Mouthful of Birds(2)

Felicity looks at her, startled. In the fields, voices of wailing and plaintive women repeat the names of their husbands over and over.

“And they all cry!” says Nené.

Then the voices begin to shout:

Psycho!

Miserable, unfeeling bitch!

And other voices join in:

Let us cry, you hysterical shrew!

Nené looks furiously all around her. She shouts into the fields:

“And what about us, you cowards . . . ? Some of us have been here more than forty years, abandoned same as you, and we have to hear your stupid little problems every damned night? Huh? What about us?”

There’s a silence, and Felicity looks at Nené in fear.

Take a pill! Crazy woman!

Although they’re out in the fields they can still see the highway. Parallel to where they are standing, a pair of white lights pulls up beside the little building.

“Another one,” says Nené, and as if this were the last thing she could bear, she drops to the ground, exhausted.

“Another one?” asks Felicity. “Another woman? But . . . is he going to leave her? Maybe he’ll wait . . .”

Nené bites her lips and shakes her head. In the fields the cries grow ever more unfriendly.

Come on, you hussy, let’s see you show your face . . .

Come on, now that you don’t have your little rebel friends . . .

Feeble old hag . . .

Felicity takes Nené’s hand and tries to pull her up, pointing toward the bathroom.

“We have to do something! We have to warn that poor woman!” says Felicity.

But then she stops and falls silent, because Felicity has seen the exact image of her painful recent past: the car driving off before the woman who got out has had the chance to get back in, and the lights, previously white and bright, disappear, reddish, in the other direction.

“He left,” says Felicity, “he left without her.”

Like Nené did before, she lets her body collapse to the ground. Nené rests her hand on Felicity’s.

“That’s how it always is, dear.” Nené pats Felicity’s hand. “It’s inevitable. On the highway, at least . . . Always.”

“But . . .” says Felicity.

“Always,” says Nené.

Where are you, slut? Say something!

Felicity looks at Nené and understands how much bigger this woman’s sadness is than her own.

Sorry ass tramp!

Ugly old bitch!

“Leave her alone!” says Felicity.

She moves closer to Nené and hugs her like a little girl.

Oh . . . Scary! says a voice. So now you’ve got a little sidekick . . .

“I’m not anyone’s sidekick,” says Felicity. “I’m just trying to help . . .”

Oh . . . she’s only trying to help . . .

“Shut up!” says Nené.

You all know why she was left on the highway?

Because she’s a skinny walrus!

No, she got left because—laughter—because while she was trying on her little wedding dress, we were already gettin’ it on with her man . . .

The laughter is closer now; it completely drowns out the crying. From the bathroom, a figure is walking, slowly, toward Nené and Felicity.

Look, here comes another one . . . tramp!

As the figure comes closer they discover the face of an old woman. Every few steps, she turns and looks at the highway. She is dressed in golden tones, and from her neckline peeks the sensual black lace of lingerie. Once she is close, before she can ask questions, Felicity cuts her off:

“Always. Always on the highway, Grandmother.”

When the old woman sees them, sitting in the field in their wedding dresses, she straightens and looks indignantly toward the road.

“But how—?”

Felicity interrupts her:

“Don’t cry, please,” says Felicity. “Don’t make things worse.”

“But it can’t be . . .” says the old woman, and in her disappointment, her hand opens and a marriage certificate falls to the ground.

She looks contemptuously at the highway down which the car has disappeared, and says, “Scoundrel! Impotent old coot!”

Come on, hussy!

“Why don’t you shut up, you windbags!” shouts Nené, and she gets brusquely to her feet.

The old woman looks at her in fright.

“Old biddies!” Nené goes on.

We’re gonna get you, you snake!

Trying to understand, the old woman looks at Felicity, who, like Nené, has stood up and is anxiously peering into the darkness of the fields.

Show your face, come on, the women’s voices can be heard ever closer.

Felicity and Nené look at each other. Beneath their feet they feel the ground tremble as hundreds of desperate women advance through the field.

“What’s happening?” asks the old woman. “Who are those voices, what do they want?” She kneels down and picks up the marriage certificate. Like Felicity and Nené, she backs toward the highway without turning around, without taking her eyes from the black mass in the dark fields that seems to be moving closer and closer to them.

“How many are there?” asks Felicity.

“A lot,” says Nené. “Too many.”