EMMA
: How should I know? He’s
your
friend.
(FRANK puts his boots on and stands.)
FRANK
: I’m going down to feed the heifers.
EMMA
: How long’s he going to stay here, Frank?
FRANK
: Long as he needs to.
EMMA
: I’ll start the bacon.
FRANK
: Good.
EMMA
: Should I wake him up?
FRANK
: I wouldn’t.
EMMA
: Maybe he’d like some bacon.
FRANK
: You never know. (
short pause
) You’re going to drown those plants.
(FRANK exits. EMMA alone—stares out window as FRANK crosses, outside. He waves to her. She blows him a kiss. She crosses to the kitchen, dumps the empty pitcher into the sink. It rattles around. She goes to the stove, turns on a burner, sets frying pan on it. She goes to the fridge, takes out bacon, peels off slices. She crosses to top of basement staircase landing, stops, and yells down to their unseen guest, the bacon strips hanging from her hand.)
EMMA
: Mr. Haynes? Are you up yet, Mr. Haynes?
(No answer. She goes to the stove and slaps bacon into the frying pan. She turns fire down slightly. Suddenly, the doorbell rings: a very loud, old-fashioned, crank-style doorbell with a rasping, brittle sound. EMMA turns abruptly toward door, very surprised. She pauses a moment, as though wondering if she imagined it; then the doorbell rings again—longer and more persistent this time. She picks up a dishtowel and wipes her hands as she crosses to door. She opens door, which swings downstage, blocking the audience’s view of who is standing there. A man’s arm pops into view, dangling a large cookie in the shape of an American flag, with red, white, and blue frosting. EMMA jumps back. A male voice is heard from behind door.)
MALE VOICE
: Cookie? American made. Oat and raisin. Totally organic—even the frosting.
(EMMA. just stares bewilderedly at the cookie dangling from the hand.)
EMMA
: No—uh—what is it? What—we don’t—need anything.
(WELCH steps into the room, quickly closing the door behind him. EMMA backs up a little, holding the dishrag to her chest. WELCH—dark suit with American flag pin in his lapel, short cropped hair, crisp white shirt, red tie, attaché case in one hand and the cookie in the other. Big grin.)
WELCH
: (
offering cookie
) American-made cookie? One of the best you ever tasted. Guaranteed. Take a bite.
EMMA
: No—thank you.
WELCH
: Hold it then. Just take ahold of it and feel its wonderful weight and texture.
EMMA
: No—I’m sorry, but—we’re not interested.
WELCH
: Not interested—not at all interested.
EMMA
: In cookies—