Etiquette and Vitriol (30 page)

VIVIAN:
Please stop!!

TONY
(Kissing her repeatedly, lowering himself)
: You have beautiful shoulders.

VIVIAN:
They hold up my arms.

TONY:
What lovely breasts!

VIVIAN:
They hold up my nipples.

TONY:
And what perfect nipples!

VIVIAN:
They don't hold anything up—well, occasionally, my blouse.

TONY:
They're fantastic!

VIVIAN:
They're fine. They're nice, they're fine. I've always liked them.

TONY:
They're spectacular!

VIVIAN:
The left one's nice. I hate the right.

TONY
(Lower)
: And a tiny waist!!

VIVIAN:
Oh God! It's suddenly as warm in here as the ninth circle of Dante's inferno!

TONY
(Disappearing behind the sofa)
: AND A DELICIOUS—

VIVIAN:
OH MY GOD!!!

TONY
(Out of sight)
: A banquet!! A feast!!

VIVIAN
(Sinking out of sight)
: AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

TONY:
Let go! Just let yourself go!!

VIVIAN:
OH GOD! WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME!? IT'S SO WARM!! IT'S VERY, VERY—

(Tony's head pops up, Vivian's panties in his teeth. He spits them out.)

OH GOD—THERE! THERE! YES, RIGHT THERE! DON'T STOP! NEVER! NEVER STOP! MAKE LOVE TO ME! YES! YES! YES! MAKE LOVE TO MEEEEE!!!

(Amy is enjoying this very much. Philip enters.)

PHILIP:
VIVIAN!!

(Amy draws the curtain on Act I. We hear “Let's Misbehave.”)

 

As the audience returns, we hear “Do, Do, Do,” recorded by Gertrude Lawrence. As the song ends, Amy opens the chiffon drape, revealing Claire's bedroom. Claire is alone, seated at her dressing table, adjusting her hair and makeup. She addresses the audience. For Claire, only a moment has passed since she left the stage in Act I
.

CLAIRE:
I have, for a long time, been a person who
tries
to see the best in others. I have, always, tried to see the beauty in all things. No matter how
grotesque
. And I find, more and more, I live in a grotesque world. Isn't everything ugly all of a sudden? I do not understand, I must admit, what passes for music in this age. But then, I force myself to remember that my mother did not understand my music, and I try to see the beauty in giving in, giving way, like a weeping willow bending gracefully in the inevitable face of gravity.
(She glances into the mirror and is momentarily sidetracked)

My mother was a sad woman to begin with, and then, when I was eight years old, she lost a baby. And her sadness became exaggerated to the point of farce.

(Returning to her point)
This morning, I went to the
dressmaker, to be fitted for a dress. I walked to the shop. It's not very far and I enjoy what's left of the fresh air. And I enjoy seeing people. Or I did. You see, more and more people seem to feel it all right to behave anyway they choose. For instance, more and more people seem to be— How shall I put this?—
Spitting
. I do not approve of this. Sometimes they walk over to the curb and spit into the street, as if this were so much better than spitting in the middle of the pavement. It's not. And apparently plenty of people feel as I do and they spit right where they are. And not just men, but women too! With hairdos and skirts. Now, I want to see the beauty in all of this, but it's
very
hard. It is eight blocks from my door to the dressmaker's and I must've passed thirty-five people spitting in the first three. Is it something in the air? Is it a byproduct of auto exhaust that has everyone spitting so continually? Now, I am willing to blame an awful lot on the industrial revolution, but not this, this sudden spitting frenzy. No!
(She glances at her bed, and loses her train of thought)

When my sister died in my mother's womb, my father buried his head in bottles and, I suspect, under the covers of strange beds.

(Returning)
At any rate, after the third block of my walk, I started counting these people who committed what I considered were affronts against civilization. Have we learned nothing in the past five thousand years? Don't these
people
, these
spitters
, realize that we all have to live together, and I would no sooner want to see their
expectorations
as I would their
bowel movements
? You may think me silly, but I believe that all the wars and suffering and prejudice and hate come down to nothing more than an unwillingness to understand each other. If we would only allow each other the space of our dignity, we would save so much time and trouble, and the money that we spend on nuclear weapons could be given to the New York City Ballet, who really do lovely work, that no one could find fault with!

As I was saying, I started counting “spitters.” And within the next three blocks, I counted thirteen more—well, actually I counted fourteen. But I allowed for one man who was also muttering to himself, and barking, from time to time, like a dog. I believe this man was suffering from, the once little-known, suddenly fashionable, disease called
“Tourette's syndrome.”
I saw a story all about it on a television news magazine, and I was, therefore, in a position to be sympathetic. My aesthetic is not so rigid that it doesn't allow for legitimate illness.
I
have never been sick a day in my life— but when I was eighteen, my father developed cancer of the pancreas and died. And he left me a great deal of money.

I don't know why my mind keeps wandering back to my parents. It's not what I intended, because something happened this morning, and I'm trying to get to that. But my mind keeps wandering off in tangents. A dear friend of mine once told me I spoke in a
baroque
fashion. I've no idea what she meant, but I'm sure it wasn't a compliment. Oh well, I never liked her anyway!

Oh, I'll get to my point, the thing that happened. I will. But right now I can't help remembering my mother's face at my father's funeral. It was long. She had a long face. Like a Modigliani painting. I've
never
liked Modigliani, although I found the Off-Broadway play about him, several seasons back, mildly entertaining. Still, I thought Mother was lovely. She had more dimension than his paintings. And she moved. Slowly. She possessed the grace of a ballet dancer and the alacrity of a pachyderm—I'm using sarcasm to make a point. She was languid in an era when things considered beautiful actually were. Before minimalism creeped into our landscape, when we could see farther and were unhindered by the cataract of modernism. I seem to see her all the time as a ballet dancer, in a Degas painting. I've
always
liked Degas, and I feel badly that they never made a play about him. But Mother was lovely. And before “the baby,” as we euphemistically referred to her miscarriage,
she was melancholy, but serene. Her hands were white, and she never wore nail polish. Every year at Christmas she would tie bows on handmade presents, her fingers dancing 'round the ribbons. And she
worshipped
my father, who was enormous. He had to be six and a half feet tall, with feet as big as tennis rackets. He scared me, truth be told. He would be very quiet, but inside there was an anger, building up, building over something, it could be anything. And then all of a sudden he would explode! And fists went flying and plates and tempers.—But he never swore. Which is odd. And makes him seem, somehow, less masculine, in my mind. But after “the baby,” things changed
drastically
.

Mother, whom I mentioned was laconic to begin with, became absolutely
inert
. I don't mean the days immediately following, which, of course, she spent in bed. But the days became weeks and she wouldn't budge. She
never
got out of bed of her own accord. After about three weeks, we, my father and I, foisted her into a sitting position and put a book in her lap. We tilted her head so she was in a position to read. But she didn't! I sat there and stared and stared, and her eyes never touched a word! I said to her, “Mother, why don't you read?” . . . . . . . . “I do not care to,” she responded. Resolutely.

Oh. Well. If she didn't care to, she didn't care to. There was little arguing. So at day's end, we put the book on her nightstand and turned out her lamp. In the morning, we tried again. “Why don't you read, Mother? You might enjoy it.” “I do not care to.” Hmmm. After about a week of “the book game,” I went with my father into her room. We tried to interest her in getting up, getting dressed. “I do not care to.” This was a woman of definite likes and dislikes. But my father had decided this “bed-rest thing” had gone on long enough. Perhaps, being a woman himself and only recently having had an unborn baby die in his belly, he felt he was the best judge.—I'm using sarcasm to make a point. So, we lifted her out of bed. This was easy. He was
big. She was small. And he held her up, rather like a marionette, while I dressed her. Now, I was eight, and naturally jealous that I'd been replaced as the center of the house, so I put her in a very ugly outfit! Plaid skirt, floral sweater, two different earrings and so on. “We're going for a walk!” my father informed her. And she responded—exactly right! “I do not care to.” But out we went and, flanked on either side, she greeted the fresh air. We looked like Oscar Levant, Fred Astaire, and a drug-ridden Nanette Fabray, three strong in strides from
The Bandwagon
!

Now don't misunderstand me. She was not catatonic. No. She was not a zombie. She just chose not to. From that day on, she chose not to. We pretty much had to prop her up all over the place. We'd stand her at the stove, and she'd cook something—although her disinterest in the project usually resulted in dinners of pudding and peas. Or my favorite: Aspirin! She just reached up, into the cupboard and cooked what she grabbed.
(She is really enjoying herself)

Oh, we'd prop her up in front of the radio. We'd put a vacuum in her hand and she's clean the same spot, over and over again . . . until it was immaculate! At first, I didn't mind at all. It was like having this huge doll that really did wet herself. And I'd have my friends over after school to play with her. But, before long, I grew bored . . . the way children do. And as the years passed, my father came home later and later, leaving her to me. And he never yelled anymore. And he never threw things.

By the time he died he seemed very sad. That was a terrible time, the time he died. I was eighteen.—Oh, I said that. And although he left me ample money to have someone take care of her, I didn't feel I could leave my mother. Besides, I was still in high school, where I was considered very pretty and everyone liked my stories. I was
always
charming, even then. And in an era where chastity was vogue, I was liberal with my favors. I was very popular with any number of young men attending NYU and Columbia,
and even as far away as Princeton. It wasn't that I liked sex so much. Because I didn't. Then. I don't know. I was too giggly to really dictate what I wanted. And besides, that was unheard of then.

(With authority)
Women today are very lucky that it's become fashionable to actually indicate to their bed partners the location of their clitoris—excuse me, EXCUSE ME, but it's true.

But I was never stupid. And I saw my peccadilloes as escape routes. Remember, I was still propping her up and picking her clothes and cooking for her, unless I was willing to dine on Ajax, which she took to incorporating into her recipes the way homemakers on a budget work with tuna.

The point is, I quickly became pregnant. I never took precautions, knowing little about them, and wouldn't if I'd known more. I didn't see a doctor. I didn't have to. I knew it. I could feel it. So, I spent the next week dating the seven candidates who might be my baby's father. A couple, I was sure, would softly hold my hand all the way to their Park Avenue doctors to have my ticket to freedom scraped from inside me. But Philip was, then, a gentle man. And I could tell when he looked at me that he adored me. Even if I couldn't tell when we made love. So the following week, I informed him that I was carrying his child, and true to form, he asked me to marry him.

Three months later, my mother, who'd really deserted me ten years earlier, deserted me finally. She died of a stroke in mid-afternoon. She should have been dressed. She could have been up and doing things. But, I assume . . . she did not care to. I thought of leaving Philip, since I'd married him to escape my life, which now escaped me. But I was pregnant and he was wealthy and solicitous. In time, I had Philip, whom I loved. And Amy, whom I did not. I don't know why. Perhaps it's because she's such a graceful and delicate flower—I use sarcasm to illustrate myself.

Children are an odd phenomenon, don't you find? I
have to say, I've never really understood them. It seems so irrational to me. You create something. You carry something around, inside of you, for what seems an eternity, and then you are delivered a person. A stranger. And you can tell me otherwise, but from the minute we're born, we are people. My children had likes and dislikes from day one. Philip adored music and art and emulated me. While Amy, on the other hand, turned her nose up at my breast and never really came around!