LUCILLE

Uncle Gene? I’m coming in? I brought you turtle soup from the Country Club. It’s marvelous to think someplace still makes great soup. Turtle soup was a specialty of the late-nineteenth-century café society. It contains a strained broth and turtle flesh. Are you breathing? Don’t die while I’m here!

(Calls out)

Nurse! Nurse! Where did the nurse go?

(Puts the soup on a table with legal documents; picks up one; talks to herself)

What’s this? A new will?

GENE

It’s hot!

LUCILLE

Oh, Uncle! You scared me!

(Slips the paper back)

No, fever. But you’re sweating. I’ll fold back these sheets. It’s ninety degrees outside. The humidity creeps in.

GENE

Have you seen the helicopter?

LUCILLE

You’ve been dreaming, Uncle. Eat something.

GENE

Helicopter’s landing.

LUCILLE

Some turtle soup.

GENE

What?

LUCILLE

(Hollers)

From the Country Club!

GENE

You didn’t charge that to me?

LUCILLE

They don’t . . . take cash. This delicate soup with flesh will restore your strength. No other soup is finished with sherry.

GENE

Huh?

LUCILLE

If you dined in Victorian society, you’d likely start with turtle soup. It’s event eating like going to a three-star restaurant in Paris . I got the Club recipe for Cook. Take the flesh of one shelled, skinned, and cleaned turtle. About two pounds of flesh. In a soup kettle, cover with four—

(Gene spits it out)

Oh. Don’t spill it. Good Lord. Nurse!

GENE

(Shouts)

Did you put my car up?

LUCILLE

I didn’t drive it.

GENE

Where’re my keys?

LUCILLE

Where I left them yesterday.

GENE

Who’s got my keys?

LUCILLE

They’re the most famous keys lost in New Orleans . Twenty people looked before finding them. I bet they’re where I left them—

GENE

What’s that?

LUCILLE

We’ll try some later.

(Swallows hard, wipes her brow)

Uncle . . . Uncle Gene, I need you to . . . improve . . . so you can help with the baby.

GENE

Huh?