JACK Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay! A piano! You’ve been holding out on me. What’s been going on for the last five years? The first thing you know, you’ll be going to afternoon teas and dancing the Charleston. SARA Go on, Jakie, I wouldn’t do that! JACK That’s the way they all start, Mama. What kind of a piano have you got—grand or upright? SARA I don’t know. We pay every month. JACK Then you’ve got an upright! Let’s go and see. [_They go out together._] [_From offstage is heard the rippling of some chords on the piano. Then_ JACK’s _voice breaks out in the words of “Red Hot Mama.” He sings it with that rich plaintiveness which, combined with syncopation, has become the convention for the rendition of jazz. Half-way through the chorus the center door opens and the_ CANTOR _enters. He stands rooted to the floor, outraged at the sounds he hears. He looks toward the door of the music room, then, as if afraid of what he might see there, moves back automatically, taking his hat off, leaving the skull-cap on his head. Then, beginning to realize that this blasphemous noise really is occurring in his own home, he slams his prayer book down on the table and moves toward the music room._ JACK _who has finished the chorus and is about to play it again, has yielded to his mother’s audible shocked protests. They come out of the music room, not seeing the_ CANTOR. JACK,_ who is facing his mother, walks out almost backward._ SARA _is saying—_] SARA No, no, Jakie! You shouldn’t sing like that! It is wrong! JACK You’ll get used to it, Mama, and you’ll like it if you’ll learn the words. I know a million songs like that. [_Then_ JACK _turns, sees the_ CANTOR, _and suddenly the bravado, the glibness, the flippant smartness with which he has been buoying himself up, drop from him like a cloak. It is a feeble echo of the JACK we have seen who now addresses his father._] Well, well! Hello, Papa. CANTOR [_Slowly_]. What are you doing in this house? JACK What am I doing? Didn’t you expect me? I wrote you I was coming. SARA He said, “Hello, Papa.” It’s your son, Jakie. CANTOR I didn’t even open your letter. Why did you come—to play loafer songs on my piano? JACK No—I came home, Papa—I came home because I’ve been away for five years, and I’ve made good, and I wanted to let you know about it. CANTOR For five years you didn’t need your papa. You don’t need him now. SARA Yosele, please! CANTOR