RICARDO. I can still smell her blood.
JUDY. Use some bleach. That works on everything.
LINDA. I think it’s very nice that you take care of your father. It means you’re a woman of good character. That’s what my Aunt Ruth always says. People who take care of other people are of good character.
JUDY. Your Aunt Ruth sounds like a good Christian woman to me.
LINDA. Well, no. Actually, she ran off with a married man and they robbed a Dairy Queen up north. (Beat.) Last I heard she was wanted in three states. She’s the one who introduced me to Alfred. He was my boyfriend. But he slept with my cousin and he told me he hated me when I got pregnant because I ruined any chance he ever had of getting out of Harmonville. That’s where I’m from. It’s about a hundred miles from here.
JUDY. I know where it is. It’s in Hell’s backyard.
RICARDO. What are you going to do now, Linda?
LINDA. I have no idea. (Making light of her situation:) I don’t really have many options.
JUDY. She’s coming home with me. I’ve already fixed up the guest room for her. Linda, you need to be drinking milk. Let me get you some.
LINDA. I’m allergic to milk. It makes me sick. I throw up all the time. Can’t keep nothing down.
JUDY. How old are you?
LINDA. I’m fifteen, ma’am.
JUDY. You’re just a child. A baby. And your folks just tossed you out in the cold?
LINDA. I don’t have folks anymore. My father said I was disowned. He said Alfred was a bad influence on me, since he was so much older.
JUDY. How much older?
LINDA. He’s thirty-seven. (Judy nearly faints.) He’ll be thirty-eight next week. We were supposed to go to Cheyenne for his birthday. His sister owns a nightclub there. Alfred said after my baby was born, his sister was gonna give me a job as a dancer. I love to dance. I took ballet class when I was nine but the classes got real expensive and then my father lost his job at the refinery and we had to sell the car. It was an old car and it broke down all the time, but we sure missed it when it was gone. My mother worked in town and she walked back and forth everyday — seven miles, total. She had blisters all over her feet. They were huge. She would come home at night and sit in the kitchen and peel off her stockings and her feet would drip blood. But she’d never cry. My father didn’t like it if we cried. He said it made us weak. Alfred cried once. When he found out I was pregnant. At first, I thought he was crying because he was so happy. But I was wrong. He was angry. I’ve never seen someone so angry before. He said I was stupid. He used to always say he had big plans — real big plans. But he never did anything. Never did anything but tell me I was stupid. Except when he was nice to me. I used to wonder if he was
going to include me in his big plans but I was too scared to ask. I figured when the time came, he’d take me with him. And he did. (Beat.) But a hundred miles down the road, he decided he didn’t like me anymore. He said I would be the death of him. I don’t wanna be that to anybody. So, when we stopped at a gas station — I got out of the car. And I ran.
RICARDO. I’m tired of cleaning this place up.
JUDY. You go on then. Get down to the bus station. I’m sure that boy is waiting for you. You need to tell him about his sister. And Rosie.
RICARDO. What difference does it make, Judy?
JUDY. It makes a difference. I know it does.
RICARDO. People die here all the time. Drunken fights. Jealous lovers. Revenge. (Beat.) Car accidents.
JUDY. What happened to Rosie and Britney was no accident, Ricardo.
RICARDO. Wasn’t it?
JUDY. Has anyone found Lucille yet? Does she know about Rosie? Someone should tell her.
RICARDO. It’s late. It won’t be news until tomorrow morning. Right now, it’s too unreal to even comprehend. Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t understand anything. (He exits to the kitchen.)
JUDY. Don’t you mind him, Linda.
LINDA. I’m sure he’s upset his friend got killed. I’d be sad, too.
JUDY. People handle death in different ways. Ricardo’s got a lot on his mind. He’s a very nice man and he’s been very good to me.
LINDA. Is that why you’re being so nice to me? Because people have been nice to you?
JUDY. If only that were half true. If it were, I wouldn’t be here.
LINDA. Where would you be?
JUDY. I’d be on the outskirts of Tulsa by now.
LINDA. You want to move to Tulsa?
JUDY. No. Grand Island has always been my home. But once in a while I get a desire to go someplace new.
LINDA. So do I. Albert said I had gypsy blood in me. I get restless.
JUDY. I know what you mean. It’s not that Grand Island is a bad place to be—
LINDA. It seems like a nice enough place.
JUDY. Oh, it is. But — well, I met a man a week ago.
LINDA. A man from Tulsa?
JUDY. No, but he was heading in that direction. He was passing through.
LINDA. Why didn’t you go with him?
JUDY. He asked me to. I should’ve said yes. I don’t want my decision to become a regret. But I think it already has.
LINDA. Maybe he’ll come back.
JUDY. Maybe… I guess I’ve grown so accustomed to taking care of my father. He needs me. That’s why I decided to stay behind.
LINDA. Is he crippled?
JUDY. No. But he can’t get by on his own.
LINDA. I used to think the same thing about myself. But I’d rather be caught in a storm than to live underneath my father’s thumb. I don’t care what I have to do, I’m not going back there. I won’t raise my baby in that house, that town.
JUDY. Hell’s backyard is no place for a baby.
LINDA. And maybe Grand Island isn’t the right place for you.
JUDY. I lay awake at night thinking about him. I know that sounds crazy, but I can’t get that man off my mind. I hear his voice while I’m folding the laundry or while I’m making dinner. I stand at the sink, washing dishes and all I can think about is the touch of his hand on the back of my neck. (Amused:) I’ve cracked three glasses and chipped two plates in only seven days. I’m so turned around, I can barely remember my own name. I keep my eyes on the road, waiting for him to appear. Waiting for him to come back for me and take me away from all of this. I sit in that house, day after day and night after night and I am surrounded by memories of my mother. She was a wild woman. She ran off and ended up in the trunk of a car, covered in gasoline and her mouth stuffed with dirty rags, choking the life out of her. She was never a good mother. I don’t think she really liked us much. I think we were always in her way. Like we were a burden. People have never paid me much attention before. They see right through me. But he didn’t. He liked me and it made me feel something inside. I’m lonely and I think I’ve been lonely for a long time. But it wasn’t until I met him that I realized how much the loneliness was killing me. (Beat.) God, I want to be married, Linda. I want to have a house of my own with nice wallpaper and clean carpet. (Beat.) I want children.
LINDA. I wish you were my mother.
JUDY. (After a moment:) Maybe I could be.
LUCILLE. (She enters from the main entrance, wet from the rain. LUCILLE is a woman in her sixties, flamboyant and odd. Her fascination with aliens has invaded her wardrobe, as she resembles a walking science project, complete with a rocket-like backpack. She is a conversation piece and she thrives on this, relishes in the attention.) This is different than I thought it would be. This is where she was killed?
JUDY. Lucille—
LUCILLE. Was this where it happened, Judy? Answer me.