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this area dims, typing begins offstage. The dim-out is completed
.]

SCENE FOUR
    A lighted area represents Mrs. Wire’s kitchen, in which she is preparing a big pot of gumbo despite the hour, which is midnight. She could be mistaken for a witch from
Macbeth
in vaguely modern but not new costume
.
    The writer’s footsteps catch her attention. He appears at the edge of the light in all that remains of his wardrobe: riding boots and britches, a faded red flannel shirt
.
    MRS. WIRE : Who, who?—Aw, you, dressed up like a jockey in a donkey race!
    WRITER :—My, uh, clothes are at the cleaners.
    MRS. WIRE : Do they clean clothes at the pawnshop, yeah, I reckon they do clean clothes not redeemed. Oh. Don’t go upstairs. Your room is forfeited, too.
    WRITER : . . . You mean I’m . . . ?
    MRS. WIRE : A loser, boy. Possibly you could git a cot at the Salvation Army.
    WRITER [
averting his eyes
]: May I sit down a moment?
    MRS. WIRE : Why, for what?
    WRITER : Eviction presents . . . a problem.
    MRS. WIRE : I thought you was gittin’ on the WPA Writers’ Project? That’s what you tole me when I inquired about your prospects for employment, you said, “Oh, I’ve applied for work on the WPA for writers.”
    WRITER : I couldn’t prove that my father was destitute, and thefact he contributes nothing to my support seemed— immaterial to them.
    MRS. WIRE : Why’re you shifty-eyed? I never seen a more shifty-eyed boy.
    WRITER : I, uh, have had a little eye trouble, lately.
    MRS. WIRE : You’re gettin’ a cataract on your left eye, boy, face it!—Cataracts don’t usually hit at your age.
    WRITER : I’ve noticed a lot of things have hit me— prematurely . . .
    MRS. WIRE [
stirring gumbo
]: Hungry? I bet. I eat at irregular hours. I suddenly got a notion to cook up a gumbo, and when I do, the smell of it is an attraction, draws company in the kitchen. Oh ho— footsteps fast. Here comes the ladies.
    WRITER : Mrs. Wire, those old ladies are starving, dying of malnutrition.
    [
Miss Carrie and Mary Maude appear at the edge of the lighted area with queer, high-pitched laughter or some bizarre relation to laughter
.]
    MRS. WIRE : Set back down there, boy. [
Pause
.] Why, Mizz Wayne an’ Miss Carrie, you girls still up at this hour!
    MISS CARRIE : We heard you moving about and wondered if we could . . .
    MARY MAUDE : Be of some assistance.
    MRS. WIRE : Shoot, Mrs. Wayne, do you imagine that rusty ole saucepan of yours is invisible to me? Why, I know when I putthis gumbo on the stove and lit the fire, it would smoke you ladies out of your locked room. What do you all do in that locked room so much?
    MARY MAUDE : We keep ourselves occupied.
    MISS CARRIE : We are compiling a cookbook which we hope to have published. A Creole cookbook, recipes we remember from our childhood.
    MRS. WIRE : A recipe is a poor substitute for food.
    MARY MAUDE [
with a slight breathless pause
]: We ought to go out more regularly for meals but our . . . our light bulbs have burned out, so we can’t distinguish night from day anymore. Only shadows come in.
    MISS CARRIE : Sshh! [
Pause
.] Y’know, I turned down an invitation to dinner this evening at my cousin Mathilde Devereau Pathet’s in the Garden District.
    MRS. WIRE : Objected to the menu?
    MISS CARRIE : No, but you know, very rich people are so inconsiderate sometimes. With four limousines and drivers at their constant disposal, they wouldn’t send one to fetch me.
    MRS. WIRE : Four? Limousines? Four drivers?
    [
A delicate, evanescent music steals in as the scene acquires a touch of the bizarre. At moments the players seem bewildered as if caught in a dream
.]
    MISS CARRIE : Oh, yes, four, four . . . spanking new Cadillacs with uniformed chauffeurs!
    MRS. WIRE : Now, that’s very impressive.
    MISS CARRIE : They call Mr. Pathet the “Southern Planter.”
    MRS. WIRE : Has