Rachel: A Play in Three Acts

by Angelina Weld Grimké

Strong: No, of course not. (Pauses). You say there were some flowers?

Mrs. Loving: Yes.

Strong: And the flowers were ground into the carpet?

Mrs. Loving: Yes.

Strong: Did you happen to notice the box? They must have come in a box, don’t you think?

Mrs. Loving: Yes, there was a box in the kitchenette. It was from “Marcy’s.” I saw no card.

Strong (Slowly): It is rather strange. (A long silence, during which the outer door opens and shuts. Rachel is heard singing. She stops abruptly. In a second or two she appears in the door. There is an air of suppressed excitement about her).

Rachel: Hello! John. (Strong rises, nods at her, and brings forward for her the big arm-chair near the fire). I thought that was your hat in the hall. It’s brand new, I know—but it looks—“Johnlike.” How are you? Ma! Jenny went to sleep like a little lamb. I don’t like her breathing, though. (Looks from one to the other; flippantly) Who’s dead? (Nods her thanks to Strong for the chair and sits down).

Mrs. Loving: Dead, Rachel?

Rachel: Yes. The atmosphere here is so funereal,—it’s positively “crapey.”