ANNIE’S voice is audible, very patient, and worn; it has been saying this for a long time. ANNIE: Water, Helen. This is water. W, a, t, e, r. It has a name. (A silence. Then:) Egg, e, g, g. It has a name, the name stands for the thing. Oh, it’s so simple, simple as birth, to explain. (The lights have commenced to rise, not on the garden house but on the homestead. Then:) Helen, Helen, the chick has to come out of its shell, sometime. You come out, too. (In the bedroom upstairs, we see VINEY unhurriedly washing the window, dusting, turning the mattress, readying the room for use again; then in the family room a diminished group at one end of the table— KATE, KELLER, JAMES —finishing up a quiet breakfast; then outside, down right, the other Negro servant on his knees, assisted by MARTHA, working with a trowel around a new trellis and wheelbarrow. The scene is one of everyday calm, and all are oblivious to ANNIE’S voice.) There’s only one way out, for you, and it’s language.
