The Magic Tower and Other One-Act Plays (15 page)

JIM
: She let us in.

AMANDA
: Oh, yes! You’ll have to excuse her for making a late appearance. We have no servant and Laura prepared the dinner. Thank heavens my daughter is more domestic than I was! I was a giddy young thing, as pretty as Laura. A little prettier even, if you can believe it!

JIM
: It’s not hard to believe.

AMANDA
: Well, I was, and I married a handsome man. A very remarkably good-looking man. His picture’s there! So you can see for
yourself. Tom Wingfield the First, that gallantly smiling gentleman over the Victrola! [
Jim rises to look
.]

JIM
: He certainly was good looking.

AMANDA
: No doubt about that! A girl can do no worse than put herself at the mercy of—a handsome appearance! Character’s what to look for in a man. Sterling qualities, that’s what counts in the world! What was I telling you? Oh, yes Tom Wingfield, the children’s father. They hardly remember his face! He just disappeared, walked off one morning and didn’t come back that night. A few months later I received a postcard from Hawthorne, California, saying on
it—
“Working on a squab ranch!” Tell me, what is a squab ranch, do you know?

JIM
: I guess it’s
a—

AMANDA
: Place where they raise pigeons! Something like that! The most improbable statement in the world! And went on to say “I’ll send you some money as soon as I get paid!” But, Mr.
Delaney—the
man was never paid! Ha-ha-ha! Must have
never
been paid. . . ha-ha-ha! Well, five years later another post-card came, this one from Mexico. Ha-ha-ha! The capital city of Mexico, with a picture
of—parrots
or something!
Well—
“Dear Amanda. Hope you’re well and happy. Much love. Tom!” Ha-ha-ha! That was the last we heard of Tom Wingfield the First. So you can see that Tom Wingfield the Second has a lot to live up to, and let me tell
you—
I’ve
had to scratch for existence! Don’t let anyone tell you a woman deserted with children to take care of has a bed of roses! A bed
of—
briers
I’ve lived in! But why am I telling you all my earthly sorrows, when there’s so much that’s
pleasant
to talk about?
Tom—is
Laura getting the dinner on the table?

TOM
: No, she isn’t.

AMANDA
:
What
?—Oh!—Please
excuse me. I guess that Laura hasn’t
finished—dressing
. I must
see
. [
She flounces prettily out, her musical laughter still ringing
.]

TOM [
gloomily
]: You see what I mean? A perennial southern belle.

JIM [
recovering slowly
]: She can—
talk!

TOM
: Oh, yes.

JIM
[
wiping his forehead
]: Wonderful—a woman like that!

TOM
: Would you like to live with her?

JIM
: Like to? Why not!

TOM
:
Well—
[
Amanda trips back in the upstage area with some dishes
.]

AMANDA
: Are you talking about me? Am I the subject of discussion in there? Mr. Delaney, do you think I’m awful? Do you think I’m
a—Laura
, dear? Everything’s ready!

LAURA
[
off
]: I’m not coming out! [
Amanda laughs quickly to cover up
.]

AMANDA
: My children compare me to—No, I won’t say, I won’t tell you! You’d think they were cruel, and they don’t mean to be cruel. It’s just that I’m of a—different generation, a different background. I still belong to the South, to Mississippi, where there was—gentle—living!
Gracious
living!
Kindness!
I ought to learn to be cold in the northern way, but I much prefer to stay the way that I am! My children will have to put up with a silly old mother they say looks like a witch! [
Enters portieres
.] Mr.
Delaney—Jim!—
Do I look like a witch?

JIM
[
abashed
]: A—what?

AMANDA
: A
witch!
That’s what they
call
me! I guess you wonder what I’ve done to deserve
such—castigation!
Well, I’ll tell you! I’ve pushed, I’ve driven, I’ve given myself no rest! I’ve sold subscriptions over the telephone. I’ve worked as an artist’s model at the Washington Art School, standing in cruel positions for hours of time! I’ve taken in sewing, I’ve cooked at the high school cafeteria down on Newstead. I’ve modeled for matron’s dresses at Famous & Barr. I’ve hired myself out as a practical nurse to horrible invalid women who’ve pinched and scratched me and made me ashamed to be human! I’ve done all
those
things, which was very bad of me, and so I am now like a
witch!
—And
my children tell me I am
and—
[
She nearly bursts into tears
.
Turning quickly
.] Dinner
is—served!
[
Composing herself, she turns quickly and makes a little cringing courtesy
.]
Gentlemen—dinner
is served!

AMANDA
[
meltingly
]:
Jim—Jim,
Jim! I’m going to take your arm into dinner, just as if the band was playing and this was a banquet hall! Let’s imagine it is a banquet hall, all decorated
with—palms!
And beveled glass around the ivory walls! And chandeliers, all blazing to blind our eyes! I made my debut in Vicksburg at such an affair! And in New Orleans I was presented to society in the old Saint Charles hotel. I happened to have rich relatives in both cities who made things lovely, lovely! The Cartwrights were the Cotton Kings of the South! That’s all gone now, all
changed—all
fallen to pieces, and here I
am—on
Maple Street in Saint Louis. Now I’ll relinquish your arm! You sit over there, that side of our little table.
Laura?
—
Laura
,
dear!
Tom, sit at the head of the table. It isn’t a pheasant, it’s just
a—salmon
loaf!

JIM
: It sure looks good, Mrs. Wingfield. It sure does smell good, too.

AMANDA
:
Laura?—
Oh, Laura, we’re waiting to say grace for you! Please hurry dear! [
To Jim
.] Laura’s my chief cook and bottle washer!

JIM
: And what’s Shakespeare?

AMANDA
:
Shakespeare?—
Oh! You mean
Tom
. [
She gurgles and leans over to catch Tom
’
s arm and presses her head prettily against his shoulder
.]

AMANDA
: Why, Tom is my right-hand
bower!
Only I’m sorry to hear you call him Shakespeare. I’m afraid that means he’s been writing down at the warehouse. He’s already lost five jobs from not devoting himself to his work. And if he’s going to lose this
one—
Well, I give up!
Laura!
We
can’t
say Grace until you come to the
table!
[
Her eyes flashing
.] We
won’t say
Grace until you come to the table!

LAURA
[
coldly
]: Where is my place, please?

AMANDA
: Next to our gentleman caller—the place of honor.

LAURA
:
—Oh.
Is there room for two places on this side of the table?

AMANDA
: It’s such a tiny table, but we’ll make room, don’t worry. We just have to be chummy, and if our feet get tangled under the table, nobody’s going to think anybody is flirting!

TOM
[
enduring no more
]: Mother, if you’ll keep
still—I’ll
say the Grace!

AMANDA
[
clutching her throat
]:
Excuse
me! [
She winks at Jim
,
then prettily folds her hands and bows her head
.]

TOM
[
in a rapid mumble
]: “For these and all thy mercies, God’s Holy Name be
praised—Through
Christ our Lord, Amen.”

AMANDA
[
catching her breath
]: Oh, how you race
through
it! Let’s be seated, all.
I’m
kind of
hungry
. How about
you
all?

JIM
: I can sure eat something.

AMANDA
: I never saw a man that couldn’t eat. [
Serving the peas
.] Laura, what pretty crystal beads you’re wearing! [
Laura says nothing
.] Where did you get them, Laura?

LAURA
[
angrily
]: I got them at the five and ten cent store!

AMANDA
: Why, Laura, I
thought—Why
, I thought
surely
some rich old man had given them to you! [
To Jim
.] Neither of my children have any humor. In spite of the fact that I was always laughing as a girl, so much so that the Presbyterians in Blue Mountain thought my soul was damned! And their
father—well—excessive
sobriety was never
his
characteristic! He had
charm
, I’ll have to say that for him. One poor girl was certainly swept off her feet. Tom, give Mr. Delaney that nice crisp piece off the end, and put a little parsley on each plate. It isn’t put there just for ornamentation. My grandfather used to say, “Grass is only for
cows!”—when
given lettuce. A brilliant old
gentleman!—
Ran for Senator of Alabama!
But—
drank!
Laura, please sit up straight at the table, don’t hunch over like that! Both of you children, sit up straight at the table. [
Reaches over to give them each a pat
.]

LAURA
[
icily
]:
Mother—please!

AMANDA
: Just look at Mr. Delaney and copy his posture. See how straight he is sitting! I think it’s a mark of character, sitting up straight at the table. Mr.
Delaney—Jim—I
bet you’ve had some military training.

JIM
: I haven’t yet, Mrs. Wingfield. But from what you see in the papers, it looks like I might get some pretty soon.

AMANDA
[
throwing up her hands
]: Oh! Don’t talk about it! If there’s a war and this country’s drawn into it, I’ll just
die!—
Just!—die!

TOM
: Don’t make rash promises, Mother.

AMANDA
: No, I mean it. If Tom had to go off to war—!

JIM
: I don’t think Shakespeare would ever get in the army.

AMANDA
: No? Why not?

JIM
: Well—he’s the dreamy type that wouldn’t be useful.

AMANDA
: The dreamy type! Oh, Tom—your
reputation! And
I so wanted my son to be known as a real live wire, the go-getter
type!—
Not dreamy. I tell you, we could
use
a wide-awake man in this establishment. Are
you
wide-awake, Mr. Delaney?

JIM
: Me? I’m an old workhorse.

AMANDA
: You and I! The workhorses of the world! My children are dreamers. I know you
are
wide-awake. I’ll tell you a secret. I went down and looked at you.

JIM
:
Me?—
Where?

AMANDA
: At the warehouse. [
Laura drops her fork
.] I’d heard Tom speak of a nice young man at the warehouse, so when I was down to buy some bedroom slippers, I made him point you out! My, how you were working! It did me good to see such—application! For that’s such a valuable thing the way things are! You can’t—underestimate it. And Tom—so slow, so dreamy—not quite seeming to know where anything was! While you were bustling around with such—assurance. . .

JIM
: The way I look at it
is—

AMANDA
: How do you look at it?

JIM
: There’s three types in the world.

AMANDA
: Oh! Three? What are they?

JIM
:
One—the
workhorses of the world.

AMANDA
:
—Oh
.

JIM
: They do what they’re told to do and at the end of each day they’re given some oats to feed on. Enough to provide the energy for tomorrow.

AMANDA
: Mr. Delaney, you surprise me a little.

JIM
:
Yeah?—
Why?

AMANDA
: A statement like
that—I
mean,
so—analyzing
! But go on! What’s number two?

JIM
: Type number two is the drivers! The managers of the workhorses, and owners of them. They portion out the oats and lock up the stable door when the work day is
over—open
it in the morning. [
Grins
.] I’ve got this all figured out. But then there is type number three.

AMANDA
: Which type is that?

JIM
: The Dreamy Type.

AMANDA
: My children?

JIM
:
—Shakespeare—like
him, for instance! He doesn’t fit into either classification. He can’t work and he wouldn’t drive.

AMANDA
: Can’t work?