two heavy cartons; he speaks to the writer, who is nearest to him
.]
TYE : Hey, you, boy?
WRITER : âMe?
TYE : Yeh, yeh, you, I dropped one of these packages on thâ steps, so goddam dark I dropped it. And Iâd appreciate it if youâd pick it up foâ me anâ help me git it upstairs.
WRITER : Iâll beâ glad to try to . . .
[
Tye focuses dimly on Miss Carrie. He blinks several times in disbelief
.]
TYE : Am I . . . in the right place?
MRS. WIRE [
shouting
]: Not in your present condition. Go on back out. Sleep it off in the gutter.
MISS CARRIE [
to Mrs. Wire
]: Tragic for such a nice-looking young man to return to his wife in that condition at night.
MRS. WIRE : Practically every night.
[
Miss Carrie and Mary Maude exit
.]
[
Tye has almost miraculously managed to collect his dropped packages, and he staggers to stage right where the lower steps to the attic are dimly seen. The writer follows
.]
TYE [
stumbling back against the writer
]: Can you make it? Can you make it, kid?
[
They slowly mount the steps. The lighted kitchen is dimmed out. There is a brief pause. A soft light is cast on the attic hall
.]
TYE : Now, kid, can you locate my room key in my pocket?
WRITER : Which, uhâ pocket?
TYE : Panâs pocket.
WRITER : Left pocket orâ
TYE : â Headâ spinninââmoney in hip pocket, key inâ rightâ lefâ side. Shitâ key befoâ Iâ fall . . .
[
The writerâs hand starts to enter a pocket when Tye collapses, spilling the boxes on the floor and sprawling across them
.]
WRITER : Youâre right outside my cubbyhole. I suggest you rest in there before youâ wake up your wife . . .
TYE : Mâole lady, she chews my ass off if I come home this ways . . . [
He struggles heroically to near standing position as the writer guides him into his cubicle
.] . . . Thisâ bed?
[
There is a soft, ghostly laugh from the adjoining cubicle. A match strikes briefly
.]
WRITER : Swing your legs the other way, that wayâs the pillowâ would you, uh, like your wet shoes off?
TYE : Shoes? Yes, but nothinâ else. Once Iâpassed out onâ Bourbon Streetâ late nightâ in a dark doorwayâ woke upâ this guy, was takinâ liberties with me and I donât go for that stuffâ
WRITER : I donât take advantages of that kind, I amâ going back downstairs, if youâre comfortable now . . .
TYE : I said to this guy, âOkay, if you wanto blow me, you can pay me one hunnerd dollarsâ before, not after.â
[
Tyeâs voice dies out. Nightingale becomes visible, rising stealthily in his cubicle and slipping on a robe, as Tye begins to snore
.
[
The attic lights dim out. The lights on the kitchen come up as the writer re-enters
.]
MRS. WIRE : Got that bum to bed? Set down, son. Ha! Notice I called you, son. Where do you go nights?
WRITER : Oh, I walk, I take long solitary walks. Sometimes I . . . I . . .
MRS. WIRE : Sometimes you what? You can say itâs none of my business, but I, well, I have a sort of a, well you could say I have a sort of aâ maternalâconcern. You see, I do have a son that I never see no more, but I worry about him so I reckon itâs natural for me to worry about you a little. And get things straight in my head about youâ youâve changed since youâve been in this house. You know that?
WRITER : Yes, I know that.
MRS. WIRE : This Iâll tell you, when you first come to my door, I swear I seen and I recognized a young gentleman in youâ shy. Shaky, but . . .
WRITER : Panicky! Yes! Gentleman? My folks say so. I wonder.
[
The light narrows and focuses on the writer alone; the speech becomes an interior reflection
.]
Iâve noticed I do have some troublesome little scruples in my nature that may cause difficulties in my . . . [
He rises and rests his
Shauna Rice-Schober[thriller]