Deadeye Dick Page 0,44

draperies. You should probably burn them in the fireplace.

FELIX: Just pack, baby. Just pack.

GENEVIEVE: It’s my house as much as it’s your house. That’s just a theory, of course.

FELIX: I’ll pay you off. I’ll buy you out.

GENEVIEVE: And I’ll give your brother my clothes. He can have all my stuff here. I don’t even have to pack. I’ll just walk out of here, and start out new.

FELIX: What is that supposed to mean?

GENEVIEVE: Starting out new? Well, you go to Bendel’s or Saks or Bloomingdale’s, naked except for a credit card—

FELIX: My brother and your clothes.

GENEVIEVE: I think he would enjoy being a woman. I think that’s what he was meant to be. That would be nice for you, too, since then you could marry him. I want you to be happy, as hard as that may be for you to believe.

FELIX: That is the end.

GENEVIEVE: We passed that long ago.

FELIX: That is the very end.

GENEVIEVE: And the very, very end is coming up. Just get out of here and let me pack.

FELIX: I am to have no feelings of loyalty toward members of my own family?

GENEVIEVE: I was part of your family. Don’t you remember that ceremony we went through at City Hall? You probably thought it was an opera, where you were supposed to sing, “I do.” If you’re from such a close-knit family, why weren’t any of its members there?

FELIX: YOU were in such a hurry to get married.

GENEVIEVE: Was I? I guess I was. I was glad to get married. There was going to be so much happiness. And there was happiness, too, wasn’t there?

FELIX: Some. Sure.

GENEVIEVE: Until your brother came along.

FELIX: It’s not his fault.

GENEVIEVE: It’s your fault.

FELIX: Tell me how.

GENEVIEVE: The very, very end is coming up now. Are you sure you want to hear it?

FELIX: HOW is it my fault?

GENEVIEVE: YOU are so ashamed of him. You must be ashamed of your parents, too. Otherwise, why have I never met them?

FELIX: They’re too sick to leave home.

GENEVIEVE: And we, with an income of over one hundred thousand dollars a year, have been too poor to visit them. Are they dead?

FELIX: NO.

GENEVIEVE: Are they in a crazy house?

FELIX: NO.

GENEVIEVE: I’m very good at visiting people in crazy houses. My own mother was in a crazy house when I was in high school, and I visited her. She was wonderful. I was wonderful. I told you my mother was in the crazy house for a while.

FELIX: Yes.

GENEVIEVE: I thought you should know—in case we wanted a baby. It isn’t anything to be ashamed of, anyway. Or is it?

FELIX: Nothing to be ashamed of.

GENEVIEVE: SO tell me the worst about your parents.

FELIX: Nothing.

GENEVIEVE: Then I’ll tell you what’s wrong with them. They’re not good enough for you. You deserve something far more classy. What a snob you are.

FELIX: It’s more complicated.

GENEVIEVE: I doubt it. I can’t remember anything about you that was the least bit complicated. Making a good impression at all costs—that accounted for everything.

FELIX: There’s a little more to me than that, thank you.

GENEVIEVE: No. There was nothing to you but urbane perfection, until your brother arrived—and turned out to be a circus freak.

FELIX: Don’t you call him that.

GENEVIEVE: I’m telling you what you think of him. And what was my duty as a wife? To protect your perfection as much as possible: To pretend that there was absolutely nothing wrong with him. At least I never cringed. You did all the cringing.

FELIX: Cringing?

GENEVIEVE: With your head in your hands, whenever he’s around. You could die of shame. You think he hasn’t noticed that? You think he hasn’t noticed that we’re all set up for entertaining, but we somehow never have people in?

FELIX: I’ve been protecting him.

GENEVIEVE: Protecting you, you mean. This lovely fight we’ve had—it wasn’t about anything I said to him. I’ve been very nice to him. It was what I said to you that you couldn’t stand.

FELIX: With a million people listening.

GENEVIEVE: Five other people in the reception room. And not one heard what I said—because I whispered it to you. But people as far as Chicago must have heard what you yelled back at me. I was actually happily married this morning—for a few seconds—before you yelled at me. I was feeling very pretty and cherished as I sat at the reception desk. We had made love this morning, as you may remember. You had better burn the bottom sheet—along with the draperies. There were five strangers in the reception