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

man with the prosthetic limb?

AMY: No, Mother! That was Anton! Don’t you care about me at all?

CLAIRE: Did you want honesty, or support?

AMY: Maxwell is beautiful, inside and out. He’s a poet. He burns with the adolescent rage of alienated youth. He tattooed my name on his private parts!

TONY: Ick.

AMY: You are so bourgeois. He’s completely in touch with the collective unconscious. He writes sonnets from the bowels and colon of his soul.

CLAIRE: My.

TONY: You smell like glass.

(As Amy speaks, Tony kisses Claire, working his way down her body. Claire attempts to conceal her growing frenzy by pretending to listen to Amy. Amy gets a drink as she speaks.)

AMY: The point is, I told Maxwell that I’m carrying his child inside me, growing in my uterus as a tribute to our love. And you know what he said to me? He said, “Amy, how do I know it’s my child?” “I know,” I said, “because I haven’t been with anyone else since that perfect night we met at Cynthia Tipton’s house.” And he said, “Really?” Because he didn’t think we had that kind of relationship. And besides, he told me, everyone knew I’d had a tryst with Roul Bender—or did he mention Daryl Smyth? One night at Felix Omar’s house, I’d had too much to drink and was passed from hand to hand, like a dish of salted nuts. “But Maxwell,” I begged, “I was blotto!” And he responded, “Were you drunk with Xavier Sutton?” (She sips her drink)

Is this Scotch? I don’t like Scotch. Oh well. (She downs her drink and pours another)

“That was one night. It was nothing. You’re my life and my breath!” He grew very cold and informed me that any one of those men could be the father of my child and he was going away with this person named Sherri, whom, I might add, is as fat as a mule and as dumb as a post. How could he prefer her to me? “Can’t we discuss this? Find a solution?” But he said he had to go, and he withdrew from me. Off he went . . . out of my life . . . to social studies. So here am I, left with child to lick my wounds. I just want to die! (She down her drink)

I know! I’ll drink myself to death. I don’t mean the slow way where the liver fails. I mean, I’ll just stand here and drink and drink, until my guts explode!

CLAIRE (On the verge of ecstasy): I’m sorry, what?

AMY: I’m in trouble. What kind of mother are you? What’s wrong with you?

CLAIRE: I’m in love!

AMY: I’m in pain!

TONY: I’m running late.

CLAIRE: No!

TONY: I have to go.

CLAIRE: Don’t leave me with her. She’s creepy.

AMY: Do we have any gimlet mix?

TONY: You want me to change my clothes?

CLAIRE: Oh yes, that’s right. It slipped what I laughingly refer to as my mind. Dash home and throw on a blazer or something.

AMY: Vermouth?

CLAIRE: But do hurry back. We’ll have a cocktail before we go.

TONY: Of course.

(Tony and Claire kiss.)

Charming as always, Amy.

CLAIRE: Are you back yet?

TONY: I’ll fly! (He exits)

CLAIRE: I feel flushed. Do I look flushed?

AMY: How do you make a vodka collins?

CLAIRE: Isn’t Tony darling? I could drown myself in his eyes!

AMY: Have you gone suddenly deaf?

CLAIRE: I don’t think so. Say something.

AMY: You’re a maggot-ridden crust of a woman with the morals of a tiger slug.

CLAIRE: No, no. I heard that.

AMY: My God. (She drinks)

CLAIRE: Have you ever seen shoulders like his?

AMY: Like whose?

CLAIRE: Like Tony’s.

AMY: Yes, as it happens, I have.

CLAIRE: What do you mean?

AMY: Skip it.

CLAIRE: I think you could be more gracious to Tony, dear.

AMY (Panicked): Don’t call me dear.

CLAIRE: Pudding?

AMY: No. You only call me dear when you can’t remember my name.

CLAIRE: Don’t be absurd. You’re my daughter.

AMY: All right. What is it?

CLAIRE (Panicked): I’ll not be cross-questioned like this.

AMY: You can’t remember, can you?

CLAIRE: I think you’re drunk. Have you been adding soda water?

AMY: My name, Mother.

CLAIRE: I don’t want to play this game. I don’t care for it. Let’s play another—I spy something taupe! You guess!

AMY: I don’t want to.

CLAIRE: Canasta? Bridge? Quick round of freeze tag?

AMY: I can’t believe you’ve forgotten my name!

CLAIRE: I haven’t!

AMY: Prove it.

CLAIRE: Oh, all right . . . Gertrude?

AMY: Oh my.

CLAIRE: Well, it could be. You’ve been drinking more than you ought.

AMY: I’m living a nightmare.

CLAIRE: Don’t tell me! Sheila?

AMY: You’re insane.

CLAIRE: I was never good with names. Good with faces, bad with names.

AMY: But you named me!

CLAIRE: All right, all right! . . . What does it start with?

AMY: A.

CLAIRE: A? A. A. A. A? A. A, huh? Alice? Alex? Allison?

AMY: No.

CLAIRE: Anita? Abigail? Arthur?

AMY: Arthur?

CLAIRE: Axle? Algenon! Albatross!

AMY: Dear God.

CLAIRE: Algebra!

AMY: Amy! Amy! My name is Amy!

CLAIRE: No, no. That’s not it.

AMY: I should know my own name.

CLAIRE: Produce identification.

AMY: My name is Amy.

CLAIRE: Well, fine. If you say so. I believe you’re mistaken, but I’ve no wish to quarrel.

AMY: Oh Mother, why did you adopt me?

CLAIRE: I didn’t adopt you. I had you myself.

AMY: This comes as a grave disappointment.

CLAIRE: I remember it distinctly. It hurt quite a bit.

AMY: I loathe you.

CLAIRE: Hand me my purse, would you darling? I feel pale.

(Amy does so.)

I have to fix my face. I’m using a new rouge: adobe brick. Isn’t it cunning?

AMY: I’d like to see you suffer.

CLAIRE: Tony has the most perfect complexion! And he doesn’t wear any make-up at all—at least I don’t think so.

AMY: I could douse you with gas and set you on fire.

CLAIRE: He has arms like mighty oaks!

AMY: He’s repulsive.

CLAIRE: You haven’t seen his pelvic girdle.

AMY: Thank God.

CLAIRE: He’s divine.

AMY: He’s insincere.

CLAIRE: I can’t imagine why you’d say such a thing.

AMY: And it’s humiliating, the way you carry on about him.

CLAIRE: Your bitterness will age you prematurely and give you feather-like lines around your eyes.

AMY: How can you let him touch you?

CLAIRE: He makes love like an Olympic swimmer!

AMY: I don’t want to hear this part.

CLAIRE: His semen is