Etiquette and Vitriol (25 page)

CLAIRE:
You delight in tormenting me.

TONY
(Out)
: It is fun.

CLAIRE:
I loathe you. I absolutely abhor you. I'll never speak to you again as long as I live.

TONY:
That's a relief.

CLAIRE:
You're evil.

TONY:
You adore me.

CLAIRE:
Say you'll dress.

TONY:
We'll see.

(They kiss.)

CLAIRE:
Don't you understand? This is an opportunity. It's a place to meet people. You never know where you're going to sell a painting. Please don't argue about it. And besides, I want tonight to be special. My husband comes home tomorrow and I'll have to spend some time with him.

TONY
(Getting a drink)
: I don't see why.

CLAIRE:
Because I have to. He's my husband.

TONY:
I don't believe you are married. I've never met this phantom husband. I think he's a figment.

CLAIRE:
I'm married and he returns tomorrow, so this is our last night of reckless abandon. For a while at least—I want to make love in the fountain at Lincoln Center! We've never done it in the fountain at Lincoln Center!

TONY:
And you want me to dress?

CLAIRE
(Coy)
: I'll buy you a suit in the morning.

TONY:
Promise?

CLAIRE:
Anything.

(They kiss and hold their embrace. Amy enters, unnoticed by them.)

AMY:
I'm going to kill myself. I want to die.

(They ignore Amy. As a result, she becomes highly dramatic.)

I said, I'm going to kill myself!!—Mother?

CLAIRE
(Looking about)
: Amy?

AMY:
I don't want to live any longer. I want to die!

TONY
(Turning Claire toward him)
: Darling?

CLAIRE:
Pet.

(Tony and Claire resume necking as Amy tries, vainly, to gain Claire's attention.)

AMY:
What is life anyway but a hollow, sinking sham? I'm so tired of everything: the random absurdity, the bleak hopelessness, the utter despair. What's wrong with me? I'm so pretty. Men are nothing but genetics gone mad! I'd like to take a gun and kill them all—I know! I'll become a lesbian! I don't mind women. I find women appealing. I enjoy looking at myself.

CLAIRE
(Turning her head)
: Did you—

TONY:
Your tongue tastes divine!

CLAIRE:
I've had a mint!

(Tony and Claire resume necking.)

AMY:
Although a bullet to my head would be quicker. Mother, do you have a gun?

CLAIRE
(Turning her head)
: I've no idea. Look in my purse.

TONY:
You smell like fresh bread.

CLAIRE:
You lynx!

(Tony and Claire resume necking.)

AMY:
I WOULD LIKE SOME ATTENTION PLEASE!!

(All three are shocked by Amy's force.)

Thank you.

CLAIRE:
Did you say something?

AMY:
I announced my imminent suicide.

CLAIRE:
Don't be rude, dear. Greet your uncle Tony.

AMY:
He's not my uncle.

CLAIRE:
Good enough.

AMY:
I'm not stupid. I have no uncles. You and Daddy have no siblings and I won't pretend you do.

TONY:
She seems disturbed.

AMY:
I'm right here in the room. Don't discuss me in the third person!

CLAIRE:
Tony, you are pathologically sensitive to my daughter's moods.

TONY:
Thank you.

AMY:
It's over!

CLAIRE:
What's over?

TONY:
Should we guess?

CLAIRE:
Ooooo, what fun!

AMY:
Everything is over. My youth, my life, my relationship with Maxwell.

TONY
(To Claire)
: You smell like Hershey's Kisses.

CLAIRE:
And you've a thrilling profile. You should be on a coin.

(Tony and Claire resume necking.)

AMY:
As you know, Maxwell and I have been seeing each other steadily for several months. I thought he loved me. I thought he cared about me. But everything is transient. After every summer dies the swan!

CLAIRE:
Maxwell? Maxwell? Was he that young man with the prosthetic limb?

AMY:
No, Mother! That was Anton! Don't you care about me at all?

CLAIRE:
Did you want honesty, or support?

AMY:
Maxwell is beautiful, inside and out. He's a poet. He burns with the adolescent rage of alienated youth. He tattooed my name on his private parts!

TONY:
Ick.

AMY:
You are so bourgeois. He's completely in touch with the collective unconscious. He writes sonnets from the bowels and colon of his soul.

CLAIRE:
My.

TONY:
You smell like glass.

(As Amy speaks, Tony kisses Claire, working his way down her body. Claire attempts to conceal her growing frenzy by pretending to listen to Amy. Amy gets a drink as she speaks.)

AMY:
The point is, I told Maxwell that I'm carrying his child inside me, growing in my uterus as a tribute to our love. And you know what he said to me? He said, “Amy, how do I know it's my child?” “I know,” I said, “because I haven't been with anyone else since that perfect night we met at Cynthia Tipton's house.” And he said, “Really?” Because
he didn't think we had that kind of relationship. And besides, he told me, everyone knew I'd had a tryst with Roul Bender—or did he mention Daryl Smyth? One night at Felix Omar's house, I'd had too much to drink and was passed from hand to hand, like a dish of salted nuts. “But Maxwell,” I begged, “I was blotto!” And he responded, “Were you drunk with Xavier Sutton?”
(She sips her drink)

Is this Scotch? I don't like Scotch. Oh well.
(She downs her drink and pours another)

“That was one night. It was nothing. You're my life and my breath!” He grew very cold and informed me that any one of those men could be the father of my child and he was going away with this person named Sherri, whom, I might add, is as fat as a mule and as dumb as a post. How could he prefer her to me? “Can't we discuss this? Find a solution?” But he said he had to go, and he withdrew from me. Off he went . . . out of my life . . . to social studies. So here am I, left with child to lick my wounds. I just want to die!
(She down her drink)

I know! I'll drink myself to death. I don't mean the slow way where the liver fails. I mean, I'll just stand here and drink and drink, until my guts explode!

CLAIRE
(On the verge of ecstasy)
: I'm sorry, what?

AMY:
I'm in trouble. What kind of mother are you? What's wrong with you?

CLAIRE:
I'm in love!

AMY:
I'm in pain!

TONY:
I'm running late.

CLAIRE:
No!

TONY:
I have to go.

CLAIRE:
Don't leave me with her. She's creepy.

AMY:
Do we have any gimlet mix?

TONY:
You want me to change my clothes?

CLAIRE:
Oh yes, that's right. It slipped what I laughingly refer to as my mind. Dash home and throw on a blazer or something.

AMY:
Vermouth?

CLAIRE:
But do hurry back. We'll have a cocktail before we go.

TONY:
Of course.

(Tony and Claire kiss.)

Charming as always, Amy.

CLAIRE:
Are you back yet?

TONY:
I'll fly!
(He exits)

CLAIRE:
I feel flushed. Do I look flushed?

AMY:
How do you make a vodka collins?

CLAIRE:
Isn't Tony darling? I could drown myself in his eyes!

AMY:
Have you gone suddenly deaf?

CLAIRE:
I don't think so. Say something.

AMY:
You're a maggot-ridden crust of a woman with the morals of a tiger slug.

CLAIRE:
No, no. I heard that.

AMY:
My God.
(She drinks)

CLAIRE:
Have you ever seen shoulders like his?

AMY:
Like whose?

CLAIRE:
Like Tony's.

AMY:
Yes, as it happens, I have.

CLAIRE:
What do you mean?

AMY:
Skip it.

CLAIRE:
I think you could be more gracious to Tony, dear.

AMY
(Panicked)
: Don't call me dear.

CLAIRE:
Pudding?

AMY:
No. You only call me dear when you can't remember my name.

CLAIRE:
Don't be absurd. You're my daughter.

AMY:
All right. What is it?

CLAIRE
(Panicked)
: I'll not be cross-questioned like this.

AMY:
You can't remember, can you?

CLAIRE:
I think you're drunk. Have you been adding soda water?

AMY:
My name, Mother.

CLAIRE:
I don't want to play this game. I don't care for it. Let's play another—I spy something taupe! You guess!

AMY:
I don't want to.

CLAIRE:
Canasta? Bridge? Quick round of freeze tag?

AMY:
I can't believe you've forgotten my name!

CLAIRE:
I haven't!

AMY:
Prove it.

CLAIRE:
Oh, all right . . . Gertrude?

AMY:
Oh my.

CLAIRE:
Well, it could be. You've been drinking more than you ought.

AMY:
I'm living a nightmare.

CLAIRE:
Don't tell me! Sheila?

AMY:
You're insane.

CLAIRE:
I was never good with names. Good with faces, bad with names.

AMY:
But you named me!

CLAIRE:
All right, all right! . . . What does it start with?

AMY:
A.

CLAIRE:
A? A. A. A. A? A. A, huh? Alice? Alex? Allison?

AMY:
No.

CLAIRE:
Anita? Abigail? Arthur?

AMY:
Arthur?

CLAIRE:
Axle? Algenon! Albatross!

AMY:
Dear God.

CLAIRE:
Algebra!

AMY:
Amy! Amy! My name is Amy!

CLAIRE:
No, no. That's not it.

AMY:
I should know my own name.

CLAIRE:
Produce identification.

AMY:
My name is Amy.

CLAIRE:
Well, fine. If you say so. I believe you're mistaken, but I've no wish to quarrel.

AMY:
Oh Mother, why did you adopt me?

CLAIRE:
I didn't adopt you. I had you myself.

AMY:
This comes as a grave disappointment.

CLAIRE:
I remember it distinctly. It hurt quite a bit.

AMY:
I loathe you.

CLAIRE:
Hand me my purse, would you darling? I feel pale.