Etiquette and Vitriol by Nicky Silver (classic fiction .txt) 📗

AMANDA: Who cares? Who cares? I don’t care anymore . . .

BEA: You fancy yourself some modern woman. But you know, things don’t change. Some things are forever. The food chain is as it always was. Men rule the world. But penises rule men! And who rules the penises? We do, darling. People panic. People do things. But he’ll be back. And when he comes back, not one word out of you! You hear me? Don’t ask him where he’s been. Act like nothing happened.

AMANDA: You’re insane.

BEA: I will not tolerate rudeness! . . . Let me tell you, when I married my late husband, I was pregnant—not with his kid, but I was pregnant. I was very good-looking when I was younger. But the father wasn’t Jewish, so I decided—or actually, my mother decided, it wouldn’t go. So I married what’shisname, my dead husband. I’ll never forget waking up, in Atlantic City, the day after. I’m wide awake, staring at this fat lump of hairy nothing that I married, and, let me tell you, if I coulda run, I woulda. But I was going to have a child. So, instead, I just pulled the hair on his back as hard as I could. You see my point?

(A key turns in the door.)

AMANDA: Shut up!

BEA: I will not tolerate—

AMANDA: Someone’s at the door!

(Bea disappears. The door opens, revealing Ford. He and Amanda stand, just looking at each other for a moment.)

Ford. . . . WHERE’VE YOU BEEN?

BEA (On the speaker phone): I told ya not to ask him that!

(Amanda hangs up the phone.)

AMANDA (After a pause): I mean it doesn’t really matter where you’ve been, does it? You’ve been working on a film. I understand. I know that the creative process is a very delicate flower. And you’ve been working. Haven’t you?

(Ford sits. He is deep in thought and deeply troubled. He has something to say, but it is very difficult for him. He puts his head in his hands for a moment and agonizes.)

FORD: Well—

AMANDA: I drove you away! Didn’t I? We shouldn’t’ve gotten married. It was a bad idea. I’m sorry. It was my idea and you felt cornered, or something. Is that it? Do you want to talk about it? Is that it? . . . Are you tired? We can talk tomorrow. That’s fine. You’re probably tired. We can talk tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.

(Ford rises, looks at her and starts to head for the bedroom.)

We do love each other though, don’t we? I love you and you love me, so we love each other.

(Ford stops. He turns and looks at her.)

You’re in love with someone else, aren’t you! I can tell.

(Ford moves towards her, reaching out.)

I’m babbling. I realize I’m babbling. I find that I’m babbling. But you see, I’ve been cooped up here lately—not that I didn’t go out, while you were gone. I did. But not much.

(He looks away.)

Is there someone else? Perhaps we rushed into this a bit too quickly. But then, perhaps we didn’t. Time’ll tell. Would you like something to eat? Are you hungry? We don’t have any food—but we could order something . . . if you have a credit card. I’ve lost my purse.

(He sits again and struggles to find the words to say what he must. He looks around the room, scratches his head, takes a deep breath and just as he is about to speak, she cuts him off.)

YOU THINK I’M UGLY, DON’T YOU? TELL ME, WHAT PART OF ME DO YOU THINK IS UGLIEST?

(He rises to protest. She cuts him off.)

I know I’m beautiful. You’re right. I’m a beautiful woman. I wasn’t always. When I was a child, I was painfully fat. Did you know that?

(He shakes his head and sits.)

I never mentioned that. Did you ever wonder why there are no pictures around here, of me? Before I turned twenty? Did you think I was a vampire? Did you think I had a Nosferatu childhood?

(He shrugs.)

When I was twenty, I went on a diet. I fasted for three weeks. I lost forty-five pounds.. I dieted all summer and when I went back to school I told everyone I was my own cousin. Isn’t that something?—YOU MAKE ME FEEL SO FAT!

(He puts his head in his hands.)

Everyone believed I was my own cousin. That was the summer my mother died. We had a house on the Cape. We went to the beach one day and she drowned. She went out into the ocean and swam and swam and I never saw her again. Maybe she swam to France and became a chanteuse. I changed my name to Amanda that summer.

(He looks up, surprised.)

Between my sophomore and junior years at Sarah Lawrence. Betty was a fat girl whose only friends were society’s castoffs. Amanda had no more friends than Betty, but people assumed it was by choice. —Is it someone I know? The person you’ve found?

(He rises again, about to speak. She cuts him off.)

I can be Betty again, if you’d prefer that. My mother used to say you can be whatever you want. She meant, you can be WHOMever you want. Everyone said she drowned. They said it was an accident. My father said, “Things happen.” I think she killed herself. I think she wanted to die. Maybe we should talk tomorrow.

(He starts to exit.)

While you were gone, I did some work!

(He turns to her.)

I’ve been writing as well. I wrote a new poem. I did. It’s very unusual—for me. This poem. I call it—well, I don’t have a name for it yet. But it’s a narrative poem, and well, it’s about this man. And he’s very attractive and very . . . loved. And one day, he finds himself married. And he loves his wife and she loves him, but he feels . . . confined, I think is the word I used. Maybe it was trapped. I can’t remember. You see he’s an artist and he’s very,