MARGUERITE. It’s the only comfortable seat . . .

  [In one swift, aggressive move, MARGUERITE lands the chair.]

  HELEN. [her dignity affronted] This is ridiculous . . .

  MARGUERITE. [somewhat ruffled] Only one of us could sit . . .

  HELEN. I wouldn’t have fought for it, that’s for sure . . .

  MARGUERITE. Saving yourself . . .

  HELEN. For what . . .

  MARGUERITE. The larger skirmish . . .

  [That stops the exchange. HELEN steps back.]

  HELEN. I’m not up to sparring over this . . .

  MARGUERITE. [playful] We could draw straws . . .

  HELEN. . . . nor reverting to childhood tactics . . .

  MARGUERITE. [more playful] . . . pick a number, any number . . .

  HELEN. [cutting her off] Then what . . .

  MARGUERITE. [noticing it] The candle’s out . . .

  [A bell rings behind the inner door. The mood of the room shifts. MARGUERITE gets up, goes to sit down in front of the candle.]

  HELEN. [edgy] What are you doing . . .

  [MARGUERITE relights the candle. The bell rings again.]

  MARGUERITE. [staring at it] Don’t go out again. It’s little things like you that matter when you live alone. That candles stay lit. That the floors shine and there are no dishes left overnight in the sink. Little things. Flowers. The smell of clean sheets. Bright colors, the rooms always neat. Little things . . .

  [By now the light from the candle should dominate the room, leaving all but MARGUERITE in shadow.]

  MARGUERITE. Now when I come home, nothing welcomes me; the floors don’t smile, the rooms don’t speak. If he’s not around, I can hardly breathe . . . [embarrassed] I’m ashamed of me . . . who lived so long steeped in things . . . now I panic when I’m just with me. I panic . . . I can’t breathe. I sit in the dark and wait for him . . . [thinking back] . . . the same me who used to turn on all the lights, music, run a hot bath, luxuriate in things . . . Now I sit in the dark afraid to breathe. I sit in the dark and wait for him . . . [feeling it evaporate] Then it goes away, like something unreal . . . a dream . . . the minute he walks in, it leaves . . .

  [She sits very still, staring at the candle. Helen, out of the shadows, begins to speak.]

  HELEN. [caught up in the emotion] I hate the idea of being alone with me . . . [going deeper] . . . sometimes I think my writing is like my mother’s garden . . . a pretense at being alone that still isn’t free . . . Early, before anyone wakes up, I retreat to my study much as she does to her plants. In my head sometimes I see both of us . . . pulling and tugging at our lives like useless weeds . . .

  [SILENCE. The bell rings behind the inner door. Lights come up. The mood of the room shifts.]

  HELEN. I hope that’s the end of her prayers . . .

  [MARGUERITE gets up slowly, feeling stiff.]

  MARGUERITE. Hmph . . . I sat still too long, I’ve got a cramp in both feet . . .

  [SHE shakes her legs loose.]

  HELEN. You think she’s ready to read . . .

  MARGUERITE. She could be . . . at least one of us I suppose she’ll see . . .

  [The inner door opens and the WOMAN comes out.]

  THE WOMAN. [bluntly] Which one . . .

  [MARGUERITE steps forward.]

  MARGUERITE. In a strict ordering of the thing, that should be me . . .

  HELEN. But is yours an emergency . . .

  [They both look to the woman, who stands there impassively.]

  MARGUERITE. My appointment was first . . . I think we should leave it at that . . .

  HELEN. [raw] I’ll have to come back . . .

  MARGUERITE. One of us would . . .

  [Again they look to the woman for arbitration, but she stands there unmoved.]

  HELEN. Is that all you want to ask her, why you’re afraid to be alone . . .

  [Marguerite just glares at her.]

  HELEN. It’s probably guilt at being happy . . . or some such thing . . . aloneness . . . [dismissing it] . . . who doesn’t suffer from it to some degree . . .

  MARGUERITE. In which case, crumbling breasts and vaginas have it all over me . . .

  [In spite of herself, the woman lets out an audible giggle, which causes Helen and Marguerite to look in her direction. Marguerite smiles somewhat conspiratorially.]

  HELEN. [watching both of them] You’re not going to make this racial . . .

  [The woman returns an impassive gaze.]

  MARGUERITE. You mean difficult . . .

  HELEN. [hesitantly agreeing] Yes . . .

  MARGUERITE. Insinuating color into the thing . . .

  HELEN. [more firmly] Yes . . .

  MARGUERITE. Making sure I go in . . . to redeem past sins . . .

  HELEN. [forcefully] Exactly . . . I won’t have you beating the black drum against me . . .

  MARGUERITE. [pushing it] Dark blood spilling out irrationally . . .

  HELEN. It’s you who insist on it, it’s your main theme . . .

  MARGUERITE. Race, always race, carried to an extreme . . .

  [The WOMAN shifts her feet noisily. Both women look at her.]

  HELEN. [addressing her] I think it’s time for you to intervene . . .

  MARGUERITE. [aimlessly] Are wounded cervixes the greater need?

  HELEN. [humiliated] You make it sound obscene, like something I did out of spite against me . . .

  MARGUERITE. A private female arsenal . . .

  HELEN. What’s that supposed to mean . . .

  MARGUERITE. [feeling crazy] It’s you who’s wounded in the flesh, you tell me . . .

  HELEN. [outraged] What in God’s name gives you leeway to keep mocking me . . .

  MARGUERITE. I don’t see you . . . [out of control] . . . exist for me . . . the memory is white, it provokes certain things . . .

  [The WOMAN shifts her feet. Still wound up, Marguerite hears herself speak.]

  MARGUERITE. The lines between us are written somewhere in ink . . . you and I don’t really speak . . . I’m going in . . . it doesn’t matter what you think . . .

  [SHE steps forward. The WOMAN opens the door.]

  HELEN. [feeling something] . . . as if some anonymous crowd were cheering you on . . .

  MARGUERITE. [stopping] What do you mean . . .

  HELEN. [as Queenie] ‘. . . color, honey, that’s all I see, ain’t nothin’ but color left between you and me . . .’

  [Marguerite doesn’t move. No one does. Lights go out.]

  CURTAIN

  Begin the Beguine: A Play in One Act

  for

  RUBY and GUY

  THE CHARACTERS*

  * * *

  A YOUNG MAN, around twenty-five.

  An OLDER WOMAN, around fifty-five.

  THE PLACE

  * * *

  A space that resembles a park.

  THE TIME

  * * *

  The present.

  [A YOUNG MAN, around twenty-five, comes onstage dressed in black. He moves restlessly across the space with long, intense strides, a preoccupied manner, as if containing much emotion. It’s important that he move gracefully and with tremendous ease.

  HE sits down on a park bench and begins to whistle several show tunes, beginning with “Night and Day,” followed by “Just One of Those Things,” and growing louder and more violent as he drifts finally into “From This Moment On,” at which point an OLDER WOMAN, around fifty-five, wanders onto the stage dressed in a calf-length ’30s-type dress. She should be small, delicate-looking, vague of manner. She sees the young man and hesitates.]

  THE WOMAN. I won’t continue the fight in public.

  [The YOUNG MAN stops whistling.]

  THE YOUNG MAN. I didn’t ask you to.

  THE WOMAN. I came here to breathe, the air at home is . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [completing her sentence] Cloudy.

  THE WOMAN. [defensively] That’s not my kind of word, cloudy . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. It fits. You can’t see that it fits because you don’t even know who you are. If you did, you’d recognize that there are clouds all over the place.

  THE WOMAN. Staring at me . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. What do you mean?

  THE WOMAN. I recognize that much, that they’re staring at me . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [laughing] No, you still got it wrong, they’re not staring at you, you’re inside the goddamn things, you are the cloud.

  THE WOMAN. Now you’re being offensive.

  THE YOUNG MAN. Now you’re playing ma mère, momma, mommacita, Norma, which you’re not . . .

  THE WOMAN. [switching] What’s the black for . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. What are you talking about?

  THE WOMAN. The black pants and jacket, up to and including the shirt.

  THE YOUNG MAN. Before you came, I was whistling. Old show tunes. ‘I Get a Kick Out of You,’ ‘Love for Sale.’ That kind of stuff, Broadway Americana. I was thinking I might tap dance next.

  THE WOMAN. I once played Zora Neale Hurston.

  THE YOUNG MAN. I know.

  THE WOMAN. I’m convinced that somewhere in this universe there’s a vagabond black spirit . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. I know.

  [The WOMAN turns away to cry. The YOUNG MAN watches her dispassionately.]

  THE YOUNG MAN. You’re a pretty woman . . . small and delicate, I miss you all the time, I have always missed you, even before I was conceived. The missing grows stronger as you grow older and I grow less sure of the memories we have in common.

  THE WOMAN. [still tearful] This dress reminds me of Zora Neale Hurston . . .

  [The YOUNG MAN gets up, takes out his harmonica, plays an old folk tune, while the WOMAN claps.]

  THE WOMAN. Did I ever tell you the story about Mrs. Wind . . .

  [The YOUNG MAN nods a yes but keeps playing.]

  THE WOMAN. And Mrs. Water . . .

  [HE nods yes again.]

  THE WOMAN. Mrs. Wind and Mrs. Water . . . [She chuckles to herself.]

  I’m just repeating Zora out loud . . .

  [The YOUNG MAN plays more spiritedly, beckoning her to sing, dance, join in, which the WOMAN does, but only halfheartedly, until the mood grows despondent and his playing peters out. HE sits back down on the bench.]

  THE YOUNG MAN. We’re nowhere again.

  THE WOMAN. [brightening] Which came first, the park or the trees?

  THE YOUNG MAN. There are no trees.

  THE WOMAN. That’s shameful, too . . . a park without trees.

  [She doesn’t know where to put herself.]

  THE YOUNG MAN. You want the bench?

  [HE gets up. Shyly, SHE goes to sit down. Now he doesn’t know where to put himself, so he begins to tap dance, humming softly.]

  THE YOUNG MAN. This is called the ‘Soft Shoe Rag.’ Broadway Americana. ‘Kiss the Girls Goodbye.’

  [SHE sits tugging at her dress, her hair, primping.]

  THE YOUNG MAN. You look fine, don’t preen.

  THE WOMAN. I’m at the mercy of all who love me . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [still tap-dancing] We tried, as Pop would say, Lord have mercy how we tried . . .

  [That makes her sad, she begins to cry again, takes out a handkerchief to stifle the sobs, then gets up faintly.]

  THE WOMAN. The best thing for me to do now is perform . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. I applaud that. How can I help . . .

  [HE mimes sweeping the stage, then laying out a fresh carpet for her. Then he bows, gesturing to her to take her place. SHE comes over and stands in the spot. Lights should dim, spotlighting her as if for a performance.]

  THE WOMAN. When I first played Zora, I was fifty-three. She remains sleek in my memory, a feline creature but without charm. I tried to give her charm. She was molasses. I tried to sweeten her to honey. The tea stuck in my throat, I wanted a real vagabond for my dreams. She was almost it, she was almost the real thing . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [out of darkness] Are we stuck on a white folk’s line?

  [HE begins to play the harmonica—a corny tune.]

  THE WOMAN. Spotlight for two!

  [It materializes. But only on the young man’s face, looking anxiously at the woman, while holding the harmonica to his lips.]

  THE WOMAN. You look so young . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. I try to keep myself buoyant.

  THE WOMAN. Could we sing something together . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. ‘All of You,’ ‘Anything Goes,’ ‘Begin the Beguine.’ Take your pick.

  THE WOMAN. I thought we could improvise . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [harshly] There are no dust tracks on your feet.

  THE WOMAN. [sadly] I know . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. The spotlight’s waiting.

  [And indeed it is, holding the woman fully, yet still holding only the young man’s face.]

  THE WOMAN. [singing]

  Two little darkies lyin’ in bed

  One of ’em sick an’ de odder mos’ dead

  Call fo’ de doctor an’ de doc done said,

  ‘Feed dem babies some shortenin’ bread’

  [The young man joins in but with a different song.]

  THE YOUNG MAN. [singing]

  When they begin the beguine

  It brings back the sound of music so tender

  THE WOMAN. [still singing]

  Mammy’s little baby loves shortenin’, shortenin’

  Mammy’s little baby loves shortenin’ bread

  Mammy’s little baby loves shortenin’, shortenin’

  Mammy’s little baby loves shortenin’ bread

  THE YOUNG MAN. [still singing]

  I’m with you once more under the stars

  And down by the shore an orchestra’s playing

  [And so the DUET goes, escalating in intensity, until at the end, both of them fall out laughing.]

  THE WOMAN. [laughing] How did you come up with that . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [laughing] I was about to ask you the same thing . . . it has your kind of nostalgia . . .

  THE WOMAN. ‘Shortenin’ Bread’??

  THE YOUNG MAN. [laughing] No, ‘Begin the Beguine’ . . .

  THE WOMAN. Meaning . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. It wanders places I thought you might like to go.

  [HE extends his arms, asking her to dance. SHE steps forward. THEY begin to dance together silently.]

  THE WOMAN. Is the music still with us . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. Of course.

  THE WOMAN. Is it enough that we dance . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. I don’t know what you mean.

  THE WOMAN. Is it enough to stop things . . .

  THE MAN. [honestly] No.

  [HE stops dancing, goes back to his bench, where he begins to whistle “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”]

  THE WOMAN. Do you know why I drink . . .

  [He doesn’t answer, just keeps on whistling. She shouts over the whistling.]

  THE WOMAN. Don’t all mothers drink . . .

  [HE keeps whistling. She drifts mockingly back into song.]

  I’m comin’, I’m comin’,

  But my head is bending low

  I hear the darkies singin’ yonder

  Old Black Joe . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [stopping] What’s the point . . .

  THE WOMAN. [bowing] My answer to Broadway Americana . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [annoyed] You’ve got to perform.

  THE WOMAN. [defensively] Sometimes . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [angry] All the time.

  [Finding the distance unbearable, the WOMAN rushes over to sit down beside the young man.]

  THE WOMAN. But I can be sweet, too . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [gently] You can, that you can.

  THE WOMAN. And I don’t miss things . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [amused] No, that’s true. Hardly anything gets by you.

  THE WOMAN. And I remember holidays, I remember to make a fuss . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [enthusiastic] They stand out as some of the finest family hours.

  THE WOMAN. And you wouldn’t hesitate to call it love . . .

  [He hesitates. SHE gets up, angry.]

  THE WOMAN. When I was playing Zora, I called on parts of myself unwelcome in our household . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. She was one feisty dame.

  THE WOMAN. I did everything I could to rid myself of my vagueness . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. You played her tart, a woman of many moods, of memories her race couldn’t contain.

  THE WOMAN. [real angry] That’s not all. I tried to see myself as I might have been . . . beyond, before my color intervened . . .

  THE YOUNG MAN. [frightened] I wouldn’t know anything about that.

  [She begins to weep. He can’t stand it and tries to woo her with song.]

  THE YOUNG MAN.

  Birds do it, bees do it, even . . .

  [She shakes her head violently no . . . He tries again.]

  THE YOUNG MAN.

  What is this thing called love, this crazy thing . . .

  [Again, a violent no. He tries again.]

  THE YOUNG MAN.

  Whenever skies grow gray again

  And trouble begins to brew . . .

  [He begins to cry like a baby. SHE rushes over to comfort him, kneeling down in front of him.]

  THE WOMAN. [all gentleness] Let me tell you why the waves have whitecaps . . . Now Mrs. Water used to brag something fierce about her children. ‘Just look at my children,’ she’d say, ‘I got de biggest and de littlest in de world. All kinds of children, every color in de world and every shape . . .’ But Mrs. Water didn’t brag half as loud as Mrs. Wind. No, sir, Mrs. Wind was de bragginest lady there ever was. ‘I got more children than anybody in the world,’ she’d say, ‘they flies, they walks, they swims, they sings, they talks, they cries, and they come in all de colors of de sun. T’ain’t nobody got babies like mine!’ Now Mrs. Water got tired of hearin’ Mrs. Wind brag about her children and got so she hated ’em . . . Then one day, a whole handful of Mrs. Wind’s children got thirsty and asked if they could go get themselves a drink. ‘Yes, children,’ said Mrs. Wind, ‘you go on over there to Mrs. Water and get yourselves a nice, cool drink . . .’ Well, when them children went over to Mrs. Water, she grabbed ’em, one after another, and drowned ’em . . . And when her children didn’t come home, the Wind woman got worried, so she went down to the Water to ask after her babies. ‘Good evening, Mrs. Water,’ she said, ‘I’ve come lookin’ for my children, have you seen my children today?’ ‘No-o-o-o-o,’ the Water lady told her, lookin’ all wrapped up in herself, ‘no indeed, I ain’t seen none of your children . . .’ But Mrs. Wind knew better. So she passed over the ocean calling out for her children, and every time she called, white feathers came up on top of the water. And that’s how come we got whitecaps on the waves: it’s the feathers comin’ up when the Wind woman calls her babies . . . So when you see a storm blow up on the sea, that’s Mrs. Wind and Mrs. Water fightin’ over dem children . . .