glass

(Sitting and crouching before Laura on RIGHT OF COUCH.)

Why are you trembling so, Laura?

Mother, you've made me nervous.

Why, how have I made you nervous?

By all this fuss! You make it seem so important.

I don't understand you at all, honey.

Every time I try to do anything for you that's the least bit different you just seem to set yourself against it.

Now take a look at yourself.

(Looks down at and adjusts clothes. Starts for mirror.)

No, wait! Wait just a minute—

I forgot something.

What is it?

A couple of improvements.

(Coming up to Laura, preparing powder puffs.)

When I was a girl we had round little lacy things like this and we called them "Gay Deceivers."

I won't wear them!

Of course you'll wear them.

Why should I?

Well, to tell you the truth, honey, you're just a little bit flat-chested.

You make it seem like we were setting a trap.

We are. All pretty girls are a trap and men expect them to be traps.

Now look at yourself in the glass.

(Goes to mirror. Looks at self in mirror.)

See? You look just like an angel on a postcard.

(Adjusts Laura's posture to have her chest out.)

Isn't that lovely?

Now you just wait. I'm going to dress myself up. You're going to be astonished at your mother's appearance.

(Listens to dance music.)

(offstage) I found an old dress in the trunk. But what do you know? I had to do a lot to it but it broke my heart when I had to let it out.

(Enters UP LEFT DOOR, holding bunch of jonquils.)

Now, Laura, just look at your mother.

(Goes to CENTER.)

Oh, no! Laura, come look at me now!

Oh, mother, how lovely!

It used to be. It used to be. It had a lot of flowers on it, but they got awful tired so I had to take them all off.

I led the cotillion in this dress years ago. I won the cake-walk twice at Sunset Hill, and I wore it to the Governor's ball in Jackson. You should have seen your mother. You should have seen your mother how she just sashayed around the ballroom, just like that.

I had it on the day I met your father. I had malaria fever, too. The change of climate from East Tennessee to the Delta—weakened my resistance. Not enough to be dangerous, just enough to make me restless and giddy.

Oh, it was lovely. Invitations poured in from all over. My mother said, "You can't go any place because you have a fever. You have to stay in bed." I said I wouldn't and I took quinine and kept on going and going.

Dances every evening and long rides in the country in the afternoon and picnics. That country—that country—so lovely—so lovely in May, all lacy with dogwood and simply flooded with jonquils.

My mother said, "You can't bring any more jonquils in this house." I said, "I will," and I kept on bringing them in anyhow. Whenever I saw them I said, "Wait a minute, I see jonquils," and I'd make my gentlemen callers get out of the carriage and help me gather some.

To tell you the truth, Laura, it got to be a kind of a joke. "Look out," they'd say, "here comes that girl and we'll have to spend the afternoon picking jonquils."

My mother said, "You can't bring any more jonquils in the house, there aren't any more vases to hold them." "That's quite all right," I said,

"I can hold some myself."

Malaria fever, your father and jonquils.

(Hears thunder. Exiting UP RIGHT DOOR.)

I hope they get here before it starts to rain.

I gave your brother a little extra change so he and Mr. O'Connor could take the service car home.

Mother!

What's the matter now? (Re-entering room.)

What did you say his name was?

O'Connor. Why?

What is his first name?

I don't remember—

Oh, yes, I do too—

it was—Jim!

Oh, Mother, not Jim O'Connor!

Yes, that was it, it was Jim!

I've never known a Jim that wasn't nice.

Are you sure his name was Jim O'Connor?

Why, sure I'm sure. Why?

Is he the one that Tom used to know in high school?

He didn't say so. I think he just got to know him—at the warehouse.

There was a Jim O’Connor we both knew in high school. If that is the one that Tom is bringing home to dinner—

Oh, Mother, you’d have to excuse me, I wouldn’t come to the table!

What's this now? What sort of silly talk is this?

You asked me once if I'd ever liked a boy. Don't you remember I showed you this boy's picture?

You mean the boy in the yearbook?

Yes, that boy.

Laura, Laura, were you in love with that boy?

I don’t know, Mother. All I know is that I couldn’t sit at the table if it was him.

It won’t be him! It isn’t the least bit likely.

But whether it is or not, you will come to the table—you will not be excused.

I’ll have to be, Mother.

I don’t intend to humor your silliness, Laura. I’ve had too much from you and your brother, both.

So just sit down and compose yourself till they come.

Tom has forgotten his key, so you’ll have to let them in when they arrive.

Oh, Mother—you answer the door!

How can I when I haven’t even finished making the mayonnaise dressing for the salmon?

Oh, Mother, please answer the door, don’t make me do it!

Honey, do be reasonable!

What’s all this fuss about—

just one gentleman caller—that’s all—just one!

(The doorbell rings. Laura catches her breath and touches her throat. More thunder heard off-stage.)

(offstage) Laura, sweetheart, the door!

Mother, please, you go to the door!

(offstage, in a fierce whisper) What is the matter with you, you silly thing?

Please you answer it, please.

Why have you chosen this moment to lose your mind? You go to that door.

I can’t.

Why can’t you?

Because I’m sick.

You’re sick! Am I sick? You and your brother have me puzzled to death. You can never act like normal children. Will you give me one good reason why you should be afraid to open a door? You go to that door. Laura Wingfield, you march straight to that door!

Yes, Mother.

(Stopping Laura.) I've got to put courage in you, honey, for living.