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

TODD: You think God cares?

GRACE: He shouldn’t just be lying there.

TODD: You want him buried?! You bury him!

GRACE: Don’t shout at me!

TODD: Don’t nag me!

GRACE: Leave me alone!

TODD: I’m going upstairs.

(Todd starts to exit, but stays on the stairs and sits. Grace pours herself a drink. Emma enters from the terrace and addresses the audience.)

EMMA: Hello everybody. I’m dead. How are you? I’m glad I killed myself. I’m not recommending it for others, mind you—no Dr. Kevorkian am I. But it’s worked out for me. Looking back, I don’t think I was ever supposed to have been born to begin with. Of course the idea that anything is “supposed to be” implies a master plan, and I don’t believe in that kind of thing.

When I say I shouldn’t have been born, I mean that my life was never all that pleasant. And there was no real reason for it. I was pretty. I had money. I was lucky enough to be born in a time and into a class where I had nothing but opportunities. I look around and there are crippled people and blind people and refugees and I can’t believe I had the gall to whine about anything! I had my health—oh sure, I complained a lot, but really I was fine. And I had love! Granted the object of my affections was a latent, or not-so-latent homosexual as it turned out, who was infected with the HIV virus, who in turn infected me and my unborn baby—but isn’t that really picking nits?

I can never thank Todd enough for giving me the gun, because for the first time, I’m happy. The pain is gone and I remember everything. Tommy is here, but we’re not speaking. He spends all his time with Montgomery Clift and George Cukor talking about movies. I assume.

And I’ve been reunited with Alice Paulker. We went to school together. She was shot last year by a disgruntled postal worker. She has long, wavy brown hair and skin so pale you can see right through it—I don’t mean it’s really transparent and you can see her guts and organs and everything. It’s just pale. And she has very big eyes, green. And we listen to music and go for walks. We take turns reading aloud to each other. She reads poems by Emily Bronté and I read chapters from The Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. She was always classier than me. And sometimes, we don’t read. Sometimes, we just hold each other. And I run my fingers through her hair and she touches her lips, gently, along my cheek. She makes soft sounds, comforting sounds and she takes her time and she runs her tongue along the edge of my ear. We take off our clothes and just look at each other. I was shy at first, but Alice helped me and never rushed me. She held my breasts in her hands and ran her lips between them, down my stomach. I touch her eyelids and her forehead and her hair and her fingers and the back of her neck. And she enters me and I am everywhere at once and nowhere at all. And I remember everything and find that nothing matters. And for a moment, for a moment or two that lasts forever, we become one person. And I forget, we forget, that we were ever alive. And everything makes perfect sense.

(Emma joins Todd on the stairs. Arthur enters from the terrace, wearing a winter coat, which he quickly removes.)

ARTHUR: It’s freezing in here.

GRACE: Where’ve you been?

ARTHUR: I went for a walk.

GRACE: Why?

ARTHUR: I wanted to.

GRACE: You know you’re not supposed to.

ARTHUR: Supposed to?

GRACE: You want to catch pneumonia?

ARTHUR: Just for you. This year, for Christmas.

GRACE: Very funny.

ARTHUR: I wore a coat.

GRACE: It doesn’t matter. It’s zero out. It’s zero degrees.

ARTHUR: I didn’t notice.

GRACE: You wander around outside in the zero degrees like some kind of goddamn polar bear—

ARTHUR: I thought it was warm.

GRACE: What?

ARTHUR: I was warm.

GRACE: Did you eat today?

ARTHUR: Of course I ate—

GRACE: You forget to eat and—

ARTHUR: I’m perfectly fine. I ate! It’s warm out.

GRACE: It’s freezing.

ARTHUR: It’s spring.

GRACE: It’s December.

ARTHUR: It can’t be.

GRACE: It is.

ARTHUR: But the sun was hot. The birds are crying for water.

GRACE: There aren’t any birds, Arthur.

ARTHUR: You’re lying.

GRACE: Birds go south in the winter, Arthur. God, where were you in the third grade?

ARTHUR: Don’t be snide with me Grace.

GRACE: I give up.

ARTHUR: I accept that birds go south in the winter. I know that. I’m not a child. What I do not accept, is your basic premise that it is winter. How could it be? I was just outside on the steaming lawn. You’re trying to drive me insane!

GRACE: And doing very well.

ARTHUR: It’s obviously spring or, at the very latest, summer.

GRACE (Starting to exit): I’ll fix you something to eat.

EMMA (From her place): I love you Daddy.

ARTHUR: Wait a minute, Grace.

GRACE: What is it?

ARTHUR: We should talk about the wedding.

GRACE: What do you want to eat, Arthur?

EMMA: I don’t need a wedding.

ARTHUR: Is everything ready?

GRACE: Do you want a sandwich? Do you want some eggs?

ARTHUR: It has to be beautiful.

GRACE: What does?

ARTHUR: The wedding.

GRACE: It was months ago—or actually, it wasn’t.

ARTHUR: It’ll be nice, on the lawn—

GRACE: I mean it would have been.

ARTHUR: Under the trees. Under a tent.

GRACE: There was no wedding, Arthur. You know that.

ARTHUR: Is everything ready?

GRACE: I told you yesterday. I told you this morning.

ARTHUR: Everything should be perfect.

GRACE: I told you at lunch.

ARTHUR: Every detail.

GRACE: Emma is gone, Arthur.

EMMA (Out): Death is a walk in the park.

ARTHUR: What do you mean. Did she run away?

GRACE: No. I mean she’s dead.

ARTHUR: Pardon me?

GRACE: She was dead yesterday. Dead this morning. Dead last night and she’ll be dead tomorrow.

ARTHUR: Don’t be ridiculous—(He calls upstairs) EMMA!

(Emma would respond, but Todd stops her.)

GRACE (After a moment): You see?

ARTHUR: Maybe she’s out?

GRACE: She’s not.

ARTHUR: She’s napping.

GRACE: She’s not.

ARTHUR: She’s sleeping.

GRACE: She’s dead.

ARTHUR: Very deeply?

GRACE: She shot herself.

ARTHUR: I don’t feel