Better Places to Go

LINDA. A man from Tulsa?

JUDY. No, but he was heading in that direction. He was passing through.

LINDA. Why didn’t you go with him?

JUDY. He asked me to. I should’ve said yes. I don’t want my decision to become a regret. But I think it already has.

LINDA. Maybe he’ll come back.

JUDY. Maybe… I guess I’ve grown so accustomed to taking care of my father. He needs me. That’s why I decided to stay behind.

LINDA. Is he crippled?

JUDY. No. But he can’t get by on his own.

LINDA. I used to think the same thing about myself. But I’d rather be caught in a storm than to live underneath my father’s thumb. I don’t care what I have to do, I’m not going back there. I won’t raise my baby in that house, that town.

JUDY. Hell’s backyard is no place for a baby.

LINDA. And maybe Grand Island isn’t the right place for you.

JUDY. I lay awake at night thinking about him. I know that sounds crazy, but I can’t get that man off my mind. I hear his voice while I’m folding the laundry or while I’m making dinner. I stand at the sink, washing dishes and all I can think about is the touch of his hand on the back of my neck. (Amused:) I’ve cracked three glasses and chipped two plates in only seven days. I’m so turned around, I can barely remember my own name. I keep my eyes on the road, waiting for him to appear. Waiting for him to come back for me and take me away from all of this. I sit in that house, day after day and night after night and I am surrounded by memories of my mother. She was a wild woman. She ran off and ended up in the trunk of a car, covered in gasoline and her mouth stuffed with dirty rags, choking the life out of her. She was never a good mother. I don’t think she really liked us much. I think we were always in her way. Like we were a burden. People have never paid me much attention before. They see right through me. But he didn’t. He liked me and it made me feel something inside. I’m lonely and I think I’ve been lonely for a long time. But it wasn’t until I met him that I realized how much the loneliness was killing me. (Beat.) God, I want to be married, Linda. I want to have a house of my own with nice wallpaper and clean carpet. (Beat.) I want children.

LINDA. I wish you were my mother.

JUDY. (After a moment:) Maybe I could be.

LUCILLE. (She enters from the main entrance, wet from the rain. LUCILLE is a woman in her sixties, flamboyant and odd. Her fascination with aliens has invaded her wardrobe, as she resembles a walking science project, complete with a rocket-like backpack. She is a conversation piece and she thrives on this, relishes in the attention.) This is different than I thought it would be. This is where she was killed?

JUDY. Lucille—

LUCILLE. Was this where it happened, Judy? Answer me.

JUDY. Right here. In front of God and everyone. I’m so sorry—

LUCILLE. I was expecting something else. I thought there would be blood and yellow police tape and chalk lines where her body was. (Beat.) Where’s the FBI? Didn’t anyone collect the evidence? I thought it would be like Law and Order. (To Linda because she’s there:) I like that program.

JUDY. The sheriff was here for an hour. And the coroner.

LUCILLE. I’ve already been there. I took one look at her and said, “Well, she looks a little swollen, but that’s her. That’s my ungrateful granddaughter.”

JUDY. (Unsure how to react:) You must be torn apart right now.

LUCILLE. It’s a very sad situation, but let’s be honest. (A secret:) No one exactly liked her. I knew she’d fall into an early grave.

JUDY. Lucille, you’re upset right now. You don’t understand what you’re saying.

LUCILLE. You’re expecting me to cry? I’ve already been through this before. I’ve lost two husbands — one to cancer and one to Vietnam. My son has been arrested twice. My daughter left town with her head hung low and her bra tucked in her purse. I’ve known grief in my lifetime, Judy, but this ain’t it. Rosie chose her own path. The minute she got mixed up with that man, she was sealing her fate. Her mother at least did the right thing and left town before this place killed her. Rosie might’ve been my only grandchild, but she was never my pride and joy. She lived with me for free, ate my food, slept in my house, wore me out with her constant complaining. There was no love lost between us. She was a very angry girl. She hated the world.

JUDY. Well, if there’s anything I can do—

LUCILLE. Thank you, Judy. I appreciate that. I’ll be boxing up her things this weekend. Come by and pick them up. Give ‘em to the church if you want. I got no use for ‘em.

JUDY. The church will gladly accept your donation.

LUCILLE. Well, they should. They’ve been cashing my checks for thirty-two years.

JUDY. You give money to the church?

LUCILLE. I don’t have to spend time in that place to talk to God. I can do that at home without all of those eyes staring at me and those mouths whispering about me when I walk by. (Again, to Linda:) This whole town thinks I’m crazy.

JUDY. We didn’t know where you were. When the sheriff was here, he said they couldn’t find you.

LUCILLE. (Excited:) I was out in the fields. There was a sighting in Kearney two nights ago. It shouldn’t be long, Judy. They know I’m ready to go.

LINDA. Go where?

LUCILLE. You’re not from Grand Island, are you?

LINDA. No, ma’am. I’m from Harmonville.

LUCILLE. A place the pioneers should’ve destroyed.

JUDY. This is Linda. She’s—

LUCILLE. About eight months pregnant.

LINDA. Seven and a half.

LUCILLE. And either homeless or single or both. Your folks turn their backs on you?

JUDY. I don’t think Linda’s relations are of our concern.

LINDA. My boyfriend Alfred was mean to me. I left him at a gas station and I came here.

LUCILLE. You should have waited for another hundred miles. This place is better seen through a passing window.

JUDY. Then why have you stayed so many years?

LUCILLE. My house is paid for. Besides, this is alien country.

LINDA. (Terrified:) Alien?

LUCILLE. You ever see Close Encounters of the Third Kind?

LINDA. No, ma’am.

LUCILLE. What about ET?

LINDA. I don’t think so.

LUCILLE. I made Rosie watch ET about thirty times. She hated that movie. She said he looked like a pork roast. I didn’t really care for it much — it wasn’t very genuine. But the more she hated it, the more I wanted to watch it. You see, little Linda, I believe that life exists on other planets. I don’t mean places like Mars or Jupiter or Saturn. I’m talking about undiscovered territory. The wild west of the Milky Way. There’s another world out there — probably tens of thousands of them. A form of life with higher intelligence — intelligence we idiot humans couldn’t even begin to understand. A few years ago, I was planting marigolds around midnight — about two dozen seeds. I had insomnia and my rheumatism was in remission. I was wide awake and feeling spry. My hands were in the dirt and I heard a noise. It was like a soft whistle, a teakettle. So I looked up to the sky and I saw the most beautiful lights. They were shiny silver and purple and they glowed and the sky above my house lit up and I was blinded for a second, from the brightness and the beauty. And this sudden sense of calmness just crept over me like a warm bath. I can’t even describe it to you in words but I know what I saw. It took my breath away. I know it was not of this world. They were trying to communicate with me, making these gentle whistling sounds like a thousand lullabies. It was a symphony of sorts. Like the voices of angels. At first, I