MABLE: Sixty-five. That’s more’n twice her age. You oughta be ashamed but you’re not, are you? You’re probably secretly proud.

ROSCOE: We’re just—

MABLE: Don’t bullshit me, mister! I can tell when something’s going on. She wouldn’t be standin’ around half naked if something wasn’t going on.

SALLY: I’m not staying here for this!

(SALLY storms off stage left, cinching up her pajama bottoms. Pause.)

MABLE: (Looking stage left.) Flighty. (Pause. She turns to ROSCOE.) Why don’t you sit down? You’re making me nervous, “Roscoe.”

(ROSCOE sits.)

(Signaling LIZ with a wag of her head.) ’Lizabeth!

(LIZ knows intuitively where MABLE wants to be and wheels her over to table; stops upstage center of table, facing audience. ROSCOE keeps a fascinated eye on LIZ.)

You can have a seat if you’ve a mind to, Liz. Take a load off.

(LIZ applies hand brake on wheelchair, then sits in stage left chair across from ROSCOE, who continues to stare at her. LIZ folds her hands in her lap, legs together, very proper. She smiles sheepishly at ROSCOE. MABLE leans forward over table and sees wad of chewed-up do-nut that SALLY had spit out on table.)

What’s this mess? Vomit on my table?

ROSCOE: Oh, that’s just—

(LIZ stands quickly—picks up wad of do-nut with napkin.)

MABLE: Throw that to the squirrels, Liz. They’ll devour it. Nasty, disease-ridden creatures. Remnants of the plague, I reckon.

ROSCOE: Plague?

(LIZ takes do-nut mess in napkin, crosses upstage center, and tosses it over cliff—extreme upstage edge. She returns to table, rubbing her hands together.)

MABLE: My ex-husband, Whitmore, used to shoot them from the porch with a .410. Provided him with miles of entertainment. Before the days of television, of course—video games—pornography. No—that’s been around, hasn’t it? Haven’t they recently discovered ancient cave drawings of genitalia?

(ROSCOE keeps his eyes riveted on LIZ as she sits again at table, across from him, picks up fresh napkin, and cleans her fingers. MABLE sees ROSCOE’s fixation on LIZ. To ROSCOE.)

Oh—this is my personal nurse, Elizabeth Bynon. She’s gone mute for some reason but she’s loyal to a fault. Aren’t you, Liz?

(LIZ nods, smiles at ROSCOE, and continues cleaning her hands.)

She’s from Newcastle, England, where they make the brown ale that’ll put you in the nuthouse if you’re not careful. She’s a Geordie. Had a lovely, lilting accent when I first met her—something Swedish about it—Scandinavian. But then something happened—didn’t it, Liz?

(Pause. MABLE looks to LIZ for an answer, but LIZ just stares at ROSCOE.)

What did happen, Liz?

(LIZ just shrugs; smiles at ROSCOE.)