Mr. Burns and Other Plays. Anne Washburn

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      RUTHIE: Do you want more?

      JEREMIAH: No, thank you. You’re kind.

      RUTHIE: Not especially.

      JEREMIAH: No? Maybe not. You’re kind to me.

      RUTHIE: I don’t know you.

      JEREMIAH: You’re his wife aren’t you.

      RUTHIE: I’m. Yes. I am his wife.

      JEREMIAH: Of course. I didn’t, I couldn’t have one. It wasn’t—I couldn’t.

      RUTHIE: You couldn’t—

      JEREMIAH: I couldn’t have a wife. So I don’t know anything about all of that.

      RUTHIE: Why couldn’t you have a wife?

      JEREMIAH: Because it was forbidden unto me. I didn’t mind. I didn’t think I minded. Now I think—

       Wife.

       He can hold your hand? Just like this?

       He picks up her hand, he holds it, he spreads her fingers apart, he intertwines them with his own.

      RUTHIE: Yes.

      JEREMIAH: He can touch you, like this.

       He touches her neck, the side of her face . . .

      RUTHIE: Yes. When I’m not angry at him.

       Her mouth . . .

      JEREMIAH: Are you angry at me?

      RUTHIE: No, but I’m not your wife.

      JEREMIAH: Aren’t you? When I’m touching you like this.

       She steps up. She steps back.

      HANANIAH: Ruthie?

       Hananiah steps into the room.

      RUTHIE: He’s awake.

      HANANIAH: I thought you were gone.

      RUTHIE: I’m still here.

      HANANIAH: I heard his voice. I thought she’s left me, and I’m alone in the dark with a man who thinks he’s talking to God. Come back to bed

      CHAPTER 16

      BARUCH:

       A day like this is splendor and confusion:

       wind and brilliance and no season: gusts

       of red leaf and gold, torrents of

       blossom, the air thick with birds. Cries.

       It’s daylight, morning. Hananiah stands as before.

       Jeremiah stands in the center of the room, an explosives vest over his jeans and T-shirt; his robes are slung over his back.

       The Non-Prophet is slowly threading nails in among the explosives with wires. A bag of bright nails at his feet spills out onto the floor.

       Emily stands and PT slumps on the couch.

       A little cacophony of surreal birdsong dies out. The scene is saturated with light.

       They are exhausted.

      THE NON-PROPHET: Someone open the window. It’s a gorgeous morning.

       A beat. No one does.

       I think better with fresh air on my face.

      EMILY: I think it’s a risk.

      THE NON-PROPHET: My fingers are more nimble when accompanied by birdsong. We’re six floors up.

      EMILY: Neighbors.

      THE NON-PROPHET: Do you overhear your neighbors?

      HANANIAH: I’ve never heard anything from next door.

      EMILY: Which might only mean that they’re quiet.

      THE NON-PROPHET: Today is the most spectacular day of the year, thus far. I hate to be sectioned off from it by a thick pane of glass.

       Bit of a pause.

      EMILY: February.

      THE NON-PROPHET: What?

      EMILY: There was a day in February. It was the most beautiful day of the year. Thus far.

      THE NON-PROPHET: You’re joking. Nothing worthwhile happens in February. It’s a completely negligible month.

      EMILY: The day after that second snowstorm.

      THE NON-PROPHET (Dubious): Hmmm.

      PT: March. March is useless. End to end. I’m going to make us some joe.

       He heads toward the kitchen.

      EMILY (Clinically): A lot of white. A gray hush. And then around four the sky opened up and light poured out.

      THE NON-PROPHET: It sounds like more of an effect, than a day.

      EMILY: It was a perfect cold: it was dry, it was crisp, it was glittering. There were crows.

      THE NON-PROPHET: Crows are an effect.

      EMILY: It is pretty today.

      THE NON-PROPHET: It’s gorgeous.

       Ruthie emerges from the bedroom with a duffel bag.

      HANANIAH: That can’t be all you’re taking. We’ve been here for five years.

       He plunges into the bedroom.

       There is a silence, while The Non-Prophet continues to work.

      EMILY: How’s the weight?

      JEREMIAH: It’s fine; it’s sweaty. It won’t be for long.

       A longish beat.

      EMILY: No. Maybe . . .

       Bit of a pause while she works it out.

       Forty-five, fifty minutes.

       Another silence.

       Hananiah returns from the bedroom.

      HANANIAH: This is crazy. You’re leaving behind your blue T-shirt: you love that T-shirt. You’re leaving behind books that you have underlined.

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