OH, DEAR! (Two people in their seventies on a love seat. Lois is knitting. Thatcher is sitting, staring ahead.) THATCHER Have you noticed? No one calls. No one stops by. LOIS Now, Sweetie, don't do that. Don't start. THATCHER I'm not starting. They started it. LOIS Who, dear? THATCHER The people who don't call. Or stop by. LOIS People stop by. And they call. THATCHER Who? Who stops by? LOIS Howard. He stops by. THATCHER He's our lawyer. We pay him to stop by. And he always makes an appointment. "Will nine-thirty work for you?" He knows we're up at five in the morning, ready to receive guests at five-thirty. He knows we never go anywhere. Why can't he just stop by? LOIS People don't just stop by any more. THATCHER I know that. That's what I've been talking about. LOIS No. I mean. It's not considered polite to stop by, the way people did in our day. THATCHER My pop would pile us all in the car and we'd go off on a Sunday and maybe we'd pass someone's house and he'd say, "Let's stop in and see Jake and Jenny." Those are two names I remember. So we would park and go up to the door and knock. And they'd say, "Hey, it's Fred and Sarah! Come on in. We were just about to have a beer." Or Jake and Jenny might come to our house. Just stop in. Pop would open some beers for them. LOIS Now, Thatcher. You've told me about Jake and Jenny so many times I feel I know them intimately. THATCHER What were their kids' names? LOIS Barbara, Jake Junior, Cecilia, Betty, and Little Buster. THATCHER You've got an excellent memory. LOIS If you hear something often enough, what is it they say? Repetition is the mother of. . . .I forget. THATCHER I'm sorry I repeat myself. I'm sorry I bore you. LOIS Oh, Sweetie. You don't bore me. I just worry that you take everything so seriously. It seems to depress you. That we don't have much contact. THATCHER I'm not depressed. I'm confused. I don't have any answers. Why doesn't anyone call? Why do I feel abandoned? LOIS In order to have friends you have to be a friend. Call them. Don't wait for them to call you. THATCHER Everybody has an answering machine. Sometimes it isn't even their voice. Some strange voice answers. "Your call is being answered by some automatic something." Then another voice comes on. "James Bentley." Then another voice: "Is not available to take your call." Have people become so lazy they don't answer the phone? And apparently they barely have enough strength to raise themselves off their pillow and say their own name into the phone and then they let someone else say the rest of the sentence for them. And you leave a perfectly amiable message. "We were just thinking about you and were hoping we could get together." And they never call you back. Never! LOIS Thatcher, dear. Please, don't get upset. It's not worth it. THATCHER I need to know what's going on. Otherwise, I'll go to my grave a confused person. When I was growing up and learning how to be a decent human being, telephone calls were important. You answered the phone. A telephone call meant that someone liked you. Wanted to spend time with you. LOIS It also could mean bad news. Somebody was dead. Or injured. THATCHER But even that was a way of staying in touch with people. You may not have heard from someone for years. The phone would ring. "Bennett! How the hell are you? Oh, gosh. I'm so sorry to hear that. When did this happen? What was the cause?" And later. "Have you been up to the lake? Catch anything?" And later. "'Bye now. I'm sorry about your loss. Stay in touch, you hear?" LOIS But just as often, it would be someone selling magazine subscriptions or reminding you that your book was overdue at the library. Most of my calls seemed to be quite ordinary. I don't remember feeling loved by the telephone. THATCHER The fact is, now, right now, no one has called in weeks. Sometimes I wonder if we're dead and Rod Serling will come through the door, stand behind us and say, "Thatcher and Lois don't know that they are dead. Soon, however, they'll come face to face with their mortality." LOIS Please don't include me in your bizarre fantasies. (Pause.) Thatcher, dear. Have you been taking your medication? THATCHER Every time I say something stronger than "I could really go for some ice cream," you conclude that I've gone off my medication. Yes, I am taking my medication. The medication doesn't flatten me entirely, however. I still have tiny ups and downs. Wee little blips and bleeps. I may feel a bit peevish. Or very, very slightly joyful. Every emotion is just a teensy bit different from the one that went before it. No wonder you're bored with me. LOIS Now stop saying that. You're my husband. I'm not bored with you. THATCHER You should be. I've forgotten how to be interesting. (Pause.) No one calls. LOIS Thatcher! THATCHER No one writes. No one stops by. Not even the ones I used to dread. Johnnie Payton. Drove me up the wall. What I wouldn't give for him to stop by and tell me about his latest remodeling project or a ridiculous stock he's been tracking. Johnnie Payton! Probably the most boring person on the face of the earth. No, wait a minute. Apparently I hold the title now. It's confusing. LOIS Perhaps you need to see the doctor about adjusting your medication. THATCHER Could I ask you, please, not to use the word medication again? Sometimes I think that's the cause of my problems. People look at me and think, he's in a medicated fog. Look at the little puffs of spittle at the corners of his mouth. His pupils are unusually large, don't you think? LOIS Thatcher. Please. THATCHER Don't you think? (He turns to her with widened eyes.) LOIS You need to settle down now. THATCHER If I were any more settled down I'd be in a coma. Sorry. Did I blip when I should have bleeped? Did I express a negative feeling? (Raising his voice.) DID I? LOIS Do you want me to call an ambulance? THATCHER What? An ambulance? LOIS I get fearful when you're like this. THATCHER Do I look like I need an ambulance? WHAT I NEED IS FOR THE GODDAM TELEPHONE TO RING! LOIS Thatcher! THATCHER I NEED TO HEAR A KNOCK AT THE DOOR! I'M CONFUSED! LOIS Thatcher, do you want me to tell you again why no one gets in touch? Do you want me to end your confusion? THATCHER You can end my confusion? LOIS Yes. Until the next time. (Pause. He waits.) Thatcher. I run into people. At the bank. At the bakery. They tell me why they don't get in touch any more. THATCHER They do? You've never told me this. LOIS I've told you this many times. THATCHER What? Told me what? LOIS Why no one ever comes by or calls. THATCHER My God! You've known this all along? LOIS And so have you. You forget. Then you suddenly realize no one has called or stopped by. And you begin to panic, like this morning. THATCHER Panic? LOIS You begin to get agitated. You were agitated, Thatcher. You were yelling right in my face. THATCHER I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry. What do they say? These people? LOIS It's different for different ones. THATCHER Tell me. I need to know. LOIS All right. Marco Stompano. You're abusive. THATCHER I'm abusive? That's ridiculous. LOIS I heard you, Thatcher dear. You called him a goddam cockroach last time he was here. THATCHER Marco? I never would have called him that. LOIS You sat right there, three months ago, and called him a goddam cockroach. I could see him getting red. THATCHER Marco? How could you see red under that ridiculous tan? LOIS Thatcher, listen to yourself. You're abusing him right now and he's not even here. THATCHER Who else? LOIS Jimmy Brandt. He says you just sit there and don't make eye contact. He says it's like sitting with a zombie. Marcia Finn. THATCHER That's your friend. LOIS It doesn't matter who's friend she is. She's a person who used to come here for visits. Until you started pawing her like a teenager. THATCHER I've never laid a hand on another woman. I swear. LOIS Once again, my eyes don't deceive me. I saw you stroking her thigh. She freaked out. Screamed. Ran out the door. She's never been back. The UPS man. THATCHER What? LOIS You called him a fascist and told him to take his "package of death" back to his "torture camp." Burt. Crank calls in the middle of the night. Roger. Screaming at him from the window every time he took the garbage out. And Beth. THATCHER Beth who? (Thatcher sits staring front. He will not move during her speech.) LOIS Your daughter. Calling her up, getting Bill on the line, and telling him to stop messing around with your little girl. Thatcher, they've been married for twelve years. They have two children. Of course they've been messing around. And your own grandchildren. Swatting at them. Yelling at them to shut up. They're only little children, Thatcher. They don't understand. Last time, when Beth told them they were going to see Grandma and Grandpa, they sat down and refused to budge. They were hysterical. I don't say you're to blame. I don't think you know what's going on chemically in your brain. But you can't function in polite society any more. I'm the only one who can tolerate you, Thatcher. And even I. . . . When you get like you were this morning, I have to intervene. Otherwise, I start wanting to murder you. It would be easy, the way I figure it. I would do something that doesn't involve blood. I hate blood. And with the Luminol, you just increase your risk of detection. So, no blood. No guns or knives. A blow to the head? I'm not sure I have sufficient strength. I want it to be quick and decisive. I don't want you to suffer. Poison? That seems the best bet. Substituting something for your pills. I've been watching. You don't even look carefully at what you're taking. You just throw the stuff in your mouth and wash it down. But I need to do some research. I don't want you to suffer. You don't deserve to suffer, Thatcher. Maybe sleeping pills? You just drift off. How does that sound, Thatcher? Now, for lunch. I thought some nice broccoli soup and tuna salad. And some applesauce. It's light, but it will keep us until dinner. Look. It's eleven-thirty already. Oh, dear. (She begins to gather her knitting, getting ready to leave to prepare lunch. Thatcher does not move. The telephone rings. He flinches but makes no other movement. She appears not to hear. There is a knock on the door. The phone keeps ringing and the intermittent knocking continues while the lights dim to black.) End Copyright 2004 George Soete 5912 Tulane Street San Diego, CA 92122 858-453-3538 home 858-245-8298 mobile gsoete1@san.rr.com