Dead Man's Cell Phone

Gordon’s brother, Dwight.

Gordon’s widow, Hermia.

Gordon’s mother.

Everyone wears black, except for the mother, who is in a bright red getup.

A flurry of activity getting to the table.

Everyone sits in the wrong spot.

Place cards, there are place cards!

Everyone moves, checking place cards, saying things like:

Oh, oh, sorry, excuse me.

Jean stares at Dwight.

He looks so much like Gordon.

But Jean doesn’t want to remind anyone of Gordon’s death, so she doesn’t comment on the resemblance.

Gordon used to sit—there.

She points at Jean.

That’s right, he did.

Oh, I’ll move—

No, no, time to move on, no time like the present.

They all look at Jean for a long moment.
Jean hiccups.

Excuse me, I’m sorry. I have the hiccups.

Jean stands up and hiccups.

There’s water through there, dear.

Jean exits and hiccups.

What a strange duck.

Yes, but she knew Gordon. Try to be welcoming, Hermia.

How’d she know Gordon?

Mrs. Gottlieb nods knowingly.
Everyone murmurs knowingly
and says things like:
Really? You don’t say. Well . . . Mmm. Hmm . . .

In-coming. Or so she says.

They murmur knowingly.
Jean enters.
A silence.
She sits down.
She hiccups.

Oh! Excuse me. My hiccups are so loud.

Yes, they are, aren’t they? Remarkably loud hiccups for such a small woman.

Mother. Come with me, Jean. I’ll show you my secret. It’s drinking a glass of bourbon upside down.

Okay. (Hiccup) Thank you.

Dwight pulls Jean’s chair out for her.
Jean and Dwight exit to the kitchen.

Dwight likes her.

I thought he might.

Yes. So sad that it’s—awful. Now I know why they call it awful sad.

I’m glad we can share this, Hermia. We loved him most of all.

I hope that—the two of us—can continue to—mourn together—Mrs. Gottlieb. I feel so all alone sometimes.

Call me Harriet.

I never could get used to Gordon having a wife but now that he’s dead you’re going to be a very great comfort to me, Hermia.

It is one of the first nice things Mrs. Gottlieb has ever said to her.
Jean and Dwight enter.
Jean is laughing.

That’s better.

Dwight got rid of my hiccups!

You’re amazing, Dwight. You have so many hidden talents. Always have. Remember when Dwight was little and he could grow stiff as a board and his friends pretended he was a plank or a dead insect and they would carry him around the living room at my lunch parties and how we all would laugh! Oh. I guess there’s no one here to remember that.

Well. Let’s eat. Rib-eye steak. Do you like rib-eye, Jean? Nothing better in the world, I tell you. Ribbons of flesh, ribbons of fat, all in one bite. Dwight, why don’t you carve.

Dwight takes up the carving knife.
He’s never carved before. It was Gordon’s job.

She’s talking, mother.

I brought some presents for all of you. From Gordon.

Yes. In his last moments. He wanted to give each of you something. From the café. Before he died. He was thinking of all of you.

Dwight puts down the carving knife.
Jean gets out a little bag of presents.

This salt is for you, Hermia. Because he said you were the salt of the earth.

Hermia takes the salt shaker.
She is moved.

And this is for you, Dwight.

Jean gives Dwight a cup.

Because Gordon said you were like—a cup. Because you can hold things. Beautiful things. And they don’t—pour out.

Dwight is moved.
He takes the cup.

Gordon said that?

And this is for you, Harriet.

She gives Gordon’s mother a spoon.

Because of your cooking.

There is a silence.
Everyone is still.

What did he mean by that?

I—when he was little—and grew up—eating—your food—

It was only a nice—he meant it nicely.

HE COULD NOT HAVE MEANT THAT NICELY!

Mrs. Gottlieb slams down her chair and exits.
Dwight goes after her.

Dwight exits.

We never talk about her cooking.

I’m so sorry.

Don’t worry. She’s just—you know.

Hermia plays with her salt.

I love the salt.

Hermia is sad.

Did he use any of it? On his food?

Yes, he sprinkled it on his potatoes before he died.

Oh . . . how beautiful . . . His last flavor. Oh.

I’m glad you like it.

You know, I always thought if Gordon died I’d never want to see my in-laws ever again, and I’d be happy and relieved to never lay eyes on them again, but now that Gordon’s dead they sort of remind me of him, and it sort of comforts me. You know?

Mrs. Gottlieb and Dwight enter.

(To Jean) I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

We haven’t even cut the meat, mother. Jean hasn’t eaten—

All right, Dwight. You seem to know what’s best for the household. Why don’t you take over now that Gordon’s dead. I know that’s what you’ve always wanted. (With a nasty look at Dwight)

I’m going to lie down. Upstairs. Hermia—come with me. You can put a cold compress on my head. Dwight—be sure she eats something. I’m afraid if she doesn’t eat she’ll disappear into the ether. Poof.

Mrs. Gottlieb and Hermia exit.

Can I cut you some meat?

I’m sort of a vegetarian.

Oh—I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you say so?

I didn’t want to impose. I think people should be polite when someone cooks a meal for them. Even semi-vegetarians. I mean a foolish consistency is a hobgoblin of little minds. Isn’t it?

I’ve always thought so.

They look around at the table.

Well—it looks like there’s only meat.

Let me look in the kitchen. Hold on.

Dwight exits.
Jean sits alone.
She looks small and tired.
An Edward Hopper painting, for five seconds.
Dwight enters with some caramel popcorn.

How about some caramel popcorn?

I’m sorry about my mother.
She can be a little—

She must be in a state of shock.

I guess. She’s always got—a little shock—to her.

I’m sure she’s a nice person, deep down.

I think people are usually nice, deep down, when they’re put in the right circumstance. She just must be in the wrong circumstance. A lot. Or something.

They eat some more caramel popcorn.

You know why my mother named me Dwight?

After the president you might think.

Oh. Right. Dwight!

But it’s not. It’s because my mother felt sorry for the name. She felt sorry for the name Dwight. She thought it was ignored, pushed aside. So she named me it. Can you imagine how that would affect a child?

Did you feel pushed aside?

Gordon was the mover and shaker. I always sat back a little.

What exactly did Gordon do?

You don’t know?

Even the people at in-coming didn’t know?

I was low on the totem pole.

You still working there?

No. As soon as Gordon died I wrote a letter of resignation.

That’s good. There’s not much to that outfit without Gordon at the helm.

No. He was a good boss.

Mmm. So—what are you gonna do now—for a job?

Go back to my old job, I guess.

I work at the Holocaust Museum. In the office.

That’s a sad job.

It is a sad job.

But it’s good—you know—to remember.

I can see that. To remember.

They eat some caramel popcorn.

You like to remember stuff, don’t you?

I can tell. You’re a little sentimental. It’s nice. You don’t see that much anymore. No one wants to remember anything.

I want to remember everything. Even other people’s memories.

These digital cameras—you know—and all the digital—stuff—the informational bits—flying through the air—no one wants to remember. People say I love you—on cell phones—and where does it go? No paper. Remembering requires paper.

Yeah. But maybe the air remembers. Sometimes.

I hope the air remembers. But I doubt it. I like real things. I like paper. I work at a stationery store.

Really? I love stationery. Do you do the monograms? And the embossed invitations?

I love those! When you touch the invitations, it feels so nice. Creamy, and thick, and you can close your eyes and feel the words. I think heaven must be like an embossed invitation.

Yes. Creamy, and flat and deep. Like skin. Or—heaven—you were saying about heaven.

I’ve never sent out an embossed invitation. But I’d like to. One day.

Dwight is proud and happy.

Jean is embarrassed for revealing too much.

They both put their hands in the caramel popcorn at the same time and realize there’s none left.

Well, we’re out of caramel popcorn.
Are you still hungry?

Let’s go out and get us something to eat. Some vegetables.

I’d like that.

You like broccoli? Or zucchini?

Great. We’ll get some at the grocery store. Then maybe you could come see the stationery store. It’s closed now, but I have the key.

Mother! We’re going out! MRS. GOTTLIEB! She’s ignoring me. She’ll be fine.

A strange unidentifiable sound from far away, like a door creaking, or a small animal in pain.

It’s mother crying.

It doesn’t sound like crying.

She does it different. Let’s go.