Anyway, something must’ve happened, we’re not sure what, and she clammed up altogether. Hasn’t affected her loyalty, though, or her steadfastness. Not one iota. Throw herself in front of a freight train for me. Wouldn’t you, Liz? If need be.

(LIZ keeps wiping her hands, smiling at ROSCOE.)

That’s what we’re all looking for, isn’t it, Roscoe? Unconditional loyalty. When you come right down to it. That’s what we secretly pray for, day in and day out. Don’t you think? Absolute forgiveness.

ROSCOE: Yes ma’a— (Stops himself.)

MABLE: Someone blind to all our faults. Who only sees the angel in us—the benevolent creature. Mothers, for instance. (To ROSCOE.) Don’t you think? Wouldn’t you say so?

ROSCOE: Mothers?

MABLE: Absolutely. Toward their children—their own kind. Unconditional love. Not fathers so much—fathers are a whole different bag of worms.

ROSCOE: I suppose so.

MABLE: Wouldn’t you agree with that, Liz? About fathers?

(LIZ nods, smiles at ROSCOE.)

Fathers make impossible demands. Expectations, then disappointments. One’s the product of the other. A snake biting its own tail.

ROSCOE: Yes—I mean—

MABLE: You could be a cold-blooded killer and your mother would forgive you.

ROSCOE: Me?

MABLE: Slaughter innocent bystanders in broad daylight. Decapitate infants with a bowie knife. Slice open their tender bowels—pull out their purple squirming intestines and eat them raw. Your mother would forgive you.

ROSCOE: My mother?

MABLE: She would. No question. Wouldn’t she, Liz?

(LIZ nods, giggles, and smiles at ROSCOE.)

Not the father, though. No. The father would be full of judgment and condemnation. Contempt. He would be the prosecutor—the hangman, divorcing himself entirely from all blood connection. He would disown you.

ROSCOE: The father?

MABLE: Absolutely. Then, of course, there’s the whole question of lust. Isn’t there?

ROSCOE: (Standing suddenly.) Lust?

MABLE: Sit down. We’re just getting started.

(ROSCOE sits again.)

We can’t sweep lust under the table.

ROSCOE: No.

MABLE: No. Can’t be simply disregarded. We’re all human, don’t you think?

ROSCOE: Human? Sure.

MABLE: That’s right. Much as we’d like to get away from it.

ROSCOE: Well—what else would we be? I mean—

MABLE: Demons—dragons—banshees—there’s a whole list. Goes on forever.

ROSCOE: Oh—well—yes—but those aren’t—

MABLE: What?

ROSCOE: Human.

MABLE: No. But they’re not without some substance, are they?

ROSCOE: Well—

MABLE: How does Shakespeare put it?

ROSCOE: Shakespeare?

MABLE: About lust. The power of lust. (Suddenly quoting.)

…a waste of shame

Is lust in action; and till action, lust

Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame…

Isn’t that the way it goes?

ROSCOE: All I know is Cervantes. I’m not—

MABLE: Isn’t it, Liz?

(LIZ nods, keeps smiling at ROSCOE.)

Brush up on your Shakespeare, Roscoe. We only have this one life to live. Can’t be lazy, can we?