Susan Glaspell

First performed by the Provincetown Players at the Wharf Theatre, Provincetown, MA, on August 8, 1916.

GEORGE HENDERSON (County Attorney)

HENRY PETERS (Sheriff)

LEWIS HALE, a nearby farmer

Mrs. Peters

Mrs. Hale

SCENE: The kitchen is the now-abandoned farmhouse of JOHN WRIGHT, a dreary kitchen, left messy—dirty pans under the sink, a loaf of bread outside the bread box, a dish towel on the table—other signs of unfinished tasks. At the back, the outer door opens and the SHERIFF walks in, followed by the COUNTY ATTORNEY and HALE. The SHERIFF and HALE are middle-aged men, while the COUNTY ATTORNEY is a young guy; all are bundled up and head straight for the stove. The two women follow them—the SHERIFF's wife goes first; she's a petite, wiry woman with a thin, anxious face. MRS. HALE is larger and would usually be considered more comfortable-looking, but she’s unsettled now and nervously scans the room as she enters. The women come in slowly and stand close together by the door.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (rubbing his hands) This feels nice. Come closer to the fire, ladies.

MRS PETERS: (after taking a step forward) I'm not—cold.

SHERIFF: (unbuttoning his overcoat and stepping away from the stove as if to mark the beginning of official business) Now, Mr. Hale, before we start moving things around, please explain to Mr. Henderson what you saw when you came here yesterday morning.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: By the way, has anything been moved? Is everything just as you left it yesterday?

SHERIFF: (looking around) It's just the same. When the temperature fell below zero last night, I figured I should send Frank out this morning to start a fire for us—no point in catching pneumonia with a big case going on, but I told him not to mess with anything except the stove—and you know Frank.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Someone should have stayed here yesterday.

SHERIFF: Oh—yesterday. When I had to send Frank to Morris Center for that guy who went nuts—I want you to know I was really busy yesterday. I knew you could get back from Omaha by today, and as long as I went over everything here myself—

COUNTY ATTORNEY: So, Mr. Hale, can you please explain what happened when you arrived here yesterday morning?

HALE: Harry and I were on our way to town with a load of potatoes. We came down the road from my place, and when I got here, I said, "I'm going to see if I can get John Wright to team up with me on a party telephone." I had brought it up with Wright before, but he brushed me off, saying that people talked too much anyway and all he wanted was peace and quiet—I guess you know how little he talked himself; but I thought maybe if I went to the house and explained it with his wife there, even though I told Harry I wasn't sure it would matter what his wife wanted to John—

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Let's discuss that later, Mr. Hale. I do want to talk about it, but for now, just tell me what happened when you got to the house.

HALE: I didn't hear or see anything; I knocked on the door, and it was still super quiet inside. I figured they had to be up; it was past eight o'clock. So I knocked again, and I thought I heard someone say, 'Come in.' I'm not sure, I'm still not sure, but I opened the door—this door (indicating the door by which the two women are still standing) and there in that rocking chair—(pointing to it) sat Mrs. Wright.

(They all look at the rocker.)

COUNTY ATTORNEY: What was she up to?

HALE: She was swaying back and forth. She had her apron in her hand and was sort of—folding it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: And how did she—look?

HALE: Well, she looked strange.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: What do you mean—strange?

HALE: Well, as if she didn't know what her next move was going to be. And really put together.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: How did she seem to feel about you coming?

HALE: I don’t think she cared—one way or another. She didn’t pay much attention. I said, “How’s it going, Mrs. Wright? It’s cold, isn’t it?” And she replied, “Is it?”—and kept on fiddling with her apron. I was surprised; she didn’t invite me to come to the stove or to sit down, just sat there without even looking at me, so I said, “I want to see John.” And then she laughed. I guess you could call it a laugh. I thought about Harry and the team outside, so I said a little sharply, “Can’t I see John?” “No,” she said, kind of slowly. “Isn’t he home?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, “he’s home.” “Then why can’t I see him?” I asked her, losing my patience. “Because he’s dead,” she said. “Dead?” I said. She just nodded her head, not getting excited at all, just rocking back and forth. “Why—where is he?” I asked, not knowing what to say. She just pointed upstairs—like that. I got up, thinking about going up there. I walked from there to here—then I asked, “Well, what did he die of?” “He died of a rope around his neck,” she said, and continued pleating her apron. Well, I went out and called Harry. I thought I might need help. We went upstairs and there he was lying—

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I think it would be better if you went upstairs, where you can show us everything. Just continue with the rest of the story now.

HALE: Well, my first thought was to get that rope off. It looked ... (stops, his face twitches) ... but Harry went up to him and said, 'No, he's dead for sure, and we'd better not touch anything.' So we went back downstairs. She was still sitting the same way. 'Has anyone been notified?' I asked. 'No,' she said, unconcerned. 'Who did this, Mrs. Wright?' Harry asked. He said it in a business-like way—and she stopped folding her apron. 'I don't know,' she replied. 'You don't know?' Harry asked. 'No,' she said. 'Weren't you sleeping in the bed with him?' Harry asked. 'Yes,' she said, 'but I was on the inside.' 'Somebody slipped a rope around his neck and strangled him, and you didn't wake up?' Harry said. 'I didn't wake up,' she replied. We must have looked like we couldn't see how that was possible, because after a minute she said, 'I sleep sound.' Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I suggested that maybe we should let her tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff, so Harry quickly went to Rivers' place, where there's a telephone.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: And what did Mrs. Wright do when she realized you had gone for the coroner?

HALE: She moved from that chair to this one over here (pointing to a small chair in the corner) and just sat there with her hands together, looking down. I felt like I should start a conversation, so I said I had come in to see if John wanted to get a phone, and when I said that, she started to laugh, then stopped and looked at me—like she was scared, (the COUNTY ATTORNEY, ) I don't know, maybe it wasn't scared. I wouldn't want to say it was. Soon Harry got back, then Dr. Lloyd came, and you, Mr. Peters, and so I guess that's all I know that you don't.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (looking around) I suppose we'll head upstairs first, then go out to the barn and check around there, (to the SHERIFF) Are you sure there’s nothing significant here—nothing that would suggest any motive?

SHERIFF: There's nothing here except kitchen stuff.

(The COUNTY ATTORNEY, after taking another look around the kitchen, opens the door of a cupboard. He stands on a chair and checks a shelf. He pulls his hand back, sticky.)

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Here's a real problem.

The women come closer.

MRS PETERS: (to the other woman) Oh, her fruit; it did freeze, (to the LAWYER) She was really concerned about that when it got so cold. She said the fire would go out and her jars would break.

SHERIFF: Well, can you believe the women! Accused of murder and all she can think about is her preserves.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I think by the time we're done, she might have something more serious to worry about than just preserves.

HALE: Well, women tend to stress over small things.

(The two women move a bit closer together.)

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (with the charm of a young politician) Yet, despite all their concerns, what would we do without the women? (the women remain stiff. He goes to the sink, scoops water from the pail and pours it into a basin, washing his hands. He starts to dry them on the roller towel, flipping it for a cleaner spot) These towels are so dirty! (kicks his foot against the pans under the sink) Not exactly a top-notch housekeeper, wouldn’t you agree, ladies?

MRS HALE: (stiffly) There's a lot of work to do on a farm.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Definitely. And still (with a slight nod to her) I know there are some farmhouses in Dickson County that don’t have roller towels. (He gives it a pull to show its full length again.)

MRS HALE: Those towels get dirty really fast. Men's hands aren't always as clean as they could be.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Ah, sticking up for your gender, I see. But you and Mrs. Wright lived next to each other. I assume you were friends as well.

MRS HALE: (shaking her head) I haven't seen much of her lately. I haven't been in this house for more than a year.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: And why was that? You didn’t like her?

MRS HALE: I liked her just fine. Farmers' wives are really busy, Mr. Henderson. And then—

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Yeah—?

MRS HALE: (looking around) It never felt like a very happy place.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: No—it's not uplifting. I shouldn’t say she had the instinct for homemaking.

MRS HALE: Well, I don't think Wright had, either.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: So, they didn't get along very well?

MRS HALE: No, I don’t mean anything. But I don’t think a place would be any cheerier with John Wright around.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I'd like to discuss that a bit more later. I want to get a sense of what's happening upstairs now. (He goes to the left, where three steps lead to a stair door.)

SHERIFF: I guess anything Mrs. Peters does will be fine. She was supposed to bring some clothes for her, you know, along with a few small things. We left in such a rush yesterday.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Yes, but I'd like to see what you take, Mrs. Peters, and watch for anything that might be useful to us.

Yes, Mr. Henderson.

(The women listen to the men's footsteps on the stairs, then look around the kitchen.)

MRS HALE: I’d really dislike having men come into my kitchen, poking around and judging.

(She puts the pans back under the sink that the LAWYER had pushed out of place.)

MRS PETERS: Of course, it's just part of their job.

MRS HALE: Duty's important, but I think the deputy sheriff who showed up to start the fire could have done something about this. (gives the roller towel a pull) I wish I’d thought of that earlier. It feels wrong to criticize her for not having everything neat and tidy when she had to leave in such a rush.

MRS PETERS: (who has gone to a small table in the left rear corner of the room, and lifted one end of a towel that covers a pan) She had bread ready. (Stands still)

MRS HALE: (eyes fixed on a loaf of bread beside the bread box, which is on a low shelf across the room. She moves slowly towards it) She was going to put this in there, (picks up the loaf, then suddenly drops it. In a way that shows she's returning to familiar things) It’s too bad about her fruit. I wonder if it’s all gone. (climbs onto the chair and looks) I think there’s some here that’s okay, Mrs. Peters. Yes—here; (holding it up to the window) these are cherries, too. (looks again) I swear that’s the only one. (gets down, bottle in hand. She goes to the sink and wipes it off on the outside) She’ll feel really bad after all her hard work in the heat. I remember the afternoon I canned my cherries last summer.

(She places the bottle on the large kitchen table, the focal point of the room. With a sigh, she's about to sit in the rocking chair. Before she settles in, she recognizes which chair it is; with a slow glance at it, she takes a step back. The chair she has touched rocks back and forth.)

MRS. PETERS: Well, I need to grab those things from the front room closet, (she goes to the door on the right, but after glancing into the other room, steps back) Are you coming with me, Mrs. Hale? You could help me carry them.

(They head into the other room; come back, MRS PETERS holding a dress and a skirt, MRS HALE trailing behind with a pair of shoes.)

MRS PETERS: Wow, it's chilly in there.

(She places the clothes on the large table and rushes to the stove.)

MRS HALE: (examining the skirt) Wright was a bit of a recluse. I think that’s why she kept to herself so much. She didn’t even join the Ladies Aid. I guess she felt like she couldn’t contribute, and it’s hard to enjoy things when you feel low. She used to wear nice clothes and be full of life when she was Minnie Foster, one of the town girls singing in the choir. But that—oh, that was thirty years ago. Is this everything you were supposed to check out?

MRS PETERS: She said she wanted an apron. It's a strange thing to want since there’s not much that can get you dirty in jail, that’s for sure. But I guess it’s just to make her feel a bit more like herself. She said they were in the top drawer of this cupboard. Yes, here it is. And then her little shawl that always hung behind the door. (opens stair door and looks) Yes, here it is.

Quickly shuts the upstairs door.

MRS HALE: (suddenly walking over to her) Mrs. Peters?

MRS PETERS: Yes, Mrs. Hale?

MRS HALE: Do you think she did it?

MRS PETERS: (in a scared voice) Oh, I don't know.

MRS HALE: Well, I don't think she did. Asking for an apron and her little shawl. Worrying about her fruit.

MRS PETERS: (starts to speak, glances up, where footsteps are heard in the room above. In a low voice) Mr. Peters says it doesn't look good for her. Mr. Henderson is really sarcastic in his speech, and he'll make fun of her for not waking up.

MRS HALE: Well, I guess John Wright didn't wake up when they were slipping that rope around his neck.

MRS PETERS: No, it’s odd. It must have been done really cleverly and quietly. They say it was such a—strange way to kill a man, setting it all up like that.

MRS HALE: That's exactly what Mr. Hale said. There was a gun in the house. He says that's what he can't wrap his head around.

MRS PETERS: Mr. Henderson said after leaving that what the case needed was a motive; something to demonstrate anger, or—sudden emotion.

MRS HALE: (who is standing by the table) Well, I don't see any signs of anger around here, (she puts her hand on the dish towel lying on the table, stands looking down at the table, one half of which is clean, the other half messy) It’s wiped to here, (makes a move as if to finish the work, then turns and looks at the loaf of bread outside the breadbox. Drops the towel. In that voice of coming back to familiar things.) I wonder how they’re doing upstairs. I hope she had it a little more tidy up there. You know, it seems kind of sneaky. Locking her up in town and then coming out here and trying to turn her own house against her!

MRS PETERS: But Mrs. Hale, the law is the law.

MRS HALE: I guess it is, (unbuttoning her coat) You’d better loosen up your stuff, Mrs. Peters. You won't notice them when you head out.

(MRS PETERS takes off her fur scarf, goes to hang it on the hook at the back of the room, and stands looking at the underside of the small corner table.)

MRS PETERS: She was putting together a quilt. (She brings over the large sewing basket and they look at the colorful pieces.)

MRS HALE: It's a log cabin design. Nice, isn't it? I wonder if she planned to quilt it or just tie it?

(Footsteps have been heard coming down the stairs. The SHERIFF enters, followed by HALE and the COUNTY ATTORNEY.)

SHERIFF: They’re curious whether she was planning to quilt it or just tie it off! (The men laugh, the women look embarrassed.)

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (rubbing his hands over the stove) Frank's fire didn't really help much up there, did it? Well, let's head out to the barn and sort that out. (The men go outside.)

MRS HALE: (resentfully) I don’t get why we’re wasting our time on small stuff while we wait for them to gather the evidence. (she sits down at the big table, smoothing out a block with determination) I don’t think it’s funny at all.

MRS PETERS: (apologetically) Of course they have some really important things to think about.

(Pulls up a chair and sits down with MRS HALE at the table.)

MRS HALE: (examining another block) Mrs. Peters, check this one out. This is the one she was working on, and look at the sewing! Everything else has been so neat and even. But look at this! It's all over the place! It looks like she didn't know what she was doing!

(After she says this, they look at each other, then start to glance back at the door. After a moment MRS HALE pulls at a knot and rips the sewing.)

MRS PETERS: Oh, what are you up to, Mrs Hale?

MRS HALE: (gently) Just fixing a stitch or two that isn't sewn very well. (threading a needle) Bad sewing has always made me restless.

MRS PETERS: (nervously) I don't think we should touch anything.

MRS HALE: I'll just wrap this up. (suddenly stopping and leaning forward) Mrs. Peters?

MRS PETERS: Yes, Mrs. Hale?

MRS HALE: What do you think she was so anxious about?

MRS PETERS: Oh—I don't know. I don't think she was nervous. I sometimes sew really strangely when I’m just tired. (MRS HALE starts to say something, looks at MRS PETERS, then goes back to sewing) Well, I need to get these things wrapped up. They might be done sooner than we expect, (putting apron and other things together) I wonder if I can find a piece of paper and some string.

MRS HALE: Maybe in that cupboard.

MRS PETERS: (looking in cupboard) Wow, here's a birdcage, (holds it up) Did she have a bird, Mrs Hale?

MRS HALE: Well, I’m not sure if she did or not—I haven’t been here in so long. There was a guy last year selling canaries for a good price, but I don’t know if she bought one; maybe she did. She used to sing really beautifully herself.

MRS PETERS: (glancing around) It's strange to think there was a bird here. But she must have had one, or why would she have a cage? I wonder what happened to it.

MRS HALE: I guess maybe the cat got it.

MRS PETERS: No, she didn't have a cat. She had that feeling some people get about cats—being scared of them. My cat got into her room, and she was really upset and asked me to take it out.

MRS HALE: My sister Bessie was like that. Strange, right?

MRS PETERS: (looking at the cage) Wow, check out this door. It's broken. One hinge is ripped apart.

MRS HALE: (looking too) It seems like someone must have been harsh with it.

MRS PETERS: Of course.

(She brings the cage over and puts it on the table.)

MRS HALE: I wish they'd hurry up and find some evidence. I really don't like this place.

MRS PETERS: But I'm really glad you came with me, Mrs. Hale. It would be so lonely for me sitting here by myself.

MRS HALE: It really would, wouldn't it? (dropped her sewing) But you know what I'd like, Mrs. Peters? I wish I had come over sometimes when she was here. I—(looking around the room)—wish I had.

MRS PETERS: But I know you were really busy, Mrs. Hale—taking care of your home and your kids.

MRS HALE: I could have come. I stayed away because it wasn’t cheerful—and that’s exactly why I should have come. I’ve never liked this place. Maybe it’s because it’s in a hollow and you can’t see the road. I don’t know what it is, but it’s a lonely place and always has been. I wish I had come over to see Minnie Foster sometimes. I can see now—(shakes her head)

MRS PETERS: Well, you shouldn’t blame yourself, Mrs. Hale. We just don’t realize what others are going through until something happens.

MRS HALE: Not having kids means less work—but it makes for a quiet house, and with Wright working all day, there was no company when he finally got home. Did you know John Wright, Mrs. Peters?

MRS PETERS: I don't know him; I've seen him around town. They say he was a good guy.

MRS HALE: Yeah—good; he didn’t drink, and he kept his promises just like most people, I guess, and paid his debts. But he was a tough guy, Mrs. Peters. Just chatting with him—(shivers) It felt like a cold wind that cuts to the bone, (pauses, her eye falling on the cage) I would think she would’ve wanted a bird. But what do you think happened to it?

MRS PETERS: I don't know, unless it got sick and passed away.

(She reaches over and swings the broken door, swinging it again, while both women watch it.)

MRS HALE: You weren’t raised around here, were you? (MRS PETERS shakes her head) You didn’t know—her?

MRS PETERS: Not until they brought her yesterday.

MRS HALE: You know, now that I think about it, she was kind of like a bird—really sweet and pretty, but a bit timid and fluttery. Wow—how much she changed. (silence; then as if hit by a happy thought and glad to return to everyday things) You know what, Mrs. Peters? Why don’t you take the quilt in with you? It might help distract her.

MRS PETERS: I think that's a really nice idea, Mrs. Hale. There couldn't be any objections to it, could there? Now, what should I take? I wonder if her patches are in here—and her stuff.

(They look in the sewing basket.)

MRS HALE: Here's some red. I bet this has some sewing supplies in it. (brings out a fancy box) What a lovely box. It looks like something someone would gift you. Maybe her scissors are in here. (Opens box. Suddenly puts her hand to her nose) Oh—(MRS PETERS bends closer, then turns her face away) There's something wrapped in this piece of silk.

MRS PETERS: Why, these aren't her scissors.

MRS HALE: (lifting the silk) Oh, Mrs. Peters—it's—

(MRS PETERS leans in.)

MRS PETERS: It's the bird.

MRS HALE: (jumping up) But, Mrs. Peters—check this out! It's neck! Look at its neck!

It's all—other side to.

MRS PETERS: Someone—wrung—its—neck.

(Their eyes connect. A look of increasing understanding, of fear. Footsteps are heard outside. MRS HALE quickly puts the box under the quilt pieces and sits down in her chair. Enter SHERIFF and COUNTY ATTORNEY. MRS PETERS stands up.)

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (as one transitioning from serious topics to light conversation) So ladies, have you figured out if she was going to quilt it or knot it?

MRS PETERS: We think she was going to tie it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Well, that's interesting, I'm sure. (noticing the birdcage) Has the bird flown?

MRS HALE: (putting more quilt pieces over the box) We think the cat got it.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (preoccupied) Is there a cat?

(MRS HALE looks over at MRS PETERS.)

MRS PETERS: Well, not right now. They’re superstitious, you know. They leave.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (to SHERIFF PETERS, continuing an interrupted conversation) No evidence at all that anyone came from outside. Their own rope. Now let's go back up and examine it section by section. (they start upstairs) It must have been someone who understood just the—

(MRS PETERS sits down. The two women sit there not looking at each other, but as if they’re gazing into something while also holding back. When they speak now, it’s like they’re tentatively navigating unfamiliar territory, afraid of what they’re saying but unable to stop themselves from saying it.)

MRS HALE: She really liked the bird. She was planning to bury it in that nice box.

MRS PETERS: (in a whisper) When I was a girl—my kitten—there was a boy who took a hatchet, and right in front of me—and before I could reach him—(covers her face for a moment) If they hadn't stopped me, I would have—(catches herself, looks upstairs where steps are heard, falters weakly)—hurt him.

MRS HALE: (taking a slow look around) I wonder what it would be like to never have had any kids around, (pause) No, Wright wouldn’t have liked the bird—a creature that sang. She used to sing. He killed that, too.

MRS PETERS: (fidgeting) We have no idea who killed the bird.

MRS HALE: I knew John Wright.

MRS PETERS: It was an awful thing that happened in this house that night, Mrs Hale. Killing a man while he slept, slipping a rope around his neck that choked the life out of him.

MRS HALE: His neck. It strangled him.

(Her hand stretches out and rests on the birdcage.)

MRS PETERS: (raising her voice) We don’t know who killed him. We don’t know.

MRS HALE: (her own feeling not interrupted) If there had been years and years of silence, and then a bird sang to you, it would be terrible—still, after the bird stopped singing.

MRS PETERS: (something within her speaking) I know what stillness feels like. When we settled in Dakota, and my first baby died—he was two years old, and I had no other child then—

MRS HALE: (moving) How long do you think they’ll take to finish searching for evidence?

MRS PETERS: I know what silence feels like. (pulling herself back) The law has to address crime, Mrs. Hale.

MRS HALE: (not as if answering that) I wish you had seen Minnie Foster when she wore a white dress with blue ribbons and stood up there in the choir singing. (a look around the room) Oh, I wish I had come over here more often! That was such a shame! That was a shame! Who's going to pay for that?

MRS PETERS: (looking upstairs) We shouldn't—take on.

MRS HALE: I should have known she needed help! I understand how things can be—for women. I’m telling you, it's strange, Mrs. Peters. We live close to each other, yet we live so far apart. We all go through the same things—it’s all just a different version of the same thing, (wipes her eyes, noticing the bottle of fruit, reaches for it) If I were you, I wouldn’t tell her her fruit was gone. Tell her it isn't. Tell her everything’s fine. Take this in to show her. She—she might never find out whether it was broken or not.

MRS PETERS: (takes the bottle, looks around for something to wrap it in; takes a petticoat from the clothes brought from the other room, very nervously starts wrapping it around the bottle. In a fake voice) Wow, it's a good thing the guys couldn't hear us. They would totally laugh! Getting all worked up over something like a—dead canary. Like that could mean anything to—wouldn't they laugh!

(The guys can be heard coming down the stairs.)

MRS HALE: (softly) Maybe they would—maybe they wouldn't.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: No, Peters, it's all perfectly clear except for a reason to do it. But you know how juries are when it comes to women. If there was something specific—something to demonstrate—something to make a narrative about—a detail that would link to this unusual way of doing it—

(The women's eyes connect for a moment. HALE enters from the outer door.)

HALE: Well, I've gathered the team. It's really cold out there.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: I'm going to stay here for a bit on my own, (to the SHERIFF) Can you send Frank out for me? I want to review everything. I'm not convinced that we can't do better.

SHERIFF: Do you want to see what Mrs. Peters is planning to bring in?

(The LAWYER walks over to the table, grabs the apron, and laughs.)

COUNTY ATTORNEY: Oh, I guess the things the ladies picked out aren’t really that dangerous. (Moves a few things around, messing up the quilt pieces covering the box. Steps back) No, Mrs. Peters doesn’t need supervision. Actually, a sheriff's wife is tied to the law. Have you ever thought of it that way, Mrs. Peters?

MRS PETERS: Not—just like that.

SHERIFF: (chuckling) Married to the law. (moves toward the other room) I need you to come in here for a minute, George. We should check out these windows.

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (mockingly) Oh, windows!

SHERIFF: We'll be out in a moment, Mr. Hale.

(HALE goes outside. The SHERIFF follows the COUNTY ATTORNEY into the other room. Then MRS HALE stands up, her hands tightly clasped, looking intently at MRS PETERS, whose eyes slowly turn, finally meeting MRS HALE's. For a moment MRS HALE holds her gaze, then her eyes direct to where the box is hidden. Suddenly MRS PETERS throws back pieces of the quilt and tries to fit the box into the bag she's wearing. It's too big. She opens the box, starts to take the bird out but can't bring herself to touch it, breaking down, standing there helpless. The sound of a doorknob turning from the other room. MRS HALE grabs the box and shoves it into the pocket of her large coat. Enter COUNTY ATTORNEY and SHERIFF.)

COUNTY ATTORNEY: (jokingly) Well, Henry, at least we discovered she wasn’t going to quilt it. She was going to—what do you call it, ladies?

MRS HALE: (her hand against her pocket) We call it—tie it up, Mr. Henderson.

(CURTAIN)

First performed by the Provincetown Players at the Playwrights' Theatre on December 28, 1917.

CAPTAIN (of 'The Bars' Life-Saving Station)

BRADFORD (a lifesaver)

TONY (a Portuguese Lifeguard)

MRS. PATRICK (who lives in the old Station)

ALLIE MAYO (who works for her)

SCENE: A room in a house that used to be a life-saving station. Since it stopped being that, it hasn’t changed at all, except for being a place that no one cares to preserve or alter. It's painted the life-saving grey, but it doesn’t have the fresh feel of a life-saving station. This is one end of what was once the large boat room, and at the ceiling, part of the framework from which the boat used to hang is visible. About two-thirds of the back wall is open because of a large sliding barn door, and through this open door, you can see the sand dunes and the woods beyond them. At one point, the line where the woods and dunes meet is clear, marked by rough things like vines and bushes that make up the uneven outer edge of the woods—the only things that thrive in the sand. Elsewhere, a sand hill seems to threaten the woods. This old life-saving station is situated where the sea curves, so the sea can also be seen through the open door. (The station is on the outer shore of Cape Cod, at the point near the tip of the Cape, where it curves to form Provincetown Harbor.) The dunes are hills and odd shapes of sand, where patches of tough beach grass grow—struggling to survive against the odds. To the right of the large sliding door is a pile of sand, and you can see the tops of buried beach grass here. There’s a door to the left, and to the right of the sliding door is a slanted wall. The door in this wall is slightly open as the curtain rises, and through this door BRADFORD and TONY, life-savers, are seen bending over a man's body, trying to revive him. The captain of the life-savers enters the scene outside the large open door on the left; he looks like he’s been rushing, peers in, sees the men, and quickly goes to them.

CAPTAIN: I got this now, guys.

BRADFORD: No one needs to take it, Captain. He was dead when we found him.

CAPTAIN: Dannie Sears was dead when we found him. But we brought him back. I'll keep going for a bit.

(The two men who were leaning over the body stand up, stretch to loosen up, and walk into the room.)

BRADFORD: (pushing back his arms and placing his hands on his chest) Work—trying to bring life to the dead.

CAPTAIN: Where did you find him, Joe?

BRADFORD: Right in front of this house. Not more than forty feet away.

CAPTAIN: Why did you bring him up here?

(He talks in a distant manner, as if part of his mind is focused on something else, and in the soft voice of someone leaning over.)

BRADFORD: (with a sheepish little laugh) I guess it's just a habit. We brought so many of them back up here, (looks around the room) and then it was pretty hostile where he was—the wind spraying the sea on him until he had no idea he was on land.

TONY: Good thing I wasn't here earlier or later as I walked by from my watch.

BRADFORD: You have a way of being accommodating, Tony. It’s neither here nor there. I wouldn’t say that about many Portuguese. But the sea (calling it in to the CAPTAIN) is as friendly as a kitten compared to the women who live here. Allie Mayo—they're both out of their minds—had that door wide open (moving his head toward the big sliding door) and when we walked by, she stepped back and just stared at us, looking—God, I just wanted to get him out of there. So I kicked this door open with my foot (jerking his hand toward the room where the CAPTAIN is seen bending over the man) and got him away. (under his voice) If he had any idea of coming back to life, he wouldn’t have if he’d seen her. (more genially) I wouldn’t.

CAPTAIN: Do you know who he is, Joe?

BRADFORD: I've never seen him before.

CAPTAIN: Mitchell called from High Head to say that a dory landed there.

BRADFORD: Last night wasn't the best night for a dory. (to TONY, boastfully) Not that I couldn't have stayed in one. Some guys can handle being in a dory, and some can't. (going to the inner door) That boy's dead, Captain.

CAPTAIN: So I'm not hurting him at all.

BRADFORD: (going over and shaking the frame where the boat once swung) This is the first time you've been in this place, right, Tony?

TONY: I've never been here before.

BRADFORD: Well, I was here before. (laughs) And the old man—(nods toward the CAPTAIN) he lived here for twenty-seven years. Man, the things that happened here. There've been dead people carried through that door. (points to the outside door) Man—the ones I've carried. I carried in Bill Collins, and Lou Harvey and—huh! That's all over now. Don’t ever think you’ve seen any wrecks. I was here the night the Jennie Snow was out there. (points to the sea) There was a wreck. We got the boat that stood here (shakes the frame again) down that bank. (goes to the door and looks out) Wow, how did we ever do it? The sand has really messed this place up. And then when it gets too desolate for a lifesaving station, a lady takes it for a summer home—and then ends up staying for the winter. She's a cheerful one.

TONY: A woman—she makes things beautiful. This isn’t a place where a woman lives. There’s nothing on the floor—there's nothing on the wall. Things—(gesturing with his hands) don’t hang on other things.

BRADFORD: (copying TONY's gesture) No—things don't depend on each other like that. Honestly, I think the woman's lost it—sitting over there on the sand—(a gesture towards the dunes) what’s she looking at? There’s nothing to see. And I know the woman who works for her is crazy too—Allie Mayo. She’s from Provincetown. She used to be fine, but—

(MRS PATRICK walks in from the hallway on the right. She is a 'city woman', someone sophisticated who has become trapped in a situation that is as different from her old life as sand dunes are from a meadow. Right now, she is both excited and angry.)

MRS PATRICK: You have no right to be here. This isn't a lifeguard station anymore. Just because it used to be—I don't understand why you think—This is my house! And—I want to have my house to myself!

CAPTAIN: (putting his head through the door. One arm of the man he is working with is raised, and the hand reaches through the doorway) Well, I have to say, ma'am, I would expect that any house could be a lifesaving station when the sea has brought someone to it.

MRS PATRICK: (turning away so she can't see the hand) I don't want him here! I—(defiant, yet struggling to speak) I need my house to myself!

CAPTAIN: You'll have the house to yourself once I've decided there’s no more life in this man. A lot of lives have been saved in this house, Mrs. Patrick—I believe that's your name—and if there's any chance of bringing one more back from the dead, the fact that you own the house isn't going to make a bit of difference to me!

MRS PATRICK: (in a thin wild way) I need my house to myself.

CAPTAIN: To hell with such a woman!

(Shoves the man he's working with and slams the door shut. As the CAPTAIN says, 'And if there's a chance of bringing one more back from the dead', ALLIE MAYO has shown up outside the wide door that leads to the dunes, a somber woman who initially seems like just another part of the sand in front of her. But as she listens to this conflict, you sense in her that strange intensity of twisted things that thrive in difficult places.)

MRS PATRICK: I—I don't want them here! I have to—

(But suddenly she pulls back, and disappears.)

BRADFORD: Well, I can’t say, Allie Mayo, that you work for a particularly kind-hearted woman. What’s wrong with her? Does she want people to die? She seems all torn up whenever someone tries to save a life. Why do you work for someone like her? A crazy person—that’s what I think of her. I've seen her—day after day—just sitting over there where the dunes meet the woods, staring. (suddenly thinking of it) I think she actually enjoys seeing the sand wash down into the woods. It probably makes her feel good to watch something get buried, I guess.

(ALLIE MAYO, who has stepped inside the door and moved halfway across the room, toward the corridor on the right, is stopped by this last—pauses for a moment as if seeing through something, then slowly continues on, and exits.)

BRADFORD: Some coffee might taste good. But coffee in this house? Oh, no. It could make someone feel better. (opening the door that was slammed shut) Do you want me now, Captain?

CAPTAIN: Nope.

BRADFORD: Oh, that boy's dead, Captain.

CAPTAIN: (snarling) Dannie Sears is dead, too. Close that door. I never want to hear that woman's voice again.

(Closing the door and sitting on a bench built into that corner between the big sliding door and the room where the CAPTAIN is.)

BRADFORD: They're a cheerful pair of women living in this nice place—a place that the lifeguards had to hand over to the sand—huh! This Patrick woman used to be fine. She and her husband were summer visitors in town. They would picnic over here on the outside. It was Joe Dyer—he always chats with summer folks—who told them the government was planning to build a new station and sell this one through sealed bids. I heard them talking about it. They were sitting right down there on the beach, eating their dinner. They were going to install a fireplace and paint it in bright colors, and have parties here—summer folk ideas. Their bid won it—who would want it?—a buried house you couldn't move.

TONY: I don’t see any bright colors.

BRADFORD: Don’t you? How surprising! You must be color blind. And I guess we're the first group. (laughs) I was in Bill Joseph's grocery store one day last November when in walks Mrs. Patrick from New York. "I've come to take the old life-saving station," she says. "I'm going to sleep over there tonight!" Huh! Bill is used to eccentric people—he deals with summer visitors, but that surprised him. November—an empty house, a buried house, you might say, out here on the outside shore—far away across the sand from anyone or anything. He figured out from her, not what she said, but how she reacted to what he said, that her husband had died and she was probably running off to hide. You’d feel sorry for her if she weren’t so distant and so incredibly mean. But mean people have their own way of thinking. She stayed here that night. Bill had guys hauling things until after dark—bed, stove, coal. And then she wanted someone to work for her. "Somebody," she says, "who doesn’t say an unnecessary word!" Well, then Bill came to the back of the store, and I said, "Looks to me like Allie Mayo is the person she’s looking for." Allie Mayo has a thing against talking. Or maybe she likes words so much she’s saving them. She hasn't said an unnecessary word in twenty years. She has her reasons. Women whose men go to sea aren’t always chatty.

(The CAPTAIN comes out. He closes the door behind him and stands there beside it. He looks exhausted and let down. Both look at him. Pause.)

CAPTAIN: I wonder who he was.

BRADFORD: Young. Seems like he hasn't spent much time at sea.

CAPTAIN: I really don’t want to leave even the dead in this house. But we can come right back for him. (looks around) This old place used to feel more welcoming. (moves to the outer door, hesitates, really not wanting to leave like this) Well, Joe, we brought a lot of them back here.

BRADFORD: Dannie Sears is tending bar in Boston now.

(The three men leave; as they walk around the sand dune ALLIE MAYO enters carrying a coffee pot; notices them leaving, sets down the coffee pot, glances at the door that THE CAPTAIN has shut, and moves toward it, as if pulled in. MRS PATRICK follows her in.)

MRS PATRICK: They left?

(MRS MAYO nods, looking at the closed door.)

MRS PATRICK: And they're leaving—him? (again the other woman nods) So he's—? (MRS MAYO just stands there) They have no right—just because it used to be their place—! I want my house to myself!

(Grabs her coat and scarf from a hook and heads through the big door toward the dunes.)

ALLIE MAYO: Hold on.

(Once she has said it, she sinks into that corner seat—as if overwhelmed by what she has done. The other woman is held.)

ALLIE MAYO: (to herself.) If I can say that, I can say more. (looking at the woman she has arrested, but speaking more to herself) That boy in there—his face—revealed something—(her open hand on her chest. But she waits, as if she cannot go on; when she speaks, it’s with effort—slow, monotonous, as if weighed down by years of silence) For twenty years, I did what you’re doing. And I can tell you—it’s not the way. (her voice drops to a whisper; she stops, looking ahead at something distant and obscured) We had been married—two years. (a start, as if suddenly pained. She says it again, as if trying to convince herself) Married—two years. He had a chance to go north on a whaler. Times were tough. He had to go. A year and a half—it was supposed to be. A year and a half. Two years we’d been married.

(She sits quietly, rocking a bit back and forth.)

The day he left. (not said, but felt through pain) The days that followed his departure.

I heard initially. The last letter mentioned going farther north—there won't be another chance to write until I'm on the way home. (a wait)

Six months. Another, I didn’t hear. (long wait) Nobody ever heard. (after it seems she is held there, and will not go on) I used to talk as much as any girl in Provincetown. Jim would tease me about my talking. But people would come in to talk to me. They’d say— 'You might hear yet.' They’d discuss what must have happened. Then one day, a woman who’d been my friend my whole life said— 'What if he just walked in!' I stood up and kicked her out of my kitchen—and since then, I haven’t said a word I didn’t have to say. (she has become almost wild in telling this. That passes. In a whisper) The ice that caught Jim—caught me. (a moment as if held in ice. Comes from it. To MRS PATRICK simply) It’s not the way. (a sudden change) You’re not the only woman in the world whose husband is dead!

MRS PATRICK: (with a cry of pain) Dead? My husband's not dead.

ALLIE MAYO: He isn’t? Oh.

(The woman at the door is crying. She suddenly picks up her coat from the floor and steps outside.)

ALLIE MAYO: (almost failing to do it) Hang on.

MRS PATRICK: Wait? Don't you think you've said enough? I was told you didn't say anything unnecessary!

ALLIE MAYO: Nope.

MRS PATRICK: And you can see, I would think, that you've messed up things you know nothing about!

(As she talks, quietly crying to herself, she pushes the sand by the door down onto the partially buried grass—though not as if she understands what she's doing.)

ALLIE MAYO: (slowly) When you stay quiet for twenty years, you pick up things you didn't even realize you knew. I understand why you're doing that. (she looks up at her, startled) Don't hide the only thing that can thrive. Let it thrive.

(The woman outside, still quietly crying, suddenly turns and heads towards the spot where the dunes meet the woods.)

ALLIE MAYO: I know what you're planning! (MRS PATRICK turns but not like she wants to) What you'll try to do. Over there. (pointing to the line of woods) Bury it. The life inside you. Bury it—watching the sand cover the woods. But I’ll tell you something! They fight too. The woods! They fight for life the same way Captain fought for life in there!

(Pointing to the shut door.)

MRS PATRICK: (with a strange excitement) And lose the way he lost in there!

ALLIE MAYO: (sure, serious) They never lose.

MRS PATRICK: Don't lose? (triumphant) I have walked on the tops of buried trees!

ALLIE MAYO: (slow, somber, yet large) And vines will grow over the sand that covers the trees and hold it in place. Other trees will grow over the buried trees.

MRS PATRICK: I've seen the sand trickle down on the vines that stretch out the farthest.

ALLIE MAYO: Another vine will reach that spot. (under her breath, tenderly) Strange little things that stretch out the farthest!

MRS PATRICK: And will be buried as soon as possible!

ALLIE MAYO: And hold the sand for what’s behind them. They protect a forest that watches over a town.

MRS PATRICK: I don't care at all about a forest to protect a town. This is the outside—these dunes where only beach grass grows, this outer shore where people can't live. The Outside. You who were born here and will die here have named it that.

ALLIE MAYO: Yes, we named it that for a reason. He died here (reaches her hand toward the closed door) and so did many others before him. But many more made it to the harbor! (slowly raises her arm, bends it to make the form of the Cape. Touches the outside of her bent arm) The Outside. But an arm that bends to create a harbor—where men are safe.

MRS PATRICK: I'm outside the harbor—on the dunes, land not alive.

ALLIE MAYO: Dunes meet woods, and the woods protect the dunes from a town by the harbor.

MRS PATRICK: This is the outside. Sand (picking some of it up in her hand and letting it fall on the beach grass) Sand that covers—mounds of sand that shift and cover.

ALLIE MAYO: Woods. Woods to hold the moving hills from Provincetown. Provincetown—where they go when boats can't survive at sea. Have you ever seen the sails come around here when the sky is dark? A line of them—quick to the harbor—where their children live. Go back! (pointing) Back to your side of the woods that's the edge of the dunes.

MRS PATRICK: The brink of life. Where life fades into insignificant things unworthy of a name.

(Suddenly sits down in the doorway.)

ALLIE MAYO: Not worth mentioning. And—meeting the outside world!

(Filled with a sense of the wonder of life.)

MRS PATRICK: (lifting sand and letting it drift through her hand.) They're whatever the sand allows them to be. They form odd shapes like those made by wind-blown sand.

ALLIE MAYO: Meeting the Outside. (moving nearer; speaking more personally) I know why you came here. To this house that had been abandoned; on this shore where only those who strive to survive try to live. I know what keeps you on these dunes and pulls you over there. But there are other truths besides the things you want to see.

MRS PATRICK: How do you know they are? Where have you been for twenty years?

ALLIE MAYO: Outside. Twenty years. That's why I know how brave they are (indicating the edge of the woods. Suddenly different) You won't find peace there again! Go back and watch them fight!

MRS PATRICK: (swiftly rising) You’re a cruel woman—hard and disrespectful! I knew what I was doing! What do you know about it? About me? I didn’t choose to be here. I was left behind. I’m just trying to get by. Everything that could hurt me, I want buried—buried deep. Spring is here. This morning, I felt it. Spring—coming through the storm—to take me—take me to hurt me. That’s why I couldn’t stand—(she looks at the closed door) things that made me aware I feel. You haven’t felt anything for so long you don’t know what it means! But I’m telling you, Spring is here! And now you’d take that from me—(looking now toward the edge of the woods) the thing that made me realize they would be buried in my heart—those things I can’t live and know I feel. You’re more cruel than the sea! 'But other truths exist beyond what you want to see!' Outside. Springs will come when I won’t even recognize it’s spring. (as if resentful for not being able to believe what she says more deeply) What would be left for me but the Outside? What was there for you? What did you ever find after you lost the thing you wanted?

ALLIE MAYO: I found—what I understand now I know. The edge of life—to keep life behind me—

(A small gesture toward MRS PATRICK.)

MRS PATRICK: (stepping back) Is this what you call life? (laughs) It’s as dreary as those nasty things that grow in the sand!

ALLIE MAYO: (muttering softly, as someone who speaks lovingly about beauty) Ugly!

MRS PATRICK: (passionately) I have experienced life. I have truly lived. You're like this Cape. A strip of land far out in the ocean—land but not life.

ALLIE MAYO: A harbor far at sea. (raises her arm, curves it in as if around something she loves) Land that surrounds and provides shelter from the storm.

MRS PATRICK: (facing the sea, as if asserting what will keep everything else at bay) Outside sea. Outer shore. Dunes—land without life.

ALLIE MAYO: Outside sea—outer shore, dark with the wood that used to be ships—dunes, a strange land that isn’t really alive—woods, town, and harbor. The line! A stunted, scraggly line that confronts the Outside directly—and struggles for something it can never attain. A lonely line. Courageously growing.

It loses.

It wins.

MRS PATRICK: The deepest life is buried.

ALLIE MAYO: And life flourishes over life that’s been buried! (lifted into that; then, as one who states a simple truth with feeling) It will. And there will be Springs when you’ll want to recognize that it is Spring.

(The CAPTAIN and BRADFORD show up behind the pile of sand. They have a stretcher. To avoid them MRS PATRICK steps further into the room; ALLIE MAYO cowers in her corner. The men walk in, open the closed door, and enter the room where they left the deceased man. A moment later they can be seen outside the big open door, carrying the man away. MRS PATRICK watches them until they disappear from view.)

MRS PATRICK: (bitter, exultant) You savers of life! (to ALLIE MAYO) You savers of life! 'Meeting the Outside!' Meeting—(but she can’t say it mockingly again; in saying it, something of what it means has broken through, rises. She's lost, feeling her way into the wonder of life) Meeting the Outside!

(It develops within her as CURTAIN lowers slowly.)

First performed at the Provincetown Playhouse on November 14, 1921.

CHARACTERS IN THE PLAY

ANTHONY

HARRY ARCHER, Claire's spouse

HATTIE, the housekeeper

CLAIRE

DICK, Richard Deming

TOM EDGEWORTHY

ELIZABETH, Claire's kid

Adelaide, Claire's sister

Dr. Emmons

The curtain rises on a dark space, except for a beam of light coming up through an open trapdoor in the floor. This beam angles up and hits the long leaves and the striking bloom of a bizarre plant with a twisted stem that stretches from the front right. The only things visible are this plant and its shadow. A strong wind can be heard. A moment later, a buzzer sounds. It buzzes once long and three times short. Silence. The buzzer sounds again. Then from below—his shadow blocking the light, comes ANTHONY, a rugged man in his middle age;—he appears from the stairway into the darkness of the room. He is faintly seen picking up a phone.

ANTHONY: Yes, Miss Claire?—Let me check. (he brings a thermometer to the stairway for light, looks closely, then returns to the phone) It's down to forty-nine. The plants are at risk—(with great relief and approval) Oh, that's great! (hangs up the receiver) Great!

(He walks back down the stairs, shutting the trapdoor behind him, and the curtain falls on darkness and wind. It opens a moment later to reveal the greenhouse bathed in the sunlight of a snowy morning. The snow piled outside occasionally drifts through the air. The frost has created patterns on the glass as if—as Plato would suggest—the patterns embedded in abstract nature and behind all life had to emerge, not just in the creative warmth within, but also in the creative chill on the other side of the glass. And the wind creates patterns of sound around the glass house.)

The back wall is low, and the glass roof slopes steeply upward. There's an outside door a bit toward the right. Two steps lead down to it from outside. On the left, there's a glass partition and a door into the inner room, which you can see a little way into. On the right, there’s no dividing wall except for some large plants and vines, with a narrow aisle between shelves of plants that leads off.

This isn't a greenhouse where plants are showcased, nor the typical workshop for growing them, but a space for experimenting with plants, a lab.

At the back, there’s a strange vine. It’s more striking than pretty. It crawls along the low wall, and one branch reaches up a bit on the glass. You might notice a cross shape in it, if you see it that way. The leaves of this vine aren’t like typical leaves. They’re both off-putting and meaningful.

ANTHONY is working on the soil—mixing and sifting. As the wind tests the door, he anxiously checks the thermometer, nods as if reassured, and goes back to his work. The buzzer rings. He starts to pick up the phone, remembers something, stops, and listens intently. It doesn’t buzz once long and three short. Then he returns to his work. The buzzer keeps going in impatient bursts, growing more annoying. Several times ANTHONY feels almost forced to respond to this urgency, but what holds him back is stronger. Finally, after a particularly frantic series of buzzes, which ANTHONY wants to respond to, the buzzer finally stops. ANTHONY continues preparing the soil.

A moment later, the glass door swings open forcefully, snow blowing inside, and also MR. HARRY ARCHER, wrapped in a blanket.

ANTHONY: Oh, please shut the door, sir.

HARRY: Do you think I'm not doing my best? (he holds it open to say this)

ANTHONY: But please do. This stormy weather isn't good for the plants.

HARRY: I guess it's just right for me! So, what do you mean, Anthony, by not picking up the phone when I call for you?

ANTHONY: Miss Claire—Mrs. Archer told me not to.

HARRY: I told you not to respond to me?

ANTHONY: Not you in particular—nobody but her.

HARRY: Well, I admire her guts—and yours.

ANTHONY: You see, she thought that when I'm out here, getting interrupted takes my focus away from my work. And it does. So she buzzes once, long—and—Well, she buzzes her way, and all the other buzzing—

HARRY: May I?

ANTHONY: (nodding seriously) She believed it would be better for the flowers.

HARRY: I’m not a flower—true, but I also need a bit of attention—and some warmth. Can you please tell me why the house is so cold?

ANTHONY: Miss Claire asked to have all the heat turned off here, (patiently explaining it to MISS CLAIRE's speechless husband) You see, the roses need a lot of heat.

HARRY: (reading the thermometer) The roses are at seventy-three, I’m at forty-five.

ANTHONY: Yeah, the roses need seventy-three.

HARRY: Anthony, this is absurd!

ANTHONY: I think it's me; when you think about what we paid for the heating system—but since it's faulty—Well, Miss Claire wouldn't have done what she did if she hadn't taken care of her plants in exactly this way. Have you forgotten that Breath of Life is about to bloom?

HARRY: So, when am I getting my breakfast? That’s what I want to know.

ANTHONY: Well, Miss Claire got up at five o'clock to have the heat turned off in the house.

HARRY: I see you appreciate her attentiveness.

ANTHONY: Oh, I definitely do. (fervently) I do. Harm was close, and that got her attention.

HARRY: And what about the harm to—(tapping his chest) Do roses catch pneumonia?

ANTHONY: Oh, yes—yes, they definitely do. Why, Mr. Archer, just look at Miss Claire herself. Hasn’t she given her warmth to the roses?

HARRY: (pulling the blanket around him, getting ready for the blizzard) She has the passion inside her.

ANTHONY: (delighted) Isn't that so true! You put it perfectly. (with a glare for this appreciation, HARRY opens the door. It blows away from him) Please, close the door!

HARRY: (angrily) Do you really think my life's goal is to keep it open?

ANTHONY: (grabbing it) Plants need a consistent temperature, (as he says this, he pulls the man out into the snow)

(ANTHONY checks the thermometer, not as happy this time as he was before. He then inspects two of the plants—one is a rose, the other is a flower without a name because it hasn't been a flower long enough. He looks closely at their centers. Then from a drawer under a shelf, he takes two paper bags, places one over each flower, and seals them at the bottom. Again, the door swings open wildly, and so does HATTIE, a maid with a basket.)

ANTHONY: What do you mean—coming in here like this? Mrs. Archer has ordered—

HATTIE: Mr. Archer has requested that breakfast be served here, (she uncovers the basket and takes out an electric toaster)

ANTHONY: Breakfast—here? Eat—here? Where do plants grow?

HATTIE: The plants won't harm him, will they? (not sure what to do with everything, she moves the toaster under the weird vine at the back, whose leaves press against the glass, which has frost patterns on the outside)

ANTHONY: (snatching it away) You—you think you can cook eggs under the Edge Vine?

HATTIE: I suppose Mr. Archer's eggs are just as important as a vine. I think my work is just as important as yours.

ANTHONY: There are a million people like you—and like Mr. Archer. But in the whole world, there's only one Edge Vine.

HATTIE: Well, maybe one is enough. It doesn't look like much, anyway.

ANTHONY: And you don't have the sense to realize that's why it's called the Edge Vine.

HATTIE: You need to be careful, Anthony. You sound crazy. Everyone says so.

ANTHONY: Miss Claire, don't say that.

HATTIE: No, because she’s—

ANTHONY: You talk too much!

(Door opens, letting in HARRY; after scanning the room for the best spot to have breakfast, he moves a box of dirt from the table.)

HARRY: Can you help me out, Hattie?

(They take it to the open space, and he and HATTIE set up the breakfast items, HATTIE casting victorious glances at the troubled ANTHONY)

ANTHONY: (realizing he needs to take action) Mr. Archer, this isn't the right place to have breakfast!

HARRY: Completely mistaken, my friend. The place with the warmth is where we should have breakfast. (to HATTIE) Let the other guys know—I heard Mr. Demming stirring, and Mr. Edgeworthy, if he shows up, that since it’s such a nice morning, we’re having breakfast outside. Let’s go to the conservatory for coffee.

(HATTIE giggles, is leaving.)

And let's see, do we have everything? (takes the one shaker, shakes a little pepper into his hand. Looks in vain for the other shaker) And tell Mr. Demming to bring the salt.

ANTHONY: But Miss Claire is going to be really mad.

HARRY: I'm really angry. Did I decide to have my breakfast in the middle of a blizzard?

ANTHONY: (an exclamation of horror at the thermometer) The temperature is dropping. I need to report this. (he hits the buzzer and picks up the phone) Miss Claire? It’s Anthony. Something terrible has happened. Mr. Archer—what? Yes, something terrible.—Yes, it’s about Mr. Archer.—No—no, he’s not dead. But he’s here. Yes, he’s fine, he seems fine, but he’s eating his breakfast. Yes, he’s having breakfast served out here—for himself, and the other gentlemen are coming too.—Well, he seemed upset because the heat has been turned off in the house. But the door keeps opening—this stormy wind is blowing right over the plants. The temperature has already dropped.—Yes, yes. I thought you’d want to come.

(ANTHONY opens the trapdoor and goes below. HARRY looks disapprovingly down into the opening at his feet, then goes back to his breakfast. ANTHONY comes up, carrying a box.)

HARRY: (turning his face away) Yikes! What a stench.

ANTHONY: Yeah. Fertilizer has to smell.

HARRY: Well, it doesn’t need to ruin my breakfast!

ANTHONY: (with a patient sense of order) The smell belongs here. (he and the smell go to the inner room)

(The outer door opens just enough to let in CLAIRE—is quickly closed. With CLAIRE in the room there’s a different kind of energy present.)

CLAIRE: What are you doing here?

HARRY: Getting breakfast. (while doing that)

CLAIRE: I won't have you here!

HARRY: If you’re going to handle all the heat, then you’ve got to take me along too.

CLAIRE: I'll show you how I have to take you. (with her hands starts scooping the soil ANTHONY has prepared)

HARRY: (jumping up, laughing, holding her arms down, wrapping his arms around her) Claire—come on, be reasonable. What am I doing that's so wrong?

CLAIRE: You turn down the heat.

HARRY: Not after I'm inside.

CLAIRE: And you told Tom and Dick to come and mess it up.

HARRY: Tom and Dick are our guests. We can’t eat somewhere warm and leave them to eat somewhere cold.

CLAIRE: I don't see why we can't.

HARRY: You only see what you want to see.

CLAIRE: That's not true. I wish it were. No; actually, I don't wish that either. (She is disturbed—this troubling feeling rising up from deep inside her CLAIRE. She turns to the Edge Vine and looks at it. Regretfully to ANTHONY, who has come in with a plant) It's going back, isn't it?

ANTHONY: Are you sure yet, Miss Claire?

CLAIRE: Oh yeah—it's had its chance. It doesn't want to be—what hasn't been.

HARRY: (who has turned at this note in her voice. Speaks kindly) Don't take it too seriously, Claire. (CLAIRE laughs)

CLAIRE: No, I guess not. But it does matter—and why should I act like it doesn't, just because I messed up with it?

HARRY: Well, I don't want it to get to you—it's not worth it.

CLAIRE: (in her brooding way) Anything is important enough for that—if it matters at all. (to the vine) I thought you were gone, but you're—heading back home.

ANTHONY: But you're the one doing it this time, Miss Claire. When Breath of Life opens—and we see what it's really about—

(CLAIRE glances toward the inner room. Because of the plants blocking the view, they can't see what is visible from the front—a plant that looks like it’s in motion, and more transparent than typical plants. Its leaves, like curling waves, enclose a heart that isn’t visible. This plant stands alone in what is a hidden spot due to the way everything around it is arranged. But nothing stands between it and the light.)

CLAIRE: Yes, if the heart has (a little laugh) held its own, then Breath of Life is alive in its uniqueness. But Edge Vine is going back to what it escaped from.

HARRY: Come on, have some coffee, Claire.

(ANTHONY returns to the inner room, the outer door opens. DICK is thrown in.)

CLAIRE: (going to the door, as he gasps for breath before closing it) How dare you throw off my vibe! (she shuts the door and leans against it)

DICK: Is that really what I do?

(A laugh, a look between them, which carries meaning.)

HARRY: (with his back to them) Where's the salt?

DICK: Oh, I fell in the snow. I must have left the salt where I fell. I'll go back and check for it.

CLAIRE: And adjust the temperature? We don’t need any salt.

HARRY: You don’t need salt, Claire. But we eat eggs.

CLAIRE: I have to say I don't like the idea of eating any food here, where everything has its own course. Please eat as little as you can, and do it quickly.

HARRY: A hostess designed to make you feel comfortable.

CLAIRE: (without any malice) I don't care at all about your comfort. Or about Dick's comfort.

DICK: And that’s probably what makes you such an interesting hostess.

CLAIRE: Was I an intriguing hostess last night, Dick? (softly sings) 'Oh, night of love—' (from the Barcorole of 'Tales of Hoffman')

HARRY: We need to get salt.

(He heads for the door. CLAIRE sneaks in before him, locks it, and takes the key. He walks off, to the right.)

CLAIRE: (calling after him) That door is always locked.

DICK: Claire, sweetheart, I wish you wouldn't say those shocking things. You might get away with it, but honestly, it surprises me—it's really unwise.

CLAIRE: Haven't you figured out that the best place to hide is in the truth? (as HARRY returns) Why can't you believe me, Harry, when I tell you the truth—about the doors being locked?

HARRY: Claire, it's selfish of you to stop us from having salt just because you don't use it.

CLAIRE: (with one of her quick changes) Oh, Harry! Try your egg without salt. Please—please just try it without salt! (an intensity that feels way out of proportion to the topic)

HARRY: An egg needs salt.

CLAIRE: 'An egg needs salt.' Do you know, Harry, why you are such an unseasoned person? 'An egg needs salt.'

HARRY: Well, it doesn't always work that way.

CLAIRE: But your spirit doesn't get any boost from the salt you’re missing.

HARRY: Not even a bit of lift. (going back to his breakfast)

CLAIRE: And so proud of itself for not getting any lift. Sure, it has exactly the right kind of spirit—because it doesn’t rise. (more brightly) But, Dick, you must have tried your egg without salt.

DICK: I'll give it a shot now. (he heads to the breakfast table)

CLAIRE: You must have tried and tried things. Isn't that how one leaves the ordinary and gets into the paths of perversion?

HARRY: Claire.

DICK: (pushing back his egg) If that's the case, I’d rather wait for the salt.

HARRY: Claire, there’s a limit.

CLAIRE: Exactly what I was thinking. There's a limit to how twisted things can get. So—the defenses are impenetrable. If someone ever manages to escape, I guess it’s—completely out of the blue, and maybe—a little horrifying.

HARRY: Get out where to?

CLAIRE: (with a bright smile) Where you, darling, will never go.

HARRY: And from there, sweetheart, you'd better get going.

CLAIRE: I wish I could. (to herself) No—no I don't.

(Again this troubled thing turns her to the plant. She sets aside the two that ANTHONY covered with paper bags. She is about to take off these papers. HARRY strikes a match.)

CLAIRE: (turning sharply) You can’t smoke here. The plants aren’t used to it.

HARRY: Then I would think smoking would be perfect for them.

CLAIRE: There's a design.

HARRY: (to DICK) Am I supposed to get an answer? I can never be really sure when I actually get one.

(They both watch CLAIRE, who has uncovered the plants and is looking closely at the flowers. She takes some tools from a drawer. Very carefully, she gives the rose pollen to an unfamiliar flower—somewhat strangely unfamiliar—which sits on a small shelf near the door of the inner room.)

DICK: What are you doing, Claire?

CLAIRE: Pollinating. Crossing for scent.

DICK: It's all pretty mysterious, right?

HARRY: And Claire doesn't change that at all.

CLAIRE: Can I make life any less confusing?

HARRY: If you know what you're doing, why can't you just tell Dick?

DICK: Forget it. Anyway, why should I have to know? (he turns away)

(At that, she wants to tell him. Helpless, like someone who can’t get across a stream, she starts uncertainly.)

CLAIRE: I want to give a scent to Breath of Life (faces the room beyond the wall of glass)—the flower I’ve created that’s different from any flowers that have existed. What has left should bring a scent from what it has known. But not a specific scent, nothing that confines it. I call the scent I’m trying to create Reminiscence. (her hand on the pot of the wistful little flower she has just given pollen) Reminiscent of the rose, the violet, arbutus—but something new—itself. Breath of Life might feel lonely out in what hasn’t existed. Maybe someday I can give it reminiscence.

I got it, Claire.

CLAIRE: I wonder if you really do.

HARRY: So, Claire, you're going to be gay today, right? These are Tom's last few days with us.

CLAIRE: That doesn't make me particularly gay.

HARRY: So, you want him to remember you as you are, right?

CLAIRE: I really want him to. Oh—I really want him to!

HARRY: Then be entertaining. That's really who you are, right, Dick?

DICK: Not exactly all of her—I should say.

CLAIRE: (cheerfully) Be careful, Dick. Aren't you being a bit indiscreet? Harry will start thinking that I'm your latest fling.

HARRY: Claire! What language you use! Someone who only sees you in certain moments could never believe you’re a sophisticated woman.

CLAIRE: It's true, right, Dick?

HARRY: It would be pretty fun to let them listen in sometimes—then tell them that this is the best of New England!

CLAIRE: Well, if this is the best of New England, then we haven’t even scratched the surface.

DICK: New England?

CLAIRE: I thought I meant that. Maybe I meant—about me.

HARRY: (continuing with his own entertainment) Explain that this is what resulted from the men who created the laws that shaped New England, that here is the best of those cultured gentlemen who—

DICK: Shaped the American mindset!

CLAIRE: Oh! (it hurts)

HARRY: What's wrong now?

CLAIRE: I want to escape from them!

HARRY: Don't worry, little one—you'll be fine.

CLAIRE: I'm not really sure that I do. But it can be done! We don’t have to be stuck in roles shaped for us. There's outness—and otherness.

HARRY: Look, Claire—I didn’t intend to start anything serious.

CLAIRE: No, you never intend to do that. I want to break it apart! I'm telling you, I want to break it apart! If it were all in pieces, we’d be (a little laugh) shocked to life (to DICK)—wouldn't we? There would be strange new connections—crazy new connections, and we would understand what it means to be born, and then we might realize—that we exist. Break it. (her hand is near an egg) Just like you'd break an egg. (she pushes the egg over the edge of the table and leans over and looks, as over a precipice)

HARRY: (with a sigh) Well, all you've broken is the egg, and all that means is that now Tom gets no egg. So, that's that.

CLAIRE: (struggling, pulling herself back from the edge of the cliff) You think I can't break anything? You think life can't shatter and change from what it was? Just because you've become numb in the state you found yourself in, you believe that's all there is to this whole journey? And that's what you call sanity. And it's seen as a good thing—to trap someone in that. You've never worked with things that grow! Things that take risks—go a little crazy—that sanity can't confine—from life untouched—from life that waits, (she turns toward the inner room) Breath of Life. (she goes in there)

HARRY: Oh, I wish Claire wouldn't act so weird like that, (helplessly) What is it? What's wrong?

DICK: It’s just the overflow of a really rich personality.

HARRY: But she’s getting into it. I sometimes wonder if all this (indicating the place around him) is a good thing. It would be fine if she’d just go back to how she was at the start—making the flowers as good as they can be. It’s really a nice thing for a woman to do—grow flowers. But there’s something about this—turning things into other things—mixing things together and creating strange new things—this—

DICK: Making?

HARRY: Call it whatever you like—it’s unsettling for a woman. They say Claire’s really good at it, but what good does that do if it overwhelms her? Seriously, what’s the point anyway? Sure, we can create new things. Goodness—just look at the ones we have. (looks outside; turns back) Wow, the wind is really loud around here, (but now it is not just the wind; it’s TOM EDGEWORTHY, who is trying to let himself in at the locked door; their backs are to him) I want my egg. You can’t eat an egg without salt. Honestly, I don’t understand Claire these days. I wish Charlie Emmons could see her—he’s helped a lot of people who were hurt in the war. Claire needs something to calm her nerves down. Do you think it would bother her?

DICK: She’d probably find it pretty entertaining.

HARRY: Yes, darn her, she would. (TOM now takes more heroic measures to make himself heard at the door) It's odd—how the wind can trick you. If I don’t look around, I could imagine—well, I could imagine anything. Isn’t it strange how imagination works? And Claire says I don’t have any!

DICK: It would make a funny drawing—what the wind makes you imagine is there. (first makes shapes with his hands, then leveling the soil prepared by ANTHONY, traces lines with his finger) Yes, really—pretty cheerful.

(TOM, after a moment of looking at them, smiles, and walks away.)

HARRY: You're another one of the oddballs, aren't you? Come on—spill the tea. Do you weirdos actually have something going on—or are you just pretending you do?

DICK: (smiles, draws on) Not saying anything, huh? Well, I guess that's smart. If you stay quiet—how are we going to show there's nothing going on?

DICK: I don’t stay quiet. I create art.

HARRY: Lines that don't mean anything—how can they tell you anything? All I ask is, don't make Claire awkward. Claire's a great sport—seriously, so don't encourage her to act weird.

DICK: The problem is, if you’re quirky enough to be funny, it could—open the door to queerness.

HARRY: Just don’t say stuff like that to Claire.

I don't need to.

HARRY: So you think she’s gay, huh? Just like you, you think she’s gay. I’d like to have Dr. Emmons come out. (after a moment of silently watching DICK, who is enjoying his drawing) You know, honestly, I doubt you’re a good influence on Claire. (DICK lifts his head slightly) Oh, I’m not worried about—things a husband might usually stress about. I guess an intellectual woman—and even though Claire can’t stand her family, she’s got that trait too. Seriously, I caught her the other day engrossed in something until she didn’t even notice me. Want to know what it was? Reading Latin. Well—a woman who reads Latin shouldn’t give a husband too much to worry about.

DICK: They said quite a bit in Latin.

HARRY: But what I meant was, I think a woman who spends a lot of time in her own head never really has much—well, what you'd call passion, (uses the word as if it shouldn't be used. Brows knitted, is looking ahead, does not see DICK's face. Turning to him with a laugh) I guess you know pretty much everything there is to know about women?

DICK: Maybe I missed one or two details.

HARRY: Well, for that matter, you might know everything there is to know about women and still not really know Claire. But about (does not want to say passion again)—oh, feeling—Claire has a certain—well, a certain—

DICK: Is that ironic?

HARRY: Which is really more—more—

DICK: More appealing, perhaps.

HARRY: Yes! More than the thing itself. But of course—you wouldn't have much of a thing to be ironic about.

DICK: Oh—wouldn't you! I mean—a guy might.

HARRY: I want to talk to Edgeworth about Claire. But it’s not easy to discuss Claire with Tom—or to talk to Claire about Tom.

DICK: (alert) They’re really old friends, right?

HARRY: Yeah, they are. Even though they haven't spent much time together in recent years, Edgeworthy is always off somewhere far away to think about something. I honestly don’t understand it. If you have a place, that’s where you should be. And he did have a place—solid family ties, and a really good business his dad left him. A publishing business—in great shape, too, when old Edgeworthy passed away. I wouldn’t say Tom is a huge success in life, but Claire actually pays attention to what he says.

DICK: Yeah, I've noticed that.

HARRY: So, I want him to tell her to stop this weird thing of making things grow that never grew before.

DICK: But are you really sure that’s what he would say to her? Isn’t he in the same field himself?

HARRY: He doesn't bring up anything.

(TOM is back at the door.)

DICK: Anyway, I think he might realize that we can't really get in touch with each other.

HARRY: What a load of nonsense. What’s the point of having intelligence?

DICK: I guess it's about giving each other space. The problem is, we just don't have enough to do it.

(TOM is now knocking on the door with a revolver. HARRY partially turns, thinks he's too clever to turn all the way.)

HARRY: Don’t tell me I’m getting nervous. But the way some of you talk is enough to make even a pilot jittery. We can’t reach each other! Then we’re idiots. If I’m here and you’re there, why can’t we connect?

DICK: Because I'm me and you're you.

HARRY: No wonder your drawing is strange. A guy who can't connect with another guy—(TOM here gets their attention by pointing the revolver in the air and firing it. DICK grabs a handful of dirt. HARRY jumps to the side, looking around in fear. TOM, with a satisfied smile since he finally has their attention, gestures to show he'd be happy to join them.)

HARRY: Wait—it's Tom! What the—? (heading to the door) He’s locked out. And Claire has the key. (goes to the inner door, tries it) And she’s locked in! (trying to see her inside) Claire! Claire! (returning to the outer door) Claire has the key—and I can’t get to Claire. (makes a pointless attempt to open the door without a key, goes back to inner door—peeks, knocks) Claire! Are you there? Didn’t you hear the gunshot? Has she gone down to the cellar? (tries the trap-door) It’s bolted! Well, I really appreciate how she keeps people locked out!

DICK: And in.

HARRY: (getting angry, shouting at the trap-door) Didn't you hear the gunshot? (turning to TOM) Really sorry, man, but—(astonished, looking at DICK) He can't hear me. (TOM, knocking with the gun to get their attention, makes a gesture of inquiry with it) No—no—no! Is he asking if he should shoot himself? (shaking his head violently) Oh, no—no! Um—um!

DICK: It’s hard to believe someone would shoot themselves just because they can't get to their breakfast.

HARRY: I'm starting to think people would do anything! (TOM is making another inquiry with the revolver) No! Not here. Don't shoot yourself. (trying hard to get the word through) Shoot yourself. I mean—don't, (petulantly to DICK) It's ridiculous that you can't get a man to understand you when he's staring right at you like that. (turning back to TOM) Read my lips. Lips. I'm saying—Oh damn. Where is Claire? All right—I'll show you with gestures. We wanted the salt... (going over it to himself) and Claire wouldn't let us go out for it because of the temperature. Salt. Temperature. (takes his egg-cup to the door, violent motion of shaking in salt) But—no (shakes his head) No salt. (he then takes the thermometer, a flower pot, holds them up to TOM) Because of the temperature. Tem-per-a—(TOM is not getting it) Oh—well, what can you do when a man doesn't get it? (TOM seems to be preparing the revolver for action. HARRY pounds on the inner door) Claire! Do you want Tom to shoot himself?

(As he peeks inside, the trapdoor lifts, and CLAIRE comes halfway up.)

CLAIRE: What’s Tom doing out there with a gun?

HARRY: He's about to shoot himself because you locked him out of his breakfast.

CLAIRE: He must have more exciting ways of messing up his life. (bowing to TOM) Good morning. (from his side of the glass TOM bows and smiles back) Isn’t it weird—us being in here—and him being out there?

HARRY: Claire, do you have no sense of hospitality? Let him in!

CLAIRE: In? Maybe that's not hospitality.

HARRY: Well, whatever hospitality is, out there is snow—and wind—and our guest—who was invited here for his breakfast. It's hard to believe a man has to deal with such things.

CLAIRE: I'm going to let him in. But I do like the way he looks out there. (she takes the key from her pocket)

HARRY: Thank goodness the door is opening. Someone can go get salt, and we can have our eggs.

CLAIRE: And open the door again—to let the salt in? No. If you really want salt, tell Tom to go back and get it now. It’s a stormy morning, and there will only be one chance to open the door.

HARRY: How can we tell him what he won't listen to? And why does he think we're having this conversation instead of just letting him join in?

CLAIRE: It would be cool to find out. I wonder if he'll let us know?

HARRY: Claire! Is this really the right time to be wondering about anything?

CLAIRE: Forget about wanting salt for your egg, and I'll let him in. (holds up the key to TOM to show that she's ready to let him in)

HARRY: I want my egg!

CLAIRE: Then ask him to bring the salt. It's pretty simple.

(HARRY goes through another routine with the egg-cup and the missing shaker. CLAIRE, still standing halfway down the cellar, sneezes. HARRY, becoming less friendly by the minute, explains with a thermometer and flower pot that there can only be one way to open the door. TOM looks interested but confused. Suddenly, he smiles, nods, and disappears.)

HARRY: Well, thank goodness (exhausted) that's done.

CLAIRE: (sitting on the top step) It was all so strange. He was locked out on his side of the door. You were locked in on yours. Looking right at each other and—

HARRY: (mockingly) And here I am trying to tell him to please get the salt!

CLAIRE: Yep.

HARRY: (to DICK) So, I didn't do too bad, right? It was a clever way to explain our situation with the thermometer and the flower pot. That was basically an apology for keeping him out there. God knows—some explanation was necessary, (he is watching, and sees TOM coming) Here he is now, Claire. And he’s probably really tired of the weather.

(CLAIRE goes to the door, stops before it. She and TOM look at each other through the glass. Then she lets him in.)

TOM: And now I'm in. For a bit, it felt like I wasn't going to be. But once I figured out that you were keeping me out there to see if I could get it—well, it would be way too embarrassing for a wall of glass to block understanding. (taking it from his pocket) So here’s the other thermometer. Where do you want it? (CLAIRE takes it)

CLAIRE: Where's the pepper?

TOM: (setting it on the table) And here's the pepper.

HARRY: Pepper?

TOM: When Claire sneezed, I knew—

CLAIRE: Yeah, I knew that if I sneezed, you'd grab the pepper.

TOM: It's funny how people always remember the salt, but the pepper gets ignored in cooking. And what’s an egg without pepper?

HARRY: (meanly) There's your egg, Edgeworth. (pointing to it on the floor) Claire thought it would be a great idea to break everything, so she started with your egg.

TOM: (looking at his egg) The thought of breaking everything is actually more interesting than this egg.

HARRY: It's great that you feel that way about it.

CLAIRE: (giving TOM his coffee) Want to hear something funny? I married Harry because I thought he would break something.

HARRY: Well, that was a bad call.

CLAIRE: I'm such a trusting person (HARRY laughs—CLAIRE gives him a surprised look, continues simply). I'm so innocent that I thought flying would change a man. But it didn't do anything for us. We just experienced it.

TOM: Only our own spirit can set us free.

HARRY: Whatever you mean by "out."

CLAIRE: (after looking closely at TOM, and thinking it over) But our spirit isn't something that just wanders around. Mine doesn’t. It’s connected to what I do. To fly. To be free in the air. To look down on the world I've known. To be where no one has ever been! Yes—don’t you think our spirit could understand that? The earth feels smaller. I’m getting ready to leave. What are they—running around down there? Why do they run down there? Houses? Houses are strange shapes and downward slopes—houses are fading slopes. I’m by myself. Can I breathe this lighter air? Should I go higher? Am I going too high? I’m free. I’m out. But no; man flew, and he came back to the earth that he left.

HARRY: And he probably wouldn't have come back at all if he'd had those wild ideas while flying a plane.

CLAIRE: Oh, Harry! (not lightly asked) Can't you see it would have been better not to come back than to bring back the man who left it?

HARRY: I care about human life.

CLAIRE: Why, no—I’m the one who actually values human life, (more lightly) That’s why I quickly divorced my stuck-in-the-past artist and married—the man who is always on the move. But I just went from a stuck-in-the-past artist to a—

DICK: Stuffy aviator?

HARRY: Speaking of your uptight artist, as you romantically refer to your first mistake, isn't his daughter—and yours—supposed to be here today?

CLAIRE: I knew something was bothering me. Elizabeth. A daughter is being brought into my life this morning. I have a feeling it’s going to be more painful than the first time. She has been, as they cleverly put it, educated; ready for her role in life.

HARRY: And luckily, Claire has a sister who is ready to give her young niece that spot.

CLAIRE: The concept of giving someone a role in life.

HARRY: Yes! Absolutely the idea!

CLAIRE: Yes! (as often, the mocking tone reveals the deeper truth inside her) The war. There was another amazing opportunity.

HARRY: Chance for what? I'm calling you out, Claire. I need you to say what you really mean.

CLAIRE: I’m not sure—exactly. If I were, there’d be no point in saying it. (at HARRY's impatient exclamation she turns to TOM)

TOM: (nodding) The only thing left to say is the thing we can't say.

HARRY: Help me!

CLAIRE: Yes. But the war didn’t help. Oh, it was an amazing opportunity! But as fast as we could, we hurried right back to the neat little routine we’d been shaken out of.

HARRY: You bet we did—proving our smarts.

CLAIRE: Revealing our inability—for madness.

HARRY: Come on, Claire—get a grip. You can't seriously think that having the ability for madness is a good thing?

CLAIRE: (in simple surprise) Oh, absolutely.

DICK: But I have to say the war brought enough chaos to give you a spark of hope.

CLAIRE: Not the madness that breaks through. And it was a stunning chance! Humanity came together to kill. We have failed. We're done for. We will destroy. Break this up—it can't go any further. In the air above, in the sea below—it’s all about killing! Everything we thought we were—we're not. We were trapped with what wasn’t real. Is there even an ounce of energy that hasn't gone into this killing? Is there any love that hasn't been torn apart? Throw it in! Now? Ready? Break up. Push. Harder. Break up. And then—and then—But we didn't say—'And then—' The spirit didn't take the hint.

HARRY: Claire! Come on (looking to the others for help)—let's talk about something else.

CLAIRE: Plants do it. It’s called the big leap. They burst their species apart because something in them knows they’ve reached their limits. Something in them realizes they’re trapped in that state. So— they go wild—so that life doesn’t feel confined. They break themselves into unpredictable forms—into smaller parts, and from those pieces, maybe one spark of life emerges with the energy to discover the future. How beautiful. How brave.

TOM: (as if he would call her from too far—or would let her know he has gone with her) Claire!

CLAIRE: (her eyes turning to him) Why should we care about lying under the ground? We who lack such ambition—no proud insanity? Why consider it death to lie beneath life so adaptable—so cruel and constantly renewing?

ANTHONY: (from the door of the inner room) Miss Claire?

CLAIRE: (after a moment) Yes? (she goes with him, as they disappear, his voice heard, 'show me now ... I want those violets planted')

HARRY: Oh, this has got to stop. I have to—put a stop to it somehow. Claire used to be the most fun person a guy could hang out with. I can't stand seeing her getting so worked up.

TOM: That wasn't hysterical.

HARRY: What was it? I want to know!

TOM: It was a look.

HARRY: Oh, I should have known I wouldn't get any help from either of you. Even you, Edgeworthy—no matter how much she thinks of you—and as great as I’m sure you are, you're not helping Claire by encouraging her in these weird ways.

TOM: I couldn't change Claire even if I tried.

HARRY: And you definitely would if you had the chance.

TOM: No. But you don’t need to worry about me. I’m leaving in a day or two. And I won’t be back.

HARRY: The problem with you is that it doesn’t really matter if you’re here or not. Just the fact that you exist supports Claire in this—this direction she’s heading.

TOM: (smiling) But you wouldn't really want me to go so far as to end my life, right? Even though I would do that for Claire—if it was what would help her.

HARRY: Wow, you say that like you really mean it.

TOM: Do you really think I'd say anything about Claire that I don't mean?

HARRY: You really like her, don't you? (TOM nods) You don't mean (a laugh letting him say it)—that you're—in love with Claire!

TOM: In love? Oh, that's way too simple. Of course I love Claire.

HARRY: You're really awesome!

TOM: Let her be herself. Can't you see she's struggling?

HARRY: Well, what's bothering Claire? I mean, seriously. It seems to me she has it all.

TOM: She's so vulnerable. Too exposed, (as HARRY moves impatiently) Please don't be mad at me. I'm trying my best to express this. You see, Claire isn't toughened into one of those roles she mentions. She's too—aware. Always drawn to what might be—haunted by the adventures she missed.

HARRY: Well, there's risk in all that. Of course, there's risk.

TOM: But you can't do anything about that.

HARRY: Claire was the most fun a woman could be. She still is—at times.

TOM: Let her be sometimes. As much as she can and wants to. She really needs that. Don’t prevent her from it by making her feel trapped. Above all, don’t try to stop what she’s doing here. If she can express herself with plants, maybe she won’t have to struggle with herself.

HARRY: Do what exactly?

TOM: (quietly, after a pause) Tear down what’s there. Invite destruction, hoping for—a door beyond the destruction.

HARRY: You really creep me out, (fidgets in irritation, bothered. To ANTHONY, who is walking by with a sprayer) Anthony, has there been any setup regarding Miss Claire's daughter?

ANTHONY: I haven't heard of any plans.

HARRY: Well, she needs to have some heat in her room. We can't all stay out here.

ANTHONY: Actually, you can’t. It’s not good for the plants.

HARRY: I'm going where I can smoke, (exits)

DICK: (casually, but intrigued by the concept) You think there’s a door on the other side of destruction?

TOM: How can you tell where a door might be? There’s something I need to say to you—because it’s about you. (looks at DICK not with his usual detached gaze) I don't think Claire should have any doors closed to her. (pause) You know what I mean, and you can probably guess how painful it is to say this. Whether it’s just a shameful escape within, or the wild hope of finding that way out, it's—(suddenly very sincere) Please be kind to her! (after a tough moment, smiles) Leaving for good feels like dying, so you can speak freely.

DICK: Why do you do it—leave forever?

TOM: I haven't made it here.

DICK: But you’ve tried leaving before.

TOM: I never realized I wouldn’t return. So that feeling isn’t going away. I hope this will be like viewing life from the outside.

DICK: But then you won't be part of it.

TOM: I haven't been able to see it from the inside.

DICK: Isn't it more important to be part of it than just to observe it?

TOM: That's not what I meant by look.

DICK: It's hard for me to imagine—loving Claire and leaving her forever.

TOM: Maybe it's tougher to actually do than to just think about it.

DICK: So why do it?

TOM: It's the only way I can hold on to her.

DICK: I'm sorry, but I feel like I’m in the same boat as Harry. I don’t understand you.

TOM: I guess not. Your approach is different, (with calm, with sadness—not with malice) But I’ll have her for a longer time. And from a deeper place.

I get it.

TOM: I’m missing a lot. A lot, (the buzzer. TOM looks around to see if anyone is coming to answer it, then goes to the phone) Yes?... I’ll check if I can reach her. (to DICK) Claire's daughter is here, (looking in the inner room—returns to phone) I don't see her. (catching a glimpse of ANTHONY off right) Oh, Anthony, where’s Miss Claire? Her daughter is here.

ANTHONY: She's focused on something really important in her experiments.

DICK: But isn't her daughter one of her experiments?

ANTHONY: (after a confused moment) Her daughter is done.

TOM: (on the phone) Sorry, but I can't reach Claire. She seems to have gone downstairs. (ANTHONY closes the trap-door) I talked to Anthony, but he says Claire is busy with one of her experiments and that her daughter is done. I don’t know how to get her attention—I took the revolver back to the house. Anyway, you remember Claire doesn’t respond to the revolver. I really dislike trying to contact Claire when she doesn’t want to be reached. Well, of course, a daughter is really important, but that’s unfortunate. (puts down the receiver) He says the girl’s feelings are hurt. Isn’t that frustrating? (gently knocks on the trap-door. Then, with the other hand, waits. ANTHONY smiles gently at the soft knocking—nods in approval as TOM returns to the phone) She still won’t come up. I really did—hit it with both fists—Sorry.

ANTHONY: Please, you won't try to bother Miss Claire again, will you?

DICK: Her daughter is here, Anthony. She hasn't seen her daughter in a year.

ANTHONY: Well, if she managed without a mom for a year—(goes back to his work)

DICK: (smiling after ANTHONY) Plants are strange. Maybe it's safer to do it with a pencil (looks at TOM)—or just with pure thought. Things that grow in the earth—

TOM: (nodding) I guess it's because we grew in the ground.

DICK: I'm always surprised to find that I agree with Harry, but I'm also concerned about Claire—and this, (looking at the plants)

TOM: It's her best shot.

DICK: Don't you hate the idea of going away to India—forever—leaving Claire's future uncertain?

TOM: You're being really mean right now. And you knew you were being mean.

DICK: Yeah, I like the way your face looks when you're in pain.

TOM: I really don’t like the way you act when you're hurting others.

DICK: Maybe that's your limitation.

TOM: I admit it might be true. (They are quiet) I had a strange feeling that you and I sat here together once before, a long time ago, and that we were plants. You were a beautiful plant, and I—I was a really ugly plant. I have to say I was surprised to find myself as such an ugly plant.

(A young girl is seen outside. HARRY opens the door for her and brings ELIZABETH inside.)

HARRY: It's warm in here. And there are two of your mom's friends. Mr. Demming—Richard Demming—the artist—and I believe you and Mr. Edgeworthy are good friends.

(ELIZABETH steps forward. She's a respectable young American—fit, confident, refined, with such a strong grasp of the ordinary that she can face the world with ease—an ease that her training has made quite elegant. She's around seventeen—and has a sense of maturity. You sense solid qualities behind her.)

TOM: I knew you when you were a baby. You used to kick a lot back then.

ELIZABETH: (laughing, casually) And scream, I have no doubt about that. But I've put a stop to that. One does, right? And you were the one who gave me the idol.

TOM: Trying to convert people, unfortunately.

ELIZABETH: I beg—? Oh—yes (laughing) I get it. (she doesn't) I dressed the idol in my doll's clothes. They fit perfectly—the idol was exactly the same size as my doll Ailine. But mom didn't like the idol like that, and she ripped the clothes off. (to HARRY, after looking around) Is mom here?

HARRY: (angrily) Yes, she's here. Of course she's here. And she has to know you're here, (after checking the inner room he goes to the trap-door and makes a loud noise)

ELIZABETH: Oh—come on. Honestly—it doesn’t matter at all.

HARRY: Well, all I can say is, your manners are better than your mom's.

ELIZABETH: But you see, I don’t do anything exciting, so I have to have good manners. (lightly, but with the impression that there’s a certain superiority in not doing anything exciting. Turning cordially to DICK) My dad was an artist.

DICK: Yeah, I know.

ELIZABETH: He was a portrait painter. Do you paint portraits?

DICK: Well, not the type that people purchase.

ELIZABETH: They bought Dad's.

DICK: Yeah, I know he did that sort of thing.

HARRY: (still irritated) Why don’t you do portraits?

DICK: I filmed one of you the other day. You thought it was a milk jug.

ELIZABETH: (laughing happily) Really? You didn't think so? How could you think that—(since HARRY doesn't laugh) Oh, I’m sorry. I—Does Mom still grow beautiful roses?

HARRY: No, she doesn't.

(The trap-door starts to move. CLAIRE's head pops up.)

ELIZABETH: Mom! It's been ages—(she tries to overcome the difficulties and hug her mother)

CLAIRE: (protecting a box she has) Be careful, Elizabeth. We can’t disturb the lice.

ELIZABETH: (retreating) Lice? (but quickly equal even to lice) Oh—yeah. You take them off plants, right?

CLAIRE: I'm putting them on specific plants.

ELIZABETH: (weakly) Oh, I thought you had taken them off.

CLAIRE: (calling) Anthony! (he comes) The lice. (he takes them from her) (CLAIRE, who has not fully ascended, looks at ELIZABETH, hesitates, then suddenly starts back down the stairs.)

HARRY: (angry) Claire! (slowly she re-ascends—sits on the top step. After a long pause in which he has waited for CLAIRE to start a conversation with her daughter.) So, what have you been doing at school all this time?

ELIZABETH: Oh—hit the books.

CLAIRE: What are you studying?

ELIZABETH: Well, the things you study, Mom.

CLAIRE: Oh! The things people study. (looks down cellar again)

DICK: (after another wait) So, what else have you been up to besides studying?

ELIZABETH: Oh—the things we do. Tennis and skating and dancing and—

CLAIRE: What people do.

ELIZABETH: Yeah. All the stuff. The—the stuff people do. Even though I haven't been in school these last few months, you know. Miss Lane took us to Europe.

TOM: So, what did you think of Europe?

ELIZABETH: (capably) Oh, I thought it was really funny. All the girls were totally crazy about Europe. Of course, I'm glad to be an American.

CLAIRE: Why?

ELIZABETH: (laughing) Why—mom! Of course, I'm glad to be an American. All the girls—

CLAIRE: (turning away) Oh! (a moan under the breath)

ELIZABETH: Why, Mom—are you okay?

HARRY: Your mom has been working really hard on all of this.

ELIZABETH: Oh, I really want to know all about it! Maybe I can help you! I think it’s so amusing that you’re doing something. People are expected to do things these days, right?—if you know what I mean. It was the war, wasn’t it, that made it the trend to be involved?

DICK: (slyly) And you thought, Claire, that the war was over.

ELIZABETH: The war? Lost! (her capable laugh) Can you believe we lost a war? Miss Lane thinks we should be thankful. She says we should each do something expressive—you know what I mean? And that this is the keynote of the age. Of course, it should be our own kind of thing. Like mom—growing flowers.

CLAIRE: Do you think that's something that belongs to them?

ELIZABETH: Of course I do, Mom. And so does Miss Lane. All the girls—

CLAIRE: (shaking her head as if to clear her thoughts) S-hoo.

ELIZABETH: What's up, mom?

CLAIRE: There’s a fly stuck in my ear—"All the girls!"

ELIZABETH: (laughing) Mom was always so funny. So unique—if you catch my drift. I've mostly spent vacations with Aunt Adelaide, you know.

CLAIRE: My sister who is meant to raise kids.

HARRY: Someone has to step up and do it.

ELIZABETH: And I really love Aunt Adelaide, but I think it's going to be really fun to be with Mom now—and help her with her work. Help create something useful and beautiful.

CLAIRE: I'm not doing anything meaningful or beautiful.

ELIZABETH: Oh, but you are, mom. Of course you are. Miss Lane says so. She says it's your amazing heritage that drives you to do something beautiful for our people. She says you're doing in your way what the great teachers and preachers before you did in theirs.

CLAIRE: (who is good for little more) Well, all I can say is Miss Lane is hurt.

ELIZABETH: Mom! I can't believe you just said that about Miss Lane. (as she starts to act more like a little girl) Oh, she went on and on one day about living up to the men in my family.

(CLAIRE turns and looks at her daughter.)

CLAIRE: You got this, Elizabeth.

ELIZABETH: Well, I don't know. It's quite a task, I’ll say. Of course, I’d have to do it my way. I’m not going to teach or lecture or be a boring person. But now that—(she here becomes the product of a superior school) values have changed and so many sensitive new ideas have been released into the world—

CLAIRE: (quietly) Don't say that.

ELIZABETH: Why not?

CLAIRE: Because you don't know what they mean.

ELIZABETH: Of course I know what they mean!

CLAIRE: (turning away) You're stepping on the plants.

HARRY: (quickly) Your mom has been working really hard on all of this.

ELIZABETH: Well, now that I'm here, you'll let me help you, right, Mom?

CLAIRE: (trying for control) You don’t have to—worry.

ELIZABETH: But I want to. Help increase the wealth of the world.

CLAIRE: Please stop thinking that I'm contributing to the world's wealth!

ELIZABETH: But, mom—of course you are. To create a new and improved kind of plant—

CLAIRE: They might be new. I couldn't care less if they're better.

ELIZABETH: But—what are they?

CLAIRE: (as if struggling to get it out) They're different.

ELIZABETH: (thinks for a moment, then laughs triumphantly) But what's the point of making them different if they're not better?

HARRY: That's a straightforward question, Claire. Why not go ahead and answer it?

CLAIRE: I don't have to respond to that.

HARRY: Why not give the girl a chance? You never have, you know. Since she's interested, why not let her know what you're up to?

CLAIRE: She's not interested.

ELIZABETH: But I really am, Mom. I truly want to understand what you're doing and help you.

CLAIRE: You can't help me, Elizabeth.

HARRY: Why not give her a chance?

CLAIRE: Why are you asking me to do that? This is my own thing. Why do you make me feel like I should—(goes to ELIZABETH) I'll treat you well, Elizabeth. We'll hang out together. I haven't done it yet, but—you'll see. We'll have fun. I'll have plenty of guys around for you. Anything else. Just—not—this.

ELIZABETH: Sure, Mom, that works for me. I just would have loved to—share something that you’re interested in. (hurt borne with good breeding and a smile)

HARRY: Claire! (which says, 'How can you?')

CLAIRE: (who is looking at ELIZABETH) Yeah, I’ll give it a shot.

TOM: I don't think so. Like Claire said—anything else.

ELIZABETH: Of course—I definitely don’t want to intrude.

HARRY: It’ll be good for Claire to take someone in. To get to the point and actually say what she means.

CLAIRE: Oh—Harry. But yes—I’ll try. (does try, but no words come. Laughs) When you come to say it, it’s not—You’d rather not pin it down with a bunch of words—(laughs again) with brass tacks.

HARRY: (affectionately) But I want to see you express your thoughts, Claire, and understand exactly where you stand.

CLAIRE: (strangely) You think that’s a—good idea?

ELIZABETH: (confidently managing everything around her) Now let's change the subject. I really didn't mean to upset mom.

CLAIRE: (desperately) No, we’ll keep going. But I don’t know where we’ll end up. I can’t guarantee that. These plants—(starting to stumble over her words) Maybe they’re not as beautiful or strong as the plants they came from. But they’ve found—something different, (laughs a little nervously) If you know what I mean.

TOM: Claire—stop this! (To HARRY) This isn't right.

CLAIRE: (excitedly) No; I'm moving forward. They’ve been shocked out of who they were—into something they’re not; they’ve broken free from the roles they were stuck in. They’re like outsiders. Outside. That’s what it is, outside; if you—know what I mean.

ELIZABETH: (not shocked by what she is) But of course, the whole point is to make them better plants. Otherwise, what would be the point of even doing it?

CLAIRE: (not heard by ELIZABETH) Out there—(gesturing with her hands) is everything that's untouched—it's the life that's waiting. Back here—the same old routine, repeated over and over again. It's so familiar that it doesn't even recognize itself as a pattern—in its vastness. But this—has seeped in. It's made its way into—what didn't exist. Unfamiliar lines in life. And when you create a new pattern, you realize it's crafted from life. And then you understand that anything is possible—if only you know how to reach it. (this has come to shape, not easily, but after a great struggle between emotions and words)

HARRY: (casually) Now I understand you, Claire. I never realized before why you called it the Edge Vine.

CLAIRE: I need to get rid of the Edge Vine. It's not—over the edge. It's going back to—'all the girls'. It's a bit scared of Miss Lane, (looking seriously at it) You’re out, but you’re not alive.

ELIZABETH: Well, it looks fine, mom.

CLAIRE: Didn't carry life with it from the life it left. Dick—you know what I mean. At least you should. (her ruthless way of not letting anyone's feelings stand in the way of truth) Then destroy it for me! It’s hard to do it—with the hands that made it.

DICK: But what’s the point of destroying it, Claire?

CLAIRE: (impatiently) I've told you. It can't create.

DICK: But you say you can keep making it, and it's interesting in style.

CLAIRE: And you really think I'll just accept that? Be trapped in a completely different life that can't even move forward? (after trying to put destructive hands on it) It's tough to get over what we've done. Our own buried past is in the way.

TOM: But you're handling it this time, Claire, (nodding to the inner room.) In there!

CLAIRE: (turning to that room) I don't know.

TOM: But you said Breath of Life has already come into existence. Doesn't that prove it has created life from the life it abandoned?

CLAIRE: But timidly, more—wistfully. A bit homesick. If it’s less certain this time, then it’s going back to—Miss Lane. But if the pattern’s clearer now, then it has befriended the life that’s waiting. I’ll know tomorrow.

ELIZABETH: You know, I have a feeling this is wrong.

CLAIRE: The ancestors are getting ready to sing hymns.

ELIZABETH: I don’t know what you’re talking about, mom, but—

CLAIRE: But now we will sing, 'Nearer, my God, to You: Nearer to—'

ELIZABETH: (laughingly interrupting) Well, I don't care. You can definitely joke about me, but something tells me this isn’t right. To do what—what—

DICK: What did God do?

ELIZABETH: Well—yeah. Unless you're doing it to help them improve—to do it just for the sake of doing it—that doesn't seem right to me.

CLAIRE: (roughly) "Right to you!" And that's all you know about adventure—and pain. Do you realize that it’s you—the world that you embody so beautifully—that makes me have to leave? You're there, keeping the door shut! Because you’re young and from a brighter world, you think I can’t see them—those old men? Do you know why you’re so confident? Because you can’t feel. Can’t feel—the endless—out there—a sea just beyond the hill. I will not stay with you! (buries her hands in the earth around the Edge Vine. But suddenly steps back from it as she had from ELIZABETH) And I will not stay with you! (grasps it as we grasp what we would kill, is trying to pull it up. They all step forward in horror. ANTHONY is drawn in by this harm to the plant)

ANTHONY: Miss Claire! Miss Claire! The effort of years!

CLAIRE: I might as well be in prison! (struggling with HARRY, who is trying to stop her) Do you really think I'm going to die here? (she has thrown him off, is now struggling with the vine) Why did I create you? To push through you! (as she twists it) Oh yes, I know you have thorns! The Edge Vine is supposed to have thorns, (with a long, powerful pull for deep roots, she has it up. As she holds the torn roots) Oh, I have loved you so much! You took me to places I've never been.

ELIZABETH: (who has been watching with a mix of disbelief and concern) Honestly, I think it would be best not to go there!

CLAIRE: Now I know what you're here for! (flings her arm back to strike ELIZABETH with the Edge Vine)

HARRY: (snatching it from her) Claire! Are you crazy?

CLAIRE: No, I'm not angry. I'm—too rational! (pointing to ELIZABETH—and the words come from deep within) To think that thing ever made me feel this way and nursed from me! (ELIZABETH hides her face as if hurt)

HARRY: (walking over to ELIZABETH, turning to CLAIRE) This is horrible! You're so mean.

(He guides ELIZABETH to the door and out. After a moment of hesitation where he looks from CLAIRE to TOM, DICK decides to follow. ANTHONY can't bear to leave. He bends down to pick up the Edge Vine from the floor. CLAIRE's motion halts him. He goes into the inner room.)

CLAIRE: (kicking the Edge Vine out of her way, taking deep breaths, smiling) Oh. I feel amazing! So light! (a movement as if she could fly) Read me something, Tom dear. Or say something nice—about God. But be really careful what you say about him! I have a feeling—he’s close by.

(CURTAIN)

Late afternoon the next day. CLAIRE is by herself in the tower—a tower that's meant to be round but doesn't quite make it. The back is curved, then jagged lines break away from that, and the front has a strange, bulging window that leans. The whole structure looks like it was twisted by some massive force—like something's off. It's lit by an old-fashioned watchman's lantern hanging from the ceiling; the countless pricks and slits in the metal cast a beautiful pattern on the curved wall—like some masonry that hasn't existed.

There are no windows in the back, and there’s no door except for an opening in the floor. The elegantly curved rail of a spiral staircase winds up from below. CLAIRE is visible through the large, dark window as if she’s trapped in the tower. She’s lying on a seat at the back, looking at a sketchbook. To do this, she has left the door of her lantern slightly open—and her face is clearly visible.

A door opens downstairs; laughter fills the air, CLAIRE listens, not happy.

ADELAIDE: (voice coming up) Dear—dear, why do they take such complicated paths?

HARRY: Take your time, everyone is up now. (HARRY's head appears, he looks back.) Is everything okay?

ADELAIDE: I'm not sure yet. (laughs) No, I don't think so.

HARRY: (reaching back a hand for her) The final stretch—is the tough one. (ADELAIDE is up, and working to catch her breath.)

HARRY: Since you wouldn't come down, Claire, we thought we'd come up.

ADELAIDE: (as CLAIRE does not greet her) I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you, Claire. There are things we need to sort out. (CLAIRE not offering any information about the arrangements, ADELAIDE looks around at the tower. Her unsympathetic gaze moves from the curves to the lines that separate. Then she looks out the window) Well, at least you have a nice view.

HARRY: Is this your first time up here?

ADELAIDE: Yes, in the five years you’ve owned the house, I was never invited up here before.

CLAIRE: (in a friendly manner) You weren't invited up here right now.

ADELAIDE: Harry asked me.

CLAIRE: It’s not Harry’s tower. But whatever—you don’t like it, so it’s fine.

ADELAIDE: (her eyes again rebuking the irregularities of the tower) No, I admit I don’t like it. A round tower should stay round.

HARRY: Claire calls this the thwarted tower. She bought the house because of it. (going over and sitting by her, his hand on her ankle) Didn't you, old girl? She says she'd like to have known the architect.

ADELAIDE: Probably a boring person too unskilled to build a perfect tower.

CLAIRE: Well, now that he's out of the way, what's next?

ADELAIDE: (sitting down confidently to start the meeting) Next, Elizabeth, and you, Claire. What's going on with Elizabeth?

CLAIRE: (whose voice is calm and steady, as if she's not really involved in this) There’s nothing wrong with her. She is just a tower that is a tower.

ADELAIDE: Well, is that a problem for her?

CLAIRE: She's just like one of her dad's portraits. They never attracted me. Neither does she. (looks at the drawings that do interest her)

ADELAIDE: A mother can't just abandon her own child just because she doesn't find them interesting!

CLAIRE: (instantly looking up with cool eyes at ADELAIDE) Why can't she?

ADELAIDE: Because it would be terrible!

CLAIRE: And why can't she be monstrous—if that's what she has to be?

ADELAIDE: You don't have to be. That's where I'm losing my patience with you, Claire. You are truly a smart, capable person, and it's time for you to put a stop to this nonsense and be the person you were meant to be!

CLAIRE: (holding the book up to see another way) What inside info do you have on what I was supposed to be?

ADELAIDE: I know where you came from.

CLAIRE: Well, isn't it about time someone broke free from that? What I came from shaped you, so—

ADELAIDE: (formally) I see.

CLAIRE: So, since you're such a pillar of strength, why should I be stuck in where I came from?

ADELAIDE: It's not about being locked up. That's where you're wrong, Claire. Who's trapped in a tower—in a failing tower? Not me. I move through the world—free, busy, happy. When I'm around people, I don't have time to think about myself.

CLAIRE: Nope.

ADELAIDE: No. My family. The things that interest them; from morning till night it's—

CLAIRE: Yeah, I know you have a big family, Adelaide; five siblings and Elizabeth makes six.

ADELAIDE: We'll talk about Elizabeth later. But if you could just step outside of yourself and really engage with other people's lives—

CLAIRE: Then I would become just like you. And we should all be just alike to reassure each other that we're all okay. But since you, Harry, Elizabeth, and millions of other people support one another, why do you specifically need me?

ADELAIDE: (not unkindly) We don’t need you as much as you need us.

CLAIRE: (a wry face) I never liked what I wanted.

HARRY: I really believe I'm the worst thing for you in the world, Claire.

CLAIRE: (smiling at his tactics but shaking her head) I'm afraid you're not. I don't know—maybe you are.

ADELAIDE: So, what do you want, Claire?

CLAIRE: (simply) You wouldn’t get it if I explained it to you.

ADELAIDE: That's pretty arrogant.

HARRY: Yeah, go for it, Claire. I've been known to come up with an idea—and Adelaide often does too.

CLAIRE: (the first resentment she has shown) You two think you’re better than everyone else, don’t you?

ADELAIDE: I don't think we're the ones who feel superior.

CLAIRE: Oh, yes, you are. Much better than what you think is my sense of superiority, comparing my—isolation with your 'heart of humanity'. Soon, we'll talk about the beauty of shared experiences, of the—Oh, I could just say it all before we even get there.

HARRY: Adelaide came up here to help you, Claire.

CLAIRE: Adelaide came up here to lock me in. Well, she can't do that.

ADELAIDE: (gently) But can't you see that someone can do that to themselves?

CLAIRE: (thinks about this, suddenly looks tired—then smiles) Well, at least I've changed the keys.

HARRY: 'Locked in.' Nonsense. Get that out of your head, Claire. Who's locked in? No one I know, we're all free Americans. Free as air.

ADELAIDE: I wish you'd come and listen to one of Mr. Morley's sermons, Claire. You're pretty old-fashioned if you think sermons are still like they used to be.

CLAIRE: (with interest) So, do they still sing 'Nearer, my God, to Thee'?

ADELAIDE: They do, and it's a beautiful old hymn. Singing it wouldn't hurt you at all.

CLAIRE: (eagerly) Sing it for me, Adelaide. I want to hear you sing it.

ADELAIDE: It would be a disgrace to sing it to you in this mood.

CLAIRE: (falling back) Oh, I don't know. I'm not so sure God would agree with you. That would be on you, right?

ADELAIDE: It's easy to feel like you're on the outside!

CLAIRE: Nope, it isn't.

ADELAIDE: (beginning anew) It's a new era, Claire. Spiritual values—

CLAIRE: Spiritual values! (in her brooding way) So you’ve brought that up. (with cunning) Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.

ADELAIDE: So, what am I supposed to do? I really have no clue what you're talking about.

HARRY: (affectionately, as CLAIRE gazes intently at what he can't see) What does she do, Claire?

CLAIRE: It's pretty clever how she does it. She grabs the phrase—(a movement as if pulling something up)—and puts it between her and the life that exists. And by repeating it enough—'We have life! We have life! We have life!'—it's a solid response to anyone who would really be—'Exactly! We are that. This way, please—' That, I guess, is what we mean by needing each other. Everyone joins in the chorus, 'This is it! This is it! This is it!' And anyone who won't join gets to be—visited by relatives, (looking at ADELAIDE with curiosity) Do you honestly think anything is happening inside you?

ADELAIDE: (stiffly) I'm not someone who considers myself a perfect example of what humans can be.

CLAIRE: (cheerfully) Well, that's great.

HARRY: Claire!

CLAIRE: Humility is a real thing—not just a nice word for laziness.

HARRY: Well, my goodness, you can't call Adelaide lazy.

CLAIRE: She stays in one place because she doesn't have the energy to go anywhere else.

ADELAIDE: (as if the last word in absurdity has been said) I don't have the energy?

CLAIRE: (gently) You really don't have any energy, Adelaide. That's why you always stay so busy.

ADELAIDE: Well—Claire's nerves are in worse shape than I thought.

CLAIRE: So maybe we should check out Blake's drawings, (takes up the book)

ADELAIDE: It’s fine for me to check out Blake's drawings. You should take a look at the Sistine Madonna, (affectionately, after she observes CLAIRE's face for a moment) What’s going on, Claire? Why are you shutting yourself off from us?

CLAIRE: I told you. Because I don’t want to be stuck in a room with you.

ADELAIDE: None of this is very pleasant for Harry.

HARRY: I want Claire to be a lesbian.

CLAIRE: It's funny that you want that, (speaks unwillingly, with a curious, wistful reluctance) Have you ever said something ridiculous, then found yourself chasing after it, only to realize it wasn’t so ridiculous after all? Here we are in this circle. describes a big circle Being gay. It sends out little sparks through the circle, and a minute later—joy fades away, and you’re left staring through the little gap that the joy left behind.

ADELAIDE: (going to her, as she is still looking through that little hole) Claire, dear, I wish I could show you how much I care about you. (simply, with real feeling) You can call me whatever you want—dull, boring, lazy—that’s a new one, I admit, but our family is gone now, and the love that used to exist among us is now just between you and me. You were so loved, Claire. You shouldn’t try to escape from a world where you are so loved, (to HARRY) Mother—father—all of us always loved Claire the most. We always appreciated Claire's unique joy. Now you've got to give us credit for that, as the kids say.

CLAIRE: (moved, but eyes shining with a strange bright loneliness) But never one of you—ever—looked with me through the little gaps the cheer created—never one of you—ever, looked with me at the strange light that came in through the gaps.

ADELAIDE: Can’t you see, darling, that it’s better for us that we didn’t? And it would be better for you now if you just looked elsewhere with determination? You have to realize that you don’t have the confidence of those who are—well, part of the main group, if you want to put it that way. There’s something about being in that core, having your roots in the big shared experiences, that gives a sense of calm that you’ve missed. That’s why I want you to take Elizabeth, forget about yourself, and—

CLAIRE: I do want calm. But it would have to be a calm I worked for. A calm that was just handed to me would suck.

ADELAIDE: (less sympathetically) I understand you need to be yourself, Claire. But I don’t think you have the right to hurt others.

HARRY: I think Claire and I should take a nice long trip.

ADELAIDE: Why not go for it?

CLAIRE: I'm going on a trip.

ADELAIDE: Well, Harry isn't, and he wants to go and would like you to go with him. Go to Paris and get yourself some really stylish clothes—and have an amazing time in the lively world. You really love that, Claire, and you've been super boring lately. I think that's the real issue.

HARRY: I agree.

ADELAIDE: This serious task of growing plants—

CLAIRE: Not sober—it's crazy.

ADELAIDE: That's even more reason to leave it behind.

CLAIRE: But madness is the only shot at sanity.

ADELAIDE: Come on now—let's not beat around the bush.

CLAIRE: (springing up) How dare you say that to me, Adelaide. You, who are such a liar, a thief, and a whore with your words!

ADELAIDE: (facing her, furious) How dare you—

HARRY: Of course not, Claire. You have the most ridiculous way of using words.

CLAIRE: I value words.

ADELAIDE: Well, please respect me enough not to use certain words with me!

CLAIRE: Yes, I do dare. I'm tired of what you do—you and all of you. Life—experience—values—calm—sensitive words that lift themselves as signs. And you pull them up—to decorate your stagnant little minds—and think that makes you something. And because you’ve taken that word from the life that created it, you won’t let someone who’s honest, aware, and troubled try to reach for what she doesn’t even know is there, (she is moved, excited, as if a cruel thing has been done) Why did you come here?

ADELAIDE: I want to help you, but I'm starting to think I can't. It’s pretty self-centered to say that so many people are wrong.

(CLAIRE, after studying ADELAIDE closely, slowly smiles a bit and draws a circle in the air. With skillful hands, she makes a quick, sharp break in the circle that exists in the air.)

HARRY: (walking over to her, taking her hands) It’s almost dinner time. You had something else on your mind, Claire, when I mentioned that Charlie Emmons is coming to dinner tonight, (responding to her look) Yes—he’s a neurologist, and I want him to see you. I’m being completely honest with you—cards on the table, you know that. I’m hoping that if you like him—and he’s really the best in the field—he can help you. (speaking quickly as the silence stretches after her look from him to ADELAIDE, where she senses an 'understanding' about her) You definitely need help, Claire. Your nerves are a bit shot—from everything you’ve been through. There’s no need to make it a mystery—or a tragedy. Emmons is excellent, and of course I want you to start feeling better and be happy again.

CLAIRE: (who has gone over to the window) And this neurologist can actually make me happy?

HARRY: I can help you get better—and then you'll be happy.

ADELAIDE: (in the voice of now fixing it all up) And I just had an idea about Elizabeth. Instead of just working with plants, why not think of Elizabeth as a plant and—

(CLAIRE, who has been looking out the window, now throws open one of the panes that swings out—or seems to, and calls down in great excitement.)

CLAIRE: Tom! Tom! Hurry! I'm up here! I need help!

HARRY: (going to the window) That's really messed up, Claire! You've scared him.

CLAIRE: Yes, he's really fast. He was lost in thought and I interrupted him.

HARRY: Well, he won't be happy when he gets up here and sees that there was no reason for the stabbing!

(They wait for his footsteps, HARRY irritated, ADELAIDE offended, but glancing anxiously at CLAIRE, who is staring intently at the spot on the floor where TOM will show up.—Sound of running footsteps.)

TOM: (his voice reaching there before he does) Yes, Claire—yes—yes—(as his head shows up) What is it?

CLAIRE: (immediately introducing him and responding to his question) My sister.

TOM: (gasping) Oh, is that it? I mean, how’s it going? Sorry, I (panting) came up a bit fast.

HARRY: If you want to hit Claire, Tom, I personally have no problem with that.

CLAIRE: Adelaide has the most interesting idea, Tom. She suggests that I take Elizabeth and roll her into the gutter. Just let her lie there until she breaks apart into—

ADELAIDE: Claire! I don't see how—even if it’s just for laughs—really crude laughs—you can talk about a pure young girl like that. I'm starting to think I should take Elizabeth instead.

CLAIRE: Oh, I’ve felt that way the whole time.

ADELAIDE: And I'm starting to think that—strangeness might just be a way of passing the blame.

CLAIRE: (genuinely interested in this possibility) So, now you see—that could be.

ADELAIDE: A mother who doesn't love her own child! You’re an unnatural woman, Claire.

CLAIRE: Well, at least it keeps me from being a natural one.

ADELAIDE: Oh—I get it, you think you have a lot! But let me tell you, you’ve missed out on so much! You've never even felt a hint of a mother's love.

CLAIRE: That’s not true.

HARRY: No. Claire loved our son.

CLAIRE: I'm glad he didn't survive.

HARRY: (whispers) Claire!

CLAIRE: I loved him. Why would I want him to live?

HARRY: Come on, sweetheart, I’m sorry I brought him up—especially when you’re not feeling well.

CLAIRE: I'm feeling fine. Just because I'm seeing something, it doesn't mean I'm ill.

HARRY: Alright, let's head down now. It's around dinner time. I wouldn't be surprised if Emmons is already here. (as ADELAIDE is starting down the stairs) You coming, Claire?

CLAIRE: Nope.

HARRY: But it's time to head down for dinner.

CLAIRE: I'm not hungry right now.

HARRY: But we have a guest. Two guests—Adelaide's staying as well.

CLAIRE: So you're not alone.

HARRY: But I asked Dr. Emmons to meet you.

CLAIRE: (her smile flashing) Tell him I'm feeling feisty tonight.

HARRY: Darling—how can you make jokes about stuff like that!

CLAIRE: So you really think they're serious?

HARRY: (irritated) No, I don’t! But I want you to come down for dinner!

ADELAIDE: Come on, Claire; you know very well that this isn't the kind of thing you do.

CLAIRE: Why keep saying you don't, when you can see that you do? (to TOM) Will you hang out with me for a bit? I want to cleanse the tower.

(ADELAIDE starts to fade away)

HARRY: Great time for a private chat. (as he is leaving) I'd think better of you, Edgeworthy, if you didn't go along with Claire's bad behavior.

ADELAIDE: (her stern voice coming from below) It’s not what she was taught.

CLAIRE: No, that's not what I learned, (laughing a bit shyly) And maybe you’d prefer to have your dinner?

TOM: Nope.

CLAIRE: We'll grab something later. I want to talk to you. (but she does not—laughs) It's ridiculous that I should feel shy around you. Why do I get so tongue-tied when I try to talk to you?

TOM: The words know they're unnecessary.

CLAIRE: No, they’re not necessary. There’s something beneath—an open path—beyond the way that words can travel. (rather desperately) It’s there, isn’t it?

TOM: Oh, yeah, it's there.

CLAIRE: Then why do we never go for it?

TOM: If we went in, it wouldn't be there.

CLAIRE: Is that really true? How awful, if that's the case.

TOM: Not bad, amazing—that it should—by itself—exist.

CLAIRE: (with a straightforwardness that can express anything) I want to be with you, Tom, I'm feeling so lonely up here. Is it that I have more faith than you, or am I just more selfish? You see, you have no idea (her carefree laugh) what you're missing. You don't realize how much I could love you.

TOM: Don't, Claire; that's not how it is between you and me.

CLAIRE: But why can't it be—any way—between you and me?

TOM: Because we’d lose— the honest way. (the intensity of his denial reveals how deep his feelings for her are) With anyone else—not with you.

CLAIRE: But you're the only one I want. The only one—everything in me wants you.

TOM: I get it; but that’s just how it is.

CLAIRE: You're mean.

TOM: Oh, Claire, I'm really trying to—save it for us. Isn’t it our beauty and our protection that, despite our separate lives, no matter where we are or who we’re with, there’s this open path between us? That’s so much more than anything we could create.

CLAIRE: Maybe. But it’s different for me. I’m not just all spirit.

TOM: (his hand on her) Honey!

CLAIRE: No, don't touch me—you're leaving tomorrow? (he nods) For—good? (his head just moves assent) India is just another country. But there are places yet to be discovered.

TOM: Yeah, but we're so weak we have to get to our country through the one that's closest. Don't you do the same thing, Claire? Reach your country through the plants' world?

CLAIRE: My country? You mean—out there?

TOM: No, I don't see it like that.

CLAIRE: Oh, yes, you definitely do.

TOM: Your country is the inside, Claire. The innermost. You're troubled because you're too close to the heart of life.

CLAIRE: (restlessly) I don't know; you can see it one way or the other. There’s no definite answer, and that’s a good thing—at least it’s not trapped in a specific meaning. (she is looking at her enclosing hand, as if something is trapped there)

TOM: But also, you know, expressing things can set them free. They can move from being unrealized to becoming part of our everyday lives.

CLAIRE: Yes, but why does life have to get stuck in a pattern? It should (doing it with her hands) flow, (then turning like an unsatisfied child to him) But I wanted to talk to you.

TOM: You're talking to me. Tell me about your flower that never existed before—your Breath of Life.

CLAIRE: I’ll know tomorrow. You won't leave until I find out?

TOM: I'll try to hang on.

CLAIRE: It seems to me, if it does—then I have integrity in—(smiles, it’s as if the smile allows her to say it) otherness. I don't want to die on the edge!

TOM: Not you!

CLAIRE: A lot of people do. It's what makes them so full of themselves—those lifeless things on the edge, dead, distorted—trying to break through. Oh—don't think I don't notice—the Edge Vine! (a pause, then quickly) Do you know what I mean? Or do you think I'm just a fool or crazy?

TOM: I think I get what you're saying, and just so you know, I don't think you're a fool or crazy.

CLAIRE: Waking up to reality—no matter where that leads you, isn’t that more than just a comfortable spot? (telling him very simply despite the pain in her voice) Suffering might be a thread—creating patterns that haven’t existed. A thread—blue and burning.

TOM: (to take her from what even he worries about for her) But you were telling me about the flower you brought to life. What is your Breath of Life?

CLAIRE: (an instant playing) It's a secret. A secret?—it’s a trick. Distilled from the most delicate flowers there are. It’s just air—pausing—playing; except, deep inside, one stab of red, its trembling heart—that asks a question. But here’s the trick—I created the air-form to become strong. The strength kept behind us I’ve sent—far out. (troubled) I’ll know tomorrow. And I have another gift for Breath of Life; someday—though a lot of work lies ahead—someday I’ll give it memories. Fragrance that is—nothing in here except—memories. (silence, she raises wet eyes) We need the haunting beauty from the life we’ve left. I need that, (he takes her hands and breathes her name) Let me reach my homeland with you. I’m not a plant. After all, they don’t—accept me. Who does—accept me? Will you?

TOM: My dear, dear Claire—you touch me so deeply! You’re so clear and transparent, it breaks my heart. (her hands move up his arms. He takes them to hold them back, even though it's a struggle) But you've asked something you already know the answer to. We’d just stop in the countryside where everyone else does.

CLAIRE: We might emerge into brightness.

TOM: Radiance is a confined space.

CLAIRE: Maybe shining light creates possibilities we haven't even imagined, (her reckless laugh) I’d be open to—taking a chance, I’d rather lose than never find out.

TOM: No, Claire. I know you well enough to know you couldn't handle losing.

CLAIRE: Don't you think guys would call you a fool!

They would.

CLAIRE: And maybe you are. (he smiles a little) I feel so helpless because if only I could—show you who I really am, you might see that I could have things without losing. But I get all tongue-tied around you.

TOM: You really reveal who you are to me.

CLAIRE: I've had a few moments that felt like life. Why don't they help me now? One was in the air. I was with Harry—flying—high. It was about four months before David was born—the doctor was angry—pregnant women are supposed to stay on the ground. We were moving fast—I was flying—I had left the earth. And then—inside me, there was movement for the first time—something stirring to life far above—movement within. The unborn boy, he too, would fly. And so—I always loved him. He was movement—and wonder. In his short life, there were many flights. I never told anyone about the last one. His little bed was by the window—he wasn't four years old. It was night, but he wasn't asleep. He saw the morning star—you know—the morning star. Brighter—stranger—reminded me of things—and a promise. He pointed—'Mother,' he asked me, 'what is there—beyond the stars?' A baby, a sick baby—the morning star. The next night—the finger that pointed was—(suddenly bites her own finger) But, yes, I am glad. He would always have tried to move and too much would hold him back. Wonder would fade—and he'd laugh at soaring, (looking down, sideways) Though I liked his voice. So I wish you'd stay close to me—because I like your voice, too.

TOM: Claire! That's (choked) pretty overwhelming.

CLAIRE: (a quick glance—sharp, almost sensible) Well, I'm glad if that's the case. How can I make it even better? (but what she sees changes things) I know what you're scared of. It’s because I have so much—yeah, why not just say it?—passion. You sense that in me, don’t you? You think it would overwhelm everything. But that’s not all there is to me.

TOM: Oh, I get it! My dear—it's because I know it! You think I am—an idiot?

CLAIRE: It's something that can feel—sometimes bigger than I am. And yet I—I am bigger than it is.

TOM: I get it. I know about you.

CLAIRE: I don't think you really do. Maybe if you actually knew about me—you wouldn't leave.

TOM: You're putting me through so much pain, Claire.

CLAIRE: I know I am. I want to. Why shouldn't you experience pain? (now seeing it more clearly than she ever has) You know what I think about you? You're scared of suffering, so you hold back—in what you convince yourself is suffering, (waits, then goes straight to the point) You know—how it is—with me and Dick? (as she sees him in pain) Oh, no, I don't want to hurt you! Let it be you! I'll show you—you don't have to reject it. It's actually pretty amazing.

TOM: Stop it, Claire! That's not who you really are.

CLAIRE: Why are you so scared of letting me be low—if that’s what low is? You see—(cunningly) I believe in beauty. I have faith that can be both bad and good. And do you know why I have that faith? Because sometimes—during my lowest moments—beauty has opened up like the sea. From a cave, I saw infinity.

TOM: (and from the spot where she had taken him)

CLAIRE:

(drenched in the feeling that has flowed through her—but surprised—helpless) Why, I said your thing, didn't I? I opened my life to bring you to me, and what came—is what sends you away.

TOM: No! What has arrived is what keeps us united. What has arrived is what saves us from ever separating. (brokenly) My beautiful one. You—you brave flower of all our understanding.

CLAIRE: I'm not a flower. I'm too broken. If you have anything—help me. Breathe, breathe the healing connection, and let me know in peace. (with a sob his head rests upon her)

CLAIRE: (her hands on his head, but looking far) Beauty—you pure one thing. Breathe—let me feel at ease. Then—disturb me, disturb me, for other times—in deeper peace. (slow, motionless, barely articulate)

TOM: (since she doesn't move, he lifts his head. Even as he looks at her, she still doesn't move or look at him) Claire—(his hand reaching out to her, a bit hesitant) You left me then. You're still away from me now.

CLAIRE: Yes, and I could keep going. But I promise I’ll come back, (it’s hard to do. She brings so much with her) That’s what I’ll give you—my independence. That’s the most I can offer. I never thought about trying to give it. But let’s do it—the great taboo! Yes! (excited, she stands up; she has his hands and pulls him up beside her) Let’s take the wild chance! Maybe it’s the only way to save—what’s here. How do we know? How can we know? Risk. Risk everything. From everything that comes to us, let it rise! All that we never thought to use to create a moment—let it flow into what could be! Bring everything to life between us—or send it all down to death! Oh, do you know what I’m doing? Risk, risk everything, why are you so scared of losing? What’s stopping you from me? Test it all. Let it live or let it die. It’s our chance—our chance to embrace—what’s here. My dear one—I will love you so much. With all of me. I’m not afraid now—of—all of me. Be generous. Be unafraid. Life is for life—even if it separates us from a greater life. How can I make you see that’s true? All that we’re open to—(hesitates, shudders) But yes—I will, I will risk the life that’s waiting. Maybe only the one who shares their loneliness—will find. You can’t hold onto things by keeping them close, (gesture of giving) To the absolute limit. And it’s gone—or it’s there. You don’t know and—that makes the moment—(music has begun—a phonograph downstairs; they don’t notice it) Just as I would cut my wrists—(holding them out) Yes, maybe this smaller thing will show it—would cut my wrists and let the blood flow out until there’s nothing left if my last drop could create—could create—(looking at them fascinated) I want to see it happen! Let me give my last chance for life to—

(He grabs her—they're on the edge of their moment; now that there are no words, the phonograph from downstairs is blaring. It's playing the Barcarole slowly; they notice it—they don't want to be affected by the love song.)

CLAIRE: Don't pay attention to that. It doesn't matter. This isn't what you think, (fearful) I’m telling you—it’s not that. Yeah, I get it—that's romantic—it's confining. I know—a cozy spot. This isn't that, (her arms wrapping around him—all the temptation of 'that' while she begs against it as it approaches them) We’ll emerge—into brightness—in distant places (acknowledging, using) Oh, then let it be that! Embrace it. Let go of—the otherness. I will! And in the letting go—maybe a door—we'd never discover by searching. And if it’s no more—than what everyone else has experienced, I just say it’s worth everything! (her arms holding him tightly) My love—my love—release your pride in solitude and let me bring you happiness!

TOM: (soaked in her passion, but struggling) It's you. (in pain) You unique thing untouched—not—not into this—not back into this—by me—lover of your distance.

(She takes a step back. She realizes he can’t. She stands there, in front of what she wanted more than anything, and almost had, and then lost. A long moment. Then she runs down the stairs.)

CLAIRE: (her voice rising) Harry! Turn

(far down, steps on stairs)

HARRY: Claire, what is this?

CLAIRE: Stop that record player or I'll—

HARRY: Of course I'll stop it. What’s there to get so worked up about? Now—just a second, honey. It’ll take a minute.

(CLAIRE comes back upstairs, dragging her feet, her face pale. The romantic song is still playing, and it's louder now that the doors are open. She and TOM avoid looking at each other. Then, as the music swells slowly, it suddenly comes to a jarring stop. They don't say a word or move. Quick footsteps—HARRY comes up.)

HARRY: What on earth were you saying, Claire? You could have asked me more quietly to turn off the Victrola. Though what harm was it causing you—way up here? (a sharp little sound from CLAIRE; she checks it, her hand over her mouth. HARRY looks from her to TOM) Well, I think you two should have had your dinner. Won't you come down now and eat some?

CLAIRE: (only now taking her hand from her mouth) Harry, tell him to come up here—that crazy guy. I—want to ask him something.

HARRY: 'That's insane, man!' How ridiculous. He's a nerve specialist. There's a huge difference.

CLAIRE: Is there? Anyway, ask him to come up here. I want to—ask him something.

TOM: (struggling to speak) Don’t you think it would be better for us to go down there?

CLAIRE: No. It's so nice up here! Everyone—up here!

HARRY: (worried) You'll be yourself, right, Claire? (She holds back a laugh, nods.) I believe he can help you.

CLAIRE: I want to ask him to help me.

HARRY: (as he is starting down) He's here as a guest tonight, you know, Claire.

CLAIRE: I guess a guest can—help someone.

TOM: (when the silence rejects it) Claire, you have to understand, it's because it's just so much, so—

CLAIRE: Just be quiet. There's nothing to say.

TOM: (torn—tortured) If it just weren't you!

CLAIRE: Yeah, you said that. If it weren't true, I guess I wouldn't be so—interested! (hears them starting up below—keeps looking at the place where they will appear)

(HARRY calls out, 'Coming, Dick?' and DICK's voice answers, 'In a minute or two.' ADELAIDE enters first.)

ADELAIDE: (as her head appears) Well, these stairs should help with the weight. You missed a really great dinner, Claire. And you kept Mr. Edgeworth from enjoying a good meal too.

CLAIRE: Yeah. We missed our dinner. (her eyes do not leave the place where DR EMMONS will come up)

HARRY: (as he and EMMONS appear) Claire, this is—

CLAIRE: Yeah, I know who he is. I want to ask you—

ADELAIDE: Let the poor guy catch his breath before you ask him anything. (he nods, smiles, looks at CLAIRE with interest. Careful not to look too long at her, surveys the tower)

EMMONS: Interesting spot.

ADELAIDE: Yes; it doesn't have a clear shape, does it?

CLAIRE: What do you mean? How dare you?

(Her agitation is impossible to miss; she is pressed against the curved wall, as far away from them as she can get. HARRY stares at her in alarm, then turns to TOM with irritation, as TOM takes a step closer to CLAIRE.)

HARRY: (trying to lighten the mood) Don't let it get to you so much, Claire.

CLAIRE: (to EMMONS) It must be really fascinating—helping people lose their minds.

ADELAIDE: Claire! How ridiculous.

EMMONS: (easily) I hope that's not exactly what we do.

ADELAIDE: (with the smile of someone who is about to 'cover it'.) Leave it to Claire to phrase it in that unique and—funny way.

CLAIRE: Amusing? You find it funny? But it doesn't matter, (to the doctor) I think it’s really nice of you—helping people lose their minds. I guess they have all kinds of reasons for doing it—reasons why they can't keep it together anymore. But I’m curious, how do they do it? It’s not easy to—escape. How do so many of them pull it off?

EMMONS: I'd really love to have a chat with you about all this someday.

ADELAIDE: Definitely not the time for that, Claire.

CLAIRE: The time? When you can't go any further—isn't that what—

ADELAIDE: (capably approaching the situation with practicality) What I think is, Claire has spent too much time with plants. There's something—not quite right about turning one thing into another. What we need is unity. (from CLAIRE something like a moan) Yes, dear, we do need it. (to the doctor) I can't say I believe in reshaping life this way. I don't think the new species are worth it. At least, I don't believe it's good for Claire. If someone is an intense, sensitive person—

CLAIRE: Isn’t there any way to stop her? Always—always suffocating it with the word for it?

EMMONS: (soothingly) But she can't suffocate it. Anything that's truly there—she can't damage with words.

CLAIRE: (looking at him with eyes too bright) So you don’t see it either. (angry) Yes, she can hurt it! Always piling it up—piling it up—between us and—What’s there. Clogging the way—always, (to EMMONS) I just want to stop knowing! That’s all I ask. Darken it. Darken it. If you came to help me, make me blind!

EMMONS: You’re all really worn out, aren’t you? We need to get you some rest.

CLAIRE: They deny it, claiming they have it; and he (half looks at TOM—quickly looks away)—others deny it too, scared of losing it. We're in the way. Can't you see the dead stuff piled in the path? (Pointing.)

DICK: (voice rising) Me, too?

CLAIRE: (staring at the path, hearing his voice a moment after it has come) Yes, Dick—you too. Why not—you too. (after he has come up) What else is there besides what you are?

DICK: (embarrassed by the intensity, but laughing) A question that's actually quite pleasant for me. Who can answer it?

CLAIRE: (more and more excited) Yes! Who can answer it? (going to him, in terror) Let me come with you—and be there with you—and know nothing else!

ADELAIDE: (gasping) Why—!

HARRY: Claire! This is getting a bit too—

CLAIRE: Far? But you have to go so far to—(holding onto DICK) Just a place to rest my head—what else is there to look forward to? I can't stay with them—just piling it up! Always—piling it up! I can't get through to—he won't let me get through to—what I don’t know is out there! (DICK would help her find herself again) Don't push me away! Don't—don't leave me hanging, I will go back—to the worst we ever were! Go back—and remember—what we've tried to forget!

ADELAIDE: It's time to put a stop to this by force—if there's no other option. (the doctor shakes his head)

CLAIRE: All I ask is to die in the gutter with everyone spitting on me. (changes to a curious weary smiling quiet) Still, why should they care enough to do that?

HARRY: (brokenly) You're sick, Claire. There's no denying it. (looks at EMMONS, who nods)

ADELAIDE: Something to calm her down—to make it stop.

CLAIRE: (throwing her arms around DICK) It's you, Dick. Not them. Not—any of them.

DICK: Claire, you’re really upset. You need to—

HARRY: (to DICK, as if just now realizing that part of it) I'll tell you one thing, you're going to answer to me for this! (he starts towards DICK—is held back by EMMONS, mainly by his serious shake of the head. With HARRY's move towards them, DICK has protected CLAIRE)

CLAIRE: Yes—hold me. Keep me. You have compassion! You will have compassion. Anything—everything—that will let me be nothing!

(CURTAIN)

In the greenhouse, just like Act I. ANTHONY is planting small plants where the Edge Vine used to grow. In the inner room, the plant seems to glow as if there's a light coming from inside. HATTIE, the Maid, rushes in from outside.

ANTHONY: (turning angrily) You aren’t what this place—

HATTIE: Anthony, come inside. I'm scared. Mr. Archer, I've never seen him like this. He's talking to Mr. Demming—something about Mrs. Archer.

ANTHONY: (who, despite himself, is unsettled by her agitation) And if it is, it's none of your business.

HATTIE: You don't know how he is. I went into the room and—

ANTHONY: Well, he won't hurt you, will he?

HATTIE: How do I know who he'll hurt—a person whose—(figuring out how to get to him) Maybe he'll hurt Mrs. Archer.

ANTHONY: (startled, then smiles) No; he won't hurt Miss Claire.

HATTIE: What do you know about it?—out here in the greenhouse?

ANTHONY: And I don’t want to hear about it. This is a really important day for me. It’s Breath of Life I’m focused on today—not you and Mr. Archer.

HATTIE: Well, what if he does something to Mr. Demming?

ANTHONY: Mr. Demming will have to take care of himself; I'm at work.

(resuming work)

HATTIE: Don't you think I should tell Mrs. Archer that—

ANTHONY: Leave her alone! Today is not the day for you to bother her. She comes out here at eleven o'clock (looks at watch)—to Breath of Life.

HATTIE: (with a craving for gossip) Did you see any of them when they came down the stairs last night?

ANTHONY: I was taking care of my own business.

HATTIE: They were all excited. Mr. Edgeworth—he left. He was gone all night, I think. I saw him coming back just as the milkman woke me up. Now he's packing his things. He wanted to see Mrs. Archer too—just a little while ago. But she won't open her door for any of them. I can't even get in to clean her room.

ANTHONY: Then go to another room—and leave me alone in this one.

HATTIE: (a little afraid of what she is asking) Is she sick, Anthony—or what? (justifying herself, as he gives her a look) The doctor stayed here late. But she had locked herself in. I heard Mr. Archer—

ANTHONY: You heard too much! (he heads for the door, trying to make her leave, but DICK busts in. He looks around frantically, goes to the trap-door, finds it locked)

ANTHONY: What are you doing here?

DICK: Just trying not to get shot—if you really want to know. This is the only place I could think of—until he calms down and I can escape. Can you open that for me? It's kind of embarrassing—but I'd rather look ridiculous than be dead.

HATTIE: Does he have the gun?

DICK: I’m out of here. I wasn’t going to wait around for him to come back, (to ANTHONY) Listen—don’t you get it? Get me somewhere he can’t reach me.

ANTHONY: This isn't what this place is meant for.

DICK: Any place is good for saving someone’s life.

HATTIE: Of course, Anthony. Mrs. Archer wouldn't want Mr. Demming to be shot.

DICK: That's right, Anthony. Miss Claire will be upset with you if you get me shot. (he heads for the door of the inner room)

ANTHONY: You can't go in there. It's locked. (HARRY rushes in from outside.)

HARRY: I knew it! (he has the revolver. HATTIE screams)

ANTHONY: Now, Mr. Archer, if you just take a moment to think, you’ll realize that Miss Claire wouldn’t want Mr. Demming to be shot.

HARRY: You really think that can stop me? You think you can actually stop me? (raising the revolver) A dog that—

ANTHONY: (keeping squarely between HARRY and DICK) Well, you can't shoot him in here. It's not good for the plants. (HARRY is arrested by this reason) And especially not today. Why, Mr. Archer, Breath of Life might bloom today. Miss Claire has been working for this day for years.

HARRY: I never imagined I'd see this day!

ANTHONY: No, did you? Oh, it’s going to be a great day. And she’s worked so hard for it. She has a knack for spotting what’s off in what seems fine. I can’t count how many times I’ve thought, “This looks perfect,” and then she’d say, “Let’s try this one,” and it had—what I didn’t realize was missing. She’s just like that.

HARRY: I've always been glad, Anthony, about the way you've worked with Miss Claire. This isn't really the time to stand there praising her. And she's (I can hardly say it) things you don't know she is.

ANTHONY: (proudly) Oh, I know that! You think I could work with her and not realize she's more than I see?

HARRY: Well, if you love her, you’ve got to let me take out that scumbag who’s holding her back!

ANTHONY: Not in here. Not today. You'd probably break the glass. And Breath of Life is in there.

HARRY: Anthony, this is pretty smart of you—but—

ANTHONY: I'm not smart. But I understand how easy it is to rewind life. No, I'm not smart at all (CLAIRE has appeared and is looking in from outside), but I do know—there are things you shouldn't hurt, (he sees her) Yes, here's Miss Claire.

(She walks in. She looks perfect.)

CLAIRE: From the gutter I rise again, feeling refreshed. You know, it's possible. Nothing is permanent—not even the gutter, (smilingly to HARRY and ignoring the revolver or his agitation) How did you like the way I entertained the nerve specialist?

HARRY: Claire! You can joke about it?

CLAIRE: (taking the revolver from the hand she has shocked to limpness) Who are you trying to get to listen?

HARRY: I'm trying to make the world notice that (pointing) there's a dirty dog who—

CLAIRE: Hey, Harry, (turning to HATTIE, who is by the tall plants on the right, trying to avoid being noticed but wanting to hear the conversation) You can clean my room now, Hattie. (HATTIE goes) If you're planning to shoot Dick, you can't do it while he's pressed up against that door.

ANTHONY: Exactly what I told them, Miss Claire. Just what I told them.

CLAIRE: And honestly, it's pretty boring of you to even think about shooting him.

HARRY: I might seem boring—I know you think I am—but I'll prove to you that I've got enough of a man in me to—

CLAIRE: To make yourself look foolish? If I ran out and buried my head in the mud, would you think you needed to shoot the mud?

DICK: (hurt out of fear) That's really harsh!

CLAIRE: Well, would you rather get shot?

HARRY: So you really said that to protect him!

CLAIRE: I switch it to grass, (nodding to DICK) Grass. If I buried my face in the grass, would you have to set it on fire?

HARRY: Oh, Claire, how can you? When you know how much I love you—and how I'm hurting?

CLAIRE: (with interest) Are you in pain?

HARRY: Don't you have eyes?

CLAIRE: I think it would—affect you in some way.

HARRY: Wow! Do you have no feelings? (the door opens. TOM walks in)

CLAIRE: (barely saying it) Yeah, I have a heart.

TOM: (after a pause) I came to say goodbye.

CLAIRE: Seriously! Do you have no compassion? Can't you at least wait until Dick gets shot?

TOM: Claire! (now notices the revolver in her hand, pointed away from him. Approaching her) Claire!

CLAIRE: Do you really think this is so important? (carelessly raises the revolver, and with her left hand flat, tells TOM not to touch her) Harry thinks it's crucial to shoot Dick, and Dick thinks it's crucial not to get shot, and you all think I shouldn't shoot anyone—even myself—and can't any of you see that none of that matters as much as—where revolvers can't reach? (putting revolver where there is no Edge Vine) I will never shoot myself. I'm too fascinated by destruction to end it all by shooting. (after looking from one to the other, laughs. Pointing) One—two—three. You-love-me. But why did you bring it out here?

ANTHONY: (who has resumed work) This is not what this place is for.

CLAIRE: No, this place is for the destruction that can break through.

ANTHONY: Miss Claire, it's eleven o'clock. At eleven, we're supposed to go in and see—

CLAIRE: Whether it’s gone through or not. But how can we leave—with Dick blocking the door?

ANTHONY: He'll need to move.

CLAIRE: And get shot?

HARRY: (irritably) Oh, he won’t get shot. Claire can ruin anything.

(DICK steps away from the door; CLAIRE takes a step closer to it.)

CLAIRE: (hesitant) Did I ruin everything? I really don't want to go in there.

ANTHONY: We're going in together, Miss Claire. Don't you remember? Oh (looking resentfully at the others) don’t let anything ruin this for you—the work of all those days—the hope of so many days.

CLAIRE: Yes—that's it.

ANTHONY: Are you worried that you haven't done it?

CLAIRE: Yes, but—I’m afraid I have.

HARRY: (frustrated, but soft) That's just nerves, Claire. I've felt the same way about recording a flight.

CLAIRE: (curiously grateful) You really have, Harry?

HARRY: (happy to be back in a more familiar world) Sure. I've been scared to find out, and almost as scared of having done it as of not having done it.

(CLAIRE nods, steps closer, then pulls back again.)

CLAIRE: I can't go in there. (she almost looks at TOM) Not today.

ANTHONY: But, Miss Claire, there are things to see today that we won’t be able to see tomorrow.

CLAIRE: Bring it over here!

ANTHONY: In—out from its own place? (she nods) And—where are they? (again she nods. Reluctantly he goes to the door) I won’t look into the heart. No one must know before you do.

(In the inner room, his head slightly turned away, he carefully lifts the plant that glows from within. As he brings it in, no one looks at it. HARRY grabs a box of seedlings from a stand and sets them on the floor so the newcomer has a place.)

ANTHONY: The Breath of Life is here, Miss Claire.

(CLAIRE half turns, then stops.)

CLAIRE: Look and see what you see.

ANTHONY: No one should see what you haven't seen.

CLAIRE: I can't see anything—until I find out.

(ANTHONY gazes at the flower.)

ANTHONY: (agitated) Claire!

CLAIRE: Did it go through?

ANTHONY: It’s been a while.

CLAIRE: More powerful?

ANTHONY: Stronger, more confident.

CLAIRE: And more delicate?

ANTHONY: And even more fragile.

CLAIRE: Look closely. No—turning back?

ANTHONY: (after a careful look) The form is ready. (he steps back from it)

CLAIRE: Then that’s it—out. (from where she stands she turns slowly to the plant) You weren't. You are.