(Lights up on a dining room and a table set for Thanksgiving. Around the table sit SOPHIE, age 6; her distracted mother ESME, late 30s; her academic father RAFE, early 40s; and Rafe's ornery father LESTER, late 60s. They eat in silence until:)
ESME: Lester, can you pass the potatoes?
LESTER: Go fuck yourself.
(Sophie, shocked, covers her ears.)
RAFE: Dad. Language.
LESTER: Hrm? Oh. Sorry.
(They continue to eat. Sophie removes her hands from her ears.)
ESME: Lester, can you please pass the potatoes?
LESTER: How will the potatoes help you go fuck yourself?
(Sophie, even more shocked, covers her ears and closes her eyes.)
RAFE: Dad. Please.
ESME: That's enough.
LESTER: Is it?
ESME: If you have something to say, Lester, say it.
RAFE: Not in front of Sophie.
LESTER: Of course not. Keep the child in the dark. Teach her ignorance. That there's good parenting.
ESME: Maybe you should leave. We don't have room at this table for you and your high horse.
LESTER: It's funny you should mention "leaving." I'm surprised you're even here. Shouldn't you be out somewhere in New Mexico or Oregon, tracking down bad, bad people who got nothing to do with this family? I didn't realize the FBI closed on holidays.
ESME: You're right. My job's to keep track of bad, bad people. That's why I'm sitting across from you.
(Esme reaches over and grabs the casserole dish of potatoes.)
(They eat in silence. Sophie removes her hands from her ears, opens her eyes, and also resumes eating.)
RAFE: The turkey came out good this year.
ESME: Thank you.
RAFE: Since you usually do the shopping, I was nervous I bought the wrong brand. I guess I was worried over nothing. And that cranberry sauce I found turned out to be excellent, huh?
LESTER: Jesus, boy - if you were any more domesticated, you'd have tits hanging off your chest.
(Sophie looks to Esme - "is tits a bad word?". Esme nods. Sophie covers her ears again.)