Etiquette and Vitriol by Nicky Silver Page A

getting married.
    TOMMY: Assuming you approve, and Mr. Duncan too, of course.
    EMMA: Tommy?
    GRACE: I see.
    EMMA: And, well, that’s what I wanted to tell you.
    (Grace sits.)
    Well?
    GRACE: Well what?
    EMMA: What do you think?
    GRACE (After a moment) : How long have you known my daughter, Mr.—
    TOMMY: McKorckle.
    EMMA: Call him Timmy.
    TOMMY: Tommy.
    EMMA: Sorry.
    TOMMY: Three weeks.
    GRACE: That’s not very long.
    EMMA: It’s long enough.
    GRACE: I see. Do you drink?
    EMMA: Mother.
    GRACE: I don’t trust a man who drinks. My father’s brother drank and suffered fits of kleptomania.
    TOMMY: I don’t drink.
    GRACE: Emma? Have you been doing things you oughtn’t?
    EMMA: Of course not.
    TOMMY: Socially, sometimes.
    GRACE: You wouldn’t remember if you had.
    TOMMY: Wine with dinner.
    GRACE: Let me see your hands.
    TOMMY: Pardon me?
    GRACE (Inspecting Tommy) : You don’t wear jewelry, do you? No necklace under your shirt?
    TOMMY: No ma’am.
    GRACE: I don’t trust a man with a necklace.
    EMMA: He doesn’t wear jewelry, Mother.
    TOMMY: Does a watch count?
    GRACE: Men who wear jewelry are repulsive. It’s a sign of weakness. It’s not natural. Wouldn’t you agree?
    TOMMY: I never thought about it.
    GRACE: Some men have to wear medic-alert necklaces. That’s understandable. They’re epileptic, or allergic to penicillin. But beyond that, men in jewelry are aberrations, criminals against nature. They’re freaks and we want nothing to do with them.
    TOMMY: I don’t wear any jewelry.
    GRACE: Thank goodness.
    EMMA: Why aren’t you happy for me Mother?
    GRACE: I am. This just comes as a shock. One day you’re sitting in your room, all by yourself, not a friend in the world, and the next you’re getting married —(To Tommy) tell me something about yourself.
    TOMMY: I think I can make Emma happy. I know she makes me happy. From the moment I saw her—
    GRACE: Tell me about your family.
    TOMMY: I have no family.
    GRACE: Oh. Why’s that?
    TOMMY: I’m an only child.
    GRACE: Oh?
    TOMMY: And my parents died when I was six.
    GRACE: That is too bad. An accident?
    TOMMY: Heart attacks.
    GRACE: How odd.
    EMMA: He was raised by acrobats!!
    GRACE: I’m only taking an interest.
    EMMA: What difference does it make about his family?
    GRACE: Please. I’m not judging. I’m only asking. You tell me you plan to marry this young man. Now, what kind of mother would I be if I showed only a cursory interest?
    TOMMY: It’s all right. I was raised by nuns at the orphanage on City Line.
    GRACE: How cunning of you.
    EMMA: Must you be so condescending?
    GRACE: I have no idea what you mean. Do you know what she means?
    TOMMY: I lived with the nuns for twelve years.
    GRACE: Were they kind?
    TOMMY: Not really.
    GRACE: I’m so sorry.
    TOMMY: But the priests were giving.
    GRACE: I bet they were.
    EMMA: What do you mean?
    GRACE: I’ve heard stories.
    EMMA: What stories?
    TOMMY: The nuns kept mostly to themselves.
    GRACE: And now?
    TOMMY: I’m sure they’re still involved. They had inseverable ties.
    GRACE: No, no. You.
    EMMA: What kind of stories?
    TOMMY: I’ve broken off completely. Although I still get letters from Father O’Hara, who seems fixated.
    GRACE: That’s not what I meant.
    EMMA: My stomach hurts.
    GRACE: What do you do now?
    EMMA: There’s something in my stomach.
    GRACE: You do work?
    TOMMY: I’m a waiter.
    GRACE (As if she does not recognize the word) : A waiter?
    TOMMY: At Salad City.
    GRACE: I’m unfamiliar.
    TOMMY: On Suburban Square.
    EMMA: That’s where we met.
    GRACE: How touching.
    TOMMY: It’s very nice, really. We do a big lunch trade. Salads mostly.
    GRACE: I assumed.
    TOMMY: I was just a busboy then.
    EMMA: He scratched and clawed his way to waiter.
    TOMMY: I have ambitions.
    GRACE: It’s obvious. You have winning ways.
    EMMA: You may not be able to tell by looking at him now,