(Suddenly MABLE MURPHY, the mother of SALLY and LUCY, is rolled on stage right in a wheelchair being pushed by ELIZABETH—a tall, elegant, beautiful young nurse. MABLE has a blue plaid blanket draped over her lap and a dark green shawl around her neck. She is in her late seventies; her hands are seized up and clutched to her chest like claws, her feet twisted up. ELIZABETH is completely dressed in white, classic nurse style, including cap, low-heeled shoes, white stockings, starched skirt. ELIZABETH brings the wheelchair to an abrupt halt. SALLY immediately sits up in her bed. ROSCOE stands.)

SALLY: Mom!

MABLE: Put some clothes on. What is this—a burlesque show?

SALLY: What’re you doing up, Mom?

MABLE: (To ROSCOE.) Who’re you?

ROSCOE: Uh—

SALLY: This is my friend—Roscoe.

MABLE: Let him speak for himself. He can speak for himself— (To ROSCOE.) Can’t you?

ROSCOE: Yes, ma’am.

MABLE: Well, then?

ROSCOE: I’m—

MABLE: What kind of “friend” do you call yourself, Roscoe? A “friend friend,” a “casual friend,” or a “friend to the death”? Are you any of those?

ROSCOE: Well—me and Sally—

SALLY: We’re working on a project together, Mom.

MABLE: Put some clothes on! What’s the matter with you? Has the partition between private and public become completely obliterated?

(SALLY jumps up and starts digging around under the blankets; pulls out a pair of blue pajama bottoms and puts them on quickly.)

Where do you come from, Roscoe? What neck of the woods? So rare that we have a houseguest.

ROSCOE: Kentucky, ma’am.

MABLE: Ah yes—bourbon and horses.

ROSCOE: Yes, ma’am. That’s right.

MABLE: They say it’s the water.

ROSCOE: What?

MABLE: Limestone. Filtered through limestone. The water.

ROSCOE: Oh—yes. That’s right.

MABLE: Born and raised?

ROSCOE: What?

MABLE: In Kentucky?

ROSCOE: No, ma’am. My dad was in the air force.

MABLE: What’s that mean? Airplanes?

ROSCOE: No—town to town. You know—

MABLE: Rootless.

ROSCOE: Yes, ma’am.

MABLE: Stop calling me “ma’am” all the time. Feels like we’re in “Gone With the Goddamn Wind.”

ROSCOE: Sorry.

MABLE: And don’t apologize either. I don’t subscribe to the cult of apology. Sin is sin. It’s guilt we’re trying to squirm out of.

ROSCOE: Right.

MABLE: Never could stomach a slinking dog with its tail sucked up between its legs.

ROSCOE: No.

MABLE: Trembling and whimpering.

ROSCOE: Right.

MABLE: Makes you want to kick it.

(Pause. ROSCOE looks to SALLY.)

ROSCOE: It’s so nice to finally—

MABLE: You’re kinda old to be messing around with my daughter, aren’t you?

SALLY: Mom—

ROSCOE: Ma’am—I wasn’t—

MABLE: I just told you about that “ma’am” stuff, didn’t I?

ROSCOE: Sorry—

MABLE: (Turns away from ROSCOE.) Oh, Jesus—another creature of habit. (Turns back to him.) How old are you, anyway, “Roscoe”—

ROSCOE: Sixty-five.