Miss Mary

Here's my draft of 'Miss Mary' - based on NIGHT WINDOWS (Jen E used the same painting for her piece 'Night Windows', where the image is being seen from her character's POV) - in this piece, my hope is that the painting could be replicated on stage at both the beginning and the end of the play - though the character, Mary, finds herself in that position for two very different reasons.


Miss Mary
By By Jove (!) - Dave D
Winter, 2007
Edward Hopper (WNEP)


(MARY is frenetically straightening, arranging then rearranging things throughout the tiny apartment. The layout of the apartment is simple – A narrow day bed rests against the SR wall, a radiator UC. The only entrance to the space is the front door UL. The SL area is occupied by a kitchenette, wooden chair and a mirror.
Mary lights a flame on the stove top and starts a pot of coffee.
She brings her face very close to the burner – so close that her cheek reddens and begins to sweat. Just before the skin might blister, she rushes to the window SR – opens it – and thrusts her head outside, taking in a desperate gasp of fresh, cool air. This enlivens her and she begins to hum a sweet little song.
She sashays across the room, as if parading before throngs of ogling admirers - then stops in front of the short, free-standing mirror SL. She bends at the waist and leans in to inspect something.
A sudden, rapid knocking at the door jolts her)

MARY: Is it you?

MILES: (Off) Of course.

(She unlocks many locks, opens the door. MILES enters – under his arm he carries a medium box wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. His hand is bleeding. Upon his entrance and throughout, he remains within a small playing space – between the door and the kitchenette)

MARY: I didn’t know if you’d come – what happened to your hand?

MILES: Why wouldn’t I?

MARY: I just. Well. I don’t know, I suppose – do you need a bandage?

MILES: You don’t know?

MARY: I suppose – I don’t believe I have any bandages.

MILES: I told you when I’d come. The day, the time, hour and minute. And here it is.

MARY: I have some clean strips of linen. I decided if I was going to spend so much time in these close quarters, I’d better keep it tidy.

MILES: You were hoping I wasn’t coming, I bet.

MARY: I’ve been waiting so long. I knew how long I was supposed to wait – but after a few days I began to think it had been a week and when two weeks went by I felt as if a whole month had passed and I realized that I hadn’t turned any of the pages on my wall calendar there and – oh, my…

MILES: Relax.

MARY: I. Seem to be…

(She rushes to the window SR and throws her head outside for a gulp of fresh air)

MILES: I’m here now.

MARY: Your hand. I can help you. Here.

(She ushers him to the chair SL. He adjusts the chair into a precise position beside the kitchenette and sits down.
Mary takes some strips of linen from beneath the sink and fills a small pitcher with water)

MARY: Here we are…

(She slowly, carefully washes and dresses the wound – there is a long silence until Miles finally speaks)

MILES: You’ve got your father’s hands. And his arms. Skinny little arms. Like a bird.

MARY: How did this happen?

MILES: There was a broken beer bottle lying on the sidewalk. Outside.

MARY: How did you cut your hand on it?

MILES: People throw their bottles and newspapers, cigarettes and everything else on the ground. I can’t stand the sight of it. So I pick it up. One of these days we’ll open our doors and we’ll all be up to our necks in broken bottles of glass and cigarette butts and everything else.

MARY: Does that feel better?

(She finishes dressing the wound)

MILES: They keep saying the bottom’s about to fall out.

MARY: Would you like some coffee?

MILES: Nobody likes to think about the future. Nobody wants to think about where it all goes. It all piles up somewhere out of sight - the bottles and papers and cans. But that somewhere isn’t going to be out of sight forever. I bet you don’t like thinking about the future. Do you?

MARY: (beat) Are you going to have a cup of coffee or aren’t you?

MILES: You can pour me a cup. Set it beside the window there to cool.

(She pours the cup slowly and holds it out towards him)

MARY: What’s inside of that package?

(He points to the cup)

MILES: Beside the window.

MARY: Do you take any sugar?

MILES: Set it down, Mary.

MARY: I’ve got some sugar just up –

MILES: Set down that cup.

(She turns on him, wielding the hot coffee threateningly)

MARY: Tell me what you’re gonna do to me! I did everything you said! I did everything right – just like you told me. Now you’ve gotta leave me be –

MILES: Mary.

MARY: I did everything the way you told me…

MILES: I know you did.

(He places his hand over the cup, steadying her shaking hand until she begins to calm)

MARY: I did everything right.

MILES: I always knew you would.

(Mary rests the cup on the window sill SL. She goes to the window SR and takes a deep breath)

MARY: What’s inside that package?
MILES: A present. Do you have the letters?

(She reaches beneath the bed and fishes out a shoe box. There are countless old letters inside the box. The flame on the stove continues to burn, sending steam out of the coffee pot)

MARY: I spent so much time in this room lately. I don’t think I’ve ever been in one, singular place so much, for so long, in my entire lifetime. Just how you told me – only went to the little market on the corner for groceries and cigarettes and some magazines.

MILES: I know. You did well.

MARY: You’d think a person might go crazy cooped up in a room with nothing to do, no one to talk to. But it’s amazing – the ways you can find to keep yourself occupied.

MILES: I don’t believe my father would have agreed with you.

MARY: Yes, well… (As if remembering the punch line to some long-forgotten joke, she lets out a small, innocent laugh) I wrote little songs. Little tunes. To pass the time. I’ve never had a drop of musical ability my entire life. But one afternoon - sitting right over there, looking out that window – I wrote the funniest little songs.

MILES: What kind of songs?

MARY: Well. I suppose they were…

MILES: Yes?

MARY: (Shyly) …naughty little songs.

MILES: May I hear one?

MARY: Yes. (Beat – with strength) If you’ll tell me what’s inside of that box.

MILES: (Thinks about it) Fair. But the song first.

(She looks nervously for a place to ‘perform’ her song, finally settling next to the day bed)

MARY: It’s very silly. The first song that came in my mind. I was just sitting at the window, watching a little girl on a bicycle going around and around in a circle down there, right in the middle of the street. Her bike had a little bell and she rang that bell each time she finished another circle. And I thought to myself – that little girl doesn’t believe she’s riding a bicycle. No sir. Because I remember how it is to be ten years old and to ride a bike when you haven’t got a care in the world. That pretty little girl’s commanding a steam boat. She’s steering a great big steamboat up and down the Mississippi and that bell she keeps ringing is her steamboat’s bell. …. (Singing) Miss Mary had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell….Miss Mary went to heaven, the steamboat went to…

MILES: ….Hell?

MARY: (laughs) No! – that’s what you’re supposed to think. But it’s not, see? “…the steamboat went to…Hell-l-l-o operator, give me number nine….and if you disconnect me…I’ll kick you from behind!

(They both laugh out loud)

MILES: I’ll kick you from behind -

MARY: - The ‘frigerator…there was a piece of glass…Miss Mary sat upon it…

MILES: It stuck right in her ass!

(They continue to laugh. The laughter fades. Beat)

MARY: What’s in that package?

MILES: A present.

MARY: For whom?

MILES: My niece. It’s her birthday tomorrow.

MARY: What did you buy her?

MILES: It’s a wooden doll. And when you open the wooden doll, there’s another wooden doll inside of her. And inside of her, there’s another, and so on. By the time she’s finished taking them apart, there’s eight dolls.

MARY: That’s nice. What’s her name?

MILES: Susan. But we call her Suzie.

MARY: Miss Suzie. That’s a pretty name.

(Mary looks around for something, anything to talk about. Miles just stares at her)

MARY: Are you going to let me go?

MILES: I can’t.
MARY: I could run to that window right now. I can start screaming your name. They’d know what you did –

MILES: I haven’t done anything.

MARY: I’ll tell them everything.

MILES: No you won’t.

MARY: Yes I will.

(Mary goes to the open window DR and sticks her head outside)

MILES: You won’t because you know that you deserve it.

(She just sits there, leaning out the window)

MARY: Why do I deserve it? It was my father. Not me. Not my mother.

MILES: You and your mother enjoyed every luxury that money could buy. Your father gave you a kingdom while he watched my father sit in prison, while they auctioned off our home, our clothes – our bicycles.

MARY: But I didn’t know about any of that – I was just a little girl.

MILES: Our fathers were more than business partners, Mary. They were friends.

MARY: I know.

MILES: Not only did your father betray mine in business –

MARY: Miles –

MILES: He betrayed him in friendship.

MARY: Please –

MILES: In family. We were left to rot while you were spoiled with all that money could buy. The money your father stole and kept hidden.

MARY: I’m sorry.

MILES: When my mother and sister and I were taken from our home. When it all finally choked his heart to death and mother was left begging old friends to give him a funeral – It’s what finally killed her, too.

MARY: I just didn’t know.

MILES: Your ignorance doesn’t make you innocent.

MARY: (Beat) I was there the night my father died. Did you know that? He’d locked himself up in his office and mother and I went down there to talk to him. He’d been receiving those letters. Every day – sometimes twice a day, but he wouldn’t let anyone else see them. Mother thought they were threats from some scorned lover he’d wronged out of the secretary pool. (Miles laughs) Anonymous letters. We were on our way up in the elevator when he leapt from the window.

MILES: Did you see him?

MARY: After. (Pause) You must have writ so many letters…

MILES: A hundred and eighty-seven of them.

MARY: Mother just sat there with a pile of them on her bed. She read each one like another chapter to a book. Telling the story of what he’d done to your father.

MILES: You read them?

MARY: (Nods) Does it make it even?

MILES: No.

(Mary moves flirtatiously across the room)

MARY: Do you want to hear another song?

MILES: No. I like the one you sang before.

MARY: Miss…Mary had a steamboat…that steamboat had a bell…Miss Mary went to heaven….the steamboat…….

(Miles has reached into his inside suit pocket and withdraws what appears to be a tightly folded leather pouch. He shakes it out, unfurling a leather mask… A black leather mask, very simple, with precise holes for the eyes and mouth)

MARY: What’s that?

MILES: Try it on.

MARY: I don’t want to.

MILES: I’d like to see how it looks. On you.

MARY: No.

MILES: Put it on and it’s all over. I’ll let you be.

MARY: I’d like a cigarette. I don’t smoke very often, but on occasion…

(She looks around for a cigarette – Miles takes a pack from his pocket)

MILES: Put it on and you can have one.

MARY: Fair. But only for a moment.

(Miles nods. He gently turns her around so that she’s facing the mirror. He places the mask over her head and secures it. They stand looking in the mirror for a long moment. She gets a sudden burst of fortitude but Miles grabs her and sets her in the chair. He stands behind the chair with his hands on her shoulders. Reaching a hand around her face, he places the cigarette in her mouth. He lights it for her. She takes a deep inhale. He grasps her neck and chokes her viciously. In the struggle, he lifts her up from the chair – Her body finally goes limp.
She collapses, draped over the back of the chair. A puff of smoke escapes her lips.

Miles picks up the dropped cigarette and the box of letters.
He removes the coffee pot from the stove and dumps the letters onto the burners.
He takes all of the remaining linens, rags, etc. from the drawer where Mary had retrieved his bandages and tosses them onto the growing flame. He drops the still-burning cigarette onto the floor.

He begins to hum the tune of Mary’s song.
He removes the mask from Mary’s face and folds it up very tightly – then hides it in his pocket.
He exits the room as the flames continue to grow over the kitchenette.





THE END