR. MINGO. Or, as he sleeps, drive a ball-peen hammer deep into his skull.
FERN. Did you tip that girl, Daddy?
MR. PALFREY. What for? I didn’t get what I wanted.
MR. MINGO. What’s the score, Duvall?
DUVALL. (Slow, grudging reply) We’re a little behind but there’s still plenty of time. The Hogs are driving.
MRS. VETCH. Poor Kate hasn’t been gone two minutes and already we’re putting her out of our minds. Already we’ve gone on to ball games and other things.
Delray enters from the rain.
DELRAY: The dragnet is out, you’ll all be pleased to know. Sammy will soon be in custody.
MR. NIBLIS. Like us. Put away.
DELRAY: (Sees broken moon on floor) What! Who pulled down my new moon? Who did this, Duvall? And look! My life-size cardboard dancers!
DUVALL. (Intent on game) I didn’t notice anything was down.
MR. MINGO: Strictly speaking, Delray, that is a near new moon early in the first quarter. The new moon is invisible.
DELRAY. And look! Walked on it! Or stomped on it! This is criminal!
MR. MINGO. Or danced on it.
DELRAY. No dancer would dance on my beautiful moon!
MR. MINGO. There are jigs of contempt too, Delray.
DELRAY. Did Kate do this?
He gets no answer. Sounds of a vehicle driving up. There are reflections from a revolving emergency light. Sounds of a slammed door, then of the vehicle departing. Mae Buttress enters, disheveled, with wet hair and smudges on her face. She carries a shoulder bag and clipboard. She is running her fingers through her hair.
DELRAY. Thank God! Ruth Buttress! At long last! The old folks are all packed up and ready to go! (Notices her condition) What’s wrong? What are you doing?