TOMMY: Moe, tell me some more things.
MOE (Surging up again): “Stupid, come here!” “Stupid, get your goddamn tail out of here!” (Shaking his carriage) I hate him. I hate him. But I watch him and I learn. You see: I learn. And when I get to walk I’m going to do something so that he won’t be any more. He’ll be away—away where people can walk on him. —Don’t you hate your father?
TOMMY: Well . . . I don’t see him much. Like, once a year.
MOE: You mean: once a day.
TOMMY: Moe, what does “year” mean?
MOE: Year is when it’s cold.
TOMMY (Brightening): Yes, I know.
MOE: Sometimes he holds out his hands and says: “How’s the little fella? How’s the little champ?” And I give him a look! I wasn’t born yesterday. He hasn’t got anything to sell to me.
TOMMY: Moe—where’s your mommy? (Silence) Moe, she’s not here. Where’s your mommy? You don’t hate your mommy, do you?
MOE (Turning his face sideways, cold and proud): I don’t care about her. She’s always away. She goes away for years. She laughs at me . . . with that man. He says: “All right, fall down, stupid,” and she laughs. I try to talk to her and she goes away all the time and does, “Hello—jugga—jugga—jugga—goo-bye!” If she don’t care about me any more, I don’t care about her any more. Goo-bye! (Silence)
TOMMY: Say some more, Moe, say some more things.
MOE (Low and intense): Maybe I am stupid. Maybe I’ll never be able to walk or make talk. Maybe they didn’t give me good feet or a good mouth. —You know what I think? I think they don’t want us to walk and to get good and get better. They want us to stop. That’s what I think. (His voice has risen to a hysterical wail) Goddam! Hell! (He starts throwing cloth elephants and giraffes out of the carriage) I’m not going to try. Nobody wants to help me and lots of time is passing and I’m not getting bigger, and . . . and . . . (Anticlimax) I’m sleepeee . . . (He continues to whimper)
(Millie wakes up. She goes gingerly to Moe’s carriage and joggles it.)
MILLIE: Moe! What’s the matter, Moe? “Rockabye, baby, in the treetop—” (Moe wails more loudly) Oh, goodness, gracious me. (In desperation) Moe! Do you know that that street is called Central Park West? And then there’s Columbus Avenue? And then there’s Amsterdam Avenue? And then there’s Broadway? (Moe has hushed) And then there’s West End Avenue. (She can hardly believe her luck; she whispers) And then there’s Riverside Drive. (She peers into the carriage a long time, then tiptoes to the other end of the stage; with clenched fists) I hate babies. (Toward Tommy) I hate you—sticking your crazy face into my business—frightening Officer Avonzino, the only man I’ve talked to in six months. I hate you—always butting in. I have a right to my own life, haven’t I? My own life! I’m sick to death of squalling, smelling, gawking babies . . . I’d be a stenographer only I don’t know anything; nobody ever taught me anything . . . “Manhattan, the Bronx”—what do I care what keeps you quiet? You can yell your heads off for all I care! I don’t know why nature didn’t make it so that people came into the world already grown-up—instead of a dozen and more years of screaming and diapers and falling down and breaking everything . . . and asking questions! “What’s that?” “Why-y-y?” “Why-y-y?” . . . Officer Avonzino will never come back, that’s certain! . . . Oh, what do I care? You’re going to grow up to be men—nasty, selfish men. You’re all alike. (Drying her eyes, she picks up her novel from Tommy’s carriage and strolls off the stage at the back)
(Moe’s head, now solemn and resolute, rises slowly.)
MOE: Tommy! . . . Tommy!
TOMMY (Appearing): I’m tired.
MOE: You know what I’m going to do, do you?
TOMMY: No—what, Moe?
MOE: I’m just going to lie still.
TOMMY: What do you mean, Moe?
MOE: I’ll shut my eyes and do nothing. I won’t eat. I’ll just go away-away. Like I want Daddy to do.
TOMMY (Alarm): No, Moe! Don’t go where people can walk on you!
MOE: Well, I will . . . You know what I think? I think people aren’t SERIOUS about us. “Little piggie went to market, cradle will fall, Manhattan, the Bronx”—that’s not serious. They don’t want us to get better.
TOMMY: Maybe they do.
MOE: Old people are only interested in old people. Like kiss-kiss-kiss; that’s all they do; that’s all they think about.
TOMMY (Eagerly): Ye-e-es! Miss’a Millie, all the time, kiss-kiss-kiss, but she don’t mean me; she means the policerman.
MOE: We’re in the way, see? We’re too little, that’s how. I don’t want to be a man—it’s too hard! (He disappears)
TOMMY (With increasing alarm): Moe! . . . Moe! . . . Don’t stop talking, Moe! . . . MOE!
(Millie returns hastily.)
MILLIE: Now what’s the matter with you? I’ll spank you. Always crying and making a baby of yourself.
TOMMY (At the same time; frantic): Moe’s going away-away. He’s not going to eat any more. Go look at Moe . . . Do something. Do something!
MILLIE: What is the matter with you? Why can’t you be quiet like Moe? (She goes and looks in Moe’s carriage and is terrified by what she sees) Help! . . . Hellllp! The baby’s turned purple! Moe! Have you swallowed something?—(She dashes to the audience exit) Officer Avonzino! Officer! Hellllp! —Oh, they’ll kill me. What’ll I do?
(Officer Avonzino rushes in from the audience.)
AVONZINO: What’a matter, Miss Wilchick; you gone crazy today?
MILLIE (Gasping): . . . look . . . he’s turned black, Officer Avonzino . . . His mother’s over at the museum. Oh . . . I don’t know what to do.
(Officer Avonzino, efficient but unhurried, opens his tunic and takes out his handbook. He hunts for the correct page.)
AVONZINO: First, don’t scream, Miss Wilchick. Nobody scream. Babies die every day. Always new babies. Nothing to scream about . . . Babies turn black—so! Babies turn blue, black, purple, all the time. Hmph: “Turn baby over, lift middle . . .” (He does these things) “Water . . .” (To Millie) Go to nurses over there . . . twenty nurses . . . Bring back some ippycack.
MILLIE: Oh, Officer . . . help me. I’m fainting.
AVONZINO (Furious): Faintings on Sundays—not workdays, Miss Wilchick.
MILLIE (Hand to head): Oh . . . oh . . .
(Officer Avonzino catches her just in time and drapes her over the bench like a puppet.)
AVONZINO: “Lesson Thirty-Two: Let Mother Die. Save Baby.” I get water. (He dashes off)
(Tommy raises his head.)
TOMMY: Moe! Don’t be black. Don’t be black. You’re going to walk soon. And by and by you can go to school. And even if they don’t teach you good, you can kind of teach yourself. (Moe is sobbing) Moe, what’s that noise you’re making? Make a crying like a baby, Moe. —Soon you can be big and shave. And be a policerman. And you can make kiss-kiss-kiss . . . and make babies. And, Moe—
MOE (Appearing): Don’t talk to me. I’m tired. I’m tired.
TOMMY: And you can show your babies how to walk and talk.
MOE (Yawning): I’m . . . tire’ . . . (He sinks back)
TOMMY (Yawning): I’m tired, tooooo. (He sinks back)
(Officer Avonzino returns with a child’s pail of water. He leans over Moe.)
AVONZINO (Astonished): What’a matter with you!! You all red again. You not sick. Goddamn! Tricks. Babies always doing tricks. (Shakes Millie) Miss Wilchick! Wake up! Falsa alarm. Baby’s okay.
MILLIE (Coming to, dreamily): Oh, Officer . . . (Extending her arms amorously) Oh you’re so . . . handsome . . . Officer . . .
AVONZINO (Sternly): “Lesson Eleven: No Personal Remarks with Public.” (Shouts) It’s going to rain: better take George Washington home . . . and Dr. Einstein, too.
MILLIE: Oh! How is the Boker baby?
AVONZINO: Boker baby’s a great actor. Dies every performance. Thousands cheer.
MILLIE (Pushes Tommy toward exit): Oh, I can’t go until
Mrs. Boker comes back. (Peers out)—Oh, there she comes, running. See her?
AVONZINO: You go. I take care of baby til a’momma comes. (At exit Millie turns for a heartfelt farewell; he points billy stick and commands her) Go faint, Miss Wilchick! (She goes out. Avonzino addresses Moe) I’d like to make your damn bottom red. I know you. All you babies want the whole world. Well, I tell you, you’ve got a long hard road before you. Pretty soon you’ll find that you can cry all you want and turn every color there is—and nobody’ll pay no attention at all. Your best days are over; you’ve had’m. From now on it’s all up to you—George Washington, or whatever your name is.
(Enter Mrs. Boker, breathless.)
MRS. BOKER: Oh!!
AVONZINO: I sent Miss Wilchick home. (Pointing toward rain) You better start off yourself.
MRS. BOKER (Pushing the carriage to the exit): Has everything been all right, Officer?
AVONZINO: Just fine, lady, just fine. Like usual: babies acting like growed-ups; growed-ups acting like babies.
MRS. BOKER: Thank you, Officer. (She goes out)
(Officer Avonzino, shading his eyes, peers down the aisle through the audience. Suddenly he sees something that outrages him. Like a Keystone cop he does a double take and starts running through the audience, shouting:)
AVONZINO: Hey there!! You leave that baby carriage alone! Don’t you know what’s inside them baby carriages? . . .
END OF PLAY
Childhood
A COMEDY
CHARACTERS
CAROLINE, the oldest daughter, twelve
DODIE, her sister, ten
BILLEE, her brother, eight
MOTHER
FATHER
SETTING
A suburban house and yard.
Some low chairs at the edges of the arena. These at first represent some bushes in the yard of the children’s home. At the back, the door to the house; the aisle through the audience serves as a path to the street. Enter from the house Caroline, twelve; Dodie, ten; and, with a rush, Billee, eight.
DODIE: Shh! Shh! Don’t let Mama hear you! Car’line, Car’line, play the game. Let’s play the game.
CAROLINE: There’s no time, silly. It takes time to play the game.
BILLEE: Play Goin’ to China.
CAROLINE: Don’t talk so loud; we don’t want Mama to hear us. Papa’ll be here soon, and we can’t play the game when Papa’s here.
DODIE: Well, let’s play a little. We can play Going to a Hotel.
BILLEE (Clamorously): I want to be Room Service. I want to be Room Service.
CAROLINE: You know Going to a Hotel takes hours. It’s awful when you have to stop for something.
DODIE (Quickly): Car’line, listen, I heard Mama telephoning Papa and the car’s got to be fixed and Papa’s got to come home by a bus, and maybe he’ll never get here and we can play for a long time.
CAROLINE: Did she say that? Well, come behind the bushes and think.
(They squat on their haunches behind the bushes.)
BILLEE: Let’s play Hospital and take everything out of Dodie.
CAROLINE: Let me think a minute.
MOTHER (At the door): Caroline! Dodie!
(Silence.)
Dodie, how often do I have to tell you to hang your coat up properly? Do you know what happened? It fell and got caught under the cupboard door and was dragged back and forth. I hope it’s warm Sunday, because you can’t wear that coat. Billee, stand out for a moment where I can see you. Are you ready for your father when he comes home? Come out of the bushes, Billee, come out.
(Billee, a stoic already, comes to the center of the stage and stands for inspection. Mother shakes her head in silence; then:)
I simply despair. Look at you! What are you children doing anyway? Now, Caroline, you’re not playing one of those games of yours? I absolutely forbid you to play that the house is on fire. You have nightmares all night long. Or those awful games about hospitals. Really, Caroline, why can’t you play Shopping or Going to School? (Silence) I declare. I give up. I really do. (False exit) Now remember, it’s Friday night, the end of the week, and you give your father a good big kiss when he comes home. (She goes out)
(Billee rejoins his sisters.)
DODIE (Dramatic whisper): Car’line, let’s play Funeral! (Climax) Car’line, let’s play ORPHANS!
CAROLINE: We haven’t time—that takes all day. Besides, I haven’t got the black gloves.
(Billee sees his father coming through the audience. Utter and final dismay.)
BILLEE: Look’t! Look!
DODIE: What?
ALL THREE: It’s Papa! It’s Papa!
(They fly into the house like frightened pigeons. Father enters jauntily through the audience. It’s warm, and he carries his coat over his shoulder. Arriving at the center of the stage, he places his coat on the ground, whistles a signal call to his wife, and swinging an imaginary golf club, executes a mighty and very successful shot.)
FATHER: Two hundred and fifty yards!
MOTHER (Enters, kisses him and picks up the coat): Why, you’re early, after all.
FATHER: Jerry drove me to the corner. Picked up a little flask for the weekend.
MOTHER: Well, I wish you wouldn’t open your little flask when the children are around.
FATHER (Preparing a difficult shot): Eleventh hole . . . Where are the children?
MOTHER: They were here a minute ago. They’re out playing somewhere . . . Your coat on the ground! Really, you’re as bad as Dodie.
FATHER: Well, you should teach the children—little trouble with the dandelions here—that it’s their first duty . . . when their father comes home on Friday nights . . . (Shouts) Fore, you bastards! . . . to rush toward their father . . . to grovel . . . abject thanks to him who gave them life.
MOTHER (Amused exasperation): Oh, stop that nonsense!
FATHER: On Friday nights . . . after a week of toil at the office . . . a man wants to see . . . (He swings) his wives and children clinging to his knees, tears pouring down their cheeks. (He stands up very straight, holding an enormous silver cup) Gentlemen, I accept this championship cup, but I wish also to give credit to my wife and children, who drove me out of the house every Sunday morning . . . Where are the children? Caroline! Dodie!
MOTHER: Oh, they’re hiding somewhere.
FATHER: Hiding? Hiding from their father?
MOTHER: They’re playing one of those awful games of theirs. Listen to me, Fred: those games are morbid; they’re dangerous.
FATHER: How do you mean, dangerous?
MOTHER: Really! No one told me when I was a bride that children are half crazy. I only hear fragments of the games, naturally, but do you realize that they like nothing better than to imagine us—away?
FATHER: Away?
MOTHER: Yes—dead?
FATHER (His eye on the shot): One . . . two . . . three! Well, you know what you said.
MOTHER: What did I say?
FATHER: Your dream.
MOTHER: Pshaw!
FATHER (Softly, with lowest insinuation): Your dream that . . . you and I . . . on a Mediterranean cruise . . .
MOTHER: It was Hawaii.
FATHER: And that we were—ahem!—somehow . . . alone.
MOTHER: Well, I didn’t imagine them dead! I imagined them with Mother . . . or Paul . . . or their Aunt Henrietta.
FATHER (Piously): I hope so.
MOTHER: You’re a brute, and everybody knows it . . . It’s Caroline. She’s the one who starts it all. And afterwards she has those nightmares. Come in. You’ll see the children at supper.
FATHER (Looking upward): What has the weatherman predicted for tomorrow?
MOTHER (Starting for the house): Floods. Torrents. You’re going to stay home from the golf club and take care of the children. And I’m going to the Rocky Mountains . . . and to China.
FATHER: You’ll be back by noon. What does Caroline say in her nightmares?
MOTHER: Oh! When she’s awake, too. You and I are—awa
y. Do you realize that that girl is mad about black gloves?
FATHER: Nonsense.
MOTHER: Caroline would be in constant mourning if she could manage it. Come in, come in. You’ll see them at supper. (She goes out)
FATHER (He strolls to the end of the stage farthest from the house and calls): Caroline! (Pause) Dodie! (Pause) Bill-eeee!
(Silence. He broods aloud, his eyes on the distance.)
No instrument has yet been discovered that can read what goes on in another’s mind, asleep or awake. And I hope there never will be. But once in a while, it would help a lot. Is it wrong of me to wish that . . . just once . . . I could be an invisible witness to one of my children’s dreams, to one of their games? (He calls again) Caroline!
(We are in the game which is a dream. The children enter as he calls them, but he does not see them and they do not see him. They come in and stand shoulder to shoulder as though they were about to sing a song before an audience. Caroline carries a child’s suitcase and one of her mother’s handbags; she is wearing black gloves. Dodie also has a suitcase and handbag, but no gloves.)
CAROLINE: Dodie! Hurry before they see us.
FATHER: Dodie!
DODIE: Where’s Billee gone?
FATHER (Being bumped into by Billee as he joins his sisters): Billee!
(Father enters the house. Mother glides out of the house and takes her place at the farther end of the stage and turns and faces the children. She is wearing a black hat, deep black veil and black gloves. Her air is one of mute acquiescent grief. Caroline glances frequently at her mother as though for prompting. A slight formal pause.)
CAROLINE: I guess, first, we have to say how sorry we are.