Mary Mary

© Susan Hansell



1

Fade up to the strains of “White Christmas,” as sung by Bing Crosby.

Christmas Day in the American early-to-mid 1960’s, a lower-middle-class-suburban landscape:  The family has gathered for Christmas meal.

In the background, a single palm tree suggests California.  Indeed, everything visible implies the light, sunny winters of the West; there is nothing that looks East-coasty or Mid-western Christmastime here.

The family sits together around an economical plastic-and-formica dining table that is too ordinarily placed to be “retro” or cool.  The table is laid with colorful, unbreakable “china,” and the food is brightly and appealingly healthier-than-life, arranged around a raised centerpiece featuring a giant whole pineapple and other fresh fruits and vegetables.

Mom and Dad, who are thirty-something, hold big plastic cocktail glasses, and sit opposite each other at the ends of the table.  The three children (Brother, Older Sister, Younger Sister), are, at first, depicted as under ten-years of age. 

The children hold plastic glasses of milk, and sit together along the side of the table facing the audience, with Older Sister and Younger Sister flanking Brother.

The family’s clothing bridges the gap between the somewhat dressy early 1960’s and the uber-casual California of the later parts of that century, possibly allowing a few gag costume pieces to be added or subtracted as the play progresses in its three parts.

Throughout the play, Mom wears a Santa hat, Older Sister and Younger Sister wear Santa’s Elves hats, and Brother wears a set of stuffed reindeer antlers; Dad wears no Christmas head gear

The music cuts out.

Pause.

Mom looks meaningfully at Dad, at her cocktail glass, then back at Dad, repeating these looks until Dad responds.

Dad looks back at Mom, around at the table, the children, the food, and then back to Mom, finally raising his glass to toast; Mom and the children follow his lead.  They all drink.

Silence.

They wait.

Dad:  (cranky) Merry Christmas.

Mom:  (cheerful) Merry Christmas every one of us.

Children:  (in unison) Merry Christmas.

Dad scowls, Mom smiles, the children look surreptitiously back and forth at both Mom and Dad, at each other, and at the food.

Beat.

All at once, Dad begins to help himself as Mom passes dishes to him and to the children, serving herself last.

Dad:  (eating) Let’s all try to chew with our mouths closed and try not to spill anything, shall we?

The children and Mom look up at him, then back down at their plates, and the family eats quietly until Brother sees something at the far end of the table that he desires.  Brother reaches surreptitiously across the table for the dish he wants, unknowingly dragging his shirtsleeves across his plate, the table, and the food, accidentally spilling items along the way. 

Dad, Mom, Older Sister and Younger Sister have stopped eating to watch Brother.

Dad:  (sighs) Brother.  (disgusted) How many times have I told you to roll up your sleeves when you’re at the table? 

Beat.

Dad:  Huh?  How many?

Brother, who has halted his outstretched arms, now lifts them as high as he can hold them up, over the table, staring at his sleeves and the items they have dragged across the table.

Mom stands up to help Brother, walking behind him so that she can roll up Brother’s sleeves for him before returning to her place at the table.

Dad: (to Brother) Were you born in a barn?  Well?  Were you?

Mom sits down and looks across the table disapprovingly at Dad.

Dad:  (to Mom) No, Mary.  Mary, uh-uh.  I-don’t-give-a-good-god-damned if it is Christmas.

Beat.

Dad:  (more to himself) For crying out loud.

All look down at their plates.

Pause.

The family resumes eating, carefully at first, but growing quickly more relaxed as they eat the good food.

Dad:  (with his mouth full) Mary!  Mary, the turkey’s good this year!

Mom:  Not too dry, dear?

The family looks up at each other, attempting big smiles, and they succeed.

The children look out toward the audience; Mom and Dad turn in the same direction, as they pose together for a post-card-like tableau snapshot:  Mom smiling, Dad with his arms spread wide, the children mugging goofily.

Tableau.

A flash bulb pops.

They blink their eyes several times.

Blackout.


2

Ten years later.

Fade up to the strains of “White Christmas,” as sung by Elvis Presley, from his later years.

The family appears again in tableau, as if caught in another photograph, this one taken mid-meal. 

The room, the table, and the food are exactly as before, as is the seating arrangement of the family.

Mom, both Sisters, and Brother wear the same hats and head dress as before; Dad wears no hat.

The big cocktail glasses and the glasses of milk are on the table, half empty.

The children are now teen-agers.  Mom and Dad are in their forties, but still youthful.

Cut music.

Pause.

The family digs-in at once, resuming eating, simultaneously, with relish, until Brother stops eating, stares out into space, then grins.

Brother:  (stoned) I’m playing Dean in the class comedy-skit next month.

Brother laughs.

Both Sisters look at him, then at each other, then roll their eyes.

Dad:  (annoyed) Don’t laugh with your mouth full.  It’s disgusting.

Mom:  (cheerfully) Oh, that’s nice.  And that’s an easy costume, too.

Younger Sister:  (with her mouth full) Huh?

Mom:  A T-shirt and jeans.  Cigarettes rolled up into your sleeve.  (working at it) If your father will let you, that is!
Mom smiles around the table, beaming a final, meaningful smile at Dad.

Dad:  (with his mouth full) What?

Older Sister:  (helpfully) Brother’s talking about Watergate, Mom.  THAT Dean.  Not James Dean.

Mom looks quizzically at Brother.

Brother laughs, stoned.

Brother:  John Dean.  You now.  Nixon’s cabinet.  You know.  (seriously) You know, it’s an important part.  You know?

Mom:  (embarrassed) Oh.

Dad:  (mocking Brother) You know, you know, you know.  (sarcastic) No, she doesn’t know.

Younger Sister:  (changing the subject) That’s all we do all day long in school, is watch those stupid hearings on TV.

Mom:  (pleasantly) Because it’s important to history, that’s why.

Older Sister:  (to Younger Sister, derisive) DUH.

Younger Sister:  (to Older Sister, whiny) It’s BOR-ING.

Beat.
 
Dad:  You must be IDIOTS not to know already that Nixon’s a SLOB.  If you know ANYTHING about history YOU KNOW that twenty-five years ago Nixon stood on the steps of Congress with his friend, McCarthy, two slobs if there ever were any, shouting and waving around pieces of paper:  “WE HAVE HERE IN OUR HANDS LISTS OF OVER ONE-HUNDRED ELECTED UNITED STATES OFFICIALS PROVEN TO BE CARD-CARRYING MEMBERS OF THE COMMUNIST PARTY” AND BLAH BLAH BLAH. 

Pause.

Dad:  Do you think either of those two slobs ever showed anybody their so-called lists?  Huh?  (beat) Slobs, the both of ‘em.

The family stares in silence at Dad.

Dad:  And that, for your information, is why Our Founding Fathers never intended for every god-damned-stupido in this country to VOTE.  (beat)  Anybody with half a brain knows what Nixon is.

A long pause after which the family resumes eating.

Brother:  (thinking to imitate Dad’s style of ridicule, blurting out, stoned) Maybe HE’S GAY!

Both Sisters giggle.  Mom begins to giggle too.

Dad:  (swallowing slowly) What did you say, young man?

Older Sister:  (more tattle-tale than helpful) He said, maybe Nixon’s GAY!

Mom, Brother and both Sisters go on a loud, long, uncontrollable laughing jag, which infuriates Dad.

Dad glares around the table, then angrily spears some food.

Dad:  (with his mouth full) THAT’S ENOUGH.

Mom, Brother, and both Sisters cover their mouths and try to stop laughing.

Dad swallows, looks up, and shouts out and up at some perceived wrong in the universe.

Dad:  AND WHY DO THEY CALL THEM GAYS?  Gay means HAPPY!  They have no right to be HAPPY!  They should be called SAD.  (coining a word)  SADS!  SADS!  SADS!  SADS!  SADS!  SADS!  SADS!

Dad pounds his fist rhythmically on the table as he repeats his new word “sads” until he runs out of gas.

Mom, Brother, and both Sisters look down silently at their plates of food.

Dad stares off into space.

Pause.

Fade to black.


3

Twenty years later.

Fade up to the strains of “White Christmas,” as sung by Nat King Cole.

The family, having finished dinner, is depicted once more in tableau, as if in the midst of the after-dinner conversation.
Mom and Dad are now pushing seventy-years of age.  Mom has lost a bit of her hearing, and Dad has lost most of his ability to dominate.

The children, who are now pushing forty (but who are not looking nearly as good as Mom and Dad looked at that age), do not seem particularly conscious of the changes in Mom and Dad; or perhaps they simply do not care to notice.

The room and the table and the food are as before, except now the three children drink out of big cocktail glasses, while Mom and Dad have half-full glasses of milk at their places.

Mom, both Sisters, and Brother still wear their original head gear; Dad wears nothing on his head.

Cut music.

Beat.

The loud conversation resumes, mid-stream; Mom is about to serve dessert.

Younger Sister:  Tell her Brother.  You’re the lawyer.  An I.O.U is an I.O.U.  On the back of one of her business cards or whereEVER.  (as if reading)  “I.O.U. one painting.”

Dad opens his mouth to say something; no one notices.

Older Sister:  (mock-protesting) It doesn’t say when.  WHEN I owe it to you.

Younger Sister:  (mock-angry) Welcher.  Up yours.

Dad glares around the table; no one notices.

Mom:  (pleasantly) Who wants pie?

Brother:  (with mock-grandiosity) The holder of an I.O.U. can call in the debt, technically speaking -

Younger Sister:  And I call it, I call it, I call it!

Brother:  Technically speaking, any time.

Mom smiles around the table and begins serving pie.  The children pass pieces of pie toward Dad, and toward themselves.  Dad eats his pie while the three children continue talking.

Older Sister:  This is ART we’re talking about.  ART.  Art cannot be FORCED!

Younger Sister:  (mock-biting) I.- O.- U.- PERIOD.

Older Sister:  (mock-arty) Dot Dot Dot.

Brother:  (mock-faggy, to Older Sister) You DID write it down.

Mom gets her pie last, and the children fall silent as they eat pie along with Mom.

Dad has finished eating and uses the silence to gain a conversational foothold.

Dad:  Did I, did I tell you the one, the one about, you know, about the old lady who took her grandson to the opera?

Beat.

Brother and both Sisters stop eating but ignore Dad.

Older Sister:  (mock-persecution-complex) Oh I get it, two against one, two against one.  Well I’m used to two against one.  I’m used to THAT.

Older Sister winks broadly.

Younger Sister:  (mock-sympathy) Alright, alright. Have it your way.  I give up. 

Brother:  (mock-lauding-himself) The kid wins!  The kid wins!  The system has ruled!  And court is adjourned!
Brother ends his lines with a stagy flourish.

The three children laugh loudly.

Mom joins in the laughter, too, though she’s not quite following the conversation.

The laughter dies down while the children turn back to eating pie.

Dad:  And her grandson, her grandson says, you know:  Grandma, why is that man, that man up there on the stage, you know, why is that man on the stage beating that fat lady with his, with his black, with his black, ha, stick, ha, stick, ha-ha-ha, and why, ha-ha, you know, why –

Beat.

Dad gasps for breath.

Beat.

Younger Sister:  Why is that fat lady screaming?

Pause.

Brother:  Yeah, Dad.  You told us that one.

The three children look down at their plates, covering their mouths in order to stifle their laughter.

Dad angrily struggles to his feet.

Mom looks around trying to figure out what is happening.

Dad:  (sputtering) You children know- you know your mother- your mother doesn’t like it when you- you know- when you- children- when you children argue at the table!
Dad uses a full effort to stand up straight.

Dad:  (out-of-breath, yet furious) Ought to have more couth!

Dad turns to leave the room, looking back at Mom, expecting Mom to join him. 

Dad:  Mary?  Mary, I’ll be god-damned if I’ll sit here and listen to this - (beat) CRAPOLA.

Mom looks at Dad, confused.

Dad:  Mary.  Mary!

Mom gets up with difficulty and goes to Dad.

Dad turns his back on the room.  Mom reluctantly helps Dad, and they begin to walk slowly away together.

Mom stops suddenly then dad stops too; Mom turns around to face the children but Dad remains with his back toward the room.

Mom looks at her children, confused yet vaguely disappointed.

Mom:  You’re father’s right, you know.  No one should ever eat, oops - (she laughs, then stops herself from laughing), no one should ever talk - (beat, she shrugs), no one should ever talk with their mouths full!  (for effect) Especially at Christmas.  (beat) You kids know better than that. 

Mom smiles uncertainly and produces an embarrassed laugh, but she turns to go with Dad.

Mom and Dad help each other walk off and out of the room, exiting the stage.

A long, silent pause ensues, until the three children, who remain alone, erupt in loud, long, laughter.

Younger Sister:  (imitating Dad, spearing food) More for me!

Laughter.

Brother:  (imitating himself) Go to your room, young man!

Laughter.

Older Sister:  If he can remember where it is!

Laughter.

Younger Sister:  Or what it is!

Laughter.

Brother:  Mom’ll help him find it!

Laughter.

Older Sister:  Whatever “it” is!

Screams of laughter subside.

The children pick over what’s left on the table.

Pause.

Older Sister:  (mock-happy) WE can go home to peace and quiet.

Brother:  (mock-mock) Isn’t SINGLE life great?

Brother winks broadly.

Younger Sister:  (with her mouth full of pie) Huh?

Older Sister:  AND I LIKE IT that way!

Brother:  You know, you know, you know!

Beat.

Younger Sister:  Yeah.

Beat.

Younger Sister:  (guilty) I feel sorry for Mom though.

Brother:  (ice cold) Mom’s used to it.

Older Sister:  (guilty) Stop feeling guilty!

Brother:  (angry) We’re here to get drunk!

Beat.

Younger Sister:  And drool with our mouths full?

Laughter.

Pause.

They look at each other.

Brother raises his big cocktail glass.

Brother:  Merry Christmas every one of us.

The Sisters follow suit, raising their glasses.

The three children toast, clinking together the big cocktail glasses that were once their parents’.

The Children:  (in unison) Merry Christmas.

They drink.

They put down their glasses and stare out into the audience.

Silence.

Fade to black.



-----

An early version of this play first appeared in Inflatable Magazine, Winter 1999.  The current version sprinted in SLM is newly revised.



Website photo © Robert L. Wells

website photo by a. paul cartier