Act One
Scene One
A room at a mid-range hotel in New York City. Suzanna, thirty-four, sits on the (made) bed, watching a Forensic Files-like true crime program on TV. She’s wearing a black dress (plain and casual; nothing sexy, formal, or funereal). She’s cozied-up and mesmerized . . . soothed by a story of female disaster worse than her own. The narrator reports on a dead woman in an eerie monotone. Something like: ‘The young mother had been stabbed thirty-seven times.’
Max, thirty-five, lets himself into the room – a man on a mission, energized. He watches enough of the TV show to realize what it is, then uses the remote to turn it off.
Suzanna Hey! I’m watching that.
Max He strangled her. She’s not coming home.
Suzanna Turn it back on.
Max No. I cut you off, remember? You’re not allowed to watch that stuff.
Suzanna It soothes me and I need it. Don’t judge me.
Max I’m not judging you. I’m disciplining you.
Suzanna I did nothing wrong! My mother is the one who showed up –
Max Stop! I just spent forty minutes calming your mother down, and she will be here soon. You need to be a big girl and face your big girl problems. (Indicating TV.) No more dead prostitutes on the autopsy channel until you do that.
Suzanna Why do you have a key to my room?
Max Because I paid for it.
Suzanna Did you pay for my mom’s room, too?
Max Yes.
Suzanna Because we’re poor now?
Max That’s . . . what we’re all gonna talk about at dinner. Your mother’ll be here soon.
Suzanna I’ve decided I won’t see her.
Max Excuse me – what?
Suzanna I am grieving my father’s death. My mother brought a . . . a man with her. To a meeting about the estate. That is so insulting to my father.
Max Your father’s dead. His feelings don’t matter.
Suzanna Max!
Max Suzanna, you made a big scene in the lobby. You made your point.
Suzanna I won’t see her.
Max So . . . how’s this gonna work? I go to dinner with your mother and her manfriend . . . You stay here and cry while she takes all the money?
Suzanna You would never let that happen.
Max You know, I might. I don’t like this weepy‑weepy wah‑wah thing you’re doing. I don’t respect it.
Suzanna Max, I’m grieving.
Max Negotiations are all about who has the biggest dick in the room . . . Be sad, grieve. But do it with a big dick.
Suzanna Grieve with a big dick? That’s not possible.
Max Uhhh . . . Charles Bronson in Death Wish? Rambo? Mrs Voorhees in Friday the 13th?
Suzanna None of those people are real, Max!
Max Suzanna, you gotta pull it together. Clock strikes midnight, you can regress. Light your vanilla candle and write in your dream journal. Until then, you’re a soldier. Fix yourself up.
Suzanna (as she tries . . .) In one of my textbooks, I read about these families . . . Craziest thing, Max. When someone in the family is in pain, the other family members do this thing called nurture. You ever heard of that?
Max No. (There’s a knock on the door. Max springs to answer it.) No crying. Big dick. (Max answers the door and escorts Susan Slater, sixty, into the room. She has MS and may use a cane. She’s attractive, but there’s a heaviness to her: the fatigue of endless fatigue. Her mind is sharp and she’s cultivated a forceful manner to compensate for her physical disability.) OK. So. Clean slate. Last few hours never happened. I’d like to welcome my two favorite ladies to New York City. We’re all so glad we’re here because we love each other so much, etc., etc. Now. I’m gonna suggest that we stick to the original plan.
Susan I never suggested otherwise.
Suzanna You brought Lester! The plan did not include Lester!
Susan Suzanna, I am disabled. I can’t travel alone.
Suzanna I offered to drive to Richmond and pick you up –
Susan I don’t feel safe in a car with you. I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, but –
Max It hurts my feelings, Susan. I taught her to drive.
Susan I’m not blaming you. Suzanna has assumed a somber attitude since her father died.
Suzanna So I can’t drive?
Susan You’re sluggish. If a drunk driver is careening into my path, I don’t want my life in your hands. I’m sorry.
Max Suzanna’s attitude is not the point. Lester is not the point.
Suzanna Lester is the point! I am not going to discuss my father’s estate with your . . . whatever he is to you in addition to being your house painter . . .
Susan He’s my lover.
Suzanna Oh, my God. How could you?
Susan (anger spikes) Listen to me. Your father died six months ago . . .
Suzanna It was three months!
Max Four. It was four months; you’re both liars.
Susan You didn’t lose a child or even a breast. Your father died of natural causes after a life well‑lived. That’s not loss, it’s transition.
Suzanna How can you . . . It’s a huge loss.
Susan It’s an old man dying peacefully. It’s not tragic –
Suzanna He was my dad.
Susan And you’re an adult. This . . . This is a costume.
Suzanna What – my clothes?
Susan The black dress. You’re infatuated with your grief. You think you’ve finally found something that will distinguish you.
Max OK, that’s enough.
Susan It’s not a distinction, Suzanna. A parent’s death . . . It is the most common of milestones –
Max My proposal is that we keep to the plan. We go to dinner, we talk facts and figures. Lester can join us for dessert.
Susan No. I won’t leave him sitting in the room while we have our nice dinner.
Max See . . . This is the point. It’s not going to be a nice dinner, Susan. We’re here to talk about your finances –
Susan I don’t discuss money at the dinner table. You grew up in my household; you know that.
Max Oh, no. No. You agreed to this!
Susan I agreed to hear your opinions –
Max They’re ...