Cry To Me
By Oishika Ray
Characters: Jane
Time: Present.
Act 1 – Jane’s living room.
Act 2 – Jane’s living room, bedroom, and kitchen.
Act 3 – A train back from Boston.
ACT I
SCENE 1
(A phone rings. Jane walks into her living room and closes the curtains. She looks like a mess. Last night was horrible, and now she has a headache. She lies down on her sofa facing the audience, and ignores the phone. It goes quiet, then rings again. She walks over to it and picks up the receiver and sets it down to silence the call. It rings again after a second. She finally answers, since she has to.)
JANE: Yes?
(It’s quiet as she listens through the receiver. She’s confused at first, but tired enough that she’d rather not be dealing with it.)
JANE: When was this?
(She listens.)
Yes, that’s—what a horrible, horrible shock…no, don’t cry Christine, it’s alright. She wouldn’t want you to—
(Jane is cut off as she listens again.)
JANE:
(not trying to show her annoyance)
Well, I wouldn’t say…of course I’m upset…alright, thank you, Christine. I’ll see you at dinner on Thursday—
(She’s cut off once more.)
JANE: (continued)
(trying to pack it up)
…let’s try to move on now, have a Quaalude and sleep it off today…yes, take care. Bye, bye.
(She sets the phone down.)
JANE: (to the audience)
That was my cousin, Christine.
(She looks under a couch cushion.)
She loves condolence calls. She’s the first one to say sorry for your loss and cry at the funeral. I’ve always told her she should be an actress, but she’s too good at being a lawyer.
(She finds a lighter.)
JANE: (continued)
My mom died apparently.
(She waits to see if she feels anything.)
JANE: I wonder what it was. Christine didn’t want to mention that. That’s how you can tell it’s particularly disturbing, isn’t it? Suicide. Car wreck. Burning alive. Decapitation. My ideas are endless.
(she’s irritated.)
But my mother wants to make me sad. Oh, boohoo, my mom wants to see me upset. There’s something new. Meet with the estate lawyer in Massachusetts—she knows just what buttons to push. How does she know just what buttons to push beyond the grave?
(pause.)
Whatever. I wanted to leave New York, anyways. Like I was saying to Julia last night, this studio is unlivable.
(It’s not.)
The balcony door never opens. I call maintenance every day. That’s why I moved in—I really wanted a balcony, high ceilings, and good window lighting. So I mean, what’s the point in it? Why install it at all, if you can’t even use it?
(She sighs.)
The lady doth protest too much, me thinks.
(pause.)
I know it’s too hot to go out and see Elle, my really sexy Canadian dealer, but fuck it, I’m celebrating. Sorry, I mean dizzy with grief.
(She picks up her phone and dials the number like a little kid calling their best friend after school. She waits until Elle picks up.)
Elle? Hiya…oh, nothing really, just running around in circles…
(She listens, then talks to the audience with a hand over the receiver so Elle won’t hear her.)
She’s asking me, “What can I get you?” I surprise her and say—
(to Elle)
I’m quitting. And I’m deleting this number.
(to the audience)
Please may I inquire about your mourning discounts? She laughs and offers me one.
(to Elle)
Yeah, something happened. I’m glad to be alive.
(to the audience)
She tells me to relax and eat something, and I say that I have, but I actually haven’t eaten in three days since I jumped into the Hudson. Though, not for that reason.
(She holds up her hand.)
My ring fell into the water.
(to Elle)
No, I’m fine. Really, I would rather deal with it later…
(to the audience)
It’s nice that she cares. I say…
(to Elle)
Bye, Elle. I’ll see you soon.
(She ends the call.)
And it’s done—off the sauce, as they say. I’ve always liked Elle. She’s has amazing taste in music. She knows the stuff I’d listen to when I was thirteen. She just knows how to be cool without even trying. What a woman.
(She changes into a t-shirt and some cool jeans.)
(as she’s tying up her laces)
I’m not going to my mom’s funeral. Is that terrible? It can’t be if she was crazy. It can’t be really. I mean she was really…she was like the Mad Hatter. If I were to go, I’d ask Tom, my ex-fiancé, to come with me, but…
(she pauses, clearly unhappy, but trying to remain nonchalant.)
it’s not the same anymore between us. Now whenever I’m with someone new at 3 A.M, they hold me and I want to vomit. I get so miserable. I’m so uncool. Are you listening? I said I’m uncool. I am. There’s no way around it. I’m twenty five and I’ve been pissed off at everything for years, but not Tom. Not yet, anyway. Actually two months ago, when I moved into this apartment, I quit my job. I know, not the greatest idea. And I know that already, but I’m just going to make it clear. I strategically ruined my life. I figured that I had enough money in my account for a couple months and I could always find a job later. Well, it’s later now, and I’ve only gotten a job offer from a club down the road where my old boss once grabbed my ass, and my roommate is a girl named Julia, who has a trust fund and perfect cheekbones. She tells me to call her Jules, and I can tell by our shared bathroom that she’s bulimic, but god, she’s so pretty and interesting. It’s her world, I’m just living in it.
(She looks through the couch cushions again, and finally finds what she’s looking for. She lights a Camel.)
So two months ago was when I was standing in Tom’s kitchen, he surprised me with this vase. It was orange and made it Italy. He gave it to me and said, “Happy birthday, my love.” And I wanted to say, “Thank you, Tom, you’re the sweetest.” But I just couldn’t because it was so expensive. I couldn’t accept it, not after the thing with Fred. It was my fault and I felt bad for Tom, so I told him. I know. It just sort of came out, and it’s been awful and I’m having a terrible time, and I deserve it but still. He kicked me out that day. That day. And then I thought fuck it, let me start over. So I quit my job.
(beat.)
I wouldn’t call Fred a mistake, but I wouldn’t say he was one of my better ideas either. He was more of a carpe diem sort of moment. Though, when we were in ninth grade, I broke my elbow and he carried me to the nurse’s office and sang The Beach Boys while I screamed and cried.
(beat.)
I promise I’m not a bad person. I just did a really fucked up thing two months ago. But whatever! It’s over. I’m here now, and fuck it. People die all the time, and I’m feeling so alive. I feel good, actually. If I felt any better, you’d need to sedate me.
(She puts the Camel out on her shoulder. Then, she goes to her record player and puts on one of her many records. She puts on “Sweet Jane” by The Velvet Underground. She lies down on her couch like she’s at a therapist’s office.)
(casually, pointing at the balcony)
I try to open that door every two hours. What’s the point of a balcony if you can’t jump off of it? That’s my question. Three days ago, Julia and I went to a restaurant near 75 and 9. I thought about how Christine would love this caviar. Mind you, I’m pretty much broke, but I would never ask Julia to pay for me. Anyways, I blew my bank account. I can only eat peanut butter for the next week. I tried to stop myself from ordering all that, but I just couldn’t help it. Something doesn’t click in my brain. It’s funny sometimes. Though not really for me, I guess. I spend everything on the wrong things. But it’s not my fault because it runs in the family. Like my dad. He always—
(Her phone rings. She pauses, turns off the record, and picks it up.)
(beat)
Tom?
(pause, then to the audience)
He’s heard about my mom. Jesus, Christine’s speeding up.
(pause, while she listens.)
He’s sorry, and if there’s anything he can do for me, I should let him know.
(beat.)
I want to tell him not to feel sorry for me because my mom was hardly what you’d call a sentimental or motherly person. In fact the word “mom” is generous. I’m surprised Christine didn’t see her rise from the grave because the cow refuses to die and leave us alone.
(getting into character as her mother)
Cherry wood? For a coffin?
(normally)
I’m short of opening a bottle of Armand de Brignac for the occasion. Because this. This is a real celebration. This is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life, since she forced me out of the fucking womb.
(beat. To Tom, casually)
Thank you.
(pause, she listens.)
He wants to come over. I can tell he misses me, but I know it’s a bad idea. If we sleep together, I know I wouldn’t forgive myself. I know Tom would come over and he’d be too nice to me because my mom’s dead, and I wouldn’t be able to kick him out like I’m normally able to with people. Everyone’s been ruined after Fred, anyway.
(to Tom)
No.
(pause, she listens. To the audience)
He’s hurt that I don’t want to see him. Of course I feel bad for what I did, but I don’t care. He was my fiancé, but…I don’t think I ever wanted to marry him. Not really. I just figured it was something I had to do.
(to Tom)
I’ll talk to you some other time.
(to the audience, mockingly as Tom)
Do you really think it’s a good idea to be alone and unhappy right now?
(to Tom, annoyed)
I think we can agree that it’s not, and you should stop acting like my father.
(She hangs up the phone.)
The tricky thing about hating your mother is that you slowly begin to see yourself turning into her. For example…
(She lights another Camel.)
I should quit. But I can’t. My mom couldn’t either. I bet that’s what got her in the end. A stroke, maybe. I think the horrible qualities that you have have always been there just waiting to be passed down, but…I don’t know. I’ve been seeing them more and more. Here’s another example, you guys—my mom—god, I couldn’t stand it—I once passed out in an old boyfriend’s bathroom six years ago—too much time spent with Elle a couple hours before—and he said to me, after he had to break down the door, “What would your mother say to this?” My mother. My mother?
(as her mom)
This is child’s play. When I was your age, I was shooting up twice a day, and getting straight A’s at Lawrenceville. In fact, I was the top player on the girls varsity tennis team while I was at it. Pull yourself together! You should have gone out there and finished that lovely filet mignon.
(as herself)
I’M A PESCATARIAN, MOM!
(as her mother)
That’s no excuse. You accept what you get, and you eat it like a good girl.
(as herself)
I don’t have to listen to you. I’m going to meet Elle soon anyway, mom.
(as her mother)
You mean have some of that disgusting, watered down—
(as herself)
It’s not watered down, she has quality—
(as her mother)
‘Quality’ is generous. I’ve known people—hospitable, altruistic people—who lived inside tents sharing every little pink pill—
(as herself)
Oh for god’s sake! FUCK OFF!
(beat. as her mother)
Darling. You speak when you’re spoken to. If you ever pull something like that again, I’ll—
(She puts on the record again, “Sweet Jane” by The Velvet Underground. She’s running around her apartment, jumping on the couch, tables, pushing and knocking things over, etc.)
(as herself, with vigor, passion, and intensity. In response to her mother, at first.)
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,
Or close the wall up with our English dead!
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility,
(She tries to open the balcony door, but it doesn’t work. She bangs on it hard.)
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger:
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
(She throws a chair at it.)
Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect—
(She looks through some drawers.)
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O’erhang and jutty his confounded base,
Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof—
(She talks to the door like an adversary, and throwing random things at it.)
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonor not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear—
(She hits the glass door with the record player, but it still doesn’t break. The music is cut off. Pause. She’s taken aback.)
HOW. CAN. IT. STILL. NOT. BE. OPEN? What’s the point of a balcony if you can’t jump off—
(The phone rings. Pause. She picks it up.)
…Hello? Oh, hi Elle.
(to the audience)
Sexy Canadian dealer.
(beat. To Elle)
Yeah, I’ll be be there in ten minutes.
(She grabs a jacket.)
(to the audience)
See you.
She exits. Blackout.
ACT II
SCENE I
(A week later. Jane enters in a tank top and shorts holding shopping bags. The room is much tidier, and the record player is mangled but stuck together again. She’s surprised to see the audience.)
JANE: Jesus. You’re back again?
(amusedly, as she’s setting her stuff down.)
Couldn’t get enough of me?
(She looks around the room.)
Yeah, Julia wasn’t too happy about the mess. Didn’t I clean it up well, though? Good as new. It’s like nothing ever happened. She was nice about it, actually. It’s because she’s a Pisces. Or is it Cancer…?
(she lights a cigarette and goes over to the record player.)
Look, I fixed it.
(it’s barely functioning. She looks through her records.)
Well, it’s a little less expensive than when I first bought it, but…
(She puts one on. “Lady Jane” by The Rolling Stones plays.)
It works just as good.
(She turns it off. Beat.)
I have to go to Boston tomorrow. Collect the ashes and drop them off at my aunt’s. My aunt is old and decrepit and barely functioning, which is why someone else has to pick up my mom. Christine said she would’ve done it if not for the fact that she’s in court defending a child molester at the moment. Believe me, she never would have done it, child molester or not. The point is that nobody wants anything to do with my aunt, and nobody wants to have my mother sitting on top of their fireplace.
(beat. irritated)
My train leaves at 9:30 tomorrow morning.
(She opens a closet door, and looks through it for a minute. She pulls out a suitcase.)
Two days. Just two days in Boston and then I can come back. I’m staying a night at this guest house Julia’s dad, Mr. Bedford, owns. He owns about half of Boston’s hotels, basically. I’m having breakfast with him. Don’t tell Julia.
(She talks as she goes into her room, looking through her closet. She holds up a dress.)
Good?
(She looks in the mirror.)
What do married, older men like?
(Beat, as she looks. She tosses it away.)
Not that.
(She carelessly puts clothes in her suitcase. She’s picking the pace up. She pulls out a pretty sundress.)
She pulls out the sundress she wore to Central Park with Fred a year ago and thinks, good enough. Good en—
(she stops, confused. She looks at the audience, embarrassed.)
Um.
(beat.)
This is the dress I wore to Central Park a year ago with Fred. Jeez.
(she reminisces.)
We pet the horses. Drove the tourists in line crazy. He loved animals, and he would never ride a carriage, even though the romantic in him died for it. But he hated seeing the horses pulling the carriages all day. He had a dog, Holiday, who loves the horses, too. She used to run around all over the sidewalks trying to lick any living thing in sight.
(beat.)
I don’t really know where she is right now. Hopefully somewhere nice. A nice, middle class family.
(beat, shutting the suitcase. She adds bottles of pills into her purse nonchalantly.)
Fred, Fred, Fred. He acted like such a little kid sometimes.
(beat.)
My only friend.
(She goes to the kitchen and starts putting away the groceries.)
She thinks about the times he used to play songs for her on the guitar. Old songs from the thirties and forties.
(as Fred, in a transatlantic accent)
It’s war time, my dear. We’ll meet again in 1945. Don’t cry for me, honey—we’ll always have Elle’s shitty speed on 39th.
(as herself)
I mean, it’s crazy. Sad, really. She’s still in love. After all this time. Her only friend. She wants to cry all the time. She’s trying not to right now.
(beat. realizing what she’s done again. she slowly puts the cigarette out. as herself, slowly and contemplative.)
Mr. David Bedford.
(beat.)
Do you think he likes tits or ass better? I’ve got neither, so let’s hope he values personality. Though some may say I’m lacking that, too. I’m actually not all that interested in sex. I haven’t been for a while, to tell you the truth. But I’m interested in sex with Mr. Bedford.
(She thinks about it, then goes back to her bedroom and picks out a fancy bra. She takes her top off and holds it up to herself in front of a mirror.)
I’m going for youthful. Young. Someone different than his wife who’s—I don’t know—got a spark. A different perspective on life to make him feel young again. Someone different. He hasn’t had it good in years. He wants it—doing something dangerous.
(beat, as she looks)
There isn’t a girl out there without a favorite bra. This one’s mine.
(She examines it, then takes out another one from the closet.)
Or is it this one? Fuck.
(She tosses them both on her bed, and puts her shirt back on, frustrated.)
I don’t know.
(beat, still frustrated.)
He hated that I was still with Tom. Fred, I mean. I don’t blame him, of course he felt that way. But her mom loved Tom. Loved him. Her perfect son-in-law.
(She narrates her actions.)
She opens the small window in the kitchen. Another cigarette, maybe? Does it matter? In thirty years when she’s dying of lung cancer, would it matter? What’s one more? She looks around. If she really wanted to, she could use the ottoman and maybe with some twisting and turning, climb through the window.
(beat.)
No, not worth the effort.
(beat. back to normal.)
By the way. He lives in Maine now. He’s with his brother. I feel sorry for him. The way he got tangled up in all my bullshit. I was walking through the bodega, and this guy was parked outside—cool jacket on, sunglasses. I thought, oh wow. He must be a real rough-and-tumble. I waved. He smiled. I thought, what would it be like to go home with him? What was I wearing underneath this again? I stopped by the laundromat yesterday, and the guy who owns it asked for my number. I gave it to him. He has brown eyes and offered me a coupon. I said, “Ohhh, no thank you. Oh my gosh, you are so sweet.” I don’t know how I deal with myself. I should have taken it, on second thought. A guy on the Brooklyn bridge. My boss’s hand on my ass. Fred. Fred on New Year’s, Tom on Valentine’s Day. Mr. Bedford. Who am I wearing these fucking bras for? In a hundred years when I’m dead, what’s going to happen to all these sexy bras? All these bras, they’re actually…well, I’ll just tell you. For example,
(She holds up a bra.)
for Tom, I was a size 2, demure, little thing who could wear Abercrombie and Fitch without feeling insanely guilty. I went to farmer’s markets and only ate 300 calorie dinners in front of him. For Fred…
(She holds up another one.)
I listened to The Smiths and did pottery workshops on weekends, even if I was tweaked out or crazy hungover. I chain-smoked in his living room while keeping my breath tasting like mint. I did all these things. I don’t know why. And for Mr. Bedford, I’ll be young. Naive. Accidentally wearing sexy underwear.
(The phone rings. Jane picks it up.)
Helloooo?
(beat. to the audience)
Julia. She’s locked out. Coming up the elevator.
(to Julia)
Okay, I’ll leave the door open.
(She hangs up the phone, then walks to the door.)
I think it’s funny. I think you’re all actually really interesting people. I wonder what it is you wear under your clothes. I love you, and everyone like you. But you should head out soon.
Blackout.
ACT III
SCENE I
(The train back from Boston, two days later. Jane is slumped against the window, wrapped up in a jacket. Her eyes are all smudged with makeup. She notices the audience, and turns away. Turns back to check if they’re still there. She scoffs, realizing she’ll have to address them.)
Hi.
(The train goes on. There’s a pause as she’s clearly irritated.)
Jesus, it’s fucking freezing in here.
(She finally turns and faces the audience.)
Boston was…fine. My aunt was thrilled to have her sister finally not complain about how there hasn’t been enough upkeep in the house.
The funeral parlor was excited to have me. ‘So sorry for you loss.’ Cheer up, Ted, I’m having the best time of my life.
(beat.)
Once I was there, I was…relieved. I didn’t say much to my aunt. But she did give me this yesterday.
(She holds up her hand to show a ring)
I think it’s nice. I wasn’t interested last night, but I was invited to dinner. Though if I was really in the mood for hour long rants about how immigrants are supposedly taking over the country or which one of our family members is sleeping with whom, I’d have brought some sort of fucking sedative at least.
(beat, contemplative.)
I wonder how my dad’s taking it.
(she gives it a thought, then shrugs.)
People make too big of a deal about grief. Xanax really helps, so I’ve found.
(beat.)
Oh, yeah. That. It wore off a while ago, unfortunately. Exactly five hours ago. It was a bit of a shock. And now…I have a headache.
(beat.)
Anyways. I hope you’re doing well. I was wondering if I’d get any more surprise visits.
(Her phone rings.)
(to Elle)
Hello?
(she listens, sarcastic)
No, I’m sorry, I’ve been sort of busy this morning.
(beat.)
Yes, I’m fine. Listen, what was…yes, I’m fine…what was in the—
(she listens, confused and pissed off)
Elle…you sold them to me, and I had—this morning was just…Elle, for fuck’s sake, at least know what’s in them, fuck.
(she listens, then holds her hand over the receiver, to the audience)
I’d just like to say fuck you to all sexy Canadian drug dealers. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you—
(to Elle)
Yes, I’m still here.
(she listens for a long time. Finally, she hangs up nonchalantly without saying anything else.)
(after a while, to the audience)
Do you ever think about taking up tennis? That’s what people do, right? Take up tennis or badminton. I think I’ll have to do that.
(beat.)
(She’s visibly distraught, but too embarrassed to show it.)
I’m telling you right now the service next Friday is going to be so pointless. Christine is meeting me there. It’ll be pointless and torture. The last thing my mom would want is a family fucking reunion. You can come, by the way. Fucking hell. Is it hot in here?
(She takes off her jacket.)
Well, actually, maybe that’s the sort of thing my mom would have loved. Every long lost cousin or aunt and uncle crowded into one room lying through their teeth. Gone too soon. In a better place. I mean, she might have just loved that.
(beat.)
The hotel was nice.
(beat.)
Breakfast was okay. They didn’t have scones.
(beat. She stares out the window for a while.)
I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.
(beat, she does.)
We went to the men’s bathroom right after breakfast. I didn’t eat of course—I’m a woman, we don’t do that—and I’m there, and we’re fucking…and I’m thinking about how my mom still had my baby pictures hanging up in her living room. Remember what I came for—to collect the ashes. Toss them into a sewer if given the opportunity. I should get a job now, an actual job. Contribute something good to society. We were fucking over the sink, and I was thinking about how, as a kid, I hated my Mary Janes.
(beat.)
And then I puked. All over the sink. I bet it looked terrific. And I didn’t realize it at first, but I was overdosing. I was relieved, actually, when I did finally figure it out between the puking and Mr. Bedford frantically trying to zip up his pants. I thought finally. Finally, finally, finally. And all of a sudden, I was on the floor just…crying. Crying and overdosing. And I thought then…how much I didn’t want to die.
(beat.)
I didn’t want to die there.
(beat.)
I mean, Jesus. Not in front of a clogged toilet.
Oishika Ghosh Ray, class of 2023, if from North Brunswick, New Jersey. She wrote this piece in her Playwriting course taught by Professor Caridad Svich. Svich selected the piece for publication in WHR.