To get back to the bedroom and the Birnam brothers: a small
suitcase lies open on each bed. DON, the brother nearest the
window, is bent over one, putting in socks, shirts, etc. He
is thirty-three, an extremely attractive guy, but ten pounds
underweight, and in his eye there is something rebellious,
something sly.
WICK, two years younger, is much sturdier, kindly,
sympathetic, solid gold. He wears glasses and is smoking a
cigarette. He is on his way from the closet to his suitcase
with some stuff. He throws a sweater across to Don.
WICK
Better take this along, Don. It's
going to be cold on the farm.
DON
Okay.
WICK
How many shirts are you taking?
DON
Three.
WICK
I'm taking five.
DON
Five?
WICK
I told them at the office I might
not be back till Tuesday. We'll get
there this afternoon. That'll give
us all Friday, Saturday, Sunday,
Monday. We'll make it a long weekend.
DON
Sounds long, all right.
WICK
It'll do you good, Don, after what
you've been through.
Don has crossed to the chest of drawers and fished out more
shirts and socks.
WICK
Trees and grass and sweet cider and
buttermilk and water from that well
that's colder than any other water.
DON
Wick, please, why this emphasis on
liquids? Noble, upstanding, nauseating
liquids.
WICK
Sorry, Don.
DON, his back toward Wick, is bent over the suitcase, packing.
His eyes travel to the window.
DON
Think it would be a good idea if we
took my typewriter?
WICK
What for?
DON
(Indignantly)
To write. To write there. I'm going
to get started on my novel.
WICK
You really feel up to writing?
DON
Why not?
WICK
I mean, after what you've been
through.
DON
I haven't touched the stuff for ten
days now.