Lovers and Other Monsters Read online

  Unable to concentrate, Laura closed her script, went upstairs to the study and took her journal from the desk. She had not written in it for several days. She opened it and jotted down the date, July 28th. As she did this, something nagged the back of her mind, something involving the date... July 28th. She checked her wall calendar just to be sure... what was it, then? July 28th, full moon... then she realized what it was. Full moon! Her period had been due over two weeks ago—and she was never, never late. She leafed through her calendar, where she always wrote down the day her period arrived. The last entry was May 12th—there it was, the capital “P” in red ink, circled. She turned to June. The month of June was blank, no red ink at all. She had been so busy rehearsing that she hadn’t noticed she had missed her period in June—and now she was over six weeks late!

  Laura felt as though she had a metal band around her head which was slowly tightening. She had never missed a period in her life. She realized the reason for her nausea this morning. There was no doubt in her mind: she was pregnant. Coming at this time in her life, with her career about to take off and Ed Lowell back in town, it seemed like a death sentence. Her mind turned in panicked circles. She would have to conceal it from Tom until she could—what? Abortion was something that happened to other people, to poverty-stricken teenagers who lived in projects, not to her. It was all too vulgar, too sordid.

  Just then she heard Tom’s voice, thick with sleep, calling from the kitchen.

  “Laura? Did you make coffee?”

  She roused herself and tried to sound casual.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Shall I make some?”

  “Sure—go ahead.”

  Laura took two deep breaths, exhaling slowly on each one as she had learned in her t’ai chi class. She had to get through this day, that was all, and then she could make plans. She closed the journal and went downstairs.

  At rehearsal that afternoon she was dismayed to find the queasiness persisted. To take her mind off it, she dove deeply into the life of the play, attacking each scene with such energy and concentration that at one point the actor playing Tesman looked at her with an expression of real fear. At the end of Act Two she really pulled the hair of the woman playing Mrs. Elvsted so that the woman gave a little yelp. During the first break Jerry sat down next to her.

  “Are you all right, Laura?” His hand rested lightly on her knee.

  “Fine—why?”

  “Nothing, I just—you seem sort of—explosive today. Is everything okay?”

  “Sure. I just thought I’d explore that side of Hedda today. Is that a problem?”

  “No, no, it’s very—interesting. Just—uh, be careful of the other actors, okay?”

  “All right, all right,” Laura said irritably, getting up and moving away.

  When she got home that evening Laura felt tired, so tired that she wanted just to crawl away into bed, but when she drove in, Tom was bustling around, unloading groceries from his car.

  “Hi, Loloo! Have a good rehearsal, eh? Everyone get their lines down?” He went on without waiting for her answer. “I thought I’d cook dinner tonight since you’ve been so hard at work all day. I’ll make my specialty, marinated steak on the grill, okay?”

  “Fine.” As Laura began to help her husband unload groceries from the car Mrs. Epstein came trundling out of her house.

  “Hello!” she called across the driveway, lumbering towards them. She was wearing a hideously flowered shift, in colors that Laura thought belonged only in nightmares.

  “Going to have a cookout?” she asked, seeing the charcoal briquettes in the trunk of the car.

  “No, we thought we’d immolate the cat,” Laura answered in a low voice, knowing Mrs. Epstein was hard of hearing.

  “Laura!” said Tom, glaring at her, but Mrs. Epstein hadn’t heard and continued to happily inspect the groceries.

  “No goddamn sense of irony,” Laura muttered under her breath as she struggled up the porch steps under the weight of the briquettes.

  “Laura, I don’t think that was a very nice thing to say to Mrs. Epstein,” Tom said in his Lecture Voice once they were alone in the kitchen. Tom had an exaggerated sense of how one should treat Elders.

  “Oh, just can it this once, can’t you, Tom?” Laura snarled, surprised at the nasty tone in her voice.

  Tom looked taken aback.

  “Christ, Laura, what’s gotten into you?” he said softly.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Tom. I’m just tired—it’s been a long day and then we’re entertaining tonight and I just—I’m sorry, really.”

  Tom came over and pulled her head to his chest. He did this a little clumsily, standing amidst the half-unpacked bags of groceries.

  “Just take it easy tonight, why don’t you, Loloo? I’ll entertain Ed; you just relax.”

  “Okay, Tom,” she answered in a little voice, feeling it was good to have someone’s arms around her, even Tom’s. She snuggled closer to his chest and he patted her hair. His hands held no grace, though; he might as well be petting a dog. She pulled away from him impatiently.

  “I think I’ll go lie down for a while,” she said, heading upstairs.

  “Okay; I’ll put things away and start marinating the meat.”

  When Laura lay down on the bed she felt her limbs grow heavy with sleep almost immediately, and she fell into a light dream state. In her dream she saw her mother standing at the shore of the lake in which she had drowned, wearing the same white dress she wore in the photograph. She was standing with her back to Laura, and then she turned, and her eyes were filled with sadness. Extending one hand forward, she beckoned to Laura to join her.

  The sharp clang of the doorbell woke Laura, and she sat up, covered with sweat.

  “Honey!” Tom’s voice called from downstairs. “He’s here!”

  Laura stumbled to the bathroom and bathed her face in cold water. When she appeared on the stairs in a white summer dress Tom was already showing Ed Lowell the deck he had built. Laura watched them for a moment through the sliding glass doors. Ed Lowell stood leaning against the arm rail, listening to Tom describe the construction of the deck. He was wearing a linen jacket and khaki pants, and he had grown a beard. He looked as thin as ever, and a little haggard. His long wavy dark hair was swept up over the broad forehead, and Laura felt a pinch in her groin when she saw how his hair curled at the nape of his neck. Tom turned and saw her standing there.

  “Loloo—come on out, honey. You remember Ed Lowell.”

  Ed Lowell turned to face her, his long angular face serious.

  “Hello, Ed.”

  “Hello, Laura.”

  “Long time no see, eh?” Tom said, a little too heartily.

  “Yes, it has been a while,” Ed Lowell said quietly. “How have you been, Laura?”

  “Oh, just fine,” Laura replied breezily, “You know, busy.”

  “Laura’s been cast as Hedda Gabler,” Tom said proudly, “Off-Broadway.”

  “How nice.”

  “Yes, we open in a week,” Laura said, to forestall any pause in conversation.

  “Well, let’s get you something to drink, shall we?” said Tom, going into the kitchen. Left alone with Ed Lowell on the porch, Laura studied his face. His eyes were clear, and calmer than she last remembered. In fact, he no longer seemed to burn from the inside as he once had.

  “Life treating you well?” Laura said softly.

  “Yes, I have been very fortunate. I have found the two things that make life worth living—love and work.”

  “Oh? Tom told me about your book, but—”

  “Yes, I am lucky to have found a wonderful woman.”

  “Oh, where is she?”

  “In Oregon right now, but she’s coming to join me here.”

  “How nice for you.” It was as if each of these words were being torn out of her with red-hot pincers.

  “Yes, we’ve both been lucky after all, Laura.”

  “Yes.” Was he mocking her? Could he see h
ow unsuited she and Tom were to each other? She couldn’t tell. His eyes were serious, with only their usual hint of irony. Tom came back out onto the porch with drink glasses.

  “Here we go, one seltzer and lime,” he said, handing it to Ed Lowell.

  “Seltzer and lime?” Laura said, laughing. “Since when did you—”

  “I told you, Money, remember?” Tom said quickly, to save Lowell from the discomfort Laura deliberately wanted to cause.

  “It’s all right, Tom; I don’t mind talking about it,” Lowell said lightly. “After all, talking about it is part of the cure. I don’t drink any more, Laura.”

  “Oh, well, fine; I mean, that’s your choice. I just don’t see how one drink—”

  “Laura, let’s drop it, shall we?” said Tom with unaccustomed firmness. There was an awkward pause.

  “Shall we go into the living room?” Tom said finally. “The mosquitoes are beginning to bite.”

  “I see you kept your piano,” said Lowell as they entered the living room, “Do you still play?”

  “Yes, she does,” said Tom eagerly. “Why don’t you play something for us, Laura?”

  Laura felt as though she were being treated as a trained dog, but she went over and ran her fingers over the keys. She hadn’t played in weeks, since rehearsals had begun. She wanted to run, to scream, but she was trapped in this room with these two men. She began to play an old turn-of-the-century waltz she had not played since she was a child. She began to play faster and faster, all the desperation of her life flowing into the music. She played furiously, the notes becoming a scream, full-throated and tortured. Her hair fell in damp strands around her neck, her breath came in heaves. Her fingers ached, unaccustomed to the strain. Still she played, pushing the tempo until the piece was a mad whirlpool of sound.... When the piece ended she sat, breathing hoarsely, spent. She looked at the men—Tom sat happily sipping his beer, but Lowell had an alarmed look on his face.

  “Well, Laura, you sure played that with a lot of energy!” Tom said, picking up his glass and Lowell’s and taking them to the kitchen.

  “More seltzer, Ed?”

  “Uh—yes, thank you,” Lowell answered without taking his eyes off Laura. He rose and stood beside her.

  “Is everything all right, Laura?” he said, his face tight.

  Laura looked at him. His eyes were lined, tired, but there was that calm in them she had never seen before. She wanted to fold herself in his arms, to give him control of her destiny. She wanted to tell him everything, how she felt stifled and restless in this marriage, how she knew she could have been better to him, how she needed to escape... all of this and more was on her lips when she saw the ring on his left hand.

  “You didn’t tell us you were married.”

  He nodded, still looking at her.

  “Where is your wife now?” she said in a voice as cold as death.

  “Uh—in Oregon; she’s coming here next week.”

  “Oh, yes, you said that earlier. I suppose she made you stop drinking.”

  “Helped me, yes. Nobody can make anyone do anything,” he said—pointedly, she thought—“least of all an alcoholic, but she was always there for me when I needed her.”

  “How nice for you,” Laura said in the same flat, dead tone. “Excuse me; I left something in the car.” Rising, she went out the front door and into the street, turning left towards the park. Her mother’s image floated in front of her, beckoning.

  A few minutes later Tom entered the living room with drinks in his hands.

  “Where’s Laura?” he said.

  “She said she left something in the car,” answered Lowell, a gnawing dread in his heart.

  But by that time Laura was already wading deeper into the cool blackness of the lake. As her dress flowered out like a large white blossom, the water closed in around her, enveloping her with the soft, welcoming arms of a mother.

  E. P. Conkle

  Minnie Field

  The following “conte cruelle” is rustically reminiscent of Robert Browning’s poem “My Last Duchess.” Derived from E. P. Conkle’s Crick Bottom Plays, a collection of folk dramas, “Minnie Field” was first performed at Yale on May I, 1928, and for years enjoyed a vigorous number of American community and college theatre productions.

  Scene.—Five men sitting up with TIP FIELD’S wife’s corpse. The men sit in the kitchen; the corpse and coffin are in the spare front-room just off. It is three o’clock in the morning, JIM DAY has his feet cocked up on the stove-hearth. He leans back and smokes his pipe, ALT PAGE leans against the wall on the other side of the stove, CORNIE YOUNG sits at the table nibbling at this and that, MEL CLARK stands at the door looking out into the night through the glass pane, TIP FIELDS sits in a small rocker with his nose in a newspaper. He reads and rocks and reads and rocks. Things go slowly, quietly.

  ALT. Settin’ up with a corpse is like goin’ a courtin’.

  JIM. How so, Alt?

  ALT. A feller’ll think-a some-a th’ dad-blamdest things sometimes.

  CORNIE. Don’t they, though.

  MEL. I reckon Tip’s a-thinkin’ ’bout Minnie in thur... dead. Et’s too bad.

  CORNIE. You shore got my sympathy, Tip. I don’t know what I’d do ef I was t’ lose Emmy.

  ALT. A man’s losin’ his wife’s ’bout like him a’ losin’ his best mare.

  JIM. Feller cain’t break in a new one t’ no account.

  CORNIE. Leastwise, not one like Minnie was.

  MEL. Don’t take et too hard, Tip.

  TIP. I wonder ef... ef that sow’s gone an’ laid on her pigs.

  (The men glance at one another.)

  JIM. Oh. Well.... I ain’t heard no squealin’.

  TIP. Guess we’d-a heard et if she had-a.

  ALT. Them little devils shore does squeal.

  CORNIE. Feller cain hear ’em in th’ next county on a clear night like this’n.

  MEL. I wudn’t worry none, Tip. You got s’many other things t’ worry over.

  TIP. I ain’t worryin’ none. I was just... wonderin’.

  (Silence.)

  CORNIE. Say, fellers... here’s this card’s got t’ be wrote on. (He motions to a card on the table.)

  JIM. What’ll we write on et?

  ALT. What you think, Tip? Et’s your folkses funeral.

  TIP. You fellers is payin’ for th’ flowers. Say what you’re a-mind to. You can’t hurt me none what you say.

  MEL. Say as how th’ flowers was given by all th’ neighbors to th’ diseased.

  JIM. Might put in a little verse or so.

  CORNIE. Anybody know any verse ’t put on?

  MEL. Roses is red;

  MEL. Vi’let is blue;

  MEL. Sugar is sweet;

  MEL. So’re you.

  ALT. That’s all th’ po’try I know of.

  TIP. Et’s good enough.

  JIM. Might say;

  Roses is red;

  Vi’lets is blue;

  Sugar is sweet;

  So was you.

  ... since Minnie ain’t no more.

  CORNIE. You ain’t got no objections to us callin’ Minnie “sweet” have you, Tip?

  TIP. I reckon not. They always say nice things ’bout th’ dead even when they mayn’t be true. Cain’t hurt me none.

  MEL. Us folks alius thought Minnie was about it.

  JIM. We all liked Minnie, too. She alius was a doin’ somethin’ for Amy and th’ kids.

  ALT. Funny how Minnie come t’ die, ain’t et?

  TIP. Nothin’ funny. She just kicked up her heels, passed in her checks, an’ died. That’s all.

  MEL. Minnie was alius a workin’ perty hard whenever I seen her.

  TIP. That was one thing about Minnie. She went an’ killed herse’f-a hard work. I give her credit for that.

  CORNIE. Everybody’s got to die sooner as later. Some-a ’em got to die a workin’. A feller gets ketched that-a-way sometimes.

  JIM. I reckon it won’t never ketch you that-a-way, w
ill et, Tip?

  TIP. I ain’t aimin’ fer et to, Jim.

  (The men laugh, except TIP, who reads.)

  (Then the men become conscious of their place and the corpse. Silence.)

  MEL. Et’s a funny thing.... Death is.

  CORNIE. Et strikes when a person ain’t lookin’ for et.

  ALT. And et strikes where a feller ain’t lookin’ fer et, too.

  JIM. Et struck Jenny’s pa right below th’ collar-bone when et struck him. They was a black-an’-blue spot there big as a goose-egg whur et struck him. We all seen et when they was layin’ him out.

  MEL. Et’s like lightnin’ strikin’ a forked tree. rip. Minnie was carryin’ up a bucket of warter from th’ well at th’ foot of th’ hill. Ag’in she got ha’f way up, she keeled over an’ spilt all th’ warter out. That’s about all they was to et. I called up th’ doc an’ he come an’ worked on her. I had t’ fetch up another bucket-a warter m’se’f.

  MEL. Et’s too bad, Tip.

  TIP. Shore... is.

  (Silence, CORNIE eats.)

  CORNIE. These yeller t’mater p’serves is fine, Tip.

  TIP. Minnie put ’em up for th’ winter. She was alius a doin’ some durned-fool thing like that. Got a whole cellar-full-a that kinda truck.