Dead Man's Cell Phone by Sarah Ruhl Page B

the phone) I don’t know. Can I take a message? Hold on—I don’t have anything to write with.
    She sees a pen on the dead man’s table.
    (To the dead man) Thank you.
    Â 
    (To the phone) Go ahead.
    She writes on a napkin.
    How late can he call you?
    The voice on the phone begins to sob.
    I’m sorry. You sound upset. I’m not—
    The caller hangs up.
    Gordon?
    She touches his shoulder.
    Oh—
    She holds a spoon under his nose to
    see if he’s still breathing.
    Â 
    The phone rings again.
    She answers it.
    Hello? No, he’s not. Can I take a message?
    A pause as the person on the other end makes a very long offer.
    No, he doesn’t want one. He already has one.
    No, I don’t want one.
    I already have one.
    Thank you, good-bye.
    She hangs up.
    She looks around for help.
    Help.
    She dials 911.
    Hello?
    I think that there is a dead man sitting next to me.
    I don’t know how he died.
    I’m at a café.
    I don’t know.
    Hold on.

    She exits with the cell phone to look at the name of the café and the address.
    We just see the dead man and an empty stage.
    She returns.
    It’s on the corner of Green and Goethe. (Pronounced Go-thee)
Should I stay with him?
There seems to be no one working at this café.
How long?
Thank you.
    She hangs up.
A pause.
She looks at him.
His cell phone rings again.
    Hello? No, he’s not.
I’m—answering his phone.
Does he have your phone number?
    Pause while the woman on the phone says: of course he has my phone number. I am his mother.
    The enormity of her loss registers for Jean.
    Oh . . . Yes, of course.
He’ll—I’ll leave him the message.
Have a—hope you have a—good day.
Good-bye.
    She hangs up.
    She breathes, to Gordon:
    It was your mother.
    She looks at Gordon’s face.
    It is transfigured, as though he was just looking at something he found eminently beautiful.
    She touches his forehead.
    Do you want me to keep talking until they get here?
Gordon, I’m Jean.
You don’t know me.
But you’re going to be just fine.
Well, actually—
Don’t worry.
    Â 
    Are you still inside there?
How did you die so quietly?
I’ll stay with you.
Gordon.
For as long as you need me.
I’ll stay with you.
Gordon.
    She holds his hand.
She keeps hold of it.
The sound of sirens, rain, and church.

scene two
    A church.
A Mass is being sung in Latin.
Jean kneels down, wearing a dark blue raincoat.
Her cell phone rings.
She looks at it.
She hesitates.
She answers it.
She whispers.
    Â 
    JEAN
    Hello?
No, he can’t come to the phone right now.
    On the line, inaudible to us,
a woman says, I know he’s dead.
    Oh, you do?

    I’m sorry.
Then—why?
Okay, I’ll meet you.
What will you be wearing?
    A pause while the woman says:
I will be wearing a blue raincoat.
    Really? That’s strange.
I’ll be wearing a blue raincoat, too.
I’ll see you then. Good-bye.
    Mass continues to be sung.
Jean kneels. She prays.
A spotlight on Jean.
    Help me, God.
    Help me to comfort his loved ones.
    Help me to help the memory of Gordon live on in the minds and hearts of his loved ones.
    I only knew him for a short time, God.
    But I think that I loved him, in a way.
    Dear God. I hope that Gordon is peaceful now.
    The music stops.
A woman comes to a podium.
Mrs. Gottlieb begins her eulogy.
    MRS. GOTTLIEB
    I’m not sure what to say. There is, thank God, a vaulted ceiling here. I am relieved to find that there is stained glass and the sensation of height. Even though I am not a religious woman I am
glad there are still churches. Thank God there are still people who build churches for the rest of us so that when someone dies—or gets married—we have a place to—I could not put all of this— (She thinks the word grief)— in a low-ceilinged room—no—it requires height.
    A cell phone rings in the back of the church. Jean turns to look.
    Could someone