August: Osage County by Tracy Letts Page B

selfish son-of-a-bitch, his silence, his melancholy . . . he could have, for me, for us, for all of us, he could have helped us, included us, talked to us.
     
    IVY: You might not have liked what you heard. What if the truth of the matter is that Beverly Weston never liked you? That he never liked any of us, never had any special feeling of any kind for his children?
     
    BARBARA: You know that’s not true.
     
    IVY: Do I? How? Do you ?
     
    KAREN: You said you were his favorite.
     
    IVY: Only because he recognized a kindred spirit.
     
    BARBARA: Mm, sorry, but your little theory, your “accidental genetics,” that doesn’t fly, not with me. I believe he had a responsibility to something greater than himself; we all do.
     
    IVY: Good luck with that.
     
    KAREN: I just can’t believe your worldview is that dark.
     
    IVY: You live in Florida.
     
    BARBARA: When are you and Little Charles leaving?
     
    IVY: Weeks, if not days. And his name is Charles.
     
    BARBARA: Are you telling Mom?
     
    IVY: I’m trying to figure that out.
     
    BARBARA: What about your job, your house?
     
    IVY: I’ve been taking care of myself a lot longer than you’ve been in charge. Karen, you’re going back to Miami, right?
     
    KAREN: Yes.
     
    (Violet descends the stairs.)
     
     
    IVY: There you go, Barb. You want to know what we’re going to do about Mom? Karen and I are leaving. You want to stay and deal with her, that’s your decision; if you don’t like it, that’s your prerogative. But nobody gets to point a finger at me. Nobody.
     
    (Shaky but mainly lucid, Violet enters, knocking softly.)
     
     
    VIOLET: Hello? Am I interrupting anything?
     
    (Ad-libs: “Not at all,” “Come in,” etc.)
     
     
    BARBARA: You had a bath?
     
    VIOLET: Mm-hm.
     
    BARBARA: You need something to eat, or drink?
     
    VIOLET: No.
     
    BARBARA: You want some more coffee?
     
    VIOLET: No, honey, I’m fine.
     
    (Violet sits, exhales. Karen picks up a hand cream from the bedside table, rubs it on her hands.)
     
     
     
    You girls all together in this house. Just hearing your voices outside the door gives me a warm feeling. These walls must’ve heard a lot of secrets.
     
    KAREN: I get embarrassed just thinking about it.
     
    VIOLET: Oh . . . nothing to be embarrassed about. Secret crushes, secret schemes . . . province of teenage girls. I can’t imagine anything more delicate, or bittersweet. Some part of you girls I just always identified with . . . no matter how old you get, a woman’s hard-pressed to throw off that part of herself. (To Karen, regarding the hand cream) That smells good.
     
    KAREN: Doesn’t it? It’s apple. You want some?
     
    VIOLET: Yes, please.
     
    (Karen passes the hand cream to Violet.)
     
     
     
    I ever tell you the story of Raymond Qualls? Not much story to it. Boy I had a crush on when I was thirteen or so. Real rough-looking boy, beat-up Levis, messy hair. Terrible underbite. But he had these beautiful cowboy boots, shiny chocolate leather. He was so proud of those boots, you could tell, the way he’d strut around, all arms and elbows, puffed-up and cocksure. I decided I needed to get a girly pair of those same boots and I knew he’d ask me to go steady, convinced myself of it. He’d see me in those boots and say, “Now there’s the gal for me.” Found the boots in a window downtown and just went crazy: I’d stay up late in bed, praying for those boots, rehearsing the conversation I was going to have with Raymond when he saw me in my boots. Must’ve asked my momma a hundred times if I could get those boots. “What do you want for Christmas, Vi?” “Momma, I’ll give all of it up just for those boots.” Bargaining, you know? She started dropping hints about a package under the tree she had wrapped up, about the size of a boot box, real nice wrapping paper. “Now, Vi, don’t you cheat and look in there before Christmas morning.” Little smile on her face. Christmas morning, I was up like a shot,