AT RISE :

SOUND: A forbidding July night. It is raining; claps of thunder rumble the cheap building. Outside, the highway is full of sinister noises, gusts of wind, the slush of water, car brakes, muffled screams.

LIGHTS: The interior of the room is in complete darkness except for the vigil lights on the sign-in table. Candles flicker in their ruby glass cups.

CLAUDIA appears, framed in the doorway. She is a beautiful woman of uncertain age, pale-faced with long blonde hair. Her voluptuous figure is sheathed in moonbeam silk. A wispy chiffon scarf floats free in the breeze which blows from behind her. Claudia points to her gown.

CLAUDIA

What’s this? The latest in shrouds.

(Turns around, shows her half-covered back and bare feet)

No back. No shoes. I don’t worry how I dress because people don’t look at you long inside a casket in New Orleans . This is the city that care forgot!

LIGHTS: Claudia flicks on a light.

There’s a young man laid out in parlor B, who won’t say a thing. Those moody people from the ninth ward. I’ve to accept I’ve more education than he has. We’re not going to speak. He’ll never be from uptown. Why couldn’t I have been buried from Bultman’s—the mortuary on the avenue that’s like a plantation? They know how to showcase a body.

(Somberly)

When I think of it pouring on my tombstone . . . my little patch of dirt.

SOUND: A truck approaches, then passes.

Trucks racing outside. A Taco Bell next door. I don’t know anyone who uses a mortuary on Veterans Highway .

(Inspecting the parlor)

Tigerlily Kleenex boxes on every table, a blanket of plastic roses.

(Points to her casket)

And cheap lining, flamingo pink.

(Gingerly picks up the sign-in book)

Well, who do we have here? Death brings all the relatives out.

(Sadly)

Even in the rainy days of July.

         SOUND: Noises, hushed talking, and approaching footsteps.

My family’s at the door. They’re sure enough late.

SOUND: Muffled noises, talking, a harsh male laugh.

My husband, Elliot. He smiled once or twice, and he was nice once or twice. If he gets any fatter, he’ll lose his looks. They call him the walrus ’cause he flops about. Elliot was homeless once, for seven or eight months, but it’s okay now, he drives a Mercedes. He’s got that jaundiced eye, from listening to the funeral director tally up the expenses. It was an extensive make-over. The man’s got money, but he’s not used to giving it to a mortician.

(To Elliot)

Come here, my hubby. Up close, you can see my eyelid wrinkle. My hair’s still growing. Death’s so messy.

(To Marguerite)

There’s my little girl, Marguerite. Behind her daddy. That haircut looks awful. Marguerite. Never show those ears.

(Sadly)

Remember when I plaited your hair in ten thousand itty -itty braids, and I left it like that for the whole summer. Stay back. Better not see me up close. You’ve got my pictures. All those Christmases and Easters when I looked so pretty. Elliot, take her away.

SOUND: The startled soft cry of a child, which
intensifies as Claudia speaks.

Stop the sniveling, Marguerite We need gentlemen and ladies, even at the mortuary. Pretend graciousness. You’ll always be missing something, Marguerite. A mother who’s weak is no role model for a daughter. I’m just a little stone in the river that you pass to move on. Look, I want you to stand over there by the wall. Think pleasant thoughts. I’m experienced in dealing with grief. That’s my strongest point. Life’s going to sling disappointments at you. So if you start out sad, you’re already in trouble. Stay back. We mothers have got to go one by one. Perfectly normal procedure. God can’t kill everybody at once. It’s too expensive.

SOUND: Whirl of cars passing. Heavy rain. A little girl shrieks.

      Claudia raises her hand as if admitting a secret to quiet the child.

Your father said I fell off the roof of that six floor building. But I didn’t.

Performance History

This short one act play was winner of Monologue Mania Festival, Producer's Club, NYC, May 2006