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.

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 are street sounds of traffic: of vintage 1928 cars, some horse whinnying, etc., that continue as a kind stew of white-noise background throughout the scene.

PLACE/TIME: Brady Texas, 2 PM, Sunday, August 11, 1929

REPORTER:
That’s uncanny—it was unconscionable! The judge did nothing less than to sentence your father, right there, for murder. He swept the rest of the trial under the rug like it was dust, while engraving on the mind of the town only the memory of the guilty sentence he imposed on your daddy. 
(Shaking his head, frowning)
If it weren't for Mister Jenkins …

FANNY:
Aye, Mister Jenkins, he did keep liftin’ the corner o’ thet rug, dint he, an’ pullin’ out th’ dirt. But not jes Mister Jenkins—theys other reporters what wrote theys stories in theys newspapers—’specially on account o’ what thet jedge done next.
(Beat)
But you’s right ’bout what thet jedge’s words done to Daddy. Best they’d o’ hung him. He already be a dead man inside. Th’ outside jes ain’t cetched up yet.

REPORTER:
(Lifting his finger from its kept-place in the album, where he was about to begin reading again)
Sounds like what you’re telling me is not entirely metaphorical, Miss Fanny.

FANNY:
What I’s sayin’ is Daddy’s friends an’ neighbors, they soured again’ him. His church frozed up. ’Afore long, he’s voted outta bein’ one o’ theys deacons. An’ then he had no one but fambly.

REPORTER:
Which, for practical purposes, meant he had just you to talk with.

FANNY:
An’ that be only a spell …. T’was narry a month since thet jedge’s words cast theys curse when Daddy be found ’longside River Road—twixt home an’ th’ store what supplied us twice a month—his head creshed agin a boulder.

REPORTER:
Sweet Jesus!—Geez, I’m sorry, Miss Fanny.

FANNY: 
Speck’lachun was thet a rabbit or other critter spooked the horse an’ flipped th’ wagon, an’ Daddy be throwed like a rag doll agin thet boulder—the boulder what be a marker named the five-mile boulder account o’ it bein’ five miles from it to town. T’onliest boulder ’longside River Road fer twenty miles either way from town. Y’all see what I’m sayin’?

REPORTER
But … so, you don’t think a ground squirrel could’ve spooked the horse?

FANNY: 
Pshaw! What with the critters alles scamp’rin ’crost the road? Why me’n Josiah’d never made a trip with Daddy what we din’t hear n’ feel the crench an’ bump o’ one or two o’ them critters under th’ wheels. Ain’t no horse gonna be spooked by no sech critter.

REPORTER:
It does sound suspicious, then.

FANNY:
By then, t’warn’t a paper in t’ county, big or small, what didn’t have stories ’bout the trial. Some in New York, even, an’ up in Boston … an’ when word Daddy died, theys a reporter from Chicago come down to interview Mama.

REPORTER:
Not Mister Jenkins, though?

FANNY:
No, no … he be busy diggin’ up information ’bout the jedge’s leanin’s an’ his part in th’ anti-abolishunist mob riots o’ eighteen an’ thirty-four … ’afore he becomed a jedge … 

REPORTER:
So, the reporter who did interview your mama—

FANNY:
(A brief laugh)
He soon seed thet Mama waren’t no good source fer a story. An’ he took no stock o’ my words. ’Asides theys bigger fields t’ plow what with the endin’ of th’ trial—
(Stopping short, and staring at the REPORTER)
I swon, Robert, ain’t ya gonna read ’bout th’ endin’ o’ the trial? Or, do ya want me t’read it for y'all?

REPORTER:
(Expelling a lungful of air)
I’ve got it here ….
(Reads)
      The judge patiently gathered the eyes of all present, most of whom were still reeling over the sentence he’d just delivered to Mister Barnwarmer about spending the rest of his life in the prison of his mind. Satisfied, the judge cleared his throat and began:
      “Now, I have one more matter before this court adjourns. You recall, a few moments ago, I asked the defendants to approach the bench. Mister Thurston Flourney …” (and here, protruding from the armholes of his midnight-blue robe, his Honor’s arms extended like two slender white stalks, at the end of which two soft, white palms, opened like lillies in Mister Flourney’s direction.) … “will kindly approach the bench again.”
      Mister Flourney did, with shoulders held well back, and head high.
      “Mister Flourney, do you have the note you prepared?”
      “I do, Your Honor.” He placed a small rectangle of paper before the judge.
      The judge picked up the paper, smiled, and looked directly into the eyes of Elizabeth Albright. “After many years as a judge, Missus Albright, it’s been my experience that most people who have been wrongly accused of a horrendous crime such as this, but are acquitted, harbor deep anger and hatred against their accusers for what they’d been put through.” 
      “The four gentlemen seated there” (indicating them with an opening palm) “on behalf of whom Mister Flourney will be speaking) do not feel such anger. Nor does Mister Flourney. Do you, Mister Flourney?”
      “No, your honor, I do not. We do not.”
      “They don’t feel such hatred. They feel, instead—if I may act as interpreter—compassion for a widow whose husband had been cruelly ripped from her life, and had been left alone to raise her lovely daughter in a country torn asunder by war.
      “While these five gentlemen, wrongly accused, but rightly acquitted, know that Mister Albright cannot be replaced as the family breadwinner, they wish to illustrate their humanity by offering this note, representing eight hundred dollars from each of the five gentlemen, and drafted by Mister Thurston Flourney, against his personal account at the First Bank of Illinois. Missus Albright, please accept this offering of four thousand dollars to help guide you and your daughter, Juniper Albright, through the turbulent and tortuous times ahead.”
      The judge then smiled (the way a father would) into the cold , black face of Elizabeth Albright, whose ebony eyes stared straight at him, until the judge cleared his throat.
      “And with that… these court proceedings from Lake County, in the fine State of Illinois … are hereby adjourned.”

REPORTER:
No, no, no, no, no!

FANNY:
An’ yet, thet be the whole trial.

REPORTER:
But no! Miss Fanny! Money—you told me money was never a problem with Missus Albright. She and Miss Juniper would be taken care of in perpetuity because of her husband’s foresight. But that reporter, Jenkins—I kept waiting for him to write about how Missus Albright—oh, it would have been so good—how she looked the judge square in the eyes and ripped that draft into pieces and fluttered them in his face!

FANNY:
(With an open-mouthed belly laugh)
Lord a’mighty, Robert, no! Mister Jenkins, he had it right with what he writ. ’Bout 'lizabeth’s stare—what be the same stare my Juni ’herited—what I call the rattlesnake stare. But what Mister Jenkins dint write … ’acause he dint know … was thet 'lizabeth Albright—she had better uses for thet money.
 

END OF SCENE 2