Play About the Baby Read online

  WOMAN

  I’ve never done it.

  BOY

  (Looks at her oddly) Oh? (Considers it) Well, quite probably not; not too many women do … what? Ten percent? I mean: I don’t know you. (Afterthought) Do I? (Answers his own question) No; no, I don’t think I do. So, no, you may not have—certainly not these; certainly not. (Holds invisible melons toward her; on with his story) And … do you mind if I get hyperbolic here? Even more hyperbolic?

  WOMAN

  (Cautious) I don’t … think so.

  BOY

  Even more than I have been? I didn’t think you would. And there are the deep ravines, and the ridges, and there are a lot of temptations! Well, one in particular—two! Two!! And you do stop there on your climb, on your ascent.

  WOMAN

  To rest.

  BOY

  Oh? (Chuckles) No, not exactly; more to delve, I guess; to explore; to absorb; to die a little. But you look up—over the great sloping hill with all its jungle, and there they are! (Sighs) My goodness, there they are.

  WOMAN

  (Helping) Snow-capped, jagged …

  BOY

  (Slightly more disapproving) Who are you, lady!?

  WOMAN

  Not snowcapped? Not jagged?

  BOY

  (Quiet) No; of course not: lovely, curving slopes, almost twins. You go between them; there’s moisture there; you breathe; you press your ears gently between them and it’s the sound of giant seashells.

  WOMAN

  (Gets it) Ohhhhhhh! Ohhhhhh, I see! Those mountains; that climbing.

  BOY

  (Puzzled) Yes, of course. What else?

  WOMAN

  (Half to the BOY, half to herself) Hyperbole: of course. (Out) I should have known.

  (GIRL appears from left, naked, or as naked as the actress will allow)

  GIRL

  (To BOY) What are you doing? Are you coming back in? What are you doing?

  BOY

  (Over his shoulder) Yes; right away.

  GIRL

  (Pointing to WOMAN) Who is that?

  BOY

  (Simply) I don’t know.

  GIRL

  (Considers it) Oh. (Considers it further) Well, leave her there where you found her and come back in. You’re not finished; you’re not there yet.

  BOY

  (Backing left) Yes, I know. (To WOMAN now) Yes; goodbye; I’m not there yet.

  (They exit—BOY and GIRL—leaving WOMAN standing.)

  WOMAN

  (Waves) Farewell, intrepid traveler. (Waves off) Farewell! (Out) Where there’s a boy, there’s a girl, no? (Shrugs) Usually. (Looks at the audience) Well. I … uh … well, I suppose you’d like to know who I am, or why I’m here. (Some uncertainty) Well, I’m with him (gestures off left); that’s why I’m here; I’m with him. The man; not the boy. The man indicated me as he exited, said “Woman” and exited. Remember? That’s why I’m here—to be with him. To help … him; to … assist him. (Hand up, palm out, to abort protest) I’m not an actress; I want you to know that right off, though why you’d think I was, I mean automatically think I was, I don’t know, though I am a trifle … theatrical, I suppose, and no apologies there. I was Prince Charming in our all-girl school production of Snow White, and while the bug may have bitten, it never took. (Chuckles) Nor—and forgive the seeming discontinuity here—nor am I from the press. That’s the first thing I want you to know—well, the second, actually, the first being … having been … (Trails off; starts again) Oh, I am a very good cook, among other things. I became that to please my husband, my then husband, who was in the habit of eating out, by which he meant … alone … without me. It occurred to me that if I … well, it was no good: alone, to him, meant specifically not with me, though with others, with lots of others. And the great feasts I’d prepare … would be for me. Alone. I became quite heavy, which I no longer am, and unmarried, which I am to this day. I trust he is still eating alone … all by himself … facing a wall. (Pause) No matter. Really: from the very first week, come dinnertime, he would put the paper under his arm, say “Bye, bye,” or whatever, and … no matter. I have had journalistic dreams, though I am not a journalist—dreams of being a journalist, that is, and quite awake; not asleep. I went so far one time as to take a course; and my assignment was to interview a writer, to try to comprehend the “creative mind” as they call it. (Firm gesture) Don’t try! Don’t even give it a thought! There seems to be some sort of cabal going on on the part of these so-called creative people to keep the process a secret—a deep dark secret—from the rest of the world. What’s the matter with these people? Do they think we’re trying to steal their tricks? … would even want to!? And all I wanted to do was … understand! And, let me tell you!, getting through to them—the creative types?—isn’t easy. I mean even getting at them. I wrote politely to seven or eight of them, two poets, one biographer, a couple of short story writers, one female creator of “theatre pieces,” et cetera, and not one of them answered. Silence; too busy “creating,” I guess. (On a roll now) I remember finally I bribed someone into giving me this one guy’s agent’s name—this novelist?—and persuaded the agent to call him and see if I could call him?, and maybe talk to him?, and finding out I could do that—with no guarantees, naturally—and calling, and hitting the brick wall of the novelist’s male secretary. I don’t mean anything by that, of course. (Heavy wink) In any event, hitting that brick wall, having to repeat everything I’d said to the agent, and being told by the M.S.—the male secretary (Heavy wink)—they’d get back to me, and waiting until finally they did—I mean, really, who did they think they were … both of them!? Finally, the M.S. did call me—I was in the touchy stages of a soufflé, naturally—telling me that he was there … (does fingers as quotes) “Himself” that is: the famous novelist … and he was going to talk to me—“himself” was—and I held the receiver to my ear, expecting what?—something other than a voice? I don’t know—a choir of some sort? I held, and then his voice came … “here I am,” it said—he said—“here I am.” Odd, no? And the voice wasn’t friendly, or unfriendly, gruffer than I’d thought it would be, perhaps, just … noncommittal. “Here I am; I’m here.” I almost hung up, but I didn’t. I mean, I’d gotten this close, and if I hung up who knows when I’d get another … you know. “I’m here,” he said. And I rushed through what I wanted. “I’m studying the creative process, and I want to do it with you, through you—watching you, understanding you.” “You want to watch me while I write?!” he said, sort of incredulous, and I could sense the phone being passed back to the M.S., or just hung up, or tossed over his shoulder, or whatever. “No! Wait!” I yelled. Silence. “I’m waiting,” he finally said, no emotion at all. And I tried to explain what I really wanted.

  (GIRL, chased by BOY—naked, or close—goes from stage left to stage right, a sweet chase, giggling, etc. WOMAN senses, sees them.)

  What?! What was that?! Did two people just run nakedly across the stage, giggling? Yes? Well … why not? Where was I? Oh: “What I really want is to watch you … uh … move your words from your mind to the page.” “You’re not serious,” he said, sort of … fading away. “Oh, wait! Please; please!” I said—shouted, really. “I do want to study you! I so want to watch you move your words from your mind to the page.” The sentence was beginning to sound strange to me. I heard a kind of chuckle from him … bitter, was it? Contemptuous? “Well, that wouldn’t be much fun for anybody but you, would it … you underfoot, banging into people, asking a lot of ridiculous questions, studying everything, being an absolute …” “I’d be a mouse! I’d be a mouse!” I said—(Shrugs) mouse-like, I suppose. “Yeah, sure!” he guffawed at me, right over the phone. “Oh please; oh, please!” I whimpered. (An aside) Have you ever noticed the way we say everything twice when we’re upset? “I’ll be a mouse, I’ll be a mouse.” “Oh, please, oh, please!” Have you noticed that? I have. “Will you? Will you? It’ll only take a couple of weeks, and …” “I’d rather die,”
he said quietly … and he hung up. (Indignation) What kind of people are they?! I mean … what kind of people are they, these … these …

  (GIRL and BOY repeat their previous stage cross, but from stage right to stage left.)

  (Noticing) Two people just ran nakedly across the stage again, did they not? Giggling? No? (Businesslike) Well, then; now you know who I am not, what I do not do. As for who I am and what I do do, stay tuned.

  (MAN enters)

  You’ve had me standing out here, vamping away …

  MAN

  (Amused) Shhhhhhhh; shhhhhhhh. It’s fine; it’s fine. Come along now.

  WOMAN

  What were you doing?

  MAN

  Research? Peeing? Reparking? Whatever. (Indicates off left) Boy and girl.

  WOMAN

  Yes; I noticed.

  MAN

  That’s them. “That’s they” doesn’t sound right, though it is.

  WOMAN

  No, it doesn’t. That is them, eh?

  MAN

  Yes. How innocent they are.

  WOMAN

  Yes.

  MAN

  Pure.

  WOMAN

  Yes.

  MAN

  You’d think it was Eden, wouldn’t you.

  WOMAN

  Yes. You would.

  MAN

  Yes. (Takes her hand; indicates out) Say bye-bye.

  WOMAN

  (Out) Bye-bye.

  (They exit. GIRL, followed by BOY, comes out, peers after WOMAN.)

  GIRL

  Who is she? Who is that woman?

  BOY

  (Looking after her) Very strange.

  GIRL

  Yes.

  BOY

  I tried to talk to her. (Correcting himself) She tried to talk to me.

  GIRL

  And?

  BOY

  Very strange. She asked me if I knew who she was.

  GIRL

  What did you tell her?

  BOY

  That I didn’t.

  GIRL

  Maybe she’ll go away.

  BOY

  Maybe. (Smiles) Can I chase you some more?

  GIRL

  (Giggles) No! No, you can’t! It was fun!

  BOY

  Yes; yes it was. (Decision) I’m going to chase you some more.

  GIRL

  (Delighted) You’ll catch me. I’ll let you catch me.

  BOY

  Will you let me roll you over, lay you down, and do it again?

  GIRL

  (Giggles) Maybe. (Shyly sings:) Roll me over,

  In the clover

  Roll me over

  Lay me down

  BOY

  (Joins in; they both sing.) And do it again.

  BOY

  I like being on you.

  GIRL

  (Nice) I’ve noticed.

  BOY

  I like being in you. (Quickly) You’ve noticed; yes, I know.

  GIRL

  Yes.

  BOY

  I like sleeping with you.

  GIRL

  Yes.

  BOY

  (A smile) I like sleeping in you.

  GIRL

  Yes.

  BOY

  Saves time.

  GIRL

  Yes. Who is she? Who is that woman?

  BOY

  Is she familiar?

  GIRL

  No, not exactly. I mean, she looks like a woman, but no; not at all; not familiar at all. (An afterthought) A photograph, maybe?

  BOY

  (Shrugs) She looks like a lot of people.

  GIRL

  Yes. (Abruptly) Does she?

  BOY

  You don’t. You look like you.

  GIRL

  (Preoccupied) Oh? Does that make me happy?

  BOY

  It should.

  GIRL

  Oh, well, then, it probably does.

  BOY

  (Takes her wrist) Come with me.

  GIRL

  (Mild concern) Where?

  BOY

  In there. (Indicates stage left) I want to do something.

  GIRL

  (Greater concern) What?!

  BOY

  Something new; something we’ve never done.

  GIRL

  (Slightly worried) There isn’t anything.

  BOY

  (Pulling her) I read about something. Don’t fight me.

  GIRL

  (Some alarm) What is it?! What is it you want to do?

  BOY

  Relax into it. (Lets her wrist go; hands to his chest, mock eloquence) You’re my goal; you’re my destination. You are my moon and sun and earth and sky and … (breaks tone) on and on, and so on and so forth. (Grabs her wrist again) C’mon!

  GIRL

  No! What! What is it?!

  BOY

  (An enthusiastic confidence) It hasn’t been done for centuries; three religions outlawed it in the Middle Ages. C’mon!

  GIRL

  (Reluctantly giving in) W … e … l … l.

  BOY

  You’ll love it. (Mock tone again) You are my goal; you are my destination. (Normal tone again) C’mon, girl, let’s go!

  GIRL

  (Allowing herself to be dragged off) Not in front of the baby; whatever it is, not in front of the baby.

  BOY

  (Slightly annoyed, as they exit) Okay; okay.

  (After BOY and GIRL exit, MAN enters from right, playing blind.)

  MAN

  (To the audience, but not looking at it, of course, and not facing it.) The chairs should be right ahead of me … right … here! (Wrong) No. Further? (Bumps against stage-right chair) Ow! Yes; there it is. (Opens eyes, turns to face audience) Did she give you a good time? Spin a splendid yarn? Yes? Good. She’s good at that; she’s very good at that. Have you ever done this?—pretended to be blind? I don’t mean to offend those of you in the audience who are blind—physically blind, that is—though there are seldom many of you at plays—blind; deaf, yes; blind, seldom; which surprises me, since most good plays come at you “by the ear,” so to speak; but, then again, so do a lot of bad ones—by the ear. The tactile is underdeveloped in the sighted—in the seeing—for the most part. I was at a museum in London a few years ago—at the Royal Academy, I think—and I came upon a sculpture exhibit set up especially for the blind. There were maybe twenty pieces in the exhibit—faces, abstract forms, a few animals—and there were guides about to help the blind get to the pieces; there were roped walkways, as well. The blind were asked to touch the sculptures, investigate them, while the guides would assist—the name of the artist, the materials, the subject if need be. I watched for a little, saw the wonder, the enthusiasm of the blind, their smiles, little cries, and then I decided to do it myself—be blind and go through the exhibit by touch only. I closed my eyes, and a guide came up to me, to help me. “I’m not blind,” I said, “except I’m pretending to be, to see it, so to speak, as a blind person would. Will you help me?” This being Britain—or me being lucky—she chirped at me: “Of course! But be sure you keep your eyes tight shut!” And so I did, and it was fascinating—to see with my fingers, with my hands, to touch, as we sighted do in the dark, the way the blind do in their endless dark—in their light. There was a copy of that famous bronze sculpture of the wild boar in Florence, the one sitting on its haunches, front legs up? (Demonstrates with his arms) The one with the bronze penis rubbed golden by the hundreds of years of Florentine men touching it—for good luck, for potency. (Wonders) What about the women? Do they touch it? Have they touched it for centuries, at night, perhaps, in the dark? “You’re coming upon the Florentine boar,” she chirped—really, she chirped. “Be sure you touch its bits and pieces, for good luck.” “Its what?” I said. “Its … you know, its thing,” she said. “Oh, right,” I said. I’d done it in Florence when I was there; but this was different; this felt very different. (Sudden shift; very offhand) Have yo
u seen the baby? Cute, no? They love it, don’t they—the baby. (Some puzzlement) They really love it. I wonder how much they love it? How much they need it? Perhaps we should find out. As the lady said, stay tuned. (Puzzles more) Hunh! (A beat) Ah, well; off we go.

  (MAN exits. GIRL enters, speaks off to BOY.)

  GIRL

  That wasn’t funny! Well, certainly not as funny as you thought it was—was going to be.

  BOY

  (Entering) Sorry. (Not really)

  GIRL

  It wasn’t!

  BOY

  Sorry!

  GIRL

  Mean it!

  BOY

  (Genuine) Sorry.

  GIRL

  (Grudging) Well … maybe. I don’t think I like being thought of as a destination, by the way.

  BOY

  (Nice) What would you like me to think of you as—if not as a destination? I always aim for you: you are a destination—my destination. I remember when I saw you for the first time—when I was biking along—I saw you lying there on the stretcher, all unconscious—I said—well, to myself, more than to anyone—“That’s the one; that’s my destination.”

  GIRL

  (She’s heard this before.) That’s sweet.

  BOY

  … and I said to myself, “When she wakes up—if she wakes up—I’m going to be there, and I’ll be the first person she sees, and she’ll love me; she’ll want me and she’ll love me; she’s my destination.”

  GIRL

  Yes; sweet. (More interested) Did you really tell them at the hospital you were my brother? You told them you were my brother and that’s why they let you in? Let you sit by me?

  BOY

  Yes. I wanted you very much and being your brother made it even more intense—made me hard.

  GIRL

  (Not too nice) So many things do.

  BOY

  (Smiles) Yes. Isn’t that nice?

  GIRL

  (Preoccupied) I wonder how that old Gypsy knew so much?

  BOY

  Who, the one you went to before we met?

  GIRL

  Yes, the one who told me …