Happy Birthday, Wanda June Page #14

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PAUL:

Tomorrow's Saturday. Anyway, she's

dead.

HAROLD:

Penelope!

PAUL:

She was killed in the park two

months ago--in the daytime.

HAROLD:

Penelope!

PAUL:

She was on her way home from a

meeting of the African Violet

Society, and they got her.

HAROLD:

(sharply)

Will you go to bed?

PAUL:

(stung)

Yes sir. If you can't wake Mom up,

I've got double-decker bunks.

HAROLD:

(stamping his foot)

Scat!

PAUL exits hastily down the corridor to his room. HAROLD

goes to PENELOPE's door, attempts to woo her through it.

HAROLD:

Penelope--darling--can you hear me?

Wife--you know what kept me alive

all these fevered, swampy,

nightmare years? Your heavenly

face, Penelope, my wife--shimmering

before me, coaxing me up from my

knees, begging me to stagger one

step closer to home. Has love ever

reached so far? Has love ever

overcome more hardships than mine?

(silence)

Has love ever asked more manliness

of a man, more womanliness of a

woman? Has ever a man done more

for a woman's reward?

The bedroom door opens, revealing PENELOPE.

PENELOPE:

(hollowly, to the

world at large)

There is no one in here of any

earthly use to anyone tonight.

Tomorrow is another day.

She closes the door and locks it.

HAROLD:

(to audience)

End of Act One.

Blackout.

ACT TWO:

SCENE ONE:

DARKNESS. PAUL, alone in the living room, hammers on his

mother's door. He wears pajamas.

PAUL:

Mom! Mother! Mom!

Toilet flushes. Lights come up on the living room. It is

morning.

PAUL:

Dad's got jungle fever, Mom.

What'll I do? Mom!

HAROLD:

(a moment of exhaustion)

Damn.

PAUL:

Mom?

Door to the master bedroom suite opens. PENELOPE appears in

the doorway. She has decided during an almost sleepless

night that she owes it to PAUL and to her own self-respect

to explore the possibility of beginning her life with HAROLD

anew. She is terrified of him. She hopes that if she can

keep calm and open, her fears will diminish. Perhaps she

can love him again.

PENELOPE:

(attempting to behave

mechanically as a

good wife should)

What are his symptoms?

PAUL:

Shivers and sweats and groans. His

teeth chatter. What'll we do?

PENELOPE:

What does he say to do?

PAUL:

He can hardly talk.

HAROLD:

(responding to a last

twinge of nausea)

Bluh.

PENELOPE:

You'd better get Dr. Woodly.

PAUL:

Really?

PENELOPE:

It is an emergency, isn't it?

PAUL:

(uncertainly)

Yeah.

PENELOPE:

Then get him.

PAUL:

(thinking she has

made a mistake)

Okay.

He exits through front door, leaves door open. We hear him

knocking on a door in the hallway.

PAUL:

Dr. Woodly?

HAROLD enters, drained but recovering. He chews on a root.

He has slept in the shirt and trousers he wore the night

before. He is barefoot. PAUL knocks again.

PAUL:

Dr. Woodly?

There is the sound of WOODLY's door opening. WOODLY and

PAUL speak unintelligibly, WOODLY evidently inviting PAUL in

for a moment. WOODLY's door closes.

HAROLD:

What's that all about?

PENELOPE:

We thought a doctor might help.

HAROLD:

Your old beau?

PENELOPE:

We thought it was an emergency.

HAROLD:

I don't want that chancre mechanic

in here.

PENELOPE:

He's a very decent man, Harold.

HAROLD:

We all are.

PENELOPE:

Shouldn't you lie down?

HAROLD:

When I'm dead--

(throwing it away)

or f***ing.

PENELOPE:

Paul said you were awfully sick.

HAROLD:

I was, I was. It never lasts long.

He hears WOODLY's door open, is alert to WOODLY's approach,

continues to speak to PENELOPE absently.

HAROLD:

The Indians call it "Zamba-

keetya"--the little cloudburst.

WOODLY and PAUL enter. WOODLY is correctly professional and

carries a little black bag.

WOODLY:

Ah! You're ambulatory!

HAROLD:

What a brilliant diagnosis!

PENELOPE:

You know what I want?

(all look at her)

I want you both to be friends. I

know you both, respect you both.

You should be friends.

HAROLD:

Nothing would please me more.

PENELOPE:

(believing him)

Thank God!

WOODLY:

(pleased but careful)

Well now--what seems to be the

trouble with the patient today? A

touch of malaria, perhaps?

HAROLD:

I know malaria. Malaria isn't

caused by the bites of bats.

WOODLY:

You've been bitten by bats?

HAROLD:

Colonel Harper and I once shared a

treetop with a family of bats.

There was a flash flood. There

were piranha fish in the water.

That's how Colonel Harper lost his

little toe.

WOODLY:

You have chills?

HAROLD:

Chills, fevers, sweats. You can

describe it and name it after

yourself:
"the Woodly galloping

crud."

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