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Keith Sanders was awarded First Place in drama in the 2009 Prison Writing Contest.
Every Day's Your Birthday
The SETTING is a small apartment with an entrance stage right, the living/dining area center, and a small kitchenette at left. A table and two chairs are placed more in the kitchenette than the dining area. In the kitchenette is a walk-in pantry behind a draped curtain. A small, cluttered bureau sits against the wall upstage left, and next to it is an entrance to the apartment’s other rooms.
Dozens of potted flowers—daffodil, asters, columbines, hyacinths, etc.—and plants—ficus, spider plants, ivies, etc.—occupy much of the living/dining area, obscuring the rest of the furniture. All except a small, healthy-looking impatiens in a dark corner, are in various stages of decline, tinging the set with mottled greens, drab browns, and faded yellows, reds, and purples. The only other color comes from a vibrant poinsettia, in all its greens and reds and foil wrapping, sitting on the table amid boxes and all manner of gardening supplies and implements.
SCENE 1
(The scene opens with Hank, a man just past middle-age in surprisingly good shape—his physicality contrasting sharply with his withered mental capacity—administering to his plants and flowers. He mutters companionably to them as he tends them and is oblivious to their state of health. Shortly, his wife, Sarah, enters. She closes the door and crosses wearily to the table. She pushes aside some of the things on the table and sets down her purse and a plastic bag weighted down with a single canned good. Sarah takes off her faded overcoat, revealing a nurse’s uniform, and sits down visibly relieved. A short pause.)
Sarah: (Noticing the poinsettia) Hank—not another one.
Hank: (Turning around) Yes, yes. I didn’t hear you come in. (Crossing to the table) Beautiful, isn’t it? A little early for them, but . . . (Hank inspects the poinsettia.)
Sarah: You promised me you wouldn’t buy any more until we got caught up some, Hank. (Massaging a calf) I had to walk home—
Hank: No, no. Nick had the nursery send it.
(Sarah sighs.)
Sarah: Just because I told him not to. I don’t want him encouraging you all the time. Hank.
Hank: It’s for my birthday. Don’t you like it?
Sarah: (Looking at all the things on the table) Every day’s your birthday around here. (Beat) He sent you all this?
Hank: Yes, yes. They delivered it this morning.
Sarah: Hank.
Hank: They’ve been so nice.
(Hank opens a box.)
Sarah: Hank.
Hank: Nick made a good impression there.
Sarah: What else did Nick send you?
Hank: They still like him even though he left them for Trinity Gardens. The nursery’s been very helpful delivering everything for me.
(Short pause.)
Sarah: Hank. (Silence.) He only sent you the flower, didn’t he?
Hank: Yes, yes. They delivered it this morning. Beautiful, isn’t it?
(Sarah sighs again, shaking her head. She reaches for the plastic bag and takes out a can of yams.)
Sarah: A can of yams, Hank.
Hank: I like yams.
(Sarah sets down the can and pulls off her shoes.)
Sarah: A double-shift and then—yams, Hank.
(Hank crosses, kneels, and begins massaging her feet.)
Hank: I’m sorry.
Sarah: Not that—oh Hank, how much did all this cost? I was going to cook your favorite Saturday—a big, juicy pot roast with baby onions and new potatoes, and yams just the way you like them—with brown sugar and marshmallows.
Hank: I like yams.
Sarah: A nice birthday dinner . . . (Beat) I had everything on the counter and the check—they wouldn’t accept it. Overdrawn they said. I looked in my purse to see—but . . . all I had was bus fare. (Short pause.) I bought the yams, Hank. (Tiredly) Happy birthday.
Hank: I like yams, Sarah. Thank you. (He stands up, takes a card from the poinsettia, and hands it to Sarah.) He’s not coming.
Sarah: (She puts the card down without looking at it) I guess we can get by until Friday . . . unless your pension check is late again.
Hank: Nick said the titan arum is finally blooming and can’t make it Saturday.
Sarah: (Distractedly) I know, Hank.
(Sarah puts on her shoes, rises, and begins taking boxes into the pantry.)
Hank: I’m glad . . . I was there when the titan arum first arrived. I’d just made head custodian and was supervising. There’s only a couple dozen in captivity—they’re incredibly rare. And . . . and it never bloomed while I was there. I kept waiting . . . . They bloom only once every ten years or so, and I missed it. (Sarah notices an envelope underneath a box; she opens it and reads the letter inside.) But Nick’s there. He’s not going to miss—he’s the head botanist’s assistant and can’t miss—
Sarah: (Cutting him off as she quickly crosses, waving the letter) Hank, what have you done—what happened to the rent money?
(Hank looks at the plants.)
Hank: You’re upsetting them, Sarah.
Sarah: You’re upsetting me. The envelope, Hank. Last week—the one I told you to give to the manager—for the rent, Hank. What did you do with it?
(Hank slowly crosses to the bureau, opens a drawer, and takes out an envelope. Sarah eagerly opens it, only to find it empty.)
Sarah: (Exasperated) Hank—the money. That was inside this. Where—we were already two weeks behind. (Silence, then a long sigh of frustration escapes her.) You told me you didn’t owe the nursery anymore money, Hank. Hank—why?
(Beat.)
Hank: The ficus has a fungus and the trillium, the one over there by the spider plants, it looks wan and—etiolated it’s called—and it needs more nitrates and—
Sarah: Hank, this is an eviction notice.
Hank: The nursery—they said—
Sarah: That money was for the rent. And you just spent what was left in the checking account too. Hank, that was all the money we had. This is serious, Hank. They can put us out in the streets. We can’t afford another place—not on your pension and what I make at the hospital. Oh, Hank . . . (Sarah sits down, exhausted.)
Hank: I’m sorry. (Long pause. Sarah looks around the apartment, settles her gaze on the unopened boxes on the table.)
Sarah: There might be . . . . (She rises, crosses to the pantry, and looks inside) You haven’t opened— (She quickly crosses back to the table, picking up the eviction notice and reads it again) It says we have two weeks. Two weeks, Hank. We might have enough—no, that is enough time. We can get the money by then. (Short pause; she looks at the plants.) Hank, I want you to take out everything in the pantry that you haven’t opened. Get everything ready so I can take it all back to the nursery.
Hank: (Shaking his head) But they need—
Sarah: Hank, please. This is important. (Crossing to look at some of the flowers.) Your pension check will help some, but . . . I don’t know how much we can get for these things.
Hank: (Adamant) No, no, Sarah.
Sarah: Yes, Hank. (She crosses to the bureau, takes out some paper, tape, and a marker, and begins to make FOR SALE signs.) We don’t have anything else. We have to sell them, if we can. I’ll figure out something else later. We might even have to get rid of this old thing—and some of the furniture, too.
Hank: No, no. I just can’t—but they haven’t done anything wrong, Sarah—
Sarah: (Losing patience) You’re right. They didn’t do anything wrong. (She takes a deep breath; softer.) Hank, it’s either them, and whatever we can sell, or us. We can’t get evicted, Hank. You have to understand this. They have to go—all of them. We don’t have any choice about it, Hank.
(Pause.)
Hank: Maybe Nick can—I can call Nick—
Sarah: (Throwing down the marker) You will do no such thing, Hank.
Hank: Maybe he wants to help . . .
Sarah: If Nick wanted to help he wouldn’t’ve moved out. (She finishes the signs.) I can do this—we can do this, Hank. We don’t need him. I’ll talk to my supervisor about working more double-shifts, at least until we get this settled. We’ll return all that stuff to the nursery and sell whatever else we can. It’ll all work out, Hank. I promise. I can do this. Now go in there and take out everything you haven’t opened yet. Okay, Hank? (Hank nods sullenly.) I’m going downstairs to put up these signs and try to spread the word. Come on, Hank. We can do this.
(Sarah EXITS. Hank looks around at the boxes on the table, then to his plants and flowers. Slowly, he returns to them as he was at the opening of the scene, muttering encouragingly to them.)
SCENE 2
A week later. The SETTING remains the same, except a few plants and flowers are missing. The poinsettia still sits on the table, browning and losing its color.
(The scene opens with Sarah leading out a neighbor, who is carrying a small, anemic spider plant.)
Sarah: Thank you.
(Sarah closes the door and removes several bills from a pocket. She counts the money, shaking her head at the paucity. As she crosses to the table, someone insistently knocks on the door.)
Sarah: (As she crosses to the door) Hold on, hold on. I’m coming. (She opens the door and her son, Nick—a young man in his early twenties—ENTERS.) What do you want?
Nick: What’s going on, Mom?
Sarah: (As she crosses to the table) Your father’s birthday was last week.
(Nick closes the door and follows her.)
Nick: You know I had to work. (Sarah sits down and looks silently at him.) Look, an old co-worker from the nursery called me yesterday. What’s going on?
Sarah: I see.
Nick: You’ve been bringing things back to the nursery, Mom. Why?
(Beat.)
Sarah: You don’t come when I call and ask you to stop by for your father’s birthday, but when an old coworker calls, you run right over.
Nick: Mom—
Sarah: You’re missing work now.
Nick: I’m off today, Mom. (Short pause.) I want to talk to Dad.
Sarah: He’s resting. I don’t want you disturbing him.
(Pause. Nick looks around at the plants, then to the poinsettia on the table. He feels its soil, then crosses to the kitchenette for a glass of water.)
Nick: I saw the signs downstairs. (He returns with a glass of water and waters the flower.) You’re making him get rid of them.
Sarah: I’m not making him do anything. He wants to sell them. That’s all.
Nick: Why would he want—Mom, he’s been growing things in here since before I was born. He wouldn’t just . . . . Look, do you need money or something, because I can—
Sarah: (Standing up and cutting him off) It’s none of your business, Nicholas.
Nick: I can’t be concerned with you two? Mom—
Sarah: Mom nothing. You didn’t show all this concern when you moved out.
Nick: (Exasperated) How can you say that? You’re the one who said it was a good idea. You practically pushed me out the door.
Sarah: Keep your voice down. I told you your father’s resting.
Nick: (Patiently now) Mom, look—do you need me to move back? I will if—
Sarah: No.
Nick: Does Dad need—
Sarah: We don’t need you or your money.
(Nick sighs and walks among the plants and flowers. Sarah sits down as Nick looks at the healthy impatiens.)
Nick: I don’t see what you’re wanting to get for them. They’re not in too good of shape.
Sarah: Why should that surprise you? Nothing’s changed since you left, Nick.
Nick: He’s still trying though. Not as good as he used to be, but—
Sarah: They need fresh air and sunshine.
Nick: He’s doing a good job with the impatiens.
Sarah: That’s because he hasn’t touched that one since he got it. Don’t come here and act like you know what you’re talking about, Nick. I’m not your father—I’m not confused about what you really do at Trinity Gardens.
Nick: Dad’s not confused. And I don’t have to be an expert to see they’re—
Sarah: We’ve sold plenty. (Beat.) Why do you insist on lying to him?
Nick: (Turning and crossing back to the table) Lie? Is that why you’re mad—look, it doesn’t matter what I do at the Gardens—or what I tell him I do. If it makes Dad happy to think I’m a botanist—
Sarah: I told him.
Nick: Mom—
Sarah: I told him last week, when you said you weren’t coming for his birthday. I’m not going to lie for you, Nick.
(Beat.)
Nick: What did you tell him, Mom?
Sarah: The truth. That you sell popcorn at the concession stand.
(Short pause.)
Nick: Mom. (Beat.) What’d he say when you told him?
Sarah: (Sighing, and tiredly) He didn’t believe me and then . . . then forgot I told him.
Nick: Good for him.
Sarah: No, it’s not good, Nick. I told you, nothing’s changed since you moved out. If anything, he’s gotten worse. He’s getting—I don’t know, Nick.
Nick: He’s cooped up in here all day, Mom.
Sarah: That doesn’t have anything to do with it.
Nick: I can still get him a job at the nursery, Mom. Let him get some—
Sarah: And how is he supposed to get there and even make it back home? You remember what happened that time I sent him downstairs to get the mail. (She waves off Nick, who is about to make an objection) You need to hear the truth, too. You know he ended up four blocks away at the dry cleaners looking for those uniforms he hasn’t worn in three years. Nick, your father retired for a reason. Look at them. He can’t even take care of watering a few plants anymore. And you want him to go back to work as though he can still function out there. He can barely get by alone here. You need to realize that, Nick. The sooner the better. He’s not the same as when you were a child. And you’re not helping him by lying to him, by letting him think there’s nothing wrong with him.
Nick: Mom, I don’t—I know he’s . . . I just want him to be happy.
Sarah: Your father needs to face what’s happening to him. He needs the truth.
Nick: I got that, Mom. But . . . but how is it going to help to tell him I’m not a botanist at Trinity? That’ll just make things worse, Mom. You know how much he wanted—
(Sarah holds out the eviction notice, interrupting him.)
Sarah: Here.
(Nick slowly crosses to take the paper from her.)
Sarah: You think he’s going to be happy living in some shelter or down at the Y? That’s how worse things can get, Nick. That’s what happens when you let him live the lie that he can still function normally. I give him the rent money and he—he forgot or got confused or what have you and spent all of it—everything, Nick, at the nursery. And all the money we had in the checking account. So his happiness doesn’t concern me as much as where we’re going to live if I don’t get the rest of the rent money by next week.
Nick: But Mom—
Sarah: No. (She takes back the notice) Don’t Mom me now.
Nick: But if you knew he couldn’t—you couldn’t trust him, why’d you let him take care of it?
Sarah: (Testily) Because I can’t be five places at once. I can’t leave in the middle of my shift and come home and pay the rent. The new manager wants the money hand-delivered to him personally and the lazy you-know-what doesn’t even wake up until ten or so in the morning.
Nick: You could talk to him, explain—
Sarah: And all he’ll say is, You got that notice, right? No. We were already late as it was. I didn’t have any choice but to let your father handle it. And look what happened. (Holding up the notice) I don’t want to hear any more talk about your father knowing what he needs—about just letting him be happy. It’s going to put us out in the streets and in the poorhouse.
(Beat.)
Nick: I’ll go to the manager and try—
Sarah: Nicholas—
Nick: But I can’t—Mom, you can’t expect me to just stand by while you and Dad get evicted. Especially when I can stop it from happening.
Sarah: There’s nothing you can do, Nick. You can barely survive working at that concession stand.
(Beat.)
Nick: Mom—I own that stand.
Sarah: What?
Nick: I own all three at the Gardens, Mom.
Sarah: Nicholas—
Nick: I’m not making this up for your benefit, Mom. I’m serious. That’s why I couldn’t come last week. I was wrapping the deal up.
Sarah: Nick, but why—why would you buy?
Nick: Remember the first time you took me to Trinity Gardens? Dad was just a glorified janitor then, but he acted like he ran the place. He took us to see the butterflies.
Sarah: I remember. I didn’t like them.
Nick: (Smiling) I love them, Mom. All those fritillaries and crescents and blues and swallowtails, even monarchs.
Sarah: Stop. I get the willies every time I think about that. They scared me, Nick. Just too many of them—swarming around us like bees or something.
Nick: (Laughs) Butterflies, Mom. And the smell of popcorn. Everywhere you go, popcorn competes with the smells of gardens and forests and some of the animals they keep there. It never wins, but . . . I’ve always loved that smell, and the Gardens, since then, Mom. And I get to smell it everyday now. (Beat.) Mom, I don’t have a lot, but I can help you two with this. Please, let me help, Mom.
(Pause. Sarah walks among the plants.)
Sarah: No butterflies here.
Nick: No, Mom.
(Beat.)
Sarah: But I’m still scared . . .
Nick: Mom.
(Short pause.)
Sarah: No. (Beat; then with feigned determination) I can do it myself. I’m not helpless.
Nick: (Softly) I never said you were, Mom.
Sarah: I’ll sell the rest of these. A week’s a long time. I’m already working double-shifts. And we got your father’s pension check last Friday. Small wonders—it actually came on time. (Beat.) We’ll make it. I’ll make it.
Nick: (Crossing to her) Mom.
Sarah: I’ll make it. (Pause; Nick hugs Sarah and kisses her on the top of her head.) I don’t want to hear any more about it, Nick. (Nick lets her go and looks at her; Sarah is silent and Nick reluctantly crosses to the door.) Nick. (Nick stops and turns expectantly.) Congratulations.
Nick: Thanks, Mom.
Sarah: (As Nick hesitates at the door) Now go.
(Nick shakes his head, opens the door and EXITS. Sarah stares at the closed door and then sits down. Long pause. Hank ENTERS groggily, shuffling in.)
Hank: I thought— (Beat.) Nick. I heard Nick.
Sarah: No one’s here.
Hank: Nick was here.
Sarah: No one but me.
(Hank looks around and then slowly shuffles back out. Sarah wearily puts her head down in her arms on the table.)
CURTAIN
SCENE 3
A week later, the day before the eviction. There are several boxes on the floor and table. The poinsettia sits on the table, brown and limp.
(Sarah ENTERS carrying a few items. She desultorily packs, arranging and rearranging things listlessly. Hank looks after his plants, entirely absorbed in them.)
Sarah: (Taking out an old alarm clock) We’re not taking this. (She tries to wind it up.) I don’t think it has worked since Nick was in junior high. (She sets down the clock, goes through another box and takes out miscellaneous items.) We can’t take all this stuff, Hank. The man at the Y said necessities only. We—
(Sarah is interrupted by a knock at the door. She pauses. Again the knocking—harder, insistent. Sarah crosses but does not open the door. A series of rapid, anxious knocks. Sarah gathers herself and opens the door. She blinks at the sight of an unfamiliar man. She wavers slightly, then Nick ENTERS quickly and motions for the man to ENTER too. The man ENTERS a bit uncertainly.)
Sarah: (Recovering) Nick, what’re—who is this? Nicholas.
(Hank, on hearing his son’s name, turns and smiles. The man tentatively steps further into the apartment and looks around as Sarah eyes him suspiciously.)
Hank: Nick! It’s great to see you, son.
(They embrace.)
Nick: Dad. Come on.
Hank: What—I can’t hug my son anymore? Yes, yes.
(Hank hugs Nick one more time.)
Nick: Dad—
Sarah: Who is this man, Nick?
(Hank drifts back to his plants.)
Nick: Did you—Mom, you’re packing.
Sarah: Never mind. I asked you a question.
Nick: I didn’t know if— (Beat; he motions for the man to come closer.) Mom, this is Mr. Allen. He’s an expert. A botanist from Trinity Gardens.
(This information penetrates Hank’s senses and he slowly crosses to Nick, looking Mr. Allen over.)
Hank: Which department? I don’t remember you.
Nick: (Quickly) He didn’t—he came after you retired, Dad. He’s the one who hired me, Dad. I’m his assistant.
Hank: (Smiling) Nick’s boss. (He wipes his hands on his pants) Nice to meet you. Yes, yes. Sarah, Nick’s boss.
Mr. Allen: (Shrugging, taking Hank’s hand) I do what I do.
Hank: I worked 35 years at the Gardens. Was there before they put in the aquarium and brought in all those butterflies. They were a mess, for sure.
Nick: Dad—
Hank: (Overlapping) Saw them one time scare a woman half to death. She didn’t know they were harmless and when they all began fluttering around her, she screamed and tried to run—scared me half to death. And her kid, she had her kid in a stroller and he laughed and laughed at all those butterflies. But when the woman started screaming and running, well—
Sarah: (Softly) Hank, that’s enough.
(Short pause.)
Nick: Dad. Mr. Allen wants to make you an offer—
Hank: (Frowning) Offer—offer? For what, son?
Nick: Your plants—
Hank: No, no. They’re not for sale. Son, whatever gave you that idea?
(Pause. Nick looks at Mr. Allen, then to Sarah.)
Nick: He’s not buying any of them, Dad.
Sarah: Then what?
Nick: Listen. (With a quick look at Mr. Allen) He’s—we’re doing—we’ve been doing research, Dad.
Mr. Allen: At the Gardens.
Nick: On plants. That are—
Mr. Allen: How—how they adapt to different . . .
Nick: Environments.
Mr. Allen: That’s it.
Nick: And one can’t, down at the Gardens—
Mr. Allen: Obviously.
Sarah: Obviously.
Nick: (With a look at Sarah) This is serious—important research. We have people all over the city helping us. Documenting—
Mr. Allen: Intensive research.
Nick: Recording pH concentrations, translocation rates, soil ecology—
Mr. Allen: We need to determine the viability of—the viablity of self-sustaining ecological niches.
Nick: Ecological niche. That’s what you have here, Dad.
Mr. Allen: We need to determine—to research how plants survive being cooped up in a—
Nick: (Quickly, with a look at Mr. Allen) Without direct sunlight and access to stimuli—
Mr. Allen: Stimuli, that’s it. And a daily log, to record everything, that you will mail to us every week.
Nick: Mail to me.
Mr. Allen: Yes, that’s correct. My assistant will take care of it.
Nick: And once a month—
Mr. Allen: We will visit and ensure that you are performing all the required duties and terms of our agreement—
Nick: Mr. Allen will probably be too busy—
Mr. Allen: Busy, yes. I am quite busy these days. Head of the botany department and all that.
Nick: So he’ll be sending me.
Mr. Allen: Every month.
Sarah: Every month.
Nick: Maybe more, if—
Mr. Allen: (To Nick) You were right. He does seem to be the right man for the job.
Hank: Job?
Sarah: How much?
Mr. Allen: So do you feel up to it then?
Nick: What do you think, Dad?
Hank: (Uncertain) I don’t know.
Sarah: (Crossing to Mr. Allen) How much?
(Mr. Allen looks at Nick, who nods slightly to him.)
Mr. Allen: I’m—
Nick: Trinity Gardens.
Mr. Allen: Yes. I mean Trinity Gardens is prepared to offer you, ah, five hundred dollars.
Sarah: For what?
Nick: For the research, Mom.
(Long pause.)
Sarah: (Crossing to Hank) I think he’s up to it.
Hank: I’ll be busy, but—
Sarah: Isn’t it what you’re already doing?
Hank: Yes, yes.
Sarah: The only difference— (She looks at Nick) You just have to write everything down.
(Nick nods.)
Hank: (Getting excited) Yes, yes. I can do that—I can write it all down. I just— (He goes through the drawers in the bureau, takes out some pens, paper, and index cards) I can use these for soil temperature and I can make—see, Sarah, to figure out the translocation rate—
Sarah: No, don’t try, Hank. Give me the paper. I can—
Hank: (Serious) No, no. They want me, Sarah.
Sarah: Well, I could do the writing, then. Your handwriting—
Hank: (A glimpse of his former self coming through) What would you do if I came down to the hospital and tried to help you change bedpans and put IV’s into your patients' arms?
Sarah: (Smiling) Read you the riot act.
Hank: Exactly. (To Mr. Allen) Consider me in your employ, sir.
Mr. Allen: (Shaking Hank’s outstretched hand) No problem, really— (to Nick) Then that’s it? I, ah, I’ve got work to do.
Nick: The check.
Mr. Allen: Yes. Here you go.
(Mr. Allen holds it out to Nick, but Nick motions for Sarah to take it. She does so reluctantly.)
Sarah: (To Nick) Thank you.
(Beat.)
Mr. Allen: I’m sorry, but, uh, I’ve really got to go. I’ll be seeing you.
Hank: Thank you.
Mr. Allen: (As he pauses at the door) Yeah. (Beat.) Yeah, you’re welcome.
(Mr. Allen EXITS. Hank slowly drifts back to his plants. The paper, pens, and index card are gradually forgotten as Hank becomes absorbed in them. Nick crosses closer to Sarah.)
Nick: Thank you, Mom.
Sarah: (She absently continues to pack) For what? I haven’t done anything. I couldn’t even get enough.
Nick: Mom. (He takes her hand and keeps her from packing.) Don’t you think you should be unpacking? (Sarah realizes this, stops, sits down) You were actually going to move down to the Y?
Sarah: Better than behind the bus station.
(Beat.)
Nick: (Lowering his voice) Mom, I didn’t tell him—I lied to Dad because . . .
Sarah: I know, Nick.
Nick: Because I love him. I just couldn’t—Mom, sometimes we have to lie to the ones we love and care about. We don’t want to but . . . . (Beat.) He’s not going to remember any of this, is he? (Sarah shakes her head.) But you saw . . . just for a moment, he was Dad. (Sarah begins to cry softly.) Mom, I’m sorry.
Sarah: (Waving him off and wiping her eyes) No, no. It’s all right. I was happy—happy for him. He was here, Nick, he really was. (Short pause.) Your father’s not going to get any better . . .
Nick: Do you need me—
Sarah: No, Nick. I can manage.
Nick: Mom—
Sarah: I love you too, Nick. (Beat.)
Nick: I’m going to drop by more, just to make sure.
Hank: (As he notices Nick) Nick! Son, it’s great to see you.
(Hank crosses to Nick and hugs him.)
Nick: I only got a sec, Dad.
Sarah: He just came by to—
Nick: To give you this poinsettia. I’m afraid I didn’t do a very good job . . . (Hank shakes his head at the flower and goes about tending to it.)
Hank: It’s way too late for this, son. If you would’ve brought it over around my birthday, maybe we could’ve . . .
Nick: I’ve got to go, Mom. (She nods) It was good to see you, Dad. (Quietly) Happy birthday. (Nick and Sarah cross to the door as Hank drifts back to the other plants.) Happy birthday to you too, Mom.
Sarah: (Looking at him) Nicholas. You know full well— (She smiles, understanding.) Happy birthday, Nick.
Nick: Thank you, Mom. Bye, Dad. (To Sarah) Remember—
Sarah: Go on, get out of here. (She laughs) Before you tell me it’s the whole building’s birthday today.
Nick: It could be. Bye, Mom.
(Nick EXITS. Hank crosses to Sarah with a very small flower and gives it to her.)
Sarah: Hank!
Hank: For your birthday, Sarah. (She looks at the flower, then hugs Hank.) Every day’s your birthday, Sarah.
(Hank returns to his plants and Sarah watches him.)
Sarah: Yes. Yes, it is. (Softly) Happy birthday, Hank.
CURTAIN
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