My Sweet Petunia Scene 5

“Hello, my sweet Petunia. You’re looking pretty tonight.”

“Why do you always call me that Sam?”

“Pretty?”

“A petunia. Why a petunia?”

“It’s a pretty flower.”

“Lots of pretty flowers.”

“I just like petunias in particular.”

“You know, you always say I look good. Good for my age, you mean?”

“No, just good. I think you’re beautiful Deborah.”

“How old do you think I am Sam?”

“I don’t know. You never told me.”

“You never told me how old you are neither.”

“You never asked me. You always said it don’t matter, and it don’t.”

“Just curious though: How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know Deborah, c’mon.”

“How old do you think I am Sam?”

“I don’t know! Why are we even talking about this!?”

“Because I want to.”

“Why?”

“From all appearances, I’m dating a younger man. Sort of unusual. Most men want to be with a younger woman. Most of them are. They don’t want to be with a woman their age, sure not one that’s older. People tell me I’m blessed, that I look good for my age, but that’s not the same as looking good. I’m 52 years old Sam. You can’t be more than 50, probably younger. You really want to be with someone my age? You gonna want to be with me when I’m 55? 60? You still gonna think I’m looking good then? You still gonna call me your sweet Petunia?”

“Of course I will.”

“I’m not so sure. I haven’t had much lot of luck in my life, especially with men. Why should I be gettin’ lucky now?”

“I just look young Deborah. People always say I look younger than I am, same as you.”

“How old are you Sam?”

“About your age.”

“Little younger though, right?”

“It don’t matter. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore. Please!”

“Alright Sam.”

“Let me ask you something Deborah. First time we met at the restaurant, you said your husband hung himself. Then, when we got together that night, you told me you hated him so much, you could have shot him.”

“That’s right.”

“And then I asked you, if by ‘could have,’ you meant ‘would like to have’ or ‘might have.’ You remember what your answer was? You said it could have gone either way.”

“I did say that. You’re right. You thought it was funny.”

“I did, and I still do. But you’ve never said another word about your husband since. You won’t ever talk about what happened between the two of you. Why?”

“It was awful Sam. The most awful thing you can imagine. I feel bad for not talkin’ about it with you, I really do. And I will someday, I promise. I just can’t right now.”

“Can’t because it’s too difficult for you, or can’t because something bad might happen if you did?”

“What are you trying to get at here Sam?”

“Did you kill your husband Deborah?”

“Nah, I didn't kill him. I didn't need to. He was killing himself.”

“What do you mean?”

“He couldn’t live life. I don’t think he ever knew what it was like to be alive. And it made him feel dead, dead and angry. He was a violent man.”

“Did he beat you?”

“Sure he did. ’Till I was black and blue. ’Till I couldn’t walk, or even sit down.”

“You feel you had cause to kill him?”

“Yeah, I do, but I didn’t. But he did something worse than beating me Sam.”

“What?”

“He lied to me. All the time. Up and down. Everyday. Just to do it. Even when there was no reason for it. He knew I hated it, so he did it more, and more, and more. But he was a sly one. I couldn’t always tell for sure if he was lying, and he knew it. He played with it. Sometimes he’d tell the truth, and sometimes he’d lie, ’till I never knew what was for real. And I’d cry. I’d cry so hard! And he’d say, ‘What’s wrong with you, Debbie?,’ and he’d beat me some more. Two hours later, he said he didn’t remember doing it. Next day, he swore he never done it.”  

“He must have known he done it.”

“Sure he did. Maybe he tried not to, I don’t know, but it don’t matter either way.”

“Geez, Deborah. I don’t know what to say. I shouldn’t have asked you about it. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do nothing wrong Sam. You didn’t know.”

“Oh honey, come here. I’d do anything to make that pain go away.” '

“I know you would Sam, but I can’t let you see me when I think about him.”

“Why?”

“’Cause you wouldn’t like what you see.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I play it over and over in my head.”

“What?”

“I walk in that garage, and I slip the noose around his neck. Then I tighten it, until his eyes almost bust out. But not enough to kill him. I make sure of that. I torture him. I torture his mind. I laugh at him wiggling in that noose. I say, ‘Aw honey, what’s wrong? Why you squirming like that? Here, let me ease that a little for you. That’s better, isn’t it love? Why would anyone want to hurt you? Why on earth would anyone want to hurt you? It ain’t right. You would never hurt me. I know you wouldn’t, honey. I know how much you love me. Here, let me tighten that up a little more for you. Wouldn’t want to see you fall down and cry. I only want to make you happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, is to make you happy.’

I play it over, and over, and over ’till I can’t take it anymore or ’till I’m bored. Then, I raise a shot gun, take a step back, look him square in the eye, and I blow his fuckin’ brains out all over the garage, blood everywhere. Then I just stand there, not laughin’ no more, not cryin’, not tremblin’, not happy, not sad, not even satisfied with what I done. I just look at him hanging there, for hours if I got the time. Fucking bastard. Ain’t no way I can let you see that Sam. I feel evil when it happens. I am evil when it happens. More evil than Lucifer himself. More evil than anyone that’s ever been.”

“You’re not evil Deborah. You could never be evil. You’re the kindest, most loving woman I’ve ever known. God knows you are. The Father knows. What I don’t understand is why The Father would hurt you like that, his own creation. Why would He do that to you? Why would He sit there on his throne and let that happen? Why would He do it to any of his children?”

“Sam?”

“What honey?”  

“Have you really worked on the farm for 28 years?”

“I have Deborah. Yes, I have.”

“What did you do before that?”

“You mean for work?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh Geez, it’s been a long time. I’ve done a lot of jobs…”

“Which one maybe you done the most?”

“I worked in a tavern for a couple years.”

“What did you do?”

“First, I worked in the kitchen, washing dishes mainly. Then, I was a bar back, and eventually, bar tender.”

“Did you like being a bar tender Sam?”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s interesting. You get to understand people.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, people who sit at the bar for a while, especially the regulars, and especially men, they tell you a lot, a lot about themselves, even their whole life stories sometimes. Of course you wanna get them liquored up, so you talk to them, you listen to them. You figure out what they want to hear, what makes them happy, what makes them sad, what they don’t want to know about themselves. Especially that, what they don’t want to know about themselves. So you help them. You help them pull the wool over their eyes.”

“Where did you work?”

“Like I said, first in the kitchen and then at the bar.”

“No, I mean what town?”

“Geez, Deborah, it’s been so long. I don’t remember... Oh, you know where it was? Milwaukee! In Milwaukee! Ain’t that funny? What a coincidence!”

“You told me you never been to Milwaukee Sam.”

“No…”

“Yeah you did Sam, first time we met at the restaurant. You asked me where I was from. I said Milwaukee, and you said you’d never been there.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Sam? How old are you? Really? Please, don’t lie to me Sam. I don’t care how old you are, I just want to know. Please Sam. Sam? Sam!? Sam! What’s wrong!?”

“I don’t know. I can’t breathe right.”

“Oh God, Sam! I think you’re having a heart attack. Don’t die Sam! Please! Please don’t die! Don’t die!”