August: Osage County (17 page)

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Authors: Tracy Letts

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IVY: Charles and I are going to New York.

(Barbara bursts out laughing.)

BARBARA: What the hell are you going to do in New York?

IVY: We have plans.

BARBARA: Like what?

IVY: None of your business.

BARBARA: You can’t just go to New York.

IVY: This isn’t whimsy. This isn’t fleeting. This is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, for anybody. Charles and I have something rare, and extraordinary, something very few people ever have.

KAREN: Which is what?

IVY: Understanding.

BARBARA: What about Mom?

IVY: What about her?

BARBARA: You feel comfortable leaving Mom here?

IVY: Do you?

(No response.)

You think she was difficult while Dad was alive? Think about what it’s going to be like now. You can’t imagine the cumulative effect, after a month, after a year, after many years. You can’t imagine. And even if you could, you can only imagine for yourself, for yourself, the favorite.

BARBARA: Christ, Mom pulled that on me the other day about Dad, that I was his favorite.

IVY: Well . . . that’s not true. You weren’t his favorite. I was. You’re Mom’s favorite.

BARBARA:
What?

KAREN: Thanks, Ivy.

IVY: You don’t think so? Good God, Barb, I’ve lived my life by that standard.

BARBARA: She said Dad was heartbroken when we moved to Boulder—

IVY: Mom was heartbroken, not Dad. She was convinced you left to get away from her.

KAREN: If you were Daddy’s favorite, you must take his suicide kind of personally.

IVY: Daddy killed himself for his own reasons.

BARBARA: And what were those reasons?

IVY: I won’t presume.

BARBARA: Aren’t you angry with him?

IVY: No. He’s accountable to no one but himself. If he’s better off now, and I don’t doubt he is, who are we to begrudge him that?

BARBARA:
His daughters.

KAREN:
Yeah—

BARBARA: And I’m fucking furious. The selfish son-of-a-bitch, his silence, his melancholy . . . he could have, for me, for us, for all of us, he could have helped us, included us, talked to us.

IVY: You might not have liked what you heard. What if the truth of the matter is that Beverly Weston never liked you? That he never liked any of us, never had any special feeling of any kind for his children?

BARBARA: You know that’s not true.

IVY: Do I? How? Do
you
?

KAREN: You said you were his favorite.

IVY: Only because he recognized a kindred spirit.

BARBARA: Mm, sorry, but your little theory, your “accidental genetics,” that doesn’t fly, not with me. I believe he had a responsibility to something greater than himself; we
all
do.

IVY: Good luck with that.

KAREN: I just can’t believe your worldview is that dark.

IVY: You live in Florida.

BARBARA: When are you and Little Charles leaving?

IVY: Weeks, if not days. And his name is Charles.

BARBARA: Are you telling Mom?

IVY: I’m trying to figure that out.

BARBARA: What about your job, your house?

IVY: I’ve been taking care of myself a lot longer than you’ve been in charge. Karen, you’re going back to Miami, right?

KAREN: Yes.

(Violet descends the stairs.)

IVY: There you go, Barb. You want to know what we’re going to do about Mom? Karen and I are leaving. You want to stay and deal with her, that’s your decision; if you don’t like it, that’s your prerogative. But nobody gets to point a finger at me. Nobody.

(Shaky but mainly lucid, Violet enters, knocking softly.)

VIOLET: Hello? Am I interrupting anything?

(Ad-libs: “Not at all,” “Come in,” etc.)

BARBARA: You had a bath?

VIOLET: Mm-hm.

BARBARA: You need something to eat, or drink?

VIOLET: No.

BARBARA: You want some more coffee?

VIOLET: No, honey, I’m fine.

(Violet sits, exhales. Karen picks up a hand cream from the bedside table, rubs it on her hands.)

You girls all together in this house. Just hearing your voices outside the door gives me a warm feeling. These walls must’ve heard a lot of secrets.

KAREN: I get embarrassed just thinking about it.

VIOLET: Oh . . . nothing to be embarrassed about. Secret crushes, secret schemes . . . province of teenage girls. I can’t imagine anything more delicate, or bittersweet. Some part of you girls I just always identified with . . . no matter how old you get, a woman’s hard-pressed to throw off that part of herself.
(To Karen, regarding the hand cream)
That smells good.

KAREN: Doesn’t it? It’s apple. You want some?

VIOLET: Yes, please.

(Karen passes the hand cream to Violet.)

I ever tell you the story of Raymond Qualls? Not much story to it. Boy I had a crush on when I was thirteen or so. Real rough-looking boy, beat-up Levis, messy hair. Terrible underbite. But he had these beautiful cowboy boots, shiny chocolate leather. He was so proud of those boots, you could tell, the way he’d strut around, all arms and elbows, puffed-up and cocksure. I decided I needed to get a girly pair of those same boots and I knew he’d ask me to go steady, convinced myself of it. He’d see me in those boots and say, “Now there’s the gal for me.” Found the boots in a window downtown and just went crazy: I’d stay up late in bed, praying for those boots, rehearsing the conversation I was going to have with Raymond when he saw me in my boots. Must’ve asked my momma a hundred times if I could get those boots. “What do you want for Christmas, Vi?” “Momma, I’ll give all of it up just for those boots.” Bargaining, you know? She started dropping hints about a package under the tree she had wrapped up, about the size of a boot box, real nice wrapping paper. “Now, Vi, don’t you cheat and look in there before Christmas morning.” Little smile on her face. Christmas morning, I was up like a shot, boy, under the tree, tearing open that box. There was a pair of boots, all right . . . men’s work boots, holes in the toes, chewed-up laces, caked in mud and dog shit. Lord, my momma laughed for days.

(Silence.)

BARBARA: Please don’t tell me that’s the end of that story.

VIOLET: Oh, no. That’s the end.

KAREN: You never got the boots?

VIOLET: No, huh-uh.

BARBARA: Okay, well, that’s the worst story I ever heard. That makes me wish for a heartwarming claw hammer story.

(Elsewhere in the house: Jean and Steve win the card game with an exclamation of triumph. The players disperse.)

VIOLET: No, no. My momma was a nasty, mean old lady. I suppose that’s where I get it from.

(An awkward moment.)

KAREN: You’re not nasty-mean. You’re our mother and we love you.

VIOLET: Thank you, sweetheart.

(Karen kisses Violet’s cheek.)

BARBARA: Hey you all, I need to talk to Mom for a minute.

KAREN: Sure.

(Ivy and Karen exit.)

BARBARA: How’s your head?

VIOLET: I’m fine, Barb. Don’t worry about that.

BARBARA: I’m sorry.

VIOLET: Please, honey—

BARBARA: No, it’s important that I say this. I lost my temper and went too far.

VIOLET: Barbara. The day, the funeral . . . the pills. I was spoiling for a fight and you gave it to me.

BARBARA: So . . . truce?

VIOLET (Laughs): Truce.

BARBARA: What do you want to do?

VIOLET: How do you mean?

BARBARA: Don’t you think you should consider a rehab center, or—?

VIOLET: Oh, no. I can’t go through that. No, I can do this. I’m pretty sure I can.

BARBARA: Really?

VIOLET: Yes. Well, look, you got rid of my pills, right?

BARBARA: All we could find.

VIOLET: I don’t have that many hiding places.

BARBARA: Mom, now, come on.

VIOLET: You wanna search me?

BARBARA: Uh . . . no.

VIOLET: If the pills are gone, I’ll be fine. Just take me a few days to get my feet under me.

BARBARA: I can’t imagine what all this must be like for you right now. I just want you to know, you’re not alone in this.

(No response.)

How can I help?

VIOLET: I don’t need help.

BARBARA: I want to help.

VIOLET: I don’t need your help.

BARBARA: Mom.

VIOLET: I don’t need your
help
. I’ve gotten myself through some . . .
(Stops, collects herself)
I know how this goes: once all the talking’s through, people go back to their own nonsense. I know that. So don’t you worry about me. I’ll manage. I get by.