27 Wagons Full of Cotton and Other Plays (5 page)

CURTAIN

S
CENE
III

It is about nine o’clock the same evening. Although the sky behind the house is a dusky rose color, a full September moon of almost garish intensity gives the front of the house a ghostly brilliance. Dogs are howling like demons across the prostrate fields of the Delta.

The front porch of the Meighans is empty.

After a moment the screen door is pushed slowly open and Flora Meighan emerges gradually. Her appearance is ravaged.
Her eyes have a vacant limpidity in the moonlight, her lip are slightly apart. She moves with her hands stretched gropingly before her till she has reached a pillar of the porch. There she stops and stands moaning a little. Her hair hangs loose and disordered. The upper part of her body is unclothed except for a torn pink band about her breasts. Dark streaks are visible on the bare shoulders and arms and there is a large discoloration along one cheek. A dark trickle, now congealed, descends from one corner of her mouth. These more apparent tokens she covers with one hand when Jake comes up on the porch. He is now heard approaching, singing to himself.

J
AKE:
By the light—by the light—by the light—Of the sil-very mo-o-on! (
Instinctively Flora draws back into the sharply etched shadow from the porch roof. Jake is too tired and triumphant to notice her appearance.
)
How’s a baby? (
Flora utters a moaning grunt.
)
Tired? Too tired t’ talk? Well, that’s how I feel. Too tired t’ talk. Too goddam tired t’ speak a friggin’ word! (
He lets himself down on the steps, groaning and without giving Flora more than a glance.
)
Twenty-seven wagons full of cotton. That’s how much I’ve ginned since ten this mawnin’. A man-size job.

F
LORA:
(
huskily
)
Uh-huh. . . . A man-size—job. . . .

J
AKE:
Twen-ty-sev-en wa-gons full
of
cot
-ton!

F
LORA:
(
senselessly repeating
)
Twen-ty sev-en wa-gons full
of
cot
-ton! (
A dog howls. Flora utters a breathless laugh.
)

J
AKE:
What’re you laughin’ at, honey? Not at me, I hope.

F
LORA:
No
.
. . .

J
AKE:
That’s good. The job that I’ve turned out is nothing to laugh at. I drove that pack of niggers like a mule-skinner. They don’t have a brain in their bodies. All they got is bodies. You got to drive, drive, drive. I don’t even see how niggers eat without somebody to tell them to put the food in their moufs! (
She laughs again, like water spilling out of her
mouth.
)
Huh! You got a laugh like a— Christ. A terrific day’s work I finished.

F
LORA:
(
slowly
)
I would’n’ brag—about it. . . .

J
AKE:
I’m not braggin’ about it, I’m just sayin’ I done a big day’s work, I’m all wo’n out an’ I want a little appreciation, not cross speeches. Honey. . . .

F
LORA:
I’m not—(
She laughs again.
)—makin’ cross speeches.

J
AKE:
To take on a big piece of work an’ finish it up an’ mention the fack that it’s finished I wouldn’t call braggin’.

F
LORA:
You’re not the only one’s—done a big day’s—work.

J
AKE:
Who else that you know of? (
There is a pause.
)

F
LORA:
Maybe you think that I had an easy time. (
Her laughter spills out again.
)

J
AKE:
You’re laughin’ like you been on a goddam jag. (
Flora laughs.
)
What did you get pissed on? Roach poison or citronella? I think I make it pretty easy for you, workin’ like a mule-skinner so you can hire you a nigger to do the wash an’ take the house-work on. An. elephant woman who acks as frail as a kitten, that’s the kind of a woman I got on m’ hands.

F
LORA:
Sure. . . . (
She laughs.
)
You make it easy!

J
AKE:
I’ve yet t’ see you lift a little finger. Even gotten too lazy t’ put you’ things on. Round the house ha’f naked all th’ time. Y’ live in a cloud. All you can think of is “Give me a Coca-Cola!” Well, you better look out. They got a new bureau in the guvamint files. It’s called U.W. Stands for Useless Wimmen. Tha’s secret plans on foot t’ have ‘em shot! (
He laughs at his joke.
)
FLORA:
Secret—plans—on foot?

J
AKE:
T’ have ‘em
shot.

F
LORA:
That’s good. I’m glad t’ hear it. (
She laughs again.
)

J
AKE:
I come home tired an’ you cain’t wait t’ peck at me. What ‘re you cross about now?

F
LORA:
I think it was a mistake.

J
AKE:
What was a mistake?

F
LORA:
Fo‘ you t’ fool with th’ Syndicate—Plantation. . . .

J
AKE:
I don’t know about that. We wuh kind of up-against it, honey. Th’ Syndicate buyin’ up all th’ lan’ aroun’ here an’ turnin’ the ole croppers off it without their wages—mighty near busted ev’ry mercantile store in Two Rivers County! An’ then they build their own gin to gin their own cotton. It looked for a while like I was stuck up high an’ dry. But when the gin burnt down an’ Mr. Vicarro decided he’d better throw a little bus’ness my way—I’d say the situation was much improved!

F
LORA:
(
She laughs weakly.
)
Then maybe you don’t understand th’ good-neighbor—policy.

J
AKE:
Don’t understand it? Why, I’m the boy that invented it.

F
LORA:
Huh-huh! What an—
invention!
All I can say is—I hope you’re satisfied now that you’ve ginned out—twenty-seven wagons full of—cotton.

J
AKE:
Vicarro was pretty well pleased w’en he dropped over.

F
LORA:
Yeah. He was—pretty well—pleased.

J
AKE:
How did you all get along?

F
LORA:
We got along jus’ fine. Jus’ fine an’—dandy.

J
AKE:
He didn’t seem like a such a bad little guy. He takes a sensible attitude.

F
LORA:
(
laughing helplessly
)
He—sure—does!

J
AKE:
I hope you made him comfo’table in the house?

F
LORA:
(
giggling
)
I made him a pitcher—of nice cold—lemonade!

J
AKE:
With a little gin in it, huh? That’s how you got pissed. A nice cool drink don’t sound bad to me right now. Got any left?

F
LORA:
Not a bit, Mr. Meighan. We drank it
a-a-ll
up! (
She flops onto the swing.
)

J
AKE:
So you didn’t have such a tiresome time after all?

F
LORA:
No
.
Not tiresome a bit. I had a nice conversation with Mistuh—Vicarro. . . .

J
AKE:
What did you all talk about?

F
LORA:
Th’ good-neighbor policy.

J
AKE:
(
chuckling
)
How does he feel about th’ good-neighbor policy?

F
LORA:
Oh—(
She giggles.
)—He thinks it’s a—good idea! He says—

J
AKE:
Huh? (
Flora laughs weakly.
)
Says what?

F
LORA:
Says—(
She goes off into another spasm of laughter.
)

J
AKE:
What ever he said must’ve been a panic!

F
LORA:
He says—(
controlling her spasm
)—he don’t think he’ll build him a new cotton gin any more. He’s gonna let you do a-a-lll his ginnin’—fo’ him!

J
AKE:
I told you he’d take a sensible attitude.

F
LORA:
Yeah. Tomorrow he plans t’ come back—with lots more cotton. Maybe another twenty-seven wagons.

J
AKE:
Yeah?

F
LORA:
An’ while you’re ginnin’ it out—he’ll have me entertain him with—nice lemonade! (
She has another fit of giggles.
)

J
AKE:
The more I hear about that lemonade the better I like it. Lemonade highballs, huh? Mr. Thomas Collins?

F
LORA:
I guess it’s—gonna go on fo’—th’ rest of th’—summer. . . .

J
AKE:
(
rising and stretching happily
)
Well, it’ll . . . it’ll soon be fall. Cooler nights comin’ on.

F
LORA:
I don’t know that that will put a—stop to it—though. . . .

J
AKE:
(
obliviously
)
The air feels cooler already. You shouldn’t be settin’ out here without you’ shirt on, honey. A change in the air can give you a mighty bad cold.

F
LORA:
I couldn’t stan’ nothin’ on me—nex’ to my—skin.

J
AKE:
It ain’t the heat that gives you all them hives, it’s too much liquor. Grog-blossoms, that’s what you got! I’m goin’ inside to the toilet. When I come out—(
He opens the screen door and goes in.
)—We’ll drive in town an’ see what’s at th’ movies. You go hop in the Chevy! (
Flora laughs to herself.
She slowly opens the huge kid purse and removes a wad of Kleenex. She touches herself tenderly here and there, giggling breathlessly.
)

F
LORA:
(
aloud
)
I really oughtn’ t’ have a white kid purse. It’s wadded full of—Kleenex—to make it big—like a baby! Big—in my arms—like a baby!

J
AKE:
(
from inside
)
What did you say, Baby?

F
LORA:
(
dragging herself up by the chain of the swing
)
I’m not—Baby. Mama! Ma! That’s—me. . . . (
Cradling the big white purse in her arms, she advances slowly and tenderly to the edge of the porch. The moon shines full on her smiling and ravaged face. She begins to rock and sway gently, rocking the purse in her arms and crooning.
)

Rock-a-bye Baby—in uh tree-tops!

If a wind blows—a cradle will rock! (
She descends a step.
)

If a bough bends—a baby will fall! (
She descends another step.
)

Down will come Baby—cradle—an’—all! (
She laughs and stares raptly and vacantly up at the moon.
)

CURTAIN

The Purification

A play in verse to be performed with a musical accompaniment on the guitar. The action takes place in the Western ranch-lands over a century ago. The characters are Spanish ranchers and Indians.

The place-names used in this play are associated mainly with the country around Taos, New Mexico, but that is merely because those names and that country come most familiarly to my mind: it is the clear, breath-taking sort of country that I like to imagine as the background for the play. Actually I do not know whether or not people of this type ever lived there and I don’t believe it matters.

For
M
ARGO
J
ONES

CHARACTERS

T
HE
J
UDGE:
An aristocratic rancher of middle age.

T
HE
S
ON:
A youth of twenty, handsome, irrationally tense of feeling.

T
HE
M
OTHER:
Pure blooded Castillian with iron-gray hair; she is dressed in rich mourning.

T
HE
F
ATHER:
Tall and gaunt, a steady wine-drinker: brooding and slow of movement.

T
HE
R
ANCHER FROM
C
ASA
R
OJO:
The burnt-out shell of a longing that drove to violence. His blood is coarser than the people from Casa Blanca. But he is a man of dignity and force.

L
UISA:
An Indian servant-woman
—
some Spanish blood. A savage nature. She wears a good deal of jewelry and a brilliant shawl.

A
N
I
NDIAN
Y
OUTH

A C
HORUS OF
T
HREE
M
EN AND
T
HREE
W
OMEN,
Ranchers.

T
HE
G
UITAR
P
LAYER:
He wears a domino and a scarlet-lined cape
—
he sits on a stool beside the wide arched doorway.

E
LENA OF THE
S
PRINGS
and
THE DESERT ELENA:
T
wo visions of the same character
—
the lost girl.

The Purification

S
CENE:
A bare room, white or pearl gray. A number of plain wooden benches, a small square table for the Judge. Skull of a steer on wall. The wide arched door admits a vista of plain and sky: the sky is a delicate aquamarine: the plain pale gold. A range of purplish mountains between. Two high-set windows with sunlight slanting through them.

A crime has been committed: an informal trial is being conducted. The Chorus file silently onto the stage and seat themselves on the benches as the curtain rises. Next comes The Guitar Player. He plays softly as the main characters come in. The Judge remains standing back of the table till the others are seated.

S
CENE
I

T
HE
J
UDGE:

Well, my neighbors, I know about as much of court-procedure as any reasonably well-informed jack-rabbit.

Nevertheless I seem to be the Judge.

And I was put in office more, I hope, for what you know about me than what I know.

I do not believe in one man judging another:

I’d rather that those who stand in need of judgment would judge themselves.

Honor being

more than a word amongst us

I have no doubt

that this is the kind of judgment which will prevail.

We’re all of us ranchers—neighbors—

Our enmities, sometimes bloody, are usually brief.

Our friendships—longer lasting.

And that is good. . . . What I mean to say is simply this—

We know each other sufficiently well, I think, to get along without much ceremony.

An evil thing has occurred.

The reasons are still beclouded.

This much we know: the rains are long delayed.

The season is parched.

Our hearts, like forests stricken by the drought, are quick to flame.

Well, flames have broken out, not only in the Lobos, but here, between two ranches.

Rain is needed.

Rain’s the treatment for a forest fire.

For violent deeds likewise the rain is needed.

The rain I speak of is the rain of truth, for truth between men is the only purification.

How is it over the Lobos, Señor Moreno?

R
ANCHER:
(
the one nearest the door
)
Clouded a little.

J
UDGE:
Bueno!

(
catching sight of a flask
)

Drinking inside is forbidden—outside is not my business So let’s get on with what we have come to do.

You neighbors from Casa Blanca—

I ask you first to speak concerning your daughter—

(
facing The Mother
)

You, the mother,

what do you have to say?

(
The Mother bows her head.
)

F
ATHER:
She cannot speak.

J
UDGE:
Can you?

F
ATHER:
Not like a man with any of his senses.

J
UDGE:

Then like a man without them, if you will—

But speak up freely—

Speak out the broken language of your hearts and we’ll supply the sense where it seems to be needed. (
Chord on guitar
)

F
ATHER:

It is not easy to tell you about our daughter.

Her name was Elena.

S
ON:

She had no name for no one here could name her.

M
OTHER:
Her name—was Elena.

S
ON:

Her skeleton, much too elastic, stitched together the two lost frozen blue poles!

(
A murmur among The Chorus
)

L
UISA:
The tainted spring—is bubbling.

F
ATHER:

He means to say she went beyond our fences.

S
ON:

I mean to say she went beyond all fences.

The meadow grasses continued entirely too far beyond where the gate

was broken—in several—places . . .

L
UISA:
(
mockingly
)
Listen—bubbling, bubbling!

F
ATHER:
Our son is demented.

M
OTHER:
Since the death of our daughter.

L
UISA:
The tainted spring—is bubbling!

(
The Chorus murmur. The Judge raises his hand to warn them.
)

J
UDGE:
The boy would speak?

M
OTHER:
(
quickly
)
He is not able to speak!

J
UDGE:

I think he can speak, but in the language of vision.

Rosalio, would you speak concerning your sister?

S
ON:
(
slowly rising
)

Her eyes were always excessively clear in the morning.

Transparency is a bad omen in very young girls!

It makes flight

necessary

sometimes!

(
facing his parents
)

You should have bought her the long crystal beads that she wanted . . .

M
OTHER:
(
gently, not looking up
)

But how could we know she would have been satisfied with them?

S
ON:

Oh, I know, Mother,

you fear that she might have desired

to discover reflections in them

of something much farther away

than those spring freshets she bathed in,

naked, clasping her groin

rigidly, with both palms,

against the cold

immaculate kiss of snow-water!

(
The Chorus murmur
)

L
UISA:
The tainted spring—is bubbling!

(
The Rancher places a restraining hand on Luisa’s shoulder.
)

F
ATHER:

He means to say she went beyond our fences.

S
ON:

Beyond all fences, Father.

She knew also glaciers, intensely blue, valleys, brilliant with sunlight, lemon-yellow, terrific!

And desolation that stretched too widely apart the white breast-bones of her body!

L
UISA:
Bubbling—bubbling!

(
The Father touches his arm but he continues, facing the door.
)

S
ON:
(
violently
)

Not even noon’s

thundering

statement

crescendo

of distance!

Knocking down walls

with two

blue

brutal

bare fists

clenched over quicksilver

could ever—(
tenderly
)

could certainly never—enclose such longing as was my sister’s!

How much less night, fearlessly stating with stars that breathless inflection—

Forever?

(
The wordless singing rises. The wide arched portal that gives on the aquamarine of the desert sky now lightens with a ghostly radiance. Bells toll softly. The guitar weaves a pattern of rapture.

Rosalio’s sister, Elena of the Springs, steps into the doorway. She wears a sheer white robe and bears white flowers. With slender candle-like fingers she parts the shawl that covers her head and reveals her face. Her lips are smiling. But only The Son Rosalio is aware of the apparition
—
he and The Guitar Player. The others stare at the Indian woman, Luisa, who rises stiffly from the bench beside The Rancher from Casa Rojo.
)

L
UISA:
(
clutching her wooden beads
)

You have heard the dead lady compared to mountain water.

A very good comparison, I think.

I once led goats through the mountains:

we stopped to drink.

It seemed the purest of fountains.

Five of the goat herd died.

I
only survived because I had promised the master that I would return in time for the Feast of the Virgin . . .

The water was crystal—but it was fouled at the source.

The water was—tainted water!

(
The girl of the vision lowers her head and covers her face and her garland with the shawl. The guitar plays
—
sad and sinister. She turns and withdraws from the doorway.
)

S
ON:
(
springing furiously at the servant
)
Madre de Dios!

J
UDGE:
Restrain him!

(
The Father holds him back, dramatic chords on the guitar.
)

S
ON:
This whore should be made to taste of the bastinado!

M
OTHER:

Patience, my son.

The
zopilote
will croak—we cannot prevent it!

J
UDGE:
You people from Casa Blanca will serve us best in advancing your own satisfaction by holding the peace until this witness has finished.

(
to Luisa
)

Go on, Señora. But please to avoid uncalled-for offense to these people.

L
UISA:

The youth’s demented. That’s true.

He used to ride on his pony past our place.

He cried out loud to some invisible creatures as even a moment ago you saw his rapturous gaze at an empty doorway.

The moon, I suspect, has touched his head too fondly.

C
HORUS:

The moon, we suspect, has touched his head too fondly.

(
They nod and mumble.
)

L
UISA:

You know how it is in August?

In August the heavens take on more brilliance, more fire.

They become—unstable.

And then I believe it is well to stay indoors, to keep yourself at a sensible occupation.

This one lacked prudence, however.

He rode at night, bare-back, through the Sangre de Cristo, shouting aloud and making ridiculous gestures.

(
The guitar plays
—
lyrical chords.
)

You know how it is in August?

C
HORUS:
Yes, in August!

L
UISA:

The stars make—sudden excursions.

The moon’s—lopsided.

The dogs go howling like demons about the ranches.

C
HORUS:
Howling like demons!

L
UISA:

I’m wise—I stay indoors.

But this one here, this youth from Casa Blanca, continually raced and raced through the mountain larches—until exhaustion stopped him.

When he stopped—it was not always in his own enclosures.

(
The Chorus gossip and nod. The Judge warns them.
)

No—

He pastured his pony some nights at Casa Rojo.

His visits were unannounced except by the pony’s neighing in the distance, borne down windward.

On one such occasion as this I climbed upstairs to notify the mistress.

This was unnecessary: her bed was empty:

the covers—thrown aside.

(
Guitar. The Chorus whisper. The Judge silences them.
)

I did not trouble the master, he was sleeping, but went alone through the meadow: the grasses were chill: I shivered:

I bore no lantern—the starlight proved sufficient.

I had not come to the barn when suddenly through the window of the loft, that was lit with the wavering radiance of a candle—two naked figures appeared in a kind of—dance . . .

(
Loud dramatic chords on the guitar. Castanets and drums.

Shocked murmur among the women. The Chorus rise and talk among themselves.
)

R
ANCHER:
Basta! Basta,
Luisa!

(
He clenches his hands in torment.
)

L
UISA:
Someone has got to speak!

M
OTHER:
(
rising
)

So at last it is out—this infamous slander whispered against our house!

(
Silence.
)

F
ATHER:
(
choked
)
What man of this woman’s people will answer for it?

L
UISA:

I am alone.

I’ll answer for it myself.

T
HE
J
UDGE:

Resume your seats,
mis vecinos.

It is foolish to feign surprise at the charge now spoken.

A thing so persistently whispered in our kitchens is better spoken out in the presence of all.

So now it is necessary to face it squarely.

(
The guitar plays
—
tragic, tormented. The Son looks down without moving.
)

L
UISA:
(
smiling
)
Why doesn’t he stand?

F
ATHER:
Rosalio, stand!—And speak!

M
OTHER:
(
rising
)
No!—Wait!

(
She speaks softly, tenderly, and makes delicate gestures with her hands which are ringed with rubies and sapphires.
)

My son is the victim of an innocent rapture.

His ways are derived of me.

I also rode on horseback through the mountains in August as well as in March—

I also shouted and made ridiculous gestures before I grew older and learned the uselessness of it . . .

If this imputes some dark guilt on the doer,

Then I, his mother, must share in this public censure.

Sangre mala
—call it.

C
HORUS:
(
whispering
)
Sangre mala! Sangre mala!

M
OTHER:

Our people—were Indian-fighters . . .

The Indians now are subdued—

So what can we do but contend with our own queer shadows?

T
HE
J
UDGE:
Señora—

M
OTHER:

Bear with me a while, for I must explain things to you.

F
ATHER:

Callate,
Maria!