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

Hello.

EMMA: Mother, I’d like you to meet—

GRACE: I must look unbearable. The sidewalk is melting and I would swear that I actually saw someone fry an egg.

TOMMY: It’s very warm.

GRACE: Goodness, I’m exhausted. I’ve had the most horrible day.

EMMA: Mother—

GRACE: I’ve been to the city—I picked up the most cunning little black sheath, Dolce & Gabbana, and a sweet suit, so Issey Miyake!

EMMA: Mother—

GRACE (Adjusting her hair and makeup): I used to enjoy shopping. When I married your father it was a real event to go into the city, have lunch in the sunshine, in Rittenhouse Square. Everyone was well mannered and well groomed. People wore hats. Now. Now, the Square is filled with hobos needing a bath and a companion. Really. They just stagger about in the sunlight, dirty and talking to themselves about the fall of communism and whatnot. I don’t know. I tried, but I couldn’t follow a word of it. They all just want money, anyway. You can’t encourage them. Give them a coin, they talk your ear off.

EMMA: Mother.

GRACE (Finally looking up): Yes, dear?

EMMA: This is Tommy McKorckle—(To Tommy) stand up straight.

TOMMY: How do you do?

GRACE: It’s nice to meet you. Emma so seldom brings around boys.

EMMA: Mother.

TOMMY: The pleasure is mine.

GRACE: Isn’t that charming? He’s charming. You’re charming.

TOMMY: I like your dress.

GRACE (Ringing a small bell on an end table): Thank you. I need a hot drink and a cold bath—or vice versa.

TOMMY: It suits you.

GRACE: “A+” for charm.

EMMA: Mother, I’d like to talk to you.

GRACE: Oh, Emma. This may not be the day. I’m exhausted.

TOMMY: Maybe we should wait.

EMMA: Tommy.

GRACE: Look at me—if you dare—I’ve perspired through my clothing. I’m a wreck.

TOMMY: Not at all.

GRACE: You’re sweet. I need a quick drink and a long bath, or the other way around—(She rings the bell again) Where’s Flo?

EMMA: Who?

GRACE: Flo, dear. Where is she?

EMMA: I don’t know anyone named “Flo.” Is she with you?

GRACE: The maid. Flo, our maid.

EMMA: Flo?

GRACE: Flo. Florence. You remember Flo. Wears wigs, walks with a limp.

EMMA (Discouraged): Oh I don’t know.

GRACE: You must excuse my daughter, Mr.—

TOMMY: McKorckle.

GRACE: Yes. She forgets things.

EMMA: I write things down. I try to concentrate. But facts run through me like Chinese food.

TOMMY: I think it’s sweet.

GRACE: Do you. Really? Lord, I’m thirsty. (She rings again) Where could she be? I hope she’s all right. I hope nothing’s happened to her.

EMMA (Asserting herself): We have to talk, Mother.

GRACE: Can’t it wait?

EMMA: No.

GRACE: I’m exhausted and I seem to be without a staff.

TOMMY: Maybe tomorrow.

EMMA: We have to assert ourselves.

GRACE: Oh what is it?

EMMA: Well, I wanted you to meet Tommy—

GRACE: And I have. May I bathe now?

EMMA (Blurting it out): Because we’re going to get married!

(Pause.)

GRACE: Pardon me?

EMMA: That’s it. That’s what I wanted to say. That’s what I’ve said. We’re 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