Heatstroke
- Heatstroke*
LILY MAE, about 40, walks about a large brightly illuminated room with her pink parasol up though she is not standing in the direct sunlight, which is fierce and penetrating from the tropical day outside. There are two chairs, one on stage left and one on stage right. A small table on center stage contains a vase of fresh flowers. LILY MAE holds a large handkerchief to her nose at times and this almost causes her to lose hold of her parasol. She is elegantly dressed.
Oh I wish I could believe in him! Believe or not, I think of nothing but him. And he’s not a doctor. Not at all. I don’t know how I ever got it into my head he was. He always wears white, and as I passed by this large dwelling place so often, I just fancied he was an M.D. And I am an American, and he is too, and we are both in this dreadful tropical place. Stuck! . . . And he talked to me like a doctor that first meeting . . . I rushed right in and began talking to him as if this were a professional consulting room. . . . Soon I had told him everything, yes everything, and he listened to me like a doctor. Well, almost everything. A lot certainly. Too much!
(Enter DOUGLAS STURMS from stage left. He is about 40, very fair-complexioned, almost gaunt, with penetrating blue eyes.)
Did you put the witch hazel on your nipples as I advised?
Oh, you startled me!
Put down your parasol, Lily, we are inside.
I like to hide under it. (She very slowly puts down and closes the parasol.) The sun is so disastrous to fair complexions. You have very light skin yourself.
Lily, we are not outdoors. There is no sun in this room. And we are facing north.
There is no north in this God-forsaken country. Only south. The sun is everywhere. It shines I am sure at night also. (She looks over at the fresh cut flowers.)
About the witch hazel.
(Pouting.) No, I did not. . . . You and your outlandish remedies . . . I don’t want to look at my . . . nipples anyhow. I can remember them . . . when they were like rose buds. [End Page 76]
Did you ever heard of putting codeine in a vase of roses that were dying, Lily. Or if not codeine, aspirin. . . .
Is that what they did to flowers in Detroit? You did come from there I recall you saying.
(Insistent, almost speaking syllable by syllable.) Witch hazel will give color and body to your tired nipples. . . . Then you’ll be happy.
I made such a terrible mistake coming to you that day. Rushing in!
There are no mistakes. I told you that many times.
Are you a theosophist?
I am me. Douglas Jason Sturms. Not an M.D. Not a theosophist. Me.
From Detroit! . . . Just the same you saved my life . . . I had decided to do away with myself that day.
Oh, well, you thought you decided.
No, I am certain I could have done it had I not barged into your ample living quarters. (She looks about now.)
Something else would have stayed your hand. You’re not the violent type.
(Pleading.) You must have some real remedies, doctor.
Only the one I told you.
(Vexed.) Oh that again! Why my own mother used witch hazel come to think of it. Along with camphor. The poor thing used to soak her linen handkerchief in one or the other of them and cry after Papa died. I can’t bear the smell of them to this day.
(Bearing down.) But your nipples can bear the smell, Lily. Keep that in mind. And it will freshen and perk up your whole body.
You’re indecent! And you’re mocking me.
I must tell you again, I’m not a doctor, but I did study medicine. Almost . . . graduated.
I knew it!
(As if alone, or forgetful of anything but past time.) But when it...
