Incomparable Fanny Barnwarmer 15

by Jay Squires

The end of the previous scene: The Reporter is perplexed, but won’t let go of the idée fixe, despite Fanny’s insistence to the contrary, that the very determined Mrs. Albright at some point transferred her commitment to murder Thurston Flourney to her daughter, Juniper. That all changed when Fanny explains that Elizabeth Albright died after her second stroke … but before telling her daughter about her assassination plans … to which the Reporter says, “But … But somebody had to [tell her].” …. Fanny leaves us with the words, “Yep. Somebody did.”

Act III
Scene 4

CHARACTERS:
Fanny Barnwarmer: Eighty-five-year-old woman with plenty of spark and sizzle still in her. Has been performing at the Tavern for forty-four years.
Reporter: Mid-thirties. Works for the New York Times, on assignment in Brady, Texas to write a human-interest story on the famous Fanny Barnwarmer.
Herbie: Son of Brady Inn’s owner. Has been given the assignment to take the Reporter to the train station.

SETTING: Front porch of Fanny Barnwarmer’s home. Rocking chair, DOWNSTAGE RIGHT, facing kitchen chair, CENTER, and front steps behind, which descend to street level with a flowerbed to the side. OFFSTAGE LEFT, street sounds of traffic: of vintage 1929 cars, some horse whinnying, etc., that continue as a kind stew of white-noise background throughout the scene.

PLACE/TIME: Brady Texas, 3:45 P.M., Sunday, August 11, 1929

AT RISE: The REPORTER is clearly anxious. He keeps removing his pocket watch, then glances over his shoulder to the street and back to FANNY who appears calm, but puzzled.

REPORTER:
Well, this is a fine kettle of fish, Miss Fanny. Here it is, fifteen minutes before my train leaves, and you drop those two words in my lap, “Somebody did.” Somebody knew of Elizabeth Albright’s plot to assassinate Thurston Flourney.
(Beat)
Well?

FANNY:
Young man, Alls I be tryin’ to do is to kindly slip you in my haid … so y'all be lookin' out through my eyes—so’s y'all be a’learnin’ what I learned, yep, 'zactly when I learned it. When ’Lizabeth died, the furth’rest thin from me’n my Juni’s mind ’as Thurston Flourney. Firstes’ thing, theys the readin’ o’ the will.
(Knits her fingers and gazes at the ceiling)
’Lizabeth was a gen’rous person. Her sistrin—y’all rec’lect Ain’t Pikki?

[From OFFSTAGE LEFT, Herbie’s voice rises above the street sounds and captures their attention]

HERBIE:
Mister Holmdahl— ’scuse me, Mister Holmdahl.

REPORTER:
(Turning to see HERBIE ascending the stairs)
Yes, I know, I know. It’s inevitable. The train waits for no one, and we’re barely at the reading of the will.
(Standing, he hands the album back to FANNY)
Miss Fanny, this must remain unfinished for now. We can try to reconnect by post, but … but given our indirect way of communicating, that might not work. The telephone, for long spells, well, that won't—

HERBIE:
(Holding up an interrupting hand)
No, no, Mr. Holmdahl. They’s no problem. See… they’s a busted rail a few mile outta Brady. Pro’ly near fixed by now, but th’ train be delayed ’leastways an hour.

REPORTER:
Outstanding! If you can just give us fifteen more minutes …
(Looking hopefully at FANNY, who merely smiles back at him)

FANNY:
(Holding out the album to the REPORTER
’Specktin’ you best hold this fer a spell longer.

[He takes it back but with a puzzled look; HERBIE descends steps and exits]

FANNY, Continues:
So, you ’member Ain’t Pikki?

REPORTER:
The one Miss Juniper ran to when her Mama had the stroke …?

FANNY:
Thet be the one— ’Lizabeth’s sistrin. Well … she ’as gifted fifty-thousand dollars at the readin’ ’long with an’ envelope.

REPORTER:
An envelope.

FANNY:
An envelope—what was sealed.

REPORTER:
But … what did—

FANNY:
T’was sealed! Then ol’ Jasper Tindall, who be readin’ all the bequeathins, comes t’ my name, and I’s near floored when I hears that ’Lizabeth leaved me fifty-thousand, jes’ like Ain’t Pikki. I gets my envelope, too.

REPORTER:
Sealed, as well? Of course …

FANNY:
With red wax, like a squished bug. All was sealed thet way in them days.

REPORTER:
I don’t suppose …

FANNY:
I ain’t gon’ tell ya, young man.

REPORTER:
Oh … I see … Certainly …

FANNY:
’Accounta I have the letter—there in th’ album in y’alls lap. Next t’ th’ last page—the lastes’ page has the telegram o’ my Juni’s passin’—so one page ’afore thet.

[The REPORTER, carefully turns page after page, his eyes scanning left to right]

FANNY (Continues)
It’s writ in ’Lizabeth’s edge’cated lang’edge … so read it to me ....

REPORTER:
(Finding the letter, he spreads the open album atop his crossed thighs, his tablet and pencil beneath. He bends forward to read, then looks up at FANNY)
Just to get my head sequenced right, this was dated June seventeenth, eighteen-eighty-two. If I remember correctly, that was the year she had her first stroke?

FANNY:
Thet be.

REPORTER:
And just three years before you and Miss Juniper left for Brady.

FANNY:
A passel o’ thin’s happened in them three years—what be the biggest, far as my Juni’s concerned, I ain’t e’en tol’ you ’bout yet. I’s savin’ that fer after y’all read my letter. So … best be gittin’ on with it.

REPORTER:
(Having difficulty concealing his impatience)
Yes—I guess. Here goes:

Dear Daughter Fanny
I hope my including ‘Daughter’ before your name doesn’t startle you. I know I’ve never called you daughter before. When you first joined my family your dear mother was with us, as well as your brother, and my calling you daughter seemed inappropriate. But when your brother headed to Chicago and your mother later died, may she rest in peace … there had already existed between us a kind of proprietary distance.
But in my heart, you were always ‘daughter’ to me and the older sister that my little Juniper never had, owing to the pox that snatched away her rightful one.
So, now as I dip my quill in the inkpot and reflect on those years you’ve been with us, I realize in the fullness of this moment what has been weighing so heavily on me over these last seventeen years you’ve been with us.

REPORTER:
(Looking up from the letter to FANNY)
I can’t get over how articulately she writes. Do you suppose she had someone—

FANNY:
Robert ... when Mister Albright firs’ met ’Lizabeth, she be in college, thanks be to her mama, Sojourner Truth’s, rallyin’ an’ politickin’. But ’t’was Mister Albright what got ’Lizabeth’s poems printed in th’ paper.

REPORTER
A poet! Oh, my!
(Beat)
You know, Miss Fanny, what a burden being a poet must have been for Missus Albright. It meant she was in such close contact with her emotions that she couldn’t hide them from herself. The pain she must have felt in writing that letter. She needed a confidante so much! She needed to purge herself of all that—

FANNY:
You best be leavin’ that pergin’ t’y’alls sef an’ git on with the letter.

REPORTER:
You’re right, of course. It’s just that she seemed so close to spilling the beans, as they say. But I’ll go on.

I have been—I realize now—so consumed by my private grief over the cruel loss of Mr. Albright, and all that followed, that I fear I’ve sheltered my lovely Juniper overly. Singlehandedly, I denied her all but just the rudiments of public education instead of preparing her (and you, too, my dear Fanny) for the university education that her grandmother (my Beloved Mother) Sojourner Truth, has been working so tirelessly to guarantee for all women.
So … I have failed my Juniper and you (my other beloved daughter), the opportunity to find your rightful place in society. I will forever be begging your forgiveness.
The fact that you are reading this now, Dear Fanny, means my work has been done. I fear Heaven’s Gate remains closed to me until I face all my accusors and am cleansed of the sins of this life and worthy of donning the white robe and joining with my Tom on the other side.
But your work is just beginning. You are now the sole protector of my Juniper. Guide her wisely, and help her to understand my life’s choices and forgive me them.
Pray for me, my beloved daughter—forgive me and pray for me.
Mother.

REPORTER:
(Covertly brushing a knuckle over his eyes and smiling sheepishly at FANNY, who is, herself, daubing her eyes with a handkerchief which she then returns to the sleeve of her sweater.)
When she said
(Reading aloud)
"The fact that you are reading this now, dear Fanny, means my work has been done," it had been nothing short of a complete confession … knowing when you read this it would be after her execution for Thurston Flourney’s murder—instead of after her natural death.

FANNY:
Aye. ’Twould be thet.

REPORTER:
At some point, though, she had to realize that the letter she wrote and sealed in eighteen-eighty-two contained an unnecessary confession ... in that she would never be able to carry out her plans.

FANNY:
Yep.

REPORTER:
Well? Don’t you suppose she had time to instruct the bank to remove that letter from the vault and destroy it? To rewrite a more suitable one?

FANNY:
’Septin’ in her heart, an in her ’maginin’s, she already done it … an’ she kep on doin’ it—kep on murderin’ Thurston Flourney agin and agin—pro'ly ever day. I ’spect thet letter needed confessin’ in it more’n ever.

REPORTER:
Besides ... after her second stroke, she might have forgotten she even wrote the letter.

FANNY:
Nope. 'Spect she knowed.
(Beat)
Anyhow ... this ain’t gettin’ y’all closer to the heart o’ my Juni. I tol’ y’all afore thet a’ter you read the letter I be tellin’ ya ’bout the change thet be comin’ over her, thet took over her, an’ thet made her a Juni I ne’er knowed afore.

REPORTER:
Yes! The unanswered question—the missing link!

FANNY:
’Specktin’ y’all be lookin’ in all th’ wrong places fer yer questions t’answer an’ links t’ find.
(Beat)
A short spell a’ter ’Lizabeth’s second stroke—jes’ days a’ter—Ain’t Pikki gits word thet Sojourner Truth—her an’ ’Lizabeth’s mama—done passed.

REPORTER:
Sojourner Truth!

FANNY:
She be their mother, a’right. ’Course ’Lizabeth be too poorly to travel t’ Battle Creek, Mish’gan fer the fune’ral. So, Ain’t Pikki—'stead o' trav'lin' alone—decides t’ take Juni so’s they c’n be companions on th’ train.

REPORTER:
I think I’m—

FANNY:
’Twas on thet train trip thet Ain’t Pikki tol’ thins to Juni thet she hadn’t oughta … thins that only ’Lizabeth had th’ right to tell her daughter—thins ’bout her murd’rin’ plans an’ all.

REPORTER:
So Missus Albright did have a confidante in her sister!

FANNY:
A conf’dant what figgered thet a’ter her sistrin’s secon’ stroke ... her spirit be broke—her bein’ par’lized an’ all—an’ Pikky knowed her sistren’d knowed she’d never leave Missuruh no how.

REPORTER:
(Sighing, then huffing)
But still … wasn’t she sworn to secrecy?

FANNY:
They’s two wimmin, young man. … They’s two wimmin alone … on a long, hot, bone-rattlin’ train … an’ they’s headin’ fer a fune’ral. Dyin’ ’as in th’ air.

END OF SCENE 4

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I guess I can never stop apologizing. I thought this would be the last scene, but it appears (hell, no appearing about it) that there has to be one more scene. Don't blame me that Fanny's such an entertainer.

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Who Told Juniper Albright?

A chapter in the book The Incomparable Fanny Barnwarmer

Incomparable Fanny Barnwarmer 15

by Jay Squires

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