Long Day's Journey into Night (Yale Nota Bene) (8 page)

The second girl,
CATHLEEN
,
enters from the back parlor. She carries a tray on which is a bottle of bonded Bourbon, several whiskey glasses, and a pitcher of ice water. She is a buxom Irish peasant, in her early twenties, with a red-cheeked comely face, black hair and blue eyes—amiable, ignorant, clumsy, and possessed by a dense, well-meaning stupidity. She puts the tray on the table. Edmund pretends to be so absorbed in his book he does not notice her, but she ignores this.

With garrulous familiarity.

Here’s the whiskey. It’ll be lunch time soon. Will I call your father and Mister Jamie, or will you?

Without looking up from his book.

You do it.

It’s a wonder your father wouldn’t look at his watch once in a while. He’s a divil for making the meals late, and then Bridget curses me as if I was to blame. But he’s a grand handsome man, if he is old. You’ll never see the day you’re as good looking—nor Mister Jamie, either.

She chuckles.

I’ll wager Mister Jamie wouldn’t miss the time to stop work and have his drop of whiskey if he had a watch to his name!

Gives up trying to ignore her and grins.

You win that one.

And here’s another I’d win, that you’re making me call them so you can sneak a drink before they come.

Well, I hadn’t thought of that—

Oh no, not you! Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, I suppose.

But now you suggest it—

Suddenly primly virtuous.

I’d never suggest a man or a woman touch drink, Mister Edmund. Sure, didn’t it kill an uncle of mine in the old country.

Relenting.

Still, a drop now and then is no harm when you’re in low spirits, or have a bad cold.

Thanks for handing me a good excuse.

Then with forced casualness.

You’d better call my mother, too.

What for? She’s always on time without any calling. God bless her, she has some consideration for the help.

She’s been taking a nap.

She wasn’t asleep when I finished my work upstairs a while back. She was lying down in the spare room with her eyes wide open. She’d a terrible headache, she said.

His casualness more forced.

Oh well then, just call my father.

Goes to the screen door, grumbling good-naturedly.

No wonder my feet kill me each night. I won’t walk out in this heat and get sunstroke. I’ll call from the porch.

She goes out on the side porch, letting the screen door slam behind her, and disappears on her way to the front porch. A moment later she is heard shouting.

Mister Tyrone! Mister Jamie! It’s time!

Edmund, who has been staring frightenedly before him, forgetting his book, springs to his feet nervously.

God, what a wench!

He grabs the bottle and pours a drink, adds ice water and drinks. As he does so, he hears someone coming in the front door. He puts the glass hastily on the tray and sits down again, opening his book. Jamie comes in from the front parlor, his coat over his arm. He has taken off collar and tie and carries them in his hand. He is wiping sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Edmund looks up as if his reading was interrupted. Jamie takes one look at the bottle and glasses and smiles cynically.

Sneaking one, eh? Cut out the bluff, Kid. You’re a rottener actor than I am.

Grins.

Yes, I grabbed one while the going was good.

Puts a hand affectionately on his shoulder.

That’s better. Why kid me? We’re pals, aren’t we?

I wasn’t sure it was you coming.

I made the Old Man look at his watch. I was halfway up the walk when Cathleen burst into song. Our wild Irish lark! She ought to be a train announcer.

That’s what drove me to drink. Why don’t you sneak one while you’ve got a chance?

I was thinking of that little thing.

He goes quickly to the window at right.

The Old Man was talking to old Captain Turner. Yes, he’s still at it.

He comes back and takes a drink.

And now to cover up from his eagle eye. He memorizes the level in the bottle after every drink.

He measures two drinks of water and pours them in the whiskey bottle and shakes it up.

There. That fixes it.

He pours water in the glass and sets it on the table by Edmund.

And here’s the water you’ve been drinking.

Fine! You don’t think it will fool him, do you?

Maybe not, but he can’t prove it.

Putting on his collar and tie.

I hope he doesn’t forget lunch listening to himself talk. I’m hungry.

He sits across the table from Edmund—irritably.

That’s what I hate about working down in front. He puts on an act for every damned fool that comes along.

Gloomily.

You’re in luck to be hungry. The way I feel I don’t care if I ever eat again.

Gives him a glance of concern.

Listen, Kid. You know me. I’ve never lectured you, but Doctor Hardy was right when he told you to cut out the redeye.

Oh, I’m going to after he hands me the bad news this afternoon. A few before then won’t make any difference.

Hesitates—then slowly.

I’m glad you’ve got your mind prepared for bad news. It won’t be such a jolt.

He catches Edmund staring at him.

I mean, it’s a cinch you’re really sick, and it would be wrong dope to kid yourself.

Disturbed.

I’m not. I know how rotten I feel, and the fever and chills I get at night are no joke. I think Doctor Hardy’s last guess was right. It must be the damned malaria come back on me.

Maybe, but don’t be too sure.

Why? What do you think it is?

Hell, how would I know? I’m no Doc.

Abruptly.

Where’s Mama?

Upstairs.

Looks at him sharply.

When did she go up?

Oh, about the time I came down to the hedge, I guess. She said she was going to take a nap.

You didn’t tell me—

Defensively.

Why should I? What about it? She was tired out. She didn’t get much sleep last night.

I know she didn’t.

A pause. The brothers avoid looking at each other.

That damned foghorn kept me awake, too.

Another pause.

She’s been upstairs alone all morning, eh? You haven’t seen her?

No. I’ve been reading here. I wanted to give her a chance to sleep.

Is she coming down to lunch?

Of course.

Dryly.

No of course about it. She might not want any lunch. Or she might start having most of her meals alone upstairs. That’s happened, hasn’t it?

With frightened resentment.

Cut it out, Jamie! Can’t you think anything but—?

Persuasively.

You’re all wrong to suspect anything. Cathleen saw her not long ago. Mama didn’t tell her she wouldn’t be down to lunch.

Then she wasn’t taking a nap?

Not right then, but she was lying down, Cathleen said.

In the spare room?

Yes. For Pete’s sake, what of it?

Bursts out.

You damned fool! Why did you leave her alone so long? Why didn’t you stick around?

Because she accused me—and you and Papa—of spying on her all the time and not trusting her. She made me feel ashamed. I know how rotten it must be for her. And she promised on her sacred word of honor—

With a bitter weariness.

You ought to know that doesn’t mean anything.

It does this time!

That’s what we thought the other times.

He leans over the table to give his brother’s arm an affectionate grasp.

Listen, Kid, I know you think I’m a cynical bastard, but remember I’ve seen a lot more of this game than you have. You never knew what was really wrong until you were in prep school. Papa and I kept it from you. But I was wise ten years or more before we had to tell you. I know the game backwards and I’ve been thinking all morning of the way she acted last night when she thought we were asleep. I haven’t been able to think of anything else. And now you tell me she got you to leave her alone upstairs all morning.

She didn’t! You’re crazy!

Placatingly.

All right, Kid. Don’t start a battle with me. I hope as much as you do I’m crazy. I’ve been as happy as hell because I’d really begun to believe that this time—

He stops—looking through the front parlor toward the hall—lowering his voice, hurriedly.

She’s coming downstairs. You win on that. I guess I’m a damned suspicious louse.

They grow tense with a hopeful, fearful expectancy. Jamie mutters.

Damn! I wish I’d grabbed another drink.

Me, too.

He coughs nervously and this brings on a real fit of coughing. Jamie glances at him with worried pity. Mary enters from the front parlor. At first one notices no change except that she appears to be less nervous, to be more as she was when we first saw her after breakfast, but then one becomes aware that her eyes are brighter, and there is a peculiar detachment in her voice and manner, as if she were a little withdrawn from her words and actions.

Goes worriedly to Edmund and puts her arm around him.

You mustn’t cough like that. It’s bad for your throat. You don’t want to get a sore throat on top of your cold.

She kisses him. He stops coughing and gives her a quick apprehensive glance, but if his suspicions are aroused her tenderness makes him renounce them and he believes what he wants to believe for the moment. On the other hand, Jamie knows after one probing look at her that his suspicions are justified. His eyes fall to stare at the floor, his face sets in an expression of embittered, defensive cynicism. Mary goes on, half sitting on the arm of Edmund’s chair, her arm around him, so her face is above and behind his and he cannot look into her eyes.

But I seem to be always picking on you, telling you don’t do this and don’t do that. Forgive me, dear. It’s just that I want to take care of you.

I know, Mama. How about you? Do you feel rested?

Yes, ever so much better. I’ve been lying down ever since you went out. It’s what I needed after such a restless night. I don’t feel nervous now.

That’s fine.

He pats her hand on his shoulder. Jamie gives him a strange, almost contemptuous glance, wondering if his brother can really mean this. Edmund does not notice but his mother does.