Dead Man's Cell Phone (4 page)

JEAN

Um—

 

MRS. GOTTLIEB

A hiccup?

 

JEAN

No, I'm—

 

DWIGHT

She's talking, mother.

 

MRS. GOTTLIEB

Oh!

JEAN

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

 

DWIGHT

You did?

 

JEAN

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.

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

HERMIA

Thank you.

 

JEAN

And this is for you, Dwight.

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

DWIGHT

Gordon said that?

 

JEAN

Yes.

 

DWIGHT

Wow.

 

JEAN

And this is for you, Harriet.

Because of your cooking.

MRS. GOTTLIEB

What did he mean by that?

 

JEAN

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

 

MRS. GOTTLIEB

No—

 

JEAN

It was only a nice—he meant it nicely.

 

MRS. GOTTLIEB

HE COULD NOT HAVE MEANT THAT NICELY!

DWIGHT

Excuse me.

JEAN

What did I—?

 

HERMIA

We never talk about her cooking.

 

JEAN

I'm so sorry.

 

HERMIA

Don't worry. She's just—you know.

I love the salt.

Did he use any of it? On his food?

 

JEAN

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

 

HERMIA

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

JEAN

I'm glad you like it.

 

HERMIA

Yes, I do.

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

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

 

DWIGHT

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

 

MRS. GOTTLIEB

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.

DWIGHT

Can I cut you some meat?

JEAN

I'm sort of a vegetarian.

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

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?

 

DWIGHT

I've always thought so.

Well—it looks like there's only meat.

 

JEAN

That's okay.

 

DWIGHT

Let me look in the kitchen. Hold on.

How about some caramel popcorn?

JEAN

Okay.

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

She must be in a state of shock.

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

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

 

DWIGHT

You think so?

 

JEAN

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.

 

DWIGHT

Yeah.

You know why my mother named me Dwight?

JEAN

Nope.

 

DWIGHT

After the president you might think.

 

JEAN

Oh. Right. Dwight!

 

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?

 

JEAN

Did you feel pushed aside?

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

What exactly did Gordon do?

 

DWIGHT

You don't know?

 

JEAN

I—

 

DWIGHT

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

JEAN

I was low on the totem pole.

 

DWIGHT

You still working there?

 

JEAN

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

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

No. He was a good boss.

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

Go back to my old job, I guess.

 

DWIGHT

What's that?

 

JEAN

I work at the Holocaust Museum. In the office.

 

DWIGHT

That's a sad job.

JEAN

It is a sad job.

But it's good—you know—to remember.

 

DWIGHT

I can see that. To remember.

You like to remember stuff, don't you?

 

DWIGHT

Yeah. Why?

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

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

 

DWIGHT

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.

 

JEAN

Yeah. But maybe the air remembers. Sometimes.

 

DWIGHT

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

JEAN

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

 

DWIGHT

We do.

 

JEAN

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.

 

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

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

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

A little.

DWIGHT

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

 

JEAN

I'd like that.

 

DWIGHT

You like broccoli? Or zucchini?

 

JEAN

Sure.

 

DWIGHT

Which one.

 

JEAN

Both.

 

DWIGHT

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.

 

JEAN

Okay.

 

DWIGHT

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

JEAN

What's that?

 

DWIGHT

It's mother crying.

 

JEAN

It doesn't sound like crying.

 

DWIGHT

She does it different. Let's go.

 

JEAN

Feel this one. Like a leaf.

This one. Branches. Tablecloths. Wool.

This one is my favorite one, though. I'd like to live in a little house made of this one.

DWIGHT

A house made of paper.

JEAN

Yeah. And this one! Braided hair.

DWIGHT

Can I braid your hair?

 

JEAN

What? Okay.

DWIGHT

Am I pulling too hard?

 

JEAN

No, that's fine. It feels nice.

 

You know what's funny? I never had a cell phone. I didn't want to always
be there
, you know. Like if your phone is on you're supposed to be there. Sometimes I like to disappear. But it's like—when everyone has their cell phone on, no one is there. It's like
we're all disappearing the more we're there. Last week there was this woman in line at the pharmacy and she was like, “Shit, Shit!” on her cell phone and she kept saying, “Shit, fuck, you're shitting me, you're fucking shitting me, no fucking way, bitch, if you're shitting me I'll fucking kill you,” you know, that kind of thing, and there were all these old people in line and it was like she didn't care if she told her whole life, the worst part of her life, in front of the people in line. It was like—people who are in line at pharmacies must be strangers. By definition. And I thought that was sad.

 

But when Gordon's phone rang and rang, after he died, I thought his phone was beautiful, like it was the only thing keeping him alive, like as long as people called him he would be alive. That sounds—a little—I know—but all those molecules, in the air, trying to talk to Gordon—and Gordon—he's in the air too—so maybe they all would meet up there, whizzing around—those bits of air—and voices.

 

DWIGHT

I wonder how long it will take before no one calls him again and then he will be truly gone.

 

JEAN

I wonder too. I'll leave his phone on as long as I live. I'll keep recharging it. Just in case someone calls. Maybe an old childhood friend. You never know.